"Is everything all right?" I asked him one afternoon as soon as Richard Taylor had left us.
"Oh yes, sure," he said quickly. "Why?"
"You seem so distant these days. I was just afraid you had thought things over and were sorry."
"Oh no, no. We have so little time now to accomplish what I had hoped we would, and I want to be sure you will be ready for bigger things. I'm sorry if I've been too hard on you in class," he said.
"You haven't been too hard on me. Besides, I like working hard on my music. Am I getting better?"
"Considerably better. We won't wait a day longer than necessary to have you audition after you've given birth. For now, though," he emphasized, "it's work, work, work, and for both of us. I'm off immediately to meet with the show preproduction staff right now. But please, don't think I'm neglecting you. Not a moment goes by when I don't think about you and how wonderful things will be for us."
"Oh Michael," I said, "it's the same for me." I was about to throw my arms around him when he reminded me we were still in school and anyone could walk into the music suite. We parted as we usually did with a quick kiss and then me leaving before he did.
I even enjoyed the cold days on my walks home.
The colder it was, the more alive I felt as I strolled up the sidewalk, my little puffs of breath looking like puffs of smoke.
Trisha was true to her word: she hadn't uttered a syllable about my pregnancy to anyone, but she was fascinated with the physical changes occurring in me. Almost every night, she and I took out the tape to measure my waist. When it reached three inches over what it had been, I bought a girdle to keep my stomach in. In the meantime Trisha went to the public library and took out a book on pregnancy and we sat up nights reading it together and discussing the baby inside me—what stage of development it was in, what would happen next. Inevitably, we arrived at a discussion of names.
"If it's a boy, I think Andrew; it means strong and manly."
"And if it's a girl?" Trisha asked.
"That's easy, Sally, after Momma Longchamp," I said.
"I can't have babies until I'm at least forty," Trisha declared. "I can't risk anything interfering with my ability to dance. By forty, a dancer's career is on the downside anyway."
"You will have to marry a very understanding man then," I told her.
"If he's not understanding, he's not worth marrying," she replied. "Besides, it's not impossible. You found someone like that, didn't you?"
"Yes," I said. "I did."
She insisted I tell her more and more about Allan. I continued to fabricate, often forgetting one detail or another. Trisha, on the other hand, forgot nothing, and always reminded me of my contradictions. I knew she was growing more and more suspicious. A number of times I was tempted to tell her the truth. She was doing so well keeping my secrets as it was, why couldn't I trust her with the truth? I thought. But I was afraid, afraid of anything that might happen and ruin things for Michael and me; and I had, after all, promised Michael I wouldn't tell her.
Trisha and I were both amused by the next stage in my pregnancy: my dietary cravings. Some afternoons, I couldn't wait to get home to prepare myself a banana smeared with peanut butter. I would sneak into the kitchen whenever Mrs. Liddy was out doing an errand or off someplace else in the house, and get my strange snacks.
One afternoon, however, I opened the refrigerator and saw Mrs. Liddy had prepared Jell-O for our dinner dessert. Suddenly, I was filled with a desire for Jell-O on corn flakes. I filled a bowl as quickly as I could and scooped some Jell-O on it. I couldn't wait to smuggle it up to my room and began eating immediately when Mrs. Liddy walked in on me.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Liddy," I said quickly and tried to hide the bowl from her eyes. "I didn't mean to mess up your Jell-O mold before dinner, but I just had this urge for some."
She continued to stare at me, now with very interested gimlet eyes. Her gaze moved from me to the counter where I had left the box of corn flakes and then back to me, scrutinizing.
"What are you eating . . . Jell-O and cereal?"
I smiled weakly and shrugged, bringing the bowl out into the open, but I looked down. I had to be careful, I thought, and realize what my eyes might reveal.
"Yes, Mrs. Liddy."
"You're the one who's been dipping into the peanut butter jar every day, too, aren't you?" I nodded. "Don't you eat lunch at school, m'dear?"
"Sometimes. Sometimes, I'm just too busy, Mrs. Liddy."
She gave me that scrutinizing gaze again, her eyes full of questions.
"Are you feeling okay, m'dear?" she asked.
"Oh yes. I feel wonderful."
"Um," she said, nodding. I looked away quickly, gobbled down a few more spoonfuls of corn flakes and Jell-O and then quickly retreated to my room, my heart pounding. Oh Michael, I thought, I can't hide the results of our passion and love much longer. I soon found out, he felt the same way.
I was upstairs in our room doing my math homework when I heard Trisha pounding the steps in her excited effort to get upstairs quickly. We had only two more days before the beginning of the Christmas holiday and all our teachers were piling on the work, especially the performing arts teachers who wanted their dancers and singers to reach certain plateaus before the long layoff that would occur during our holiday break. Trisha had three days of late dancing practice this final week of school, instead of her usual two days. I had been home almost two full hours before her.
She threw the door open and burst in as if the cold winds of winter were carrying her.
"What's wrong?" I asked quickly. I was in bed, my blanket pulled up over my protruding stomach. I took advantage of every opportunity I had not to wear the girdle.
"What's wrong? I thought I'd find you very upset. Don't tell me you don't know, or you didn't know," she said, closing the door behind her and approaching me. She dropped her armful of books on the bed.
"Know what? Trisha," I cried, smiling, "what are you talking about?"
"Michael Sutton," she declared and put her hands on her hips.
"Michael Sutton?" Oh no, I thought, had the school administration found out about us? Had those jealous teachers complained about him and gotten him fired?
"What about Michael Sutton?" I closed my book slowly.
"He's leaving. He's gone!" she said, raising her hands.
"Gone? He was fired?"
"No. Why would he be fired? I can't believe you didn't hear about it before you came home today. The whole school's buzzing. It must have been posted after you left," she concluded.
"Posted? What was posted?"
"His notice informing his students." She sat down at my feet.
"Apparently," she began, "he's been offered the lead role in a major London production. It was something that couldn't wait. The scuttlebutt is that he had been having meetings about it for weeks and finally it came through. He has this letter posted on his music suite door, apologizing to the school and to his students, and explaining why he had to go with such little notice.
"Of course, the administration understands. This is, after all, a school for performing arts. That's show business," she said, raising her arms. "But his students are not very happy. You should see Ellie Parker. She claims he promised to get her a Broadway audition this year. I came rushing home because I knew you would be upset and in your condition . . ."
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard the roll of thunder. When I closed my eyes, I saw those ugly, bruised and angry dark clouds riding the wind and drawing a curtain of darkness over the light blue sky, dragging shadows over all that was green and bright below. My heart felt like a brick in my chest.
"Are you all right?" Trisha asked and leaned forward to take my hand. "Your fingers feel ice cold."
I nodded, my eyes still closed, my throat too tight for me to try to speak.
Don't panic, I told myself. Keep calm. This is all part of Michael's plan for us. Soon, he would call to let me know why he had had to do things so qu
ickly without warning me. But he had said he was going to Florida, I thought, not London. Maybe he's just telling them London so they won't come after us. There has to be a logical reason for all of this, I told myself. Don't panic.
I opened my eyes and took a deep breath.
"Did anyone see him, speak to him?" I asked, wrestling down the note of hysteria that wanted to invade my voice.
"No. Richard Taylor says he's already gone."
"Gone?" I shook my head as if I didn't understand the word.
"Left the country," Trisha explained. "And boy is Richard Taylor angry. He says the man didn't give him an iota of warning, not a clue. He feels like a fool because he's the one left with all the explaining to do.
"Of course," she continued, "the school will assign someone new by the time we all come back from our Christmas holiday, but . . ."
She paused when she looked up and saw how I was shaking. I couldn't stop the trembling. It was almost a convulsion. Cold tears streaked down my cheeks. The ache in my chest grew so heavy I thought I would burst, and a burning had begun in my temples and spread across my forehead. I felt as if I had put on a crown of hot steel.
"Oh Dawn, I knew you'd be disappointed. You were doing so well under his tutorage, weren't you? And I'm sure he made you some promises about auditions, too. But you mustn't get yourself sick over this. I'm sure Allan would be so upset if he knew."
At first my tongue refused to form words, but as the silence stretched and became uncomfortably thick, I swallowed my tears and cried out.
"Nooooo!"
I buried my face in my hands and shook my head.
"Dawn."
I lowered my hands slowly and gazed into her sympathetic face.
"There is no Allan," I said in a hoarse whisper.
"What?" She started to smile. "What do you mean? Of course, there's an Allan. You can't tell me you're not pregnant."
"No, no," I said slowly, speaking like one who had been struck in the head and was in a daze, "there has never been an Allan. It was Michael," I said. "I'm carrying Michael's child."
"Michael? Michael Sutton?" Her mouth dropped open. "But . . ." Her eyes widened with shock. "But he's gone."
"No," I said slowly. I smiled. "It's all part of the plan, part of his plan for us. It wasn't supposed to happen until the end of the semester, but obviously he has had to move things up. I'll have to go to him," I said, swinging my legs off the bed and shoving my feet into my slippers. "He's expecting me, I'm sure."
Trisha simply stared as I went to my closet and chose one of my more loose-fitting wool dresses. I slipped it over my head quickly and sat down to brush out my hair.
"I wanted to tell you the truth, Trisha," I said, "but I had to promise Michael I wouldn't. He was worried about his job, you see. You understand, don't you?" I asked her. She nodded quickly, but she continued to look very confused. "There are so many jealous people around who would just love to destroy him because he's so talented.
"He's going to be in a Broadway show next year, you know," I said. "And there is still a very good chance I'll be in it too. Don't look so glum, Trisha," I said, turning back to her. "I'm sure everything is fine."
She smiled even though her eyes were filled with tears.
"Really," I insisted. "It's going to be fine. I'll go to him now and he will tell me the specifics. We're spending the Christmas holidays together, you know." I looked at myself in the mirror and continued to brush out my hair as I spoke, remembering. "He bought a darling little tree just for us, and you should see the pile of gifts he has bought me. All for me. He's spent so much money on me, it's obscene.
"Imagine," I said, turning back to her, "by New Years Eve I will be Mrs. Michael Sutton. Doesn't that sound wonderful? You must let me know where you'll be celebrating so I can phone you and wish you a happy New Year from our apartment at exactly mid-night. We'll be in each other's arms by the fireplace.
"So you see," I said, looking at myself in the mirror, "we have it all planned."
I got up to choose a pair of shoes.
"Why hasn't he called you yet?" Trisha asked me.
"He just expects me to come," I said. "What else could the reason be?"
"Should I come with you? Let me come with you," she said quickly.
"No, don't be silly. Besides, how would it look if I showed up with you at my side? I promised him I wasn't going to tell anyone about us until he said it was all right to do so, and here I appear with you. No, no, I'll be fine."
"It's starting to snow," she said. "There's another storm."
"I'm not going to walk all the way to his apartment, Trisha. You're acting like a nervous mother. I'll be fine, really."
I slipped on my overcoat.
"Tell Agnes . . . tell her . . ."
"What?" Trisha asked.
"Tell her I've eloped," I said and followed it with a thin little laugh much like hers.
"Dawn," Trisha said, standing.
"It's all right. When two people are in love the way we are, nothing else matters. You should hear the way we sing together. What am I saying? Before long, you will," I added and laughed again.
Then I rushed out the door and bounced down the stairs. Trisha called after me, but I didn't stop. I hurried out the front before anyone could see me. Trisha was right: the snow storm had begun. Flakes that looked nearly an inch thick were falling so heavily it was difficult to see five feet in front of me. I walked quickly up to the corner and waved and waved at every cab, not being able to see whether each had a passenger or not. Finally, one pulled up in front of me and I practically dove into the back seat. I gave the driver Michael's address and sat back thinking of the things I would say as soon as he opened that door and embraced me.
It would be just like a wonderful musical when the two leads finally overcome all the obstacles between them and meet on the stage to sing in each other's arms.
"I'm here, Michael," I whispered. "I've come, my love, to be with you forever and ever. No more secrets, no more hiding, no more clandestine rendezvous, no more quick, stolen kisses. Now we could walk hand in hand in public and all the world could see how much in love we are and how our talents make us something very special."
"Looks like we're in for it," the taxi driver said. "When the city gets four or five inches, all hell breaks loose and everything comes to a standstill. What a mess," he said.
Oh no, I thought as I gazed out the window. It's no mess. This snow looks beautiful. I'm happy it's snowing. Perhaps this means we'll have a white Christmas. I could hear the sound of bells and the Christmas carols. I could see Michael and I standing in the window looking down at the revelers, Michael's arm around me, both of us warmed by our eggnog drinks. Perhaps we had just made love.
"Merry Christmas, my love," he would say and kiss me.
"Merry Christmas, Michael."
"What's that?" the taxi driver asked.
"Nothing," I said, smiling. "I'm just dreaming out loud."
He looked at me in his rearview mirror and then shook his head. It's all right, I thought, why should I expect anyone else to understand how special and happy I felt.
In my excitement when we arrived, I nearly rushed away without paying the driver. After he called out, I returned and threw all my money at him, giving him nearly twice as much as the fare.
"Merry Christmas," I sang when he looked up in surprise. "Everyone should be as happy as I am."
He shrugged and drove off. When I entered the lobby, the doorman, who was more than familiar with me, gazed at me curiously as I made my way to the elevator. I smiled at him and stepped into the elevator as soon as the doors opened. The instant they opened again, I rushed out to Michael's door and pressed the buzzer. For a moment I thought he wasn't home. I heard no one inside and no one had come to the door. I pressed the buzzer again and then I heard footsteps.
My love, I thought.
The door opened, but Michael wasn't standing there. It was a much older man with curly gray hair and a round f
ace. He had rosy cheeks and bushy eyebrows and wore a heavy woolen bathrobe with a towel around his neck.
"Hello," he said. "I was almost in the shower." I looked past him, but saw no one.
"I'm looking for Michael," I said.
"Michael? Oh, Michael Sutton?" I nodded, but he shook his head. "Well, he's gone. By now he's somewhere over the Atlantic, I imagine. He was supposed to see you today, Miss . . ."
"No," I said, "he can't be gone. All his things are here," I pointed out. "The paintings, the furniture . . ."
"These aren't Michael's things, Miss. Michael was subletting my apartment. I'm sure there is some confusion. I've got his forwarding address in London if you want it, but . . ."
"No, he's got to be here," I insisted and walked by him. He didn't stop me from entering. I ran through the apartment. "Michael, Michael!"
One look at the bedroom told me he was indeed gone. The things I knew were his were missing and different clothing was hanging in the closet. There was even a different bedspread. The gentleman who had let me in stood behind me, a look of annoyance on his face now.
"Listen, Miss, I told you, Michael Sutton is gone. Now do you want his forwarding address or what?"
"He can't be gone," I repeated, but barely audible. I started out of the apartment and stopped to look at our little Christmas tree.
"Those are all presents for me," I said softly. The gentleman heard me and laughed.
"Really? Well, they're not very expensive gifts. All those boxes are empty. He put them there just for decorative purposes," the gentleman said. "I'm sorry. I see you're very disturbed, but . . ."
"No. He's waiting for me someplace else. That must be it. Maybe he's called me. Oh, no," I said. "He's calling me and I'm not there."
"If he's calling you, it's from an airplane over the ocean," the gentleman said dryly. "Believe me, I know. I took him to the airport myself."
I stared at him a moment and then shook my head.
"No, he's waiting for me someplace else. That has to be it. Thank you, thank you. Oh," I said, stopping in the doorway. "Have a Merry Christmas."
"Thanks. You, too," he said and closed the door behind me as soon as I stepped into the corridor.
Cutler 2 - Secrets of the Morning Page 21
