What did he want? Why was he standing there, smiling at me? He had been giving me looks all day, looks that made me more and more nervous.
"That's kind of why I came around," he said with a slight shrug. "You see how beautiful it is today? Here we are, all caged in most of the day, rehearsing. practicing. We're ignoring nature. It's still quite nice. Warmer than usual for this time of the year here."
"Yes, it does look like a beautiful day."
"So why spend the last part of it inside? Feel like going for a walk?"
"A walk? You want me to go for a walk with you?"
"Just around the block. There's a dead-end street that looks out over the East River. I'd like to show it to you. I found it quite by accident one day.. It's in a very ritzy neighborhood."
I continued to stare at him.
"You want me to take a walk to see the river?"
"We hardly ever talk. I don't mean when we're all together. We've been here weeks and weeks and all I really know about you is your name, you're from Ohio, and you play the violin as beautifully as Itzhak Perlman."
"Hardly," I said.
"Not hardly. Soon." he corrected.
I laughed. His arrogance annoyed me as much as it annoyed the others, but he wasn't acting that way right now.
"I'm just talking about a walk," he said. "It's not holy matrimony. We won't have to go down the fire escape for some clandestine rendezvous," he added with a smile.
Perhaps I had better go with him, I thought. by make him any more suspicious?
"Okay. I'll finish this later."
"Sure. It won't go out until tomorrow anyway. That's nice, your writing to an uncle. You must be very close," he added while I put on my jacket.
"We are. We've always been. Where's Steven?" I asked when we started down the stairs.
"Playing with one of his computer games or something. He's a genius on the piano. but I really can't have an intelligent conversation with him. And I'm not trying to sound superior." he quickly added.
"Somehow. Howard, you don't have to try," I said, and he laughed, but differently from his usual condescending or satirical laugh. This laugh seemed so much more sincere.
He opened the door for me and I nodded my thank you and stepped out. He was right, of course: it was one of those days when the clouds just seemed daubed against the blue, little puffs of them here and there, the breeze gentle, everything still looking remarkably fresh. Most of the trees had lost their leaves, but the grass remained an almost kelly green.
"When New York has this kind of weather, it's unbeatable." Howard said. We walked slowly down the drive. "I like taking these walks in the city."
"I didn't know you went out on your own much. Howard."
"Oh, no? Well, when you girls are all locked up in one of your rooms or another and Steven has his nose in a computer game. I just wander away. I like to feel the energy here. The city almost has a palpable heartbeat. Excitement, lights, people. traffic. It's just... great," he declared. I smiled at his exuberance.
"Not for you though, huh?" he asked.
"Well, yes and no It is exciting, but I can't deny that I miss the quiet nights, the sight of an owl, or the fresh breezes combing through the corn stalks, the sight of the geese in formation going south or north, the deep aroma of freshly turned earth. Let's just say there is music in both places, but entirely different from each other and equally moving," I concluded.
He walked without speaking. We were almost to the gate.
"Of all the girls here, you're the most interesting to me, Honey," he said.
"Me? Why? Cinnamon is the actress and filled with great stories about spirits and stuff. Ice comes from a much harder place, with stories that will make your hair stand up, yet she has so much softness inside her. And Rose. Rose is very beautiful to watch. Her walk is a dance."
He laughed.
"You're the best public relations agent they'll ever have, only you left out yourself. You're the first farmer's daughter I have ever met," he added.
"So."
"Didn't you ever hear any of those jokes about the farmer's daughter?"
"No," I replied with some suspicion. Tony had said something resembling this. I recalled. "What sort of jokes?"
"There's all these jokes about traveling salesmen who break down in a storm and ao to the farmhouse where they take him in for the night and the farmer's daughter sleeps with him."
"They don't tell those jokes where I live." I said.
"I bet not. Well, it doesn't matter. You obviously don't fit any stereotype,"
We stepped out of the compound and onto the sidewalk.
"We go left." he said. nodding. "Getting back to you. You come from what anyone here might call the hinterland, yet you have a certain sophistication that is especially apparent in your music. Yes. Ice is going to sing her way out of poverty. Cinnamon acts almost as a means of self-defense. I agree that Rose is pure grace and beauty. She couldn't help but be what she is, just as you said. But you, you play classical music on a violin and were brought up with the sound of cows mooing and farm equipment grinding. Who'd expect you to take up a violin and play like you do?"
I nodded, stared at the sidewalk as we strolled, and smiled softly to myself.
"I don't play it. It plays me," I whispered.
"Huh?"
"I had an uncle who was killed in a plane accident. He was the one who put the violin in my hand. Literally. He bought it for me and paid for my lessons."
"Amazing," Howard said. "I have to tell you. Honey. You are the most sincere one."
"No. I'm not."
"I think you are. Down this street," he directed. The apartment houses did look full of rich people. They had private gates and security guards and little gardens, "There," Howard pointed. There was a fence at the end of the street. Across the way, over the highway, was the East River, just as he had promised. "Well?"
"Very unexpected. You're right. How did you find this again?" He smiled.
"A friend of my father's lives in that building," he said, nodding at the apartment house on our left. "He has a private elevator that opens only on his apartment."
"Why did you tell me you discovered it by accident?"
"I thought it would sound more romantic."
"It did," I said. "but I didn't need the
embellishment. The truth isn't necessarilydull."
He laughed and squatted by the fence.
"Relax." he said, patting the space beside him. "Have a seat." I looked at the ground with some trepidation.
"A farmer's daughter shouldn't be afraid of sitting on the grass," he added.
I did.
"So," he said. "Speaking of the truth-- now that we're alone, why don't you tell me what's really going on with you girls?"
"He asked you that?" Rose cried when I had returned and gotten them all together.
"Yes .."
"He really is quite an actor, our Howard Rockwell," Cinnamon said, her face full of fury. "I thought he bought my story hook. line, and sinker. He put on this big performance about how shocked and surprised he was that Honey would cheat on Chandler. He even said he thought you were the purest of heart. I feel like punching him in his perfect, handsome face."
"That's what he told me. too." I said. "When he asked me. I looked sharply at him and told him I didn't know what he meant."
"What did he do?" Ice asked.
"Laughed and said he would never believe I snuck out at night to meet some boy secretly and risk not only my position in the school but my relationship with Chandler. 'You're a one-boy girl. Honey,' he told me.
"Of course, he's right, and I couldn't deny it. He saw it clearly in my face.
" 'So what's going on?' he repeated and I got up quickly and ran from him, ran all the way back here.
"That should throw off all suspicion," Cinnamon muttered. "Smart."
"She didn't know what else to do," Rose said, coming to my defense. "I would have done the same thing, Honey."
"I would have kicked him," Ice claimed, but then looked at me and shrugged. "I don't know what I would have done. The thing is, what do we do now?" she asked, turning to Cinnamon.
"We could tell him you're pregnant." she replied.
"What? Why don't we tell him you're pregnant?" Ice countered.
"I'm only kidding. No matter who we claimed was pregnant, it would hold him off only a few months before he realized it wasn't so."
"Let's not tell him anything." Rose concluded. "-Why should we have to, just because he's
suspicious?"
"That will work all right if we don't go back up there," I said. "I thought we decided we wouldn't." Ice insisted.
"We didn't say that exactly." Rose reminded her. "Well, are we?"
No one answered for a moment.
"I can't believe she threatened to shave her head," I said.
"Again. You heard her. She's done that before." Rose said. "Gerta has no one to defend her. It's so sad."
"Her mother should be defending her." Cinnamon snapped.
"But she isn't, is she?" Rose countered.
"Mothers don't always stand up for their daughters." "I have trouble falling asleep now that I know
she's up there, locked in like that," I said.
"She's probably singing 'Short'nin Bread,' "
Rose mused with a smile.
Ice shook her head. "Damn," she said. Everyone eyed everyone else. It was easy to see
how we all felt about it.
"Ms. Fairchild locked the window. The only
way to get back up there is to go through the doors
off-limits to us." Cinnamon warned. "We'd have to
wait until Madame Senetsky left the house." "I heard she's going to a dinner at Gracie
Mansion, the mayor's home, on Thursday," Rose said.
"Mr. Littleton told Mr. Demetrius."
"This is going to end up bad." Ice said. "I can
feel it in my bones.'"
No one disagreed.
But we did all sleep better that night.
Over the next few days, we all concentrated on
our work. Howard learned he might get an
opportunity to fill a two-line role in a film being shot nearby. Edmond Senetsky knew the producer and had given him Howard's head shots. Fortunately for us, that was all Howard wanted to discuss. At every dinner, he lectured about the differences between
stage acting and film acting,
"The reason all those actors in the early movies
look so silly to us is they were still performing the
way they did on stage. It was their only training. So
they made all these grand gestures and exaggerated
facial expressions, not realizing the power of the
camera," he explained.
Cinnamon caught on early, realizing that as
long as he was obsessed with himself he was
disinterested in us. She encouraged his talks and
encouraged us to ask him questions, act impressed and
interested. Only Steven, sitting back with that satirical
smirk on his face, understood what we were doing. As hick would have it. Howard had to go see
the movie producer Thursday night. There was a
reading Edmond asked him to attend. With Madame
Senetsky going to an event and Howard out of our
hair, we all felt a bit more confident about violating
the boundaries of the house and paving Gerta another
visit.
Ice remained downstairs while Cinnamon. Rose. and I pretended to be tired and went up to bed. Steven lingered a while and then grew bored and went to his room and his games. A little less than a half hour later, Ice told us Ms. Fairchild had retired for the evening, warning her to be sure everything was turned
off and things left neatly before she went up to sleep. Still quite nervous and frightened, we all
descended the stairway, pausing occasionally to listen.
All I heard was the pounding of my own heart, the
blood thumping through my veins and echoing in my
ears. A grandfather clock banged the hour.
Floorboards creaked, but other than that, the house
was very quiet.
At the doorway to Madame Senetsky's private
rooms, we paused one final time. All of us knew that
once we entered, there was no turning back. Secrets
would spill over. There would be serious
consequences. Our careers would be seriously set
back. What drove each of us to go forward with these
realizations bubbling under our skin was not very
different. I thought. We each saw something of
ourselves in Gerta, in her plight and in her loneliness. During one of her frequent lectures. Madame
Senetsky had emphasized how a good performer
always brings something of himself or herself, some personal, even traumatic experience to his or her
performance.
"It is the way we see ourselves in others,
especially in roles we are asked to perform, that will
determine how well we will exhibit our talents." she
explained. "Whether it be music or dance or acting,
the commonality we all share is the well from which
you will draw your aesthetic sense and strength. "Be perceptive, use your compassion and your
sensibilities to draw from those around you.
"That is what I have always tried to do.' Because all of us had become so close, we
shared our most painful memories as well as our
happiest. Cinnamon's sense of isolation from her peers
was something all of us had felt at one time or
another. Ice's estrangement from her mother, her pain
and difficulty in expressing herself struck a
sympathetic note, especially with Rose, whose mother
had literally deserted her for a long time. And my
oppressive Grandad, my loss of Uncle Peter, made me
timid and afraid of stepping out into the world. Who could possibly be more different from her
peers than Gerta? How difficult it was for her to really
communicate with anyone. Look how estranged she
was from her own mother. How terrified she was of the world outside? In one way or another, we were all
Gerta.
The door creaked on its hinges as if it wanted to
warn Ms. Fairchild that it was being violated. No
matter how slowly Cinnamon pulled it open, it
groaned. We held our breaths and listened for any
sound of her footsteps. Cinnamon opened it a little
farther, and we were all able to slip in, closing it as
softly as we could behind us.
We all looked at one another. No one had to say
it.
Now, it was too late to turn back.
13 Gerta's Story
When we closed the door behind us and turned, we all stopped and stared in awe. The long, dark hallway was dimly lit by black candles in ivory holders mounted on the walls. Light dripped down in a waxy pool over the tiled floor. The candles flickered as though they'd been left by someone hurrying past, fleeing from discovery, diving into the darkness like a toad seeking the cover of murky water. All was still, but from somewhere above us, we could hear muffled voices. They sounded like words trapped in the building's ancient pipes, words spoken ages ago by others as young as we were and just as afraid. Of course, we assumed it was Gerta playing her records.
"Why is the hallway like this?" Rose was the first to ask. "I feel like I'm descending into a cavern or something."
"How strange," I said. "Obviously. Gerta is not the only one living in her own private world," Cinnamon muttered.
"I don't think we should go any farther." Ice said. The chill in her voice made my o
wn teeth start to chatter.
"What's there to be afraid of?" Cinnamon pondered, sounding more like she wanted us to agree than give her an answer. "So she goes for a dramatic decor. Big deal. Right?" she asked Rose.
"I don't know." Rose said, obviously having trouble swallowing.
"Oh, just come on," Cinnamon directed and started forward. When no one moved, she stopped and looked back at us. "Well, are you coming or not?"
We practically inched our way down the corridor. Along the way we passed a niche that contained a statue of a woman holding up a baby and gazing toward the heavens as if she was offering the child as some sort of sacrifice. The child's eyes were closed and looked already dead and gone.
"Not exactly a very joyful work of art," Ice muttered.
Cinnamon grunted her agreement and we continued, pausing to look at a window drape that was hanging from one corner. There was a large rip in it as well. On the tile below it was what looked like large drops of blood. The blood trailed to the doorway of the room on the left. It nailed our feet to the floor.
"What happened here?" Rose wondered aloud.
"Whatever it was, it happened a while ago. Why keep it like this?" I asked.
"Let's get out of here," Rose whispered. "'We're going to get into so much trouble."
"We've come this far," Cinnamon said. "It's too late to turn back."
Now that we were much deeper into the house, we realized the sound we heard in the walls was not voices from any recording of a song. It sounded more like someone chanting and moaning. Drawn by a morbid curiosity that seemed overpowering enough to move our numb bodies, we stepped up to the doorway and gazed into the room.
No one could speak: no one could utter a sound.
The room was in chaos. A chair was turned over and the small settee was toppled on its back. A lamp was sprawled over it and still lit. A bottle of wine lay broken on the right. Then our eyes fell to a large knife, the blade stained with what surely was blood. When we all moved a few inches to the right. Rose grabbed my arm so fast and so hard. I was positive she had driven her nails through the skin. Her cry was like a dagger itself, piercing my breast.
"What's that?" Ice cried, pointing.
It was an arm and a hand just visible behind the overturned settee.
I felt my own blood drain from my face.
No one spoke or moved until Cinnamon stepped forward and walked around the settee. She stood there gaping. . . and then she shook her head and smiled.
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