"Anyway," he continued, putting his hand over mine again, "I feel as if I know you well. If you are like me, you are a passionate person. You feel everything more deeply than other, ordinary people do, whether it's happiness or sadness, pleasure or pain, and then you are able to translate that experience into song through your beautiful voice. Am I right?"
"Yes," I said. "I think so."
"Of course I'm right. Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked, sitting back again.
"I do, but he's away in Europe. He's in the army."
"I see." He nodded. "Remember this, Dawn," he said leaning toward me, "passion makes us desperate."
I stared into his eyes, mesmerized. It was as if my heart had stopped. I didn't dare to breathe for fear I would shatter the fragile moment. His smile came slowly, softly and then he sat back again.
"Tonight," he declared, "there is a recital at the Museum of Modern Art, and afterward, there is a wine and cheese reception. Of course, I am one of the honored guests and now I would like you to be one as well."
"Me?"
"Yes. Be at the museum at eight o'clock. I'm sure you know how to dress. Don't look so surprised," he said, smiling. "In Europe it is très chic for a teacher to invite one of his prize students to a recital. Anyway, I want you to hear these people sing. There are things to learn. Each moment of our day must be a positive and worthwhile moment. From this moment on," he said, "don't let any opportunity slip through your fingers."
He looked at his watch and then reached for his wallet.
"I have to be going. Errands to do before I can be free to enjoy. I'm glad we had this informal chat and got to know each other a little better and I look forward to seeing you tonight. You will be there?"
"Oh, yes," I said quickly. My mind raced along as I considered my wardrobe and what would be proper attire. Wait until Trisha found out, I thought.
Michael stood up and we left the café. On the sidewalk outside, we parted. I watched him hail a cab. He waved just before he got in and then he was gone.
I stood there, my thoughts whirling around in my head making me so dizzy I had to lean against a street light pole and catch my breath. Was I dreaming? Finally, I started across the street, feeling as if I were walking on air. I had to look down to be sure my feet were touching the ground. I didn't even realize where I was until I found myself standing in front of the apartment house. Then I rushed up the stairs and through the door. I raced up the stairway, and burst in on Trisha who looked up from her magazine.
"You will never believe," I said with a gasp, "where I am going tonight and who asked me to go."
Then I proceeded to tell her everything in a single breath.
My stomach churned so with anticipation, I couldn't eat a thing for dinner. The food just lay there on the plate staring up at me. I picked away at what I could when Mrs. Liddy looked in because I didn't want her to think I didn't like what she had made. I had washed my hair and set it in large rollers. Agnes and Mrs. Liddy knew I was going to the recital and that Michael Sutton had invited me.
Before dinner Trisha and I had gone through my wardrobe trying to decide what was appropriate to wear to an evening recital. Most everything was too informal, we thought. Finally, we settled on my sleeveless black taffeta with the V neckline. It had a wide, black bow tie belt at the waist and a full skirt that reached between my knees and ankles.
After dinner when I went up to dress, Trisha stuck her hand into her top dresser drawer to produce her padded bra. She dangled it before me.
"Oh, no," I said, eyeing it with temptation. "I couldn't wear that."
"Of course you could. You want to look older and enhance what you already have developed, don't you? You're going to be among grown women; you can't look like a child," she emphasized. "The bodice of your dress requires it," she concluded. "Just do it," she snapped when I still hesitated.
I took it from her slowly and put it on. When I slipped into the dress and she zipped up the back for me, my image in the mirror took me by surprise. It wasn't only the padded bra. There had been subtle, but significant changes in my looks since my mother and I had gone shopping in Virginia a little over a year ago. I had been sensitive to the changes in Jimmy, but somehow not to the changes in myself.
Just as with him, my face had lost its childhood plumpness in the cheeks. I saw a more mature glint in my eyes and found that whenever I looked at anything intently now, I tended to raise my right eyebrow like a question mark. My neck looked softer, the curve into my shoulders more graceful and smooth, and my cleavage deeper with the shadow at the bottom, suggesting and promising. Even Trisha was surprised.
"You look so much older!" she exclaimed. "Here," she cried, rushing to her jewelry box and producing a gold necklace that sparkled brightly with tiny diamonds. "Wear this."
"Oh, I couldn't, Trisha. What if I lost it? I know it was a special gift to you from your father."
"All his gifts to me are special," she shrugged. "Don't worry, you won't lose it and you need something around your neck with that deep neckline. Or should I say, 'plunging neckline'?" she teased.
"I look like a fool, just like someone trying to appear ages older, don't I?"
"Absolutely not," she insisted. "I'm just kidding. Don't you dare change into something else, Dawn. Now march yourself right down those stairs and call for a cab this instant before you lose your nerve. Go on," she insisted.
Agnes was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairway. For a moment I thought she was going to insist I turn around and change into something that would make me look far less enticing and more my age. But suddenly, her dark brown eyes brightened and she brought her hands to the base of her throat.
"For a moment," she said, her voice nearly breathless, "I thought I had fallen through time and was looking at myself coming down that stairway in a melodrama I starred in when I was only four or five years older than you." She sighed and shook her head.
"I have to call for a taxi," I explained and started toward the sitting room. Lost in one of her memories, Agnes could go on for hours.
"Yes, but wait right here afterward," she ordered and rushed off. She returned with a mother-of-pearl white shawl and draped it over my shoulders. "Now," she said, standing back, "you look fully dressed and elegant and like one of my girls."
My heart was racing so quickly when I walked out and down the stairs to get into my cab that I thought I just might fall in a faint and have to be carried off to a hospital. I felt myself trembling after I got into the taxi. For a moment I couldn't remember where I was going.
"Which museum?" the cab driver asked again.
"The Museum . . . of Modern Art," I gasped.
"Right," he replied and shot off.
When we arrived I sat there a moment and gaped at the crowd of richly dressed sophisticated men and women stepping out of taxi cabs and limousines and then making their way toward the front entrance of the museum. Here and there I saw some young people, but they were all with their parents. I paid the cab driver and emerged from the taxi so slowly I was sure he thought I was attending a function I despised. After he drove off, I stood there hoping to spot Michael Sutton, but he was nowhere in sight. Finally, I walked to the front entrance and followed some people through the doors.
Small groups were gathered in the lobby. So many people appeared to know each other. I saw no one who looked as alone as I was. I waded through the sea of laughter and conversation, making my way slowly toward the recital. Signs directed me. When I reached the doorway of the room, I found an elderly lady sitting at a desk with a list of names before her. She looked up at me expectantly and smiled. Were we supposed to have tickets?
"Good evening," she said and waited for me to give her my name.
"Good evening. I'm Dawn Cutler," I said.
"Cutler?" She looked down at her list of invited guests. "Cutler," she repeated. "I'm sorry, I don't . . ."
I felt the blood rush into my face as other people around me stared and waited impatien
tly to go ahead.
"You were sent an invitation?" the elderly lady asked me, still smiling in a friendly manner.
"I'm . . . I was invited by Michael Sutton," I stammered quickly.
"Oh. A guest of Mr. Sutton's. Yes, yes. Go right on inside and take whatever seat you like," she said.
I moved into the recital room quickly and gazed around, searching desperately now for Michael. I knew no one else here and didn't know where to go. I tried not to look confused and frightened, but it seemed to me that everyone in the room was looking at me: people who were seated turned to look back, others entering paused to gaze at me, none smiling. I was sure I stood out like an ugly weed in a bed of roses.
Finally, out of desperation, I hurried down the right aisle and took the first available seat. I looked back at the doorway, hoping to see Michael Sutton enter. The moment he did, I thought I would go to him. Finally, just before the recital was to begin, he did come, dressed in a tuxedo and black tie. But I didn't move. On his arm was a beautiful woman with flaming red hair, her ears dripping diamonds. An excited usher greeted them immediately and led them down the other side of the recital hall to reserved seats right up front.
I was stunned. He didn't even look for me; surely he hadn't even asked if I had arrived, for he would know I had and sought me out, I thought. Did he expect I would be waiting for him in the lobby? He hadn't said so. Was I supposed to go to him now? When I strained my neck to look over the people in front of me, I saw there were no empty seats beside him.
Before I could do anything, the recital began and I had no time to think. It consisted of stars from the Metropolitan Opera House singing famous arias. The voices and the music were so overwhelming that while the recital was conducted, I forgot everything else: forgot about being embarrassed or alone, forgot about sitting among strangers who seemed very disinterested in me, even forgot about Michael Sutton, who appeared to have overlooked the fact that he had invited me.
After the applause had ended and the crowd had begun to make its way out of the recital hall, I lingered so that Michael would see me. So many people were gathered around him as he made his way up the aisle; I didn't know how I would get to him, short of elbowing my way through the pack of admirers. He didn't see me and I was too embarrassed to shout out. Instead, I bowed my head and followed the audience to the wine and cheese reception.
Waiters and waitresses moved around a big room carrying trays of wine in tall, thin glasses and trays of hors d'oeuvres. I took a glass of wine and waited to catch sight of Michael. Finally, I saw him in the middle of a crowd of people all the way across the room. I made my way as gracefully as I could, even though I felt like running to him. When I got there, I stood back, waiting for him to notice me. It seemed to take ages because his eyes were fixed on the beautiful redheaded woman, who was with him. She kept her arm threaded through his and threw her head back to laugh and nudged him with her shoulder every time he said something.
Finally, he turned my way. His eyes brightened with recognition.
"Dawn," he cried. He held his hand out and I took it to move through the crowd. "Wasn't it wonderful?" he asked, his face flushed from the wine and the conversation, as well as the heat from the people who closed in around him.
"Yes. I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to meet you in the lobby so . . ."
"This, ladies and gentlemen," he declared, turning to the people who stood closest to us, "is one of my new pupils."
"Oh, that's right, Michael," the redheaded woman said, laughing, "I forgot you are to be a teacher, too, this year." She whispered something in his ear and he laughed loudly. Then he turned back to me.
"Did you get something to eat, a glass of wine?"
"Yes," I said, holding up my glass.
"Good. Well enjoy yourself. We'll talk about this when we have our first private lesson," he said and patted me on the hand. I waited with baited breath for him to say more, but he returned his attention to the people around him.
I stood there dumbly, wondering what else I was to say or do. After a moment his friends and the redheaded woman led him off toward another gathering of people and I was left standing alone.
Michael hadn't even really introduced me to anyone; he hadn't told anyone my name. I looked around. Could everyone see my embarrassment? Everywhere I turned, eyes were on me. How foolish I must appear standing by myself with a glass of wine in my hand waiting for someone to say something to me, I thought. I saw a man lean over and whisper to the woman beside him, who laughed loudly at whatever he'd said. They were surely laughing at me. My heart felt right up against my throat and I broke out in a cold sweat.
I wanted to run out of the room, but I knew that would only draw more attention to me. Slowly, with my head bowed, I made my way toward the door. When I finally found myself in the lobby, I lifted my head and felt the tears stinging behind my eyes. Afraid someone would see me in tears, I charged out the entrance of the museum and hurried to the street. Once there, I took deep gasps. I was a tight wire inside, stretched so taut I thought I might break and cry hysterically.
Without realizing what I was doing or where I was going, I turned left and began to walk. I don't know how far I walked or what directions I took, for I turned wherever there was a green light. Finally, I stopped and looked around and realized I was lost. But what frightened and shocked me even more was the realization that I had left the museum carrying my wine glass. What if someone had seen me leave and thought I had stolen it? If I was described to the woman who had been seated at the desk at the door to the recital hall, she would know who I was and tell Michael Sutton.
I could hear her saying it: "Your prize pupil stole a wine glass and went rushing out."
I turned about desperately, looking for a place to throw it. Suddenly, I heard someone say, "Hi, honey. Slumming tonight?"
I spun around to face a man with an unshaven face with eyes that looked more like empty sockets. When he smiled, he revealed a mouth missing many teeth. I could smell his whiskey breath. He looked like he had slept in his faded brown rain coat and creased pants. His sneakers were torn at the sides.
When he laughed, I pivoted as quickly as I could and ran as fast as I could in my high-heeled shoes. Agnes's white shawl flew off my shoulders, but I didn't stop to retrieve it because I heard the horrid man shout. Just as I reached a corner, one of my heels gave way. I threw off my shoes and kept running, not looking back. I ran as hard and as fast as possible until I came to a busy intersection. There, I took hold of a light pole and caught my breath. Passersby glanced at me, but no one stopped to ask me what was wrong or if he or she could help.
I was finally able to flag down a taxi cab.
"Must've been some party," the driver said after I got in. I realized my hair was a mess, the strands flying everywhere. Tears had streamed down my cheeks. My dress was rumpled and I was barefoot. Yet, I still clung stupidly to the wine glass I had taken from the reception. I gave the cab driver my address and sat back, my eyes closed all the way.
When we arrived, I quickly paid the fare and rushed up the stairs and into the house. The moment I entered, I heard voices from the sitting room and remembered Agnes was having some of her theatrical friends over. I tried slipping by the door, but Agnes had heard me come in. She stepped out of the sitting room.
"Dawn," she called. "Come and tell us about the reception." As I drew closer to her, she realized something was wrong. "What happened?"
"Oh Agnes," I cried. "I got lost and lost your shawl. I'm sorry."
"Oh dear. You never got to the reception? But how could that be? Surely the taxi took you directly there."
"No, afterward," I explained. She stared at me and then looked at the glass in my hand.
"I don't understand," she said, shaking her head. "Why do you have that glass?"
"I . . . I don't know!" I cried and rushed past her and up the stairs.
Naturally, Trisha was up and waiting to hear about my exciting evening, but as soon as she to
ok one look at me, her smile turned to a look of shock.
"What happened to you?"
"Oh Trisha, I'm so embarrassed. It wasn't a date with Michael. He hardly spoke to me. I ran out of the reception and forgot to give back this glass. Then I got lost and a horrible man came after me so I ran and ran, losing a shawl Agnes had given me as well as breaking off a heel," I cried and fell on my stomach on my bed.
"I don't understand what you're saying," Trisha said. I spun around and screamed through my tears.
"I'm saying it's no good to try to be someone you're not. I shouldn't have dressed up like this. I shouldn't have even gone. Grandmother Cutler's right. I'm a nobody who was dropped back on the doorstep of rich, fancy people; but everyone can see I'm not one of them and I don't belong."
"That's stupid. Of course she's not right about you. Anyone can get lost in New York at night. Stop crying," Trisha demanded. "So you forgot to give back a glass. Big deal. At least you forgot. Other people probably swipe them on purpose, even rich, sophisticated people. Anyway, did Michael Sutton see you run out?"
"I don't know," I said, grinding back my tears. "So?"
"I felt so foolish," I repeated. "No one spoke a word to me, not even the people I sat next to. They're all so stuck up. I felt like I was in a room filled with Grandmother Cutlers."
"They'll be sorry," Trisha said, sitting beside me and stroking my messy hair. "Someday, they will all come to hear you in a recital and you can remind them of this night."
I looked at her and shook my head.
"Anyway," Trisha said, taking the glass and putting it up on my dresser, "we have a real souvenir, a memento marking your first night with Michael Sutton, whether he knows it or not."
She widened her eyes and we both laughed.
Thank goodness I had Trisha, I thought, the sister I had never known. I would trade Clara Sue for her in a moment. Grandmother Cutler was wrong: blood wasn't always thicker than water.
Secrets of the Morning Page 13
