At the Twilight's Last Gleaming (16 page)

“What a beautiful place,” I said.

“I thought you might like it. Who would have imagined one could find a bit of Southern Gothic in Southern Maryland. But Daddy sure did, just as soon as he got to be Senator from Alabama. It was a bit of wreck then. Hadn’t been lived in for a while. It’s still getting fixed up, but it’s definitely livable now.”

“It’s old, isn’t it?”

“Let’s just say it’s got quite a history,” said Emory. “Of course, so does my family.”

I couldn’t help myself. I stepped over and peered into one of the front rooms. It was apparently the dining room, with large table and dining chairs and all manner of quaint old antique furniture along the side.

From the ceiling, above the dining table, hung a chandelier. Even with the lights off, the cut class depended from it like sparkling diamonds.

“Oh my goodness?” I said. “Did the chandelier come with the house?”

“No. Imported from an estate sale near Birmingham. You should see the one we have down home in Alabama. And if you like chandeliers… Oh my word! We have friends in New Orleans. My, my, you should see theirs.”

“It’s grand,” I said. “Just grand!”

I was pleased with the effect of my effusiveness was having on Emory. His face, his attitude — everything about him seemed to be opening up. At school, when I had first noticed him, he’d seemed something kind of like a big bug, hunkered down, closing black armor around…something.

“Daddy should be back here,” said Emory.

“And your mom?”

“Mother? Oh, I suspect she’s out tonight. Some social function — most likely charity. She’s always busy nights in D.C. — and half the time she’s doing things up in New York, or even down south. Goes to New Orleans all the time, to say nothing of Birmingham. But I’ll say this for her. When it comes time for re-election, she practically runs the darn thing.”

I suspected that the one who really missed his mother was Emory. That would explain a lot — I thought then, anyway. A sheltered boy who didn’t see much of his parents? A recipe for a withdrawn boy, said Dr. Williams.

“I guess we won’t be seeing her tonight,” I said. “I would like to meet her sometime. She sounds quite something.”

“Oh, certainly! Certainly! But tonight we meet my Daddy. He practically lives in the library. That’s his study, you see. And that’s where I do think we’ll find him tonight. Come!”

The next thing I knew his hand slid into mine.

The effect was electric.

Added to the butterflies about meeting a U.S. Senator and being in a wonderful, atmospheric house, holding Emory’s hand made me catch my breath. It was a warm hand, and a really big hand. It seemed to engulf my little paw. I felt safe.

He pulled me down the side of the foyer, past the staircase. Past the doorways. One doorway, two doorways, both closed..

And then a hook down the hall to the left, a turn to the right.

A door was ajar, a ribbon of light shining through it.

“Okay,” said Emory. “Here we are.”

“Are you sure I look okay?”

“I absolutely assure you, you look just fine.” He paused. He tapped politely on the door, leaning in a bit. “Daddy? Daddy, are you here?”

“Emory!” called a voice. “Emory, my boy! You brought her?”

“I did.”

“Well, don’t you just stand there, dawlin’ . Come on in here right this instant, you hear?”

The voice was deep and resonant, full of character and good cheer.

Emory pulled me in.

The room was large, and very obviously a library. And what a library! There were rows and rows and shelves and shelves of boxes. In the corners, busts sat on pedestals. At one side of the room an old elaborate desk was set up, with a telephone and books piled upon it. On the other was a table with chairs, obviously for meetings. In a fireplace, a woodfire crackled cheerfully. The room smelled faintly of the woodsmoke, but more profoundly of pipe tobacco

On the far end of the room, though, was a large comfortable coach. A man sat on the couch in an old thick brown cardigan sweater over street clothes and a tie. The sides of dark full thatch of bushy hair were gray. He had a mustache, grey as well. But set of magnificent eyebrows were dark, below a large forehead.

He was perched on the edge of the coach, holding a copy of
The New York Times
and peering forward at us over half-frame spectacles.

“Well get yourselves in then, children. I’m not gonna bite.”

Emory laughed. “Daddy, I want you to meet Rebecca Williams.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” I said.

Being a daughter of an Air Force officer, I had some social training. I’d also paid attention when I was in England. I went forward, poised as possible, and extended my hand.

With a big grin on his features, Senator Clarke lunged forward and grabbed up my hand. His hands was even bigger than his son’s and had just the right amount of pressure in its shake to express warmth and friendliness. It was obvious this man had pressed a lot of flesh.

“My, my! You are the lovely young lady. It’s such a pleasure to meet you!”

Senator Clarke’s eyes were dark brown, with just a glint of green. They flashed with good humor and honest interest.

“Thank you, Senator. And of course it’s an honor to meet you,” I said.

I almost felt as though I should curtsey or something, but I managed to keep my cool. “Or would you prefer I call you Mr. Clarke?”

“What! No, my dear! Pshaw! Call me Beau. That’s short for Beauregard, you know. A hallowed Southern name.”

“Daddy makes everyone call him Beau, except family,” said Emory.

“That’s right. Beau. It’s ain’t a common name, but it’s short and easy to remember.” Those bright, intelligent eyes surveyed me appraisingly. “Now then, Emory tells me that you are quite the actress!”

“Well, actually, I do an English accent well.”

“Nonsense! Acting is a gift! Emory’s got it… I’ve known that since he was a toddler. But damn if I ever had much luck persuading him to do much of it — until now!’

“You talked him into trying out for Dracula?” I said.

“Not just me. Whole family! He was getting too wrapped up in his own little world. Told him to get out and have some fun. When I was a boy, I had a fear of standing in front of people, so my Daddy, he said, get yourself on stage. So I joined the debate club! Next thing I knew, I was President of the Senior Class, and from that point on they just couldn’t shut me up.”

“Lyndon Johnson calls Daddy “Filibuster Clarke,” said Beau.

“That’s when you try and stop a bill by talking and talking and talking on the Senate floor?” I said.

“You’ve had your civics, I see. Good girl. Yes, that’s more or less what it is. I was Lyndon’s secret weapon by 1957.” He sniffed. “Kinda wish the son of a bitch had found someone another patsy!”

“Daddy,” said Emory.

“Sorry! I forget myself. There’s a lady present. Where was I. We politicians do love to slander one another in the privacy of our homes. Now then — I understand that you wear a blonde wig for the show.”

“That’s right. Maybe that’s what else that got me the role. I brought it to the audition. I think it helps me get into character. Helps me — be someone else.”

“Well said, well said. We all need props to help ourselves get into character. What’s my prop then, Emory?”

“Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde, Daddy?” said Emory.

“No Mister Macawber – or Ebenezer Scrooge, you scoundrel! Son… Emory! You know what I’m talking about. My speeches, boy!”

Emory laughed. “Oh, that would be the lucky silver dollar, Daddy.”

“That’s my boy. It’s a lucky silver dollar. I keep it in a chain which I hang around my neck, under my tie. It’s a nineteen twenty six silver dollar, Rebecca. Mighty powerful.” He arched a shaggy brow. “Mah Daddy gave it to me. Do you want to see it?”

“Uhm — oh — of course!”

“Let me see if I can fish it out. Wearing it now, as a matter of fact. Had to do a little talk to my Committee today. I’m on the Social Resources committee in the Senate. Here you go.”

He untied his necktie and pulled out a chain. At the end of the chain, in a round frame was a silver dollar. “Son, my Daddy would say. This, sir, is like a talisman. Do you know what a talisman is?”

“Certainly. It’s some physical object with magic powers.”

“Yes, more or less. If you believe in magic. Silver also wards off werewolves they say,” Senator Clarke winked. He had a very charming wink. “Me? Well, I say, whatever works! And this seems to work for me! At least for speeches. Seems to give me that extra oomph.” He leaned forward. “Emory is quite taken with you, my girl. And not just as an actress. I am very pleased he’s been socializing more, is all I can say, and I like to approve of his friends. And I can see that I do approve of you! So do tell me something about yourself!”

His eyes somehow grew even warmer as he smiled and beckoned me to sit beside him.

“Emory, what are you doing standing there, twiddling your thumbs! Go and get this young lady a soft drink.”

“Got some very nice local Alabama root beer,” said Emory.

“That would be fine!” I said.

As Emory scooted off to see to my soda pop needs, I started telling the Senator about myself. I was quite surprised how easy it was. His cordial but extremely friendly way made me feel quite easy with him, and my words simply tumbled out quite fluidly. I told him about my family being from California orginally, and about my father’s career in the Air Force. I told him about my mother and my little brother and touched on some of the places we’d been and lived. I told him about my favorite place in all the world, which was Disneyland.

By that time, Emory was back, and we all sipped strong, snappy root beer. The bubbles seemed to tinkle merrily around the ice cube as I sipped.

“Oh wonderful. Emory loves Disneyland!” said Senator Clarke. “Don’t you son!”

“I do! I confess, I never thought to ask you about that!” said Emory.

I drank more of the soda and munched on the popcorn that Emory had brought. It had been sprinkled with a very sharp cheese and brought out the flavor of the root beer.

“Emory tells me that part of the reason for your thespian pursuits with DRACULA,” said Senator Clarke, “was your love of literature. Particularly gothic literature.”

That started me gabbing again, and I surprised myself at how easily the words flowed, and how emphatic and excited I was on the subject.

“I believe,” I said, “that the gothic novel is one of the foundations of all great literature. I suppose things like
The Iliad
and the
Odyssey
and all the stories of great journeys from long ago through
Huckleberry Finn
right to today symbolize man’s search for meaning. But what about women’s search for meaning? Ah! The gothic exercises that!”

Senator Clarke cocked his head at me and set his soda down. “I do believe, Rebecca, that all those narrative works of art concern the — ah, human condition. Male or female.”

“But they don’t really speak to the female soul, do they? Okay, sure, they are all searches for meaning. But mostly they’re stories about quests and male needs.”

“Ah, I do see your point. Emory? Care to chime in at this point and save you’re dear old Daddy?”

“I’m afraid I’m not very good at English theme papers. Rebecca clearly is.”

“Well, son, it’s more than a theme paper! And come to think of it, I do understand what Rebecca is talking about. Take Charlotte Bronte’s
Jane Eyre
. Why there’s a remarkable gothic novel, no?”

“I guess some people would call it the model of the modern gothic novel, Beau!” I put in, quite pleased with myself.

“So let me see if I can guess,” said the Senator said. “A woman in love with a mysterious and handsome man — that would be Mr. Rochester, no? A man with a secret. And there’s a sense of mystery and dread hanging about it all, usually symbolized by some item of architecture. I would imagine that there’s a great deal more going on, but then — that’s not my specialty.”

“Oh yes,” I concurred thrilled to be able to lecture. “Symbolism! Theme! Wonderful, involving important matters. It’s all so..engrossing. But it all is a great background for detail and history and characters! It’s absolutely delicious! And so, I might add, is this root beer!”

“Such a gracious guest!” said the Senator. He slapped his knee. “And one great gal! I do approve! One day soon, after school, you must come down to the Senate. I’ll show you around. Might interest you. Then how about some dinner at a local watering hole? We’ll just call it a Civics Field Trip,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “I’d love it!”

“Plenty of Gothic architecture in Washington D.C.,” said Emory. “The Smithsonian Institute, for starters.”

“Ah yes, the Castle. Wonderful place. How about some more of that root beer, then, Rebecca?”

I hadn’t noticed before, but Emory had brought a few more open bottles. As my glass was practically empty and the popcorn had kept up my thirst, I agreed and was rewarded with a full glass of the fizzy stuff. The fact that it was delicious indeed and quite sugary didn’t hurt much. My mood was ebullient.

We talked a bit more about Washington D.C. Both Emory and his father were surprised that I had seen hardly on of our nation’s capital. Oh yes, they said. You must see it! We’d be happy to show you some!

Then, as though, he’d decided that the interview was over, Senator Clarke yawned a great healthy yawn, stretched his arms above his and smiled. “Well, youngsters. It’s time for us old folk to get our hot toddy and stumble off to bed.”

“It’s been a real pleasure….Beau.”

“The pleasure, my dear is all mine,” he said, getting up and tucking the paper under one arm. “A pleasure I will have soon when I see the play you two are in. “ He grew thoughtful. “Emory. I just had a thought. Those old books of yours. The ones with the plates and illustrations and such. Don’t you have one of
Dracula
? Why yes, I think your grandfather gave that to you a few years back. Not a first edition, but British and a nicely done book. Why don’t you show it to Rebecca.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

Senator Beau bid his adieus and left, trailing a charisma of charm.