At the Twilight's Last Gleaming (5 page)

One summer’s vacation, though, aged fifteen, I’d picked it up and started reading.

Reader, I stayed up all night reading that book! I assure you, it is a gripping novel. In any case, something about it kept me turning the pages. Was it just that the first part, the story of Jonathan Harker’s visit to Castle Dracula in the Carpathian Mountains and his encounter with the mysterious and sinister Count was so arresting? Or was it simply the suspense of the actual story of Count Dracula’s journey to England, his mixing with Victorian society, his deadly hold over Lucy, his fly-eating servant Renfield, and his deadly battle with the vampire-hunter Van Helsing? I had thought it was just a creepy story for guys. Nothing prepared me for how it caught me up, despite the fact that even at fifteen I knew that I wasn’t exactly reading Jane Austen.

When I closed the covers of that mildewed copy at four in the morning, and looked out at the lights and quiet fields of the town near Oxford in England where Dad was stationed, I trembled. Somehow the damp cold of the summer night had seeped in. There was ground fog collecting near a creek, and tendrils of it drifted up, translucent beneath a gibbous moon peeking out of the clouds.

Something is out there, I thought. Something dark and needy…and lonely.

From that moment on, I was fascinated with the legend of the vampire. Films I’d seen didn’t really actually capture the core essence of what I’d felt reading the book.

The book itself was not as popular in England as it was in America. But because of copyright problems, Bram Stoker received none of the American royalites. He died with no idea of how popular his book – and character – would become.

I wasn’t aware that a play version of
Dracula
even existed until I heard about Crossland’s intended production last December. But it absolutely made sense.

The version we were using was the one that was performed on Broadway in New York in the 1920’s. In 1924, the actor Hamilton Deane had adapted it from the novel, after buying the rights from Stoker’s widow. Deane had had a success with his adaptation of Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein
. He’d intended to play Count Dracula himself, but then decided to take the meatier role of Van Helsing, casting Raymond Huntley as Dracula. (Huntley, I was happy to hear, was now an actor in Hammer Horror films.) The play toured England for years and then had a successful run in London. In 1927, Horace Liveright brought the play to Broadway. He hired John L. Balderston to adapt it for American audiences. This is the version that starred Bela Lugosi, and the version Tod Browning’s film was based on. This was the version that we were using for the play script.

I’d read it, of course.

It was kind of creaky.

I was naturally curious of course as to what kind of interpretation Mr. Crawley would give it. A melodrama about an evil blood sucking aristocrat, coming to England to spread the undead disease of vampirism from foul pockets of the Balkans through the world and presumably to take charge of it all?

Hmm. Fun, but not campy, sounded good.

But then, it didn’t really make any difference, because that’s not why I was trying out today.

Mr. Crawley clapped his hands together.

“All right, then, folks. Let’s get started. If you haven’t got copies of the play, they’re a pile of them right over there, in that coffin.” He smiled gently and extravagantly swept down to take his place in a chair at the side of the stage to observe the proceedings. He hauled up a large spiral bound book to take notes.

I craned my neck around.

“He’s not here,” I whispered. “Peter’s not here.”

“Maybe he’s already got the part,” said Harold.

“But this morning he said he’d be here,” I countered.

“Say, did you make an appointment with Dr. Canthorpe.”

I nodded.

“When is it?”

“Tomorrow at 10:30 AM. I missed part of biology. Got a permission slip and everything.”

“Better you than me. That kind of guy scares the crap out of me.”

I shrugged.

“What am going to do? What’s he going to do.”

“Intimidate you.”

“Well he’s not my father and he can’t cut my allowance, so there’s a worry gone. Now lets concentrate on this play, huh?”

The playwrights had cut out a few roles in the novels and made some changes in this and that, but the basic characters were the same. And the word around the school – and from the boy himself - was that Peter Harrigan was going to play Count Dracula. When Count Dracula comes to England, his first victim is the blonde daughter of Doctor John Seward, who runs a mental institute in the English countryside. Her name is Lucy.

This is not a sudden victimization. Oh no, Lucy gets visited plenty of times at night, and there’s plenty of neck-sucking before she finally dramatically dies – and becomes a vampire herself.

Yes, and there’s plenty interaction between Lucy and Count Dracula.

Intimate action, covered by a dark cloak, that would have to be rehearsed over and over and over again, the Count leaning over the helpless Lucy, his arms wrapped around her, his mouth buried into her neck…

I shivered there in my seat with anticipation.

“Okay, yes, yes, you’re right. I’ve just got to concentrate now. I’ve got to get into character. Give me the bag.”

Harry handed it over.

I took a deep breath.

I closed my eyes.

I took another deep breath, reached in and pulled out the blonde wig.

CHAPTER SIX

T
HE CLOCK ON the wall of Principal Canthorpe’s office said 10:36 AM.

I sat on a wooden chair in a row of wooden chairs facing the long, imposing front desk of the administrative office. It looked like some kind of bunker from which defenders could peer over, armed with rifles. The assembled secretaries clattered away at electric typewriters. The place smelled of the coffee machine and the over-waxed floors. The only attempt at color to the bland bureaucracy of the place were the American and Maryland flags, which seemed to be the main theme of the décor.

I sat, unable to read my gothic novel. Instead, I watched the big second hand of the big standard issue school clock swing from number to number to number.

I wasn’t feeling well.

I’d had a very hard time sleeping the previous night. The cold day had dawned with a rawness that I still felt inside of me. I felt empty and frightened, with a familiar sinking feeling sinking lower than I’d thought possible.

I wasn’t sure why, which was the most frightening part. It was that fabled sensation, I think, of someone walking over your grave.

In fact, the auditions had gone well. Very well indeed.

The mood struck by Mr. Crawley had immediately infected the students. Everyone seemed to enjoy reading the dated lines from the playbook. Moreover, as there was always plenty of work to be done on a play and there no vocational students involved with the drama department, every student attending knew that even if they didn’t get a role in
Dracula
, they could be a part of the production in some way. And it wasn’t as though a role in
Dracula
was like a role, say, in
The Glass Menagerie
. Melodramatic acting was fun. Scenery was actually rather tasty.

And Peter Harrigan! Peter had been fabulous!

Mr. Crawley had specifically requested that guys reading the Count Dracula lines tone down any tendency to perform them with the famous Bela Lugosi Hungarian accent. In fact, he’d especially asked that if possible, they might do a more stately Christopher Lee version – upper-class British.

Peter wasn’t that good at either of those, and his upper classness was more Bostonian than anything from across the Atlantic. But gosh, he was tall and majestic! He had a perfect stage presence, tall with perfect posture. Totally self-possessed, he read the lines in an interesting way, but also with extreme animal magnetism.

“I don’t drink….wine.”

The words, and that sly smile echoed in my mind even now.

I got shivers thinking about it.

No question about it, I thought. We have our Dracula.

And my try-out?

Perhaps if it was a more professional, or even more experienced group, it wouldn’t have gone well. I’d been an angel in a church production. That was it.

But I had a trump card and I played it.

I’d lived in Britain, and I could jolly well do a bloody proper English accent. I could do it because I’d worked at it over there while we were stationed in England.

I’d donned my wig and I’d read my lines, and I could see that everyone was wowed. Mr. Crawley had insisted that the attempt was part of the fun – perfection wasn’t necessary. But by time I’d finished I could see that he was quite impressed.

“Where did you get that accent?” he said.

“Public school, if you please, sir,” I said. “Indeed, I should have you know, I’m quite the fan of R.A.D.A.”

His eyes had opened wide at that name drop. (Royal Academy for the Dramatic Arts, of course,
the
acting school of Britain).

So, I felt fairly certain I had the role of Lucy.

I’d gone to sleep last night, cozily clutching my pillow, thinking about that cape again closing over me, those glaring eyes taking me in, that mouth descending upon me, those strong arms around me, holding me in their clutches…..and then our laughter afterwards. Oh that was so much fun, Rebecca, he’d say. You have such a soul, girl. Say, we really should see more of each other. A movie this weekend?

But I’d woken up in the middle of the night, cold and frightened, and I slept fitfully all night.

Something seemed wrong.

Was it just simple stage fright? Had I actually started thinking of what it would be like standing in front of a large audience in nightclothes, my bloomers hanging out, and emoting those stiff Victorian sentences?

Now, in the principal’s office, I felt vulnerable and alone.

Perhaps that was because I was vulnerable and alone.

A buzzer buzzed, startling me. A secretary picked up a phone, listened briefly, spoke briefly, and then set it back into its cradle.

“Dr. Canthorpe will see you now,” she said glacially.

“Should I just go in?” I said.

“Correct.”

I got up, feeling a little dizzy. I walked down the corridor of closed offices. Each office was clearly labeled with metal plates. At the end of the hall was the door with the largest plate, this one with black letters.

DOCTOR CROYDON CANTHORPE

PRINCIPAL

I had expected Dr. Canthorpe to come out and escort me back. Somehow it seemed like the courteous thing to do. The notion of walking back alone was frightening. It wasn’t as though the hall was dark and gloomy, or that skeletal arms might reach out from the doors and grab me. No, the hallway was well-lighted. But the coldness, the sterility, the efficiency felt quite inhuman.

My stomach churned.

I got up, shivered a bit, and began my march.

At the end of the hall, I tentatively put my hand on the door knob. It was cold, cold as ice. I drew my hand away, had a second thought – and knocked instead.

“Come in,” barked a gruff voice.

I used both hands this time, twisting the knob. The latch clicked, the door opened with no squeak of hinges and I stepped cautiously into the office.

It was a large office, bigger than the vice principals, and certainly much bigger than the cubbyholes occupied by the guidance councilors. Much of the spartan linoleum floor was covered with a beautiful Persian rug. Behind the standard issue wood and metal desk were walnut book cases stuffed with old leather volumes that perfumed the air with a sense of college, rather than high school. I had expected a big Maryland flag and a bigger American flag to dominate the disciplinarian’s den. No such items. I had expected a portrait of Maryland governor Spiro T. Agnew or at the very least President Lyndon Baines Johnson. Instead, besides bookshelves, he had the usual array of certificates and awards, clustered around an old large old fashioned landscape painting of a what seemed to be a castle amidst a dense forest.

Dr. Canthorpe himself was sitting at his desk, working on some forms.

“Just a moment,” he said, peering down at the forms through wire spectacles. “Have a seat.”

In front of the imposing desk was a solitary wooden chair. There was a winged armchair and a small couch and a coffee table to fill out the comfort aspect of the office, but that chair…
That
chair was clearly not designed for any comfort, nor for faculty or staff behinds. It was the hot seat, situated like a meager creaky platform for the accused, above which towered the judge’s bench — the desk.

I sat down.

The chair was hard and awkward.

Thus Principal Canthorpe kept me waiting another two minutes while he filled in the forms. His breathing was heavy and harsh sounding. As I sat, I became aware that the room was filled with a peculiar odor, a not unpleasant male muskiness that lurked beneath hints of pipe tobacco and Old Spice.

Principal Canthorpe scratched out his last letter, and then peered up at me through his spectacles.

“You,” he said, as though he knew me.