At the Twilight's Last Gleaming (9 page)

The excitement amongst us all after that reading was palpable. There was a shiver of delirious glee in Mr. Crawley’s voice when he said, at the end, “Not bad! Not bad at all!”

“You know,” said Steve Seymour, who was playing Renfield inspired (he claimed) by some character named Gollum in
Lord of the Rings
by J.R.R. Tolkien, “That’s a pretty good play.” Steve was a senior and a drama club regular all the way back to junior high. He was pretty accustomed to the usual staid repertory of school plays.

“Not as good as the novel, certainly,” said Mr. Crawley. “But it does have a nice period flavor. He gestured in the direction of the school auditorium. “With the right lights, scenery, costumes, music and of course sound effects, though — and some fun acting — this, I think, will indeed be a production to remember.”

Now, here on stage, holding our playbooks rented from Samuel French and still learning our lines, we kept that goal in mind.

A production to remember!

Right now, though, sitting back down amongst the other students and Mr. Crawley blocked out another scene, this time with Van Helsing and Dracula, what I was remembering was Emory Clarke, leaning down over me.

I tried to look at my playbook and go through my lines, but the feelings of fierce needy closeness, the thrill and transcendence of just scent — was still very much with me. When the scene was over, Emory was walking past me.

“Oh,” I said, as casually as possible. “Hey, Emory!”

“Hello,” he said, stooped, looking a bit befuddled. He’d put his glasses back on, and taken the cape off. The charisma was quite gone, but it lingered in my mind like ground fog.

“This is fun, huh?”

He looked at me oddly. “I suppose.”

“Can I talk to you a minute?” I found myself suddenly nervous, much in the way I was nervous. But I put myself squarely in my actress mode and role-played the cool and friendly cohort in the comedy of all this business.

He nodded. “Certainly.”

I patted the chair next to me and smiled a bright Judy Garland “Let’s put on a show!” smile to my new Mickey Rooney. Wholesome and harmless!

I watched as Emory sat down.

“You’re really good. As…as Dracula, I mean,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said. He smiled faintly. “As you are clearly an appreciator of the best in the gothic arts, I take that as high praise indeed.”

“I never knew you were an actor!” I said.

“There is a long tradition in the Clarke family of acting. The Clarkes knew the Funts and the Barrymores. Clarkes entertained Charles Dickens on his first visit to America.”

“Oh, you mean the one that resulted in
Martin Chuzzlewit
? That novel wasn’t very kind to the United States.”

Emory’s pale eyes glimmered with a new appreciation of me. “You know your literature, Rebecca.”

“I do.” I said.

He looked suddenly awkward as though he realized he’d been drawn out. I was still feeling nervous, especially since now I had a different memory of that regal face. Rather than withdraw myself, however, which is my usual wont, I blurted.

“Have you read
To Kill a Mockingbird
?”

“Why of course. Harper Lee. “

“Gregory Peck was good as Atticus Finch, wasn’t he?”

“Not quite the way the book relates the character — but acceptable, I suppose.” He squinted a bit at me, reassessing me and I felt obliged to forge onward.

“And I like Truman Capote and Eudora Welty and of course William Faulkner. What a great, great story “A Rose for Emily” is!”

He nodded. “Rebecca, have you been to the South?”

I laughed. “We’re in the South, Emory.”

“Well, south of the Mason-Dixon line, I suppose,” he said with just a bit of a rueful smile.

“And I’ve always heard of Washington D.C. referred to as a genteel Southern town.”

He smiled broadly at that one. “Perhaps, if you’re from Boston!”

His eyes changed when he smiled.

They absolutely twinkled. There was a golden, secret joy there, gleaming as though reflecting some private sun. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

“Have you ever lived in the Deep South, then, Rebecca?” he said. “Not that you need to, of course, to appreciate Southern literature like you do.”

“Well, for a couple years Dad was stationed in Texas. But I was like five! I mostly remember the heat and the flies…and really nice people.”

“Texas is quite large,” he said, nodding to himself. “And unquestionably it is a part of the heritage of the South. But it is not the Deep South.”

“No. No, I guess it’s not. Your father is a Senator, right?”

Emory nodded gravely. He looked suddenly as though their was added weight on his shoulders. “My daddy is the U.S. Senator from the state of Alabama. Has been for quite some time.”

“Do you miss Alabama?”

“I do. But we go back to our home in Birmingham often enough.”

“I guess, Emory, one of the things I’ve always wondered about you was why you’re going to a regular school and not some more, ah — exclusive school…”

Emory’s face somehow grew even more grave. He looked far older than his years.

“My Daddy is a populist Senator. A man, he says, of the people. He believes in the public education system and believes his children should use the public educational system. My brothers and sisters did in the past. I do now.”

“I know….but Crossland.”

“You speak of the vocational program here. Crossland Senior High is an important school. My daddy is a great supporter of President Lyndon Johnson. He believes in the Great Society. If integration of coloreds — pardon me — of Afro-Americans is important, is not the integration of other different classes?”

I nodded. I’d steeped myself so in the class-ridden British society of now and yesterday, I didn’t even think much about “integration”. It was, however, an issue I could not ignore now.

And besides, if being a cheerleader for the Great Society was something that would help me understand, somehow, this guy — why not?

“Oh. Yes. I see. Yes, that’s more or less the sort of thing that the Principal was saying to me the other day in his office.”

Emory suddenly seemed to break out of his withdrawn shell. His face softened a bit and empathy showed through, like the sun suddenly peeking out of dark clouds.

“Oh yes. He asked you to go to his office after that unfortunate business the other day. Was it very terrible?”

“It was kinda weird.”

“Oh?” I saw an increasing interest. The subject of Principal Canthorpe was something that oddly concerned him. Or was he really interested in me, and just cloaking it?

I had to pursue that possibility.

“It’s kind of a long story,” I said. “Say, though. We’re working on this play together. Maybe we could get to know each other better. My best friend and I hang out and listen to music in his basement. And tonight is Thursday.
Star Trek
night. Why don’t you come over and hang out with us.”

“I don’t know. I…”

“You can bring your best friend.”

His face lightened.

“We do like
Star Trek?
”

“It’s a big screen color TV.”

He nodded, and a quiet smile touched his lips. Making him look, I thought, rather like an old fashioned movie star. Emory Clarke, I thought, was really rather handsome!

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I
T WAS THE night of the
Star Trek
party that I first had the notion that I might be getting into something dangerous.

I went straight over to Harold’s after rehearsal. He lived just a few blocks from school, and so this was something I did once in a while. Mrs. Lumpkin always seemed to have at least one extra salisbury steak or piece of meatloaf for me if I wanted to have dinner there, and I was almost becoming part of the family. A previously clear day had gone cold.

Clouds moved briskly across the high Eastern sky, and night clamped down like a tight lid. I was very glad I’d worn my heavy down coat with the white fleece hood today. The temperature seemed destined to dive into the twenties.

I walked to Harry’s house after rehearsal, tingling. Not tingling with with the chill, though. Tingling with the memory of Emory Clarke’s breath on my face. It was very odd. I was still fascinated with Peter. I liked that I got to watch him, be around him. But he seemed no more interested in talking to me with a blonde wig and a British accent on than without.

Emory, on the other hand, was a surprise. And he was rather sweet as well, and shy and happy to talk, once you got him warmed it up. It wasn’t as though I was a social butterfly, but I’d read enough novels of manners — from Jane Austen to Georgette Heyer — to at least try to engage in conversation when the right times arose. Somehow I sensed now that Emory Clarke had that kind of breeding as well. And he wasn’t taking on airs like Peter did. His soft-spoken speech flowed from someplace natural.

So I guess I had no idea of what I had been doing when I invited him over to watch Star Trek that night. It had been impulsive and reckless and perhaps instinctive…

And certainly, as it turned out, indeed very, very dangerous.

Harold was happy to see me. Mrs. Lumpkin was happy to see me as well, her jolly red cheeks glowing with the cold she’d collected out grocery shopping. Why yes, of course Rebecca can stay for dinner. A couple of other guests for
Star Trek.
Wonderful. I’ll make popcorn for you and I’ve just gotten more soda pop. The idea of bookish Harry socializing always pleased the chubby, happy woman immensely. I didn’t mention that Emory was a Senator’s son, for fear that she’d burst with happiness — or at the very least, fawn over him.

I wanted it to be just us.

Harold, on the other hand, was more than bemused.

“Emory Clarke? Here? That weird girlfriend of his? Here? What? Are you crazy?” he said later, down in the basement, with some Beatles playing on the stereo.

“Oh Harold, you
know
I’m crazy!”

“What?”

I shook my head and laughed ruefully, banging my head back into the headrest of the couch.

“Oh, it was just a really, really interesting rehearsal and I thought that we should get to know each other, that’s all. He seems like a really nice guy after all.”

“Kinda strange!”

“Look who’s calling the kettle black!” I said.

“Right, Vampira!”

“Okay, Buck Rogers!”

We glared at each other, doing our evil eye worst. As usual, though, that sent us both into fits of giggles.

“Okay, gothic lady,” said Harold, adjusting his glasses. “Maybe they are a bit like us. Merely that they aren’t blocks or collegiates.”

“Outsiders.”

“Hey, every body else are outsiders,” said Harry. He tapped his chest. “I’m an Insider here.”

I flung my head back into the pillow with exasperation. “You know what I mean.”

“Okay, okay, I know what you mean.”

George Harrison’s ‘Within You and Without You’ was playing. It was my favorite song on Sergeant Pepper, and Harry knew it. We just sat in the dark and a bit dank basement, watching the black vinyl disc rotate on the turntable, the needle and arm riding the grooves.

When George was finished singing and the sitars stopped, Harry turned to me. “So what? You’re not so ..uhm…keen on Peter. You suddenly like Emory better?”

“What!” I said, standing up. “You think the crush has magically transferred or something? Well it hasn’t! No no no! How could I possibly get a crush on a guy in just one day. And Emory Clarke at that!” I stamped an adamant foot. “And blast it all, Harold! Who says I have a crush at all? That’s such..such an odious word! I have something…something that should be a French word! Yes, and maybe it is a French word.”

“You’ll have to ask Madame DuBonnet now, won’t you?”

“I’ll check the library thank you!”

Harry held up his hands. “Okay, no need to get intense.”

“Just what makes you think this …this business with Emory Clarke…is..is… “

“Physical?”

“Okay, that’ll do for now,” I said. “What makes you think that I have….physical feelings for Emory Clarke.”

“I don’t know. You’re just so …well, flushed and excited.”

“I am?” I felt my face. “Harry, I am not.”

“Well, you kind of were when you came in.”

“Harry, that was because of the cold. I’m mean, surely.”

“Point taken. No problem.” He shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “Should be interesting. I mean, if those two are going to open up a bit… Always wondered what they were like.”

“They were always like that? I mean, chummy and everything…but like you and me. Nothing romantic.”

“Who knows about that, but they kind of gravitated together last year. That’s the first year I noticed them, anyway. Last year was Crossland’s first year, you know. It’s a very new place. They both came from different schools, I think. Word was that Emory could have gone to another public school, but Crossland worked out better politically for his father.”

“That’s kind of what he told me, but from a different viewpoint.”

“Well, he could go to a fancy school for certain, but probably wouldn’t fit in anywhere. So why not here.” His face grew a bit troubled.