Secrets of the Morning (Cutler 2)

"Randolph has told me everything," she said. "I'm very proud of you, Dawn. It's so reassuring to know you really do have musical talent"

"Perhaps my father would like to be reassured too, Mother. Why don't you tell me who he really was so I can inform him of my whereabouts and achievements," I replied sharply.

"Why must you always bring up unpleasant things, Dawn? Will there never be an end to it?" she moaned with emphatic desperation. I could see her going into a faint on the other side of the line. I was sure she was calling me from her bed with her back braced against two large fluffy pillows and the blankets drawn up around her like a snail's protective shell.

"Knowing who one's father is is not supposed to be an unpleasant thing, Mother," I said with even more viciousness.

"In this case it is," she replied quickly. Her depth of deep feeling took me by surprise. How could anyone be that bad? I wondered.

"Mother," I begged, "please tell me about him. It isn't fair. Why is it an unpleasant thing?"

"Sometimes," she said, dropping her voice and speaking slowly, speaking like someone in a daze, "good looks and charm are only thin, surface deceptions hiding a stream of evil and cruelty. Intelligence, talent, whatever people think are blessings, don't always mean the person is a good person, Dawn. I'm sorry I can't give you anything more than that."

What strange and enigmatic advice, I thought. It dropped me into a whirlpool of questions and made the riddle of my birth and aftermath even more mysterious.

"Tell me this, Mother: does he still perform? Is he still an entertainer?"

"I don't know," she said quickly. At least he was still alive, I thought. She didn't say he was dead. "One of the reasons I called," she continued, her voice changing radically, rising and becoming melodious and happy, "was to see if there are things you need in your wardrobe now that you will be doing more and more performing."

"I don't know," I said. "I suppose there are."

"I have instructed Randolph to set up some accounts for you at some of the better department stores. He'll be sending you instructions today. Get whatever you need," she said.

"Does Grandmother Cutler approve?"

"I have some money of my own over which she has no control," Mother explained, some pride and satisfaction in her voice. "Anyway, congratulations on your accomplishments, and if you think of it, write me occasionally to let me know how you are doing."

Why the sudden interest in my life? I wondered. Was her conscience gnawing at her? I made no promises. Before I could say anything anyway, she began to describe her headaches and a new medication the doctor had prescribed. Then she announced she was exhausted and our conversation ended.

But the things she had said about my real father's evil nature lingered in the closets of my mind like some foul odor you could never wash away. What did that mean? If I inherited my father's musical talents, did I also inherit his depravity? How I longed to be face to face with him and judge him for myself. I would demand to know why he left without ever trying to learn anything about me. Was it because of Grandmother Cutler's power, her threats and what she could do to destroy anyone's career and life? Or was it really simply a matter of my father not caring about anything or anyone but himself, being the selfish playboy he had been described as? There were so many undercurrents flowing here that I didn't understand. Deceptions, deceptions. How was I ever going to learn to swim in an ocean of deceit?

And so while other students at Bernhardt had only pleasant thoughts to accompany them on their first days of classes, I had to move about in a fog, my only bright spots coming when I was singing or playing piano.

When fall finally descended on New York, it fell quickly, pressing the mercury in thermometers down dramatically at night and quickly turning the green leaves a crisp yellow and brown. Now whenever Trisha and I or I by myself waited at a corner for the traffic light to change, dead leaves scuttled the lawns, chased over the street and came to nestle near my feet like brown dried-up ducklings. But the sharp, clear air was invigorating. It felt good to have my cheeks tingle.

In fact, I felt good all over, and instead of blossoming in the spring with the flowers, I bloomed in autumn. Perhaps it was because my confidence had been nourished by my musical achievements. What-ever the reason, when I gazed at myself in the mirror on September mornings, I saw a wiser look on my face.

After I had gotten over my disaster at the recital at the museum, I had taken a second, harder look at the girl who gazed back from the mirror. She was almost seventeen; her life had changed radically and those changes had carved away some of that innocence. She had a sharper look in her eyes, more pronounced cheekbones and a tighter jaw. Her lips were firm, the curves in her neck and shoulders more graceful. Her breasts were full and shapely and her waist small. Perhaps she wasn't yet a woman, but she was knocking on the door.

Of course, I told Michael Sutton nothing about what had happened to me after I had run from the wine and cheese reception at the museum, and, apparently he knew nothing about it. During our first class which was his general session with all the students, he asked me again how I had enjoyed the music and I told him it had been truly wonderful. I thanked him for inviting me. After that he turned to his lesson for the day.

The way the private lessons were staggered, I didn't have mine until a week later. When I appeared, I found Richard Taylor at the piano. Michael Sutton had not yet arrived. From the way Richard spoke and acted, I understood that promptness was not one of Michael Sutton's virtues.

"Yesterday," Richard said dryly, "he didn't show up until half of the period was over. It's not like working with Madame Steichen. That's for sure" he quipped and went back to tapping aimlessly on the piano keys. I sat on a wooden folding chair and took out my math homework. Nearly fifteen minutes later, Michael walked through the door casually and didn't even apologize for his lateness. He said he hated keeping to schedules; it was the one drawback to teaching.

"Creative people have to be motivated, have to be in the mood," he explained as he unwrapped his light blue scarf from around his neck and unbuttoned his soft wool coat. "School administrators don't understand that." He draped his things over a chair and beckoned me to the piano.

"We'll begin with the scales," he said, "and your breathing. Breathing," he emphasized, "is the key. Forget melody, forget the notes, forget your voice. Think only about your diaphragm," he preached.

Almost as soon as I began, he stopped me and turned to Richard Taylor, who was already smirking.

"See what I mean, Richard? None of the students here have been taught properly. No sense in wasting any more of your time today. We won't be needing the piano."

Richard folded the music books and left without saying a word, not even a quick goodbye to me. As soon as he was out the door, Michael turned back to me and smiled.

"He's a talented young man," he said, nodding toward the doorway, "but a bit too serious." He leaned closer to me to whisper. "He makes me nervous." He went to the doorway to close the door.

"But," he said, returning, "I meant what I said about your breathing. It's causing you to put too much strain on your throat. I bet your throat aches after you've been singing for a while, huh?"