Haunting Melody (4 page)

I glared as defiantly as I was able up at
him. “Well, excuse me, but just who are you to ask me anything? For
what it’s worth I, uh, I came up here from . . . Memphis, Tennessee
and I got, uh, mugged, and I don’t see where it’s any business of
yours. What are you anyway? Some pervert wanderin’ through the
women’s dressing rooms hopin’ to get lucky?”

A rich laugh followed this decidedly
feeble-witted bluff.

“My name is Briley McShan. I’m a
stagehand-electrician here. I try to avoid the women’s dressing
rooms because the ladies who inhabit them are usually lunatics. But
when Saree raced up asking me to check on an ailing girl, I came.
Saree’s got one very big heart. She was quite worried that
something was wrong with you.” He surveyed me with more than a
passing glance. “Obviously she was right.”

“Oh, thanks very much. I appreciate your
comment more than I can say.”

His expression changed to a thoroughly wicked
grin. “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with your looks.” He paused, took
a breath then hurried on as a slight flush crossed his face. “It’s
the fact of you that’s wrong. You don’t seem to belong here.
Whether you’re just a practical joker or a spy I haven’t yet
decided. But there’s something not right about you.”

I smiled. “So, Briley McShan. Stagehand and
electrician. Who’s the dog belong to?”

“Nice dodge, Melody Flynn.”

I kept smiling. My face hurt.

He shrugged. “All right. Let me introduce you
to Sir Duffy Gordon. D.G. for short. He was originally a present to
Flo and Billie from Lucille, the English designer. Heard of her?
Lady Duff-Gordon. Flo brought him to work one day right after they
got him and the pup kept following me and ignoring everyone else.
The Ziegfelds already have about five dogs and rabbits and sheep
and raccoons and rabbits, so they gave him to me. He’s barely six
months old, but he’s good company, the cast loves him, and he’s
normally a superb guard dog for backstage. How you got in without
his howling is amazing. You must have a way with animals. Now...
Who.... Are... You?”

His patience was at an end.

I looked into his eyes. Could I tell him I
thought I’d time-traveled without fear of immediate commitment to a
lunatic asylum? I opened my mouth to start an explanation but what
came out instead was, “I’ve got a dog named after Lucille, too.
Really. I mean, she’s Lucy for short and she is short. A miniature
Border Collie. She’d love Duffy. Probably herd him through the
theatre, then wrestle him to the floor for playtime.”

Briley bit his lip. “I’m supposed to trust
you because you like dogs?”

He hadn’t softened even with the mention of
the sweetest dog in any era. So much for trying to explain my
situation.

Fortunately Saree came racing into the
dressing room, shrieking in an attempt to be a soprano. “Melody!
They’re definitely looking for understudies. I told them about this
funny tall redhead who just dropped in. If you get out there now
you really have a chance of being hired. Please, please hurry.”

I jumped up. I was still a tad woozy, but
this could not only get out of explanations but possibly land me a
job. I was bonkers. Looney tunes. A wannabe-costume designer from
the Twenty-first Century thinking I could become a Follies girl.
But, if I didn’t make it as a real live Ziegfeld chorine, maybe
they’d let me work in wardrobe as a seamstress? If I couldn’t get
myself back, some kind of security in 1919 was needed so I didn’t
end up roaming the streets singing Elvis tunes, begging for
quarters, sleeping in doorways and hunting for small witches. Then
again, maybe I could get in good with Billie Burke and ask her to
do her Glinda bit and send me home. Did granny boots work like ruby
slippers?

I have to admit I was also thrilled with the
idea of getting the chance to audition for the Ziegfeld Follies. I
looked at Saree, a bit puzzled by her instant acceptance of this
slightly looney stranger who’d literally fallen into her dressing
room.

“Why are you trying to help me?”

Saree snorted. “Partly because if you don’t
get this job, they’ll probably give it to Eloise Jenkins. Since
Dolores isn’t it the show this year, Flo is desperate to find
someone tall, preferably to sub for Jesse. Eloise is tall - though
not as tall as you. But I don’t like Eloise Jenkins. Nobody likes
Eloise Jenkins. She’s a snob. And she’s not funny. You’re
funny.”

“Thanks, Saree. For everything. I’ll go right
now. I do need this job.”

I quickly tucked the doll and the sheet music
back into my bag then waved gaily at Briley as I trotted after
Saree. I was lucky he hadn’t just called security and had me hauled
off the premises. If there was security other than Duffy. D. G. The
wannabe guard-pup wagged his tail and grinned.

At least the dog liked me.

Briley followed me as far as the wings just
off stage right. I turned and waved. I knew darn well he didn’t
believe my story about being mugged. I stood on stage with the
other girls, but could still hear his voice. He hadn’t bothered to
decrease his volume even though he was addressing the dog.

“Duffy. Sit. Let’s watch this audition and
see whether Melody Flynn can even dance a step. If she falls on her
face, that’ll prove I’m right.”

Right about what he didn’t specify.

I glanced out into the darkened theatre and
nearly fainted again. A man I recognized from historical
photographs as Flo Ziegfeld sat in the first row of the orchestra
seats. A large man wearing dark-rimmed glasses came onstage and
introduced himself as Ned Wayburn, the dance director. But I wasn’t
given time to hyperventilate over the fact I was sharing space with
two of the greatest talents in Twentieth Century theatre. Wayburn
corralled the seven chorus hopefuls and began putting us through a
rigorous audition process.

I was in the second group, waiting for Mr.
Wayburn’s instructions. Close to the side of the stage nearest
Briley McShan. I saw a petite brunette approach the handsome
stagehand. I could hear every word being said.

“Briley, Allo.”

“Denise. How are you feeling today?”

“Tres bon. I believe I am over zee ailment.
And Nevin was not ill. He is in the costume shop helping Maureen
with the iron. I must return before he sets theater on fire. Mais,
mes amis, why do you watch the new demoiselles? You never do,
non?”

He took the lady’s arm and positioned her so
she could see me. I was performing single pirouettes. He raised his
voice enough to where doubtless every girl on stage heard every
word.

“See the girl with the red hair? Saree found
her in the dressing room, passed out. Perhaps Steve Clow decided he
couldn’t get inside dope on the Follies without having a dancer in
the cast. Izzy isn’t enough. So he sent in a girl he knew Flo
couldn’t resist. She’s different. Tall. With those eyes. And that
smile.”

Denise responded in much softer tones. I had
to strain to catch what she was saying while completing my fourth
spin in a row without falling over. “She ees that, oui? But
Ziegfeld does not care about the eyes of les girls. Or smiles. No
one sees those so good onstage. But Briley sees them. I do think
Monsieur Ziegfeld will be tres interessment. Along with Monsieur
McShan.”

Briley actually hissed. “She doesn’t interest
me. I just don’t want anyone else around here to be hurt by Clow,
if she is a spy. But you’re right about her and Mr. Ziegfeld. I’m
sure he’ll be more than intrigued. He loves tall redheads.”

“Trust to Monsieur Ziegfeld, non? And I go
back to the costume shop and see if Nevin has put holes into
chiffon gowns. We shall talk again, n’est pas?”

The brunette laughed, then walked towards the
backstage work area.

I quickly focused on the dance director. Ned
Wayburn was motioning for us all to parade down the staircase. I
knew what he wanted to see. The Follies walk. That glide with
pelvis forward, toes pointed, head high. Elegant and sexy at the
same time. I’d seen a show about Irving Berlin and the Ziegfeld
Follies on TV two months ago. I’d admired that walk. Now I had to
emulate it.

I glanced at Briley as I waited my turn at
the top of the stairs and prayed to all theatrical gods that I
wouldn’t take a header and land in Florenz Ziegfeld’s lap, or dive
headfirst, spin right, then land in a heap by Briley’s feet. Or on
them.

I sashayed down the steps and made it to the
bottom without mishap. I had no idea whether I’d given a good
imitation of a gorgeous Follies chorine or the scarecrow in "The
Wizard of Oz" first time off the pole. I could hear applause coming
from the wings. Briley and Saree were standing together. Had to be
Saree clapping.

“You!”

The sound came from the darkened theatre
house. Several girls gasped. I glanced at the attractive blonde
beside me. “What is it? What’s happening?”

She poked me in my ribs. “Not what -
who.”

“You mean?”

“Yep. The great man himself. I wonder who
managed to catch the All-Seeing eye.”

Ned Wayburn pointed at me. I gulped.

“You.”

“Uh, me? Huh?” (Oh great. That sounded lovely
and intelligent.)

“Name.”

“Melody Flynn.”

“Thank you. Miss Flynn. Mr. Ziegfeld is
interested. But we’re a mite confused. Your steps are fine, your
posture is fine, your looks are fine, but your clothes are -
odd.”

The other girls were decked out in shorter
skirts and tops suitable for rehearsals circa 1919. I was still in
my black gaucho pants and granny boots. All I needed was a pith
helmet to finish off the look of a Nineteenth Century archeologist
excavating Egyptian mummy sites.

I upped my Memphis accent. “Oh. Well. Ah just
arrived from Tennessee, y’all, and ma things were stolen at Grand
Central Station, and all ah had left were these –um- ridin’
clothes.”

A girl about four inches shorter than I, with
dark crimped chestnut hair, snorted audibly through her absurdly
tiny snubbed nose. “I’ve never seen riding clothes like that in my
life and I’ve ridden all over the Eastern Seaboard.”

“Yeah, Eloise, but that’s on men, not horses!
Though some of your beaus have been jackasses!”

That last voice had been Saree’s, who was
standing behind Briley, yelling at Eloise. The other girls giggled.
I glanced over into the wings. Briley raised an eyebrow - at
me.

Eloise threw Saree a murderous look then
continued the attack. “Mr. Wayburn, if this girl doesn’t have the
proper clothes, she shouldn’t be allowed to audition. Ziegfeld
Girls pride themselves on looking fashionable. She looks like a
tramp. Even her hair is all over the place. It’s
disrespectful.”

The gorgeous blonde who’d been standing next
to me joined the chorus of my defenders started by Saree. “Pardon
me, Eloise, but I got robbed at Grand Central two years ago. I went
everywhere around New York for three days wearing a traveling suit.
That included auditions and a very swanky party at the Ritz. It was
embarrassing. Give the girl a break.”

“You don’t care, Mary, because you have a
husband who provides for you. Some people need this job.”

“And some people need the job so they can
meet rich men, don’t they, Eloise? You better shut up out there!
You’re just jealous ‘cause Melody is better than you’ll ever
be!”

The last was again from Saree, hooting from
the wings. Briley nudged her to be silent. Mr. Wayburn waved at
Saree from his place near the orchestra pit in an attempt to shush
her.

“Ladies! Enough. I didn’t mean to start a
riot. Miss Flynn? We’ll see what we can do about finding you some
decent clothes. Now, all of you. Behave, while I talk to Mr.
Ziegfeld about who will understudy whom.”

Mr. Wayburn gestured for us to sit in the
first row of chairs on the stage then he headed straight for the
second row in the orchestra seats towards the man waiting in the
dark.

The pair talked for a good twenty minutes. I
tried not to focus on the fact that Ned Wayburn, one of the first
choreographers in musical theatre, and Flo Ziegfeld, an impresario
whose very name conjured up visions of lavish productions with
beautiful showgirls were discussing me. Melody Irina Flynn, four
years ago from Memphis, Tennessee, three weeks ago from a
ridiculously crowded apartment on Jane Street, and very briefly and
recently from East 12th Street - and the Twenty-First Century.

Saree waved at me then clutched Briley’s arm.
Her voice floated across the stage. “Yeah, yeah. I’m butting in. I
don’t care. I like her.”

Briley did not bother lowering his volume
either. I could hear every word. “Saree. Do I have to remind you
about the last article Clow printed about you? He called the Count
every name under the sun and said he’d been a black marketeer
during the war and called you a two-bit –– uh –– well anyway, I
should think you’d be a little more wary of strangers
backstage.”

“Melody is no stranger. I like her. I have
this feeling about her. What’s meant to happen will happen. She’s
going to get in, and I, for one, am saying that’s swell.”

She waved at me and yelled across the stage,
“Mel! I’m rooting for you!”

Briley gave up trying to argue with the
exuberant blonde. I wanted to run to the wings and hug her. I
looked into the theatre house. The two men were still talking. I
was more than anxious waiting to hear whether I was really going to
be hired. I’d been thrown back over ninety years through time. I
was really, really scared. Yet I could soon end up on the stage of
the New Amsterdam Theatre performing in the Ziegfeld Follies.

Finally Ned Wayburn came back up the stairs.
He strode to the middle of the stage.

“Mary De Luca. Melody Flynn. Please be here
tomorrow at eight-thirty for costume measurements and dress
rehearsal. You will each be given specific understudy duties and
will also fill in during the Prohibition scene and the staircase
number. Again, everyone, I apologize for having such a late
audition, but it was necessary. Thank you for attending.”