Haunting Melody (6 page)

“Well. Good. Swell. Well, I, uh, guess I’d
better get going.”

“Okay. Bye.”

I extended my hand. He was being nice. Too
nice. I wanted to keep him in that state, but was afraid if he
lingered I’d say or do something incredibly stupid and make him
again question who I was and where I came from. I didn’t want a
repeat of the spy accusations.

He touched my hand once, then quickly turned
away. Duffy gave me another doggie slime-kiss then trotted behind
Briley.

I glanced around the room. My apartment. A
brass bed had been shoved in the corner where I normally keep my
drawing board. There was a huge white comforter neatly folded at
the end of the bed for use if the night turned chilly. A lamp with
a sturdy black base and faded yellow shade was perched on top of an
ugly, but useful brown lacquered table. I’d been told there was a
community bath I could share with five other girls from the fourth
floor. The community pay phone was next to the bathroom as well. No
private phone in the room. Not that I had anyone to call in 1919
anyway. Reaching out and touching extended only so far.

I began to cry. I’d held up okay so far but
the fear I’d been shoving back was coming out like a geyser. My dad
was in Memphis and he had a tendency to call once a week. How could
I send word I was alive and well but in another time? I’d never
felt so alone as I had in that moment. I sobbed until I’d used up
the entire travel pack of tissues I always kept stuffed into my
Elvis bag, then literally lifted my chin and stiffened my lip.
Enough self-pity for one day. I continued the tour.

The window seat was in the same place. The
Chinese take-out joint wasn’t visible, but since it probably
wouldn’t exist for at least sixty years or more, I didn’t expect
any signs announcing the Kung Pao special. I spotted a bookstore
down near the end of the block and knew it now stood where nearly a
century later Manny’s, a retro coffee bar, would serve lattes and
cappuccinos to chic New Yorkers. Manny’s was where Savanna and I
were supposed to meet for brunch Sunday.

There was one lone poster on the wall
tempting the viewer to come to Atlantic City and behold the wonders
of the Million Dollar Pier, which boasted a troupe called the
Dancing Dolls. The date was 1910. I immediately fell in love with
it. I wondered if there was a way I could transport it to the
future. If I could give it to Savanna as a Christmas present next
year, she’d probably even lend me the white cashmere sweater I’d
coveted for months. Savanna adored campy old things. The poster -
heck, the whole room - definitely qualified. I wished she were
sharing this time-travel adventure with me. Savanna would be loving
every minute. She’d have Flo Ziegfeld firmly wrapped around her
little finger on first meeting. Doubtless Briley McShan as
well.

The only other object of interest in #413 was
an upright piano that had obviously seen better years. I wandered
over, sat down on the stool, and picked out a G chord. I pulled out
the sheet music of "A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody" from my bag. In
the corner, at the top, still clearly visible, was the cranberry
stain from this morning’s breakfast with Fiona Belle Donovan
Winthorp.

Dress rehearsal. I was terrified. Everyone
was terrified.

I had more right to be terrified. The other
girls hadn’t traveled through time two days ago. They weren’t
trying to learn the customs of an era as well as seven dance
routines in two days. Then I didn’t have time to be terrified,
because I was busy practicing steps offstage in the wings. I was
gliding down the stairs. I was in the wings with a terrified Mary
De Luca trying to figure out what we were supposed to be doing in
each number in case some Follies dancer disappeared and one or the
other of us were thrown in to sub. I was onstage in the Prohibition
number trying to learn how to do a shimmy.

Nine hours later, Wayburn and Ziegfeld called
time out for dinner. I hauled it toward the dressing room.

Florenz Ziegfeld and a small man with dark
hair were standing in the wings, talking. I had to screech to a
halt to avoid crashing into them.

Flo sounded tense. “I’d love one really
brilliant number for that moment when the girls come gliding down
that staircase. I need something there. A solo for John Steele.
Something lovely but catchy.”

I tried to sneak past without interrupting. I
was not successful. Flo Ziegfeld was many things. Brilliant,
flirtatious, demanding, talented and temperamental. But always
polite- especially to his chorines.

“It’s Melody, isn’t it? The new
understudy?”

I nodded, awed and amazed that the great man
knew my name.

“Yes, sir.” I responded.

“Skip the sir, dear, it’s Flo. Melody, I’d
like you to meet Mr. Irving Berlin, one of the composers for this
year’s Follies. He wrote the 'You’d be Surprised' number that Eddie
Cantor sings so well. Irving, this is Melody –– I’m so sorry, young
lady, I don’t recall your last name.”

“Flynn. Melody Flynn.”

I could barely gasp out my name. Shaking my
hand was one of America’s greatest songwriters ever. Irving Berlin.
'One of the composers for this year.' Oh-kay.

Berlin smiled at me. I tried not to look
stupid.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Flynn.
Melody.”

Ziegfeld smiled broadly. “Melody is quite new
to the company. She dropped in for an understudies call and I was
immediately taken with her. Ned and I threw her into rehearsals so
quickly I’m sure her head is spinning as fast as her feet.” He
patted my hand. “You’ve been doing a very nice job. Now, don’t let
it scare you if we go into overtime rehearsing. I’ve been known to
torment my players with extremely long sessions. You simply need to
rest whenever you have a chance.”

“Thanks, Mr. Ziegfeld. Uh, Flo. Very nice
meeting you, Mr. Berlin. I love your music.”

“Thank you, Melody. I appreciate your saying
so.”

I literally staggered down towards the
dressing room I was sharing with Saree and nine others. Behind me,
I could hear Ziegfeld and Irving Berlin still talking.

“Pretty girl, isn’t she, Irving?’

“Indeed. Pretty name as well. Let me get on
that staircase number, Flo. I’ll have something ready for you as
soon as I can.”

I was so stunned getting to meet Irving
Berlin that I was barely watching where I was going. Suddenly, a
flying object flung itself across my legs and nearly tumbled me to
the floor in a tackle worthy of a pro linebacker. My Elvis bag, now
carrying dance shoes as well as my worldly goods from the future,
hit the floor sending sheet music, make-up, cell and wallet in all
directions. I looked down, prepared to battle.

“Allo, Mel-oh-dee.”

The toddler clinging to me clearly wanted to
be picked up. I did so. A second later I heard a voice calling in a
strong French accent, “Nevin! Nevin Michel Dupre. Ou est tu, ma
petit?”

The young woman scurrying down the hall was
obviously looking for the scamp who should have been given a
fifteen-yard penalty for clipping.

“Je reviens, Mademoiselle!. Nevin was helping
me put ze costumes away. I look up. He is disappeared. Quite
precocious, non?”

Briley appeared like some phantom on her last
words. “Melody. I’d like you to meet Denise Dupre and her son
Nevin. From France.”

He spoke with such affection and respect in
his voice I had to ignore a twinge of jealousy. This was the woman
I’d seen him talking with in the wings during my audition the day
before.

Denise Dupre was a very attractive brunette
in her mid- twenties. Her hair was stylishly bobbed and curly, her
brown eyes heavily but naturally lashed, and her tiny figure
encased in a no frills shirtwaist black dress. I recognized the
style. Non-existent. Every wardrobe mistress since Year One has
worn that get-up. Her son Nevin was a male miniature of his mom,
but where Denise’s eyes hinted at sadness, Nevin’s sparkled with
mischief and amused perception of his surroundings.

Denise shook my hand. “Allo, Melody. Nice to
meet you. I see you during auditions and I want to tell you I
admire those trousers. C’est tres chic, non? I ‘ave seen some of
the women in Paris in similar fashion.”

“Hi, Mrs. Dupre. Nice to meet you too. And
thanks for the compliment. Everyone I’ve run into here seems to
think my pants are just weird. Trust someone dealing with costumes
to spot a new look and approve. Speaking of which, I like your hair
bob.”

“Merci, beaucoup.”

I smiled at her. “How long have y’all been in
New York?”

“Six months. We have been most fortunate.
Briley has found for me the post as wardrobe mistress here at zee
Follies. Eet is tres bon.”

Briley was smiling with sincere fondness at
the pair. “As well as being an excellent seamstress, Denise happens
to also be a superb chef. In fact, she’s helping with the party
Lloyd and Lili Ellingsford are throwing tonight. She makes a mean
veal dish I can’t pronounce and a mousse de chocolate that haunts
one’s dreams.”

I couldn’t help wonder if this gorgeous woman
would end up as my ghost. She definitely qualified as exotic
looking. I hoped not. My ghost had exhibited signs of terror I
wouldn’t wish on anyone. I liked Denise and her little boy. Good
news - she wasn’t a Follies chorine and Fiona Belle seemed pretty
adamant about that little detail so I felt a sudden assurance that
she was not the lady haunting Apartment 413.

I grinned. “I can whip up a peach cobbler and
fry a chicken, but other than that, I’m a failure in the
kitchen.”

A snort from Briley. “Not surprised. Excuse
me, ladies, I need a break and I'm taking it now."

Denise smiled at me as we watched Briley’s
tall form stalk towards the exit, then she tried to pull her child
away. He seemed permanently attached to my leg.

“Let’s leave la belle Melodee to her
business. Come help Maman, oui?”

The child shook his head. “Non. Wanna stay
with Mel.”

Denise looked at me with desperate hope. “I
am so sorree. Nevin ees a stubborn one. Especial when ee meets
someone ee, how you say? Takes to?”

I smiled. I couldn’t imagine learning a new
language while trying to raise a son and work backstage with a
bunch of egocentric chorines. “It’s fine. I was about to go outside
and rest in the alley until the next onslaught from Mr. Ziegfeld.
If Nevin wants to come, I’d love the company.”

If lighted halos were given out for relieving
tired mothers of their harridan-like offspring, I’d be glowing like
Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Denise acted as though she was
going to volunteer to be my slave for the rest of my life. As it
was, she scooped up my scattered belongings and was polite enough
not to ask embarrassing questions about the strange objects that
had tumbled from my bag.

As I gently disengaged the little boy from my
chest, placed his feet on the ground, and took him by his tiny
hand, I wondered how in blazes the little urchin had known my name
when he’d first come running down the hall. Nevin tugged at my hand
the entire way to the alley. He’d probably grow up to marry Fiona
Belle Donovan and they’d plot my life together.

Briley McShan was sitting on the back stoop
sipping a cup of coffee. Nevin Dupre marched right up to him and
poked a tiny finger into his broad chest.

“Briley! Licorice, si vous plait?”

Briley smiled wickedly. It was apparent he
and little Dupre were well acquainted. Sure enough, a hand reached
into a pocket and licorice twists magically appeared. He held them
out to Nevin who crammed them into his mouth. Briley then
graciously offered me half a ham and Swiss cheese sandwich. I
accepted. Hours of dancing and posing make a girl hungry.

Briley pointed toward Nevin. “I see you found
a friend.”

“Actually, he found me. Attached himself to
me after trying to knock me down. Feisty little imp, isn’t he?”

Briley offered Nevin another licorice stick
then turned to me.and grinned. “He’s a parasite, but ultimately
lovable.” He moved over to give me space to sit next to him. I
did.

Nevin chewed his licorice and danced over and
around the various boxes that littered back stage alley. He ignored
both of us.

“So, Melody. How’s rehearsal going? From a
new dancer’s point of view?”

“In a word? Ouch.”

Briley laughed. “Weren’t quite ready for a
Ziegfeld marathon?”

“I thought I was in shape, but when you’re
holding poses forever, doing hundreds of high kicks, or parading
down stairs every few minutes you realize you’re in dire need of
serious training. Is Flo always like this?”

“Yep. The last show I worked for him, he had
rehearsals that went on for over thirty straight hours. Chorus
girls were fainting all over the stage. At least most of my work is
done. Well, it was until one of the gels fell off a light last
night. And today one of the instruments failed. At any rate, count
your blessings. You’ve only been here today – what? Nine hours?” A
twinkle appeared in his eyes. “That’s what you get for spying. You
should have asked for an easier assignment.”

“What’s with this spy thing anyway? Mind you,
I’m not, but if I were, what’s the big deal? A cheesy gossip rag?
Who really cares?”

A shadow fell over Briley’s face, darker than
an eclipse. “I kind of take things personally. My older brother was
a soldier in the war. He was wounded thanks to a German spy who
infiltrated the unit he was with. I was a medic and was there in
the Paris hospital the day he was brought in. It was . . .
horrible. The war is over but the Follies company is like my
family. I don’t like Steve Clow’s attempts to destroy them. Last
year he did a piece on Saree that nearly got her arrested for
robbery. All lies but it didn’t matter to the police who
interrogated her nightly after the shows while she choked back
tears. Anyway, you’re bound to meet Izzy Rubenovitch, now Rubens,
one of Clow’s reporters. We grew up in the same Brooklyn
neighborhood. Izzy was a war correspondent - a good one - then he
came back to America and got the job with Clow. I keep wanting to
sock him in the jaw when I see him. Although, at least he doesn’t
lie about his stories.”