The Slipper (7 page)

“I want you to do something for me, Julie,” he said firmly.

“What—what's that?”

“We're holding tryouts tomorrow night for the spring play. We're going to be doing
The Glass Menagerie
. You're familiar with it?”

Julie nodded.

“I want you to come to the tryouts. I want you to read the part of Laura. Will you do that for me, Julie?”

“I—” The girl looked pained.

“Do it,” he said. “Come tomorrow night. Read for me. Okay?”

“We—we'll see,” Julie replied.

It was with a heavy heart that Julie left the classroom and stepped outside. It was late November. The sky was gray with the promise of snow, and a cold wind swept across the campus, causing bare tree limbs to tremble. Julie loved
The Glass Menagerie
. She thought it was the most moving play ever written, and oh, what she could do with the part of Laura. How she could identify with that shy, frail creature who lived in a world of gentle fantasy, only to have it shattered by the intrusion of reality. Julie knew she could do the part, do it beautifully, with genuine feeling. Mr. Compton thought so, too. He believed in her. He believed she had the makings of a real actress. How she wished it were possible for her to try out for Laura, but she couldn't, of course. There was no way.

Julie walked past the Student Union building where Carol was meeting her friend for coffee and sandwiches. Nora, her name was, that bright, vivacious girl with the sparkling brown eyes and glossy black curls who had left a five-dollar tip that evening they'd come to the Silver Bell. How provident it had been, that money. Doug had had a tremendous outlay for tuition and law books and they'd had to pay the rent, and Julie wouldn't receive her salary until the end of the next week and all they had coming in was the money she got in tips. The five dollars had gone for bread, bologna, mayonnaise, cans of soup. Julie had actually cried that evening when she found the bill folded under the edge of Nora's bread plate. That clever, pretty girl would never know what a blessing her tip had been. She had come into the Silver Bell several times since, sometimes with Carol, sometimes alone, always keeping an eye out for Dick Sanders. Julie enjoyed talking with her, however briefly. She secretly wondered how a girl so bright and witty could be interested in someone like Dick.

Before getting the job at the Silver Bell, Julie had done baby-sitting, Doug placing a hand-printed notice on the main bulletin board and in the faculty lounge, and that was how she had come to meet Julian Compton. One afternoon his wife called and questioned her carefully in her clipped English accent and, finally satisfied, asked her to come over to their house at seven o'clock. It was a lovely house, Tudor-style, quite a long way from Doug and Julie's flat, but she hadn't minded the walk. She made four dollars an hour for baby-sitting, and Mrs. Compton said they probably wouldn't get home until midnight. That meant a whole twenty dollars for just one evening. It was a lot of money, but then baby-sitting jobs weren't all that regular. A week might go by with only two or three jobs, and they might be for no more than a couple of hours while the parents went out to dine or to see a movie. Mrs. Compton almost turned her away from the door.

Andrea Compton had been an actress, Julie knew. She was a chic, glamorous creature in a red satin cocktail dress, her raven hair pulled back sleekly and worn in a French twist. Her cool gray eyes were filled with dismay as she stood in the doorway, staring at Julie.

“You can't possibly be the baby-sitter,” she said. “Why, you're just a child yourself.”

“I'm seventeen, ma'am. I'll be eighteen in December. My husband graduated with a B.A. two months ago, and he'll be starting to law school in September. I—I explained all that over the phone.”

“Who is it, Andy?” Compton asked, stepping into the foyer. “Oh, it's the baby-sitter. Bring her on in. Hello there,” he said, giving Julie a warm smile. “How are you with monsters? Bobbie wants to be a Mouseketeer, refuses to take off her Mickey Mouse ears—even sleeps in them, I believe. Brett thinks he's Davy Crockett. I fear he carries a tomahawk for hand-to-hand combat with Indians. It's only rubber,” he assured her.

Mrs. Compton still had reservations about leaving Julie in charge, but if they didn't leave immediately they'd be late to their dinner party. Her husband was confident she could handle the job, and they left a few minutes later, Mr. Compton very handsome in his dinner jacket and black tie. Bobbie was a precocious six, Brett a raucous seven, and they were indeed monsters. Bobbie stuck her tongue out at Julie and informed her she had yucky pimples on her face. Brett promptly attacked her with his rubber tomahawk. Julie wasn't a bit daunted. She told Bobbie she was every bit as cute as Annette and probably had a lot more talent, too. She told Brett she was frightened to death of Indians and had actually met one a couple of years ago when she was walking in some woods.

“Awww,” he said disdainfully, “you didn't meet no Indian.”

“I did so. He leaped out at me from behind a tree, yelling like a banshee. I almost had heart failure.”

“He have a tomahawk?” Brett asked.

“A real sharp one, and—and it was stained with blood. I was sure I was a goner.”

“What'd-ja do?”

“I took the tomahawk away from him. Then I scalped him. I'm an Indian fighter from way back. They know better than to mess with me.”

“You made that up,” he said, enchanted nonetheless.

Brett raced off to get his coonskin cap, and then he ardently recounted the plot of last week's episode of
The Adventures of Davy Crockett
. Julie gave him her rapt attention, asking several questions, and Brett decided she was the neatest baby-sitter they'd ever had. Not to be outdone, Bobbie put on her tap shoes and showed Julie the dance Annette had done on
The Mickey Mouse Club
Wednesday afternoon, then gave her a rather startling rendition of “The Mickey Mouse Mambo.” Julie applauded vigorously and claimed she'd never
seen
such talent.

“You oughta be in show business, kid,” she said.

“I'm gonna be. Mama used to be. She made a movie in England with Stewart Granger. We saw it on
Matinee at the Movies
last month. She wore lots of funny gowns with long skirts and big hats with feathers dripping on them. She got killed in the end. A horse trampled her to death in the stables after she sneaked out to run off with the Gypsy.”

“I believe I saw that movie. Your mother is very beautiful.”

“She's old now. She gave up her career when she married Daddy. It was just as well. Margaret Lockwood was getting all the best parts. Daddy produced plays before he came to Claymore. He dudn't miss it at all. He says teachin's a lot easier on the nervous system.”

“I imagine it would be,” Julie said thoughtfully.

At eight o'clock she took them into the kitchen and made peanut butter sandwiches and gave them glasses of milk. They watched the last half of a variety show on television in the living room, and then Julie tactfully suggested that it was nearing time for bed. Both children rebelled. She managed to get them upstairs and get them into their pajamas, and Bobbie started insulting her again and Brett was sulking dreadfully. In their toy box, she happened to find three hand puppets: a witch, a handsome prince, a princess with long yellow yarn hair, all three puppets sadly battered. She told the children she would put on a play for them if they'd be good and promise to go to bed afterwards. They reluctantly agreed, sitting down on the floor in Bobbie's bedroom to watch as Julie spread a blanket over a dressing stool and pulled it over to use as a stage, kneeling down behind it.

As a child, Julie had always loved putting on plays with her large collection of paper dolls, acting out all the parts, and she forgot herself now, forgot her audience, throwing herself into the impromptu drama with great enthusiasm. The prince was dashing and bold, the princess sad and tearful, the witch so wicked Brett actually cowered. Julie made up appropriate dialogue, performed each role with a different voice, and the children were enthralled. That was how Julian Compton found them when he came upstairs. The prince had rescued the princess and brought her safely back to his father's kingdom but, unbeknownst to him, the witch had put an evil curse on him and, in order to save his life, the princess had to return and sweep floors for the witch for the rest of her life. Julian Compton stood quietly in the doorway, watching, listening, as caught up as either of his children.

“But you can't go,” the prince said in a deep, bewildered voice. “You can't leave me after—after we've finally found each other.”

“I—I must, Rudolpho. I don't want to—you must know that—but it's something I—I have to do.” Her voice trembled with emotion as the princess turned away.

“There's another man, isn't there! That's got to be it! You're leaving me for another prince, that scoundrel Hal of Bulgaria. I saw him leering at you at the banquet.”

“No—Rudolpho, please believe me—”

“I love you, Melisande. I
love
you, and you're leaving me!”

“It—it has to be. Please believe that.”

“Go then! Leave! See if I care. I'll find someone else as quick as a wink. You're not the only princess on earth. One day you'll be sorry. One day when you're old and gray you'll remember Rudolpho and all that might have been—but it'll be too late!”

The prince stalked away and the princess stood there all alone for several moments, holding back the tears, and then she shook her head.

“I'll remember, Rudolpho,” she whispered softly. “I—I'll never see you again, but—you'll always be there in my heart.”

Bobbie sobbed woefully, tears pouring down her cheeks. Brett was making a manly effort not to do the same. Julian Compton couldn't believe it. The girl was incredible, absolutely incredible, so convincing in her magic that his own eyes were moist. His monsters, the one in Mickey Mouse ears, the other in coonskin cap, had been totally enraptured and couldn't contain their emotion now. The girl in the cheap pink cotton dress and shabby shoes sighed and sat up, the puppets still on her hands. When she saw him standing there in the doorway her cheeks turned pale.

“Mr. Compton, I—I didn't know you'd come home.”

“The dinner was a bore. We left early. I see you've been entertaining my children.”

“She's wonderful, Daddy!” Bobbie cried. “We want to have her every night!”

“Yeah!” Brett agreed. “She fights Indians, too!”

Julie put the puppets down and scrambled to her feet, horribly embarrassed. She'd rarely been so humiliated. Julian Compton smiled at her and ordered Brett and Bobbie to bed. They obeyed instantly, Brett dashing over to give Julie a hug before racing to his own room. Compton went downstairs with Julie and insisted on giving her the whole twenty dollars, even though they had returned early. Discovering she had no transportation, he said he would drive her home.

“It—it isn't necessary, Mr. Compton. I'm used to walking.”

“Come along, Mrs. Hammond,” he said with mock severity. “I'll brook no nonsense from a chit like you.”

Eyes downcast, cheeks flushed now, she followed him outside and got into the car. She gave him directions and sat there miserably as he drove toward the campus. Julian Compton was a glamorous figure at Claymore. He had made a brilliant career for himself in the theater, had worked with legendary names, and Julie knew that producers were still trying to lure him away from teaching and back into the fold. This man beside her had worked with Katharine Cornell, with Lynn Fontanne, and he had stood there in the doorway of Bobbie's room, watching her … watching her pretend that she could act, too. Still smarting from her humiliation, Julie wasn't aware that they had reached their destination, that Compton had stopped the car. He was staring at her, studying her profile in the pale summer moonlight.

“So you want to be an actress,” he said quietly.

Julie looked up, startled. Her cheeks started burning again.

“I—I'm sorry I made such a fool of myself, Mr. Compton. I was just trying to—to amuse the children.”

“But you
do
want to act, right?”

Julie swallowed, unable to speak. How had he known? How had he guessed that secret dream she had nurtured for years. Lots of little girls dream of becoming an actress, it was perfectly natural, a part of growing up, but she was grown up now and she still hadn't relinquished the dream. Julie clasped her hands together in her lap, swallowing again, consumed with guilt because he had found her out.

“Have you ever done any acting before?” he asked.

Julie shook her head, still unable to speak.

“None? Not even a high school play?”

“I—I didn't finish high school,” she confessed. “I dropped out after I finished the tenth grade. I—it was—I got married, you see, and I couldn't—”

She cut herself short, in anguish. Julian Compton felt a rush of compassion for this overly sensitive, painfully shy child, but that had nothing to do with his next words. When it came to spotting talent, he had an infallible eye, and he could be harsh, even brutal when his students showed a lack of it. He did not believe in wasting his time, or theirs.

“I would like for you to attend my advanced drama classes this fall, Julie,” he said.

“Me?” Julie was dumbfounded. “But I—I couldn't—why would you want
me
to attend?”

“Because you have a rare and wonderful gift,” he told her. “Because I feel that, with the proper training, you could be the most successful student I might ever have.”

“Mr. Compton, I—I don't know what to say.”

“Say you'll attend.”

“But—I didn't even finish high school, I told you that. They wouldn't let me sign up for your class, and—and even if they would, I couldn't possibly pay the tuition.”