for me, along with my wonderful future? Or was that
one of the fantasies Madame Senetsky would
eventually end?
The sound of Howard's laughter coming from
below surprised all of us. We paused when we turned
the corner of the stairway and saw him emerge from
the parlor beside a tall man with dark, wavy brown
hair and a smart mustache that curled gently toward
the corners of his mouth. He wore an earthy brown
corduroy jacket and a red ascot. I thought he was a
very handsome man, with a dark complexion and soft
blue eyes. He smiled at the sight of us.
"These are the others," Howard told him.
making 'others' sound a bit inferior. I thought. "Oh, how do you all do? I'm Brock Marlowe,
your drama coach," the man said, nodding toward us.
No one spoke. Finally. Cinnamon stepped forward. "Since you've already managed to meet Mr.
Marlowe. Howard, why don't you introduce
everyone? Properly," she added, sending an impish
glance back at me.
"Right. This is Cinnamon... Carlson, is it?" "So short a memory. Howard? How do you
manage to memorize your lines?" she shot back. Howard sucked in his breath and forced a small
smile, turning to the rest of us.
"Honey Forman. Rose Wallace. And Ice-- I'm
sorry. I really didn't get your last name," Howard said. "Goodman." she said quickly.
"Ice Goodman. And that's Steven Jesse trying
to hide behind them."
"Ah yes, the man with the Mozart ear.
Howard's been telling me. Pleased to meet all of you"
Brock Marlowe said.
"What else has our Howard been telling you.
Mr. Marlowe?" Cinnamon asked with feigned
sweetness.
"I don't know that much about any of you to tell
any stories," Howard said quickly.
"So, he talked mostly about himself. How
surprising." Cinnamon said.
Ice actually laughed aloud. I could see she liked
Cinnamon, and looked forward to everything she did
or said.
"No. I did not talk about myself. We talked
about the theater." Howard said out of the side of his
mouth. 'Mr. Marlowe happens to be a hero of mine.
He directed the revival of Ibsen's A Doll's House in
the West End in London last season, a smash hit. He
also single-handedly created the Player's Theater in
Chicago,"
"Howard has done his research," Brock
Marlowe said. "but I'm not quite the only one
responsible for the Player's Theater. Many good
minds went into that."
He smiled at us.
"So, who are the prospective actors here?" "I guess I am," Cinnamon said. "I am surprised
Howard didn't mention it, yet mentioned Steven's
piano talents," she added. sending Howard a hard,
cold look that made him shift his eyes guiltily away. "We're all supposed to develop dramatic
talents," Rose remarked.
"And so you will. Rose. I am looking forward
to working with you all," Mr. Marlowe said. "So are we," Howard quickly followed. Laura Fairchild came walking quickly down the
corridor from the rear of the house, her tall, thin heels
pinging like steel raindrops over the floor.
"Oh, Mr. Marlowe." she said. "Madame
Senetsky was asking after you. The rest of the staff
has been meeting with her in her office. She sent me
for you. Girls, boys," she continued turning toward us.
"'follow me into the dining room for your seating." "See you in a while then," Mr. Marlowe said,
and hurried down the corridor toward Madame
Senetsky's office.
"She won't spank him for being late, will she?"
Steven quipped. Ms. Fairchild ignored him and led us
into the dining room.
"You'll sit across from your teachers." she
began. "Ice here." she said, holding the back of the
chair at the near end of the long table. "Steven. Rose.
Honey. Howard. and Cinnamon," she continued down
the table.
She nodded at the empty chairs.
"These will be your permanent seats at this
table.."
"Permanent seats? What is this, grade school?"
Steven asked.
us," Cinnamon wondered aloud.
"No." Ms. Fairchild said. "You'll be properly
introduced when they arrive. Please be seated. Do any
of you have any questions about dinner table
etiquette? Which fork to use when. anything?" She
looked pointedly at Steven. "Madame Senetsky
prefers no one be embarrassed or embarrass the
school."
"Does that mean we can't eat with our hands?"
Steven asked.
"Not yours. They're insured for millions,
remember?"
Cinnamon said. "Oh. right."
"If there are no intelligent questions, then
please be seated. When your teachers enter, please
stand and wait for them to take their seats before
sitting again. When Madame Senetsky arrives, we all
stand."
"And wait for her to take her seat before sitting
again?" Steven queried with a sly smile.
"Of course,' Ms. Fairchild replied. "Dinner will
begin in a moment."
She left the dining room. Everyone gazed at the
elaborate table with its heavy silverware, its crystal
goblets, and beautiful china. There were three candles
in gold candleholders, waiting to be lit. Platters of
bread were already on the table, but covered with
what looked like silk.
"What if she never sits down?" Steven asked.
"Would we all eat standing?"
"Your wisecracks are going to get you in
trouble quickly here," Howard warned him.
"That can't happen. Howard. I would just
switch from piano to stand-up comic and continue." We all sat and for a long moment just
contemplated the room. One of the maids came in and
put dishes of butter out. She didn't really look at any
of us.
"I'm as nervous as I was at my audition," I
admitted,
"Me. too," Ice said.
"I didn't have an audition," Rose revealed.
Everyone turned to her.
"What?"
"Well, not a formal one like y'all had. I mean." "How did you get into this school then?" Howard demanded, as if it was an affront to him and
his talent.
"My dance teacher at school was friendly with
Madame Senetsky's son. Edmond."
"So?" Howard pursued.
"He attended my performance and she brought
him backstage. He told me his mother permitted him
to select one student a year, and he decided to select
me,' Rose explained.
"That's not fair. I had to prepare and travel here
and wait to find out if I had been accepted or not. I
turned down the
3: Girl Ta/k Page 100
University of Southern California before
knowing," Howard moaned. "He must have had a
thing for you," he quickly decided.
"What?"
"How can you say that? You don't know how
talented she might be," Ice piped up with such
vehemence, it not only
took Howard by surprise, it
made us all widen our eyes.
"Maybe he's right," Rose thought aloud. "I
never considered that."
Howard looked smug.
"Don't pay attention to him. Rose," I said.
"Howard, you're making her feel bad."
"I'm just suggesting a possibility," he insisted. "It' s not even a possibility," Cinnamon
snapped at him.
"Oh? Why not, pray tell?"
"First, if Edmond sent someone here who didn't
meet his mother's standards, she would know
instantly, wouldn't she?" Cinnamon asked. "And what
do you think she would say or do to Edmond?
Remember what Madame Senetsky told us? We, of all
people, can't hide our imperfections, our failures.
There's no way to fake it. You either belong here or
don't," she told Rose.
"Howard." she said, sending daggers his way
with her small eyes. "should know that better than any
of us, and does know that. He's just a little jealous. "Beware the green-eyed monster. Howard, it
mocks the meat it feeds upon."
"Ha! I guess she told you. Howard Rockwell
the Sixth," Steven cried and reached for a piece of
bread.
"Don't!" Cinnamon barked,
He pulled his hand back as if he had burned his
fingers. "What?"
"You can't do that until everyone is here. It's
not good etiquette."
"She's right," Howard muttered. I'm surprised
you didn't know that!"
Steven grimaced and folded his hands under his
arms.
"I don't know why all this is so important. It has
nothing to do with the way I play piano," he
complained.
"If that's all you want, get a job in some smoke
filled dive," Howard told him.
Steven glared at him. What a time to begin
bickering amongst ourselves, I thought, with our
teachers about to meet us. Why was it my
expectations rose and fell with roller coaster
emotions? One moment I was feeling optimistic about
us all enjoying this experience, and the next I was
dreading another moment in this house. I gazed about
the table, searching everyone's face to see if anyone
else seemed to have similar feelings. They all looked
lost in their own thoughts.
A grandfather clock ticked the hour.
And, on cue, our teachers began to enter the
room. With Howard practically leaping to his feet
first, we all stood.
A short, bald man with dull brown watery eyes and a complexion as pale as tissue paper took the seat directly across from me. He didn't smile so much as he turned his lips into each other and pulled back the corners of his mouth. He was plump, a little barrelchested, with a necklace of fat hanging at the sides of his throat. His ears were far too large for his head. They looked tacked on at the last minute, mistakenly
taken from someone else's assigned features. Right behind him came a far younger-looking,
tall, slender man with hair as black as Ice's, styled
with a soft wave from his forehead back. He had
bright hazel eyes with specks of green and a thin,
straight nose above very soft-looking lips. Unlike the
bald man, he wore a pleasant smile. He nodded at us
and gave Rose, in particular, an additional and wider
smile.
A very fat, robust man with thinning dark gray
hair but heavy sideburns and a bulbous nose with a
patch of redness over each nostril marched in firmly,
nearly knocking into his chair with his stomach. He
had very thick lips and large, dark brown eyes. Brock
Marlowe came in after him, moving far more
gracefully, and he was followed by a rather sternlooking man, about six feet tall with long, thick
pecan-brown hair. He kept his lips tight, drawing a
slash across his angular face.
Our teachers gazed at us and we gazed back at
them. For a moment I wondered what would happen
next. Then Ms. Fairchild appeared at the foot of the
table.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she began, "let me
introduce you to your instructors.
"Mr. Angus Masters, your speech instructor,"
she began, and the bald man across from me nodded
at us. "Mr. Cameron Demetrius, your dance
instructor." she continued. The trim- figured, gentlefaced man smiled wider and turned his shoulders as if
he was scratching his back against a wall. "Mr. Alfred
Littleton, your vocal instructor," she said. The heavy
man opened and closed his thick lips without
speaking. "You already know Mr. Marlowe, your
drama coach, and this is Mr. Leonard Bergman, our
instrumental and piano teacher." Mr. Berman's eyes
brightened a bit, but he didn't change expression and
barely nodded.
She then recited our names and, after our
instructors sat, we sat.
"Everyone settle in okay?" Cameron Demetrius
asked immediately, to break the silence.
We all answered at once, and that lightened the
heavy air with some laughter.
Howard then started a long story about his trip,
speaking as if he was doing a scene on the stage, his
hands moving like two birds circling each other. A moment later. Edmond Senetsky entered with
Madame Senetsky on his arm and everyone rose. She
took her seat at the head of the table. Edmond sat at
the far end, and our first formal dinner at the Senetsky
School began.
We learned that Alfred Littleton, our vocal
teacher, was a former light opera star, and the
instrumental teacher. Leonard Bergman, was an
internationally famous conductor. The more we
learned about each and every one of them and their
accomplishments, the more nervous and insecure I
felt. Surely, they would take one good look at me and
see what an imposter I was. How could a farm girl
from Ohio be considered someone so talented she
could compete for a place in the world's greatest
orchestras?
Mr. Masters would find my speaking ability
and speech patterns so flawed, he would throw up his
hands in frustration. I knew I didn't have the kind of
grace or muscle coordination to please a professional
dance instructor, and I couldn't carry a vocal note. There would be no point to any singing instructions for me. Once all this was learned. I was sure I, would be called to Madame Senetsky's office, where she would quickly inform me a great error had been made and there was someone far more qualified waiting in
the wings. I would almost be relieved. I thought, I was so frightened. I competed with Ice for the
position of the most silent person at dinner. I could
see how Mr. Masters was keenly listening to
everyone's speech patterns. It made me very selfconscious. As I expected. Howard Rockwell led us
with his questions, his eagerness to show just how
much he knew about each of our teachers. When
Brock Marlowe asked him about parts he had played.
Howard rattled off a very impressive range of roles. I
was terrified Mr. Bergman would follow by asking me
how many times I had performed in public, what
orchestra I had been a member of, or what
my training
had been up until now. I would surely look like a
musical pauper.
I continually glanced at Madame Senetsky to
see her reaction to everything said and asked. She
maintained a stoic expression, her eves barely
confessing an emotion or a thought. I had the distinct
feeling that she wanted her staff to make its own judgments about us and would do nothing to influence
that evaluation.
As the evening wore on, most of us did relax.
Despite the formal, stiff beginning to the dinner, each
of our teachers spoke about himself and his
professional experiences, and before long we were all
witnessing a fascinating conversation about
international theatrical events with names of famous
people woven in so casually and so quickly, we didn't
have a chance to react. Every so often. I looked at
Cinnamon and Rose, who wore soft smiles of
appreciation on their faces. Steven looked bored and
from time to time fidgeted with his silverware. Ice
looked like someone visiting another country, her
eyes small but full of curiosity. Only Howard sat with
a demeanor of confidence, as though he was a regular
participant at such dinners.
Edmond Senetsky apparently knew something
about everyone anyone mentioned and had stories of
his own, name-dropping his clients at every
opportunity. Since Howard had made his accusation
earlier. I couldn't help but watch the way Edmond
glanced at Rose from time to time. It was probably my
imagination. but I did think he was trying to catch her
eye more than he was trying to catch anyone else's attention. Howard looked directly at me when Edmond described Rose's dance performance for Mr. Demetrius, using superlative after superlative. Then Howard looked at Cinnamon, who was glaring not daggers but spikes back at him. He quickly turned
away.
The dinner itself was as elegant and rich as any
I had ever seen or read about, much less experienced.
We did have the roast duck we saw Mrs. Churchwell
preparing earlier, but it was nothing like any duck
Mommy had made back on the farm; it had an orange
flavor. We were served wine, which started a
discussion about the quality of California wines
compared with French and Italian. From the
comments Mr. Littleton made, it appeared he had
tasted wine all over the world. I had no idea if what I
was drinking was good; great, or otherwise. Wine was
still just wine to me. I was familiar only with
Mommy's elderberry.