Haunting Melody Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Flo Fitzpatrick
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
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