Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

told her, "but he will see me the moment he returns."
    Finally, one afternoon after my private vocal lesson, Michael asked me to remain. We waited for Richard Taylor to leave and then Michael closed the door.
    "Oh, Dawn," he said, coming to me quickly and taking my hands into his, "I'm so sorry I've been so terribly distant these past few weeks. I know you must think I'm horrible and I'm deliberately ignoring you."
    "It bothered me," I admitted. "I was afraid you thought I had given away our secret. I kept hoping you would speak to me soon. I didn't want to do anything to endanger you at the school."
    "I know," he said. "You've been wonderful about it. Very patient." He kissed me quickly on the cheek and stepped back. "A few days after you came to my apartment, the head of the school called me in to speak to me about my methods. It seems other teachers were whispering about me behind my back. I know it's just professional jealousy. They've all gotten wind of my criticism of their techniques, and some of them can't stand the attention I receive while they are hardly recognized.
    "Anyway, the head asked me if I would be somewhat more formal in my student-teacher relationships. I thought perhaps someone had seen us together when I took you for coffee that day, or maybe Richard had even sensed something and told people. Naturally, I was afraid for you, too, so I thought we should cool it. I'm sorry if I've hurt you," he added.
    "Oh Michael," I cried, "you can't hurt me. I understand."
    "I thought you would," he said, smiling and taking my hands into his again. "Anyway, I can't stand being this way with you and not seeing you when I want to, when I need to. Can you come to my apartment again tonight, the same way, without anyone knowing?"
    "Yes," I said quickly, thrilled that he had finally asked me to return.
    "Wonderful." He let go of my hands and hurried to gather his things. "I've got to move along to my next, appointment. Come at the same time. Don't disappoint me," he pleaded and left.
    I was so excited about Michael and our rendezvous, I didn't hear a word spoken in any of my other classes and hated the clock for ticking so slowly. The only one who noticed anything different about me, however, was Madame Steichen. She interrupted our lesson and my playing by slapping her wooden pointer so hard over the top of the piano, it splintered into three different pieces and flew off in three different directions. I practically jumped off the piano stool.
    "What do you call this . . . this stupid tapping on the keys?" she sneered, her face twisted and witchlike.
    "Practicing," I said softly.
    "No," she flared, her eyes red with rage, "this is not practice; this is wasting time. I told you, you can't play like an artist if you don't connect your very being with every note. Your fingers cannot be separated from your very soul. Concentration, concentration, concentration. What are you thinking about while you play?"
    "Nothing," I said.
    "That's what your playing is . . . nothing, just sounds. Will you concentrate or are you here to waste my time?" she demanded with ice in her words.
    "I'll concentrate," I said, my eyes burning with tears.
    "Begin again," she said. "And rid your mind of whatever it is that is distracting you."
    She peered down at me, her eyes small, almost like two microscope lenses scrutinizing my face.
    "I don't like what I see in your eyes," she said. "Something is corrupting you from within and it is affecting your music. Beware of whatever it is," she advised and then stepped back, folded her bony arms under her small bosom and glared in anticipation.
    I shakily began again, this time putting all my concentration into my playing, forcing my thoughts away from Michael. Madame Steichen wasn't happy, but she wasn't dissatisfied enough to interrupt. At the end of the lesson, she stood before me, her shoulders lifted, her neck so straight and tight, it looked like the neck of a statue, and her head very still.
    "You must make up your mind," she said slowly, her words sharp and cutting, "whether you want to be a performer or an artist." Her eyes took on a glassy stare. I had to bow my head and look down.
    "An artist," she continued, "lives for her work. That's the difference between an artist and a performer, who is usually a person infatuated with himself and not with the beauty of what he creates. Fame," she lectured, "is often more of a burden than a blessing. This country is very foolish when it comes to its