Close Match

by Jerald, Tracey

  Nothing has ever affected me quite the way that voice did. And since I gave my small binoculars to my parents—which Ev said my mother hogged all night—I never saw her face. I even, stupidly, passed up one of the Playbills they offer when you walk in the door. I whimsically think about looking her up when we get home. But suddenly, Ev wobbles, Mom starts to lose her balance in the heels she’s wearing, and I forget everything but what’s happening in front of me. “Geez, old man. Did you drink too much during the intermission?” I joke.

  “You know how I get with soda, Monty. Can’t hold my caffeine.” His voice is laced with humor. But his eyes are tired. It’s a good thing we’re only a few blocks from The Monkey Bar where we’re having a late dinner otherwise I’d have insisted on hailing a cab.

  I’ll be sure to on our way back to the hotel.

  “Come on, Ev.” Mom sidles up on the other side of him. “I hear this place will give you an entire bowl of fresh whipped cream with your cappuccino.”

  He wiggles his brow at her. “Think we can get one to go?”

  “Seriously? Gross.” I shake my head. Ev barks out a laugh that can be heard over the traffic that’s like white noise to city-goers. Ev’s and my eyes collide briefly before we both grin. I pretend to back away before declaring, “I’m putting an official ban on sex talk. Do you both hear me? If you want to have a night out, I’ll go back to the hotel.”

  Ev reaches out and snags Mom around the waist. Leaning down, he murmurs into her ear. Her face softens. Laying her hands on his biceps, she rolls to the balls of her feet. Brushing a kiss on his lips, she says, “I love you too. But let’s stop torturing the poor boy. Right now, let’s eat. If I were that redhead, I’d be ready for a steak right now. So, on her behalf, I’m going to eat one.”

  And with that perfectly woman logic, we make our way down the street to get my mom her steak.

  And her bowl of whipped cream.

  * * *

  The next morning, I’ve just helped my mother and Ev into a horse-drawn carriage near Central Park. As dorky as it may seem, they wanted the romantic clop around the famous Manhattan landscape. And I wanted time alone with my thoughts.

  Ev’s not getting any better. All the money he has and ultimately, nothing will save him.

  I’m not paying any attention, so I’m startled when a warm body brushes by a bit too close. I’m about to blast out something to warn the runner when I get a good look at her. I can’t help but notice her sleek legs as she runs by, oblivious to the stares she’s earning from more than just me. Her dark hair dances almost down to a perfectly shaped ass. The skin that’s not covered by her T-shirt is like the palest porcelain. My body immediately begins to tighten in interest. Then I shake my head ruefully. What is it about the women in this city? Is there something magical about them? Maybe you can’t see the stars in the night sky over the cityscape because it’s being poured onto the women who inhabit the city below it. I wish I had the time to find out.

  Unfortunately, today’s our last full day in the city. The sooner we get back home, the better. Ev will be more comfortable. Mom can get back to her routine. And me? I can finish moving out of my apartment in DC back to the farm where I can be closer to my family.

  Leaving my job to move back to the farm was an easy decision for several reasons, one that I’m glad was ultimately taken out of my hands. Now I can be there for more than just the occasional days off. It will be good to be able to give Mom and Ev the support they need.

  Checking my watch, I lament the fact it’s only eight in the morning. It’s way too early for a drink. Then I remember our hotel serves mimosas with breakfast, and I perk up a bit. If I’m going to suffer a day of sightseeing with my family, I’m going to need something to sustain me. Leaning against the stone pillar, I pull out my phone. It seems like just moments, but between debating between the breakfast buffet or eggs Benedict at the Palm Court and answering a few emails for the team keeping things together back home, it’s closer to a half-hour before I realize the carriage containing the two most important people in the world has come to a stop in front of me. Mom and Ev step out looking as in love now as they did when they first met. I hope the memory of this gives them enough strength to carry them through what I know is to come.

  If not, they’re welcome to whatever of mine is left.

  Four

  Evangeline

  After I finish my lap around Central Park, I dash past my doorman, waving. Punching the PH button and typing in my code, I pull out my phone. I have about an hour until my first class at the Broadway Dance Center. That leaves me just enough time to grab a quick shower, get a bite, and make my way there.

  There are some habits that I can’t break, no matter how successful I’ve become. If I want to keep the pack of eager young actresses at bay, I have to be at the top of my game not only vocally but physically. It’s why I’ll leave the nights out clubbing to the younger cast members. Me? Even during performances, I keep up a steady routine of running three times a week, and every Monday I spend all day in the studio fine-tuning my moves.

  Without fail.

  Dropping my running gear on the way to my en suite bathroom, I’m startled when the phone in my hand rings. It’s my agent, Sepi. “Hey, what’s up?” Sepi’s represented me since I was in college.

  “How do you feel about London again after the run of Miss Me?”

  Laughing, I turn on the knobs to heat the water. “Not happening. Bris’s pregnant.”

  “Really? Oh my God! I’ll have to send her something.” Sepi is one of the few members of our inner circle we trust, so I know Bristol won’t care that I shared her news.

  “Not yet. She refuses to let us buy her anything until the twelve-week mark.”

  “When’s that?”

  “In about six more weeks.”

  “Then she should start expecting regular deliveries after that,” Sepi continues smoothly.

  “Can I put you on speaker? I’m going to be late for class if I don’t shower.” Pressing a few buttons, I step in and sigh in happiness. Sepi chuckles.

  “It amazes me and appalls me how regimented you are.”

  “Why? Because you’re not?” Sepi gave up her regimented workouts after her third child was born.

  “No, because you still look like you did when you graduated college, and I look close to our age,” she retorts.

  I grin and am rewarded with a mouthful of water. Sputtering, I ask, “Was that the only offer?”

  “There’s a record deal on the table.”

  “Cast recording?”

  “Actually, no.” I pause in the act of soaping my body to stare at the phone.

  “Seriously?”

  “They weren’t sure what. The record company pitched Christmas music, but that’s so trite…”

  “Lullabies,” I murmur. “And children’s music. What about something like that?”

  There’s silence on the other end of the line, which is always a good sign. “I’ll get back to them and let you know. Great idea, Evangeline.”

  “I have a pretty great inspiration these days.” There’s a thousand-watt smile that can be heard in my voice.

  “I completely understand that. I’ll let you go for now. We’ll talk soon.” Sepi hangs up while I’m already thinking of songs I could record. I think of all the music my mother sang to Bristol and me as kids and just smile.

  This is going to work out beautifully.

  * * *

  Four hours later, I’m gasping to catch my breath. I may not ever get to record the album because I might be dead, I think ruefully. I feel like that character in Monty Python and the Holy Grail whose arms and legs have been cut off. It was supposed to be an advanced class in stiletto heels—it wasn’t supposed to feel like I’d just run the Marine Corp Marathon in Louboutins.

  My calves feel like they’re on fire. My ankles are so shaky they’re about to give out at any moment. I’m seriously debating whether or not I want to call an Uber to get me the mile
back to my home and on the way, call my personal masseuse and demand he meet me at my condo in the two hours I imagine it will take the car to navigate the city’s traffic at this time of the day.

  I let out a small whimper and pray no one hears as I slide down the wall. My ass lands on my heels before I can reach my hand down far enough to touch the oak floors. If I could find the strength and an object sharp enough, I’d gladly slide it into Madame Veronica Solomone’s heartless body on behalf of the other students heaped in a similar fashion around the room.

  “You all are woefully out of shape,” she declares, twirling around on the ball of her foot. I wait for some brave soul to stick out their leg and trip her. They’d have fifteen witnesses swearing it was an accident.

  Some naive woman speaks up. I think she’s in The Lion King, but right now, I’m not even sure of my name. I may have to look at my driver’s license for my address. “I am in excellent shape. You, Madame, have unrealistic expectations.”

  Well, that was a mistake. Never, never challenge Madame on her routines.

  Madame Solomone strides around the room on heels so high I feel amateurish in the four-and-a half-inch shoes I’m wearing. Contorting my body left and right, I begin loosening the joints in my hips and knees. I tune out the angry words. It isn’t until I hear a snapped “Brogan!” that I straighten. Madame is standing in front of me, impatiently. Sliding my sore legs back under me, I stand up wordlessly.

  “Front and center. Start at the beginning.” She bites off the words. “Stefano, you will partner her.” She nods at her assistant, who begins the music from the beginning as her male choreographer joins me on the dance floor to my back left.

  The rest of the class scrambles on tired, aching legs to get a seat for the show. Selena Gomez starts playing. Slow hip roll, knee lift into a ball change. Stefano’s hands slide between mine as I go up on the balls of my feet in first position, then plié, and his hands hold my thighs out wide. Shoving him back, I spin out, one hand sliding between my sweat-soaked sports bra, the other covering my face coquettishly. With a toss of my hair and a devilish smile that hides the aches, I sway my hips back and forth, grand plié, and jump all while in heels about as high as I wear to the Tony’s. Twisting, Stefano comes up behind me as I thrust my hips backward, the hipsters I’m wearing accenting the way he grabs my hips before dragging my body upward until my arms circle around his neck. My back is to his front, adding additional force when he spins me out for a series of chaines turns. They’re made even harder in the stilettos I’m wearing. I have to rise even higher on the balls of my feet to give the impression of lift and to prevent twisting my ankle.

  Stefano strides to meet me at the end of my turns, wrapping me in his strong arms. I want to shove his gross sweaty body away, and I think, Why not? As long as I sell it… With a smirk, I push a hand into his chest. His eyes narrow down at me as I turn what’s supposed to be a duet into a solo. Double pumping my arms as I drop into another grand plié, I lunge left and drag my fingers up my leg before I spin in a full circle to the hoots and hollers of my classmates. My arm flies into the air as I step back—ball change—and come face-to-face with an angry choreographer. Mentally shrugging, I throw myself back into the routine, two full body waves before dragging my thumb up down between my breasts, over my bared stomach, and across my center, before grabbing Stefano’s hand.

  “Think you can manage the fouettés?” he hisses. “You were off before.”

  Bastard. He lifts me, letting me slide against his muscled body. Hitting the note right on, I begin to pirouette. The class cheers as Stefano assumes an arrogant pose near me. My leg flies out. I’m grateful I wore the shoes with the ankle straps so my shoes don’t take out a random gawking passerby. One, two, three, four, I tuck my leg in and twirl on both feet to get my bearings right before I stop and pose.

  I did it. I have no idea if it looked good or not, but I managed to get through that sadistic routine without breaking something.

  Stefano gets in my face. “If you change my routine again, I will have you barred from this class.”

  I sneer, “The way I danced it is what I felt. This isn’t the stage.”

  He puffs up. “It’s my stage.”

  I roll my eyes. He goes to open his mouth when Madame interrupts him. “It is good, is it not, when the students become passionate about what we do, my pet?” She smooths a hand down his sweaty shoulder. “Isn’t that true?”

  I must be a better actress than I thought because my face doesn’t move a muscle knowing Veronica and Stefano are lovers. I still stand there waiting.

  “Dancing isn’t your true passion, Evangeline.” I acknowledge her truth with a nod, because why deny it. Dancing is simply another way of expressing myself on the stage. “But that was a joy to watch, nonetheless.”

  “Thank you, Madame.”

  The barest smile crosses her mouth. “Now you may go collapse against the wall. The rest of you…” Her voice pitches higher. “Rise. Until you can dance, you will at least stand.”

  The combined groans and muffled sounds of pain soften my own as I slide down against the wall. I’m slipping the strap from around my ankle when I feel something cold tap against my shoulder. The plastic water bottle touching my overly warm skin feels wonderful. I follow the line of it to meet Stefano’s dark eyes. “She’s overly critical. While I was right”—arrogant ass, I think with humor—“you danced perfectly. You could dance anywhere, Evangeline. Even now. They”—he nods out to the dance floor—“don’t have the heart you do. Don’t lose it.”

  Reaching up, I tug the water from his hands. “Thanks, Stef.” Knowing the pride he takes in his craft, I offer up my version of an apology. “The music just took me over.”

  He grins before tousling my hair. “You were out to shove the dance down our throats for making you move from your comfy wall.”

  Too true. “Did it work?” I bat my long eyelashes at him. He laughs before offering me a hand to my feet.

  “Go home and soak. Otherwise, Wagner will call and yell that you are useless tomorrow night.” Wagner is the choreographer for Miss Me.

  “Trust me, that’s one direction you don’t have to give me twice,” I grumble. Lifting my other foot, I quickly slip out of the heel before padding barefoot toward the door leading to the women’s locker room.

  “See you next week?” Veronica calls out.

  “If you’re teaching it, I’ll be there,” I call back. And it’s true. Whether she’s teaching a conditioning class, Theater Jazz, or this psychotic stiletto dance, I wouldn’t miss the chance to work with my godmother. Or, apparently, her newest love interest.

  Grinning, I wonder what my mother will think of this little tidbit of gossip considering Veronica has been her best friend for the last forty years. And considering Stefano is younger than me, I want to give her a standing O. Then again, she might be getting enough of those.

  Cackling, I slip into a pair of slides and make my way out the door. I’m already pulling up the Uber app. There’s no way I’m making it back home without some assistance.

  Ten minutes later, I’m settled in my Uber on the way back to the Upper West Side. With some amazement, it hits me my mother has to be some kind of genetic freak to be thirty years older than me and still able to maintain this pace.

  Five

  Evangeline

  Mom and I have the audience in the palm of our hands. Our voices are in perfect harmony even as we sing opposite one another through a standing mirror without glass about how much we miss the other. We’re pouring our souls into the final lyrics about how our hearts don’t work right without the other’s, how a man shouldn’t come between our love, when I catch the tears glistening in her eyes. Her face is slightly flushed.

  My eyes narrow, but she shakes her wigged head, setting the curls dancing. My eyes dart upward at the hot stage lights.

  We step around the mirror to wrap up the final song. “My heart was filled with pain,” my voice projects.

&n
bsp; Mom’s voice sings, “I’ll be with you wherever you go.”

  “I’ll be with you wherever.”

  Mom sings, “Forgive me,” before I cut in and we sing together, “Our love is forever. Miss me no more.” We hold the last note as we step around the mirror, our fingers touching. The sheer curtain envelops us as the audience jumps to its feet as Kate and her mother reunite in the final scene.

  And my mother collapses in my arms, completely unscripted. The red velvet curtain which had begun to descend hides her weight almost entirely knocking me off my feet. The noise of the crowd masks my cries. “Help! Help!” I sink forward, still clutching my mother to me. Her eyes are wide and frightened on me, her breath heavily labored. She tries to talk, but I lean down. “Hush, Mom. I’m trying to get… Oh, Pas. Thank God. We need help! Something’s wrong with Mom!” Tears are streaming down my face as I face our director.

  “9-1-1 has already been called. We have to move her off the stage, Evangeline. You have to take your bows,” he says grimly.

  “Are you mad? I’m going with my mother to the hospital!” I snap.

  He grabs me by my shoulders. “If we don’t keep the theater seated, it’s going to be a madhouse trying to get your mother out of here. We have to do the curtain call without your mother. We’re going to make an announcement she twisted her ankle backstage.”

  Right. Think, Linnie. “I’m not leaving her until the EMTs get here.” I slide the wig off my mother’s head. Pulling the stocking cap off, her natural gray-streaked hair falls around her shoulders. My fingers glide through it.