by Paddy Eger
“No.”
Madame Cosper tapped her pen while staring at Marta.
“Let’s see. I did a solo from La Sylphides and … Miss Holland created a solo for the music of Clair de Lune.”
“Show us,” Madame said.
“I didn’t bring the music for either one.”
Madame nodded to the pianist. He began playing Clair de Lune.
Marta walked to one side and posed. The pianist nodded and began again.
The beginning relevé to pointe followed by a développé transitioned into bourees diagonally across the room. Marta lowered to fifth position and swept her arms overhead like a blossoming flower. After another relevé to pointe, she extended her right leg and left arm to an arabesque, which she held four counts.
Madame stood abruptly. “That’s enough.”
The judges looked at Marta, conferred, wrote, then looked toward Madame. This unexpected solo surprised Marta. No other auditions asked for additional dances. What could it mean?
Madame leaned on her cane. “Why do you want to join our company?”
Marta’s butterflies sank. She stared at the wall behind the judges while she organized her thoughts, wondering what Madame wanted to hear.
“Miss Sel-birth?”
Marta stretched tall and made eye contact with Damien, then Madame Cosper. “Last year I saw your Christmas tour in Bremerton, I mean in Seattle, I mean Spokane. I enjoyed the program. The dancers were so precise. I’m precise. I know I’d fit in.”
While the judges resumed writing, Marta held herself in fifth position with her fingers intertwined behind her back. The warmth of embarrassment tingled through her body. What a dumb answer! Blah, blah. She sounded like a talking wind-up doll.
Damien stood. “Thank you, Miss Sel-birth. We’ll contact you with our decision within ten days. Sel-birth? Is that right?”
“Almost. It’s pronounced ‘sell-brith.’ Thank you for the audition.” She curtsied and exited. In the empty hallway she closed her eyes and sagged against a wall, replaying her audition, trying to decide if it had been a success or a mess.
The sunlight through the hall window cast late afternoon shadows as she entered the restroom to change into street clothes. Passing the mirror, she stopped. Who was she? A dancer who’d never stepped inside of the exclusive Cornish Arts School; a girl who took lessons twice week from an unknown instructor, not twice day from a famous retired dancer. Hopefully her performance today was enough.
She replayed each part of her audition. Did other dancers feel as let down as she did right now, or did they rush around bragging? How many had slipped or flubbed a turn? How did they answer the judges’ questions? Had others been asked to perform an additional dance? No matter. She’d know her fate within the next ten days.
She fumbled through her purse and checked the ferry schedule. Drat! She’d miss the six o’clock ferry to Bremerton if she didn’t hurry. She ran down the steep sidewalks, over to Marion, and across the trestle, dodging strolling pedestrians. She raced to the ticket booth, down the ramp, and over the grating to board the ferry just as the deckhands threw off the heavy lines.
When the ferry lurched from its moorings at Coleman Dock, she grabbed a support pole to steady herself. Once she felt the familiar jitter of the ferry, she walked to the stairway.
Marta loved everything about the ferry Kalakala. The shiny silver body with round windows dated back to World War II. It poked along the waterways like a silver slug and annoyed people in a hurry to travel between Seattle and Bremerton.
At the top of the wide staircase, she bypassed the circular cafeteria counter with its checkerboard tile floors and headed for the overstuffed vinyl seats along the edges. She preferred to ride backward, watching the twists of Rich’s Passage framed in the big, round windows. Staying awake became a challenge tonight.
h
Marta yawned as she stepped off the ferry and followed the snaking line of passengers up the ramp and out of the terminal. She trudged past the YMCA, inhaling the familiar scent of chlorine from the community pool. Her wait on First Street lasted ten minutes, which was more than long enough to stand in front of taverns, tattoo parlors, and pawn shops.
The bus headed north through town and west toward Callow. When she reached Fifteenth, she got off and walked down the hill to her street, Rhododendron. Her parents’ house with the postage stamp-size front yard welcomed her. August’s dusky sunset light glanced off the large side yard of fruit trees and the grape arbor. She smelled the freshly mown grass and watched the sprinkler trace a full circle on the lawn. If she’d had more energy, she’d have stood in the cool water, letting it wash away her tiredness.
Her mom opened the front door. The music of Mozart flowed across the yard. Her mom smiled, reaching down to pet Bubbles, the cat, now stretched across the sidewalk. “Long day, huh? How did it go, honey?”
Marta hugged her mom, then picked up the cat. “Okay, even though I had to wait forever.”
“Wish I could have been there,” her mom said. “Tell me every detail.”
h
After dinner, her mom set a bowl of garden-fresh strawberries on the table and sat down to enclose Marta’s hands in her own. “Honey, you’ve always done your best. Give them their ten days. They’re missing a dedicated dancer if they don’t select you.”
Marta watched her mom move around the kitchen. They shared many features: same height, same slender build, and same curly brown hair, but her mom wore hers shorter, shaped closer to her face. At thirty-five, her mom looked more like her sister than her mother.
A shudder ran down Marta’s spine as she thought of Madame Cosper’s stern face. “Madame Cosper tapped her cane constantly as we danced. It’s annoying. I’m probably better off not making her company. You won’t be able to get rid of me as soon as you’d like.”
“Marta! What a thing to say. You think I want to get rid of you?”
“I know you love me, Mom, and I can stay here as long as I want, but--”
“I want you to get that position if that is what you want. Deep down, however, I don’t want to lose you this soon. Since your father died, you’ve been my support. Plus, you love the music he loved. That’s like keeping a piece of him close by.”
A lump clogged Marta’s throat. Her mom turned away with her head down.
“What’s wrong?” Marta asked.
Her mom inhaled a ragged breath, turned back, and smiled. “Nothing. I love you, and I know that whatever happens you’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”
h
After her mom went to bed, Marta paced the small house, then took a hot bath. As she towel-dried her hair, she rummaged through her dad’s records, smiled, and put Clair de Lune on the turntable. She lowered the volume on the stereo and grabbed the afghan off the back of her dad’s leatherette rocker.
Miss Holland created that dance just for her after learning it was one of Marta’s dad’s favorite selections. She settled into the chair and rocked. The music pulled at her like moonlight tugging the tide. She closed her eyes and let herself drift off to sleep, knowing that her mom, and her dad, would be proud of her no matter what happened.
2
The following week Marta ambled home from her tutoring session with Mrs. Richard. Over the past two years, they’d worked to ensure she’d graduate from high school. Algebra and science bored her and were not useful to a dancer. But high school demanded she sit in class and learn formulas and facts if she wanted to graduate. And, graduation was a family requirement she planned to honor. She’d be the first.
During late spring, Marta completed a blur of ballet company audition forms with Mrs. Richard’s help. Today they’d filled out store clerk applications, just in case she ended up working at Woolworth, PayLess Drugs, Bremer’s, or Barr’s Hat Shoppe. She’d miss Mrs. Richard�
�s support, but the time had come to move on.
“Did I get any mail?” Marta asked as she dropped her supplies on the kitchen table. Expecting the reply, “No mail,” that she’d heard each day since the audition, she disappeared into her room to change clothes.
Back in the kitchen, she washed her hands and reached for a hand towel. “What’s for dinner?” No answer. She turned to ask again. Her mom dangled a large envelope at eye level.
Marta read the return address: Intermountain Ballet Company. Her stomach did a flip flop. “Did you open it?”
“Of course not. This is your mail.”
Marta’s knees turned to mush. “Open it for me.”
“Come on, honey. Be brave.”
Marta hesitated, then snatched the envelope and held it against her chest. Her hands shook and her body pulsed, ready to explode. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and ripped open the envelope.
The packet of papers stuck to her sweaty fingers. She waved them back and forth like a thick paper fan, then stopped and read the cover letter to herself.
Tears clouded Marta’s eyes. She read the letter again.
The Intermountain Ballet Company has completed its auditions for 1957. We are happy to inform you that you’ve been selected....
Marta took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. She walked into the living room and back to the kitchen, staring at the letter. A smile played across her lips as she made a slow turn, then jumped up and down. “They want me, they want me! Mom, they want me!”
Marta whooped and hollered and jumped and cried before she fell into her mom’s arms. They held each other so tightly they blended into one.
“I’m proud of you, honey. You deserve this. What does the letter say?”
Marta paced the kitchen as she read the details of her new life aloud. The dance company wanted Marta in Billings in two weeks. She’d need a large suitcase for touring, half a dozen practice leotards and tights, and six pairs of pointe shoes to begin the year. The company would pay for one night’s lodging in Billings, but she’d need to find her own place to live and provide her own transportation to and around Billings.
Every few minutes she stopped, did a few ballet turns, then resumed pacing and reading. “I wish Dad could be here to know that I made it.”
“He knows. The whole street heard you. Why not heaven as well?”
Marta kissed the papers and threw them in the air. “I did it, didn’t I?”
The papers fluttered across the floor. As she retrieved them, she noticed a strange stillness inside herself. The butterflies she expected to be clamoring to escape her chest stayed quiet. A calmness spread through her, slowing her breathing as it moved into her arms. She’d done it. Her dream for a career as a professional dancer began in a few days.
The packet also contained a one-page biography of Madame Cosper and Damien Black, a map of Billings, and housing contacts. The enclosed ballet company brochure read:
The Intermountain Ballet Company proudly presents...
1957-1958 Performances
October 4-20
Classic Sampler Excerpts from
Sleeping Beauty and Coppélia and select solos
November 28—December 10
Regional Nutcracker Tour
December 13-24: Nutcracker in Billings
February 6-23: Giselle
April 3-20: Serenade
May 30-June 8
A Tribute to American Composers
(selections TBA)
“Look at this, Mom. I’ll be dancing many of my favorite ballets this year.”
Her mom took the brochure and nodded. “It’s a wonderful program. Miss Holland will be excited to see this. I wish you were dancing closer to home so she could watch you dance.”
“Me, too. Will you be able to come to Billings?”
“I’ll try. I can’t promise, but I’ll try.”
Her mom picked up the biography page. “Hm-m. You’ll want to read this. Both Madame and Damien have impressive backgrounds. Madame danced as a principal for the New York City Ballet, and Damien’s choreographed all over the country. They’ve been in Billings for close to ten years.”
Bubbles jumped into Marta’s lap and settled into a purring ball as Marta scanned the brochure. “Madame looked beautiful as a dancer. Now she looks tired. Maybe she’s friendlier when she’s directing her company.”
“One thing’s for sure--you’re on your way to collecting those eighty-four ribbons. Even more. When you chose to save your pointe ribbons, I feared you’d be setting an impossible goal, but now--”
“Now it’s possible.” Marta danced around the kitchen, circled her mom, then twirled down the hall and into her bedroom.
She took down her wooden cigar box of ribbons and sat on her bed. Every time she opened the lid, she felt a tingle of excitement. She ran her fingers through the pink satin ribbons and smiled. Twenty ribbons so far.
Savings the ribbons began when she received her first pointe shoes. Miss Holland told the class about Maria Tallchief, a famous ballerina. A reporter wrote that Maria wore out hundreds of pointe shoes during the first dozen years of her career. Then and there, Marta decided that she was going to save the ribbons from every pair of pointe shoes she wore out. “I’m going to be a ballet dancer like Maria Tallchief,” she confided to Miss Holland. “And, when I collect eighty-four ribbons, I’ll be ready for my first professional solo.”
“Why eighty-four ribbons, Marta?” Miss Holland asked.
“If I work hard, I’ll perform lots. That means I’ll wear out several pairs of shoes every year. After I dance in the corps for a year or two, I’ll save dozens of ribbons, so I’ll earn a solo. I counted. I think eighty-four ribbons is about right.”
She found a magazine photo of Maria Tallchief and hung it on her bedroom wall. Evenings as she got ready for bed, she copied the pose Maria held. Each day as she prepared for ballet class, she touched the photo for luck. After five years, the touching had faded the photo to a mere shadow. But now her life as a dancer was beginning. Was eighty-four a reasonable number of ribbons? It had been a childish idea, but just maybe it was accurate. She put the photo in the ribbons box and set it aside to take with her to Billings.
Marta left home Thursday afternoon, August twenty-ninth, with two medium-sized suitcases checked through to Billings. She carried her small white shoulder purse and a vanity case. The hat and gloves she left home wearing had already been tucked into her bag. She hoped young Montana women didn’t stick to “the rules” during hot summer days.
The calmness from the day she received the invitation had lasted only a day. Jitters took over regardless of what she did to ease them away. Now she squeezed and released her mom’s hand every few seconds. “I hope I can do this. Wish you were coming with me.”
“Oh, honey. I wish I could. But your greeter will meet you and help you get settled. I’d just be in the way. Now stop worrying. You’ll be fine. Your friends last night thought you’d be a star before long.”
“Friends are good for that.”
Marta’s mom brushed away imaginary lint, a sure sign she’d cry any minute. “You have enough money? Remember to eat. And call me as soon as you arrive.”
“I promise.”
They stood side by side waiting for her bus to be announced. Her mom held her hand the way a parent holds onto a young child about to cross a busy street. They both startled when the loudspeaker blasted through the Greyhound depot. “Now boarding for North Bend, Ellensburg, Moses Lake, Ritzville, and Spokane.”
Marta grabbed her mom. They hugged with arms tangled in arms and heads tucked tightly against each other’s shoulders.
“What if I’m not ready Mom?”
“You can do anything you set your mind to; why would this be diffe
rent?”
“I feel funny inside. First I’m scared, then I want to laugh, and then I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Remember to breathe once in a while.” Her mom shook her head and let out a slow sigh. “Marta, I love you so. I can’t tell you how much I‘ll miss you.”
“All aboard for North Bend, Ellensburg, Moses Lake, Ritzville, and Spokane. Last call, last call.”
Marta boarded the idling bus and slid into an empty seat next to a window. When everyone had settled, the driver closed the door and the bus pulled away. Marta waved until they rounded a corner and her mom disappeared from view. Twenty-four hours ahead she’d be searching for a place to live in a town with no friends or familiar faces. Time to be brave and independent. Time to bury her fears. Time to take charge of her own life.
She placed her hand in the pocket of her shirtwaist dress and fingered the small leather pouch. It held the last stones her dad had polished, connecting her to the time she spent in the garage helping him tumble rocks. When she first bagged them, she’d felt a finality, an ending of knowing her dad. Now, they’d be a lasting connection, a talisman to carry on all her travels.
The bus traveled east from Tacoma, leaving the Puget Sound basin behind. Evergreen forests gave way to crags of granite where stubby alpine trees twisted and stretched sideways.
Across the Cascade Mountains, farmlands surrounded the roadway with long stretches of green fields similar to Gran’s Wenatchee farm. At the dozens of stops, Marta got off to stretch and execute a few pliés. The fresh air at the stops exaggerated the stale, gassy smell of the interior of the bus and the heavy scent of unwashed travelers.
In Spokane she changed buses. For the rest of the trip, she sat hemmed in by a plump, elderly woman who pulled out an unending supply of snacks and knitting. The woman rambled from one conversation to another, leaving no gaps in her comments for Marta to speak.
