by Paddy Eger
“Did your bags arrive?”
“I hope they’ll be here tomorrow. Mrs. Belvern will help me collect them. I have two dressers, so send my extra box. And, Mom, there’s even a rocking chair.”
“Great,” her mom said. “Sounds like you’ve found a good place to live.”
“Only two problems left: I’m melting, and my clothes stink.”
Marta woke when her leg jerked her awake. She lay in bed, in the dark, clutching the thin sheet that covered her. The recurring dream of falling had followed her to Billings. This time she danced on the rock wall behind the inn. Wheat stalks poked out of her hair. She wore pointe shoes and a sheer flowing skirt with a border of apples and cinnamon rolls. Circling and dancing, she’d approached the edge of the cliff and lost her balance. She shuddered, then took several deep breaths. Would the dream of falling ever go away?
On her way to the bus depot the next morning, she took a parallel street, passing the Fox Theatre. Tall glass cases flanked the doors with posters of coming events including performances by the Intermountain Ballet Company. The doors were locked, but she peeked inside and saw the ornate foyer of a real performance hall. No more picking splinters from her pointe shoes from performing on a decrepit junior high stage like back home. Maybe the theatre even had dressing rooms and those little lights around the mirrors like in the movies. That would be impressive.
The Greyhound depot echoed its emptiness as she entered. Her toiletries case stuck to her hand as she set it on the cement floor to rummage through her purse for her claim tickets.
The attendant shook his head. “Sorry. They didn’t arrive. Write down your phone number. I’ll call when they show up.”
Marta wrote down the number and exited the bus depot. That meant she had nothing appropriate to wear tomorrow, her first day at the ballet company. Hopefully Madame Cosper would understand.
Marta stood in the shade of the building as Mrs. B. drove up. They both smiled as Mrs. B. exited her car and opened the trunk. Marta put in her case and explained about her errant bags.
“That’s too bad. Let’s get out of this heat,” Mrs. B. said. “I thought we’d drive past the Intermountain Ballet building and follow the shortest route from there to my boarding house. Then I’m ready for a cool drink before Sunday supper.”
After conversation and a refreshing lemonade, Marta showered and redressed in her stinky clothes. She sat and rocked until dinnertime when she descended the stairs, stopping on the landing to check her hair in the large wood-framed mirror. She crossed the entry hall, following the sound of conversation to her left. Jitters, usually reserved for dancing, raced through her. She shook out her hands as she approached the dining room.
Mrs. B.’s eyes glowed with a smile as she encircled Marta’s clammy fingers in her hand. “Welcome, Marta. Your place is at the far side of the table.”
The starched tablecloth, linen napkins, and flowered china plates reminded her of holiday meals at Gran’s. A low bouquet of sunflowers and orange nasturtiums graced the middle of the table, surrounded by bowls of food: cold chicken, fresh green beans, a fruit salad, and dinner rolls.
Marta felt eyes track her as she rounded the table. The man seated next to her stood and pulled out her chair. “Thanks,” she said.
Mrs. B. waited for Marta to sit before she spoke. “Friends, I want you to meet Marta Selbryth, the newest dancer for the Intermountain. Let me introduce your fellow boarders, Marta. You met James, he held your chair.”
“Hello, Miss,” James said before tucking his grizzled chin down to his chest.
“James has lived upstairs for two years. He works at the oil refinery where I’m a secretary.”
“Next is Carol. She’s a student at Eastern Montana and also lives upstairs.”
Carol nodded, then straightened her silverware before she went back to a studied picking at her cotton tank top and fluffing her short black hair.
“On my right is Martin. Everyone calls him Shorty. He’s an engineer at Copper Creek Mining out west of town.”
Shorty stood, extending a grime-encrusted hand across the table to Marta. “Miss.”
Marta considered the boarders: two old men and a snooty student. They didn’t fit into her dream of being independent and living alone. But, since she could barely afford the boarding house rent, she’d need to make it work for now.
Conversation about the heat accompanied the meal. Bowls of food circled the table. Marta ate small portions. With tomorrow as her first day dancing, being bloated wouldn’t be a good idea.
“Eat up everyone. I don’t want a bunch of leftovers,” Mrs. B. said.
Shorty laughed. “I’ve got a great leftovers story. Last year about this time, a dog ran into one of the shallow mine shafts we were working and hid. We knew he was there because he howled something fierce when we left each day. Started noticin’ if we left our lunch boxes out, they’d be scratched up and opened. Come to find out, he ate our leftovers before we took our lunch boxes home at the end of the shift.
“We tried to coax him out, but he stayed there and howled away. Finally we got a piece of steak and dragged it out of the mine. He followed that meat right to the entrance and never came back.”
Mrs. B. smiled. “Guess I could send leftovers to the mine if you leave too many.”
Everyone but Carol laughed. The men didn’t need another plea to eat up. They obliged her request, taking second and third helpings.
With the dishes cleared, James and Shorty commandeered the table for a game of cards. Carol disappeared. Marta wandered around the common room, checking out the bookshelves and furnishings, then walked into the kitchen.
A large farmer’s table filled the center and held piles of dishes, pots and pans, and kitchen canisters. Cabinets lined the walls, encircling two refrigerators, a double sink, and a long tile counter. Windows with chintz curtains flanked the back door. Mrs. B. stood at the sink, her back toward Marta.
“May I help you, Mrs. Belvern?”
Mrs. B. turned and smiled. “You most certainly may. I’ve put the leftovers away and the dirty dishes are stacked. Now for the fun.” She opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out a flour sack towel. “Use this, or would you rather wash?”
“Drying is fine,” Marta said. “That’s my job at home.”
Marta and Mrs. B. worked through the pile of dishes. Marta enjoyed holding the hot, slick dishes and wiping them dry. More than that, she enjoyed the continuous flow of conversation.
“Good,” Mrs. B. said. “That’s done until tomorrow night. Thanks for your help. You know, Marta, if you want to work in the kitchen, I’ll lower your rent.”
“Really? That would help. I’ll have dance expenses, but I don’t know how much until I get started. I can bake for you when I have time. It relaxes me and helps clear my mind.”
“Believe me, fresh baked goods are appreciated by my boarders. Let me know if you need anything special.”
Why had she volunteered? At home her mom had to coax her to help. When would she find the time? Plus she seldom ate sweets.
“Is there anything I can do to help you settle in?” Mrs. B. said.
“I’d like to find a bike to ride to the ballet company, and I need to wash my clothes.”
“Both are easy to solve.” Mrs. B. took Marta into her garage where a green bike rested in a corner. “It isn’t pretty, and the tires need a little air, but use it as long as you like.”
Later, Marta borrowed an over-sized housecoat from Mrs. B., then washed her handful of clothes in the laundry room sink and hung them on the backyard line. Next, she took a long shower and borrowed a giant, fluffy towel to dry off. Before she went to bed, Marta decided to “move in” by arranging the photo of her parents and her pouch of stones on the dresser near the bed. She tossed the stuffed version of her cat, Bubbles, beside her
pillow. Last, she adjusted the rocking chair to where the breeze crossed the room and sat down to enjoy her first evening in her new home.
As dusk changed to dark, the distant hills looming behind the roof across the street faded to black sentinels. Not as magnificent as the Olympic Mountains back home, but they broke up the expansive Montana sky.
4
Sweat ran down Marta’s sides as she stopped pedaling and leaned the bike against a metal railing. The mile ride felt more like ten in the midday heat. Add in her nervousness about becoming a real dancer, and she was soaking wet.
A simple wooden sign hung from two chains above the door of the two-story, wood frame building. It read, The Intermountain Ballet Company. She quivered with the same anticipation as during auditions. At one-thirty today she’d begin her career as a professional dancer.
She saw a bronze plaque to the right of the front door and walked up the four wide steps to read it.
Davis Button Factory
Founded in 1866 by Jerome Davis
He made every shape and size buttons
as long as they were round and white.
She guessed it was a joke. Only partly funny. Didn’t look like a factory now. Up close it looked old and in need of paint. Not nearly as appealing as the photo on the subscription brochure they’d sent her or from her quick look as she drove past it yesterday.
She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt, smoothed back her ponytail, and inhaled. Here goes, she thought.
The heavy oak doors opened to a second set of doors. In the dark entry, narrow rectangles of sunlight filtered in through high windows. The place echoed its silence. No music. No smell of sweat and rosin. No voices. She retraced her way to the entry steps.
Outside, she unfolded the letter and read the details: one-thirty, today, September 2, and this building. She reentered the quietness and stepped further in, approaching a closet-sized room off to her right. A man sat inside with his feet propped up on a small desk and a newspaper spread across his belly.
“Excuse me,” she said. Her voice echoed through the cavernous space.
The paper lowered, revealing a gray-haired man with one long eyebrow that stretched above both eyes. “Whaddaya want?”
“I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m supposed to be here at one-thirty and--”
The man checked his watch, then stared at Marta. “You’re early.” And with that, he returned to reading the newspaper.
Marta waited until she realized he wasn’t about to speak again. She returned outside and sat on the front steps. Was the letter a horrible joke?
Young people approached along the sidewalk but disappeared before they reached her. She pulled out the letter again. Yes, it said today at one-thirty. Nothing made sense.
A slim young man wearing shorts and a t-shirt climbed the steps at a diagonal, stopped, and walked back to where Marta sat. “Need help?”
“I have an appointment for one-thirty. I’m joining the ballet company.”
“Follow me,” he said. “We use the side entrance. My name’s Jer.”
“Hi. I’m Marta.”
They walked along the sidewalk to a bright green door. Inside, a long hall held the residual smell of rosin. Photos of costumed dancers lined the walls. Marta slowed to scan them.
The young man stepped into the men’s dressing room and pointed down the hall. “Better hurry. Women’s room is at the end, and practice starts in a few minutes.”
As she approached the women’s dressing room, she adjusted her ponytail, exhaled, and stepped through the doorway. Two long rows of locker bays with benches in between filled the space. More than a dozen young women stood partially dressed. The room hushed when they spotted her.
Madame Cosper thumped into the dressing room. “All right, girls. Let’s get started. New girls continue to use the back row.”
Marta blinked in surprise. Continue to use the back row? Had they arrived earlier? What’s going on? Marta tried to think of what to say as Madame stopped beside her.
Madame Cosper’s make-up caked around her hairline, and her blue eye shadow trailed off onto her cheeks. She leaned forward on her cane. “Where have you been? Practices started days ago.”
“I, ah…My letter said to arrive today. I, the greeter didn’t meet me.“
“That’s the old letter. We don’t have greeters this year. You should have called and checked. No matter now. Get changed.”
Madame’s verbal slap startled Marta. This wasn’t starting out as she had hoped. “I have no dance clothes.”
“Why not?”
“The bus company lost them.”
Twitters circled the dressing room.
Madame struck her cane against a nearby bench. Marta jumped. “Borrow clothes or go home. Come early tomorrow and buy what you need from the dance mistress. You must dress professionally even if you are only in the corps.”
“Yes, Madame.” Marta dipped her head like a scolded child. No welcome, no we’re glad you’re here, nothing but a chastising in front of the other dancers.
Madame exited the room with her chin high, like a dancer exiting the performance stage.
“Borrow my extras,” said a voice next to Marta.
Marta turned.
“I’ve extra clothes and ballet slippers, but no extra pointe shoes.” The girl who spoke had long, thick brown hair and hazel eyes. “I’m Lynne Meadows,” she said.
“Hi. I’m Marta.”
The girls nodded and smiled to each other. The other dancers closed their lockers and trailed out of the room.
“Too bad about not getting the correct information and about your bags. Keep these as long as you need them.”
“Thanks.”
Marta’s hands trembled as she changed into Lynne’s donations. “The last thing I need is Madame mad at me from the first day.”
“Yeah, She’s a piece of work, all right.” Lynne checked the wall clock. “Hurry. Only two minutes until practice resumes.”
Marta followed Lynne into the rehearsal hall. At the doorway she paused to evaluate the space. The spartan room had a long wall of mirrors, a tall stool, an upright piano, and high, narrow windows where hot sunlight streamed in. Wooden barres lined two walls. The wooden floors gleamed, polished to a high luster. Miss Holland would have loved this huge space instead of her smaller room with a cement floor covered with linoleum.
Dancer whispers continued until Damien Black, the man from her audition, entered. Dancers straightened and gave him their complete attention.
“Good afternoon, boys and girls. Let’s get started, shall we?” He nodded toward Marta. “I see everyone has arrived. Good.”
Marta felt heat move up her face as dancers focused on her before moving to a barre and standing in first position. Marta waited to see where Lynne stood. No sense standing at the wrong barre and being sent elsewhere. Dancers were picky about their spaces. Someday she’d have a space reserved by her position, just not soon.
A cane-wielding Madame Cosper entered and moved with an irregular gait toward the stool and leaned against the seat. Silence filled the room floor to ceiling and wall to wall. “Ready, begin,” she said.
The pianist kept his eyes on Madame Cosper, following her clapped tempo, playing the exercise music from memory. Another surprise. Back home Miss Holland used records; she didn’t have the luxury of a pianist.
“One, two, three, and four, backs straight, arms soft. Pull your derrières under… tight-er, tight-er. Keep the beat, two, three, four.”
Marta felt a tap on her leg. She stopped and turned. Madame pointed to her left foot. “Your ankle is rolling over. Fix it.”
Marta nodded and adjusted. From the corner of her eye, she watched Madame circle the room and use her cane to tap offending arms, legs, backs, and hea
ds. The thought of that cane tapping her again made Marta shudder. Criticism meant you were noticed; better than being ignored, maybe.
After warm-ups and floor exercises, Damien led them through the Sleeping Beauty waltz. Thank heavens she remembered most of the choreography from her audition. Unfortunately, she danced off the beat. The more nervous she became, the more mistakes she made. Fingers, hands, arms, head angle, back, leg positions, room positions, tempo, choreography, and music cues. So much to think about. Every time she turned the wrong way and bumped into dancers, Madame glowered and shook her head. Marta shook off her frustration and took a deep breath. Maybe smaller movements were called for until she caught up.
The atmosphere in the dressing room relaxed when the afternoon rehearsals ended at four-thirty. Principal women dancers kept to themselves. Even in the dressing room they had first rights to lockers and showers. Corps dancers chattered about plans for the rest of the day while awaiting their turns to shower.
Marta skipped a shower and slipped her skirt on over the borrowed clothing and headed for her bike before Madame returned.
“Marta! Wait up.” A voice stopped her. She turned to see Lynne hurry her direction.
“Thanks again for the rescue,” Marta said. “I’ll get clothes and shoes tomorrow.”
“No problem. Are you as tired as I am? I’ve been here days longer than you, and I still get cramps and feel like I can’t keep up.”
“Wish I’d been here earlier. I can’t believe my letter. On top of being exhausted, today totally embarrassed me. Does Madame always tap her cane to correct your body positions?”
“Yeah. Don’t let her get to you,” Lynne said. “Damien does most of our practices. He’s okay.” Lynne pointed to a beat up blue 1939 Ford in the parking lot. “I’m heading out. Do you want a ride?”
