by Paddy Eger
The cool morning air and the quiet streets encouraged her to keep pedaling. She moved through town, past the train depot, toward the refineries. Up to now her mom helped her work through decisions. This time she was on her own.
Mom always said to keep things simple. Marta decided her next step. She’d go in, apologize, and hope to be forgiven. She’d not bring up her frustrations or make excuses; she’d be contrite and just say “sorry.”
Marta stopped pedaling, got her bearings, and headed to the ballet company building. After she parked the bike, she drew in several deep breaths and shook out her hands and arms.
Exhaustion weighed her down as she climbed the stairs to Madame’s office. Light escaped from under the closed office door. Marta shook out her hands again, took a deep breath, and knocked.
“Who is it?” Madame’s voice sounded tense and formal.
Marta cleared her throat. “It’s Marta Selbryth.”
No reply.
She waited. Silence. Should she knock again? As she raised her hand to knock, she heard the thump of Madame’s cane against the wooden floor. The door opened wide in one quick motion.
Madame Cosper stood before her with one hand on her cane and one on the door handle. “Yes?”
Marta dipped her head, curtsied, then pulled herself tall to face Madame. She took a quiet, deep breath. “I’ve come to apologize.”
Madame stared at her. She started to speak, stopped, and moved back to sit at her desk before motioning Marta to enter. Everything about Madame was composed: her makeup, her hair, her clothes. Marta felt like a disheveled child with trembling knees as she stepped into the office.
Damien sat at a desk near the door. He eyed her with studied calmness. Now she needed to face both of them. Her heart raced as she adjusted her shoulders and curtsied toward Damien.
Madame played with her rings as she eyed Marta, who stood with her hands clasped behind her back. “Well?”
“I apologize for my actions yesterday. I acted rude and disrespectful. I hope you will forgive me. I--”
Madame raised her hand to stop Marta. She looked from Marta to Damien. “We’ve discussed your actions. Horrible rudeness. We cannot tolerate such behavior from professional dancers.”
“I know. And I am sincerely sorry for what I did,” Marta said.
Madame pointed her finger at Marta. “We’ve expended time and money selecting you to join the company. You arrived days late, unprepared, and not dressed as a dancer. Perhaps this is a joke to you.”
“No, it’s not a joke. I understand. But Madame, I came on time from what the letter said. I expected the greeter would help me, but I’m alone, and I’m trying to get caught up. I’m a good dancer, but this is hard and...”
“Life is hard; ballet is harder. You need to take responsibility for your actions. All your actions.”
Marta lowered her face. Her heartbeat thumped in her head and her palms sweat. How could she make Madame and Damien understand? Her dream hung from a gossamer thread.
“Damien and I have never experienced behavior like this,” Madame Cosper said. “Personally, I feel you should leave. I don’t think you’re strong enough for the company.”
A shock wave jolted Marta. So, just like that. Her career was over. What would she tell her mom and Miss Holland?
Damien stood and walked to the side of Madame’s desk. “I, however, think we need you. You have good musicality and potential to develop into a strong dancer. If you work hard, we can uncover it. Right, Anna?”
Madame looked down and ran her hands over her desktop.
“Anna?”
Madame looked up. Her lips tightened. “It’s too late in the season to audition another dancer. But, if you pull another stunt, you’ll be dismissed. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Madame.” A sigh escaped Marta’s lips as she cleared her throat. “Thank you.” She tightened her elbows against her sides to steady herself.
Damien opened the office door. “Now, Miss Selbryth, you need to leave and get ready for today. Rehearsal begins in twenty minutes.”
Madame stood and leaned forward. “We’ll be watching your every move. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Madame.”
Marta backed out of the office. As she descended the stairs, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve and tried to collect herself before she vibrated into dozens of pieces and crumbled to the floor.
The hallway to the dressing room lengthened before her. She hurried into a bathroom stall, locked the door, and sat on the closed toilet seat. With her head resting in her hands, she willed her body to stop shaking.
A faint knock sounded on the stall door.
“Occupied.”
“Marta, it’s me,” Lynne said. “Are you okay?”
“Peachy.”
“What happened?”
“They gave me a second chance.”
Marta stood at the barre waiting for the warm-up music to begin. Damien led the morning, paying Marta no obvious extra attention, but she sensed his scrutiny. Her movements felt wooden; the lift for every relevé came from muscles she doubted would support her. If she wasn’t dealing with her tiredness and almost losing her position, she’d be exhilarated by the fragile strength that blossomed inside her, allowing her to dance even though she should collapse from lack of sleep and food. Maybe this was how it felt to be an adult.
Damien stopped the morning early. “Nice work, everyone. We have meetings with the trustees the rest of the morning. Return at two-thirty sharp. No rehearsals Friday, but Monday we’ll complete the Sleeping Beauty excerpts from acts one and two. Dismissed.”
Lynne and Marta turned uptown, away from the restaurants the dancers patronized. For the next hour they walked through town and talked. They ate lunch seated in a booth at the back of the B & B Café. Marta kept up a running conversation. “And, she said she doesn’t think I’m ready. I don’t know if I’ll make it or not.”
Lynne pushed her empty plate away before she spoke. “Stop all your sad little me, Marta. It’s over. You apologized. I know it’s too soon for you to laugh about it, but you were funny.”
“I doubt I’ll ever laugh about it.”
Lynne checked her watch and plucked her purse from the seat of the booth. “Time to get back. Damien says we need you. Hang on to that. Soon we’ll be too busy for Madame to remember what you did.”
Back in the dressing room, Bartley stood adjusting her leotard as Marta and Lynne entered. “Where did you two go? I waited outside for you.”
“Lynne and I needed to talk, so we went for a walk. I almost made a mess of my career yesterday when we were practicing together.”
Marta explained the incident and her discussion with Madame and Damien. “You’ve probably never done anything stupid.”
“Right.” Bartley shook her head and laughed. “Like the time I made the fly curtains crash during a performance. Four people got caught up in them. They fell like dominoes. I hid in the dressing room until everyone left the theater. The janitor finally kicked me out.”
“But mine wasn’t an accident. I insulted Madame.”
“A mistake’s a mistake,” Bartley said. “You’re not the only one who’s got issues with Madame. We’re all in this together.”
“Exactly,” Lynne said. “Let’s make a pact. Let’s become the three ballet musketeers: what’s your problem is my problem.”
Bartley smiled. “I’d like that.”
“Me too,” Marta said.
The girls joined their hands in a tower of crossed palms. A wave of contentment relaxed Marta’s tense shoulders and uncramped her frustration. Gaining two new friends sounded like a sure way to move forward.
At the end of the day, Bartley left for a relative’s birthday dinner while Lynne stayed with Marta to prac
tice the newest section of the dance. Sweat streaked the backs and sides of their leotards. They rested, leaning over their legs, hands pressed against their knees.
“I wish we could get in here on weekends,” Marta said. “I’m having trouble after the second entrance.”
Lynne stretched side to side. “You worry too much. Just count out the beats and we’ll work on it until it makes sense.”
Karl stuck his face into the practice room; his gnarled hand covered the light switch. “Time to close up. You two get going.”
“Okay, Karl,” Lynne said. “Give us five minutes, okay?”
“No sir-ree. Leave right now. ‘Cuz, if I give you five, you’ll want ten, and then you’ll want twenty. Pretty soon I’ll be here all night waiting for you two.”
“Yes sir.” Lynne saluted Karl. “We’re gone. Come on, Marta, let’s get a shower.”
Karl pointed his finger at Lynne’s face. “No-o-o, no! You two head out the door now or I’ll have to tell Miz Cowper.”
They grabbed their street clothes and headed out the door with Karl close behind. As he closed the dancer’s entry door, the lock clicked and the night light came on.
“Thanks, Karl!” Lynne said. “We’re locked out to get dressed on the street.” She stepped into her skirt and slid her ballet shoes into her dance bag. “I’d like to be there when he calls her ‘Miz Cow-per.’ She’ll have a cow over that. Come on. Stash your bike in my trunk. I’ll drive you home.”
Over the long weekend, Marta tried to erase her encounter with Madame and Damien. Friday she slept in, then baked bread, cookies, and rolls. Over dinner cleanup she shared the outcome of talking to Madame with Mrs. B.
“That’s good, dear. How do you feel?”
“Relieved. It will take her time to forgive me, but I have all year to prove myself.”
Saturday, Marta filled a Mason jar with garden flowers for her room and washed out her lone set of clothes. On a walk to town, she bought underwear, a blouse and skirt, two bath towels, Lifebuoy soap, and eighteen inches of black ribbon for her ponytail. Sunday she wrote a note to Gran, took a long nap, and went to see the matinée of Tammy and the Bachelor with Lynne and Bartley. Nothing released her from thinking about her encounter with Madame for long. Somehow she needed to be more like Lynne, get beyond thinking about it and begin proving she could change.
After Monday rehearsals, Marta came home to find her lost luggage and the boxes from her mom piled in the entry hall. Seeing the return address created a homesickness she didn’t expect. As she unpacked pointe shoes and her dance clothing, she also lifted out family photos, her sewing box, fall clothes, shoes, the quilt Gran made, and a small diary. She opened the diary and read the first page:
Dear Marta,
The house is too quiet with you gone. Bubbles wanders around crying, looking for you. I‘m almost as bad; I can’t get used to your being away.
I shipped a few extra things. I’ll wait for your calls each Sunday. I love you and I know you’re doing a fabulous job.
XOXOX Mom
Right. A fabulous job of almost losing her position. Marta brushed her hand over the cover of the diary and sighed as she tucked it into a bedside drawer. She had lots to write, but not yet.
The sewing box felt heavy. Inside she found wooden embroidery hoops, a box of sequins, scraps of velvet, a length of mauve chiffon, twists of glittery yarns, and a dozen new spools of thread. Marta stroked the fabrics. Her mom knew she’d need projects to keep her hands busy. Being in charge of herself took as much energy as dancing; being alone evenings took more.
Marta stowed her clothes and carried the empty suitcases and boxes to the basement. She placed the photos on her dresser by the window, folded the quilt over the back of the rocking chair, and sat down to rock before going to bed. Since the time she could climb into her dad’s chair, she’d loved to rock. Year after year, she solved problems in his chair. Today had been a roller coaster of emotions but she’d survived her apology, gotten her luggage from home, and sealed a friendship with Lynne and Bartley. Maybe this chair provided the same comfort, the same effect as her dad’s. She closed her eyes and rocked.
6
At a quarter to five, the music stopped and the practice room emptied. Marta stretched side to side and swiveled her ankles. She longed to remove her pointe shoes, but if she planned to stay and practice, she needed to keep them on a little longer. She distracted herself from the pain by humming today’s music as she moved through the choreography.
Having the entire room to herself energized her. She moved through a dozen changements, pas de bourees, and balancés. On and on she danced. The Sleeping Beauty choreography helped her brush aside the pain in her feet.
She focused on her dad and how he loved the ballet. He’d have come to every performance and grabbed a front row seat, if he’d lived. And her mom. She loved ballet and dancing enough to work six days a week at Miss Holland’s studio for the past nine years so Marta could have free lessons.
The mirror reflected back her improving footwork. Her arm extensions looked more natural. Madame and Damien would surely notice. Soon they’d no longer doubt her ability and dedication. Her family could be proud of her as well.
As she finished, the tension in her shoulders melted away, leaving her battered feet as her only problem. She sat down on the practice room floor to remove her pointe shoes and pick the lamb’s wool from her open blisters. Pain flared as she exposed the raw, red circles on each toe. Time to start soaking her feet each night in Epsom salts and hot water.
Lynne stuck her head in the room. She’d already changed into street clothes and held her keys in one hand and her sweaty workout clothes in the other. “Eww. Your toes look as hideous as mine feel. The guys are lucky they don’t wear torture shoes.”
“I agree. Are you in a hurry?”
“Kinda. My aunt has company coming. I promised to help her get ready. See you tomorrow.”
Lynne disappeared down the hall, leaving Marta no chance for a much-desired ride home.
As Marta pedaled west, the straps of her leather sandals pressed into her skin. She stopped, unbuckled her sandals, and hung them over the handle bars. The rough pedals dug into her bare feet, but she focused on her evening: shower, dinner, soak her feet, and fall into bed—hopefully in that order.
With a shower and dinner completed, Marta lay motionless on her bed, letting her body sink into foggy thoughts of the day’s practice. She’d survived Madame’s regimen, but each day brought one difficult expectation after another. “Keep the pace, watch your arms, head up, don’t crowd the principal dancers.” Would the commands and the scrutiny of the corps dancers ever end? She pushed herself to standing and spread a bath towel on the rug beside her bed.
She returned from the kitchen with a tea kettle of hot water and a tin basin that she placed on the towel. She sprinkled in Epsom salts and trailed her fingers through the milky water until it cleared. Then she sat on the edge of her bed and held her breath as she dipped her feet into the steamy water.
Relief and pain hit simultaneously. Broken blisters flared like liquid fire when the water rippled across them. Lynne and Bartley were probably doing the same thing in their apartments. Sacrificing her feet was a small price to pay if it meant continuing to dance as a professional.
She let her thoughts drift to imagining her mom fixing dinner for one: a salad from her vegetable garden, baking powder biscuits, and fresh blackberries. Her mouth watered as she visualized her mom’s low calorie cooking. Mrs. B. created great meals, but her dinners catered to hungry men: roasts, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn or peas, and pie or cake every night.
Dancing demanded proper food. Every dancer discovered a way to handle food issues. Lynne and Jer ate like hungry bears. Bartley never craved food or looked tired. Marta took small portions, ate half, and pushed the re
st around her plate.
Marta considered her weekday schedule. It started at dawn and continued until she pedaled home, showered, ate dinner, and helped Mrs. B. Then she sat alone in her room or flopped across her bed. She loved the music, the dances, Damien’s calm directions, her new friends, and her new ballet home. But when she had free time, loneliness flooded her brain. She remained too tired to plan a sewing project. Maybe over the weekend she could make the time to embroider a scarf or something.
Friday afternoon Marta stood in line behind Lynne and Bartley waiting to collect one hundred-thirty dollars, her two-week paycheck. She had enough money for rent, her own stash of food, and shopping for small touches to make her room homey. Next payday she’d open a checking and savings account and begin to repay her mom. Sending money home would be a nice change.
“Hey, Marta. Are you going with us tomorrow?” Lynne asked. “Should be fun, right, Bartley?”
“Right,” Bartley said. “Cowboys on horses and weird rock formations. Whoopee for us.”
Marta shrugged. “Not Saturday. But maybe Sunday.”
“Got a hot date?” Lynne said.
Marta laughed. “Only with my comfy bed”
Mrs. B. hung up the damp flour sack towels and put on her rings as Marta put away the last dinner bowls. “I overheard you tell Shorty and James that you’d like to be able to practice on weekends. I have an idea that won’t cost you a penny.”
Mrs. B. led Marta to the basement and flipped on the light in the storage room. They navigated through the tenant suitcases and boxes, passing assorted piles of household supplies, as well as an array of dust-covered objects.
