by Paddy Eger
The musty smelling space opened up to an area the size of a small practice room at the ballet company. A small, dingy window let in light and a view of the flower bed next to the back steps.
Mrs. B. pulled hanging strings that turned on two ceiling lights. “What do you think? Would this work for you?”
Marta walked a slow circle around the room. “Wow. It’s a great space.”
“I knew you’d see its potential. Needs a little cleaning and rearranging, but it’s yours if you want. Feel free to use whatever you find.”
“Really?” Marta did a quick inventory: a large mirror, a coat rack, kitchen chairs, cardboard boxes, a table, a dress form, trunks, and empty picture frames.
“We can restack the luggage in the alcove. Practice whenever you wish. The room is below the common areas so you won’t need to worry about disturbing anyone.”
“It’s perfect. It’s...thank you.”
Together they restacked the renters’ boxes and suitcases before Mrs. B. returned upstairs. Marta hummed as she cleaned away cobwebs and swept the floor. She salvaged several items, setting them aside until she decided how she’d used them. Only the window refused to yield to her energetic work; years of paint layers sealed it shut.
After breakfast the next morning, she rummaged through the fabric bin Mrs. B. set out. She hand-stitched her yard of rose colored chiffon from her mom to a strip of gray satin to hang at the window. Then she draped scarf-sized yardage over the dress form and moved the headless companion to a corner. She sat on the floor and tore calico and gingham into strips to wrap the empty frames, creating wall art. Lastly, she repaired the desilvered mirror with kitchen tin foil taped to the back.
She wrestled with the wobbly chair, then pushed it aside and started pliés to the music in her head. Next paycheck she’d scout out a record player and buy long play classical records, or perhaps her mom would send a few of Dad’s.
That afternoon she practiced her corps dances numerous times before heading to the kitchen to bake bread. As she set the dough to rise, a calmness settled in. The basement improved her mood like a giant hug. Billings and the boarding house felt more like home every day.
For Saturday dinner, Marta went to her portion of a shelf in the boarders’ refrigerator and took out her bread. She swirled on creamy peanut butter, moving her knife from top to bottom and edge to edge before adding a dollop of Mrs. B.’s raspberry jam. She folded the bread in half without cutting it and took a small bite as she grabbed an apple from the basket on the worktable and headed down the stairs to the basement.
“What are you doing?”
Marta stopped and looked up. Carol leaned over the entry railing. Her black hair fell forward over her face; her eyes and nose looked like a white mask floating in the dusky light.
“You’re not supposed to go down there unless you’re washing clothes. And I don’t see any clothes.”
“Mrs. B. is letting me use part of the basement as a practice space.”
“Hm-mp. So you say. Just don’t interfere with my guests and my privacy.” Carol turned away, then turned back. “And keep your music turned down.”
Marta stayed in the stairway listening to Carol’s feet slap noisily against each step until she reached the upstairs landing. When the carpet silenced her movements, Marta shook her head. Good riddance, Carol, she thought as she reached for the storage room door.
“Marta?” Shorty called down the steps. “Whatcha doin’?”
“Hi, Shorty. “I’m going to practice.”
“Is it okay if I come watch?”
She laughed. “I’d rather you not, but come down and see how I cleaned up the space.”
Shorty clumped down the steps and held the battered basement door open for Marta. He scanned the room and nodded. “This is real nice, Marta. Did you fix it up yourself?”
“Yep. It’s old stuff. Mrs. B. said to use whatever I found down here. Now I’m working out how to make a barre.”
Shorty scratched his graying stubble. “What do you need?”
“Something like a broom handle to attach to the wall.”
“Hold on,” he said. ”I saw an old broom on the back porch that looked kinda ragged. Bet that would work. Be back in a minute.”
Marta sat on the floor nibbling her sandwich and wiping away the jam that gathered in the corners of her mouth. Shorty returned with a neatly cut broom handle and two shelf brackets. His wide smile displayed his crooked teeth. “How’s this, Marta?”
Marta ran her hand along the handle and laughed. “You’ve massacred Mrs. B.’s broom.”
“Yep. She even handed me the saw.”
They mounted the broomstick barre waist high on the wall and stood back to admire their work.
Marta handed Shorty the tools and nodded with approval. “This looks great! Thanks.”
“My pleasure, Miss Marta. Maybe someday I’ll see you dance.”
“When I have records and a player, I’ll invite you down, and I’ll dance for you. How’d that be?”
“Sounds great,” Shorty said.
“Is there any way we can pry the window open?” Marta asked.
Shorty ran his hand along the bottom edge of the window and scrunched up his mouth. “Not sure. Might take a chisel or crow bar. I’ll talk with Mrs. B. For now I guess I’d better let you practice.”
“Thanks, Shorty. I appreciate your help.”
h
Sunday morning Marta stood on the front porch, waiting to join Lynne and Bartley for the day. Lynne drove them out along the Yellowstone River, stopping at two roadside parks where they walked the trails. Then they took the county roads through miles of rolling hills where late blooming wild flowers swayed in the breeze, creating a sea of pastels.
In the cowboy town of Hardin they bought ice cream and wandered through the trading post, trying on western hats and boots. At dusk they ended their adventures at Lynne’s place near Lake Elmo.
Lynne lived in an apartment above her aunt’s garage. Its one room furnishings consisted of two overstuffed brown chairs, a twin bed with a nine-patch quilt, two dressers, and a round maple dining table with two chairs. A bulky television stood near the table; its wooden box took up a space large enough for another dresser. A metal unit housed the sink, a counter, a small refrigerator, and a two-burner stove all in one.
Lynne hung her purse on a hook inside the door. “Well, what do you think? Not bad for twenty dollars a month. Anyone want a beer?”
“Beer?” Bartley said. “What are you doing with beer? Madame would kill you.”
“She’ll never know unless you tell her. The neighbor brings over a couple when he comes to visit. Beer tastes good on a hot day. From the looks on your faces, I guess it’s no to beers and yes to root beer instead.”
Lynne opened bottles of root beer, handed them out, then flopped across her bed with a bag of potato chips. “When did you two know you wanted to be dancers?”
Bartley sat in one overstuffed chair with her legs over the armrest. “When I was three. I told my mother I wanted ballet lessons and a wand. Wasn’t that silly?” She shook out her ponytail, letting her hair trail down her back.
“Did you get both?” Marta said as she sat at the table.
“Of course. I’m my father’s angel. I still get whatever I want. Back then he installed a barre in the pool house and hired a ballet teacher to come to the house twice a week. I felt like a princess.”
Lynne tossed the open bag of potato chips to Bartley. “Sounds like your family had lots of money. Did you go to public school or private?”
“Private boarding school. What about you, Lynne?”
“Born and raised in project houses,” Lynne said. “Public school and YMCA dance classes until I turned nine. Then I got a scholarship to a dance school. I qu
it high school at fifteen to work and pay for advanced ballet lessons, and here I am, on my way to becoming a ballerina.”
“Yep. Here you are,” Bartley said. “Did your parents pamper you, Marta?”
“I guess. We listened to ballet music from when I was a baby. I started lessons when I was five. My dad never saw me dance in pointe shoes.”
“Why not?” Lynne said.
“He died when I was seven. He fell through a railing at work. I miss him and hearing the sound of his voice when he’d come home from work each night.”
Marta walked to the window and looked out, seeing nothing in particular. What was it her dad always said? Something about never really leaving home? Why couldn’t she remember?
When she turned back, Lynne and Bartley were staring at her in silence. She smiled. “Let’s focus on our dancing and being best friends, okay?”
Bartley drove Marta back to her boarding house and headed to her place to help with a party for visiting dignitaries. As Marta entered the boarding house, she inhaled the aroma of Sunday dinner, now long finished. James and Shorty sat playing cards. Mrs. B. walked in from the kitchen, carrying a vase filled with an assortment of garden flowers. “Did you and your friends have a nice day?”
“We did. We forgot about dancing for a few hours.”
“Did you find a record player or any records yet?” Shorty asked.
“Not yet.”
“Shorty told me about your practice space,” James said.
“It’s great. Come and see it.”
Both men followed Marta to the basement. As she opened the door, she wondered if they’d begrudge her having a special privilege in being allowed to use the space. Maybe they’d have liked it for a shop or a place to make a game room. She need not have worried.
The wobbly chair leg had been wired back into position. A small, well used record player sat on the leveled card table, and four long play albums rested against an apple crate. Marta looked from one face to the next. “Where did all this come from?”
“James and I fixed the chair ‘n the table,” Shorty said. “I had the player, and James gave you the records. We hope you like it. We don’t mean to interfere.”
Tears flooded Marta’s eyes as she scanned the room. “You two are wonderful. Thank you.” She stepped to the table and fingered the record player, then smiled at the two gentlemen elves. “I’ll need to plan a performance, won’t I?”
Both men laughed.
“We promise we’ll not come down unless you invite us,” James said.
“Tell her about the window,” Shorty said.
“We unstuck the window. Used a crowbar to break the paint free. Then we put a new lock on the top.” James unlocked, opened, closed, and relocked the window. “Now you’ll have fresh air whenever you want.”
“Thank you, James; thank you Shorty. Everything is perfect.”
The men backed out of the room. Marta trailed her hand along the record player and checked the album titles: The Overture of 1812, Beethoven’s Concerto in D, Christmas at Carnegie Hall, and Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite. She placed the Nutcracker record on the turntable and gently lowered the needle onto the first ring. Then she sat on the floor, feeling the music flow through her.
Images of her recital performances drifted through her mind: the sugar plum fairy, the waltzes, the quirky Chinese doll dance. She loved every dance. Soon she’d learn more of the choreography and perform the dances as a professional. Life looked good.
On her way upstairs to her room, she crossed through the kitchen and knocked on Mrs. B.’s door. When the door opened, Mrs. B.’s face wore a wide smile. “Did the men surprise you?”
“Yes. It’s a wonderful surprise,” Marta said. Her lips quivered; she rubbed her mouth to control the tears that threatened to overcome her.
“I didn’t think you’d be mad, that’s why I let them go ahead and work down there. They’ve been waiting for you to return.” Mrs. B. touched Marta’s arm. “Would you care to join me for a cup of tea? I’m suddenly thirsty.”
They sat at a small table in the bay window of the common room. The only sounds were spoons scraping inside porcelain cups.
“So, Marta, you have a studio back home?”
“That’s what I called it, but it was just our garage. We didn’t have a car, so we hung a mirror in it, and my dad gave me his old record player and several classical records.” Marta stared out the window, then looked back at Mrs. B. “Now, you’ve given me a space too. Thank you. It’s like being home.”
The two women sat in peaceful silence watching the shadows deepen. Mrs. B. set her cup back onto the tray and stood. “Thank you for sitting here with me. A cup of tea is such a pleasant way to end the weekend. But now I must get ready for work tomorrow. Night, Marta”
“Night, Mrs. B.” Marta put her cup on the tray and lingered in the common room until it was time to place her Sunday call to her mom. Tonight she had lots to share.
7
By the end of September, practices for the fall performances and Marta’s energy were both winding down. Her turns hadn’t smoothed out, so Lynne offered to work with her after rehearsals.
Marta listened for Lynne’s count: “…three, four, begin.” She stared at the cascade of red ribbons purposely mounted above eye level in the far corner and did a relevé to pointe. Like the other dancers, she used the ribbons to focus her direction and body position for turns. She began spinning across the room doing quick chaîné turns, linking corner to corner with tight steps, her arms opening and closing near waist-high to complete and balance her circling.
At the corner she stepped out of her turns, staggered, and grabbed the floor by forcing her toes flat to prevent herself from falling over. “I can’t do one more chaîné; not one. Let’s move on.”
“Okay. Those looked better. Now, your pirouettes. Remember to lift your nose and your spine.”
Marta executed a plié, then a quick relevé to pointe, and began her turns to the right, spotting a small wall crack above the center of the practice room mirror.
“You’re dropping your chin,” Lynne said.
After a dozen turns, Marta stopped and repeated pirouettes on her left side.
“Those look great, Miss Lefty, but, you’re tipping a bit. Maybe spot higher, or maybe you need to stop and eat.”
Marta stopped and panted. “Both might help. Thanks for staying to help me. I’ll take a ride tonight if you’re offering.”
They turned off the light in the small practice room and walked toward the dressing room. As they approached the large rehearsal room, agitated voices tumbled into the hallway. One was a male voice they didn’t recognize, but the other belonged to Madame Cosper.
“Don’t talk to me that way, Herbert,” Madame said. “I’m the director. Who do you think you are, making judgments about my priorities?”
“I’m the money that keeps this dance company in the black,” the male voice said. “You’re the one who sends it into the red. That’s who I am.”
“I am trying to create a first class troupe. We have our strongest dancers in years, but they’re dancing in thread bare costumes. New costumes would showcase the troupe, especially when we travel. The committee won’t release money unless you urge them. Please, Herbert.”
“There is no money to release, Anna. You’ll have to make do with what you have to attract additional benefactors. Now, I must go. Good night.”
“Herbert, please. Stay. Talk to me.” Her voice changed to something softer, pleading. “Don’t go.”
“Diane is waiting for me. We have a social engagement.”
“I’ve missed you, Herbert.”
The room went silent. Marta looked at Lynne; both girls backed away and slipped into the practice room, waiting for Madame and Herbert to leave.
<
br /> Booted footsteps moved toward the front door. That door opened and clicked shut. Madame’s cane thumped closer. Marta and Lynne dashed to the dressing room.
“Take off your practice clothes,” Lynne said, “and get your hair wet. Pretend you got out of the shower. Hurry!”
They scurried out of their practice clothes, splashed water on their heads, and started re-dressing in street clothes as Madame entered the dressing area.
“Oh! Why are you two still here?”
“We worked on turns in the small practice room,” Lynne said. “Heading out now. Good night, Madame.”
Madame stepped aside. “Wait!” She thumped her cane.
Both girls froze mid-stride.
“Exit through the front door. And don’t make a habit of staying late. I don’t have time to check for you two every night.”
“Yes, Madame,” Marta said. “Good night.”
On the street, Lynne chuckled. “Hm-m-m. Sounds like they’re more than benefactor and company director. And did you hear her say she had the strongest dancers in years?”
“Too bad she doesn’t share her appreciation with us,” Marta said. “Do you think the company is running out of money?”
“I doubt it if Madame is asking for new costumes. Maybe Bartley knows. Let’s remember to ask her...or Jer.”
“What made you think of pretending we’d been in the shower?” Marta asked when they were in the car. “You were so careful about what you said.”
“Marta, I have four older brothers. I had to be devious to listen in on their conversations. I hid in closets or behind curtains. It’s paying off now. Do you think Diane knows her Herbert is visiting Madame?”
“You aren’t going to tell anyone, are you?” Marta said.
Lynne pursed her lips and smiled. “Only if I need to.”
Marta yawned as she trudged up the boarding house stairs to her room. Every part of her body ached, even her hair. As she reached the top of the stairs, Mrs. B. called to her.
