by Paddy Eger
The evening before auditions, the girls finished rehearsing and relaxed, seated against the basement walls with their feet stretched out in front of them. “Ah. This feels so-o good,” Lynne said.
Marta laughed. “That is one of my favorite things about having the space. Of course having you here is great as well. We’re like the three musketeers.”
“More like the three actresses we just saw in that old musketeers movie,” Lynne said. “Bartley, you’re Lana Turner, the beautiful countess. Marta is June Allyson, abducted by wicked Richelieu, and I’m the queen. I look like Angela Lansbury, don’t I?”
“Hardly. Would you ever want to be an actress?” Bartley asked.
“Naw. Too much work,” Lynne said. “I’d have to walk and talk. In ballet I just dance.”
“I think we’re ready, don’t you guys?” Marta said. “Wouldn’t it be great if we landed the best solos?”
“Marguerite would have a cow,” Lynne said. “Maybe she’ll get Clara. Suits her. Have you noticed how she imitates everything Patrice does?”
“Like Patrice’s footwork will rub off on her,” Marta said. “I have to admit she learns the choreography quickly.”
“Not as fast as Bartley. How do you do that?” Lynne said.
“I watch the movement patterns on the floor. Then I dance them and play the records every night before I go to bed.”
“I can’t do that,” Marta said. “I need to watch and count.”
Bartley stood and reached out to pull Marta to her feet. “Maybe that’s why Madame watches you. Sometimes you just stand there and look disinterested. Maybe you should try moving around more while you learn new sections,” Bartley said. “Then you’ll look more like you’re practicing.”
Marta nodded. Anything would be worth a try with Madame.
As the girls turned off the basement lights and started up the stairs, Bartley stopped them. “Remember what Jer overheard. When you read your dance assignments off the board, pretend you don’t care one way or the other. Madame watches, and she dreads the postings because corps members act whiny when they see their roles. Then they want to talk to her about why they weren’t selected, and that takes too much of her precious time.”
“Tomorrow we’ll know,” Marta said. “Pray that Mother Ginger goes to a community adult.”
It didn’t.
Madame and Damien posted their selections after the day’s auditions. Marta scanned the list. She’d dance with Bartley, Lynne, and Jer as Arabian dancers. Her friends would backup two other dances. Jer became a lead soldier and backup for Fritz. Clara would be played by a local dance student, leaving Marguerite free to dance as a flute and backup for other selections.
As Marta scanned the list further, her heart dropped to her stomach. Madame assigned her the dreaded role of Mother Ginger. She’d be staying late and learning to walk on stilts. She’d wear a hoopskirt large enough to shelter a handful of wiggly children before they burst out to perform their steps and then return under the skirt.
The girls dressed and met up outside the dancers’ door to discuss their roles.
“You’re the chosen one, Marta.” Lynne said. “You can do it.” She hung her arm over Marta’s shoulder as they walked to the parking area. The weight of Lynne’s arm didn’t compare to the weight of Marta’s anxiety. Even though Madame agreed with Marta’s top picks for ballets in the article and approved what was written, it didn’t appear to change her opinion of Marta. Or was this a test, a challenge to see if she could take on a difficult role and succeed?
“I’m glad we’re dancing the Arabian together,” Marta said. “Come over and we’ll practice all the character dances. That way we’ll be prepared for next year’s auditions.”
“Why does every dance company do the Nutcracker every year?” Lynne said. “I mean everyone knows it. Why not try something new?”
Bartley opened her purse and took out her car keys. “It’s tradition. I’ll bet even Steve knows the music.”
Rehearsals, costume fittings, more rehearsals. The Nutcracker began to solidify. They danced from early morning to late evening six days a week. The daily schedules and assignments changed hourly as dancers became injured and needed time to rest and recover. Tempers grew short, and dancers raced from one rehearsal room to another to learn additional solos and rehearse ensemble pieces. The scheduling remained so hectic the dancers carried around their schedules, afraid they’d miss a rehearsal and lose their favored part.
Marta’s calves and ankles ached from the short stilts strapped to her legs. It took days of practice before she could walk on them, more days of practice with the hoopskirt, and still more when she sheltered wiggly children. One boy pinched her, another knocked her foot aside, causing her to fall face first onto the floor, injuring her pride more than her body.
One late evening, she and her friends sat on the basement studio floor resting. They’d practiced their corps dances and decided to soak their feet before they left. They seated themselves around a low-sided container of hot water. Marta sprinkled on Epsom salts, and Lynne swirled them until the water cleared. The girls dunked their feet into the container and closed their eyes in relief.
“Ah-h,” Bartley said. “I can’t imagine a better way to spend my time.”
“I can,” Lynne said as she wiggled her toes. “I’ve had to cancel a handful of dates because of all the added rehearsals. How about you, Marta? Is Steve hanging around?”
“He’s around.” Marta rubbed her bruises and abrasions. “But guys, we’re only friends.”
“Right. Kissing friends,” Lynne said. “He’s always driving you in and picking you up. Any more flowers lately?”
“No. And now he wants us to spend less time talking and more time kissing.”
“Don’t you want to kiss him?” Lynne said. “I mean, he’s cute and kind and attentive.”
Marta shrugged. “It’s fine, but I’m not as excited about all the kissing. I’ve never dated anyone else.”
“You have got to be joking,” Lynne said.
Marta shook her head. “I only went to one dance in high school, and that was with my neighbor.”
“Marta, it’s okay. I didn’t date much either,” Bartley said.
“What’s with you two? Lynne said. “Not dating in high school? You missed out on a lot of fun. Do you guys even know how to flirt?”
Bartley threw a towel at Lynne. “Let us figure it out ourselves, Lynne. We’re big girls now, not babies who need a mommy.”
“Okay,” Marta said. “Time to change the subject. Tell me about your personal ritual before you dance.”
“I always wear Evening in Paris perfume,” Lynne said.
“So, that’s what smells.” Marta laughed. “How can you stand such a sweet perfume?”
“It’s better than sweat. Besides, when I don’t wear it, I make mistakes.”
Bartley wiped her feet and started putting on her bobby socks. “My ritual is to brush my hair with the small red brush I got when I did my first recital. I also fasten my lucky barrette on the right side. I do it every performance. I don’t dare change it. I know a girl who changed her ritual, and she lost her position as a soloist.”
“That’s crazy,” Lynne said. “But maybe it’s all crazy.”
Marta sat silent for a moment. “I’m not sure. Sounds like something to think about. I don’t have a ritual. Do you think I should make something up?”
“No. It doesn’t work that way,” Lynne said. “Keep doing what you’re doing and take care of yourself.”
After a brief stop in the kitchen to return the tea kettle, Marta climbed the stairs to her room, imaging a hot shower before she dropped into bed. As she entered the bathroom, she noticed her shelf of towels and personal bottles was empty. That was strange.
She check
ed her room. She hadn’t taken them there. Back in the bathroom she looked in each bathing area. Her towels were on the floor in the room with the bathtub. She seldom took a bath; hadn’t for at least a week.
When she picked up her towels, they were soaking wet.
The hall door opened slowly. Carol entered carrying Marta’s personal bottles and proceeded to set them onto Marta’s shelf.
Marta felt anger rise through her. “Carol! What are you doing?”
Carol jumped, dropping two bottles. She backed away from the shelves. “Nothing. I have every right to be here.”
“Not with my personal things, you don’t.”
“I, ah, I found them in the hall. They aren’t mine. I guessed they were yours.” Carol crossed her arms.
Marta stared at Carol, waiting to see her next move. As she waited, a surge of heat rose through her body like an inferno ready to explode.
Carol turned away, picked up the dropped bottles, and lined them up on Marta’s shelf. She turned to leave. Marta stepped in front of her, blocking her exit.
“How did my towels get on the floor beside the bathtub? Surely they didn’t walk there.”
Carol shrugged; a faint smile gathered on her lips. “The tub water splashed out. I needed something to wipe it up.”
Acting out the angry Carabosse of Sleeping Beauty was tame compared to how Marta felt at this moment. She swept up everything from her personal shelf and the wet towels from the floor and brushed past Carol. She knew if she tried to continue the conversation she’d awaken the entire boarding house.
Marta tossed the wet towels in her sink and placed her bottles under the sink on a shelf. She stared at herself in the mirror. The face looking back frightened her. Her eyebrows reminded her of Madame’s when she’d mimicked her early in the year. Add on the racing of her heart, her rapid breathing, and the tears sliding down her face, and she saw herself coming apart like the seams of a tight costume. How did Carol manage to rile her? Why did her feelings escalate the longer she thought about her?
She sat and rocked, regaining more control with each forward and backward motion. She knew she’d overreacted. Maybe she had worked too long and hard on the Carabosse role like Lynne said. Maybe dancing professionally created more pressure than she could handle. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
12
Three weekends later, Marta met Steve at the curb. They were driving to the mountains. November rehearsals tested her energy; her reserves were running low. Today promised to be the perfect late autumn day of lacy clouds and a light breeze; a chance to spend time with Steve, relax, and rejuvenate.
“Mornin’. How’s my favorite Miss Fluff?”
“Excited to get away,” she said.
Steve hefted the picnic hamper she handed him. “What’s in here, rocks?”
“No. It’s filled with old pointe shoes and bad reviews.”
“Touché.” Steve loaded the hamper in the trunk then opened the passenger door for Marta.
The drive west through the valley passed miles of barbed wire surrounding barren fields and scruffy sagebrush. As they drove higher, stubby blue-hued evergreens lined the road. Marta rolled down the window and extended her hand to catch the chilly breeze. “Will we see snow?”
“Only in the distance. Do you ski?”
“Nope,” she said. “Not allowed. Might get injured or break a leg.”
“Does the company dictate how you spend your free time?”
“About some things. We sign a contract.”
“Well, if you’re allowed, I want you and your friends to come up for the long New Year’s weekend. I’ll invite my friends as well. We can play in the snow, eat, talk, and play cards. It will be fun.”
“I’d like that.”
The road passed through Bridger and Belfry; more collections of wooden buildings than towns. In the spaces in between, Marta saw a scattering of ranches with animals grazing.
“Since we have all day,” he said, “we’re going the long way. I’ll show you where the mining towns used to be. After a handful of disasters and dropping copper ore prices, the last of the families moved away about ten years ago. Only a bunch of rusty buildings remain.”
“It’s beautiful the way the hills fold and open. How could they leave?”
“Money,” he said. “Can’t raise a family without it.”
Marta shifted to thinking about her mom and how simply they lived. “It must have been hard to walk away, let your home become a pile of weathered wood.”
Higher and higher they drove, each turn revealing more and more of the snowy mountains. Marta stretched. “It’s beyond beautiful up here.”
“Yep. Kinda like you.”
Steve’s compliment delighted her. She stored it away along with the smile he wore on his face when he looked her direction.
The road into the cabin wound through a forest of giant Ponderosa pines. Marta leaned out the window to see their top branches. At first sight, the cabin resembled a life-size Lincoln log construction. White chinking filled the spaces between the logs. Steep steps led to a broad porch where Adirondack chairs shared the space with a massive wood pile that lined one end of the porch.
Marta stood beside the car, inhaled deeply, and looked around. “I love this. I’m surprised you don’t come up here more often.”
“I know. But school, the newspaper, and my ballerina girlfriend keep me in town. Come on inside.”
The cabin’s interior was a large open rectangle. A river rock fireplace dominated one wall and reached to the ceiling. Tan leather couches, green overstuffed chairs, and rustic coffee tables invited the pine forest inside while providing space for a dozen people to sit and relax. Marta touched the chill on the quilts and blankets draped over the furniture.
Steve moved beside her and intertwined his fingers with hers. “Well? What do you think?”
“It’s wonderful. I see why you love it.”
He pulled Marta’s hand and moved toward the door. “Button up your jacket. Let’s head out.”
The trail meandered through pine trees. Their rust-colored needles littered the ground, creating a crunch when she stepped on them. At a fork in the path, they turned left and descended a narrow trail. The sound of rushing water grew louder.
Marta hurried along the trail, around the bend, and stopped. A milky stream tumbled past, cascading over small ledges and pushing out against a wall of boulders. A filmy mist hung in the air.
A small swirling pool splashed against the bank inches from her feet. The noise of the water threatened to cover their conversation. It reminded Marta of Staircase, a series of waterfalls along her favorite hike in the Olympic Mountains back home, only this stream was wider, deeper, and louder.
“This is perfect!” Marta bent to touch the water. “And so-o cold.”
Steve grabbed a limb and pulled himself up onto a huge fallen log that spanned the side pool. He walked out along the trunk and sat down. “Come on.” He patted a space next to him.
She reached for his hand and clambered up the log, then eased down next to him. Their feet dangled inches above the rushing water. She looked around and inhaled the mist.
“M-m-m, this reminds me of home. I thought Montana would be flat and dusty. I’m starting to appreciate your big blue sky.”
Steve nodded and closed his eyes. His usual energetic manner vanished, replaced by calmness. Another surprise to unravel.
Steve took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “I love it here. I thought you’d enjoy this after all your talk of mountains and trees and water.”
They sat quietly for several minutes. Then, without warning, Steve stood and walked to the bank end of the log. He took off his shoes and socks and rolled up his jeans and stepped into the water. “Ah. It’s cold all right. Let’s test your stamina. Cabin tradit
ion.”
“This time of year? Are you crazy?”
“Time of year doesn’t matter, Miss Fluff.” He stepped out of the water and released a long breath. “It’s freezing!”
She hesitated, then stood and walked the log to join him. She sat on a rock and slowly removed her shoes and bobby socks. What would Steve think when he saw her battered feet?
She avoided looking at Steve’s face as she bared her blisters and abraded toes and heels. She curled her toes under a nearby rock, waiting, ready with an explanation if he asked about her mangled feet.
Steve looked at her feet, then her face, then her feet again. His smile faded. “We can wait and do this in the spring if you’d rather.”
“Why wait? Don’t you think I can do it?”
“I never doubt you, Marta.” He took her hand as he stepped back into the water.
She held her breath as she inched into the water. “Yikes! This is freezing!” She shook her hand loose from Steve’s and backed out of the water.
“Didn’t know dancers were pansies about cold water,” Steve said, standing in five inches of water with his arms crossed over his chest.
“I didn’t know reporters lacked sense.”
He laughed. “Just proving I’m no piece of fluff.”
Marta bent forward and scooped up a handful of water. It splashed onto the bottom of Steve’s rolled up jeans.
He waded downstream, out of her reach. “Want to play, huh?” He ran back toward her shoving waves of water at her, soaking her pedal pushers as she ran up the bank.
“Stop! I give! Stop!” she screamed.
He ran forward and grabbed her ankle and slipped, pulling her into the water, losing his grip.
Marta drifted away from the bank and into the swirling water of the pool, floundering and gulping in water. She could no longer touch the bottom of the pool. She screamed and flailed as water alternately covered and uncovered her head.
