by Paddy Eger
Every inch of her body ached with coldness. Her arms and legs became heavy and useless against the frigid temperature.
Steve grabbed for her as the water turned her around and tugged her toward the main stream. “Hang on!” He regained a vise grip hold on her ankle as he dragged her toward the stream bank.
Marta coughed and sputtered as she tried to breathe. Sharp-edged rocks gouged her body. Her face ached from being dashed against the rocks. She rolled onto her back and closed her eyes, willing her heart to slow its pounding and for feeling to return to her arms and legs.
“Marta. Are you okay? I’m sorry, I... Come on,” he said as he pulled her to her feet. “Let’s head back to the cabin and dry out.”
Marta rubbed pebbles off her face and hands and rang out the edges of her drenched clothes. Her ankle burned like fire when she put full weight on it.
By the time they reached the cabin, her body shook so hard she could barely stand.
Inside, Steve grabbed a wool blanket and wrapped her up. “The propane boiler takes ten minutes to heat the shower water. Stay wrapped up while I build a fire.”
Marta’s teeth chattered as she nodded. Then she curled up on the floor and closed her eyes.
Steve started the fire. He lifted her to a sitting position, wrapped her in two more blankets, and circled her with his arms. “I am such a fool. I didn’t think any of this would happen. I’m so sorry.”
Marta didn’t respond.
In the shower, the blasts of hot water running down her body removed the chill, but she couldn’t stop shaking as she examined her bruises and scratches. Her ankle looked normal, but ached. What a disaster. If she closed her eyes, her panic returned, so she kept them open.
Marta dried off and put on the heavy flannel robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. The tails of the sash hung to the floor. She limped into the main room while towel-drying her hair.
Steve’s face held a question as she approached the fire. “Feel better? Guess I got carried away.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“You’re bleeding.” He reached out to touch her face. “Are you mad at me or anything?”
“Of course I am. I’m covered with bruises and scratches. My ankle is starting to swell. Remember that contract I signed? If I can’t dance I’m out, o-u-t.”
“I caught you as soon as I could.”
“And what if you hadn’t?”
“But I did. You know I care about you and don’t want you getting hurt. Let me make it up to you.”
Marta closed her eyes to shut out Steve’s anxious face. She grabbed up her wet clothes and held them to her chest. “Take me home, please.”
“Why don’t we stay until you’re feeling calmer. Let’s eat, talk, and play cards while our clothes and shoes dry.”
“No! Take me home. I want to go home. The tour starts soon. I need to take care of my ankle. I have to be able to dance.”
“Okay. I understand. I’ll be right back.” He vanished up the ladder to a loft and returned barefoot in torn jeans and a worn sweatshirt. He handed her a pair of socks and sat putting on a pair.
Marta put on the socks, then grabbed a dry blanket off the sofa and wrapped it around herself. When Steve stepped toward her and touched her cheek, she winced.
“I’m so sorry about this. Sure you don’t want to stay and relax for a while?”
“No. Stop apologizing and take me home.”
On the trip back to Billings, Marta pulled the blanket up to her neck and turned away from Steve. Her stomach growled, and she ached everywhere.
Once back inside the boarding house, she faced Steve over the picnic basket and her bag of wet clothes. “I’ll get the robe and blanket back to you.” She pulled in her lips to hold back her tears.
“But, Marta…”
“Can you please carry the picnic basket into the kitchen?”
Steve walked into the kitchen. When he returned to the common room, he stared at her and exhaled. “I’m sorry.” He kissed her cheek, then backed away. The front door closed with a soft click.
She put away the food but saved out and ate a half sandwich while she heated water for tea. Then she limped up the stairs carrying her tea and two ice packs to her room.
The ice helped ease her ankle pain, but its coldness quickly became uncomfortable. Would she be able to dance tomorrow? She had to. Madame told everyone on Friday to ”be here unless you are too sick to stand.” There were no options open for not dancing tomorrow.
She moved to her mirror and scanned her injuries. Bruises and deep scratches ran from her eye to her chin. Others spread like grape jam across her forehead. Her hands and forearms were skinned, like the time she was five and skidded face first down a gravelly street. Make-up, long-sleeved leotards, and her tights would take care of most of her injuries. Maybe Madame would ignore her as usual.
Her ankle continued to pulse and ache as she climbed into bed. Even with Gran’s quilt added to her covers, she shivered, remembering the water covering her head, drowning her for long moments. She should have learned to swim long, long ago. Tomorrow she’d pay a price. Hopefully not one that ended her career.
13
“No, no, no!” Damien paced the rehearsal room, shaking his head. “You need to flow with the tempo. Watch. I’ll do the series.”
He stood in the center of the large practice room. “The Nutcracker waltz beat is dum, dum, da, dum, dum, da, dum, dum, da, da. Balancé, balancé, turn your body, lift your arms, deep knee bend, and stop. You’re at the ball, enjoying the party. Spread apart, fill the stage with motion…am I disturbing your conversation, Miss Meadows and Miss Selbryth?”
Marta leaned her weight onto her right foot to ease the pain from her swollen ankle. She stared at Damien, then turned to Lynne, who looked at her feet as she answered. “No, sir. I was—”
“I don’t care what you were doing, Miss Meadows. I allow no side conversation during practices, especially this late into performance rehearsals. Is that clear?”
Lynne nodded, placed her hands on her hips, and looked away.
The pianist began again. The corps perked up, refining their movements and blocking pose locations for the rest of the hour.
Marta used her towel to wipe away her sweat and the make-up covering her bruises as she moved into the dressing room. Her ankle continued to throb as she sat on the bench removing her long-sleeved leotard and her tights. When she looked up, Madame stood in the doorway; her eyebrows dipped together as she approached Marta.
“What’s happened to your body?”
“I fell.”
Madame leaned forward on her cane, holding Marta’s attention with her stare. “Dancers can’t be clumsy. Covering those scratches and bruises with make-up will ruin our costumes. Do you understand?”
Marta nodded.
Madame pointed to Marta’s ankle. “Why is your ankle swollen?”
“When I fell, I banged against a large boulder.”
“What were you doing around boulders? You do remember you signed a contract?”
“Yes, Madame. I—”
“Go see our company doctor. I need to know if you can perform or if I need to leave you behind.” Madame turned and walked out of the dressing room, leaving Marta encased in stares from the other dancers.
Add another strike. She’d learned to walk on the stilts and corral the children. Did Madame ask about those bruises or compliment her mastery of the stilts? Nope. What if the doctor told Madame to leave her behind? That would end her career.
Marta threw her towel at her locker, then sat with her head in her hands.
Lynne and Bartley leaned against the lockers watching her, but she tried to ignore them.
“What is going on?” Lynne said. “What happened to you?�
�
“Nothing, everything. Sorry I got you in trouble. The bruises were from falling in the stream when Steve... I’ll explain later. Let’s get changed.”
“Whoa, Marta. What happened with Steve?” Lynne said.
“What happened with Madame?” Bartley asked.
“I said I’d tell you later. I’m sorry. I ache and I’m grouchy today.”
“Really?” Lynne said. “Could have fooled me. Want to join us for a shopping trip? I need a fall sweater. Bartley’s helping me pick out something stylish.”
“No. I need to call the doctor and try to get in today. Hopefully he’ll let me keep dancing.”
Bartley sat down next to Marta. “We’ll drive you to the doctor, right Lynne?”
“Of course. Then we’ll get you home and packed in ice packs.”
Within the hour, Marta had an ace bandage wrapped around her ankle, a prescription for pain pills, and the advice to stay off her ankle as much as possible. The doctor gave her a note for Madame explaining his diagnosis and recommendation: lots of icing and no pointe shoes or relevés for a week.
After Lynne and Bartley brought Marta’s dinner to her room, they tucked her ankle in ice packs and sat on her bed keeping her company while she ate.
“Thanks for everything. Sorry you didn’t get a chance to go sweater shopping,” Marta said.
“Lynne can borrow one of mine for now,” Bartley said. “This was more important. After all, we are the three dancing musketeers of Billings. I don’t know why Madame is so furious. You could’ve just as easily turned your ankle walking into the company.”
“True,” Lynne said, “but you probably wouldn’t look like you’d wrestled a bear or ran through a field of blackberry bushes.” She picked up her purse and walked toward the door. “Come on, Bartley. I have a late date, so I’ll need your most beguiling sweater.”
After the girls left, Marta sat in the quiet, allowing herself to feel a deep ache that had nothing to do with her injury. Bartley was right; she could have gotten injured anywhere. At least she hadn’t broken any bones, which meant she could continue to attend rehearsals.
Afternoons, after rehearsals, Lynne drove her home over the next week, ending any chance she might see Steve. He didn’t call. That created a different hurt; he’d not really cared or he’d have checked up on her by now. So much for that relationship.
The week of resting her ankle ended. Madame and Damien watched her first full day of dancing with close scrutiny. She stayed after for their verdict.
Damien and Madame met with her in the small practice room. Damien closed the door. “Please sit down, Marta.”
Madame stood beside Marta and stared down at her. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
“Yes, Madame.”
Damien sat in the chair next to Marta. “How’s your ankle?”
“It’s fine. Dancing today felt normal. I still ice it each evening.”
“Keep icing it,” Damien said.
“We watched you today,” Madame said, “and have decided you may join us on the tour. But, at the first sign of weakness or reduced energy, you’ll be sent home. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Madame, I understand.”
“Good. Now go home and pack. The bus leaves at seven sharp tomorrow morning.”
Marta stood to leave. When she reached the closed door, she turned back to Madame and Damien. “Thank you.”
While she wanted to cheer and celebrate, she found herself alone. Thanks to Lynne’s unusual “early evening date,” Marta wasn’t offered a ride home. Instead, she carried a bulging bag filled with pointe shoes, assorted warm-up clothes, and the tour packing list as she walked her bike around the building to pedal home.
At the edge of the sidewalk, she stopped and stared. Steve’s car.
Marta hung her bulky bag on the handle bars, then gripped them as though she intended to rip them free. She stood looking at Steve’s car, then turned and walked back toward the building to give herself time to think.
Steve leaped from his car and followed her. “Can we talk? Please?”
“Is there anything to say?”
“Yes. How’s your ankle. Did you get in trouble?”
Marta nodded and felt tears gather in the corners of her eyes. “Please go.” She twisted the bike around, mounted it, and pedaled along the sidewalk and onto the street.
Steve ran after her. “Let me drive you home.”
She shook her head and kept pedaling toward the boarding house.
Steve hurried back to his car and drove beside her amid honks and curses from angry drivers. “Come on, Marta. Let me drive you home.”
She stopped and let her body collapse against the bike handles. “Okay.”
He pulled into a parking space and loaded her bike and bag into his trunk. When she was seated in his car, she closed her eyes and tried to relax.
“Hard day at rehearsals?”
She nodded.
“Want to talk about it?”
She shook her head. Who’d want to hear about her injured ankle, her fears of missing the tour, and her exhaustion? That would only make him feel worse. He didn’t want to hear about repeating one section of the dance over and over, hour after hour. Or about Madame berating her for the injuries. No one wanted to listen to that much complaining, least of all someone who didn’t live and breathe the dance world.
“Okay. Well, since you didn’t return my calls, I took a chance and drove here to look for you.”
“Return your calls? You called?”
“Of course I did. I’ve called every day, after dinner.”
“Mrs. B. didn’t tell me.”
“I spoke with a young woman and she—”
Marta sat bolt upright. “You talked to a young woman? What did she say?”
“That she’d tell you I called.”
Marta felt a tension rise through her body. Carol.
“I haven’t seen your bike parked outside the building lately, so I figured you had rides or weren’t dancing. Either way, since you didn’t return my calls, I figured you needed more time. Did I tell you how sorry I am?”
“Yes, about a dozen times.”
When they reached the boarding house, Steve helped her remove her bike and bag from his trunk. “Can I call you or come over to see you tomorrow?”
“We’re leaving on the Nutcracker tour tomorrow. We won’t be back for fifteen days.”
“Fifteen days? I’ve already missed a week with you, Miss Fluff. May I call you when you return?”
“I guess.” Marta moved toward the back porch. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Wait!”
Marta turned. Steve’s face held a pleading look as he stepped toward her. “May I have one of those special dancer kisses before you disappear for two weeks?”
“Okay.” She felt a warm current moving through her body as he stepped closer.
Steve kissed her forehead, her nose, and worked toward her mouth. “See you soon, Miss Fluff. I’ll miss you.”
He backed up, pulling her hands and arms toward him before he disappeared around the corner of the house.
Marta closed her eyes to prolong the buttery feeling from being with Steve. Her earlier moodiness evaporated. Why didn’t she tell him about being afraid in the water? Maybe he would understand. She had two weeks on the tour to think about it.
Her buttery feeling shifted to butterflies as she checked off items for her touring suitcase: street clothes and warm-up clothes to last two weeks, new and worn pointe shoes, as well as a nice dress in case the corps were invited to an after function. Compared to Bartley and Lynne, her clothes looked sad, well-worn, even old. She should have gone shopping when she had the chance. Too late now. Marta closed her touring suitcase a
nd sat on it to secure the latches. She’d be the shabby musketeer.
14
The trip by tour bus, like Marta’s bus ride to Billings, disappointed her. They rode on a charter bus that appeared to be a retired Greyhound. The tall-backed seats were comfortable, but all the sitting and jostling sapped her energy more than any morning rehearsal.
She sat alone, behind Lynne and Bartley, joining in conversations but using the majority of the time to nap or stare out the window. It wasn’t the glamour she’d hoped for. Plus she had too many empty hours to relive how she’d left things so unfinished with Steve.
Their tour schedule repeated itself like a stuck record: grab a quick breakfast, drive to the next town mid-morning, rehearse, rest, eat a light meal, perform, then crash into bed. Next morning they’d awaken early and repeat performances or move to a new town.
Bartley threw her make-up case onto the opened rollaway bed. “Today’s rehearsal felt horrible. And, can you believe this hotel is so fouled up? How could they give half our rooms to another group?”
“No biggie,” Lynne said. “It’s only one night, and neither Marta nor I snore.”
Bartley moved to the window. “At least it got me away from Marguerite. You’d think she came from royalty the way she prances around and coos to Madame and Patrice.”
“All I care about is a hot shower and food,” Lynne said. “I could eat a large cow. Are you two ready to eat?”
Marta pulled her bags onto the bed. “No. I just want to ice my ankle and sleep. Eating dinner at three in the afternoon does crazy things to my body.”
“Go ahead,” Bartley said. “I want to unpack and read my Vogue. I’m getting behind in reading my magazines.”
When Lynne left, Bartley unpacked and sat down on the rollaway bed crammed next to the window. “I wish I had her easy-going confidence. It will help her move up in the company. Do you see yourself as a principal dancer?”
“I do. But it won’t happen until Madame accepts me. She really likes you, Bartley. Maybe it’s because you have so much energy all day. Wish I had your stamina and could survive on as little food as you do.”
