by Paddy Eger
Damien clapped the beat. “Reach further up and forward as you move. Stretch your back, elongate your entire body. Remember, you must think like a musical instrument being played by delicate hands.”
Each day after rehearsals two constants remained: sore muscles and ice packs. Each night she massaged her legs and soaked her tired feet before applying ice to her ankle. On the evenings Lynne came over, they exchanged back rubs and foot rubs.
“So, Marta, how is it to working with Damien?”
“It’s great. He is patient and points out the details I need to show. I feel confident I can dance my audition so Madame will have to take me back.”
“I’m glad to hear that. We need you; I need you. Can you imagine me facing Suzette and Marguerite alone? I don’t think I can survive their whining and preening next fall without you pulling me back.”
Marta laughed and pulled Lynne to her feet. “Come on. You need to keep me busy so I don’t think about being alone so much. We can plan for the little girls, and you can help me bake for Damien’s family.”
“No thanks. I’m off to get a good night’s sleep. We’ve got enough planned for the girls, and if I helped you bake, you’d need to toss it. You do remember I’m a disaster in the kitchen.”
While Marta stirred the batter for two quick breads, she thought about Steve. His projects and tests kept him buried. They exchanged brief phone calls, but he seldom had time to stop in, and their trips around Billings had dropped away. He was closing in on his career much as she hoped she was closing in on her own.
Marta surprised herself by humming in the shower that evening. Everything was falling into place. Miss Wilson continued to treat her like an adult, so another visit with her sounded like a good idea. May’s warm weather encouraged the flowers and her confidence to blossom. She continued to hum, content and hopeful that the pains she experienced every day would fade over the next three weeks, leaving her ready for the audition.
Sunday evening Steve broke away from his studies and work, and now he sat with Marta in the common room. He stretched. “I’m starting to understand how you feel when you have too much to do. I’m so tired from reworking my project and keeping up with other homework and tests, plus working at the paper.”
“I thought you were enjoying your project.”
“I am. But have you any idea of how much is written about the history of mining in the Billings area?”
Marta put her arm around his shoulder. “It will be over soon.”
“Not really. I’ll need to work through the summer session. Then I can walk through graduation after fall semester. Will you come to my graduation?”
“I’ll try.”
Steve stood and stretched again. “I’d better get back to work. I’ll call you when I get a moment of free time. Think of me?”
“Always. And thanks for spending part of Mother’s Day with me.”
He hugged her close and spoke into her hair. “You sounded lonely. I knew you missed your mom, so…”
“So, thanks.” Marta kissed him and walked him to his car. She watched him drive back toward the college. Miss Wilson was right. Other people felt the same tiredness she felt. Working through it must be part of being responsible for yourself.
The next morning Marta finished her exercises by eight-thirty and stood in the kitchen kneading dough, enjoying the twisting and folding and the smell of yeast. Early daisies swayed in the May breeze reminding her of the Gershwin choreography that swayed and blossomed as well. She enjoyed her private lessons with Damien, but not dancing with the rest of the corps. They either treated her like a bird with a broken wing or a mosquito to be brushed away. Once she mastered the audition selection, she’d be on her own and not have to face them again until next fall. How would they treat her once she rejoined them for next season?
The past Sunday calls to Bartley lasted only a few minutes. She sounded tired even when Lynne entertained them both with stories of dancer flubs, arguments, and down right hissy fits. So far Lynne remained in the dark about Bartley’s condition, just as Marta had promised Mrs. Timmons.
Marta rotated her bread dough in the greased bowl and covered it with a dishcloth. She grabbed an apple and headed to the common room.
The phone call came in at nine-thirty as Marta prepared to exercise.
“Marta? It’s Lynne.”
“You sound funny. Are you okay? Why aren’t you in rehearsals?”
“I have bad news. Bartley died. Stay home. I’ll be right ov—”
A shock wave traveled through Marta. She dropped the phone and crumbled to the floor. Tears flooded her eyes. Her body heaved, and her heart ached. How could this happen? Bartley said she felt stronger. Why weren’t the doctors taking better care of her? Marta lay on the floor and cried.
Minutes ticked by. Marta washed her face, paced the common room, and checked the front window every few seconds. Where was Lynne? What could have possibly happened to Bartley? Maybe it was a belated April fool joke. No, Lynne would never joke about someone dying.
When Lynne drove up, Marta stood with the front door wide open. The minute she saw Lynne’s face up close, her tears and the sag of her shoulders, Marta began to cry again. “What happened?”
Lynne wiped her face and shook her head. “She had a heart attack during the night. And this is even stranger. A nurse found her. A nurse? I didn’t know she was sick, did you?”
Marta walked away from Lynne, then turned and swallowed. “I knew she was sick. Bartley’s been in a clinic in Philadelphia. I visited her that weekend I said I had a friend in town.”
“You saw her and you never mentioned it? What about our pact to have no secrets?”
“I promised her mother I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
Lynne stood and walked to the bay window. “So much for our pact. Why did they call you and not me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because you were busy with performances.”
A quiet hung over the room as Marta explained her visit to Bartley. Her hand rested on Lynne’s arm. “Let’s go up to my room.”
Lynne nodded and followed Marta upstairs. They sat cross-legged on the bed letting the silence spread.
“Tell me again about the diet pills, Marta.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the part where Bartley asked you to share your diet pills with her.”
Marta fidgeted and picked up her stuffed cat Bubbles. “What do you want to know.”
“Everything.”
Marta moved to her window and opened it before she sat in the rocking chair with her eyes closed. The fresh air carried the scent of lilacs.
“Marta? Spill it.”
“I don’t know when Bartley started taking pills for certain.”
“What about you?”
“I started when we were on tour last December. They took the edge off my tiredness. Lots of people take them, Lynne.”
Lynne stared at Marta. “Who takes diet pills? Name names, Marta.”
Marta squirmed under Lynne’s gaze. “I can’t.”
Lynne paced the room. “What if the pills caused her to die? You could be putting yourself in danger.”
“I’m careful. I only take a few a week.”
Lynne stopped pacing. “How few?”
Marta looked away and rocked.
“Marta?”
“One or two a day; sometimes three.” Admitting this to Lynne felt right and wrong mixed together. At this moment, the no secrets pact loomed as a friendship breaker. If she understood the look on Lynne’s face, she’d disappointed and deceived her best friend. They stared at each other. A silence hung in the room.
Lynne shook her head as she walked toward the bedroom door and placed her hand on the doorknob.
“Wait! Please. Let
me explain.”
Lynne turned and stared at Marta. “Okay. Try to make me understand why you’d take such stupid chances.”
Marta closed her eyes. “It’s hard to sit all the time and stay trim. My audition is less than two weeks away. I need the pills a little longer. I plan to quit.“
“What if those pills killed Bartley?”
“That couldn’t be the reason she died. She said she felt stronger.”
“Stronger than what? Why didn’t you trust me enough to tell me?”
“I promised Bartley and her mother.”
Lynne resumed her pacing. “You said it yourself that she begged you for pills. If Bartley couldn’t stop taking them, what makes you think you can?” Lynne skirted Marta and moved toward the bedroom door.
A surge of frustration gripped Marta. She stepped in front of her door and placed her palms against it. “You don’t know how hard it is to come back and keep up with everyone, do you? You can’t understand. You eat whatever you want while the rest of us struggle to stay slim. The pills help me keep up my energy when I’m wanting to eat your giant burger and your milk shakes. You don’t get it, do you?”
Lynne reached around Marta for the door knob. “Who are you? You’re scaring me, Marta.”
They stood face-to-face in separate silences.
“I need to make a call,” Lynne said.
Marta stepped aside, allowing Lynne to leave the room to use the hall phone. She turned her back toward Marta and spoke in whispers. Marta backed into her room listening to Lynne’s voice, wanting yet not wanting to know who she spoke to and what she was being told.
When Lynne returned, she walked to the window and stood silent for a long minute. “Madame says the funeral is next Tuesday in Philadelphia. She’s arranged for us to use the hotel meeting room that day for a local memorial.”
Marta nodded and climbed onto her bed. She curled up and allowed fresh tears to stream down her face; she didn’t wipe them away.
Lynne sat beside Marta.
“I miss her, Lynne. She was a special friend and a beautiful dancer. She loved the San Francisco Ballet. I’d never have had the confidence to go off by myself, would you?”
“We did, Marta. We came here. You were the one who took the biggest gamble. You didn’t know anyone.”
“Maybe you’re right. But that was last fall.” Marta looked around her room as if the answers were written on her wallpaper or her billowing curtains. She turned toward Lynne. “I don’t want any more secrets between us. I want to tell you about the rest of my visit with her.”
For half an hour Marta shared details and answered questions about her visit to Philadelphia. “She looked thin and acted like she’d explode if you made her sit still. She got so mad at me she shoved me to the floor.”
“That’s not the Bartley I know. She sounds crazy. And you’re taking the same pills?”
Marta walked to the window. Outside, the street was empty. Marta tried to think of ways to explain the pills to Lynne. Her mind remained clouded. When she turned back toward Lynne, the door was open. She stood alone in her room.
Tears streamed down Marta’s face. She’d never seen Lynne step away from any argument before this one. Was she mad or sad? Was she coming back, or was their friendship broken beyond repair?
Marta sat alone, paced, and waited. Lynne didn’t return. Marta needed to do something to stop focusing on Bartley, so she went down to the kitchen. The dough she’d left on the work table oozed over the edge of the bowl and slid onto the counter. She buried her hands in the dough, pushing her fists into its yeasty stickiness. Tears streamed down her face as she scraped up the exhausted dough and dumped it into the garbage pail.
The hotel meeting room sign read Timmons Memorial 1:00 - 2:00, Room A. Marta and Lynne arrived fifteen minutes early. They turned on the lights, sat down without speaking, and waited.
A silver-framed photo of Bartley stood on the reception table beside a bouquet of white roses and a card addressed to Bartley’s family. Marta touched the petals of the roses and shivered.
The conference table held a huge tray of quarter sandwiches, small white plates, a coffee urn, dozens of white cups, and a floral arrangement of wildflowers. Lynne picked up a note nestled in with the flowers and read aloud.
The Ladies Auxiliary of the Intermountain Ballet Company wish to express their condolences to the friends and family of Bartley Timmons. She was an extraordinary young woman.
Marta sighed. “And an extraordinary friend.”
Steve arrived. He sat quietly with Marta and Lynne in the circle of chairs they’d arranged. When dancers and townspeople arrived, the three acted as family, accepting cards and condolences, then inviting people to sit, eat, and talk.
At two o’clock Marta closed the door. “I don’t think I could have done this much longer. I’ve never cried so much.”
“It’s probably the hardest thing I’ve done in my life,” Lynne said as she wiped her eyes. “Were you surprised to see Karl here?”
“No,” Marta said. “Karl’s a nice guy when he’s not forced to mop up our sweat. His mother is seriously ill. He said she’ll be the next to go.”
Lynne picked up Bartley’s photo and placed it in her purse. “Damien came. I really like that guy. I didn’t expect Madame to come, but she made an appearance, probably because it was expected of her.”
Marta collected the cards from the small table and stuffed them into her bag. “Let’s go, Lynne. I think we need to talk.” She kissed Steve and gave him a hug. “Thanks for coming. I’ll call you later.”
Marta and Lynne drove to the neighborhood park near Marta’s boarding house. The late afternoon sun soaked into their shoulders as they sat in the swings swaying back and forth without talking. How could the day be sunny and normal? Bartley was gone. Shouldn’t the world look different?
Lynne stopped her swing and twisted to face Marta. “You need to stop taking those pills. Even if they didn’t cause Bartley’s death, they can’t be good for you.”
“I know.”
“Is there anything I can do to help you? I mean, you have to stop.”
Marta saw the serious look on Lynne’s face. She couldn’t afford to lose her last friend over diet pills. She nodded. “I know. I’ll stop.”
Over the next week Marta practiced until her body refused to move. She returned to her room each evening too exhausted to eat. Each day after breakfast she upped her diet pills, telling herself it was just until her audition on May 26. Then she’d quit.
On Saturday afternoon before her audition, Lynne dragged her for a drive to a four-building town called Molt. They split a sandwich at the lone cafe, then drove back roads trying to get lost for a few hours.
Marta stared out the front window of Lynne’s wheezing car and swallowed down her sadness. “I might be gone by the little girls’ recital. I’d be embarrassed to stay and be involved if I’m not part of the company.”
“What? You want to leave me alone to prepare the little girls for their dances?”
Marta trailed her hand in the breeze as they drove back toward Billings. Her stomach ached and her voice caught in her throat as she answered. “Yep. I might. Better get all the work you can out of me before then.”
“Hey, you’ll make the company. I’ve watched you dance. You’re a little stiff, but since you don’t need pointe shoes at your audition, you’ll do fine.”
Marta wished she shared Lynne’s certainty about the outcome. But every part of her body ached, especially her ankle. She’d practiced four hours each morning, then headed to the kitchen for an ice pack before taking a brief nap. Now she had one last day to prepare.
Sunday afternoon shadows crossed her window as Marta watched the street. Neighborhood children pedaled along the sidewalks with playing cards flapping against
their tire spokes, laughing and racing to the tree at the end of the block. Younger children shouted “not it” and ran from one hiding place to another. Life was simple at six or eight or ten. Perhaps it could be simple at eighteen.
She splashed water on her face and went to practice one last time. Dancing would get her mind off everything beyond her control. Somehow it brought her closer to Bartley as well. They’d had their days together dancing, their trips, and their musketeer times. Marta needed to get stronger, to dance and to stay focused. She owed that to Bartley’s memory.
The quiet in the basement usually comforted her. Today the silence hung like a heavy cloak. She sat a long while on her rickety chair trying to decide if she had the energy to stand and start. She took a diet pill from her pocket and swallowed it without water. It stuck in her throat. She swallowed harder.
After a dozen slow stretches, she sat on the chair massaging her calf. She held her breath as muscle spasms raced up her leg and tears blinded her. When she regained control, she forced herself to start the audition music.
The black disk spun, blurring the words on the label like a whirling pinwheel. The mournful clarinet and strings of the Gershwin music created an ache so deep her feet could not move. One sad crescendo after another tugged through her body. She swayed, imagining her feet moving to Damien’s choreography. She loved Gershwin.
Marta shook out her arms and legs and restarted the record. She walked the steps, avoiding stress on her weak ankle, focusing attention on her arms and her location in the dance space. Again and again, she repeated the movements.
Sweat ran down her body. She used an old bath towel to wipe her arms and a mop to soak up the drips on the floor before she circled the room to cool down. She flopped down on the chair and sagged forward. The black, lifeless record had more energy than she could muster. Why did she feel so dizzy?
