by Jemma Harte
"Do you have stiffness in your hip, Miss Keene? Left side?"
"Sometimes." She shrugged. He had to be kidding. Hip pain was as predictable as the sun coming up every morning. She danced through it. They all did. As the company orthopedist, he ought to be aware of the things they put their bodies through.
"I'm afraid you're showing signs of osteoarthritis in the hip socket, Miss Keene."
"What does that mean?" she grumbled impatiently, for she was going to be late for afternoon rehearsal if he didn't get a move on.
"It means you have calcium deposits on the bone and you're wearing away cartilage."
"What can you do for it?" The winter season had just begun and forty performances of The Sleeping Beauty lay ahead. Lily had a burning hope of getting a solo this year– the Lilac Fairy if luck was on her side and Stacey Glasson's bulimia got so bad they had to take her off the roster. It was Lily's turn. Her time. "You can give me drugs, right?" she added hopefully.
The doctor took off his glasses and rubbed the lenses with a little yellow cloth. "Anti-inflammatories will help only a little, Miss Keene. The damage is extensive, and I must advise you to keep weight off it as long as you can. Osteoarthritis is a degenerative disease. The cartilage— in layman's terms the shock-absorber of your hip joint— is wearing away—"
"Won't it grow back though?"
"Miss Keene, cartilage does not grow back. Once destroyed it is gone forever. There is no cure, but we can ameliorate the pain as much as possible. Of course, surgery may be an option down the line." He shook his head, lips pursed tightly.
Surgery and hip replacement? Her heart stopped beating. Surgery was very bad news for a dancer and had anyone ever danced with a hip replacement? She could hear the girls laughing now in the dressing room, mocking her dogged determination to keep dancing as pieces of her bone fell off onto the stage. She was quite positive no one had ever danced at NYBT with a walking frame.
"Your hip has suffered severe wear and tear, Miss Keene. Corticosteroids can be injected to help reduce pain and swelling, but rest is the most effective treatment. I would advise only moderate exercise with limited impact on the joint— cycling, swimming..."
She tuned the rest of it out as his voice droned on.
Eventually she got up out of the chair, thanked him, took the prescription he handed to her and walked out of his office.
Her mind, which had been so busy for days, was suddenly blank, empty.
It was raining out, but she had no umbrella. What did it matter?
Lily stepped out onto the wet pavement and stared dully at the midtown traffic. What now?
Go on, of course. Go on just the same. She could dance through the pain. No one else need know. The doctor was not legally allowed to inform company management about her problems. She was supposed to do that.
But inside she was screaming in agony. Not from physical pain, but from her dreams slowly dying. Seventeen years-worth of dreams down the drain. That was worse than a shattered bone.
With trembling fingers she lit up a cigarette.
As she stood there, limp and soaked, a large, fire-breathing dragon roared by, splashing her from head to toe with filthy water from the bubbling brown gutter.
She barely noticed, until someone shouted and she turned her head to see a man leaning out of the fire truck, waving. "Hey, sorry about that!" They had pulled over a short way on, the fire truck's brakes wheezing to an abrupt halt. "Rookie driver," he yelled. "Sorry!"
Lily looked down. Her cream, mohair peacoat — a birthday gift from her beloved grandmother two years ago—was now decorated with a lavish coffee-colored splatter.
Oh, well. Worse things had happened to her today. Worse things would happen tomorrow. She'd get through it, like she always did, by dancing. Eyes glazed over, she turned and started down the street, wet cigarette wilting from her fingers.
Chapter Two
"Hey! Hold up!" He opened the door and jumped down.
"What ya doin', Joe? We gotta get back to the fire house."
"Yeah, yeah. Just a sec. The food will still be there." He knew the crew were extra eager to get back for dinner because his brother Mike was on the rota to cook tonight and they were looking forward to his notorious Chicken Marsala. Turning, he looked for the woman they'd splashed. There she was, walking up ahead with a pair of legs that could have belonged to a giraffe.
"Hurry up, Joe. C'mon!"
"Just wait, okay?" He was annoyed with the rookie who had driven like an ass. Maybe the guy needed more practice before they let him take the wheel again. The last thing they needed was some hapless pedestrian getting mown down by an engine truck in mid-town Manhattan. That would not be good for public relations at all.
Helmet under one arm, he dashed after the splashed woman, leaping puddles in his heavy boots. "Hey! Miss!" Maybe she was a Mrs. "Hey! Ma'am!"
She didn't stop until he dodged in front of her. Two wide blue eyes looked up in surprise, as if she hadn't even heard him trying to get her attention. Her mouth tensed warily, eyebrows arched. Despite those long legs she wasn't tall. They gave her the illusion of being so, until he stood beside her. Then he realized she was probably no more than 5'5'' - just all legs. And blue eyes.
Lieutenant Joe Rossini forgot what he'd meant to say. He stood like an idiot, gaping at the most beautiful woman he'd ever met. She knocked him off his usually sturdy feet.
"What?" she exclaimed, blinking against the rain. "What is it?"
"Er...Sorry about your coat," he managed finally.
She looked down. "It's just a little mud. It's fine. It'll dry."
"Listen, let me pay for cleaning."
A frown gathered her elegant brows together. "Why?"
"I want to. It was our fault."
"It's really not necessary."
"But we should. I should. That's a nice coat. Expensive, huh?" Christ, why was he burbling like a teenager? And he'd just made the monumental mistake of reaching out to touch her sleeve. He couldn't stop himself.
"Don't touch me!" She drew back at once, avoiding his fingers.
Of course he was sweating and grimy. He'd just come from a call where he had to run up eight flights in full gear, through smoke. Princess Blue Eyes must know nothing about hard work.
Before she could move away, he spurted, "I'm Joe. Joe Rossini. Lieutenant." He stuck out his hand again after wiping it on his bunker coat. She looked horrified, as if he'd spat on it first. In the next second she'd ducked around him and walked on, merging into the crowd.
"If you change your mind you can find me at engine six," he shouted. "C shift!" She didn't look back. The way she moved was elegant, smooth, her long dark hair flowing in a ponytail behind her, gleaming with rain. He felt like grabbing that hair and tugging her back.
But he stood there, staring after her until she disappeared around the corner.
Gradually he became aware of his crew hollering and laughing. Oh, they'd love this.
"Doing your bit for public relations, eh, Joe?" one of them exclaimed as he leapt back up into the cab of the fire truck and slammed the door.
"You runnin' for Mayor, Joey?"
"Saw-ry about your coat, ma'am," another teased. "Aw shucks, ma'am, let me pay."
"She was drenched, okay?" he muttered. "And she looked kinda sad."
"Like every other motherfucker in the city. Only the drunks and the junkies are happy."
Joe looked out of the window as they pulled away from the curb. Her eyes were so blue, it felt like they were imprinted on his mind. But they were filled with tears.
He couldn't forget that face. It reminded him of one of those Egyptian statues in a museum. All noble and haughty and mysterious. Nefertiti. Yeah, like Nefer-fucking-titi.
* * * *
"Hey, Mike, your brother got off his leash today and went roaming after a prissy bitch."
"Chased a long-legged, snobby chick down the street."
"Offered the lady some laundry services, if ya know what I mea
n."
Joe good-naturedly let the laughter and teasing continue. It would be a mistake to act like it bothered him, for then they'd never stop. As it was, they'd soon find something else to laugh about. There was plenty of material on a twenty-four hour shift in the firehouse.
His brother dropped to the bench beside him.
"Cute girl, huh?"
"Yeah, she was okay."
Don't touch me, she'd exclaimed, looking at his hands as if they had blood and brain-matter on them.
The men around the table began shoveling food into their mouths.
"About time you got back in the saddle, bro," Mike muttered. "What's it been? Six months?"
"Four and a half."
"Time enough then. Gotta get Donna out of your system. She's moved on, right?"
Like he needed that rubbed in. He and Donna had been off and on for two years, but when he didn't buy her an engagement ring exactly when she thought he should, she called it quits. Apparently she'd already found someone else, because she'd been shouting her mouth off about the new love of her life at the hair salon where Mike's wife worked.
"I'm not really looking for anyone right now," Joe replied, reaching for a can of soda and popping it. "I could do with a break."
"Sure, but it does no harm to look."
He shrugged. "Maybe." Princess Blue Eyes probably had a boyfriend. Girls who looked like that didn't usually lack for male company. And she hadn't even given him her name so she wasn't interested in him. Why would she be— a waspy, Upper East Side, good-looking girl like that? Christ, her legs went on for days in those tight, black pant-thingys. And she smelled real good.
Grabbing another hunk of bread he mopped up some sauce and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing fast.
Yeah, she was hot. But in a cool way. Nothing like the girls he usually went with— all lipstick, push-up bras and Godzilla fingernails. She was different. Too cool for him.
Not that Joe Rossini didn't have his charms, but he was just a regular guy and Blue Eyes was clearly out of his league. Staten Island Joe knew his hunting ground and it didn't include Park Avenue. That would be setting himself up for a whole set of troubles and heartache. His idea of Friday night fun — when he wasn't on shift—was a few beers down at his local and a game of poker. She didn't look the sort to fit in down at Lucky Lou's where the hot wings were half price on a Friday before six and "ladies" got their first drink free.
Blue Eyes would call it "complimentary", he thought with a sniff.
No doubt she spent her Friday nights at art gallery openings, eating stuff that tasted like cat food, wiped on thin toast triangles.
Everything about her was neat, composed. Except for the mud stain. She wouldn't want a guy like him around, making things untidy and grubby.
Joe used to be a lot bolder when it came to women, much more devil-may-care, but nothing mattered so much back then. These days he was cautious. At thirty-one he was finally getting around to straightening out his life and thought he'd outgrown the tendency to make impulsive mistakes with his cock. According to Donna, he should get a life like his brother's— a good, steady life with a wife to keep him in line, two or three kids. Simple, sweet. Just a regular guy's life. That's what he should want.
Yeah, Princess Blue Eyes was way out of his league. They both knew it, that's why she'd looked at him the way she did. But it was also the reason why he'd watched her go with more than a hint of wistfulness in his heart, because sometimes what Joe should want — the things that were expected for a man like him—didn't quite match up to what he really wanted. That something special that was just out of his reach.
* * * *
She stretched slowly, legs out at 180 degrees, arms on the floor, torso lowered flat to the boards. Every day it felt as if it took longer to get her muscles warm enough, but ironically her hip didn't feel too bad today. Or she was in denial?
Raising her head, she watched Tiffany and Peter going through their combination under the watchful eye of the choreographer. This was a modern peace, all angles and terrifying, gravity-defying lifts. They'd been working on it for a week, and Lily was understudying the female lead. It was good part for her, but far from the first time she'd understudied for Tiffany and that job involved more cheerleading and tear-wiping than it did actual dancing.
Just as she was appointed mother hen for the girls in the corps, Lily appeared to have become Tiffany Weltzer's unofficial caretaker. To make matters worse for doe-eyed Tiffany, this choreographer was young, full of ideas, and kept changing his mind about what he wanted. This did nothing for the nervous dancer's self-confidence or anyone else's patience with it.
But stretching at the side of the studio, Lily was enjoying the choreographer's bursts of inspiration. She loved the creative process, seeing it come together, being a part of a new ballet from the ground up. She may be reserved and withdrawn outside dancing, but in the studio she wasn't afraid to experiment.
This was to be a modern piece with very basic sets and plain costumes, everything pared down to concentrate on the lines and shapes made by the dancers' bodies. It was a welcome breather from filly tutus and tiaras.
As Tiffany struggled to pull herself out of an upside down spiral, Lily suddenly found her mind wandering back to the fireman who'd run after her on the street that afternoon. Odd that he should creep back into her thoughts when she ought to be completely absorbed in marking Tiffany.
There was something interesting about him though. He was very...real.
It was the best word she could come up with to describe it.
He had planted himself before her in those big, heavy fireman boots and stuck out his hand, which was so hot she could feel the heat coming off it. The heat coming off him. He was all churning, moving life. And noise. His voice was loud— the sort used to bellowing just to be heard above the never-ending sounds of the city. But it wasn't harsh. It was deep and warm. No doubt everyone would always know when he entered a room.
Lily was a people watcher and loved to analyze the way a person sat, ate a donut, or read a magazine on the subway. She could watch someone for fifteen minutes and make up the entire history of their life from the way they held a pen or scratched their chin.
So she'd already made up the fireman's story. He had a cheerful girlfriend who wore big earrings and high heels, but he couldn't stop his eye from wandering. He drank bud— never the light variety—and the last time he wore a tux was his senior prom. He didn't go to the theater or any restaurant that needed a reservation. He worked out— evidently— but didn't have a gym membership, thought them a waste of money. The last book he read was an autobiography of some baseball player, ghostwritten. And he didn't get around to finishing it, because he left it behind somewhere or lent it to a pal and never got it back. His favorite food was pizza and the only dancing he knew was a slow, rhythm-challenged sway, with his hands on some girl's butt.
He was the complete opposite of the boys who inhabited her world. In fact, he might as well be from another planet.
And yet he kept sliding back into her thoughts. It was his hands, she decided. She couldn't get them out of her mind. They were large with square fingertips. Firm, powerful, strong hands. The sort that wouldn't drop or fumble, but could always be relied on.
Men in her world were dancers with expressive, gracefully tapered fingers. There were non-dancer staff at the theater too, of course: electricians, prop men and stage hands. They were the closest she came to "outsiders" and they eyed her —as they did all the dancers—with amusement, fascination and confusion. She liked to watch their hands as they worked. It was one of her dirty secrets, imagining what it might be like to have those rough hands touching her.
Across the studio Tiffany needed a break. Sweat was shining on the prominent vein down the side of her slender throat, and she was pale with fright about that last lift. The choreographer called Lily over to demonstrate the same move, which she did, despite the jarring pain in her foot when she came down on it.
Got to overcome the tenderness. Don't be a wimp. Don't think about it.
Instead she thought about the fireman again. As a dancer she had a tendency to look at other people's bodies and assess them with a critical eye, so she'd taken it all in. He had a strong frame with wide shoulders. Good hair too — thick and dark, stuck to his forehead with some perspiration. Maybe she should have shaken his hand when he offered it, but it felt strange at the time. Stupidly she'd walked off like a snotty bitch.
He had a nice smile.
"No smiling! No expression, please."
She hastily straightened her lips, having momentarily forgotten where she was and that this was a ballet the choreographer called Behind the Mirror. It was supposed to be about what people would really see if the mirror reflected their character instead of their appearance. She had a feeling the choreographer was trying to make a statement to an ex-boyfriend or something, and working out his issues with this piece.
Theirs was a vain world full of shallow judgments. It didn't matter how hard a person worked, how nice they were, or how much they wanted something. If they didn't look right for a part, if they didn't have the perfect "line", a symmetry of form, they didn't get it. As a result they were all very self-absorbed, constantly staring into mirrors.
She wondered what that fireman had seen when he looked at her. Of course he knew nothing about how fast and balanced her pirouettes were, or how high she could leap in a grand jete, so he would have judged her in some other way, by another standard.
Perhaps she should have smiled at the fireman, said "thank you". It wouldn't have cost her anything. He'd only tried to help and he could have just driven on, ignoring her splashed coat. One day, when she couldn't dance anymore, she'd have to learn to act like a normal person, wouldn't she? She'd have to interact with "real" people instead of her reflection in the mirror.
As they left the studio an hour later, Tiffany's partner bumped her shoulder, "I hear you're up for the Lilac Fairy this year. Congrats."
