He smiled and put his arm lovingly about my shoulders. His voice was tender with understanding when he asked, "Nothing for you equals the ballet, does it? And you won't be disappointed. You just wait to see if New York or London can equal my
production of Samson and Delilah."
Jory had danced the role only three times before, but each time his performances had brought such acclaim it was no wonder Bart was fascinated with the role. The musicians in black sat down, reached for new music sheets and started tuning their instruments.
A few yards away, Joel stood stiffly, a hateful, disapproving look on his face, as if he reflected all that his father's ghost might be feeling to see this extravagant waste of good money.
"Bart, you're twenty-five today, happy birthday! I remember clearly when a nurse laid you in my arms the first time. I had a terrible time giving birth to you, and the doctors kept coming to say I had to make a choice, your life or mine. I chose yours. But I made it, and was blessed with a second son . . . the very image of his father. You were crying, your small hands balled into fists as you flailed the air. Your feet kicked free of the blanket, but the minute you felt my body heat against yours, held close to my heart; you stopped crying. Your eyes, closed until then, parted into slits. You seemed to see me before you fell asleep."
"I'm sure you thought Jory was a prettier baby," he said with sarcasm, but his eyes were tender, as if he liked hearing of himself as a baby.
Melodie was regarding me with the strangest expression. I wished she weren't so near. "You had your own kind of beauty, Bart, your own personality, right from the start. You wanted me with you night and day. I'd put you in your crib, you'd cry. I'd pick you up, you'd stop crying."
"In other words I was a great big nuisance."
"I never thought that, Bart. I loved you from the day I conceived you. I loved you more when you smiled. Yours was such a faltering first smile, as if it hurt your face."
It seemed for a moment I'd touched him. His hand reached for mine, and mine reached for his. But at that moment the overture to Samson and Delilah began, and this moment of sweetness between my second son and me was lost in the excited murmur of surprise as Bart's guests looked at the program and saw that Jory Janus Marquet was going to dance his most famous role, and his sister, Cynthia Sheffield, would play the role of Delilah. Many people looked at Melodie with curiosity, wondering why she wasn't dancing Delilah.
As always, when a ballet began, I was lost to the real world, drifting somewhere on a cloud and feeling so much it was painful, beautiful, and I was transported to another world.
The curtain lifted to show the inside of a colorful silken tent set against a backdrop representing a starry night in the desert. Stuffed but real-looking camels were there, palm trees swayed gently. On stage was Cindy, dressed in a diaphanous costume that clearly showed her slender but ripe figure. She wore a dark wig, cleverly bound around her head with jeweled bands. She began a seductive, undulating dance, enticing Samson, who lingered just off stage. When Jory came on, the birthday guests stood and gave him a resounding ovation.
He stood waiting until the applause ended, then began his dance. He wore nothing but a lion-skin loincloth held up by a strap that crossed his
well- muscled broad chest. His skin, well tanned, appeared oiled. His hair was long and black and perfectly straight; muscles rippled as he whirled, jeteed, duplicating Delilah's steps only more violently, as if he mocked her womanly weakness and delighted in his own agile, masculine strength. The power it took to portray Samson made my spine shiver. He looked so right for the role, danced so well, I shivered again, not from cold but from the pure beauty of seeing my son up there, dancing as if God had gifted him with superhuman style and grace.
Then, as it inevitably had to be, Delilah's beguiling dance of seduction wore down his
resistance, and Samson succumbed to the loveliness of Delilah, who let down her dark tresses and slowly began to undress .. . veil by veil she let fall before Samson fell upon her and bore her back onto the pile of animal skins . . . and the stage darkened just before the curtain dropped.
Applause thundered as the curtain came down. I noticed a certain look on Melodie's pale face--was that envy? Was she wishing now she'd danced Delilah?
"You would have made the best Delilah," whispered Bart softly, his lips brushing the wisps of hair that curled above her pearl-studded ear. "Cindy can't compare . . ."
"You do her an injustice, Bart," answered Melodie. "When you consider her lack of rehearsal time, she's performed beautifully. Jory told me he was surprised how good she is." Melodie leaned forward to address me. "Cathy, I'm sure Cindy has put in hours and hours of general practice, or else she wouldn't dance as well as she is."
Since the first act of the ballet had gone so well, I leaned back against Chris, who had his arm about me, and relaxed. "I feel so proud, Chris. Bart is behaving beautifully. Jory is the most accomplished danseur I've ever seen. I'm amazed how well Cindy is doing."
"Jory was born to dance," said Chris. "If he'd been raised by monks, still he would have danced. But I do remember a rebellious little girl who hated to stretch her muscles and make them hurt."
We laughed in the way long-married couples do, intimate laughter, expressing more than what we said. The curtain rose again.
While Samson slept on the colorful couch he and Delilah had shared, she cautiously eased off, drew on a lovely garment of frail silk, then stole quietly to the opening of the tent and beckoned inside a group of six warriors previously hidden. All bore shields and swords. Already Delilah had shorn Samson's head of his long dark hair. She held it up triumphantly, giving the timid soldiers confidence.
Startled awake, Samson jumped from the bed, jeteed high into the air and tried to lift his weapon. What was left of his long hair was short and stubby. His sword seemed too heavy. He screamed silently on finding all his strength gone. His despair was made visual as he whirled in frustration, beating his brow with brutal fists for believing in love and Delilah; then he fell to writhe on the ground, twisting about, glaring at Delilah, who tormented him with her wild laughter. He rushed for her, but the six soldiers sprang upon Samson and brought him down. They bound him with chains and ropes as he struggled mightily to free himself.
And all the time, off stage, the most famous tenor from the Metropolitan sang his pleading song of love to Delilah, asking why she had betrayed him. Tears flowed down my face to see my son lashed and whipped before he was hauled to his feet and the soldiers began their dance of torture while Delilah watched.
Even knowing all this horror was feigned, I cringed against Chris when the branding iron, heated white hot, was moved ever closer to Samson's bulging eyes. The set darkened. Only the white-hot iron lit up the stage-- and the ghostly shine on Samson's near nude body. The last sound was Samson's scream of agony.
The second act curtain lowered. Again, there was wild applause, and cheers of "Bravo! Bravo!"
Between acts people chatted, got up for more drinks, to fill their plates again, but I sat beside Chris almost frozen with dread that I couldn't explain.
Beside Bart, Melodie sat as tense as I, her eyes closed and waiting.
Third act time.
Bart shifted his chair closer to Melodie. "I hate this ballet," she murmured. "It always frightens me, the brutality of it. The blood seems so real, too real. The wounds make me feel sick. Fairy tales suit me better."
"Everything will be fine," soothed Bart, putting his arm over her shoulders. Immediately Melodie jumped to her feet, and from then on she refused to sit.
The crimson curtain rose. Now we were staring at the representation of a heathen temple. Huge thick columns made of papier-mache towered toward heaven. The vulgar squatting heathen god crouched overhead, cross-legged and center stage, with his cruel eyes gazing evilly downward. He was supported by two main columns reached by a short flight of steps.
The musical cue for the third and final act started.
Dancer
s represented the crowd that would watch Samson tortured before the priests of the temple danced onto stage, each doing his or her own special solo performance before settling into seats. Then dwarfs tugged on chains that dragged Samson onto the stage. Worn and weary looking, blood streaking from many simulated wounds, Samson stumbled blindly in circles as the dwarfs meanly confused him, tripped him so he fell, only to struggle upward and be tripped again. I leaned foward anxiously. Chris's hand stayed on my shoulder, trying to calm me.
Could Jory really see through those nearly opaque lenses that made him look truly sightless? Why couldn't Bart have been satisfied with only a blindfold? But Jory had claimed Bart was right. The lenses were much more effective.
High expectancy was in the air.
Bart turned his eyes on Melodie, as inch by inch Joel was making his way closer, as if he wanted to position himself so he could watch our faces.
Samson had difficulty walking with the chains that manacled his powerful ankles together, dragging behind him a great ball of fake iron. Running and jumping beside him were the dozen dwarfs who jabbed at his strong legs with small swords, tiny lances. (The dwarfs were really children, costumed to look grotesque.) Jory hefted his fake chains, making them seem very heavy, making himself seem weary enough to drop. His wrists also wore what seemed to be iron manacles.
As he stumbled around the arena, turning in blind circles, trying to feel his way along, the lilting, heartrending music played. Stage right, in her own small blue spotlight, the opera star began to sing that most famous aria of all from Samson and Delilah:
"My heart at thy sweet voice . . ."
Blind and tormented from whip lashings weeping blood, Jory began a slow, mesmerizing dance of torment and loss of faith in love, his renewed credence in God restored, using the fake iron chains as part of his action. I'd never seen such a
heartbreaking performance.
Blindly, agonizingly, Samson's ordeal of searching for Delilah while she dodged just out of his reach tore at my heart, as if this entire thing was real and not just a performance, so real every person in the audience forgot to eat, to drink, to whisper to a partner.
Delilah wore an even more revealing costume of green. The jewels sparkled as if they were real diamonds and emeralds, and when I peered through opera glasses, I saw to my dismay that they were part of the Foxworth legacy, glittering and shining enough to lend Delilah the appearance of wearing more than she actually did. And just a few hours ago Bart had blasted Cindy with his anger for wearing more than she did now.
Flitting around the temple, Delilah hid herself behind a fake marble column Samson's outstretched hands pleaded for her help, even as the tenor screamed out his agony of betrayal. I quickly glanced at Bart. He was leaning forward, watching with such intensity it seemed nothing in the world interested him more than this play of agony he'd wanted between brother and sister.
Again I was filled with apprehension. The air seemed fraught with danger.
Higher and higher rose the pitch of the soprano. Samson began to shamble blindly toward his goal-- the twin columns he meant to shove apart and bring down the heathen temple.
Overhead the giant obscene god grinned maliciously. And that song of love made it a thousand times more painful.
As Samson was making his way up the shallow steps, on the temple floor Delilah writhed in apparent regret and agony to see her lover so cruelly treated. Several guards headed to capture her, and no doubt they would treat her as they had Samson. Even so, she began to crawl toward Samson, keeping her body low to the floor and just beneath the chains he lashed about so furiously. Now she grabbed his ankle, looking up at him pleadingly. It seemed he would beat her with his chains, but he hesitated, staring blindly downward before his manacled hand reached tenderly to stroke her long dark hair, to listen to words she mouthed but we couldn't hear.
With calculated thought for drama, with renewed faith in his love and his God, Jory lifted his arms, bulging his biceps, and broke his chains!
The audience gasped at the passion Jory put into the act.
He spun around wildly, lashing the separated chains that dangled from his wrist manacles, trying blindly to strike, apparently, anyone. Delilah jumped up to dodge the brutal chains that felled two guards and one dwarf. She made her attempts to get away a dance of such excitement everyone at the party was held in thrall, totally quiet as bit by bit, Delilah cleverly led her blind lover to the exact position he needed, between the two huge columns that supported the temple's god. Dodging, provoking Samson more and more with taunting, silent gestures even as the song declared her undying love for him. All meant to deceive the priests and the blood-thirsty crowd that wanted to see Samson dead.
All around the arena people were leaning forward, straining to see the grace and beauty of one of the world's most famous premier danseurs.
Jory was performing astonishing fetes, lashing himself up into a terrible frenzy before he finally put one hand on a fake marble pillar; and then with more dramatic import, he had the other braced, too.
On the floor, Delilah kissed his feet before she mocked him, tormented him with words she couldn't speak. Tricking the heathen crowd, while he knew she truly loved him and had betrayed him out of jealous spite and greed. With heaving, impressive motions Samson began to labor to bring down the entire temple by pushing against the columns! The tenor's voice called upon God to help him shove down the blasphemous god.
Again the soprano sang, tenderly seducing Samson into believing he couldn't do the impossible.
The last beseeching note died as with a mighty heave, perspiration streaming down his face, dripping onto his oiled body already streaked with red, he glistened in a ghastly way. His blind white eyes shone.
Delilah screamed.
The cue.
With a mighty and terrifying effort, Jory raised his hands again and began with greater effort to shove against the "stone" columns My heart was in my throat as I watched those papier mache columns begin to bulge. As God restored Samson's strength, down would crash the temple, killing everyone!
Stage hands had cleverly arranged a large amount of cardboard backed by clanging junk to clatter down and make frightful noises. They faked thunder by rippling long rectangles of thin metal, as if God would wreak his vengeance in a personal way. Strangely enough, as the lights turned red, and the records of people screaming began to sound, Cindy was to tell me later, she thought she felt something hard brush her shoulder.
Just before the curtain lowered, I saw Jory fall from a huge false boulder that struck him on his back and head.
He sprawled face down on the floor, blood spurting from his cuts! Horrified to realize that sand didn't pour harmlessly out of the broken and tumbled columns, I jumped to my feet and began to scream. Instantly Chris was up and running toward the stage.
My knees buckled beneath me. I sank to the grass, still seeing the terrible vision of Jory flat on his face with the column smashed down on his lower back.
A second column crashed down on his legs.
The curtain was down now.
Applause thundered. I tried to rise and reach Jory, but my leg wouldn't hold me. Someone caught my elbow and half lifted me. I glanced and saw that it was Bart. Soon I was on the stage, staring down at the broken body of my first son.
I couldn't believe what I saw. Not my Jory, my dancing Jory. Not the little boy who'd asked when he was three, "Am I dancing, Mamma?"
"Yes, Jory, you are dancing."
"Am I good, Momma?"
"No, Jory ... you are wonderful!"
Not my Jory, who'd excelled at everything physical, beautiful and heartfelt. Not my Jory . . . my Julian's son.
"Jory, Jory," I cried, falling upon my knees by his side, seeing Cindy through my tears, crying, too. He should be rising by this time. He lay sprawled . . . and bloody. The "fake" blood I felt was sticky, warm. It smelled like real blood. "Jory . . . you're not really hurt . . . Jory . .. ?"
Nothing. Not a sound, not
a movement.
In my peripheral vision I saw Melodie as through the wrong end of a telescope, hurrying our way, her face so pale she and her black gown seemed darker than the night. "He's hurt. Really hurt." Somebody said that. Me?
"No! Don't move him. Call for an ambulance."
"Someone already has--his father, I think."
"Jory, Jory . . . you can't be hurt." Melodie's cry as she ran forward. Bart tried to hold her back. She began to scream when she saw the blood. "Jory, don't die, please don't die!" she sobbed over and over again.
I knew how she felt. As soon as the curtain was down, every dancer after "dying" on stage jumped up immediately . . . and Jory wasn't doing that.
Cries came from everywhere. The scent of blood was all around us. And I was staring at Bart, who had wanted this particular opera to be made into a ballet. Why this role for Jory? Why, Bart, why? Had he planned for the accident weeks ago?
How had Bart staged it? I picked up a handful of sand and found it wet. I glared at Bart, who stared down at Jory's sprawled body, wet from sweat, sticky from blood, gritty from sand. Bart had eyes only for Jory as two attendants from the ambulance lifted him carefully upon a stretcher and placed him in the back of the white ambulance.
Running forward, I shoved my way to where I could look inside the ambulance. "Will he live?" I asked the young doctor who was feeling Jory's pulse. Chris was nowhere in sight.
The doctor smiled. "Yes, he'll live. He's young and he's strong, but it's my calculated guess it will be a long time before he dances again."
And Jory had said ten million times that he couldn't live without dancing.
When the Party Is Over
.I crowded into the ambulance beside Jory, and soon Chris was at my side, both of us crouching over Jory's still form strapped to the stretcher. He was unconscious, one side of his face very badly bruised and battered, and blood ran from many small wounds. I couldn't bear to look at his injuries, which overwhelmed me, much less concentrate on those horrible marks I'd seen on his back .. .
Dollenganger 04 Seeds of Yesterday Page 10
