The Turnout

by Megan Abbott

  “No,” Dara said, “I will.”

  Charlie looked at her. “You’re not going to ask her about last night, are you? We need her to pay up.”

  “She’ll pay up,” Dara said, swiping the number from his hand.

  Besides, she needed to talk to Mrs. Bloom anyway, about Bailey. Nervous, fearful Bailey, who began Nutcracker season with a throng of friendly classmates happy to braid her bun, to invite her for hot chocolate at Dreusser’s after class, and who now faced straight pins in her shoes, ketchup on the crotch of her stowed leotard, cold stares around the rehearsal space.

  Poor Bailey, who now stood, like Clara, on the dark stage alone.

  * * *

  * * *

  But when Dara tried to call Mrs. Bloom, a recording asserted, The number you have dialed is not in service. . . . On some old paperwork, she found a landline number from years ago. But when Dara tried it, a recording announced, This number is no longer in service or has been disconnected. . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  After rehearsal, Dara asked Bailey if she could help her get in touch with her mother. But the girl kept insisting she didn’t have the number, didn’t know it. She looked embarrassed.

  “Bailey,” Dara said, “we need to be able to contact her.”

  “But why?” Bailey said, twitching in the costume, Clara’s filmy nightgown, which she would have to wear in the nightmare scene. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No,” Dara said, and from the corner of her eye she saw a shadow in the doorway. Smelled that thick, sweet smell of his aftershave, the menthol snap of his vape.

  “I’m still gonna be Clara, right?” Bailey asked, her eyes glossy.

  “Of course,” Dara said, her eyes on the shadow. Why is he hovering here?

  Bailey nodded cautiously, then shook the staticky nightgown from her tights and began spinning, pirouetting, her hair coming loose from its pins.

  Dara looked over at the doorway, but Derek, if he’d been there, was gone.

  * * *

  * * *

  Within the hour, Dara’s phone illuminated with a private number.

  It was Mrs. Bloom, her voice slight and careful.

  “I understand you’re trying to reach me,” she said quickly. “If it’s about my . . . obligation . . .”

  It was all a little embarrassing. Dara assured her that everything could be settled simply.

  “Surely it’s just an oversight because you’re such an ardent supporter of The Nutcracker. But it seems you’ve also missed the last billing cycle for classes too.”

  There was a pause on the other end. Dara could hear Mrs. Bloom breathing. Little, short breaths like a nervous animal.

  “Yes, well,” Mrs. Bloom said, clearing her throat, “I’m a little cash poor right now. The house—there were repairs.”

  “Yes, I know. We have the same contractor, remember? You rec—”

  “How long will he be there?” Mrs. Bloom said. “Is he . . . how long do you expect it to go on?”

  “The dust, I know,” Dara said. “I’m sorry about that. We’ve had some setbacks. A flood. So we’re a little behind. But I assure you, we want it over as soon as possible.”

  “Is he there now?” Mrs. Bloom said, her voice newly low, husky.

  “Um, yes,” Dara said, finding herself lowering her voice too.

  “I should go,” she said abruptly. “I have to go.” Her voice almost forlorn, like her daughter’s. I’m still gonna be Clara, right?

  “Mrs. Bloom,” Dara said quickly, “did I see you last night? In the studio parking lot?”

  There was a choked sound from the other end of the phone.

  “Me?” Mrs. Bloom said. “Oh, no.”

  “Because I thought I saw you. At Derek’s truck. You were—”

  “His truck,” Mrs. Bloom said bitterly. “Hardly.”

  “Pardon?”

  There was a brief silence, Mrs. Bloom breathing antically.

  Then saying softly, “Is it true about Mademoiselle Durant?”

  “Is what true?” Dara said, her head throbbing now. Afraid of what Mrs. Bloom might say, might mean.

  “That she . . . she went blond?”

  At that moment, the thundering wet-vac in Studio B started up again, the lights flickering with the surge.

  “Mrs. Bloom,” Dara said, raising her voice, holding the earpiece close, “is there something you want to tell me?”

  The whisper came frantic, tight, the words sliding together: “Listen to me. Listen.”

  “I am listening,” Dara said, though she could barely make out Mrs. Bloom’s voice, so faint and strained.

  “He has something he wants,” she said, her voice sliding in Dara’s ear like a blade. “He’ll hold it close until he’s ready.”

  “What?” Dara said, not sure she’d even heard her right. “What?”

  But Mrs. Bloom had hung up.

  “Did she pay up?” Charlie asked. She set the phone down and felt something cold go over her, a chilled hand laid on her neck, her collarbone.

  “What? No.”

  “Not anything at all?” Charlie asked.

  But Dara didn’t answer, her head lost in thought. Charlie wouldn’t understand. He hadn’t heard Mrs. Bloom’s voice. He hadn’t seen her down there in the parking lot, the fear in her crouch.

  * * *

  * * *

  All day, Mrs. Bloom’s voice shivered in Dara’s ear.

  Is it true? That she went blond.

  He’ll hold it close until he’s ready.

  * * *

  * * *

  But there was no time to think it through, not with sixty ten- to twelve-year-olds filling the studios, all getting fitted by two harried tailors, their mouths full of pins.

  There was no time to think and there was that car in the parking lot, its brilliant orange already dimmed by mud and salt spray. By late afternoon, when Dara stole a glance, it looked shabby, a tired pencil eraser, a crushed safety cone.

  That car.

  * * *

  * * *

  It wasn’t until the end of the day that Dara caught Marie alone, sitting on the fire escape with a cigarette, that ridiculous leather jacket enclosing her, legs wrapped upon herself like a spider.

  “I talked to Mrs. Bloom today.”

  “Oh,” Marie said, gripping her feet, bare and beaten. Marie’s feet were the worst of any of their feet, like twisted slabs of raw meat. Dara never noticed unless she saw others staring. To her, they were a forever reminder of how hard Marie went, how relentless she’d been as a dancer, how she now carried that relentlessness elsewhere.

  “She seemed to be implying things,” Dara said. “About Derek.”

  “Really,” Marie said, studying her blackened toenail. “Did she finally pay her fees?”

  Dara paused. “Do you know something about Mrs. Bloom and Derek?”

  “No,” Marie said.

  Dara didn’t believe her.

  “How did you pay for that car, Marie?”

  “I have money,” Marie said. “I just never had anything to spend it on before.”

  “You mean anyone. You bought this because he told you to.”

  “I bought it for myself,” Marie said, lifting her chin. “I needed it.”

  “You needed it. For what, Marie.”

  Marie didn’t say anything, scratching her forehead, the skin at her temple still pink and tender from whatever she’d used to bleach it, to bleach herself bare.

  “Do you even remember how to drive?” Dara said. “It’s been years—”

  “Derek’s helping me with the stick,” Marie said, her hand dropping to her lap, her eyes fixed on Dara now. “I should have done this years ago.”

  She could see Marie was trying to make her understan
d something. It felt like Marie was accusing her of something.

  “People have cars,” Marie continued, a new steeliness to her voice. “That’s what they do. They move away. They buy a car, fuck other people, buy a house.”

  She stopped herself and looked at Dara. A look like she was accusing Dara of something.

  “Are you sure?” Dara said. “Because some people seem to never do that. Who move away only to come back. Who move out only to hide in an attic like a little mouse.”

  “You have a car,” Marie said. “You have a house.”

  Dara looked at her, a chill behind her ears. A memory of something.

  “Why are you bringing up the house now?” Dara asked, but Marie didn’t say anything.

  Marie, her legs like a spider’s, head lowered, hiding itself, or something else.

  EN GARDE

  All evening, Dara thought about Marie. The car. Marie had rarely driven. Had never liked it, not after their parents. The last time she drove had been five years ago.

  Dara still remembered the phone call in the middle of the night. A nurse from the local Methodist hospital called to say Marie had been in an accident.

  Charlie told her it had to be a mistake. Marie was asleep down the hall, as she was every night. Every night the three of them padding up the stairs.

  But Marie wasn’t asleep down the hall. Instead, she’d taken their shared Chrysler for a nighttime drive on some county road, her brights blaring, and ended up shearing off the front bumper on a guardrail only a few miles from the highway median their parents’ Buick had waltzed across ten years before.

  It was a miracle, really, that she emerged with only a few bumps and bruises, and a sprained thumb.

  That’s what the highway patrol officer told Dara at the hospital.

  Seated on the gurney, Marie displayed for Dara her thumb, newly outfitted in an outsize splint, a neoprene glove with hooks and loops like a falconer or a fencer.

  En garde, Marie said, as if reading her mind.

  * * *

  * * *

  Isaw them, she said after when they asked her what had happened. Mother and Father. They were ahead of me in the old Buick. They were going so fast. I had to keep up.

  Dara felt herself grow cold.

  I wanted to warn them. But it was like they were trying to lose me, leave me behind.

  Marie’s legs shaking, her pupils jitterbugging.

  But how can you rescue someone, she said, who doesn’t want to be saved?

  Dara said she wasn’t making any sense and that she’d better start. Why did you crash into the guardrail, Marie? Where were you going anyway?

  But Marie couldn’t answer, the pills making her silly, sick.

  Her forehead was bulging, a goose egg right between her eyes, and Charlie kept trying to make her laugh, feigning to touch it, asking if it was soft- or hardboiled.

  They didn’t want her to start talking about their parents again.

  Don’t worry, Marie told Dara later. It wasn’t really about them.

  It’s always about them, Dara thought, a realization that hovered there a moment, then was gone.

  * * *

  * * *

  Less than a week after, Marie made her announcement. She was going to go on a trip. A trip to far-off places. She needed to. Places like Budapest, maybe Croatia, or Trieste.

  It was alarming, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was time.

  Dara herself had almost left once, years ago. It was that time just before their parents died, and she and Charlie were so freshly in love. It was the kind of thing that seemed so urgent when you were very young. Far younger than Marie was now.

  And it nearly happened. Until it didn’t.

  But Marie was going, and maybe it was time.

  * * *

  * * *

  It seems to you like I just decided, Marie kept saying to them. It seems impulsive to you. It seems reckless to you. To you.

  Just let her, Dara finally said to Charlie. Just let her.

  Because Dara realized, suddenly, that she wanted Marie to go. A flicker in her head, the house without Marie. A family of only two. It was unimaginable and it made her heart go fast.

  She doesn’t have any money, Charlie kept insisting. She can’t go anywhere.

  We’ll give her money, Dara said. The studio wasn’t yet in the black, but Charlie had a little money left from his trust fund.

  * * *

  * * *

  That was how they came to the arrangement. They’d buy out Marie’s stake in the house, based on a fair estimate of their devising. Their parents had left it to both of them, but what did Marie need with a house if she was going to be traveling around the world?

  It’s her choice, after all, Dara told Charlie, who wasn’t so sure.

  And, of course, Dara said to Marie, we hope you’ll come back to us, come home.

  A deed is just a piece of paper, Charlie added more urgently to Marie. You belong here.

  There was a big party before she left—all the studio parents came, and the former students now grown—and Marie drank a bottle of champagne herself and ended up kissing one of Dara’s former students in the pantry, a twenty-year-old boy with a dashing blond forelock, and generally causing mayhem before collapsing in tears at the kitchen table after everyone had left. Charlie put her to bed, laid a cold washcloth on her face, a trash basket nearby in case.

  She’s not going, Charlie told Dara. You’ll see.

  * * *

  * * *

  But Marie did go, dragging their mother’s rolling trunk behind her.

  “First stop, Greeeece!” That’s what the first postcard said, a week later.

  The second one, from Rome, came a week after that and had only a few words scrawled across: “BEING GOOD. LOVE TO MY DARLINGS.”

  There was no third one and, twenty-five days after she left, they woke to the sound of Marie’s battered feet pittering along the upstairs hallway, a duty-free bag with a half-eaten box of mandoles and three cans of halva ringed around her wrist. Their mother’s velvet trunk abandoned at the foot of the stairs, its wheels now stripped.

  I had it all wrong, she said, clinging to Dara in bed that night, the two of them twinning, making Marie feel safe. I thought the voices inside were saying to go, go, go!

  And what, Dara asked, did they really say?

  They said don’t listen to the voices, Marie said and laughed, laughed so hard that she shook in Dara’s hands, in her arms, Dara holding her, this little bird, its beak sharp and cries small.

  We’re glad you’re home, said Charlie, who always knew what to say and said it, his eyes glassy and relieved, Marie clambering into his arms, staying there.

  That night, they piled together in the master bed like they’d always done when their mother was still alive, like on the final nights of The Nutcracker.

  They snuggled against one another, one hand over another’s foot, a tickle to the ribs, a smoothing of one’s hair. Charlie loved to stroke their hair, one hand on each mane.

  What, Dara thought, could anyone find in that other than love?

  They loved Marie. They had helped her. They owned the house, but it was hers to live in. Forever if she liked. Except she didn’t like it, in the end. She’d left again, abandoned them. But what if, suddenly, she might want it back? Because he did.

  THE SETUP

  It was the blue of four a.m., the furnace clanging.

  Dara couldn’t sleep and had embarked on a Nutcracker task that meant digging through the creasy, mold-thick boxes in the basement, tripping over the heavy, pungent carton with their father’s old hockey equipment, warped wooden sticks, faded jerseys still stiff with years of sweat.

  Nearly tripping over an old banker’s box, she found her foot landing in damp hair and almost cried out. But it was only their mo
ther’s old rabbit fur blanket, crawling loose from a soggy wardrobe box tipped on its side.

  She paused. She had no memory of putting it down here. Had Marie? She bent down to reach for it, its smell cloying, both familiar and forgotten.

  Their mother had many holiday traditions: sprinkling holy water on the barre before the first new class, stringing popcorn-and-cranberry garlands before Midnight Mass, and eating milk bread with sugar in bed if you were sick.

  But their favorite took place every year after the final performance of The Nutcracker.

  The end of such a grueling haul, a dozen performances or more, every year more substantial parts for Dara and Marie, moving from mice and party guests to harlequins and flowers. Neither ever played Clara because that wouldn’t be fair, their mother said.

  (It wouldn’t be good business, Dara later realized.)

  Eleven, twelve o’clock at night and their father invariably on the road or asleep in his lounger downstairs, monster movies flickering on the TV, they returned from the Ballenger Center, tiptoeing through the house, following their mother to the master bedroom, unpeeling themselves, unsticking themselves, their eyes raccoon black, their feet full of masses, their color high.

  Black nails, purpling skin, flesh stippled. Sore legs sunk in ice or cracked feet dunked in mouthwash, arnica slathered, then cling-wrap tight around throbbing muscles.

  No more stuffy mice suits, no more crawling under Mother Ginger’s hoop skirt!

  No more fake snow in my mouth, up my nose!

  No more simpering Clara and her teary face!

  And they’d curl up in their mother’s bed and drink warm eggnog heated gently over the stove, and watch videotapes of old Nutcrackers on the tiny portable black-and-white. The last one would always be their mother herself as Clara, age twelve, in the Alberta Ballet’s beloved Nutcracker season.

  And their mother would bring out that fur blanket, the one Dara had just found—wet and musky—on the basement floor. She’d remove it from her velvet trunk and tell them it had once been her own mother’s and was made from the fur of genuine Vienna Blue rabbits.