“I really saw in him a tyrant—a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering; these sensations for the time predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort.”
A tyrant, a murderer. What an awful childhood it must have been for her. Not only was John Reed not punished for his wrongdoing, but when Jane rebelled against his tyranny, she was locked away. What's more, they threatened to tie her down if she didn't hold still. What a sad existence: to be labeled as “less than a slave” because you don't “earn your keep”.
Eventually, I do fall asleep. His gentle shaking wakes me.
“You'll miss the good parts, you know?” he says with a grin. “Your blood-sugar must be low. Would you like some coffee?”
I check my phone.
“Oh! I almost forgot the time,” he says looking up at the clock. “We've run over.”
I sit up and rub my eyes. I feel bad for falling asleep, but I was exhausted. After my nap I feel much better, well enough to act on my earlier idea of going back to The Royale.
As I gather my things, the doctor rambles on about something. “...anyway, I'll see you again next week. This was fun.”
This was fun?
I can't help but shoot him an incredulous look. He offers me his hand, presumably to help me to my feet. I stand on my own, scooting off the edge of the chaise.
Goodbye, silly doctor! See you next week, I should say to him. But I don't, I smile to myself and slip out before he can say anything further.
The drive to The Royale feels shorter the second time, maybe because I'm not nervous about an acceptance audition this time. I park close to the club. It's just around dinner time, so the lounge is still relatively empty. I enter and the same bouncer from last time smiles and nods to me. The orchestra is tuning up. The house lights are high.
Waiters are serving dinner to the patrons, who are all busy murmuring between themselves. In many aspects of life, I'm a creature of habit. Even though the corner table didn't give me the best view of the stage last time, I take the same seat.
A waiter comes by and gives me a large menu with dinner options on it. “The show will begin in an hour. Can I get you something to drink?” A whole hour, huh? I shake my head 'no'. “No problem. Let me know if you change your mind.”
A whole hour until she sings. I could go speak to her now instead of waiting. I set the menu down and wander to a door at the far side of the stage. On it is a sign reading, “Stage Entrance”. I let myself through and go up a short flight of stairs. The stairwell widens to a backstage area. Up a wrought-iron staircase are several dressing rooms with slots for the performer's name-card. On the bottom floor are a few offices, their doors wide open, some with fans blasting air on the highest setting. It is warm back here. I can't say I blame them.
Though I'm walking around without any kind of identification or name-tag, nobody bothers to ask me who I am. It worries me to an extent. What if I was some kind of weirdo? I try the first two dressing rooms, but no one answers when I knock.
On the third door I hear, “Come in.”
Curious.
I open the door a crack. Music spills out, the bright peel of trumpets and warm horns backing it. I notice the record player from whence the music originates. I don't recognize the tune, but I'm not sure I should expect to. Before an ornate, antique vanity, with her illuminated, wrinkled face sits Ms. Mabel.
“Well, come on in child. We ain't got time to waste. You're late.”
Late?
She motions me over, “Come over and let me have a look at you.” I swallow hard, stepping forward for her inspection. I'm utterly stupefied. For a minute I consider backing out of the room slowly, running to my car and driving home as fast as possible.
“Can you do hair?” she asks. I know I must look terrified. I have no idea what she's talking about. “Well, never mind that. Just do something with it, and we'll see where it goes. I've got to be on stage soon.”
My hypothalamus must be broken, because I can't decide whether to fight or fly. In awkward communion between the two options, I drop my purse into a guest chair and squeeze in behind her.
“You don't say much, do you girl?” she asks. Nostrils flaring, temperature rising, I shake my head. “That's all right. I'm guessin' you're the kind that likes to listen. That's good, cause I'm the type that likes to talk,” she says with a childish grin.
I run my fingers through her soft hair, and pick up a comb. I don't often style my own hair. It likes to do its own thing off-stage. Finale has a staff hairdresser that makes us all look believably ethereal. Otherwise, I'm the ponytail type of girl. The song she's listening to intrigues me. I give the record-player a glance, trying to see the title on the spinning vinyl.
“That's Duke Ellington, girl. Take the A Train.” I've heard of Duke Ellington, though I couldn't tell him from any other performer if anyone asked me. I comb her hair back and attempt to style it similar to how she had the other night. With a little gel and some patience, I'm successful enough to inspire a content look on her face.
“Nice,” she says. “That's real nice. Well, child, time to go on stage,” she says rising. “What's your name?”
I probably wasn't going to answer her anyway, but before I can make the choice, there are two quick knocks at the door. A lanky, pasty white man pops his head in. “Hilda, two minutes.”
“Hilda's my real name, child.” She says, inspecting herself in the mirror a last time. “Ain't no reason to use my real name on stage.”
I follow her out. She takes her time with the stairs. The pasty white man comes back to me. “You're Hilda's new assistant, right? Take this,” he says, handing me a blank sticky-back name-tag. “We'll get you signed in after the show.”
I take it from him and hold it, unsure of what to do next.
“And now ladies and gentlemen, Ms. Mabel!” says the emcee. I look down at the empty name-tag. If I fill it out and put it on, it's a step toward a job I may or may not be prepared to take. If I don't fill it out, I might be refusing the chance to be around someone unique.
Hilda steadies herself at the mic. “Good evenin' y’all,” she says happily. “Ms. Mabel's gonna sing y’all a song about... fallin' in love.”
The drummer, bassist and pianist start up at her cue, playing a leisurely rhythm.
“You see,” she begins over the music, “when you just give love... and you never get love, you'd better let love depart. I know it's so, and yet I know, I can't get you out of my heart,” she says pointing at the audience. She shuts her eyes, smiles and points to her own heart, and then on the downbeat begins to sing.
“You made me leave my happy home / you took my love and now you're gone / since I fell for you...”
A harmonica starts up in the background, waling, like it feels every word she's singing. Again, I'm enraptured, removed from my own body and transported into the song.
“Love brings such misery and pain / I guess I'll never be the same / since I fell for you.” She seems to choke on the words. “Well, it's too bad / and it's too sad / but I'm in love with you / you love me, then you snub me / but what can I do / I'm so in love with you / I guess... I'll never see the light / I get the blues most every night / Since I fell for you... / Since I fell for you.”
She drags out that last 'you', until the music dies and only her voice is left. I realize I haven't been breathing since the middle of the song. A rogue tear slides over my face and I wipe it away. I sniff, my chest aching.
As the audience erupts into deafening applause, I write my name on the blank name-tag and press it to my chest.
(Jacob)
For six hours, my toes pound the floor of the Beaverton studio. Six times, my body collides with the floor; six times I get up and keep going. The seventh time, I stay down. I stare at the rotting ceiling. Dizzy with frustration, the only thing that keeps me going is my memory of how good it once felt. But as the pain surges through my muscle
s, I try to justify practicing anymore. I feel like I'm going to collapse if I keep going.
Dancing is killing yourself gracefully. Dancing is hard truth under a soft exterior, an exposition of the soul hidden behind a smile. I've never smiled during practice. The smiles are just for the audience, just part of the costume.
I get to my feet and tug my shirt away from my chest a few times. I'm dripping with sweat, a fact which grosses me out, but it's an unavoidable hazard of long practice sessions. I go into the changing room, pull my bag out of my locker, and consider taking a shower. Let's see how much time I have. I check the clock on my phone. I've been here longer than I thought. I'm going to be late for my third session if I don't hurry.
I sit on a bench and slide off my class pointe shoes. The tape from around my toes came loose hours ago, but my determination to work through the pain kept me from correcting that. I peel the tape away, wincing as the air hits my sores. My toes are bleeding and blistered. I take my tank top off and mop the sweat and blood from my feet. The cool air feels great. I might make practicing with just my sports bra on an every time thing. I throw the gory tapes away and strip down for a shower. I don't want to smell like corn-chips in therapy.
I think everyone stands under the shower and thinks, but I've caught myself doing it more often lately. Showers have become more about mental catharsis than physical ablution. I should be using therapy for that, I suppose.
I'm sure if people knew I was thinking of my therapist in the shower, they'd get the wrong idea. I'm not thinking about him like that, not really. Okay, maybe a little. He's a good looking guy; I can't lie about that, but I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in pursuing a relationship with anyone. I don't need the baggage and I'm sure the male population can do without mine.
He's a strange guy. As a doctor, he's had me draw and watch a movie. The sessions are completely different from what I experienced in Dr. Fishel's office. I have this nagging feeling I should have stopped going to him, but something draws me back. I think it might be because I'm not bored during our short time together.
My phone alarm goes off, signaling that it's time to get out. I quickly rinse the soap from my body and the shampoo from my hair. I towel off at light-speed, throw on my street clothes and sprint for my car despite the fact that my feet are screaming. It's all necessary pain.
The streets are relatively deserted and I start to get that niggling feeling again, like I'm being watched... or followed. This time I don't hear footsteps; still I speed up and reach my car before I experience any anxiety. The last time it happened, it wreaked havoc on my nerves. If not for the music and the drink, I may have ended up having a serious breakdown.
As I drive, I remember the songs I heard and the singer who, for a few minutes, stole my attention and eased my fear. Ms. Mabel was her name, I think. She had such expressive eyes. I could feel everything in the songs. I wonder how often she performs. I'd love to see her again, maybe even talk to her.
Before I know it, I'm at the doctor's office. I knock and he opens the door. He's smiling, like usual. I think I remember reading somewhere that a person who smiles all the time is a fool, but I can't remember who said it. It was probably someone infinitely wise, or a happy fool speaking out of experience.
“Come in,” he says. I take my usual seat. The doctor floats around behind his desk, pats his pockets, and lightly snaps his fingers before going to his bookshelf.
“I was thinking, today we might do a little reading,” he says over his shoulder.
Reading? What will that accomplish? It's certainly weird. But sure! Why not?
I lay back on the chaise. I'm exhausted and ready for a nap. It will be a struggle not to fall asleep.
“Do you have a favorite book? I might have it in my library.”
I don't care what you read. I close my eyes.
“How about Jane Eyre?” he asks. His footsteps come back and I hear his weight settle into his chair. “It's a classic. I've read it probably a hundred times.”
I've never read it all. So go ahead, man, read. I'm listening.
Though he can't have heard what I thought, he flips to the first page and begins.
“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so somber, and a rain so penetrating, that further outdoor exercise was now out of the question.
I was glad of it. I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons; dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John and Georgiana Reed.”
My mind compensates for the lack of visuals as he reads. I see a young Jane with her nose buried in a book, an obscure and isolated creature from the moment the book opens. He reads the story so well, that I hardly notice the time passing. Soon the sound of pages turning disappears. His voice is mesmerizing, its smooth baritone so relaxing that I have to fight sleep.
When John Reed attacks Jane, my eyes slip open. I watch the doctor's face as he intimates the details. His face is serious as John assaults Jane with a book, causing her to bleed.
“I really saw in him a tyrant—a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering; these sensations for the time predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort.”
A tyrant, a murderer. What an awful childhood it must have been for her. Not only was John Reed not punished for his wrongdoing, but when Jane rebelled against his tyranny, she was locked away. What's more, they threatened to tie her down if she didn't hold still. What a sad existence: to be labeled as “less than a slave” because you don't “earn your keep”.
Eventually, I do fall asleep. His gentle shaking wakes me.
“You'll miss the good parts, you know?” he says with a grin. “Your blood-sugar must be low. Would you like some coffee?”
I check my phone.
“Oh! I almost forgot the time,” he says looking up at the clock. “We've run over.”
I sit up and rub my eyes. I feel bad for falling asleep, but I was exhausted. After my nap I feel much better, well enough to act on my earlier idea of going back to The Royale.
As I gather my things, the doctor rambles on about something. “...anyway, I'll see you again next week. This was fun.”
This was fun?
I can't help but shoot him an incredulous look. He offers me his hand, presumably to help me to my feet. I stand on my own, scooting off the edge of the chaise.
Goodbye, silly doctor! See you next week, I should say to him. But I don't, I smile to myself and slip out before he can say anything further.
The drive to The Royale feels shorter the second time, maybe because I'm not nervous about an acceptance audition this time. I park close to the club. It's just around dinner time, so the lounge is still relatively empty. I enter and the same bouncer from last time smiles and nods to me. The orchestra is tuning up. The house lights are high.
Waiters are serving dinner to the patrons, who are all busy murmuring between themselves. In many aspects of life, I'm a creature of habit. Even though the corner table didn't give me the best view of the stage last time, I take the same seat.
A waiter comes by and gives me a large menu with dinner options on it. “The show will begin in an hour. Can I get you something to drink?” A whole hour, huh? I shake my head 'no'. “No problem. Let me know if you change your mind.”
A whole hour until she sings. I could go speak to her now instead of waiting. I set the menu down and wander to a door at the far side of the stage. On it is a sign reading, “Stage Entrance”. I let myself through and go up a short flight of stairs. The stairwell widens to a backstage area. Up a wrought-iron staircase are several dressing rooms with slots for
the performer's name-card. On the bottom floor are a few offices, their doors wide open, some with fans blasting air on the highest setting. It is warm back here. I can't say I blame them.
Though I'm walking around without any kind of identification or name-tag, nobody bothers to ask me who I am. It worries me to an extent. What if I was some kind of weirdo? I try the first two dressing rooms, but no one answers when I knock.
On the third door I hear, “Come in.”
Curious.
I open the door a crack. Music spills out, the bright peel of trumpets and warm horns backing it. I notice the record player from whence the music originates. I don't recognize the tune, but I'm not sure I should expect to. Before an ornate, antique vanity, with her illuminated, wrinkled face sits Ms. Mabel.
She's staring ahead like all of time stretches out in front of her. She blinks on the moments, the memories, the happiness and sadness. A tear slips from her green eye, runs a line down her creamy cheek and dissolves into her black blouse. She doesn't bother wiping it away. I reach into the center console and hand her a tissue from a pocket-pack.
“Thanks,” Lisa says, dabbing her wet face.
“What were you thinking about?” I ask as I pull into the church parking lot.
“I was thinking about the time we shaved Mrs. Lonstein's Himalayan. She had a cow.” She broke into a laugh, sniffing and wiping her nose. “She chased us with a frying pan, across all the yards. We ran from her and when we tried to hop a fence, I cut my ankle. She dragged me behind a bush and the old lady missed us by five seconds. She used the corner of her shirt to mop up the blood. She made sure I wasn't hurt too bad, then shouldered me all the way back to the house. I don't think Mrs. Lonstein got a good look at us because we ended up getting away with it.” Lisa drops her head back against the headrest and swallows hard. “I just can't believe she's gone.”
I can feel my eyes begin to sting, too. “Me neither.” I can see people going into the church for the memorial and I take Lisa's hand. “We'd better go in, they're probably about to start.” She nods, mopping at her eyes again. We lock the car and go into the church.
Body Language Page 5
