The sanctuary isn't large. It's probably fifty feet deep from the entrance to the pulpit. Like the church itself, the pastor is small. In his long white minister's robe, he's easily discernible in the crowd. The casket sits on a riser, a pretty burgundy one with gold-tone fittings. The casket is open, which almost makes me lose it. I haven't seen many dead people. My grandparents all had closed-casket funerals. My dad had an open one, but I think that knowing he was ready to die had made seeing his face bearable.
The pastor does his bit, evangelizing about how God has accepted Janelle, his lamb, into the loving fold of Heaven. It's never been much of a consolation for me that the deceased in my life are “in a better place”. They're gone and I'm still sad. Maybe that's a selfish sentiment. It must be, because it feels like I'd rather have them to myself. If there's one thing that sitting in church as a kid taught me, it was that any time you want something for yourself, it's selfish and therefore, bad.
I've never seen the harm in wanting someone to be alive that has died, even if it is just so they can be with me again.
The service ends and we stand in line to look at her one last time.
It's a bit like waiting in line to look into my future. I know one day I'll be lying there in the satin. It sends a shiver down my spine. We inch closer until we come alongside the casket. Lisa says nothing, which is the response I would have expected. She spends her few minutes in what appears to be silent study of the corpse. Janelle's blonde hair has been curled prettily, her makeup expertly done. Besides her face looking like virgin snow, she could be sleeping.
There has to be something wrong with me. I was determined not to let any of our memories come back when I saw her, but they came unbidden. But I'm not thinking of a time we committed mischief, I'm remembering the first time we made love. I'm convinced it's not the right thing to be doing. What kind of weirdo thinks of having had sex with a person who's dead right in front of them?
I'm remembering the feel of damp earth beneath us as we lay under the stars on our first camping trip. I'm remembering the feel of her hands on my body, the steady sweep of her hair on my shoulder as she held on to me, then took the fateful plunge. I remember the tremors shaking every fiber of my sinew as she rocked against me. I can still hear her breathing in my ear, crying out, reaching for satisfaction. I remember the smell of whiskey on her breath and the paralyzing fear of not lasting long enough.
Who knows if I ever did? We curled up in our cold sleeping bags and just before the fire died, she leaned over, kissed me on the mouth and said, “Good night, Jake. Sleep tight.”
Now that wet earth will be her permanent home. I touch her cold fingers.
Goodnight Janelle. Sleep tight.
On the drive home, rain begins to fall. It wasn't in the weather report, but that's Oregon for you. Lisa spends most of her time looking out the window. We pull up in front of her house and sit quietly together as the wipers groan against the windshield. The patter of raindrops on the roof makes for a pleasant white noise, something to fill the silence.
“What were you thinking about... when you saw her?” she asks.
I don't want to freak her out. “Nothing,” I reply.
She nods, swallows hard, and pulls her jacket's hood over her head. “Thanks for the ride. I'll talk to you soon.”
I give her an uninspired wave and watch her turn to jog over her lawn to her front door. She goes in, and I'm at a loss as to what I should do next. Go home? Go to the office and work? I don't want to do anything. I rub my forehead; rake my fingers through my hair, and drive. Where am I going? I have no idea, I'm just going.
Portland is an interesting city. They've made a concerted effort to preserve some of their most precious landmarks and oldest buildings. Tucked away on a side-street is one of these historic clusters. A line of brick buildings stands out among the other installations. I pull into a parking spot and walk down the sidewalk. It's busy too. There are mobs of people going in and out of establishments. It smells like cigarettes and bread.
I pass a bakery and patisserie. That accounts for the smell of baked goods. Further along down the line are some restaurants and bars. I haven't eaten today, so food sounds good right about now. I stop at the first place I see. Above the front entrance is a sign which reads “The Royale Club”. It looks like as good a place as any other, so I step over the threshold. The bouncer nods, smiling. I marvel at the interior. Someone went to great lengths to preserve this place, that's for sure.
The round lounge is populated by several sets of tables which flank a wide stage with luxurious looking curtains. I take a table in the back and toy with the unlit candle at the center of the table. I check my watch. It's only five, so I wouldn’t expect there to be a show so early.
“Good evening. May I get you something to drink, sir?” asks a waiter, who comes up on me so fast he nearly scares the daylights out of me. I observe the bi-fold menu sitting upright beside the candle.
“Your cocktails sound interesting, but I think I'll have a top-shelf vodka-tonic.” It's after five, right? I've had a rough day. I deserve a drink. There aren't many people in-house yet. Maybe this place sucks? I guess I'll be finding out.
The waiter returns with the drink. I down it fast. In this case, fast means, I put my lips to the glass, and just as quickly, I am looking out the other side. Scary fast. I set the glass down and stare at it for god knows how long.
“Sir, another?” asks the waiter, surprising me again.
I nod.
The second, third and fourth drinks go just as fast. Before I know it, I'm well on my way to being pretty torn up. I haven't had this much to drink in years. Each time I've downed the poison, I sit back and eyeball the glass, the way it reflects the light. The waiter comes by just after my fifth drink and lights the candle at the center of the table.
I fumble for my phone. Damn, six-thirty already? I set my phone on the table.
“Here is The Royale's dinner menu. I'll return in a moment.” He begins walking away, but I catch his sleeve, brandishing the empty cup. He smiles nervously and takes it from me.
When he comes back with my sixth drink, I close the dinner menu and hand it back to him. “I'll have the porterhouse, medium with the asparagus and—the risotto with fennel, is that good?”
“Yes, sir. It's one of my favorites.”
“That, as well, then.”
“Wonderful. I'll put that in right away.”
I sit back in my chair, staring at the stage. The room is swimming.
Wow. I. Am. Drunk.
I burp and taste nothing but liquor. Ugh.
I look around at the lounge, which has filled up considerably in the past hour and a half. The lights lower. They must be preparing for the show. I sip at my drink.
A man in a white suit wafts out onto the stage. He charms the audience on the microphone for a minute or two.
“And now, Ms. Mabel!” he announces, grinning.
The house lights dim to almost perfect dark. The spotlight comes up strong on a stool at center stage behind the tall vintage mic. Into the light steps a petite black woman in her later years, smiling at the crowd. Her navy-blue dress drips with sequins. A yellow rose is tucked in behind her ear.
“How are y’all doin'? Having a good night?” The crowd calls back to her happily. “Good! I'm going to sing a classic tonight, something most of you probably know.” She grins at the orchestra, while giving the pianist the signal to begin. “Go on and play, child.”
He's talented, his fingers moving over the keyboard with finesse. I know this song, though I haven't heard it in a long time.
“There's a saying old, says that love is blind / Still we're often told, "seek and ye shall find" / So I'm going to seek a certain lad I've had in mind / Looking everywhere, haven't found him yet / He's the big affair I cannot forget / Only man I ever think of with regret / I'd like to add his initial to my monogram / Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb? / There's a somebody I'm longin' to see / I ho
pe that he, turns out to be / Someone who'll watch over me...”
My eyes sting. I should probably cash in my man-card. I don't think I've cried this many times in a day, ever. The tears threaten to fall, but never quite make it. I drain the last of my drink and frown at the empty glass. I hear a muffled voice besides the singing, and then feel a tap on my shoulder. I look up, startled. The waiter lowers a tray and sets the plate of food in front of me. He also gives me another vodka-tonic, even though I haven't asked for it.
I paw at the food while she sings. When the song is over, she says she's taking a break. That's a relief. If I don't eat something to soak up the liquor, I won't sober up enough to drive home. I burp again, wincing at the burn as the liquor and stomach acid churn up my esophagus. On second thought, I probably shouldn't drive home at all.
I scarf down the rest of my dinner. It's one of the best steaks I've ever had, perfect marbling, marinated well, and cooked just right. Everything else is spectacular, too. Even though I'm drunk as a skunk and my heart is aching, I can't deny I've had a good time tonight, at least a good enough time to drown out the sound of Janelle's voice in my head. Now my stomach is full, I'm convinced that I'll be returning to The Royale—if for no other reason than to hear Ms. Mabel sing again.
(Carmen)
That's my cue. It's been almost a decade since I've played a background dancer. I hear the orchestra tuning up for the last time in the pit outside. It's been a month since Frederico took me back out of the goodness of his heart. When I first began, I was little more than an open, infected wound in the company's side. But I've rallied, recovering faster than I expected. Even though I was behind, I've built back up most of my ankle strength. My toes are getting stronger, my calves bulging. That is the result of six hours a day in practice, plus whatever practice time I had with the group. I also run five miles a day. Maybe to others it would seem like overkill, but I wanted to be back on stage.
I got my wish, even if it isn't a lead role. I haven't danced in Ondine in a long time. Why Frederico chose it, besides that it's a brilliant ballet, is a mystery to me. He doesn't like modern ballets and Ondine was produced in the 1950's.
My knee-length, poofy white dress is heavier than it looks. Its style smacks of German design. Ondine was written by a Frenchman and set in the Mediterranean, but why dwell on technicality?
Frederico has outdone himself choreographing this one. The formations and steps all look breathtaking when put together. Mary Landis is one of the leads, playing Ondine. Ondine is a water sprite; graceful, alluring. Greg Phelps, our usual male lead is playing Palemon, a fisherman who falls in love with Ondine. He falls so deeply in love with her, that he forsakes his demanding, but beautiful, fiance, Beatrice (played by one of the sweetest girls in our company, Lilly Kent), to be with her. The story is not so different from The Little Mermaid; the similarities between the two are in their endings.
“All right ladies, gentlemen, I need first-act dancers to the wings, please,” Frederico says, clapping his hands.
We all line up. I'm at the front of the queue of the corps de ballet, which are the secondary dancers that do not dance solo. Greg and Lilly are in front of me. Mary comes up behind us, though it's not quite her turn to be on stage. There is a whole movement without her in it.
“Move bitch,” Mary says, pushing past me.
Oh hell no, did she just call me a bitch? I'll tear that fucking crown off her head!
Who put a scorpion in her pointe shoes? Mary has always wanted to be a principal, but she has never been a really great dancer. She's the oldest and stockiest of the dancers in the company. Until now, I haven't had a problem with her. But now is not the time for an altercation. I excuse the bad behavior and shake it off. I don't need rage as a distraction. I can always deal with her later.
“Good luck,” whispers Lilly to me.
I give her a thumbs up.
I dance the opening scenes with the others. Everyone performs it to the tee. Frederico gives no praise, as is normal for him. He saves that for the end, after everything has gone off without a hitch.
The time comes for Mary to take the stage. I notice she hasn't warmed up very well for her introductory scene. When she begins dancing with Greg, her toes are tapping so loud, all of us can hear. There's no doubt in my mind that the audience can hear it, too. A little bit of tapping is normal, but if you don't properly treat your shoes—or as in Mary's case, you're just not as light on your feet—the ensuing ruckus can be annoying. I notice that more often than not her landings are messy. What a spectacle.
Now that I think about it, I haven't seen her practice a whole lot with the group. When has she been putting in the time to get the part down? Has she been taking private sessions with Frederico? When she comes off the stage, he smiles at her and pats her shoulder. What the hell is that about? She shoves past me again for the coolers, where bottles of water wait for us.
There are several costume changes during the three acts which make up the production. My first costume was the peasant's garb. Other scenes require me to be transformed me into a water sprite. When we dance as Mary's entourage, I'm trying not to be distracted by her clumsiness. Something definitely doesn't add up.
By the time the performance is over, the audience is on their feet, clapping and whistling hysterically. We all take our bows.
If you say so, audience.
Ballet dancers even have to do bowing gracefully. We don't stand with our feet flat and hunch over at the waist, showing the audience the tops of our heads. We tip-toe, spread our arms out wide like a bird stretches its wings, we bend down at an angle—but for just long enough—and lastly float backward so the next dancer or dancers can make their bows.
I unlace my performance pointes and ease my feet out of them. They're more or less dead. I won't be using them again. The third act was harder than the first two, but I pulled it off without having to change my shoes, even though I probably should have. Sometimes I wish I had feet made out of metal.
“Excuse me!” I hear Mary's voice from in front of me.
I look up, not saying a word.
“You're blocking my bag,” she states in the most obnoxious way possible, pointing at a gym bag behind the bench I'm sitting on.
I stand up, looking her dead in the eyes.
“What's your problem?” she snaps, shoving my shoulder. Everyone stops what they're doing, eyeballing us.
I don't move.
“Are you deaf and mute? Get the fuck out of my—”
I clock her, right in the face. She might as well have been begging me to do it.
“Oh fuck!” she cries out, stumbling back with her hand over her nose. “Oh my god!” she yelps. I see blood leaking out from behind her hand.
I shouldn't have done that.
“What's going on here?!” yells Frederico maneuvering through the group.
“That bitch hit me in the face!” she cries out, blood trickling over her lips.
Frederico gingerly pulls her hand away.
Yeah, that's going to be a nice purple bruise.
“What the hell happened?” Frederico asks the company.
“Sir, Carmen hit Mary, but only after she was antagonized.” Lilly pipes up. I give her a grateful smile, which she returns.
“You whore!” Mary says, lunging in the suget's direction. Frederico holds her back.
“Calm down, Chiquitita. Calm down!” He manages to hold her still. “Let's get your nose taken care of.” He turns to me. “And you, Carmen. No more of this. If you have a problem, you come to me! Do you understand?” I nod. He turns and addresses the company, “Do you hear me? No more of this!”
Everyone whispers, some nod at the director. He takes her away.
I can't help but feel satisfied. Throughout the night, she's been pissing people off, treating us all like dirt just because she's the prima ballerina, the principal. Rank doesn't mean you can push people around, and my choice not to speak doesn't make me weak.
Or does i
t? I could have just as easily told her to fuck off. Why didn't I just say something instead of resorting to violence? A year ago, I wouldn't have dreamed of punching the principal in the face—well...I was the principal, but that's beside the point.
It's the first time I've noticed this in myself. It felt great to hit her, to put her in her place, but it wasn't necessary. I knew that before I threw the punch. I shake my hand and pick my bag up. I step into my street-shoes and push my way out of the back of the theater.
I'm alone there in the alley. I stop short. The parking lot is sixty feet away, give or take a yard. Those sixty feet are like thousands, stretching out interminably in front of me.
This is where it happened. I feel short of breath again, my whole body heating up with anxiety as I realize I haven't been here since the incident. I try to regain my breath, leaning against the wall beside the door. I shut my eyes. All I can hear is my heartbeat as my ears begin to ring. I inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth.
You're safe. Stop worrying. You're going to be okay.
When I look up at the opposite wall, there's a red light winking back. Frederico installed a security camera.
My heart slows, and my hearing returns. Those sixty feet shorten considerably. I hear the voices of the audience filtering in from the parking lot.
I hike my bag back up over my shoulder. You're safe. I keep telling myself in my head. You're going to be okay.
“What do you think?” Hilda asks me. In either hand she has a flower. In her left is a yellow rose; in the right is a magnolia.
I shrug.
“Some assistant you are,” she says, putting the magnolia against her red dress. She hands me the rose. I run my fingers over the silken petals, tucking my fingertips leisurely into the center bud and smiling wistfully as she accessorizes. On the turntable is Frank Sinatra singing The Lady is a Tramp.
“Hell...” Hilda curses, thrusting the magnolia at me and snatching the rose from my hands. I snicker, taking the magnolia back to her accessories box.
Body Language Page 6
