I hear a knock at the door, expecting it to be Kyle, the assistant stage-director I've come to know as the man who gets stressed about everything.
“Come in,” Hilda beckons. A man pokes his head.
“You decent, there, Mabel?” says the man. I've never seen him before.
“Well, if ain't Reggie?!” she exclaims, rising from the vanity seat with a chuckle. He lets himself in and they share a lengthy embrace. “What brings you into town?” she asks, holding him at length so she can look him over. “How's Rhonda?”
“Rhonda's good! We're all good!” he exclaims. “Andre got into Oregon State. He's gonna play basketball for 'em,” he says happily.
I take a seat on the chair in the corner.
“Oh, I didn't know you had company. I'll come back later,” he says edging toward the door.
“No! No! I never get to see you! This little girl is my assistant, Carmen,” she says. He holds out his massive hand and mine disappears into it; when he shakes it, my whole arm jiggles.
“I'm Hilda's cousin,” he says. “You can call me Reggie.” His caramel face is so full of life, his silvering, bushy mustache bouncing with every word. He gives Hilda an uncertain look when I don't answer his introduction with one of my own.
“She don't say much,” remarks Hilda. “But she's a good little girl, good company. Now... you lean up against somethin' ‘n tell me how everybody is doing down your way.”
They exchange the major events of their lives for the past few years. Every time he gets excited, his hands turn circles in the air like brown flags. When he laughs, his eyes smile just as loud. I decide that I like him. He's one of those bright people who is self-assured, knows what he's about. Before too long, Hilda will have to go on stage. Her hair still isn't done.
I rise from my seat and close up her accessory case. I pick up one of her combs and begin working on her hair. For a moment she doesn't notice, but when I apply a dollop of cool gel to her hairline, she checks her gold watch.
“Lord, I gotta be on stage in twenty minutes. Are you staying for the show?”
“Yeah! I wouldn't miss it!” he says, standing from the box he's sitting on. He gives her a kiss on the forehead. “Kill 'em, Ms. Mabel!” he says. “Bye bye, little girl,” he says to me, waving.
I wave my comb and he disappears. What a force.
“Cousin Reggie,” Hilda muses. “He called me Ms. Mabel. They've been calling me that since I was little,” she says, slipping on her earrings. “I've been singing since I was seven. I started in church.” She watches me in the mirror as I work on her hair. “Back then, they just called me Hilda. That was until after they heard me sing at a family reunion. The song was Candy, which was sung the best by Big Maybelle, whose real name was Mabel. Since I was so young, they kept it at just 'Mabel'.”
I could see her being young and singing before her whole family. I could imagine them all clapping for her, hugging her and telling her how wonderful she sounded. She looked away from me, down at her hands.
“It's funny how most singers change their names,” she says, her fingers twitching on the vanity top. In her eyes is a storm of struggle, like she's reaching for a memory she can't find. “My name came to me so early, it's like I've been two people my whole life,” she says. “On stage, I'm Ms. Mabel. Off-stage, I'm Hilda. They're so different, the both of 'em.” She chuckles. “I think it's because to let go of the pain you feel as a real person, you've got to become something else. But to get rid of the pain, or at least to get away from it, most people would do anything, least of all give up their name.” She smiles, looking back up at me in the mirror. “Singin' is freedom, child.”
I nod to let her know I understand, but in truth, I wonder if I do. The closest I've ever come to experiencing freedom is when I dance. I have no idea whether they are the same brand of freedom, whether one feels more like a cool breeze, while the other feels like gentle rain.
The record on the turntable ends. I set the comb down and lift the arm off. She checks her watch. “I think we have time for another one,” she says, shifting her weight on the vanity stool. She sifts through her box of records, and pulls out one which looks like it's been listened to more than others. A pretty blonde looks out from its black and white cover.
"I'm singing this tonight," she says, separating the worn sleeve with her fingers, and gingerly lifting out the LP. She sets it on the record-player, leaving the needle on a song. The warm sound permeates the room and I smile. I marinate in the crackling air, enjoy the piano tinkling from yesteryear. "I Miss You So. 1957. Chris Connor was a pretty gal, and she could sing it good, but I can sing it better," she says with a wide grin. "See, it's a sad song, and unless you've been through some mess in your day, you can't sing nothin' right."
The song plays through. The lyrics are about missing a lover. I have no ex-lovers to miss, but still the tune's fingers reach in, pluck my heartstrings and leave them to vibrate. For a second time in the past week, the garb of silence in which I'd so carefully hidden the truths of my life does me a disservice. The grief in the song is palpable. The answer I wish to make is there, but it falls dead in my throat. Hilda chuckles. "Gets ya, don't it?" she asks. I open my eyes again, mourning my deportation to reality.
I could sit with Hilda all night and listen to classic jazz and lounge music. She continues her dressing routine, while I finish arranging her hair. It amazes me that, though she is conscious of the fact that I was never meant to be her assistant, she still keeps me. When she floats out on stage, like the diva she is, the emcee exits stage right. There is no space left on stage for anyone but her. The lights lower and she begins to sing, just like she said she would—her voice adhering to the gravity created by her past loss and her present regret.
As I have for the last few performances, I sit on a chair behind the red velvet curtain. She's really on. I revel in the sound of her rich voice. I wish I could push everything out like she does, just let it out. Maybe one day, or in another life, I will sing like that, with such reckless abandon. Maybe one day I can do with my voice, what I do every day with my body.
(Jacob)
She takes the small couch by the west window, a new addition to the office since the last time she came. She looks out at the street. With the threat of rain has come the rush of people going home in a hurry. No doubt she's watching them bustle through the streets, inching their cars along the narrow street that runs past the building.
She doesn't look at me. I can tell her mind is elsewhere. In the last month, she hasn't said a word. I confess that, at times, I get a little annoyed by it. I should be more patient with her. Usually, I am, but that my patience slips at all, is a testament to how far my nerves have been stretched since Janelle died.
“I'll start now,” I say. Her eyes stay fixed on the movement through the glass. I open Jane Eyre to pick up where we stopped last time. So far, the story has elicited little more than the occasional vacant glance. Maybe it isn't stimulating enough for her.
“'The din was on the causeway. A horse was coming; the windings of the lane yet hid it, but it approached. I was just leaving the stile, yet, as the path was narrow, I sat still to let it go by. In those days I was young, and all sorts of fancies, bright and dark, tenanted my mind. The memories of nursery stories were there among other rubbish; and when they recurred, maturing youth added to them a vigor and vividness beyond what childhood could give. As this horse approached, and as I watched for it to appear through the dusk, I remembered certain of Bessie's tales, wherein figured a North-of-England spirit, called a "Gytrash," which, in the form of horse, mule, or large dog, haunted solitary ways, and sometimes came upon belated travelers, as this horse was now coming upon me.
It was very near, but not yet in sight; when, in addition to the tramp, tramp, I heard a rush under the hedge, and close down by the hazel stems glided a great dog, whose black and white color made him a distinct object against the trees. It was exactly one mask of Bessie's Gytrash—a lion-like creature
with long hair and a huge head; it passed me, however, quietly enough, not staying to look up, with strange pretercanine eyes, in my face, as I half expected it would. The horse followed—a tall steed, and on its back a rider. The man, the human being, broke the spell at once. Nothing ever rode the Gytrash. It was always alone; and goblins, to my notions, though they might tenant the dumb carcasses of beasts, could scarcely covet shelter in the commonplace human form. No Gytrash was this—only a traveler taking the short cut to Millcote.'”
The couch creaks, breaking my concentration. I look up and she's listening intently. I smile and continue.
“'He passed, and I went on; a few steps, and I turned. A sliding sound, and an exclamation of "What the deuce is to do now?" and a clattering tumble, arrested my attention. Man and horse went down; they had slipped on the sheet of ice which glazed the causeway. The dog came bounding back, and seeing his master in a predicament, and hearing the horse groan, barked till the evening hills echoed the sound, which was deep in proportion to his magnitude.'”
I stop short as she rises from the couch and approaches. The way she moves reminds me of a doe, how careful they are when they feel or hear a disturbance in the woods. Their eyes seem to understand and absorb everything around them. She settles into my session chair, leans over the side and fixes her eyes on me. The soft brown orbs seem so innocent, yet her gaze is penetrating—not to mention distracting. I look back at the text and pick up the narrative.
“'He snuffed round the prostrate group, and then he ran up to me; it was all he could do—there was no other help at hand to summon. I obeyed him, and walked down to the traveler, by this time struggling himself free of his steed. His efforts were so vigorous, I thought he could not be much hurt; but I asked him the question, "Are you injured, sir?"
I think he was swearing, but am not certain; however, he was pronouncing some formula which prevented him from replying to me directly.'”
I look up again, trying to balance reading and observing her. For the next few minutes, I rotate between reading and checking her face. When it comes to quoting the little French girl, Adele, my language is clumsy. I've never read it aloud.
“'Et ce—Et cela do—doit signifier.'” I can't get the words out properly. I clear my throat and pass a glance her way. Her eyes are still fixed on me and it occurs to me that she is speaking to me. The corner of her mouth ticks up. Her eyes twinkle.
“You're making fun of me, aren't you?” I ask. My face turns red. “If you're so good at French, why don't you read it?” I say, holding out the closed book to her.
She shakes her head, grinning. That expression strikes me to the core. It's the first time I've seen her smile so big, like a mischievous child. It's contagious, importing a wide happy feeling... a joy bigger than the sky. I grin, too. I've done what, perhaps, no one else has done in the past year. We've had a conversation.
We're making progress.
Much to my disappointment, it's time to end the session soon after. Like usual, I tell her goodbye and she flies out the door. She never stays once it's over. But why does that matter? I ask myself. Since when do I care if she stays?
I shake my head. I must be tired. I sit down on the couch after she goes, resting my head on my crossed arms as I look out the window. She crosses the parking lot and gets into a four-door sedan. Her car drive off the parking lot and disappears down the street.
Why do I feel so gloomy? True, it's overcast outside. I also don't have anything to distract me from the silence of my own brain. For a long while, I stare out the window, and during the ensuing hour I notice that there's a black SUV parked across the street. Someone sits in the front seat, but the driver never gets out. Strange. A moment after I make the observation, the car drives off leisurely down the street. It was probably a cop.
My neck is starting to smart, so I lay down on the couch for a nap. Sleep so seldom offers a proper escape from my sad thoughts. It's been a month and I'm still dreaming of Janelle. It happens so often that I expect the memories to return every time I drift off. She is my own terrible, beautiful Gytrash, haunting me, roaming the hills of my dreams.
Almost as soon as I close my eyes I'm thrust into the book I'd been reading. I'm riding down a path on horseback. The road is flanked on either side by thick, ancient trees. Not a sound rises from the forest save for the intermittent rustle of a rodent or the sudden flight of a bird. A tall hound orbits me as I ride. I don't stop until I see a female figure emerging from the fog. Unlike Edward Rochester, I know the events that are supposed to happen. Unlike Rochester, I won't be thrown to the ground. Instead I pull on the reins, waiting for her, as though we arranged to meet here.
Though I know it's a female, I can't see the woman's face from beneath her hood. That hardly matters. If I know my mind, it is her. She slows to a stop beside my horse and strokes its neck. I reach out and touch the white hand, squeezing the slender fingers into my palm.
She draws the hood from her face, her flaxen curls tumbling out, rushing wild like a golden river over her shoulders. Janelle smiles wide.
“Won't you come down from there?” she asks.
“If you want me to,” I answer, smiling back. I lower to the ground and leave the mare in the path. She takes my hand and leads me to the far side of the clearing. We sit on the broad face of a mossy rock.
“It's beautiful here,” she says looking around. The sun is setting, an owl cries out from the shadows, and crickets sing in the grass.
“Yes, it is.” I still have her hand clutched in mine. I'm trying not to say anything, afraid that words might spoil the fragile sanctity of this moment; that the wrong gesture might collapse the wooden chapel in which we sit and send her vision away.
“Your hands are cold,” she says, enveloping mine in hers.
“Yours are colder.” I chuckle. That laugh is such a betrayal of my feelings. I hate these dreams that bring us together again. While they're pleasant, the knowledge that we'll eventually be torn apart is heart-wrenching.
“Oh goodness, your horse is gone,” she says, looking back to the path and advertising the white column of her neck.
I cannot resist the urge to lean my face against it. My closed eyes press against the soft flesh. “I'll go back on foot,” I say, my chest feeling like it will burst with grief.
I wish she wasn't so real. I wish my mind had never made such a deep catalog of everything about her. If it hadn't, maybe it would be easier to forget, to distance myself from her.
“Do you remember the way back?” she asks in a whisper. Her hand comes up to the side of my head. Her fingers turn in my hair. She presses a tender kiss to my crown.
I realize I don't know how to answer that. Though the scene is similar to the book, I have no concept of the place from where I've come. I don't know where I'm going. I'm lost. I could be anywhere. Denying it to her would be foolish. She's in my head and she knows the truth.
Even if I wanted to try, I don't have the strength to open my mouth. I have a feeling if I did, it would all shatter. We sit quietly and I quake in her arms. It has to end, but I don't want it to.
My earnest attempts at preserving the dream are lost as the world begins to fall away. I can't see it, but I can feel it. The music of birdsong quietens, the rushing wind stills, and the natural oak perfume melts away into oblivion. Under my forehead, her skin cools, turning hard like marble. My own senses begin to numb.
“You're not as lost as you think,” she whispers. She strokes my temples, but after a moment, her hand turns to mist, her words to whispers. “You just have to remember the way back.”
I hear a carriage rumble up the road. In fact, it's the only sound I hear. She stands and I desperately grasp for her hand. “Wait. Where are you going?”
“He's picking me up,” she says.
“Don't go!” I beg.
She doesn't listen. Instead, she opens the carriage door and steps into the cabin. The driver is at such a distance that I can't see what he looks like, but he turns h
is face in my direction. Somehow, I feel like I know him.
(Carmen)
We've run through the same routine ninety-nine times, it seems. I'm not sure if it's the fact that we know there will be a hundredth, that makes our ninety-ninth sloppy, but our form is never quite good enough for Frederico. Maybe that's the office of a director, to never confirm his students' skills, but to always encourage them to improve. Either way, by the time we run through the routine for the umpteenth time, it's only because it's late that he lets us go, not because we're done practicing.
No, we're not done, not by a long shot. He tells us we'll all meet up again tomorrow, at the same time. It's really fine by me. I don't mind the practice. I value the skills I've obtained over the years, and am always keen to improve.
As we finish practice, I'm feeling good, really pumped, like I've accomplished something. I've definitely improved. While the company, as a whole, hasn't been doing too well, I can feel my strength returning. I know I could have a chance at regaining my rank, if only I can get everything down properly before the next set of auditions.
I notice Mary glaring at me from the corner. She didn't practice with us. Oddly enough, she just watched. The bruise from around her eye has more or less disappeared. I wish scars from real punishment stayed around longer. I don't stare back at her. I know she's looking for a reason to get into another fight with me. I'm sure she's been talking Frederico's ear off about kicking me out of the company, but I have faith that he's too smart to listen to her. He knows that a dancer with talent deserves to stay in, if she's not making trouble. I don't intend to make trouble.
Mary wanders down the hall toward the offices. The rest of the sweaty troupe goes for the lockers and showers. I notice Lily manages to grab Frederico before he can go his merry way. When she comes up behind him, he almost jumps out of his skin.
“I was wondering when the auditions for Sleeping Beauty are,” she says. I slow down my walk as I pass by.
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