Homecoming in Mossy Creek

by Debra Dixon

  “My old cell phone. I lost it.” I laughed shakily. It was surreal to be talking to Peter. Like a phone call from my past life. “How have you been?”

  “Fine. I’m leaving the New York Ballet and wanted to tell you about it.”

  “You aren’t retiring, are you?” At thirty, he wasn’t a kid, but he was still strong.

  “Are you kidding? They’ll have to drag me off the stage.” He chuckled. “I’ve got a new venture. I’m moving to the Modern Dance Cooperative, and I want you to join me.”

  For a second, I forgot to breathe. “Would you repeat that, please?”

  “Join me. At the Modern Dance Cooperative. We were a great team, Argie, and if I announced that you’d be dancing with me again, everyone would go wild.” He sounded excited, buoyant. The way I’d sounded so many years ago when I’d called Mom’s hospital room to announce that I’d been chosen to dance in the corps at the New York City Ballet. Mom hadn’t lived to see my rise to principle dancer, but the fact that I’d met my goal to be a professional ballerina had brightened her last days.

  That seemed to be a theme in my life—the good moments were marred by sadness and troubles. Right after I opened the dance studio in Mossy Creek, my neighbor at the funeral home up the hill started a war, determined to shut me up or shut me down. And now that I was finally settling into my new home, here came an offer to return to my old life.

  Except I hadn’t settled in. I still had doubts about whether I’d truly been accepted by the people of Mossy Creek.

  No! I refused to go there. Coach Mabry sent me the football team for lessons, didn’t he? Valerie was digging in my garden, wasn’t she? My classes were full, weren’t they?

  I would not let Peter’s suggestion throw me into a tizzy.

  Still, the broken barre hadn’t upset me this much.

  “You can’t say you haven’t thought about it,” Peter continued. His voice lowered to a seductive purr. “I’ll bet you haven’t cut your hair.”

  I ran my hand down my long ponytail. Ballet dancers wear their hair long to make it easier to style for different characters. Wigs are awkward when you’re dancing. I don’t know why I hadn’t cut my hair. It was a nuisance to care for, but it had been a part of my life for a very long time.

  “You’ll make enough money for a decent apartment. I promise,” he continued. “And there will be minimal travel.”

  “You always said that, and it was never true.”

  “Come to New York this weekend so we can discuss it. I’ve got a sponsor who’ll put you up at the Plaza.”

  Peter always did know how to chase the money. “Thanks for the offer, Peter, but—”

  “Don’t say no,” he said quickly. “Not before you’ve had the chance to think about it.”

  I sighed. “I can’t get away this weekend, but I will think about it. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Argie, please let me—“

  I placed the phone back in its cradle without letting him make any more promises.

  The next morning I received bad news. The repairmen could deliver new mirror panels, but not for two days. And it would take as much as two more days to install them. I’d have to find another place to hold my classes. I called Fred and explained the situation, and he promised to come up with a solution for his team. Then I spent a couple of hours calling parents to cancel ballet classes for my youngest students. Most were relieved, since just about everyone was busy with Homecoming activities.

  Jeff, the injured player, hobbled late into my three o’clock Pilates class and was instantly smothered by a wave of sweaty female sympathy.

  “You poor baby. Sit down and take the weight off your ankle,” Louise Sawyer said. Others echoed advice.

  “There’s nothing wrong with his ankle,” I told them.

  “What happened, honey?” Louise asked.

  Jeff looked around, clearly embarrassed to be surrounded by women in tights and shorts. “I fell the wrong way during practice week before last. My physical therapist agrees that Pilates might help.” He looked heartbreakingly hopeful. “I just want to play against Bigelow. I don’t care if I play Harrington at Homecoming, but I want to clobber Bigelow.”

  I looked at the calendar that hung by the door leading to my apartment. “That’s two weeks away? If you rest your foot, you might be able to play. I can get you started with some light stretching, Jeff, but I’ll need to speak to your therapist.”

  He handed me a business card. “He said you’d want to talk to him.”

  I glanced at the card. The address was in Bigelow. “You don’t think this guy is a secret Bigelow High fan, do you?”

  Jeff’s eyes widened, and the women hooted.

  “Just kidding, Jeff. No medical professional would deliberately give you bad advice.” I hoped it was true. “Let’s get back on the floor, ladies. Plank time.”

  The women groaned and Jeff looked at me, brows furrowed.

  “Get on your tummies, then lift up onto your elbows and toes, back straight. We’re going to hold it for sixty seconds.”

  More groans. “Jeff, you’re excused because of your toe.”

  “Oh, I can try it, Ms. Argie.” He followed the others, laying down, but wincing as he assumed the position. Then he lifted the injured foot, leg straight. The women behind him gasped, which caused others to turn and look, their usual complaints forgotten.

  “Holy cow. A three point plank,” Spiva Quinlan said, using her observance as an excuse to sit up.

  “He’s not even breathing hard.” This from her sister, Pearl Quinlan, who wasn’t breathing hard, either, mostly because she was still on her stomach.

  At one minute I called time, and those who were still in position collapsed gratefully, except for Jeff, who went to his knees and slid his legs sideways so that he could sit up without flexing his injured foot.

  When we finished the class I took Jeff aside and asked him if he would consider coming to more classes. I’d never seen my students work so hard to keep up. He said he’d think about it, probably because several ladies kept trying to set him up with their granddaughters. I sent him off with a tube of sports cream to rub on his foot.

  The next morning, I headed to Mossy Creek Books and What-Nots to pick up a couple of DVDs I’d ordered from Pearl. She’d changed into work clothes by then.

  “Hey Argie. The FedEx guy dropped off a box for you while we were in class. He was looking for the Wisteria Cottage but couldn’t find it listed.” She held up the distinctive white corrugated box with red and blue markings.

  “I wish they’d get that fixed. Apparently when you Google ‘Wisteria Cottage’ you get some retirement community near Atlanta. Thanks for holding it for me.” I took it, paid for my DVDs and realized that the three other customers in the store had edged closer, eyes on the box.

  “It says it’s from New York City,” Pearl offered.

  Katie Bell’s eyes snapped with interest.

  “Don’t weigh much. What do you reckon it is, Argie?” Rainey Cecil seemed puzzled, and certain that I would answer.

  “I’m not sure what it is, and I don’t recognize the return address.” I lied, since the address was Peter’s, but I didn’t want to stop and explain my life, especially in front of Katie Bell. I tucked the box under my arm, grabbed the box with the DVDs and turned. “Thanks!”

  Katie Bell stood between me and the door, eyes locked on the box. “I heard the football team destroyed your studio. What are you going to do now? And this is on the record. I’m including the story in the next edition of the Gazette.”

  I fought the irritation that had been brewing ever since the broken mirrors and dented floor.

  “Okay, I give. I’ll open the box now. And the studio is not destroyed,” I added through gritted teeth. “It just needs a little work.”

&nb
sp; I flipped the box on edge, searched for the tab and ripped it, tearing the box open. Papers slid to the floor, fanning out—brochures announcing the Modern Dance Cooperative’s new principle dancer, with Peter’s face smiling brilliantly in glossy color.

  Pearl picked up the brochures, uncovering the eight-by-ten black and white photo below it.

  Peter, dashing in his velvet Swan Lake doublet, held his partner, tall and sleek on pointe, leaning back over his shoulder with one leg wrapped backwards around his waist, long black curls spilling over his arm.

  “Why, Ms. Argie, that’s you!” Rainey seemed surprised, although my former life was no secret. Maybe it was my past displayed so enticingly in Peter’s embrace that brought out the heightened interest.

  Eager hands reached for the photo, which was signed in decisive black strokes, “Until we dance again.”

  “Yes, that’s me.” I gathered all the papers and the photo. “These brochures are for my former dance partner’s new venture. Modern dance. I can’t wait to see him perform again.”

  “Is he gay?” Katie Bell asked.

  I sighed. For an old-fashioned town, they sure asked a lot of personal questions. “No, he’s straight. He loves women. All women. He’s very Russian that way. And don’t get any ideas. We were never an item. More like brother and sister.”

  Rainey was leafing through the brochure. “Would you teach modern dance? I can’t dance on my toes, but I’ll bet I could do this if I worked at it.”

  “Sure, if enough people are interested.” I’d never thought of offering modern dance. I’d envisioned my dance school full of baby ballerinas who would grow to love dance, some of them enough to make it a career. I’d soon discovered that the only way my studio would succeed is with adult classes. I’d started with ballroom dancing, then expanded to Pilates. It would be good to add another class.

  Only one problem. If my classes grew larger I’d have to build an addition and maybe hire another teacher. Did I want to? Maybe I was foolish to let the opportunity Peter offered pass me by. I could postpone teaching and dance professionally for another ten years.

  Thoughts spinning through my head, I left the bookstore and headed back home.

  I parked at the far end of the studio’s gravel lot. My so-called new garden was a disaster. Sad, disturbed, pungent clods of dirt covered the area that used to be orderly patches of weeds. Not beautiful, but a weed whacker had kept it under control.

  Why couldn’t anything in my life be tidy? I walked into the studio and went straight to the stereo and turned it on, careful to keep my eyes away from the shattered mirror. The wall above it held shelves of CDs, carefully organized alphabetically by composer.

  I slipped a disc from its plastic case and fed it into the CD player’s slot.

  The rich sound of Dvorak’s twelfth string quartet filled the studio. Energized by the familiar music, I quickly changed into black calf-length tights and a leotard and tied on a short wrap around dance skirt.

  Shoes were not needed for what I had in mind. The brochures that Peter sent had done exactly what he’d intended. I itched to stretch my legs and torso, to follow the choreography of the dances shown in the photographs. I stretched a little, then restarted the CD and went through the steps I remembered of the solo I’d danced at the Festival du Dance in Paris.

  At first I was careful not to look towards the wall that had held the barre, afraid that seeing that damage would take me out of my mood, but then my muscles warmed and I slid through all the sequences I remembered, and lost myself to the movement, improvising where I forgot the steps.

  The CD ended and changed to the next. I barely took a breath before the first act of Giselle began, favorite music for my little ballerinas’ barre work, and I danced that too, stopping briefly to dig my newest pointe shoes from their box in the closet and tie them on.

  The contrast was obvious to me from the first entrechats quatre. From knees to hips, I could feel the unsubtle hints that it was time to quit.

  A movement at the window caught my eye. My football heroes grinned and waved through the glass. I’d been so lost in the music that I hadn’t noticed the hours dancing by. I laughed and unlocked the door. The cool fall air hit my sweat dampened skin and I reached for the cardigan that hung on a coat hook rack just inside.

  “You dance real pretty, Ms. Argie,” Tater said. He handed me an envelope. “This is from my Dad. I’m sorry about your wall.”

  “Thank you, Tater.” I slipped the envelope into the cardigan’s pocket. “Leave your shoes outside, guys. You were standing in manure there under my window.”

  As they busied themselves with their shoes, I turned away and slid my finger under the envelope flapping, tearing it open. Inside was a check with a sticky note in the middle that read, “Sorry about what my boy did. Hope this is enough. Ed.” I peeled off the sticky note to reveal the amount: two thousand dollars. It would more than pay for the mirror and the barre, and I appreciated Ed’s fast response, but maybe Tater needed to do some work around the studio, a little sweat equity to pay off the debt. I’d make the repairs, then give Ed back the rest of his money and put Tater to work.

  The phone rang, and I answered, one eye on my rowdy, reluctant danseurs.

  “It’s Fred. You can hold class on the practice field. I gotta warn you, it’ll be noisy, but you’ll have lots of room.”

  “How noisy?”

  “Marching band and cheerleading practice. They’re building the Homecoming floats there, too.”

  “That’s okay.” Actually, it sounded insane, but no crazier than it already was. Plus, no mirrors. “And when you have a moment, I want to discuss putting Tater to work around here. Can’t talk now. I have to get class started.”

  I hung up then told the boys to put their shoes back on because we were moving practice to the football field. I thought they’d be thrilled, but instead of cheering, they looked at each other or down at their feet. “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s where the cheerleaders practice.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Girls,” Tater supplied, filling in the silence.

  And then I understood.

  Despite the threat of humiliation, the team gathered on the practice field half an hour later. I didn’t bring music, thinking that today we’d do without, and later the boys could bring their own and we’d dance to whatever they brought. If the school approved, or course.

  The area was busy, and two nearby picnic tables were surrounded by kids working on some kind of art project. Homecoming-related no doubt. We were three days away from the big event and everybody was excitedly working away on finishing touches.

  I gathered my troop of big guys together and we stretched, then started the pliés. Several of the guys looked around nervously as we exercised. Maybe a little laughter would help.

  “If you feel unbalanced without the barre, stand close to another person and grab his hand. I’m sure no one will notice that you’re holding hands.”

  The guys laughed. They were already doing ballet. No way they’d hold hands too, but they relaxed a little about doing the pliés.

  For a while they looked like any athletes stretching and bending on the field, but then we started the battement tendus, and the girls at the picnic tables stopped to watch as the boys stretched their legs out, bare toes pointed. If the pointed toes weren’t a dead giveaway that this was strange, my yells to keep their arms gracefully arched were.

  “As if your fingers are being pulled by the current in a stream,” I hollered, trying to be heard above the marching band’s rehearsal. “Not with your fingers splayed out to catch a pass.”

  The girls bent over laughing, and I could see the boys cutting their eyes over to them. One by one they slowed, then stopped. I glared at the girls, frustrated. I couldn’t kick them out, it was a public area.


  “Ladies, why don’t you help the team instead of hindering them?” I walked over to them and explained what Coach was trying to accomplish. “So if they learn to stretch their joints, their chance of getting injured will go way down.”

  “I think ballet is cool,” one of them said.

  “Why don’t you join the class? Free of charge, as long as you cheer on the football team. Which means no making fun of the players.”

  The girls eagerly joined the team for the remainder of the class, and though the guys didn’t concentrate totally on ballet, they did make an effort, showing off for the cheerleaders until the girls had to go.

  They looked reluctant to leave.

  “We’ve got to get back to work on the float,” a pretty blonde said, pointing to the picnic tables where their banner was spread out, surrounded by poster paints and empty soup cans full of paint brushes. The banner they were painting read, “Time to Ram the Harrington Eagles.”

  “We’ll be doing a dance on the float,” another girl said. “Can you tell us what you think of our choreography? We’re going to dance to Rock Around the Clock.”

  I stared at her. “You’re going to dance on a moving float? That’s dangerous.”

  The girls looked at each other.

  “Aw, don’t bench ’em, Ms. Argie,” Tater said.

  “Benched!” the blonde squealed. “Tater, you’re brilliant. We’ll sit on the bench and dance.”

  I thought about what could be done on a bench. “Seated kicks, some acrobatics. Any of you take gymnastics?” From their excited nods, I could see we were on to something. “Okay. I’ll help you change your dance to a seated routine. Hmm. Today is Tuesday and the parade is Saturday, right? That gives us a few days to practice. I’ll make the routine simple so it’s easy to learn. Can all of you come by my studio tomorrow afternoon right after school? I have an hour free just before the football team’s class.”

  They all agreed that they could, so I turned to Tater. “And you can help them learn it once we have it done. Be there an hour before class.”

  He looked baffled for a minute, then a smile spilled like honey across his face.