Someday Dancer

by Sarah Rubin

  “Bring me a drink,” she says at last. “There’s a bottle in the freezer.”

  I nod and dart back to the kitchen. In the freezer I find a clear bottle with strange writing on it that I can’t recognize. It is so cold, my fingers stick to the sides as I take it out. I open the cabinets and look for a glass. The shelves are full of sparkling cut crystal, and I take down one glass, hugging it carefully to my chest. It looks like a snowflake.

  I bring Miss Martha the glass and the bottle, and watch as she pours the thick, clear liquid and takes a long sip. The room is quiet. Miss Martha stares past me. I can’t read her face at all. My voice is sticky like molasses, but I make myself say the words.

  “Are you going to cancel the show?”

  Miss Martha looks at me like I am a bug on her clean white carpet.

  “I can’t dance. How can there be a show if I can’t dance?”

  She raises her eyebrows at me, like a challenge, like she knows what I am going to say and she is daring me to say it. I swallow hard and hold on to the arm of the sofa to keep me standing up straight.

  “Couldn’t someone else dance your part?” I say.

  I duck down at the same time, and the crystal glass goes flying over my head.

  “Someone else?” she hollers at me. “Someone else!” Her eyes could light me on fire, they glare so hot. “No one else can dance that part. I choreographed it for me. It is my dance!” She bangs on her chest with an open hand, making a hollow slapping sound that drowns out my drumming heart.

  I walk slowly to where the glass hit the wall and pick it up. It smells of strong liquor, as strong as the sherry Mrs. Everton keeps hidden behind the sewing machine in the kitchen. The glass isn’t broken, or even cracked, so I hand it back to Miss Martha. She grabs my wrist. Her red nails look like claws.

  “Do you think you can dance my part? Is that what you want?”

  I try to pull my arm away, but Miss Martha just grabs on tighter.

  “You couldn’t dance that role. You don’t know it, and even if you did, you couldn’t dance it.” She spits out the word dance like she can’t even bear to say it while I’m in the same room.

  “I know,” I say softly, trying to be brave. “But Edith could.”

  Miss Martha’s face goes from white to near see-through, and she drops my arm like it’s a red-hot poker.

  “Edith?” she says, as if she doesn’t even see me there at all. Her eyes are far away, and then suddenly they focus. “You did this to me,” she says. “I’ve seen you, plotting! You’ve been waiting. You and her. Well, you can’t! I’m Martha Graham!” She’s shouting now, and I back away, out of range of her claws. “There is no dance without Martha Graham. It’s my name on that marquee. Martha Graham, not Edith White. Not Casey Quinn.”

  “Yes, and it’s still your dance. It will always be your dance. You made it,” I say. Miss Martha is angry, but I can see now that she is also scared. Scared that someone is taking the dance away from her. Scared just like the rest of us.

  Miss Martha makes a sound like someone falling off a cliff, and pounds her fists on the chair cushions so hard it must hurt. I stand firm, my feet planted on the carpet like they are growing roots. And all at once Miss Martha stops screaming and pours herself another drink. She sips and sighs and looks at me. “Everyone is betraying me. Edith. You. Even my own body.”

  I don’t know what to say and so I say nothing at all, which is what Gran said made her a wise woman. “Know when to keep your mouth shut, Casey,” she would say, and I think it works.

  Miss Martha sighs. “People say I am too old to dance. That I am past my prime. Is that what you think?”

  I shake my head no, and Miss Martha sighs the world.

  “Then why do you tell me Edith can dance my part?”

  “Because you hurt your ankle and you can’t dance tomorrow. It doesn’t mean you can’t ever dance again.”

  Miss Martha’s lips move. It is a ghost of a smile, and to me it is sadder than all the crying in the world.

  “Go home, Casey. Go see your mother.”

  I start because I forgot how late it is, and then I look at Miss Martha because I don’t want to leave her alone.

  “I’ll be fine,” she says, sipping her drink.

  I put on my coat, fast and slow, part of me rushing for Mama and another part watching Miss Martha.

  “Casey?” Miss Martha makes her voice a question, and I snap to attention like a soldier.

  “Bring the phone to me before you go. It’s not a promise, but I will think about it,” she says.

  I nod and try not to smile, since I know it will vex her. I put the phone on the table next to her, carefully tucking the long cord around the table leg so she won’t trip if she gets up.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say.

  Miss Martha doesn’t answer me.

  It takes me a long time to get back to Mrs. Everton’s. My feet are frozen through when I finally I open the door, and I stomp them down on the tiles in the little entryway, shivering and shaking as I take off my coat.

  I shudder my way toward the kitchen, hoping Mrs. Everton has left something hot on the stove so I can eat and warm myself by the gas burner. I open the door and I stop solid. Because there is my mama. Sitting at Mrs. Everton’s kitchen table like we are back in Warren and I just got home from school. But she isn’t alone. Kevin is sitting with her, and Helen, and, it seems, Miss Martha’s whole company, crammed into Mrs. Everton’s postage-stamp kitchen, drinking cups of hot black coffee and wearing their worry on their faces. But all I care about is Mama.

  We are on our feet together, and I wrap my arms around her middle and squeeze her with all my might to make sure it’s really true. That she’s here in New York City with me. Mama squeezes back. It takes my breath away and I don’t care who’s watching.

  “I missed you!” I say. I just didn’t know how much.

  “I missed you, too.” Mama’s voice is fierce and strong, and we hug in the quiet kitchen until my arms feel weak. I give one last squeeze and let go, looking up at Mama’s face and smiling. She looks good, my mama. Like the sun is shining out of her skin. I grin until I feel like my cheeks might fall off. She’s wearing a new dress, blue like cornflowers, and a matching hat. She looks like she belongs in the city.

  As we walk back to the table, I can see the worry all over Kevin. He’s not interested in me and my mama. He wants to know about Miss Martha.

  “What did she say?” he asks as we sit down, and I want him to go away because he is ruining my moment with Mama.

  “She said she’d think about it,” I say, and try not to remember the hurt on Miss Martha’s face.

  “Don’t worry.” Mama squeezes my hand. “Casey could convince a rock to roll uphill.”

  Kevin doesn’t look like he believes her. He opens his mouth and the questions pour out like rain, and I sit listening, wishing for an umbrella.

  I am saved when Mrs. Everton walks in, her hair hidden in her rollers and her face smeared white with cold cream. She stares at us, and then at the clock, and then at us again. And then she opens her mouth.

  “Out!” she squawks. “Out! Out! Out! This is a respectable boarding house, and I will not have my kitchen full of unannounced guests at all hours of the night.”

  Kevin and his questions are no match for Mrs. Everton. She even picks up a broom to shoo them out the door. “Theater people,” she says as she huffs and puffs, sweeping Miss Martha’s dancers out of the hall and onto the street. Mama looks at me with a twinkle in her eye. She puts her fingers to her lips and we sneak like two mice up the stairs.

  The Priss is staying with her parents at The Ritz, where the bathtubs are so big you can swim laps in them, but I don’t care ’cause it means Mama and I have the room to ourselves. My chest is so full of my heart I can’t speak. I have a million things I want to say, but nothing will come out of my mouth. Mama sits on the bed and rubs her shoulders.

  “Is it always this cold?” she asks.


  I nod. “You can put a nickel in the heater, but I’m OK,” I say, because New York City is expensive and I don’t want Mama to waste her money on me. But Mama doesn’t seem to mind. She puts a coin in the heater slot and turns the dial, and then we sit and wait for it to get warm.

  “You look good, Casey,” Mama says. “I think the city agrees with you.”

  I smile wide and suddenly I can speak again. I tell Mama about school and Andrea and classes with Miss Martha. I tell her about saving my pennies to go to the pictures and drinking hot coffee at the diner. Mama tells me about Warren, and I am so thirsty for news of home that I drink up every word. She is painting again, and a woman from Charleston has put her paintings in a gallery.

  “Someone even bought one. For ten dollars!” Mama whispers like she can hardly believe it. It’s like my mama has grown younger since I’ve seen her. She is shining like a star and it makes me wish Gran could see her. That Gran could see both of us sitting side by side at Mrs. Everton’s Boarding House for Young Ladies. But then I think, of course she can see us, my gran. And the thought of her fills me up with so much joy that I have to hug Mama all over again.

  We must have gone to bed at some point, because in the morning I wake up with a jolt and look all around. It isn’t a dream. Mama is there, sleeping in the Priss’s bed.

  I itch and twitch out from under the covers and climb in with Mama, whose eyes open so fast I think she wasn’t really asleep at all.

  “Your feet are like ice, Casey!” she says.

  It is early morning, but I get up anyway. Mama is so cold she gets dressed like a ghost under the covers. I am full to bursting with all of the things I want to show her, and I can’t move fast enough. I am into my clothes in one leap, and then into my high-tops, dancing by the door with my feet tapping Hurry up, Mama on the bare wooden boards.

  We sneak down the stairs quiet as can be, and Mama makes porridge with milk. It tastes so much like home I can’t help smiling. Then it is all bundle and go because we have everything to do.

  The air outside is cold and crisp, but I feel warm inside from Mama’s porridge and the heat of holding Mama’s hand.

  There is someone sitting on Mrs. Everton’s stone front steps and I stop because that someone is wearing a purple beret. It’s Edith. She turns as my feet crunch the snow. Her cheeks and nose are both red, but she is smiling as she stands up to say hello.

  “You did it, Casey,” she says, and I am a mirror, smiling right back at her. Mama hugs my shoulder tight to her side.

  “You need to come to the Imperial early so we can all practice together before the show. OK?”

  I nod. Nothing in this whole world would stop me from being there.

  Edith says good-bye and walks up the snowy street. I wave and wave until she is just a purple speck in the crowd. Then I grab my mama’s hand and we are off.

  Mama’s face is all up up up, looking high into the sky at the buildings we walk by. I work hard weaving us in and out of the New Yorkers, who don’t have time to wonder at their city and only look down at the street beneath their feet.

  Andrea is waiting for us at the diner, sitting at the counter and saving two seats.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Andrea,” Mama says. “Casey’s told me all about you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too. What are you going to do today?” Andrea asks me.

  “We’re gonna see everything!” I say. I am bubbling over and can hardly sit still, spinning and shifting on my stool as I sip hot coffee. “We’ll go to Times Square, and we’ll see the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center, and go for a carriage ride in Central Park, and see the Empire State Building, and —”

  Mama laughs and says, “Calm down, Casey, we have all morning.”

  “I know, but I want to show you everything!” I say. I want to press all of New York into a little ball so I can give it to my mama.

  “I’ve got some extra tickets for the matinee today,” Andrea says, “if you want to come see it.”

  “Of course!” I say. “Andrea’s a snowflake in The Nutcracker and she’s the best one of all,” I say to Mama as Andrea hands me two tickets.

  “And since I’m doing a matinee today, I have tonight off, so I can come see your show!”

  I am so full of joy I spin on the spot, three whole turns without a wobble in sight. Andrea laughs, but it’s a happy laugh and it makes me want to spin all over again. But instead I wrap my arms around Andrea and squeeze. “You can sit with my mom. I’m so happy you’re coming!”

  Mama and Andrea agree to meet outside the theater before the show. Then Andrea looks at the diner clock.

  “Well, I gotta run or I’ll be late for curtain. I’ll see you later!”

  Mama and I both wish her good luck. Andrea runs out the door, waving good-bye, and then stops suddenly and sticks her head back inside.

  “I forgot. My sister says if you still want to come, you’re both very welcome to spend Christmas morning with us. As long as you’re happy for Casey to cook, Mrs. Quinn.” She grins.

  I look at Mama and I know what she’s thinking. That we’ll cook together. And the thought of being in the kitchen with my mama makes me glow. Mama and I agree, and then Andrea is running down the street.

  I take Mama to Central Park to show her the giant garden in the middle of the city. There are rows and rows of carriages waiting to take us for a ride, and we choose one with a beautiful black horse.

  The driver gives us a warm blanket to tuck around our legs, and then we’re off. The bells on the horse’s halter jingle-jangle as we trot through the park, past the frozen pond full of people ice skating, and then out of the trees to where we can just about see the Empire State Building shining in the morning sun like a giant rocket ship reaching into the sky. Mama’s mouth is open wide and I am full of pride because I live here.

  At noon, the carriage drops us off in front of the main door of the theater, which has a big sign over the top that says THE NUTCRACKER. The driver helps Mama down, and then reaches up his hand to steady me as I jump out, but I don’t need steadying. Nothing in the world could knock me over. I am not walking, I am flying!

  I’m so happy I have to squeeze Mama all over again to let some of the joy come out. Mama is smiling a secret smile when I look up at her. “What?” I say, but she won’t tell me and bundles us into the theater without another word.

  Inside, the theater is nearly as grand as the Imperial. There are painted ceilings and rich red carpets and gold molding like we’re inside a castle. A man in a blue and gold jacket looks at our tickets, and we follow his pointing finger toward a spiraling staircase up to the balcony. The stage seems very small below us, and I lean forward to get a better look, Mama gripping onto my jacket ’cause she’s worried I might fall over the edge. Then the lights go low and the music starts. I sit on my hands and try and keep still.

  The ballet is beautiful, all bright colors and presents around a giant Christmas tree that grows like magic in the night. The story is written in the program and some people keep reading along with the dance, but I don’t need to. I can read the dance itself, thank you very much, plain as the words on a page.

  The Priss is all spoiled golden curls, but I can’t say she’s a bad dancer. She whirls and turns like she was born on stage. I just wait for Andrea to appear. And then there she is, all frosty silver in her costume, flying across the stage like a snowflake sparkling in the sun. She is beauty-full of grace and my heart leaps alongside her. My arms wiggle free and I have to sit down firm on my fingers again to stop them from waving along with the music.

  I look at Mama out of the corner of my eye. The light from the stage is beautiful on her face, and she is smiling honest and true. I reach out and take her hand in the darkness, and she squeezes my fingers. So we sit, side by side, watching the ballet, and I think we are both dancing along with it in our hearts.

  When the ballet is over, Mama walks with me down the street to the Imperial Theater.

  “Look,�
� I say, pointing up at the lights. “It says Martha Graham and Company. And I am in the company.” I look at Mama looking at the sign and my heart gets so big it squeezes tears out of my eyes. Mama looks and looks at that sign.

  “I wish Gran was here,” I say, quiet and small, but Mama hears me. She wraps her arm around my shoulder.

  “I do, too,” she says. “But she knew you, Casey. She always believed in you. She knew you were going to do big things, and here you are, proving her right. I know she would be very proud of you.”

  My heart gets even bigger, impossibly big, and my eyes are sparkling cold where the tears are freezing on my eyelashes.

  “And I am very proud of you, too.”

  I hug Mama fiercely and look up at her.

  “Will you be OK?” I ask, because New York City is a big place and I am suddenly worried about leaving her alone. But Mama just laughs.

  “I’m a grown woman, Casey Quinn. I will be just fine. Now you go in and get ready. I will see you on that stage. OK?”

  I have no words.

  “OK, then. Scoot!”

  Mama gives me one last hug, and then she pushes me through the door into the theater. I walk quickly across the lobby and open the door to the theater itself. I take one last look over my shoulder. Mama is still there, looking up at my name in lights, her breath puffing out like smoke and her cheeks rosy from the cold winter air. Then I dash through the door into the theater for the last rehearsal before the show.

  Rehearsal goes fast, fast, fast, like sand slipping though my fingers. My stomach is a dancer all by itself, twisting and turning in my middle and making me feel green and dizzy. I blink and we are done. Then I am sitting in a chair while Edith puts greasepaint on my face and scowls at me to sit still.

  “Do you think she’ll come?” I say around a tube of lipstick. Edith looks daggers at me.

  “I told you to hold still,” she says. Her face is already painted white like Miss Martha’s, but Miss Martha is not here.