by Paddy Eger
“Marta? Coming to dinner?”
“Not tonight. See you in the morning.”
Marta crashed face down across her bed without removing her jacket. A soft knock on the door roused her. “Who is it?”
“Mrs. B. May I speak with you?”
Marta opened her door.
Mrs. B. scanned Marta from toe to head. “Marta, dear, I’m worried about you. You’re skipping dinners, and you look exhausted.”
Marta yawned. “I’m okay. When I’m this tired I can’t eat.”
“What did you do back home? I can’t imagine your mother let you skip meals.”
“Fruit cocktail and ginger ale were all I could get down,” Marta said. “You’re a great cook, but when I’m this tired food isn’t appealing.”
“Say no more. This is your home now. You should have what you need. I have ginger ale in the pantry, and I’ll stock fruit cocktail. Join us when you feel up to it. I know Shorty and James enjoy eating your portions, but they miss talking with you.”
“Thanks for understanding. I’ll be down to do dishes in a minute.”
“Nonsense. If you don’t eat, there’s no need.”
Marta yawned again. “Okay. Once this first show comes together, I’ll be back to normal.” She started to take off her coat, then stopped, afraid Mrs. B. would scrutinize her thinness the way her mom did back home. “Night, Mrs. B.”
The following Saturday morning, Lynne and Marta drove to Bartley’s apartment. Lynne shifted gears as they chugged south over the Yellowstone River, past a lake, and up a winding road. They turned in at the Bar TT Ranch sign where the hard-packed dirt road wandered through a stand of cottonwoods. They followed Bartley’s directions and turned left at the fork in the road. Bartley sat in a lawn chair on a brick patio in front of a small brick house.
Lynne turned off the engine and shouted, “You call this an apartment?”
“Well, it kinda is. I mean, it’s...”
“This is a whole house!”
“Bartley’s being modest,” Marta said.
“Grab your stuff and come in,” Bartley said. “I’ll explain.”
The house had two bedrooms, a spacious kitchen, a carpeted living room, a laundry room, two bathrooms, and a garage. A screened patio at the back of the house abutted a split rail fence. “My parents grew up with the owners. Once they discovered I’d be moving to Billings, they wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Lynne flopped down in a small Danish modern chair. “Do you at least pay rent like the rest of us?”
“Of course. The bad part is that they don’t want people coming and going. I had to promise that I wouldn’t have friends over or have parties. Don’t tell the others, especially Jer. He’s a true chatterbox.”
“If it’s a secret, why invite us?” Marta said.
“I wanted you to see where I live. Maybe I can get you invited to one of their fancy parties. So far these past weeks I’ve met a handful of senators and an old time movie star. Everything is hush, hush. Guests fly in to the private runway on the other side of the ranch. The staff’s not allowed to discuss anything about the ranch when they’re in town.”
Lynne stood and walked around the living room. “Sounds snooty, don’t you think?”
“You’re right, but it’s all business, even the parties. I should get my own place, but for my parents’ sake I stay. They’re all friends of Madame and several of the ballet’s benefactors.”
“Really?” Lynne said. “Is that how you got your position?”
“Of course not. I earned my position just like you did. For the audition I misspelled my last name so they wouldn’t recognize my family name. Then I corrected it after I was selected.”
“Tricky,” Lynne said. “I like that.”
The girls’ conversation moved to the latest movies, popular movie stars, and their favorite music. At lunchtime Bartley set the table and brought out two salads, cold cuts, and two pitchers of drinks.
“Did you fix all this?” Lynne asked.
“Most of it, but the cook in the main house brought over the cold cuts. I can cook, you know.”
While they ate, they discussed their fellow corps dancers. “What do you think of Jer?” asked Bartley.
“He’s cute,” Lynne said, “but I don’t date dancers.”
“He helped me the day I arrived,” Marta said. “He’s the only guy that smiles and says hello. And he goes to lunch with us. Hope his girlfriend doesn’t mind.”
“Somehow he gets all the latest gossip,” Lynne said. “He said Patrice might get engaged this fall. And Marguerite has a connection to Madame.”
Bartley laughed. “I know. She’s the daughter of one of the major benefactors. That’s why Madame thinks she’s so special. She is a strong dancer, but—”
“But nothing,” Lynne said. “She needs to earn those compliments.”
Marta listened to the conversation, preferring to stay out of anything about the company. Practices with Madame felt less contentious lately. She didn’t want to give Madame any excuse, even gossip, to dismiss her.
After the girls cleaned up the dishes, they walked around the property. At the duck pond they took off their shoes and waded in. They ended their day by invading Marta’s basement practice room and convincing her to bake molasses cookies.
That evening, like every evening, Marta sat and rocked. The upcoming week they’d complete rehearsals. Her first performance as a professional dancer moved closer and closer.
8
Monday morning Marta hurried into the dressing room to change. Madame Cosper stood watching the clock and the female dancers as they prepared for the day. “Good morning, Madame,” Marta said as she curtsied and lowered her eyes.
Madame ignored her and moved to where Patrice stood tying her pointe shoe ribbons and smoothing her practice skirt. “Good morning, Patrice. I see you’re ready early.” Madame thrust her chin high and turned toward Marta. “I wish everyone shared your dedication.”
Marta’s face heated as though sunburned. She studied the ties of her dance skirt, wondering where the criticism came from after a week of being out of Madame’s sights. Looking up, she met the eyes of several corps dancers who relaxed as Madame’s focus moved away from any of their inadequacies.
Madame clapped twice and shouted, “Hurry along! We’re taking an informal group photo for the local paper in the large practice room.” She thumped her cane once and walked away, smoothing her wispy gray chignon.
The reporter grouped the principal dancers standing beside Madame with the corps standing and kneeling on the edges. A photographer took four shots, thanked them, packed his gear, and left.
Marta took her place at the barre and rotated her neck to loosen her tight muscles. She swept her arm smoothly to the side, then over her head. She tilted her head forward to look out from under her raised arm at an imagined audience.
“Hi.”
Marta startled at the sound of the reporter’s voice.
“May I talk with you for the article?” She relaxed. He wasn’t talking to her, though she wondered who he had cornered. Then she felt a tap on her shoulder.
“Excuse me, Miss. I’m Steve Mason. May I ask you a few questions for my article?”
She turned toward the reporter. He smiled. She smiled in return and smoothed her hair, then her practice skirt. “I guess. But I’ve only recently joined the company. You should talk with a dancer who’s been here longer.”
“No, you’ll do fine, believe me,” he said. Was he flirting? “I’d like to interview someone new. Let me clear it with Mrs. Cosper. She wanted to know who I’d be interviewing.”
“She prefers to be called Madame Cosper. She’ll say I can’t talk right now; we’re beginning rehearsals.”
The reporter d
idn’t move away. “How about later then? I have until six to turn in my article.”
Marta glanced around the practice room, buying time to decide what to say next. When she looked back, he smiled. He was cute and looked harmless enough. She liked his intense blue eyes and the way he brushed aside his floppy blond hair. “We finish around four. I can meet you out front at a quarter after.”
“Great,” he said. “Thanks.” He stowed his pad and pencil in his jacket pocket and headed out the door. Looking back, he nodded in her direction before disappearing.
Marta saw Madame follow his exit then turn to glare at her. Not good. Plus, the reporter hadn’t stopped to ask permission from Madame.
After rehearsals, Madame stood in the dressing room doorway. “I need a word with you, Marta.”
“Yes, Madame.” Marta curtsied.
“What did that reporter want?”
“An interview. Didn’t he talk with you?”
“No, and don’t bother to stay. I want him to interview Patrice. She’s principal dancer and can share more details about the company.” Madame stared at Marta until she lowered her gaze.
“Yes, Madame, but he needs to turn in his story by six o’clock tonight.”
Madame frowned and shouted across the dressing room, “Where’s Patrice?”
A voice answered, “She left with Rose to select fabrics.”
Madame scowled as she turned back to Marta. “Very well. I guess you’ll do. Tell him about the entire company, not just yourself.” She brushed past Marta as she left the dressing room.
As Marta changed clothes, a tingle of excitement moved through her. The reporter had a cute smile. His exuberance reminded her of Leo, her neighbor back home. Could be fun to talk to someone who wasn’t a dancer, over the age of thirty, or Carol.
Marta sat on the steps waiting for the reporter, watching traffic move along the street. Thank heavens she’d listened to discussions at the dancers’ meeting last week. In addition to talking about injuries and choreography, they’d touched on Madame’s history and past company programs. She’d give Mr. Mason a quick tour and be done in time for dinner at the boarding house.
He pulled to the curb in an older black car. As he walked toward her, she stood and brushed the wrinkles from her flowered cotton skirt. She entwined her fingers behind her back, then crossed her arms in front, then put her hands behind her back again.
“Hi. Thanks for meeting me, Miss Marta Selbryth.”
“How do you know my name, Mr. Mason?”
“Call me Steve.” He reached his hand forward. “A reporter never reveals his sources.”
His firm grip gave off comfortable heat. Marta looked toward her toes as a sudden awkwardness crept through her. When she looked up, he smiled and gestured toward his car. “Ready for that Schlitz?”
“What’s that?” she said.
“Schlitz is a beer. Or, would you rather have a glass of wine?”
“Neither. I’m seventeen. Let’s do a quick tour of the dance company, okay?”
“Sure,” he said as he checked his watch. “We’ll need to hurry so I can make deadline.”
Steve opened his notebook as they rounded the building to the dancers’ door. As Marta pulled the door open, she jumped back. Madame stood in the hallway.
“Madame Cosper!” Marta said. “I…We were...”
Madame ignored Marta and granted Steve one of her rare smiles. “I have a few minutes I can spare to speak with you. Your name again?” she asked.
“Steve Mason, Mountain Sentinel, Ma’am. Miss Selbryth planned to give me a quick tour before my deadline. Susan Zane, the arts editor, will call next week for an in depth interview with you.”
“I see.” Madame lifted her chin and smoothed back her hair. “Very well, then. Finish before Karl locks up at five.”
“Yes, Madame.” Marta curtsied, then led the way. Madame followed them down the hall. At the stairway, she turned upstairs. Marta kept walking. She stopped at the corner and pointed to the new poster. “This is our new season. It’s an exciting year of dances.”
Steve nodded and jotted notes in his notebook. He leaned close and whispered, “Is she always that friendly?”
“Madame?”
He held his finger to his lips and whispered, “Don’t answer that.”
Marta covered her mouth to hide her smile. Steve noticed more than she anticipated. It wouldn’t do for Madame to think she’d spoken ill of her or the company. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“How many new dancers this year?”
“There are four of us: three girls and one boy.”
“Why don’t you call them women and men?”
Marta stopped abruptly at the top of the stairs. “I don’t know. That’s what they always call us.”
Steve made a note. “Interesting. If my college instructor called us girls and boys, we’d feel insulted.”
Marta had no response as she hurried on to the costume shop. “This is where our company stores its costumes. She took down a white tutu with a hand-beaded bodice. “This costs about four hundred dollars.”
“That tiny thing? That’s what I paid for my first car. What size is it anyway?”
“It’s many sizes. From zero up to an eight. Seamstresses adjust costumes to the size of the dancer wearing it.”
“Zero is a size?”
Marta laughed. “Let’s go downstairs.”
As they walked though the practice rooms, she talked about the principal dancers, the music selections, and the soloists for the fall performance.
“What solos do you have?” he asked.
“I’m in the corps de ballet. I’ll audition as an understudy, but it often takes years to earn a solo.”
“That’s too bad, but it’s the same in the newspaper business. Gotta intern and prove yourself before people take you seriously and turn you loose.”
“Hm-m. I never thought of it that way. Is there anything else you’d like to see?”
“You agreeing to have dinner with me.” He closed his notebook, crossed his arms, and leaned against the wall. His smile held her attention, encouraging her to smile.
Marta turned away to hide her fluster. He was a charming guy, tall and lean and easy to talk with. Must have a ton of girlfriends. “Let me think about that.”
At the end of the long the hallway, Steve pointed to the cubbies filled with pointe shoes. “Why are there so many shoes?”
“Each of us will go through as many as six pairs of pointe shoes during a week of performances, plus several pairs a month during rehearsals. We use the shoes until they start to break down.”
“Break down?”
“Let me show you.” Marta handed him one of her shoes. “This is new.”
Steve turned the shoe over and ran his hand along the pink satin top, the ribbons, and the toe. He flexed the shoe, then handed it back to Marta. Next, she handed him a scuffed shoe. His fingers crushed the toe. He flexed the arch back and forth.
“Feel the difference?” Marta asked.
“Yeah, I do.”
“The stiffened toe of pointe shoes is called the box. Once it gets soft, it’s tossed. Broken shoes aren’t safe.”
“Why keep these broken shoes then?” Steve handed back the shoe and scribbled notes.
“I forgot to toss them.” She put her hand on his arm. “Don’t print that.”
He nodded but kept writing. “Sounds unsafe and expensive. Good thing the company buys your shoes.”
“Who told you that? We buy our own.”
“Pricey, isn’t it?” he said.
“Steve, please don’t write about the shoes. That’s not anything people need to know.” If he printed anything about broken shoes, Madame would be embarrassed and send her packi
ng.
“Consider it our little secret, Marta.” He closed his notebook and checked his watch. “We’d better hurry. I have one last question: how tall are you?”
Marta straightened and lifted her chin. “I’m five feet tall, and don’t ask my weight. A free cup or glass of anything isn’t worth enough for me to share that.”
Steve held open the dancer’s door for Marta to exit ahead of him. “If you can wait a few minutes, I’ll file my story. Then I’d like to treat you to tea or dinner or whatever.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“I’d like to, Marta. After all, I took up your time.”
Steve opened the car door for Marta, then circled to the driver’s side and climbed in. His car reminded her of the neighbor’s fastback, except it was black instead of red.
“This is a nice car,” Marta said.
“Thanks. I’d like to get a new car, maybe a Thunderbird. That’s a cool car. But first I need to finish school and get a job. What kind of car do you drive?”
“I don’t have one.”
“How do you get around?”
“I walk, ride a bike, or get lifts from my friends.”
“You’re not the average person, are you? Most people our age can’t wait to buy a car.”
“Hm-m. Maybe so,” she said. “But a car costs more money than I’ve saved, so I’ll do without for now.”
The newspaper offices occupied a three-story building east of Twenty-seventh. While Steve typed the story, Marta sat at an empty desk and scanned the rows of gray metal desks in the cigarette smoke-filled room. A handful of people sat working at the desks; their fingers clattering across the typewriter keys sounded like snare drummers beating out a tattoo.
Through the haze she saw a man with a rumpled shirt and a loosened tie sitting in a glass enclosure. Every few minutes Steve looked up from typing to check the time, smile at Marta, and glance at the man in the box.