by Paddy Eger
At breakfast the following morning, Marta surveyed the other boarders. Shorty and James savored their morning coffee and conversation. Carol ate with her head down. All the while, Mrs. B. kept a watchful eye on everyone and everything. It appeared that nothing had changed.
Marta relaxed as she dragged her spoon through her half-filled bowl of cereal. She made a mental list for the drug store: diet pills, chewable laxatives, tooth powder, deodorant, cotton balls, and two packs of bobby pins. Lynne predicted correctly; she’d cut her hair way too short. She’d need handfuls of pins to practice fastening on the hairpiece she’d picked up from Dolly’s Hair Emporium last week. It would never do to have a mound of netted hair fly across the room during her audition. June was creeping closer; only a little more than two months left to prepare.
As she dried the last of the dishes, she thought about Miss Wilson. Focusing on what she could control took more energy than she’d expected. Working with the little girls promised to her keep her mind off the mountain of things she couldn’t control.
Four o’clock. Marta sat in the basement studio. When the girls arrived, Lynne escorted them downstairs. Marta listened to their chattering as they clomped down the stairs. The basement door opened. The girls stopped talking as they entered. The group stood so close together it would have been impossible to slide a piece of paper between them. Lynne’s aunt stood behind them, placing her hands on the shoulders of two girls. “Hello, Marta. These young ladies are excited to learn to dance. I told them you’re both ballet dancers.”
A tiny black-haired girl looked up. “Are you really dancers?”
Marta smiled. “Yes, we are. We want to teach you to dance. Will that be fun?”
“Yes, but, you have a cast. How can you dance?” another girl asked.
“I can’t until my ankle heals,” Marta said.
The black haired girl spoke again. “My mother said I couldn’t dance on my tippy toes.”
“You don’t need to dance on tippy toes to have fun,” Lynne said. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Carmen. I’m seven.”
Marta felt a chuckle rise in her throat. “Well, Carmen, and the rest of you lovely young ladies, let’s get started.” Marta pointed to the hooks she’d installed. “I’ve made each of you dance bags to store your dance clothes and carry them back and forth to our lessons. Carmen, Lucy, Tracy, and Brenda, check to see that I spelled your names correctly.”
The huddle broke apart as each girl found her bag.
“How did you know our names?” Carmen asked.
“I told her,” Mrs. Meadows said. “Now take off your coats, your shoes, any extra clothes, and put them in your dance bags.”
The girls did as directed. The room remained breathlessly quiet.
Marta turned on the record player and sat back down on the chair. “When you are ready, sit on a rug square.”
When the girls were seated, Lynne sat on the floor with them. “Let’s find out about each other. I’ll start. My name is Lynne. I love to dance. I have lots of brothers. I like to meet new people. Carmen, you’re next.”
Carmen wiggled around and smiled. Her short curly hair made her round face angelic. “I’m Carmen. I have two sisters who like to tease me. I like to swing.”
“So do Lynne and I,” Marta said.
The next girl looked down at her knees, letting her long straight hair cover much of her face. “I’m Lucy. I like to help my mother when she’s too sick to cook alone.”
“I like to cook,” Marta said. “Maybe some day we’ll cook together.”
Lucy looked up and smiled, then tucked her face down toward her knees once again.
“Who’s next?” Lynne asked.
The smallest of the four rocked back and forth on the rug square. “I’m Tracy. I like to read. I live next door to Brenda.”
“So what do you girls play together?” Lynne said.
Brenda shrugged. “Mostly we do ballerina paper dolls and play dress-up.”
“And we pretend dance,” Tracy said.
“You all do so many interesting things. Now you will learn to dance together,” Marta said. “Let’s get started.”
Lynne led them with simple stretches. Next, they practiced walking like dancers, putting their toes down first and lifting their arms like flower petals in the wind. When Lynne pulled out scarves, the girls danced and twirled, waving the scarves until they were called back to their rug squares.
“Next time,” Lynne said, “we’ll begin real ballet exercises at the barre.”
That evening Lynne called Marta. “You’ll never guess what happened. The girls chattered all the way back. They showed the rest of the kids what we did, and they’re all excited about coming back. Looks like we have our first students.”
Each class the little girls started with stretches at the barre. After floor exercises, they tried simple leaps and ballet steps. Their happy voices and quirky movements energized Marta, reminding her of her own early dance years. She forgot about her cast and set to work making costumes for the girls to wear when they danced for their families in June. Tomorrow, Tuesday, April first, her cast would be removed. Hopefully there’d be no fool’s trick waiting for her at the doctor’s office.
26
After the dreaded weigh-in, a blood draw, and an iron shot, Dr. Wycoff removed the cast. While the nurse washed her leg and applied lotion, Marta stared at the ghost white skin of her shriveled leg. She held her breath to stifle her disappointment at its condition.
Dr. Wycoff twisted and flexed her ankle. Marta winced, but experienced no sharp pain. He massaged her calf muscle and her ankle. “Do this daily to stimulate and loosen the muscles before you exercise.” She nodded, wishing she could leap up and dance all the way home.
“Use the crutches for support this week. I know your leg looks bad, but with a few weeks of therapy you’ll be fine.”
“Therapy?”
“Yes. I suggest physical therapy twice a week for three to four weeks. The nurse will give you a list of names. Make a follow-up appointment with me if you experience any problems.”
“Okay.” Marta spoke to doctor’s back as he disappeared out the exam room door.
She wiggled her toes: a little pain and a stiffness she’d never before experienced. She lifted her leg; it felt weightless without the cast. Her muscles trembled. When she tried to rotate her ankle, she found she had no flexibility. The nurse returned, handed her a therapy list and crutches, then walked her to the waiting area.
On the ride home she thought about her pile of still-unpaid hospital bills. Where would money for therapy come from? She knew her own body; after all, she’d spent ten years doing warm-ups and stretches two or more days every week. Therapy cost too much right now. She’d exercise by herself.
Marta stood in the front hall leaning on the crutches. Sixteen steps up to her room; sixteen steps back down. Maybe she should have stayed downstairs longer, but she’d missed her room. Besides, using the stairs provided exercise. She’d follow Dr. Wycoff’s orders and take it slow for a few days, but then she’d practice every waking minute she wasn’t working.
Thursday. Two days since her cast came off. It was time. She smiled as she made giant flowers around today’s date on her calendar. A thrill sizzled through her as she put on her ballet clothes for the first time since the Christmas break. She turned side to side and looked over her shoulder. Saggy and flabby described her backside. Exercise should help reverse the damage.
When she reached the basement studio, she smiled and inhaled, feeling her lungs expand, welcoming her back. Now the real work began.
Marta knew her feet had swollen. Her ballet shoes felt extra snug, more like pointe shoes. Maybe she’d start barefoot and work back into her soft shoes after a few days.
She swiveled her neck to
loosen her muscles, then stood in first position at her makeshift bar and took a cleansing breath. As the adagio recording began, she performed a demi-plié, then rose. Her body remembered even though her legs jittered. She sank into another and another. Her left ankle refused to flex to its full extent, but she pushed herself, ignoring the pain.
Sweat gather under her arms; they ached from holding their positions. She’d exercised every day these past two months, why did she feel so weak? Demi plié, point to second, and repeat.
Fourth position, fifth position, both sides. Her muscles vibrated as she added ports de bras, reaching forward and back, lengthening her torso further and further the longer she worked.
Battements tendus next. Her right side looked strong and normal as she stretched her foot out to a point and brought it back to first position. Standing on her left leg caused so much pain she rested before continuing on the other side. At least her injured leg was off the floor now, doing the beats. The bad part: her foot cramped with every attempt she made to point her toes.
She inhaled, straightened, and pushed through her discomfort. Her foot cramped, locking her toes in a gnarled position. She reached for the nearby chair to sit and rub out the knot. I can do this, she thought, as the cramp continued to send a burning sensation up her leg.
On and on she worked: grands battements, beating the air with swift leg extensions, ronds de jambes creating imaginary circles on the floor. After dozens of relevés, unending lifts ending with demi-pliés, she stopped, grabbing the barre to keep from fainting or falling on the floor.
Twenty minutes later, she began again. Hours later she returned to her room and collapsed without taking a shower or removing her soaked dance clothes.
When she woke, her body shivered. It was dark outside. Her clock said eleven. She sat up, trying to orient herself. She gasped. She’d slept through dinner and her job at the theater.
27
Marta and Lynne taught the little girls pliés with the matching ports de bras so their body and arm movement positions aligned. They taught curtsies, flowing hands, jumps, and standing with straight backs. They taught them glissades and balancés. Whatever they taught, every lesson ended with the girls encircling Marta and Lynne with hugs before they hurried onto the waiting bus.
One evening after dinner dishes, Marta and Lynne sat in the dusky light of the common room talking. Marta massaged her leg and ankle, now an every day routine.
“How much longer do you plan to continue working at the hotel?” Lynne asked. “You look so tired you make me want to take a nap.”
“I need money, so I’ll stay on a while longer.”
“Have you contacted Damien yet? Checked on the audition date?”
Marta shook her head. “I want to be able to walk in without limping. He’ll not let me audition if I can’t walk.”
“Call him, Marta”
“I will. After I lose five pounds, I—”
“Forget the pounds. You’re making excuses. Call him tomorrow. Promise.”
Though Marta knew she should call, how could she when those extra pounds hung on her like dead weights? She’d call soon; just not tomorrow. Maybe by the end of next week.
Between working at the hotel, instructing the little girls, and baking for the boarding house, Marta anticipated she’d drop her excess five pounds like water off a raincoat. It hadn’t happened. Her energy remained the only thing that dropped.
Tomorrow Steve returned. He’d stayed on in San Francisco to finish his project. Their nightly phone calls became once or twice a week because of his work, giving her more time to worry about everything. Miss Wilson would not be pleased.
What should she say when he arrived? She hadn’t seen him since Valentine’s weekend. Phone calls weren’t the same as sitting next to him, watching his face, listening to his voice, or feeling his lips brush hers. What should she wear? When would he arrive?
Marta yawned as she set the breakfast table. She’d grabbed her clothes from yesterday, planning to shower once the boarders left. Mrs. B. finished scrambling eggs and frying the bacon. The front door opened and closed. Footsteps approached the dining room.
“Morning, Marta.”
She froze with the breakfast napkins clutched in her hands. “Hi.” Steve stood inches from her. He’d come back. She laid down the napkins, brushed back her hair, and stared at his face. “Wow. You’re really here. I didn’t expect to see you—and so early.”
“Surprise. I wanted to see you as soon as possible, so I drove through.”
Marta studied him. He looked tired, rumpled, and yet more handsome than she remembered.
Mrs. B. walked in with a bowl of fruit. “Steve! Welcome back. Ready for breakfast?”
“That would be wonderful.”
Marta stood frozen in place. “Yes, welcome back.” She reached out and took his hand, feeling its familiar warmth spread contentment through her. He’d come back to her.
When Mrs. B. returned to the kitchen, they shared kisses and hugs. Lips touching lips. Arms around arms. Heartbeat against heartbeat. The ache of his being away became the ache of longing to stand entwined. Only the arrival of the boarders broke their attention on each other.
Steve sat beside Marta and answered questions from the boarders: Did he like San Francisco? What projects did he work on? Would he want to go back? He answered each one but kept his eyes focused on Marta.
She didn’t eat a bite, afraid her hands would shake and give away her excitement. This time she knew it wasn’t diet pills; she’d yet to take any today.
After breakfast Steve helped her clear the table and finish the dishes. Then she banished him to the common room while she put dishes and breakfast condiments away.
When she looked in on him, he’d fallen asleep. She watched his steady breathing, the way his head lay to one side, and heard a faint snore flutter from his lips. Poor guy. He must be exhausted from the long drive. She touched his hair and brushed it off his forehead; she’d let him sleep while she rushed upstairs and took a quick shower.
Marta’s hands shook as she showered. It was like stage fright; or was it excitement at seeing him here in the boarding house? She dressed quickly, grabbing whatever looked clean and reasonably wrinkle-free. As she returned downstairs, she heard his laughter. He was on the phone. “I’ll be home in a little while. Just wanted you to know I’m with Marta.”
Ease spread through her. She relaxed, knowing he’d returned and chosen to see her before heading home. She smiled as she turned the corner and saw him smiling back at her.
“All set? I must say you look great, Marta. Prettier than I remember.”
She felt heat rise through her body. “So do you, I mean, you look good too.”
He grabbed her hand. “Do you have time for a drive? I’d like to have you to myself for a little while. Dad said I should get to the paper by noon.”
They drove east along the Yellowstone and crossed the river. Steve held her hand as he drove. Soon they pulled into a ranch that sat back from the main road. “Since you like tossing rocks and you keep a bag of polished rocks in your room, I wanted to bring you out here to see an interesting rock called Pompey’s Pillar.”
“Who’s Pompey?”
“Sacagawea’s son. Clark called him Pom and named the rock for him.” Steve circled the car, opened Marta’s door, and pulled her to her feet. “Now that you can walk, I want to show you the view.”
“But isn’t this private property?”
“Yes, but my dad knows the owners. It’s okay that we’re here.”
They climbed around the edges of the pillar, finding foot and hand holds in the sandstone butte. Steve pulled Marta up the last few feet. At the top she made a slow turn, looking from the Yellowstone to the surrounding grasslands. “This is amazing. How do you know Clark came here?”
“He signed the rock. We’ll see it on the way back down. It’s a great place isn’t it?”
They stood holding hands, listening to the wind rustle the grasses. The sound reminded her of hands rubbing together, creating small moments of heat on a chilly day.
“The owners, the Foote’s are letting the paper do a story about the pillar. They’re considering letting tourists visit the site. I’m putting my bid in to write the article.”
Marta hugged Steve. “It’s good to have you back. I missed you.”
Steve smiled and brushed his hand against her cheek. “I missed you too.” He kissed her forehead and stepped back. He scanned her from head to toe, held one hand, and twirled her around to look at her. “Let’s go where we can talk away from this wind; maybe share a few more kisses.”
They drove across the river and along a windy road heading west back toward Billings. At the end of the gravel road they parked and walked toward a wall of rock. This early in the morning they had the area to themselves.
“I wanted to bring you here this morning so you could see the prehistoric carvings in these three caves. On the drive home I realized we’ve never come here. The effect of the early morning light is worth the trip.”
They followed a narrow gravel trail under the overhang and stopped at the first cave. Marta looked up. High inside the shallow cave the morning sunlight cast spotlights, highlighting the stick figures and animal petroglyphs.
“This is amazing,” Marta said. “The air feels cool even though the trail up here has heated up. Must have been a great place to cool down on a hot day.”
“Archaeologists think the local Indians used these caves as shelter. Come on. I want to show you my favorite—the ghost cave. Wait until you see the rock formations.”