This Train Is Being Held

by Ismée Williams

  It’s like Isa and me. Isa didn’t want me to meet her parents—it’s clear now. She didn’t tell them my family’s Dominican and that I’m not from Park Ave. It was plain in their faces. The usher and the dark-haired woman in my row looked at me and turned away. They saw nothing worth their time. And what about that lion-faced man and all the others on the subway who saw me with Isa? Were they looking at me like I’m looking at Giselle and her lord? Like they know it doesn’t matter what we feel for each other because it’s never going to work out?

  The rich folk appear on stage. Albrecht hides. Giselle bows to a woman in a red gown. Two peasants rush to the center to dance for the lords. Isa is one of them. Even in her brown smock, she shines. Legs, impossibly long, lift and spin. Her arms are wings, wrapping air around her as she leaps and pivots. She lands soft as a bird. She’s rare and remarkable—an eclipse, the sun coming out from behind the moon. I should look away. Or at least put on shades. I don’t. I can’t. I’d rather burn.

  How could I have thought someone like Isa could belong with me?

  The stage lights go down. Isa is gone. Giselle is dancing for her mother, trying to convince her the peasant she loves is true. I loosen my collar. It’s hard to breathe. Isa and I, the story could be about us. We’re too damn different.

  “Excuse me.” I duck through the row. I only step on three or four feet. I jog up the aisle. I burst through the doors as applause crashes around me.

  SATURDAY, APRIL 22

  ISA

  I’m back in the dressing room, the one all the girls from Second Intermediate share. Lipstick and wands of mascara wave around heads angled inches from mirrors. Exclamations of “Did you see Mia’s grande jeté?” and “Even Thibault was smiling!” peal like bells. A knock interrupts it all.

  “Is everyone decent? Males entering.” Kevin’s question is met with shrieking.

  Chrissy grabs me. “Come on!” she squeals. “He said males—plural!”

  I shake free so I can secure my headpiece. I dash into the hallway after her. My semisolo is done and the director seemed pleased. I should be relaxed. But my gut is still quaking like I’m about to run on stage for a piece I haven’t rehearsed.

  Chrissy’s holding Kevin at arm’s length. She doesn’t want him to mess up her skirt or her makeup. They’re smiling like they’re in a toothpaste commercial. There’s no one else in the hallway who’s not in tulle or dance tights. A salty taste fills my mouth. I’ve chewed my lip too hard. Is Alex still out there, cornered by my mom? What is she saying to him?

  A figure steps into the light.

  Alex!

  I reach for him. The palm that meets mine is cool and clammy.

  He studies our joined hands. His thumb strokes a slow line down my finger.

  “Well? What did you think?”

  “Amazing.” Alex’s voice is rough. Like he’s been shouting at a game.

  “Really?”

  He only nods. He’s still looking at our hands.

  “Did you like your seat?” I wonder if he knows he had the best one. I wonder if he knows what I’m really asking.

  His eyes find mine. He’s still partly in shadow so the brilliance of them doesn’t show. “They left. Your parents. Before the show even started.”

  I take a step back. “What?”

  His hand squeezes mine. “I think it was because of me.”

  I shake my head. That can’t be right. Dad promised he’d make everything OK. “Hold on.” I leave Alex standing in the hallway. I go back into the dressing room. I pull my bag out of my locker, my phone out of my bag. There’s a message from Dad.

  Merrit’s school called. He’s fine but something’s happened. We have to pick him up. Don’t know more. Sorry.

  Merrit’s supposed to be studying for finals. It’s why he couldn’t come for the performance.

  I make myself take a breath. And another. And another. Dad wrote that Merrit was OK. But this can’t be good.

  I put on my smile like I’m about to go back on stage.

  Alex stands where I left him.

  “Something came up. They had to go get my brother from school.” It’s not a lie. I’m just not burdening him with the whole truth. “It had nothing to do with you.” I take his hand to prove it.

  Alex’s head is bowed, his chin resting on his chest. “Did you tell them what I look like? Before? Did you tell them I’m Dominican?”

  “No! I would never do that. Why would that matter?” I mean what I say. He’s got to know that.

  Alex’s eyes are fixed on me now. I can see the fire in them. But also, I see hurt and disappointment.

  “Alex . . .” I try to thread our fingers. He doesn’t let me. He removes his hand from mine.

  He reaches in his jacket and passes me an envelope. My name is written on it.

  “For after.” His words are so curt, they feel like a slap.

  I look back up at him. I bite my cheek again to hold back tears. “You’re not staying? For the second act?”

  He shakes his head. “Something came up.” He doesn’t look at me as he walks away.

  SATURDAY, APRIL 22

  ALEX

  I punch my key into the lock as if it’s my fist and the lock is the whole world. It sticks. I batter the door as if it’s the world against me too. Mami comes running from her room. I didn’t think she’d be home.

  “¿Qué te pasó?” Her hand is on her chest. Her eyes widen at my ripped-open shirt. The collar was too tight. I couldn’t undo the buttons.

  She takes three quick steps. Her arms come around me. She holds on tight.

  I drop my head onto the top of hers. The keys and my tie fall from my hand. I close my eyes.

  I don’t want to tell her what happened.

  After a plate of coconetes from Sra. Hernandez and a cup of café, she asks me again.

  I chew my cookie. I get up for a glass of milk.

  I tell Mami about the performance. I pass her the program with Albrecht and Giselle. I tell her about Isa’s parents and about people trying to be what they’re not.

  Mami listens. She flips through the photos.

  “What about Isa?” she asks. “What do you feel about her?”

  I don’t answer. I inhale and exhale slow.

  Mami sees my wet eyes. She goes to the living room. She returns with Neruda’s book. She shows me a page. Poems, not just printed but written in the margins, at the top and the bottom. My words next to his.

  “Does she feel the same about you?” she asks.

  I swallow and look away.

  “Falling in love, it is easy. Fighting for it, that is hard.” Mami turns to the beginning of Neruda’s book, to the inscription that starts, Para mi amor.

  “Sometimes it is too hard.” She waits for me to look at her. “Your papi, he wrote that. He gave me this book when I was nineteen. You were born a year later. And your papi, he was traveling. He was doing things he shouldn’t. It was too hard for me to fight. I had to protect you.”

  I take the book from her. I thought it came from a used bookstore in Santo Domingo. That’s what Mami had told me. Maybe it did. She never said who bought it.

  I read the inscription again. He loved her. He really loved her. And she loved him. I know it because her eyes are wet now too.

  “No sabia.” I didn’t know. I take her hand. I cover it in mine.

  She lifts a shoulder, sniffs and looks at the ceiling. She waves as if to scatter smoke. She used to love cigarettes. Once, when I was little, I got a cold and wheezed. No more cigarettes after that, doctor’s orders. Something else she gave up because of me.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her.

  Her fingers tighten. “Don’t be sorry. I made my choice. You have to make yours.”

  She pulls away. She slides the ballet program in front of me. It’s folded open to the dedication page. To where Isa thanks A, for everything.

  “It is work, Ále. Only you can know if it’s worth it.”

  SATURDAY, APRIL 29


  ISA

  I sit on the floor of my room, cross-legged. It’s been a week since the performance, and I haven’t heard from Alex once. I DM’d him two days ago, asking if he was OK. He didn’t respond. I read the beautiful poem he gave me, and Chrissy found the tulips he forgot under his seat. I wish he hadn’t left. I wish we’d gone to dinner as we’d planned. I would have convinced him my parents leaving wasn’t because of him.

  Papers lie around me, organized into three piles: what to keep, what to store, what to toss. They’re mostly old school projects. In my hand is an acrostic poem about my brother from the fourth grade—Marvelous, Exciting, Righteous, Resourceful, Inventive, and Trim—decorated with flowers and hearts. I can’t believe trim was the T word I used and that my fourth-grade self didn’t think of trustworthy or thoughtful.

  Someone knocks on my door.

  “Come in.” It’s Dad—he’s the only one who ever waits for my reply.

  Dad pokes his head from behind the cracked door. He looks at the mess on my floor and runs his hand over his stubble. It’s been four days since he shaved.

  “How’s it going?” he asks. He comes in and surveys my “toss” pile. It’s about four times larger than my “store” pile and ten times larger than my “keep.” He plucks up the report on top. His mouth widens into a smile under the blond and silver scruff.

  “I remember this one. It made your mother and me crack up during your parent-teacher conference. I loved your use of exclamation points.” He flips through some pages. “‘Your eye can work during the day and at night! A little hole, the pupil, opens and closes to let in the light!’ Poetic, informative, and very demonstrative of your unique voice. Mom took this as a sign you were meant to be a doctor. Look at this detail.” He holds up the cover showing a cross-sectional diagram of the cornea, the lens, the retina, and the optic nerve, in crayon.

  “Your mom loved these. Where are the rest? Your drawings of the inside of the stomach might have been the most disgusting ones you ever did. Are they still here?” He flips through the pile.

  I shake my head. I don’t remember the others. But I remember making books and bringing them to Mom. She always liked them. The predictability of her response was a relief. The voices she used for the different characters were always fantastic, actually. She was like a professional actor when it came to books, any book, not just the silly ones I made. It wasn’t until eighth grade when I stopped asking her to read to me. Sometimes I wonder why I stopped. I wonder if things between us would be different if I hadn’t.

  “You know, I used to worry about you. You were always so grown-up, even as a little kid. You did a lot of things to try to please Mom, to keep her happy. You had that one friend, what was her name? With the curly brown hair and glasses?”

  “Susana,” I tell him.

  “Yes! Susana! When the two of you were together, you would tear around the apartment for hours. Then one night at dinner Mom said she didn’t like Susana. Was it because her hair was never combed?”

  I lift a shoulder, even though I remember. It was because Susana threw her coat on the floor, and her socks didn’t always match. Mom said not paying attention to your appearance and not taking care of your belongings showed lack of character.

  “You never asked for a playdate with her again. Which was too bad, because with her, you acted like what you were—a little kid. Instead of trying to be a grown-up. Not that I’m saying anything against your mother. I’m sure she would have let you have playdates with Susana if you’d wanted to.”

  Dad’s right. The problem was, I didn’t want Susana to come over anymore. I was afraid Mom would say something to hurt her. And embarrass me. Even though Susana always loved my mom. Because she was funny. Because she said the most outrageous things.

  Dad thumbs through the drawings. “Then in fourth grade, you wanted to try out for preprofessional dance at the studio. When Mom told you you’d have to give up swimming and gymnastics, you said you liked dancing more. Even when Mom made all those comments about how it’s important to be well-rounded.” Dad puts a hand on my head. “That’s when I knew you were going to be OK.”

  I nod. I’m not sure what to say.

  Dad’s foot knocks the throw-away pile and papers slide across the rug. He bends down. “Awww. You can’t get rid of this. The Story of the Lost Cat by Isabelle Warren.” Dad starts to read. “‘Cleo was lost.’” He shows me the pictures. “‘She called everywhere for Ella, her owner.’ I like how you got the comma correct here. Though you did spell everywhere with an extra h.”

  “I think I did that on purpose. For emphasis. Everywhere-eh.”

  Dad nods as if he never thought of this. “‘Ella looked everywhere for Cleo.’ See here, you spelled it correctly. No actually, you made it into two words. Every. Where.”

  “Dad!”

  “‘Then Cleo saw Ella! Ella saw Cleo! They were together at last! The End.’” He clutches the tiny book to his chest, his fingers framing the crayon drawing of Ella and Cleo hugging with hearts floating above them. “You can’t throw this away.” Dad draws a hand over his face. “It made me cry the first time I read it too.”

  “Dad, you did not seriously cry.” I go to snatch the packet away. Dad steps back.

  “It made me tear up. Really.” He walks to the window. The sill is bare. The porcelain figurines of ballerinas, one on pointe, one stretching along a barre, and one doing a pirouette, are gone.

  “Dad, I can’t keep it. My ‘stay’ pile is already too big.”

  “My ‘stay’ pile isn’t. I’ll keep it for you.” He doesn’t turn around. I wonder if he’s looking at the Chrysler Building. The Empire State is Mom and Merrit’s favorite, but Dad and I love the arcs of triangular windows atop the Chrysler. At night they light up, each one a toothy beacon shouting out that this city is the greatest on earth. Because it doesn’t matter where you come from. If you work hard enough, you can do anything. Become anyone.

  “Isabelle,” Dad says. “I’m sorry we have to move. And I’m sorry about our new apartment. That there are only two bedrooms.”

  I know what building he’s looking at. It’s not the Chrysler. It’s the MetLife Building. His old offices are there.

  “It’s OK, Dad. I understand.” It wasn’t his fault he got fired. It wasn’t his fault the stock market tanked and interest rates are rising. Or that the New York real estate market has softened and we’re selling the apartment for much less than Mom wanted, so much less that we’re barely getting anything back from the bank. And we’ve gotten no offers on the Hamptons house so we’re stuck renting it out at cost for a year. Mom’s told me all of it. Every gruesome detail.

  “We’re only moving ten blocks north,” I add in my most cheery voice. Dad doesn’t call me out on trying to sugarcoat it. We both know there’s a huge difference between Park Avenue south of Ninety-Sixth Street and Park Avenue north of it where the Metro-North trains run aboveground. There’s also a huge difference between a prewar co-op with doormen to get you taxis and bring up your bags and a rental with no staff other than a live-in super.

  “Well, I should have prepared.” Dad looks at the carpet. “I should have saved for a rainy day. Or better yet, a rainy year.” He lets out a gruff chuckle. It’s so forlorn, tears leak into my eyes.

  “I was thinking . . .” Dad goes back to staring out the window. “It’s important for you to have your own space. Despite what your mother suggested, with the divider, I’m going to ask Merrit to sleep on a pullout in the living room.”

  I wipe at my eyes, careful not to let Dad see me. “Dad. I don’t mind. Really. We’ll have a plastic wall between us for privacy. And Merrit’s going back to college in the fall anyway. I’m sure of it.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Dad raises his head. Papers crackle as he unrolls the little book. He comes over and lowers himself next to me. “May I?” He motions to my “toss” pile.

  I lift my hands. “Sure.”

  I take out the last set of files from my
desk. Dad reads through the stories of my childhood, one by one. None make it back into the “toss” pile.

  “Hey, how’s that friend of yours? Alex?” Dad asks.

  I pretend to scan the old Pointe magazine articles I’d ripped out and saved. “Um . . . He’s good.” I’m not going to tell Dad what happened. I don’t want him to feel guilty about something else that isn’t his fault.

  “It was nice of him to come to your performance. I really am disappointed I didn’t get to know him better. Hopefully when things settle down, you can bring him by.”

  “Bring who by?” Mom stands in my doorway.

  My heart lurches. The shock of adrenaline burns my palms. The night of the performance, after Merrit and Mom had gone to bed, I found Dad in the kitchen staring into a glass of scotch. I asked him how it had gone with Alex. Dad told me he chatted a bit with him, but that Mom didn’t even really see Alex because the lights were dim and she left so abruptly. I don’t know if Mom noticed Alex at all. She’s never brought it up. In a lot of ways, it’s a relief.

  “Oh, hi, honey. How did your call with the museum board go?” Dad is an expert at diversion.

  Mom trudges into my room. She’s wearing an old shirt of Dad’s and a pair of workout leggings that are now way too loose. “I told them I was stepping down and that I was withdrawing our pledge. You can imagine how it went.” She looks at her watch. “I’ve got another hour before I have to make the same speech again. I’m dreading telling the Bronx kids mentorship program that I can’t give them the money I promised. A lot of those kids were like me.”