But he switches off the light and turns to the others, only looking for a laugh. He stumbles again, and there’s something of the lumberyard in it—not so much the woodcutter, but the falling tree.
She tries to shake it off. He’s drunk. They’re all drunk.
Except Maeve.
She stands and walks to the far end of the lobby. At first, she just wants some space: she’s afraid she might scream and wants to remove herself before it happens. She extends an arm to rest on the back of a chair and squeezes her eyes shut.
She doesn’t want to cry, not here. All she can see are Talia and Rudy: Rudy’s small face in a rearview mirror. Talia’s fingers tight around Maeve’s arm, reaching for her from the back seat as Maeve drives down a highway at night. They didn’t go through all of that, everything it took to leave Iain, to finally be free, only for her to die up here in the mountains and abandon them.
When she opens her eyes again, she can see herself reflected in the plate-glass window. Pale, a silhouette. She pulls up straight, as though she is not lost in the center foyer but standing at the barre. Far behind her, there is the flicker of the fire, the others grouped around it.
She begins to warm up.
“What are you doing,” Anna calls.
Maeve keeps her eyes locked on her own reflection, her pelvis tucked. Toe pointed, calf tight, tendu-tendu-tendu.
“I’m going to work,” she says. “They won’t let me leave, so I’ll do it here.” Out into second position, down into a plié, up into a rise. “If Sim can work, then so can I.”
She keeps the warm-up sequence brief, just getting herself in order before moving into the open and taking up space.
At first, the others are silent, uncomfortable, but after a moment Maeve can hear the murmurs of conversation start up again behind her. The clink of the ladle in the soup pot.
She tries to pick up where she left off on the day of the avalanche, working to remember short bursts, stringing together one little series after another. The more physically demanding she makes it, the more likely she can clear her mind. There’s no music and no beat. She keeps the count in her head, punctuating with staccato movements, heel-drop-dig-dig-dig-and-lunge, and from there working out wider, moving down to the floor and pressing up again, then letting herself fall. Up on her feet, contract-release-contract-release. And suddenly, she’s ecstatic: the sequence—what she can see of it—is radically unpretty. It looks like work, it looks just the way she wants it to. There’s sweat in her eyes and she drops to the floor again.
On the ground, she notices something new in the glass: they’ve shifted, all of them, to watch her. A quick burst of energy through her muscles, a spark of power. She rises to her knees, spins and arches, turns to face them but then sharply away again. Don’t get distracted. Stay here, stay with this. The next time she spins back, Sadie is slumped in her chair, and Anna, glaring at her, has Justin’s camera in hand. She signals to Maeve, then gets down on one knee, filming.
So there’ll be a record of this, Maeve thinks. If I ever get home to use it.
Sadie now trying to pretend to look elsewhere, but Dan and Sim, not at all. Karo, head tilted in stern appraisal. Anna’s words: She handpicks her artists and then she thinks she owns us. Like Maeve’s mother from the wings.
Maeve closes her eyes to shut them all out. She’s used to an audience at rehearsals, she knows how to use this energy when she needs it. She also knows when it’s time to focus and pretend she’s alone in the room.
Her leg extends, pulls in, extends: she pushes up on her hands and drags her body across the floor.
She flicks her head up. When she looks back, Sim is on his feet, moving slowly around the edge of the room toward her. But this isn’t the same as a remote audience: it feels invasive, as though he might step in or cut her off. She rises and turns away but on her next spin, Maeve finds herself growing wilder, faster, more athletic. Punchy. No—punched up.
He draws closer. She can see him coming in the window glass and for a moment she cannot look away. She is watching him get near, grow larger in reflection. From the corner of her eye, she sees the others in their seats, glued to this new spectacle. Anna on her feet now, changing her angle—Maeve realizes that it is no longer herself alone but the two of them, Maeve and Sim together, on display.
The spell breaks. Maeve turns away—arch and extend, lift, arch—she pours forward at a run, spins, starts again.
Sim paces along the wall now, back and forth, watching her. Why the fuck doesn’t someone tell him to sit down? Her foot flexed and lifting high, out, down, back, a compass turn, the leg coming in sharply and propelling her around. She falls and pushes up. For a minute, she gets lost in herself again and it feels good—he’s gone from her line of sight.
Then, as she’s springing up into a leap, she catches him, up on the open staircase now—looking down at her from above.
Maeve lands hard and stumbles, then falls for real, the same hip and shoulder slamming the ground, and she swears out loud. When she gets up again, she curves over, hands resting on knees. She is panting. Overhead, Sim stares down at her, the beginning of a smile.
From the other side of the room, a slow clap starts up. Justin rises to his feet.
“Oh, fuck off,” Maeve says.
“A tremendous effort,” Justin says. “I’ll file my review in the morning.”
She feels flushed and drops into a low squat, hugging herself, eyes shut, while she catches her breath. She opens them when someone touches her arm. Anna. Offering water.
Back in her chair, Sadie has picked up Justin’s camera again and hunches over it, the camera cradled in her arms. Something about it tugs at Maeve, but she’s light-headed and only squints vaguely in her direction, trying to figure out what. Dan gestures solemnly to Anna to rejoin the group, but she turns away and gets down on her haunches instead.
“You don’t look well,” Anna says.
Maeve takes the mug and drinks, then hands it back.
“I want to go to bed.”
Sim comes down the stairs. Anna cracks a new bottle of bourbon and pours a few shots into the mug. She glances at Dan before turning back to Maeve.
“I’ll walk you,” she says.
Upstairs, Maeve pauses at her door.
“What do you think happens next?” she says.
“We go home,” Anna says.
“Are you sure?”
Maeve glances down the hall in each direction. An odd feeling they aren’t alone, but maybe she’s just spooked by the shadows; it’s always so dark in the halls now. She brings her phone up a little higher, shining the flashlight first one way, then the other.
Maybe it’s just the leftover effect of their eyes on her, all of them, when she was working to focus on herself.
“Your kids,” Anna says. “They’re with your parents? What about Dad?”
“He’s gone.”
Anna thinks on that.
“He was the AD for a big company,” Maeve says. “Artistic director. Iain. Everything was fine when he was working. When he was home—” That pins-and-needles prickle at her temples, her wrists. She shakes her head. “When I left him, I thought he might kill me.”
She looks down at the scar along her hand. For a second, she’s back in that studio, shards of broken mirror lying on the floor.
I fell in love with your dancing, Maeve. How are you going to dance now?
“I used to try and fight back. That was the problem. I was all muscle in those days, you’d think I’d be able to hold my own. Wouldn’t you? Think I’d stand a chance?”
For once, Anna has lost her spirit. Her mouth is set, grim.
“Baby, no—”
“Spoiler: It wasn’t even a tie. It wasn’t even close.”
“But he’s not there now?” The grim expression turning to alarm.
“No.” Maeve plays with the key in her hand. “No, he’s dead.”
Anna raises her eyebrows.
“That’s what I m
ean. I did leave him, finally. Three years ago,” Maeve says. She’s talking quickly now. “But it didn’t solve anything. He wouldn’t agree to a divorce. The kids and I had to move every few months just to get away, and he’d always follow. He used to sit outside my house, look in the windows. Just to scare me.” Maeve presses her lips together. “People think that only happens in bad neighborhoods.”
She lifts her shoulders, takes a breath: she didn’t know she needed to tell this story, not in the midst of all this. The chaos of the avalanche opening the door to old fear.
“But then he died—” she says. “Four months ago. And now everything is solved. It’s weird, to be honest.”
Anna shakes her head, taking the story in.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I think?”
“I don’t know how to feel. He died in a shooting. Just coincidence,” Maeve says. “I mean, it’s crazy if you think about it. All those years I couldn’t get away.”
She takes a breath. Holds up her hand, flashes the scar on her palm.
“The day after I left him. I had just started working again, secretly, and he followed me to the studio. Knocked me around a bunch. But then—” She pauses. “Then he kicked a mirror in. The whole thing shattered. And for a second, everything stopped. Glass everywhere, like daggers. I could see myself in the mirror, from across the room, just lying there. I had a piece of it in my hand. It was like he’d given me a weapon.”
She shakes her head.
“But I got scared and waited a moment too long. I was going to, I don’t know—” She’s only ever talked about this in bits and pieces—to her lawyer, her therapist. Now, the whole thing in one go: it feels like a wave. “Stab him, I guess,” she says. Then, harsher: “Stab him in the throat.” She holds out her scarred palm again. “I got this instead.”
Maeve shrugs.
“After all that, he goes on tour and dies in a hotel bar.”
“Nature turns to chaos,” Anna says. “Always.”
They both stand there in the hall without moving. Maeve doesn’t open her door.
“How’d you ever manage to leave?” Anna asks finally.
“Most people only ask why I stayed.”
“That’s a garbage question.” Anna reaches for Maeve’s hand and Maeve suddenly wonders about the husband back home—the insistent, twice-daily calls and why Anna might need a break. Might need whatever she has going with Dan.
“Hey.” Anna gives the hand a squeeze. “Listen. Want me to sleep over?” She breaks into the beginnings of a smile. “Come on, I could just take the room next to you. So you’re not alone.”
It’s a perfect offer, but Maeve hesitates. She wants to be fine, to believe they will be fine. She’s about to be a grown-up and say No for real when they hear the creak of the stairwell door. Maeve glances to the dark hall. She looks back at Anna.
“This can’t be him again? Like last night—” Her brow furrows. “Can it?”
But she’s right: it’s Sim who appears, his face a carved shadow in the light of his own lantern. He’s carrying the whiskey bottle in his other hand.
“Everything all right, ladies?”
He’s talking to Maeve, his eyes on her.
“I’ll get my things,” Anna says. She looks at Sim oddly, then at Maeve, before heading off to the stairs. Her own room is one floor up.
There’s a brief, awkward silence as they both watch her go. When the stairwell door closes behind her, Sim turns back to Maeve.
“Here. You left this downstairs.” He gestures to his coat pocket: the hat she borrowed peeks out of it, just the fur trim. “Go on,” he says. “Take it, my hands are full.” When she doesn’t immediately reach for him, he steps closer. “Go on.”
It’s uncomfortable just standing there. After a moment, Maeve draws the hat from his pocket.
“I don’t really need it,” she says.
“Hang it on the knob,” Sim says. “If you leave your door unlocked.”
There’s a pause as she takes this in. She moves back, thinking to put a little distance between them, but her heel hits the wall behind her, and he steps closer.
“I’m pretty tired,” Maeve says.
“Are you?” He’s probably a full ten inches taller, but he dips his head to meet her eyes. The effect is the opposite of equalizing. She feels, if anything, shorter, more obviously tiny in comparison. “I was watching you today,” he says.
“I—” Maeve drops her gaze, smiling a little despite herself. Not sure what to say. “I know, I saw that.”
“No. Not just now. Out in the snow, I mean. Even like that, when you’re in three layers of clothes, I can see the dancer in you. It’s mesmerizing.” He sets the lantern down, and the light flares up from their feet. “There’s no time you’re not aware of your body, is there? All your moving parts. That piece you were working on downstairs—”
“I was just fooling around. Trying to stay warm.”
“No—”
“Yeah—”
He cuts her off. “No, I don’t think so. It looked like something. It looked like a fight. Like you were tethered, you know? God, I’d love to use it somehow.”
“Use it?” She can almost feel the heat of his body. That’s how close they’re standing. She has to tilt her chin up to look at him, but it somehow makes her nervous, embarrassed, something. She’s not sure.
“In the gallery.” He keeps on, gesturing with his free hand, the long fingers hovering, gripping some object in his mind. “Roped to the ground, but fighting like a goddamn wild thing. You could work that in: a big rope, big braid of sailing cord. And there’s you, fighting against it. Like some fierce little animal. Staring down the barrel of a gun.”
He’s standing there with an instructive look, as though he’s really considering art and not just forcing her to imagine being tied up.
“That’s what you should call it,” he says. “Trigger Point.” He relaxes, flicks the hat with a finger. “I’m glad we saved your pretty face.”
She wants to look away but doesn’t. She can feel her jaw tighten, her tongue against the back of her teeth.
“I’m tired,” she says again. Her eyes steady on his. “I’m tired, Sim. I need a break tonight. From this.”
They’re standing there like that when the stairwell door opens again. Maeve turns her head, relieved. Anna, coming back along the hall. She’s got her backpack on one shoulder, the mug of booze still in one hand. In the other, she brandishes the key to the next room.
“Success!”
Sim steps back and watches her open the room next door. To Maeve: “Too nervous to sleep alone?”
Anna swings out from the door, her backpack swaying. “And what do you think has made her so nervous, hey? I mean, can you think of anything? No? How about anyone?”
Maeve hands the hat back to Sim.
“It’s fine, Anna.” She ducks a little to get around him to her own door. “The last thing any of us needs is midnight drama in the Overlook Hotel.” She’s cracking wise to get things over with. She looks back to Sim. “Right, sir?”
He bends to retrieve his lantern.
“Everything goes into the work, Maeve. Everything. You and I are the only ones who really understand that.” He turns to Anna, raising the bottle in her direction. “Chin-chin.”
“Go to sleep, Nielssen,” Anna says.
He nods to Maeve just once before turning to walk back down the hall.
“Trigger Point,” he calls. “Don’t forget I gave you that. It’s a good name.”
Anna cocks her head at this, questioning. When he’s gone, she breaks the silence:
“What was that about?”
But Maeve just shakes her head. She’d rather forget the whole thing.
There’s an adjoining door between the rooms, and for a little while, it feels like a slumber party: Anna pacing around in a long nightgown, her coat thrown over her shoulders like a shawl; Maeve gesturing with her toothbrush as they talk. A storm lantern on the floor
spills light like a campfire. Outside, snow is blowing in heavy and wet, the world only white. Even on the sill it’s piled up ten inches deep. There is less window than there used to be.
No new sounds from the hallway. Sim’s room is on the floor above, where Anna has been sleeping; the permanent staff are all two floors below.
“I’ll grab that footage of you off Justin’s camera tomorrow,” Anna says. “Maybe we’ll get to work together after all.” She does a few dance moves of her own. “That fluidity—that kind of feeling in my transformation scene—I mean, if you’re down, obviously.”
“Transformation?” How easily they all move into collaboration here.
Anna stops and strikes a pose.
“Remember? I told you! I’m trying to use the bear dreams as a werewolf narrative. Mostly I keep the camera on Dan. You know. When we’re—” She bites her lip. Maeve drops her jaw in mock surprise, and Anna laughs. “He’s a specimen, that’s all I’m saying. Not hard to turn him into an animal.”
“He’s your werewolf.” Maeve nods, suddenly getting it. Then something occurs to her: “Wait—and he lets you?”
“He doesn’t—” She pauses, reconsidering her words. “He doesn’t love it. That’s why he’s so touchy about Justin’s camera—kind of takes it out on him, I guess.” Anna shrugs. “He’ll get over it,” she says. “They both will.”
But her tone seems unconvincing. Maeve stalls on that, wondering if Dan really knows. Is this what Sadie was doing there—helping Anna somehow? Or keeping track, for Karo?
She rifles through the pocket of her jeans, now discarded on the floor, and fishes out the bear claw. “Look, I’m not sure about Dan,” she says. “I’m not sure he’s safe. Remember this?”
“Uh—” Anna’s shoulders come up slightly.
“I think Dan broke into my room. I think he put this into my suitcase.”
“Oh, Maeve, no—”
“He’s been following me around. The way he came to the studio, and even the first night—”
“No, I mean—” Anna stops, then flops onto the floor, cross-legged. “I did that.”
There’s a beat, and then Maeve drops to her knees beside her.
“What?”
The Retreat Page 13