Ballet Shoes and Engine Grease

by Tatiana March

  In a purely maternal gesture, Esmeralda reached out and stroked Nick’s cheek. “Don’t beat yourself up over it, Nicky,” she murmured. “You gave Bobby pleasure, simply by giving him something to cheer for, something to get excited over and dream about.”

  Nick merely shook his head. His throat felt too tight to speak.

  “I know,” Esmeralda said. “It’s hard to want to change the past, and not be able to. I…when we were young, your father asked me to be his girlfriend. I refused. I was too afraid of not fitting into his world. Of being laughed at, being looked down upon. Sometimes…” Esmeralda paused, and then she spoke in a low voice, a mere rustle of a sound. “Sometimes I fear that I exaggerate my blue collar roots, my lack of sophistication, just to convince myself that I was right, that I could never have acquired enough polish to make it work.”

  Nick curled his hand around Esmeralda’s plump fingers. “A diamond in the rough is still a diamond. Pure and precious. My father was lucky to have you in his life the final year.”

  Through a film of tears, blue eyes shone at him. “Oh Nicky, do you really think so?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I really think so.”

  It was not much, but it was the first tiny step toward becoming a better person. Of changing the future, because no one could change the past.

  Back to Contents

  Chapter Nine

  Around Nick, a faint predawn light thinned the darkness but the humid air held the chill of the night. The thick hedge rose to form high walls that seemed to suck him deeper and deeper into the past—into some personal nightmare of doubting his worth as a human being.

  He found the centre of the maze without trouble. Instinct. Childhood memories. In the tiny clearing, a stone border on the ground made up a raised square, perhaps eight feet wide. In the centre stood a stone monolith, a waist-high column with a sphere at the top. It made him think of an obelisk with a soccer ball balanced on top.

  He crouched in front of the monument. The daylight was too weak to read the engraving. He raised a hand and ran his fingers over the lichen covered stone. Like a blind man, he made out the inscription, tracing the numbers and letters one by one, starting from the base, and moving upward.

  The year of his accident.

  The year of his birth.

  Beloved brother.

  Nicholas Constantine.

  In the clipped hedge that formed the maze, birds launched into their morning chorus. Singing their hearts out. He’d never understood the meaning of the phrase with such clarity. Scrawny little things, they perched on the branches, heads raised, throats swelling, and chirped out melodies so potent and beautiful, surely their tiny hearts would burst with the effort.

  Just as his heart felt like bursting now.

  The chill in the air seemed to penetrate his bones, his very soul. Frozen. Ice. That’s how he felt. Had he always been like this—looking inward, focused on himself? Had he lost the chance of being loved because he’d been too bitter to reach out, too bitter to forgive? Was that why Marcela had dumped him—because, deep down, he was hard and cold?

  Nick pushed up to his feet and made his way out of the maze. The first rays of sunshine warmed the eastern horizon, painting streaks of pink in the ragged clouds. What time was it? He’d left his watch on the nightstand. After six, he guessed. It was four hours since his last swig of brandy, and he’d only drunk a few mouthfuls then, as most of what was left in the bottle had gone into Esmeralda’s glass.

  Judging himself sober, he got into the car and headed out to the memorial park. His mind was blank, his senses curiously dull. He drove on instinct, years of routine taking over, hands turning the wheel, eyes recording the town coming into life. First commuters heading for the highway. Newspaper boy on his bicycle. Bakery van making a delivery.

  He parked in the empty lot by the stone wall that enclosed the rolling lawns of the memorial park and strode along the crunching gravel path, his feet finding their way. He came to a halt in front of black granite gravestone. His grandparents. He’d been to his father’s funeral service at the church, but not to the graveside. He moved to the right, where the grass had yet to settle over the fresh mound of earth.

  Stephan Constantine.

  Tamara Constantine.

  Robert Constantine.

  So, his father must have adopted Bobby. According to the law, he had a half brother. A kid brother. My brother Bobby. Finally, the hard knot of grief inside him began to melt. Tears sprang to his eyes and spilled in warm trails down his cheeks—tears of guilt, tears of regret for what could have been. A little boy, disadvantaged in life, to whom he could have given joy, and who would surely have returned that joy many times over, if he had been less stubborn and conquered his prickly pride.

  How many marriages broke up? Half of all? One third? What did the children of those broken homes do? Some were left behind, he guessed, lost a parent who for whatever reason failed to keep in touch. Some made a conscious choice to sacrifice one parent in order to remain loyal to the other. And most, he suspected, adapted to the situation, found a way to hold on to at least a small part of both parents.

  But he hadn’t. He’d clung to his hate, unwilling to forgive. Unwilling to try to understand. Unwilling to seek a common ground, a middle way, a compromise that might have in the long run worked out the best for everyone, even his mother.

  Perhaps he really was the bastard Crimson had made him out to be.

  Nick turned and strode away. On the way to New York City, he hit the rush hour. By the time he got to Manhattan, it was close to ten. He garaged the car, went up to his condo and packed a suitcase. A taxi took him to JFK, where he bought a ticket and boarded the next plane for Tokyo, in an attempt to put some distance between himself and his regrets.

  ****

  “Tokyo? Tokyo?” Crimson gripped the telephone. “What’s he doing in Tokyo?”

  Myrna Constantine spoke in her usual crisp tones. “He rang up from JFK, said there is some kind of a business problem. Something to do with electrical components.”

  “Why didn’t he ring me?”

  Crimson regretted the words as soon they were out. Needy whining. After all, she had pushed him away. At the time, she’d told herself she was being sensible, avoiding emotional tangles. But really, had she wanted to hurt him a little? Be a porcupine with sharp quills? Had Nick, despite his cocky parting remark, gone off in a huff?

  “Nick hates leaving messages,” Myrna told her. “It dates back to the days when he travelled so much. He’d leave a message for someone, and they’d ruin his sleep by returning the call without realizing that he was in a different time zone where it was the middle of the night.”

  “Of course,” Crimson said, trying to sound calm, unconcerned. “We switched from an electronics supplier in Pittsburg to a Japanese company six months ago, and there are teething problems. Nick must have gone off to sort it out.”

  Crimson put the phone down, pulled on her casual clothes, and got Esmeralda to drive her to work, even though it was Saturday. Hank had asked some of the manufacturing crew to come in at the weekend, to deal with the aftermath of the fire, and she wanted to be there, to offer her support.

  They cleaned, they scrapped, they salvaged. She pitched in, dressed in baggy overalls, making an effort to be a visible leader, as Nick had instructed her, although she doubted that scrubbing the concrete floor in the manufacturing hall made a valuable contribution.

  By Tuesday morning, the plant was in normal operation.

  By Wednesday, the insurance company had agreed payment.

  On Thursday, Esmeralda announced that she wanted to take the train to the city to visit Myrtie, leaving Crimson without a chauffeur. By that time, the small, meaningless lie—omission, really—had grown into a festering sore. Why hadn’t she been honest and upfront about her lack of driving skills?

  There was only one thing to do.

  Turn it into a joke.

  ****

  Crimson asked Anna to s
et up a staff meeting in the cafeteria at lunchtime. When everyone had arrived and was seated, she stood by the food counter and addressed the crowd. “There’s something I haven’t told you. A sort of personal secret. I’m holding a competition for you guess what it is. Answers on a piece of paper, please, on Anna’s desk by five p.m. tonight. There are prizes for correct answers.”

  “What’s the prize?” someone called out.

  “Use of the vintage Panther that belonged to Stephan Constantine, for one weekend. Glam up a family wedding, impress a girlfriend, pretend to be rich and famous.” The room erupted into speculation. She heard snippets of conversation. “A clue,” she cried out in haste. “My secret does not involve Nick Constantine.”

  At five o’clock, Crimson sidled up to Anna’s desk. Three people in overalls were scurrying off across the office floor.

  “How are we doing?” Crimson asked.

  “You slipped up, boss. You forgot to specify one entry per person.” The curvy brunette rattled a shoebox full of scraps of paper. “I could sort through these tomorrow at home, in my own time. A sort of penance for getting Gregg into trouble. I feel terrible about it.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” Crimson gestured at the notes. “Is this silly?”

  “No.” Anna unfolded a slip of paper, burst into laughter, refolded the slip and shoved it back in among the rest. “It’s great. People needed something to brighten up the mood. It’s a bit of fun. Really. And will be a riot when we declare the winners on Monday.”

  “I’m not telling you the answer.”

  “Then how am I going to check these?”

  “You’re a high powered executive PA. You’ll think of something.”

  And Anna did. On Monday morning, she came to work dressed in tails and a top hat, like a circus ringmaster. She called another meeting in the cafeteria. When everyone was seated, she dragged out a flipchart and proceeded with a presentation.

  “We have a total of one hundred and seventeen votes.” She was playing the crowd like a consummate actress. “Fifty-three people think Crimson is Stephan Constantine’s secret love child. Twenty-seven people think she was his mistress. Five people think Crimson is a criminal wanted by the FBI. Three people think she is someone else impersonating Crimson Mills. Three people think she is a really a man. Two people think she is a space alien. Twenty answers have been disqualified because they involved Nick Constantine. Four answers have one vote each.”

  With ceremony, Anna unfolded a slip of paper. “Crimson is a robot. She needs to be plugged into a power supply every night. That’s why she is never seen around town in the evenings.”

  Another piece of paper, another flamboyant gesture. “Crimson is a set of clones. The Crimson on Monday is never the same as the Crimson on Tuesday. That’s why she manages to put in so many hours.”

  Before reading the next entry, Anna searched the crowd. “Crimson is in love with Jorge Fernandez.” She pointed at him. “We all know who wrote that.”

  “Dream on, Jorge,” someone called out.

  “And last, but not least…” Anna paused. “Crimson has crashed Stephan Constantine’s Panther. The competition is a cover-up to get people to accept a replacement.” Anna turned to Crimson. “Well, boss? What is it? Are you a clone, a criminal, a robot, an impostor, or more closely connected to Stephan Constantine than you’ve let us believe?”

  Crimson got to her feet. The sound of clattering pots and pans faded as the catering company staff behind the counter stilled to listen. “I’m afraid I wasn’t specific enough,” she told the audience. “You’ve all come up with big secrets. It’s a small secret.” She paused. “I’ve never had an intimate affair with a motor vehicle.”

  Anna seized the cue. “You’ve never made out on the back seat?”

  “Jorge will help you with that,” someone yelled.

  “I said with a motor vehicle, not in one. I’ve never stamped my foot on a gas pedal, never lovingly flicked on lights. Never spun a steering wheel. I don’t know how to drive.” She made a helpless little gesture. “This nonsense is just my way of asking for your help. If anyone goes past Longwood Hall on their way in, I’d very much appreciate a ride. I’ll be in my office for the rest of the day for any volunteers to drop by.” She offered them an awkward smile. “I guess the winning entry is the one about the crashed Panther. And as there is only one winner, they can have the car for an entire week. I’ll pay the insurance.”

  “Hank Rasmussen,” Anna announced.

  All eyes turned to Hank. Crimson tensed. Of the three directors, Hank had been the most openly resentful of her. An old fashioned, macho man, he was big and gruff and didn’t mince his words. Now, he picked up the salt seller from the table and toyed with it. “I drive past your house on my way to work,” he said. “I’ll pick you up. Get a learner permit, and I’ll teach you to drive.”

  “You…don’t need to…”

  A wry smile hovered over his roughhewn features. “I taught both my daughters to drive. They’re still talking to me.”

  “Well…all right…great.” Crimson forced an upbeat tone. Hank’s offer might be a ploy to make her life misery, or it might be an olive branch. She’d take the chance. “My transport problem is solved, and we have a winner.” She waited for the burst of applause to die down. “Thanks everyone. Enjoy your lunch. It’s on me today, to say thank for your efforts after the fire. I really appreciate the extra work you did to get the factory back to full operation so quickly.”

  Her heart pounded as she hurried back to her office. Was this why people built empires? For this glorious sense of having done something right, having won people over, having measured up and achieved success, even if just by one tiny step at a time?

  ****

  Croink, croink, croink. Her mother’s old Toyota lurched forward in shuddering leaps. Crimson clung to the steering wheel, petrified. “What did I do? Did I wreck the engine?”

  Hank steadied himself against the dash. “You let the clutch out too fast. It caused a kangaroo bounce. I told you, learning to drive with a stick shift is hard.”

  “I’m not touching Stephan’s Panther.”

  They had been commuting together for two weeks, but Crimson had only obtained a learner’s permit two days ago, after enrolling in driver’s education classes. She turned the key in the ignition to restart the stalled engine and muttered her way through the string of instructions she’d memorized.

  “Engage gear. Press the gas pedal. Release the clutch.”

  “That’s it,” Hank said. “You’ll do fine.”

  “I’ll give you gray hairs and a heart attack.”

  “I already have gray hairs and my heart is solid as a rock.”

  She slanted a glance at him. They’d been circling each other, like wary cats, talking business, avoiding anything personal. Now, the tension got to her, and she burst out without thinking. “Why are you doing this?” she asked. “You don’t…owe me anything.” She almost said you don’t even like me.

  “Why did you put on overalls and scrub the factory floor?”

  “I wanted to help. Make a contribution.”

  “Right,” he replied. “I’m returning the favor.”

  Crimson pressed the pedals. The engine roared. Gravel scattered beneath the wheels. She steered down the drive, away from Longwood Hall, and joined the main road. With a surprising degree of patience, Hank coaxed her along until they had reached the office and stood parked neatly in the lot outside.

  “Nick’s doing great in China,” Hank said as they walked into the building.

  Crimson stumbled. She’d received emails from him. Terse. Businesslike. With the thirteen hour time difference, they hadn’t spoken on the telephone. Not once. Nick didn’t call her. She didn’t dare to call him. Why had he gone away? Was he no longer in Japan?

  “He’s found a couple of new suppliers,” Hank said, oblivious to her turmoil.

  “Of course,” Crimson said glumly. “In China.”

  ****
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  Shortly after lunch, Anna peeked into her office. “Your mother’s on her way up.”

  Crimson clicked the keys to send her laptop into hibernation. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m expecting her.”

  “Hi, honey,” came from the entrance.

  No chirpy coo-ee? Surprised, Crimson looked up… and stared.

  “Mom? Your hair…?”

  “You like it?” Esmeralda fluffed the soft platinum curls. “Myrtie took me to her hairdresser on Fifth Avenue.”

  “I love it, Mom. And have you lost weight?”

  Her mother smoothed her palms over the flattering black jeans. “Myrtie’s been nagging at me about healthy eating. It’s not that bad, really, all that rabbit food and lean protein.”

  “That’s…that great, Mom,” Crimson said, and fell silent.

  As a child, she’d been a tiny bit ashamed of her mother. And, because she’d felt guilty about it, she’d never commented on Esmeralda’s appearance, had never complained. Instead, she’d quietly nursed her resentment. Now, it occurred to her that perhaps her mother had only needed a little nudge in the right direction. Someone to encourage her to change. And now, Myrna Constantine was offering the support she as a daughter had failed to provide.

  A wan smile curved her lips. “It’s fantastic, Mom. Truly. You look great.”

  “Myrtie’s with me. She’s at the photocopier.”

  Myrna Constantine strolled in. “Hello, Crimson.”

  She wore flat shoes, beige chinos, and her hair, which Crimson had never seen in anything but a neat chignon, was bunched into a stubby ponytail.

  Myrna dumped a pile of magazines on the desk. “You can have these.”

  Crimson poked about in the stack. People. OK. The National Enquirer.

  “You read gossip rags?” she asked, full of surprise.

  Myrna waved the photocopied pages in the air. “I study them. It’s good to know who is getting married and buying a mansion. Who is getting divorced and downsizing.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Heavens, is that the time? We must be off.”