The Distance Home

by Paula Saunders

  34

  In Spite of Behind,

  In Spite of Ahead

  As she finished the waltz step across the floor and looked up to see their three excited faces peering around the corner, looking for her, René felt like going not just across the room but right out the door and into their arms. She glanced at Mr. Boyle, who put two and two together and nodded permission, so she ran to give each of them a long, sweaty hug.

  “You’re here!” she whispered, hoping that the other girls wouldn’t notice Eve’s homemade plaid seersucker vest, Al’s thin western cowboy shirt over his old-fashioned muscle tee.

  “We couldn’t wait to see you,” Eve said.

  “Well, well,” Al kept repeating, laughing softly.

  And Jayne just held on with her arms doubled all the way around René’s waist.

  “Go ahead,” Eve said. “We’ll be right here.”

  So René went back into the studio, finished the final combination, then took off for the dressing room as Mrs. G introduced Eve and Al and Jayne to Mr. Boyle.

  René could hear Mr. B through the walls of the changing room saying how talented and full of promise she was, how she was going to make them proud someday, and how happy he was to have her in class. “Privileged,” he said, as René scrambled into her clothes.

  “Why, thank you,” Al said. “We feel that way, too.”

  “Mrs. Gilbert and I have been discussing it,” Mr. B ventured, “and I’m hoping there might be a way to have René stay on here for the year.”

  “Yes. Well, yes, we’ll have to see about that.”

  “Come on back tomorrow,” Mr. Boyle was saying, and René was out of the dressing room, standing with them, ready to go.

  The next day Eve and Al came along to the studio while Jayne stayed at the house with Mrs. G to swim and watch television. After observing the first class, they wandered to the strip mall across the street. They came back after the next class, Al holding out a big, greasy cheeseburger wrapped in brown paper.

  “I can’t eat that,” René said, pushing his hand away, getting her usual sip of water from the cooler.

  “You’ve got to try it,” Al said. “Best cheeseburger I ever ate! This one’s got your name on it.”

  His eyes were twinkling at her. She thought maybe she’d never seen him so happy about anything. She smiled, gulping water, shaking her head.

  “One bite,” he pleaded.

  “René!” Mr. Boyle called as the music for the Advanced class started. “Get in here!”

  “Just one,” Al said. “Quick!”

  René leaned forward and took a slim bite of the burger Al had been hurriedly unwrapping for her. She gasped at the explosion of meat, cheese, grease. “Oh my God! That’s delicious!”

  “See? Didn’t I tell you? I told you.”

  “René!” Mr. B called again, and she turned and ran into the studio, jumping into the first combination like a fish jumping into water.

  * * *

  —

  When the final week of classes was over, Eve, Al, and Mrs. G met with Mr. Boyle at a coffee shop. They returned with the news that Mr. B was offering René a full scholarship, that she could attend the same Catholic school a number of his students attended, and that he’d found a family willing to house her for the year. It was all settled. Only Al was still unconvinced.

  The three grown-ups lingered around Mrs. G’s breakfast counter late into the afternoon before finally calling René in to join them.

  “Your mother and Mrs. Gilbert here think this might be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you,” Al started, swiveling around to face her.

  René nodded.

  “And Mr. Boyle believes you have the talent to do something with your dancing,” he added, looking drawn.

  “If nothing else, you could always teach,” Eve interjected.

  René grimaced, and Al took a deep breath.

  “I guess my question is this—” Al was proceeding slowly, weighing his words, stepping carefully, as though picking his way through a minefield, a place where he could lose everything all at once. “Are you sure this is what you want to do? It’s a big commitment, and you’re still young.”

  “Not young for dancing,” Mrs. G put in sharply. “If another year goes by without any training, she’ll be out of luck.”

  “I guess everyone else is pretty certain.” Al sounded more and more like every step was taking him closer to something he knew he wasn’t going to like. “I guess I’m the one that’s not quite persuaded.”

  René nodded, feeling unsure, feeling like a mirror reflecting something she couldn’t comprehend.

  “Is this what you want to do, René?” he said again.

  René looked from one grown-up to the next. “Yes,” she said, trying it out loud, hoping that something in the sound of her voice would give her a clue about whether or not she meant it. She had to envision her legs as two steel rods to try to still the sudden trembling. “Yes,” she said again.

  Al turned to Eve and Mrs. G, who were both grinning like they’d just pulled the handle on a jackpot.

  “All right, then,” Al said, as though he’d sensed his weight lowering, felt the trigger, heard the click, and knew a little something about what came next. “That’s that.”

  He looked back to René.

  “You’re going to have to be tough. There’s no way around it. You’re going to have to be a fighter.”

  “She’s tough,” Eve said, still smiling, resting a hand on René’s shoulder. “She’s the toughest.” And she and Mrs. G laughed as Al just looked at René with pride and sadness.

  “I’m going to miss you,” he said. “That’s my big problem.”

  “We all will,” Eve said casually, dismissively. “But you’ll come home for vacations, so we’ll get to see you,” she said to René.

  “You couldn’t have hoped for better,” Mrs. G said, clearly grateful that her part in this was over. “Thank God Deanne kicked her out! Right, Eve?”

  “Right,” Eve said, suddenly sounding less certain. “I’m sure she’s going to do just great.” And she put her arm around René for real, pulling her close, claiming her.

  Mr. Boyle’s summer workshop was finished, so after a few days of touring the desert, Eve, Al, Jayne, and René piled into their VW bus and headed home. René would have only three weeks to get everything organized and be back in Phoenix, moved in with her new “family,” and ready for her first day of classes at Mother Mary Ignatius High.

  * * *

  —

  If she’d had the power to glimpse even a few short months into the future, René would have seen herself walking the back alleyways of Phoenix to the ballet studio every day after school, then waiting on the curb until Mr. Boyle’s car pulled up and she followed him inside. She’d take the Adult class, Stretch class, Advanced class, Pointe class, everything Mr. B taught, before catching a ride “home” with the family of one of his ballet students, a family that had agreed—reluctantly, she’d come to learn, finally caving to his insistent pleas—to house her for the school year.

  And sometimes during that early fall, as she stood beside him while he unlocked the studio door, Mr. Boyle would say to her, “When people ask who trained you—”

  René would look at him doubtfully.

  “They will,” he’d say, “they’ll ask you. You tell them it was Helen Gilbert. She taught you. She deserves the credit. Remember I told you that. Now take some B-12. It’ll help with your energy. And eat! Like I told you. Come on.”

  She’d follow him around the studio like an orphan as he turned on the lights.

  “You have to eat. You have work to do. You have to keep your strength up,” he’d say to her. “Don’t worry about your weight right now. And don’t worry about those other girls!”

  René would be starving
herself as if in penance, trying to make her body match the bodies of the girls in Mr. B’s Advanced class, girls who’d been training with him since they were five or six, girls who knew they were on their way to one of the big companies in New York City and had never found a reason to doubt it. She’d be limiting herself to five hundred calories a day, including gum and breath mints. She’d be losing weight, getting thinner, ranking up with the best of them, but she’d end up making herself so anemic that her periods would stop. By Thanksgiving, she wouldn’t have the strength to drag herself up a flight of stairs, but she’d still dance every class, every day, from four-thirty in the afternoon to nine at night.

  “You can worry about all that calorie-counting nonsense later,” Mr. B would tell her. “It’s not important now. Now, work. Work hard. Get your technique. And be patient. Don’t be impatient!”

  And sometimes that fall, when Mr. B pulled up and René was sitting on the curb in front of the ballet studio, waiting for him, he’d tell her to get in the car, and he’d take her out for ice cream. He’d order a double dip and wouldn’t stop hounding her until she did, too. She’d lick around the edges, pretending, as the ice cream melted and dripped down her arm. Then, when Mr. B was done, he’d throw his napkin in the garbage, and she’d throw in her cone.

  “Oh, you’re useless,” Mr. B would tell her, smiling, putting a hand on her shoulder and shaking his head. “Well. Let’s go, Cinderella. Time for class.”

  Back when Mrs. G had first visited Kelly Boyle’s studio, he’d treated her like a queen, setting a chair for her against the mirrors and bringing her a cool glass of water. She’d been to ballet schools all over town, but after she’d visited his, she’d called Eve first thing.

  “Eve, I’ve found it. René has got to get down here. We’ve got to find a way.”

  So, long after the high heat of summer had passed—after Mrs. G had gone back to her quiet life at home with her sister and her little dog; after Eve, Al, Leon, and even Jayne had been left far behind—René would be in Phoenix.

  And Mr. B would be watching out for her. More than that, he’d be offering her the enormous kindness of seeing her as she wanted to see herself.

  “Eat!” he’d say. “Eat!”

  There are people in this world who really know what they’re talking about, and if René could have forgiven herself for leaving everyone behind, if she could have let go of the pain and guilt of Leon’s departure as well as her own, if she could have found the confidence to rein in her headlong drive, she would have followed Mr. Boyle’s advice, and eaten. Though not eating seemed like a mark of her seriousness—a way to overtake her peers, a way to take charge and change herself, improve herself, a way to finally make herself into the person she needed to be—if she could have seen into the future, she’d have known that by Christmas vacation that first year, she’d be exhausted. She’d have transformed her body, carved it into glorious lines, yet she’d be nearly hollow, her energy seeping away with every breath. Though she’d continue to fight her way forward, like someone with a broken umbrella trudging on through a hurricane, she’d have whittled herself down to little more than thin strips of muscle over clattering bones.

  35

  Home Again

  They said their goodbyes to Mrs. G, and on the drive home from Phoenix that summer they stopped at both the Grand Canyon and the Continental Divide.

  “Highest highs and lowest lows,” Al pointed out to no one in particular.

  And as they pulled into their driveway, René leaned over the front seat and asked if Leon had been around at all while she’d been gone. Eve looked to Al, but no one answered.

  “Does anyone know where he is?” René said.

  “Somewhere nursing a case of beer, I imagine.” Al laughed.

  Eve glared at him. “Lord only knows,” she said. “Maybe still out in Spearfish. He called from there just before we left.”

  “For crying out loud, Eve, I hope you didn’t send him any money.”

  Al was more than ready to get into it, but Eve didn’t answer.

  “Home again, home again,” she said, singsong. “Come on. Let’s get this thing unpacked.”

  But before they could even get inside, the phone was ringing. It turned out the sheriff’s office had caught up with Leon. He’d been in a holding cell for the last three days. The judge was willing to be lenient, they said, but a parent or guardian would have to come pick him up. Otherwise, he’d be going to jail.

  With everything still in the car, Eve took the keys from Al and backed out of the driveway as Al just stood, lighting up a cigarette and staring into the planter by the steps.

  Eve didn’t return until well after dark, with Leon dragging behind her.

  “Go to bed,” she told him, pointing up the stairs. “And hand over your keys. You’re not going anywhere for a while.”

  When she went into the kitchen, she found Al sitting at the table, chain-smoking in the dark. She turned on the light. Al shielded his eyes but didn’t say a word.

  “Well,” Eve said. “I had to sign my life away.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Al said.

  “His car’s in the impound lot. We’ll have to pick it up tomorrow.”

  Al humphed. “Sounds right,” he said. “And who’s going to pay for that?”

  “Not him,” Eve said. “We can be sure of that much.”

  For the next couple of weeks, Leon slept. He slept all night in his bed, and he slept all day on the couch. He slept like Rip Van Winkle, days passing without the slightest intrusion of consciousness. He’d rouse himself only to turn over, so that eventually he came to be a fixture—a lifeless, three-dimensional outline they all simply passed on their way from one room to another. No one disturbed him and no one tried to bring him around, as if none of them knew how to meet him at such a depth, as if merely touching him could hurt him, as if—like with an electric current—by reaching out for him, they might accidentally end up included in the surge, carried away by whatever was holding him under.

  But as soon as he could stand, Leon was ready to get back up into the hills. A job working at a lumberyard near Keystone had surfaced. It was just what he’d been looking for, he said. He’d be able to build a life around a job like that.

  Since he was finally sober and seemed to be thinking straight, Eve didn’t feel she could stand in his way. Maybe this would be just the thing to get him back on his feet. Maybe he’d even meet someone up there in the pines, some nice young girl who’d make him want to keep his nose clean and live up to things.

  So Leon left.

  But as far as any of them ever knew, Leon never met anyone up there. Even by then, love and physical desire must have been a complicated equation for Leon, and however he might have managed it over the years, he never had a date or a girlfriend. All of a sudden, he’d simply be living with an alcoholic woman a decade or two older than he was who already had at least three or four kids, all by different men.

  “Where in the hell does he find them?” Eve would say. “It’s uncanny how he can come up with one after the next.”

  He’d happily bounce other men’s babies on his knee, buy their diapers, read them bedtime stories. He’d discipline other men’s teenagers, giving them lectures of lived experience right on the spot. But always short-term, temporary. Because without fail, one day Leon would be gone, either kicked out for some unknown reason—“Lord knows, I wouldn’t let the groceries walk out that easily, not if I had four kids to raise by myself!” Eve would say, defending him—or simply by disappearing, first into the dream state of long days on the couch, then straight out the door.

  * * *

  —

  “You have to help me,” René said to Eve just a week before she was scheduled to leave for school in Phoenix.

  Being home, even for just this short time, had brought a firestorm of dangers—ham
s crusted with brown sugar and dotted with pineapples and cherries, morning waffles smothered in butter and thick maple syrup, hot casseroles of fat noodles and hamburger swimming in cream. She could lose everything here. She could be finished before she even got out the door.

  “Please, please, don’t let me eat anything.”

  Eve sighed. She was tired—overburdened by Leon’s shaky departure and now having to take on René’s demands along with everything else.

  “All right,” she said. “But I’m going to make whatever I’m making, so don’t you get mad at me about it.”

  That same afternoon Eve mixed a batch of snickerdoodles and the whole house lit up with the smell of cinnamon and sugar dough baking in the oven. When the timer sounded, René went straight for the cookie sheet, broke off a minuscule corner of one of the soft, warm cookies for a taste, then lingered, trying to convince herself to leave the room, to turn around and not look back. She washed her hands at the sink just to keep them busy.

  “Feel free to do the dishes while you’re standing there,” Eve said, unloading a new batch of cookies onto the cooling rack. Then she added, out of the blue, “I hope I’m not going to have to reread you The Little Red Hen before you leave,” referring to one of René’s favorite books as a young child, about a bunch of barnyard animals refusing to help grow the wheat but still wanting to eat the bread.

  “Jeez,” René said, blindsided, stung.

  “It wouldn’t kill you to help out a little, René. That’s all I’m saying. And stay away from these cookies,” Eve warned.

  “You can just leave me alone,” René told her.

  “I’m only doing what you asked. Don’t you dare start after me.”