Astonish Me: A novel

by Shipstead, Maggie

  Amber folds her arms over her small chest. She is a chubby, demanding child with small, suspicious blue eyes and a bushy crown of tight black ringlets. “No, he isn’t. He’s pretending he can’t do it, but then he’s going to.”

  “They need to get a little kid,” Chloe says sagely. “Only kids can do it.”

  “Why?” Harry wants to know.

  Chloe tsks with irritation. “Because. That’s the joke.”

  Tim finally lets go of the sword and wipes his brow, shaking his head. Merlin pats him on the back. “Valiant knight,” he announces, “you have tried nobly, but you are not meant to be ruler of the realm. Perchance there is another who wishes to try?”

  As Tim makes his way back through the crowd, Merlin chooses a Japanese boy in shorts and a pirate hat. Tim lifts Amber onto his hip, and when the boy draws the long blade from the stone, his mouth falling open in astonished joy, Amber begins to cry. “It’s not fair,” she says. “He cheated.”

  “I bet you would have been able to pull out the sword,” Tim tells her, tucking her curls behind her ears.

  Her mouth and eyes have all but disappeared into her plump cheeks. “I wanted you to do it.”

  “I told you,” Chloe says. “Only kids can do it.”

  “Zounds!” says Merlin. “Good knight, you have proven yourself worthy to wear the crown. I hereby proclaim you ruler of the realm!” Instead of a crown, he takes a small medal on a blue ribbon from his robe pocket and hangs it around the boy’s neck, sweeping into a deep bow. The boy clutches the medal and gazes down at it. Gently, Merlin grasps him by the shoulders and gives him a light push, sending him stumbling back to his family.

  Amber squirms in Tim’s arms like an unhappy cat while he juggles her twisting limbs, trying not to drop her. “Amber! It’s okay!” He grimaces at Joan, of course, not Sandy, even though Sandy was the one to invite him along. Joan is being her usual boring self, never letting loose, smiling on delay, hesitating too long before saying yes to anything: a ride, a soda, a rest on a bench, a bathroom visit, a spin through a gift shop. Even the way she sneaks off to smoke so Harry won’t see seems self-righteous and prissy. “It was just pretend!” Tim says. “It’s just a game. Just for fun!”

  Abruptly, Amber stops wriggling. “I want an ice cream sandwich,” she says, “and I want to go on Dumbo.”

  Tim’s sunburned face creases with crestfallen exhaustion. Sandy feels for him. His divorce, from what he told her on the beach beside the pool, was an ugly one. “Okay, you bet,” he says.

  They turn as a group to look for the nearest ice cream cart, and Joan says, “It’s early for ice cream, isn’t it? We haven’t even had lunch yet.”

  “Having fun isn’t exactly Joan’s strong suit,” Sandy says to Tim. “I love her anyway.”

  “Joan,” says Tim, “I’ll buy you an ice cream. Let’s go crazy. You too, Sandy. My treat.”

  “It’s early for ice cream,” Chloe pipes up, parroting Joan. “I don’t want any.”

  “Party pooper,” Sandy says.

  Joan drops a curtsy for Tim, her feet in an impossible position. “Valiant knight, I accept your ice cream.”

  “Now do you want some?” Sandy asks Chloe, but Chloe shakes her head. For a child, she is strangely indifferent to pleasant temptation.

  They walk past the shiny elephants in circus hats flying on steel arms around a colorful mechanical globe, past the line of people waiting to board Peter Pan’s pirate ships, past the many brick chimneys of Toad Hall. Near the Pinocchio boats, a grey-haired black man in a white paper hat is selling ice cream from a canopied cart. The air smells like sugar and chlorine and sun-warmed concrete, and from a distance comes the sound of a brass band and the clatter of toboggan cars descending the Matterhorn. As Tim hands Joan an ice cream sandwich with great ceremony, Sandy regrets ever suggesting that he spend the day with them. With a sudden ferocity, she hates what she’s wearing. The blameless shorts and sleeveless white blouse feel constrictive, malicious. If she were alone with Joan, she would be irked by her spoilsport habits—the way she won’t drink fun cocktails, the way she gets Harry to settle down at night by letting him cling to her neck like an orangutan while she hums and sways and murmurs, the way she gets up at the crack of dawn without an alarm clock and stretches and exercises in the room, holding on to the back of a chair the way she had when Sandy first saw her, her twiggy arms and legs going up and out, forward and back, and so on into an infinity of the dullest kind—but Tim had to come along and prove how much more desirable Joan is than Sandy, even though Sandy is the one who knows how to have a good time. Not that Sandy would cheat on Gary, but to flirt, to play pretend in this world of smooth, perfect, colorful moving surfaces, is to breathe deeply, to relax back into the shape of the person she once was.

  She has asked herself if Joan’s body and Gary’s admiration of it—everyone’s admiration of it—is the only reason she is losing patience with their friendship. But there’s more: she doesn’t trust Joan. She suspects if she could see herself through Joan’s eyes, she would not like what she saw. The roots of her suspicion are obscure: Joan has never been anything but nice, never allowed judgment to show through. But maybe that’s part of the problem. Joan’s controlled exterior makes her seem like she’s hiding something. It didn’t help that Harry was identified as gifted and Chloe wasn’t. Gary sees a conspiracy. Surely the son of the young, self-styled star psychologist in charge of the whole charade would never be declared average. Surely someone had his thumb on the scales. Surely Chloe could not be allowed to take her place among the chosen children. Gary might like Joan okay, but he loathes Jacob. Sandy stops short of imagining some nefarious plot to keep Chloe down, but, looking at her child and Joan’s as they sit with ice-cream-smeared Amber between them and avidly monitor the approach of a person in a fuzzy yellow Pluto suit, she can’t see how one is smarter than the other. Harry is so quiet, such a mama’s boy, while Chloe is opinionated and confident.

  Pluto stops, waves a big-mitted hand, and crouches down, inviting a hug. The children rise and move toward him, opening their arms, drawn into the embrace by the irresistible gravity these suited characters hold for them. Chloe buries her face in the dog’s shoulder while Harry presses his palm against its smooth red tongue and Amber reaches to stroke its muzzle. Chloe has been shy around the princesses and the other characters who are recognizably human, but she hugs the animals fearlessly, emotionally. All three children engage with their whole bodies, allow their backs to be rubbed and patted by the big stuffed paws. Often, dazed and pleased, they have to be gently peeled off by the characters themselves.

  “What I want to know,” Tim says quietly, “is who these people are who want to go around hugging kids all day.”

  Sandy is disappointed he wants to ruin the moment with a joke, but she plays along. “I’ve heard,” she says, “that the people inside don’t even get to wear their own underwear. Apparently there have been issues with crabs.”

  “No shit!” Tim says and then covers his mouth, looking to see if the children heard. But Amber, Chloe, and Harry are lost in the afterglow, arms slack, staring after Pluto’s skinny tail.

  “Dad,” says Amber, squinting, “I want a Pluto doll.”

  “Maybe later, okay?”

  “Dad.”

  “Later, baby.” The ice cream and the hug have appeased her, and she does not persist.

  Joan is playing reflective. “I thought the kids might be scared of the characters, but they act like they’ve always known these people—or mice or dogs or whatever.”

  Tim looks at her like she’s a genius. “I never thought of it that way.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Sandy says. “They’re really having fun. It’s great.” But nobody says anything, except Chloe, who says she has to pee. Sandy says okay, she’ll take her, and then they should all be brave and go on the Matterhorn.

  Amber has no intention of riding any roller coasters, but she wants Tim to go so he can tell her
about it, and it is decided, mostly by Sandy, that Joan will take Amber on the teacups and then on Alice in Wonderland while Harry and Chloe and Tim and Sandy ride the roller coaster.

  “It’ll be a good chance for you to …” Sandy mimes a cigarette at Joan.

  Joan ignores the gesture. “Does that sound okay, Harry?” she asks. “Do you want to go on the Matterhorn?”

  “Okay,” the child says.

  Sandy suspects Harry is afraid but doesn’t want to be shown up by Chloe. She wishes everyone would go away for a while, let her and Tim be alone in little cars in dark places, get rattled around and pushed into each other.

  Yodeling music is piped through speakers along the line for the Matterhorn, which is very long, wrapping partway around the mountain before a series of switchbacks inside an open structure meant to suggest a Swiss train station or chalet or something, not that Sandy’s ever been to Europe. Gary promised to take her, but now he says it’s too expensive. Hearing Joan casually mention her time in Paris and all the other places she went on tour with the company doesn’t help. Sandy once confessed her dream of seeing Big Ben and the Tower of London, and Joan only said the food was bad in England. Sandy asked her how she would know, since she never eats, and Joan had not laughed. She wishes she could be nicer to Joan; she wishes she liked her more.

  The Matterhorn is a craggy cement sculpture of a miniature mountain with a white-painted overhanging peak. Speeding toboggans flash through the caves that perforate its sides. A waterfall cascades behind an arched stone bridge. Passengers shout and scream; every minute or so the abominable snowman who lives inside gives a loud roar. Tim offers Sandy a sip of his soda, and she drinks coquettishly from the straw. Harry clutches his stomach and complains of butterflies. “After this,” Sandy tells him, “when you’re a roller coaster pro, we can go on the space ride. You go really fast past stars and planets. There’s a chocolate chip cookie in the sky, but only for a second. You have to watch for it.”

  “My mom might want me to wait with her,” says Harry.

  “You’ve been on it?” Chloe asks Sandy.

  “Yes,” Sandy says.

  “Daddy was probably with you. That’s probably why you weren’t afraid.”

  “No,” Sandy says, “I wasn’t afraid because I wasn’t afraid. It was fun.”

  “Your mother is very brave,” Tim tells Chloe. “Fearless.”

  “How do you know?”

  He winks at Sandy. “I can just tell. She’s that kind of lady.”

  “You have no idea,” Sandy says, feeling cheerful again. Tim starts to yodel along with the music. The children fall all over themselves laughing. She wonders if he’d been making her jealous on purpose, as a tactic, or if Joan is simply out of sight and out of mind. She sidles closer to him, leaning against the railing, and while the children reach through a low fence to pluck white and purple petals from the flowers planted around the mountain’s base, he puts his arm behind her, around her, his fingers brushing her side. When the children look up, he swings away as though stretching.

  “How’s the single life?” she asks in a low, confidential voice.

  “Fine most of the time, but I get lonely. I don’t do so great with being lonely.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I bet you’re never lonely. I bet you’re a ladykiller.”

  “Me?” He twinkles. “Nope, crying into my can of soup every night.”

  “Right.”

  Chloe lolls against the railing, watching them, her fists full of petals. “Sweetie,” says Sandy, “don’t stare. What is it?”

  “Why are you talking to him?”

  “He’s my friend. My new friend Tim.”

  Glowering, Chloe goes back to the flowers. Tim leans close to Sandy’s ear and says, “I do like those ladies, though.”

  “Big surprise.”

  He undoes his ponytail and combs his hair with his fingers, making a new one. There are damp spots in the armpits of his red T-shirt. “How’s married life?” he asks.

  “Could be worse.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You know how it is.”

  The tip of Tim’s thumb rubs the side of her hand. “This is a great day,” he says. “My girl is happy. Not a cloud in the sky. Got a gorgeous new friend. Life seems pretty good.”

  “I agree,” Sandy says. The pressure of his thumb increases.

  BY THE TIME THEY BOARD THEIR TOBOGGAN, WHICH, HARRY RIGHTLY points out, looks more like a spaceship than a sled, Sandy is officially keyed up. Sex saturates the world, blurring it. Tim climbs in first and pats the blue plastic between his legs. Sandy sits, nesting in his groin. Chloe hesitates, wanting to sit with them, but Sandy tells her to get in the front compartment with Harry. The children are loose in the space, small and jittery. As the ride jerks out of the station, Sandy leans back against Tim’s chest. Chloe twists around. “Mom, I don’t want to fly out.”

  “Did you fasten the belt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you won’t fly out.”

  “We can fly out?” Harry cries, also turning around.

  “No,” Tim says. “You’re safe. Look straight ahead so you don’t hurt your neck.” The toboggan rattles down through a cave and then clanks slowly up through a steep darkness, flattening Sandy against Tim. His breathing lifts and lowers her. Boldly, he slips a hand under her arm and squeezes her breast, too hard really, but she lifts her arm, giving him better access. The air turns cold and damp; tape-recorded wind howls; the abominable snowman’s two red eyes appear in the darkness with a roar; the children shriek. Tim’s hand goes away and comes back, snaking around her stomach, grabbing the inside of her leg through her shorts. Gary has told her he doesn’t want to have sex until she loses some weight, and in response she has defiantly gained a few pounds. She has started sleeping naked, knowing she is turning him on but also that he won’t yield out of principle. Don’t your pajamas fit? he asks. This is more comfortable, she says. Not everyone has to look like Joan. Joan would look like Sandy if she weren’t anorexic.

  The toboggan makes a sharp turn, gathering speed, and they pass through a blue ice cave and out into the rushing air. The bright buckets of the Skyway float past. Tim’s thighs clamp Sandy in place; his fingers creep inside her shorts. His aggressiveness and her own furtiveness remind her of being young. They spiral down, cutting through the mountain and changing direction. Sandy doesn’t want the ride to end. She can’t get out of this toboggan. Tim’s mouth is against the bare skin of her neck, his teeth and tongue rattling along with the ride. She lets her head fall back against his shoulder, her eyes close. His mouth jerks away; wind cools the wet spot left behind. Opening her eyes, Sandy sees Chloe staring at her. The tracks dip into a pool of green water and the toboggan sails through, sending up sheets of spray.

  OCTOBER 1985—SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

  ELAINE BEGINS HER DAY WITH A VERY HOT SHOWER, INSTANT COFFEE, a brisk walk from the hotel to the theater, and company class on the stage. Rehearsals will be later, after the sets are loaded in. Since she is one of the first to arrive, she helps drag the barres out from the wings. The airplane has left her tight—she can gauge her muscles’ moods perfectly; today they pull at her bones like recalcitrant children—so she leaves her sweatshirt on over her leotard and adds a pair of vinyl shorts, rolling the waist down around her hips. By the time the last dancers arrive and Mr. K claps his hands to begin class, her muscles have begun to relent, and she has a sweat going.

  She is thirty-one now, her body already less tolerant and cooperative than it was. The days when she could party through the night and survive class are long gone. She doesn’t smoke, drinks less, eats well, has cut out drugs except for coke, just a tiny bit before performances and at intermission. Sometimes a bump in the afternoon if she’s having a long day. She travels; she meets people, has lovers but loves only Mr. K; she is applauded. But all of that happens around the periphery of the narrow range of activities—clas
s, yoga, massage, sleep—that will help her remain a dancer. She scrabbles against her inevitable decline, works to retain her strength, stave off injury. She has had stress fractures, torn ligaments, surgery on her left knee. Never in her life, not once, has she danced the way she wishes to, but futility has become an accepted companion. The ideal that lives beyond the mirror makes teasing, flickering appearances but never quite shows itself, never solidifies into something that can be looked at and not just glimpsed. She might surprise it as she whips her head around, spotting during pirouettes, or catch it flitting through one hand or foot. But it never stays.

  The only redemption she finds in age is that she understands so much more than she did when she was twenty and tireless and reckless and resilient. She can express more now; she knows what to express. The critics have noticed. They say she has become a better actress, but she believes the improvement isn’t in her acting but in her ability to feel. Even in Mr. K’s more conceptual works where she is less a character than a kinetic idea, she can convey experience, humanity, emotion. “Less feeling,” he tells her sometimes. “Stop feeling. You won’t die if you don’t feel for a little while. Just dance. It’s only about the steps.” Sad, really, how ballet has such limited use for wisdom. When she’s fifty, she might be the witch in Sleeping Beauty, the nurse in Romeo and Juliet, roles that call for pantomime and heavy makeup, presence more than technique. Margot Fonteyn danced into her fifties, but Elaine is no Fonteyn. Even if she were, she would not choose to carry on for quite so long. A woman old enough to be a grandmother has no business prancing around in a tutu, pretending to be a virginal peasant or princess.

  Onstage, Elaine misses the mirror. Without it she is halved, uncertain of her existence; the dark maw of the theater is a poor substitute. She looks at her shadow on the floor until Mr. K catches her and adjusts her chin with a long, cool finger, saying, “All you will see is a hunchback.” So she watches the rows of arms lifting, the heads swiveling. A ribbon of music unspools from the piano. Slippers brush against the floor. Knees and hips crack. “One,” says Mr. K. “And up, and three, and out, and just the upper body, good, and out, and fifth, and out, and fifth, yes, and turn.”