by Ann Warner
D’Shawn held his fingers apart.
“Please put that into words for the court.”
“‘Bout six inches.”
“Do you always have it with you?”
“Course.”
“Do you have it today?”
“Don’t bring nothing like that to court. I’m not stupid.”
Velez continued asking Williams questions, looking more at her notes than at him, leading him through a discussion of how long he’d known Jamal and how much time they spent together. Occasionally, in a desultory fashion the prosecutor objected.
“Did Jamal have a girlfriend, Mr. Williams?”
“Sure.”
“What’s her name?”
Once again, Williams wiggled. “Uh. Tanisha.”
“Objection. Counselor has wandered around the lot on this. Does she have a point?”
“Your Honor, a very important point, which will be clear in just a moment.”
“Overruled, but make your point quickly, counselor.”
Velez looked directly at Williams for the first time, and Clare drew in an anticipatory breath.
“Had Tanisha and Jamal been together long?”
“While.”
“A year?”
“Naw. Two, three weeks is all.”
“Before that, did Tanisha have another boyfriend?”
Williams mumbled a response.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that. You need to speak up so the court can hear.”
“Yeah. She did.”
“Another Bull Shark?”
Williams shot a glare of pure hatred at Velez. “Yeah. She my woman.”
“Did you and Tanisha part on good terms?”
“Didn’t part.” He stretched his neck and glared at Velez. “Jamal, he say, she don’t go with him, he cut her.”
Velez continued to scrutinize the witness for a moment. Watching her, Clare had a sense she was easing into position like an archer pulling back on a bow.
“So she left you.” Velez spoke softly.
D’Shawn reared back as if he’d been slapped. “Didn’t want to. Woman loves me. Me. Jamal just think he so cool. He not.”
“Poetic justice,” Velez murmured.
“Hmmph. Don’t know nothing ‘bout poetic crap, but Jamal, I give him what he deserved.” he followed up with a cocky smile.
Velez gazed back at D’Shawn without speaking, and Clare felt as if they were all holding their breaths.
“What did you give Jamal?” The words were soft.
D’Shawn’s cockiness morphed into outrage. “Oh, what? You think I did it? Didn’t do nothing. Was that boy there.” He pointed at Tyrese. “He stab Jamal. He a instrument of justice. I seen it.” He nodded emphatically.
“You expect us to believe this boy,” Velez raised her arm to indicate Tyrese, “with a broken finger on his dominant hand, attacked someone nearly three times his size and managed to stab him twice before you were able to stop it?”
“He sneaky.”
“Are you right-handed, Mr. Williams?”
“What that got to do with anything?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I right-handed.”
“The person who stabbed Jamal Hicks was right-handed. So what we’ve established here is you had the means, the motive, and the opportunity to carry out this murder. The means? You admitted you always carry a knife. Your motive? To pay Jamal back for taking your girlfriend. The opportunity? You’ve placed yourself squarely at the scene.”
“You can’t do that.” D’Shawn turned to face the judge. “She can’t do that. This not about me. It about him.” D’Shawn pointed at Tyrese and looked wildly around the room.
“You gave Jamal Hicks what he deserved.”
“Did not. Jamal my friend. Didn’t do nothing.”
“Your Honor, may we approach the bench,” Velez said.
It didn’t take long after that. At the end, Velez gathered up her papers and hurried out of court on her way somewhere else. D’Shawn Williams left court wearing handcuffs, headed for adult detention.
The rush of relief made Clare feel like leaping to her feet, an impulse she curbed. Nellie faced no such restraint in expressing herself. The courtroom echoed with her “Praise the Lords.” If she’d been a less substantial person, she would no doubt have leaped the railing to get at Tyrese. Instead, crying and laughing, she pulled him into a bear hug with the railing between them.
When Nellie finally let go, Clare gave Tyrese a hug, tears of happiness and relief rolling down both their faces.
Chapter Twenty-five
Grand fouetté
Turning by a whipping movement of the leg
“Rob, have you seen the Globe today?” Lynne asked when he answered the phone at home Friday morning.
“Not yet.”
“There’s a story you need to see.”
“Topic? Section?”
“It’s about Clare.”
Damn it. He figured with Velez involved there’d be no more ballerina/Bull Shark bullshit.
“There’s a special benefit performance. Tomorrow. To raise money to help dancers transition to other careers when they can’t dance anymore. Clare’s dancing.”
Of course. The benefit. He’d put off thinking about it specifically, although he’d been unable to banish entirely the sinking feeling brought on by Clare’s imminent return to the ballet.
“I’ll call and order tickets for us.”
“Not for me.” He spoke firmly. He’d not yet decided if he was going, but if he did go, he didn’t want to be with someone who would be aware of his every reaction.
He ended the call and stepped into the hall, picked up the paper, and opened it to find a picture of Clare and a story about the benefit. He stuffed the section in his briefcase. He’d deal with it later, although it was easier to put away the paper than it was thoughts of Clare.
“Great photo,” one of the dancers called to Clare as she made her way through the backstage chaos the night of the benefit.
A stagehand grinned and gave her a two-thumbs-up as she walked by. “Terrific story, lovey.”
“We’re sold out, did Stephan tell you?” Denise greeted her with a hug. “How are you doing?”
“I’m nervous.”
“Good. Me, too. Means we’re ready.”
“So what’s with all the comments I’m getting? Something about pictures and stories?”
Denise turned and suddenly got busy, rubbing foundation onto her face, which had pinked up.
“Denise?”
“Oh, you know. The Globe did a story on the fundraiser and ran a picture. I’m surprised you didn’t see it.”
“Denise.”
“We needed to do something. Ticket sales were slow.”
Clare waited.
“Oh, all right. Here.” Denise pulled a section of newspaper out of her bag and handed it to Clare.
The picture, three columns and in color above the fold, was of her and Denise in rehearsal clothes in their positions at the end of the dance. The headline read: “Comeback Planned for Ballet Fundraiser.” Clare scanned the article, feeling more and more agitated. It was all about her. Her injury, the long recovery, her involvement in writing the music and choreographing the piece for the fundraiser, how she’d been convinced to also perform, and, of course, a last bit about the Bull Sharks. She raised her eyes to find Denise biting a fingernail, watching her. So she knew they’d gone over the line.
“I should walk out of here.”
Denise’s expression turned to panic.
Clare sighed. “If you ever even think about getting a divorce, you’ll answer to me.”
“Oh, Clare, you are such a peach.” Denise stood and threw her arms around Clare.
Sure. A real peach.
Denise and Clare took positions next to each other at the barre, going through the careful stylized movements to gradually warm their muscles. Clare’s thoughts, freed by the thousands of repetitions,
were of Rob. She’d peeked at the audience from the wings on her way to warm up but hadn’t seen him. Distressed by his absence, even her usual pre-performance jitters were dampened. He had to be here. Though they hadn’t discussed it, she’d counted on his presence tonight.
“Touch time, Clare.” Denise released the barre and held out her hand. Clare touched fingertips with her and they smiled at each other.
Well wishes were murmured by everyone they passed as they took their places in the wings. A lump in Clare’s throat accompanied the butterflies that always preceded the first notes of the music. She’d missed this. All of it. The hard work, the aching muscles, and then the feeling like flying when she stepped on the stage.
During these last weeks of rehearsal, she’d kept her focus on her leg, planning each step before she executed it, constantly assessing how her leg was responding. But tonight, as she stepped onstage, her hesitation and fear fell away, and the music supported her like the sparkling waters of Vieques had.
The music ended, and as the applause crested over them, Denise took her hand. Together, they rode the wave. The audience on its feet, cheering, clapping, whistling.
Someone reached up from the audience holding a bouquet of flowers. Rob. Thank God. Vinnie was right, it was going to be okay. But it wasn’t Rob. Just someone who vaguely resembled him. Clare smiled her thanks, then peered beyond the footlights, looking for Rob. Other bouquets were handed up, as the crowd continued to applaud.
Clare’s arms overflowed and Denise, juggling bouquets of her own, helped by taking some.
As they left the stage, Justin approached from the wings. He greeted Clare lavishly, with kisses on both cheeks. “Clare, you were magnificent. You must come in, to talk about next year.”
She almost laughed in his face. Stopped herself, barely. “No.”
“We need to talk. Next fall, Clare, you must come back to us.”
“No.”
“You can’t mean it. I’ll call you next week.”
“Come on, Clare, we need to change for the reception,” Denise said, freeing her from Justin.
Clare shook her head. “I’m going home.”
“But, Clare. You were incredible. Everyone’s going to want to see you, talk to you. And did I just hear Justin offering you a job?”
“When he wakes up tomorrow, he’ll be glad I turned him down.”
“I doubt it. He saw the audience reaction. He meant it, Clare. Come on. This is your night. Enjoy.”
She gave in because it was easier than arguing. Besides it would be a distraction from the pain of knowing Rob didn’t come.
It shocked her how much that hurt.
“You may not remember me, but we met at your wedding.”
The man holding out his hand wasn’t even vaguely familiar, but people often pretended to know her at receptions.
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”
“Edward Devaney. Your husband and I are colleagues. Your dancing tonight was inspired.”
“Thank you.”
“I hope it worked out with that kid?”
Clare frowned, puzzled.
“Marge Velez?”
“You’re talking about Tyrese Brown?”
“Was that his name? I told Rob Marge is a genius.”
Vinnie and Beck were suddenly there wrapping Clare in bear hugs. Afterward, they stood nearby beaming, as one person after another came up to shake her hand and tell her she was wonderful.
Stephan and Denise rescued her and insisted on driving her home. She let them.
Rob almost didn’t make it to the benefit. By the time he called the box office, only a few tickets were left, and the theater was nearly filled by the time he made his way to the back of the balcony. He opened the program, but before he read further than the opening words, the house lights dimmed and Stephan Orsini walked onstage. The man responsible for Clare’s injury. How had he done it? How had he gotten Clare to speak to him, let alone agree to dance? But she’d want to dance no matter who did the asking.
Stephan finished his introduction and the program began. For the next ninety minutes, waiting for Clare, Rob didn’t take in any of it. Finally, the curtain closed briefly and reopened to a bare stage. A piano sat off to one side. A pianist and a violinist took their positions and began to play. A ballerina, in a tutu, wandered onstage and began to dance. After several beats, Clare appeared in the background, dressed in a silvery body suit with a simple tulle skirt.
His eyes filled with tears. Clare, as lovely as she’d ever been, but so different from the woman he’d last seen dance in another lifetime. Instead of the vivid joy she’d projected in those days, tonight she appeared contemplative—the smooth, slow grace of her movements a direct contrast to Denise’s athleticism.
The music ended and there was a beat of silence, then the audience surged to its feet. As if awaking from a dream, Rob looked around to find several women wiping tears from their eyes. He brushed at his own tears, as Clare and Denise stepped forward for their bow. Clare bent down to accept a bouquet. He should have done that. Bought his ticket early, so he’d be in the front row, able to hand her flowers.
At least a day late and more than a dollar short, again. His permanent position vis-à-vis Clare.
He’d walked this road before. Standing on the sidelines. Watching Clare in the spotlight. Knowing deep down, but refusing to admit it that dance meant more to her than he did.
He left the theater and returned to his apartment. The moonlight pouring in the windows was so bright, he didn’t bother turning on the light. He poured himself a tumbler of Crown Royal then sat in the recliner in the living room, sipping and staring out at the night sky.
He rolled the whisky in his mouth, flipping through his memories. Clare, tonight, so heartbreakingly beautiful. Clare, other times, other places. Most recently, standing in the doorway when he’d returned from Peru, looking appalled to see him.
God, was it really four years since they met? And from that first moment the simple knowing. Yes. This is the one.
He could manage without her, of course. He’d learned that from his time in the jungle. Life went on whether you wanted it to or not. But he would mourn her loss the rest of his life.
The phone rang and, startled, he sloshed whiskey on his wrist.
“Hi, Uncle Rob.” Lynne’s husband sounded ebullient.
“Jim. So the baby arrived?” He’d wondered if Lynne made it to the benefit.
“Yep. Little girl. Prettiest little miss you’ve ever seen. Well, Lynne says she will be in a day or two.”
“Congratulations.”
“Man, you’ve got to join us. Your folks are here, and we’re going out for dinner. Celebration time.”
Rob snapped on the light and looked at his watch. “It’s ten thirty. Where do you think you’ll find dinner at this hour?”
“Scorpio’s. They serve till midnight. You’ve got to come.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you.”
“Great. We’re leaving the hospital now. We should be there in fifteen minutes. That work for you?”
Not really. He’d rather be alone, but he hadn’t eaten before the benefit, and his stomach suddenly reminded him of that fact. “I’ll be there.”
Clare let herself into the West Roxbury apartment, turned on a light, then stood in the doorway leaning her head against the jamb, listening to the quiet. Remembering the small noises in Rob’s apartment that let her know he was there.
She was reaping her reward for shutting him out. Something she could now admit she’d done from the beginning of their marriage. Never telling him all of what she was thinking, feeling. Her excuse had been that there was nothing positive about her thoughts in those days. Still, it was what marriage was supposed to be about. Sharing everything. Good and bad. Joys and fears.
Tonight, standing on the stage, accepting the applause, staring into the dazzle of the footlights, she’d seen clearly for the first time. She’d traded something real for something m
ake-believe. And then the surprise of her instinctive “no” to Justin shocked her into a further certainty.
Rob, not the dance, owned her heart.
Chapter Twenty-six