“No, that’s okay,” she forced herself to say. She apologized for the sharp tone, for the funk that had come over her, that had now passed. She was over it. She was fine. Perfectly fine. Sorry to have bothered him in calling so late.
“It wasn’t a bother. I’m always glad to talk to you.”
“Call me, tomorrow night?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“And Montserrat told me to tell you not to pull any cancellations on her for her Monday night dinner party. She leaves on Tuesday for an East Coast tour.”
“I promise you, this time I won’t let you down. I swear.”
“Okay. Good night.”
After they’d disconnected, she sat there, stroking Odette’s silky fur. What a load of dark adrenaline running through her. Unprecedented. Good thing it was a one-time occurrence, and fading away even now.
All was well. With a sigh she rose, gave Odette one last pat, and headed upstairs to bed.
Chapter 8 – Lana’s Gloomy Day
She smelled the man before she saw him, as she stood at the counter of her neighborhood store, buying a muffin, banana and hot tea. It was the smell of the streets, a cocktail of unwashed clothing, urine, the sickly sweet smell of metabolizing booze. It was a difficult smell any time of the day, but on a Sunday morning it was particularly rank. She turned and saw the man, middle-aged, unshaven, brown hair in wild disarray, wearing an ancient, torn parka and tan trousers that were stained down the front with something wet. What, precisely, she didn’t want to know. He took a few more shuffling steps and crashed into the potato chip display stand, which tipped precariously.
The store owner, a scowling Pakistani, shouted at him from behind the counter. The man backed up and took a lunging step toward Lana, who recoiled.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he slurred with a grin, as if amused more than offended by her disgust, her unease. His beery breath wafted over to her in a great wave.
“Get out of here, sir,” the owner said in a clipped, tight voice.
His son, coming from the back room, was more verbal. “What did I tell you just last week, Coop? Out you go. Stop scaring the customers. Shoo. Now!”
Lana watched the man shuffle out. He was one of the street people who congregated between her apartment building and the adjacent liquor store. She’d sometimes toss a few coins into the hat he’d set out but she preferred to steer clear and avoid eye contact. Conversation was out of the question; she wouldn’t have known what to say to someone so down and out.
She paid for her items and took them to the back of the shop where there were a few scuffed Formica tables and chairs. She felt awful this morning; after last night’s catastrophe she’d stayed up to watch late-night and late-late night-TV and had consequently overslept. She’d only had time to get dressed, throw what she needed into her dance bag and head out. The shop, fortunately, sold bakery-fresh bran muffins. She sat and ate her muffin, her banana, even though she was too nervous to feel hungry.
It was their first actual rehearsal for Autumn Souvenir, following the introductory rehearsal ten days earlier. Denis Rousselot, the stager, would be working concurrently with the two casts of leads. He wanted the second cast to be there, but to remain in back while he focused on Lana and Javier first. This in itself wasn’t unusual; Lana had often been part of a second cast, relegated to the back. First cast, as well. But the prospect of the attention here, these days, with everyone assessing her critically, unfavorably, cut her breath short with anxiety. Denis was Paris Opera Ballet-trained, had spent the majority of his career there, and was accustomed to working with performers of the highest caliber. Would he, too, eye her critically, unfavorably?
But he’d chosen her, she reminded herself. He’d decided that she embodied exactly what Benoit Moreau, the French choreographer, now in his eighties, had intended. Denis had been part of Autumn Souvenir’s 1988 premiere, handpicked and trained by Moreau himself. He’d performed the male lead a half-dozen times with the Paris Opera Ballet, and since retiring, had staged the production internationally twice that amount. He was as accomplished and terrifying as Anders Gunst in some ways. She dared not let either of those men, or her partner, Javier Torres, down.
Enough sitting and fretting; it was stressing her out. She wrapped up the last of her muffin, tossed out the banana peel, grabbed her tea and headed out.
Market Street was calm in the aftermath of Saturday night’s revelry. The air slapped her face as she walked. It was fresh, bracing, the sun beginning to peer through as it burned off the morning fog. Her footsteps grew slower as she approached the WCBT building, quiet and all but deserted on a Sunday morning. Inside the building, just past security, she consulted the day’s rehearsal sheet tacked on the bulletin board and saw that Denis was holding his rehearsals in the second floor studio. She headed over, her heart thumping louder with each step. Closer to the room, she heard voices. She peered in.
Denis was talking with the four female corps dancers who’d just finished their rehearsal with him. Ben was there, too, but on the phone, engrossed in conversation. She recognized Courtney and one of her close friends, Gabrielle, a tall dancer with wide green eyes that seemed too big for her face, lending her a permanently startled expression. They were easing off their pointe shoes while chatting with Denis. The accompanist was collecting her music, preparing to leave.
Otherwise, no one. She’d been expecting a crowd, and instead there was this. Denis looked up at Lana, perplexed. “Hello, what are you doing here?” he asked in his French-tinted English.
It was like something out of a bad dream. “I’m on the schedule,” she said. “Javier and I. The two casts of lead couples, right?”
“Didn’t one of the girls here call you? They were supposed to call you.” He directed his frown to the women.
“I called Javier, like you said,” Gabrielle said. “And he called the other couple.”
“I did call her,” Courtney said to Denis. “Her voice mail picked up. I guessed maybe she was already on her way here.”
“Well, why didn’t you call her earlier?” Denis snapped.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t have her number on me. I had to go hunt down the roster and when I came back, you were shouting at me to pay attention. I called when I could.” She flashed an apologetic glance at Lana. “Sorry.”
Lana pulled out her phone and sure enough, a missed message. Likely when she’d been walking down Market, where the street sounds had overridden the phone’s chime.
Denis turned to Lana. “I’m sorry to do this to you. This is a rarity, I promise. Something has come up and I can’t remain for the second rehearsal. We’ll plan on meeting on Tuesday afternoon, though, yes? I am sorry you had to leave your home on a Sunday morning for nothing.”
“Oh, it’s no problem. No problem at all,” Lana said.
Disappointment engulfed her. She didn’t want to go home. Not when all those terrible thoughts and the memory of what had happened last night were there, lying in wait for her to enter the room, where they’d swoop down and suffocate her. How ironic, that she’d been dreading this rehearsal, all but wishing it away, and now it was gone, with nothing to protect her.
She stood there, unsure of what to do next, even as everyone around her moved busily. Ben, still on his phone call, offered Lana a distracted smile and wave. The female dancers ignored her.
“All right, je vous laisse, mes filles,” Denis said, shouldering his bag and picking up his empty coffee cup and joining Ben, who was now heading out the door, still on the phone. “I am, as you say, out of here. I’ll see all of you on Tuesday.”
“Au revoir, Denis,” Courtney trilled. One of the corps dancers followed the two men out as Courtney gathered her things and turned to Gabrielle. “Ready?”
“Just about.” Gabrielle finished wrapping the pink satin ribbons around her pointe shoes, tucking in the tips. She stowed them into her bag and eased into her sandals. “You joining us?” she asked the other corps dancer.
&nb
sp; She smiled, pleased. “Sure, why not?”
Gabrielle hesitated and turned to Lana. “We’re going out for a coffee. Do you want to join us?”
She heard the reluctance in Gabrielle’s voice, the way the other two averted their eyes, busying themselves with arranging the contents of their dance bags. “Gosh, thanks,” Lana said. “But I think I’ll just head back home. Stop in on a friend who lives nearby.” She envisioned Coop, shuffling over to his spot, his bedroll, by Lana’s building. Her good friend Coop.
“Well, okay,” Gabrielle said, and the relief from the corps dancers was palpable. “Have a nice visit with your friend.”
“I will. See you guys in class tomorrow morning.”
The street people were up and about by the time she returned to her street. A grizzled black man hunched in a grimy jacket called out for spare change in a voice that sounded accusing, almost like a challenge. Another man stumbled past, raving and muttering to himself about the motherfucker who’d pay, he’d pay for that, man, that motherfucker would pay. The last bit, shouted out as his eyes darted about wildly, caused the pedestrians to create a wide berth around him.
Coop, more lucid now, was standing by his bedroll in front of her building. He’d changed his trousers, she noticed, and combed his hair. He caught her glance and nodded at her, which she found disconcerting.
“It was a chilly one last night,” he said to her. “That wind.”
“It still is pretty chilly,” she agreed. A burst of altruism came over her. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee to warm you up?” She gestured to the store he’d been kicked out of earlier.
He smiled. “I’d surely like that.”
She bought the coffee and brought it out to him. Their hands touched in the transfer, his so rough, calloused and cold, they felt more like gloves than flesh. She pulled her own hands back quickly, bade him farewell. He thanked her profusely before settling into his nook, breathing in the coffee fumes, warming his hands on the cup.
As she trudged up the stairs to her floor, she was heartened by the thought that they’d established a sort of camaraderie. Maybe this would turn out to be the friendship that defined her life here. Not Gil after all.
The thought produced a dull, dreary ache.
Inside, she listened to her phone messages. Sure enough, the promised message from Courtney, left ridiculously late; how had Courtney thought she’d get it in time? She listened, as well, to the previous night’s messages from Mom. The first one was polite confusion—had Lana gotten the time wrong? The second sounded wounded, that clearly Lana was having too much fun in her new life to remember her poor mother, who’d only been trying to help anyway. The third was Mom’s voice, chilly with anger, telling her to call.
Lana called now, dreading the confrontation, but well aware that the longer she waited, the worse Mom would be. Dad answered and told Lana that Mom was at the grocery store. Lana, relieved, asked him to put Luke on the line instead.
Luke was Lana’s favorite brother, smaller and slower to develop than his twin, Marty. The doctors kept assuring Mom he was still within normal standards on both motor and mental development, but he’d always required extra effort and attention. For Lana it had been a pleasure to lavish attention on him; he was the sweetest of the Kessler kids and never complained. For Mom, however, Lana knew Luke’s developmental delays meant extra work, particularly when last year’s kindergarten teacher suggested they keep Luke behind for another year, while moving Marty on to first grade. Mom, looking forward to more daytime hours without kids underfoot, had been crushed.
Luke entertained her, breathlessly detailing every little event going on in his classroom at school, his ever-expanding Lego Star Wars collection, his latest Pokémon card acquisitions. Then pure delight filled his voice. “Lana, guess what?! Mom just walked in!”
Lana squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, goodie!”
“I guess you’ll want to talk to her now, huh?”
“I guess I should.”
“Well,” Mom said coolly when she came on the phone a moment later. “Hello.”
“Mom, I’m so sorry. Something came up.”
“I guess.”
“Please, I’m sorry. It was so unexpected.”
“Where were you?”
“I was invited to a party at the last minute. With friends.”
“But you told me you hadn’t made any friends. You told me that, Friday night, about how lonely and homesick you were.”
“I was. I am. But then this, um, new friend who was showing me around on Saturday, insisted I go to last night’s party. Three of us did. We went together, me and this woman.”
“And a man, I take it.”
“Oh, well, yes.”
“What was his name?”
“Well, my friend’s name is Alice. That’s the girl.”
“I’m not dumb, Lana. I would have figured out that was the girl. I asked you what the boy’s name was.”
“Gil.”
“Just Gil?”
“Gil Sheridan,” she stammered. “He’s from Chicago. Catholic, like us.”
Lana, knowing her mother, continued to emphasize how she’d gone to the party with Alice, left with Alice, spent extra time with her afterward. In a burst of inspiration she brought up Coop, her new friend Coop. Who was a guy. They’d gotten a coffee earlier this morning, in fact.
She could almost hear Mom’s brain ticking and whirring, looking for holes in the story. When Mom spoke again, she sounded suspicious. “You watch those boys. You’re a pretty girl and that California liberalness—oh, I’ve heard all about it. You tell those boys to keep their hands out of your pants, do you hear me?”
“Mom!” Lana protested, her cheeks growing hot. “Please.”
“You listen to me here, Lana. I know men.”
“As it turns out, you’re so far off the mark with Coop, you just don’t know. He’s this humble guy who only wants to have a quiet life and exchange conversation from time to time.”
“So, this Coop. He’s not the one who kissed you last night?”
“Mom! Of course not!”
Too late, she realized the correct answer should have been, “Nobody kissed me, what on earth are you talking about?”
For a moment neither of them spoke.
“That Gil character,” Mom said. “I can just see him. Handsome, charming, making you feel like the only one in the room.”
A chill came over her, that Mom had Gil so well pegged.
“Watch that type, Lana. They’ll only break your heart.” A heavy sigh followed. “Oh, I hate that you’re alone out there, without family.”
“This woman, Alice, you’d respect her, Mom. She’s sort of no-nonsense and she really did watch over me last night. And, oh, Mom, guess what? I met her friend, a famous violinist, and she played last night in a recital with—you’re not going to believe this—the cellist guy from the commercials. Matthew Nakamura! I got to meet them and talk with them. They’re all friends with Alice.”
“Well. Lucky you.”
It grew quiet. Too quiet. She’d successfully diverted the conversation away from Gil, only to land here. The omnipresent knot deep in her stomach, dormant for so long, began to stir. “Enough about me,” Lana said. “How are you doing?”
“Fine. I guess.”
It wasn’t the words; it never was. It might not even be the expression on Mom’s face. She could be smiling, but Lana would know, the instant things shifted. It was as perceptible as the shift in the air when storm clouds swept over the sky and you could smell the moisture, feel the turbulence swirl around you, making your skin prickle in anticipation.
“Is it your back, or the kids?” Lana asked, trying to inject equal amounts of sympathy and cheer in her tone.
Mom issued a heavy exhale, one that managed to convey fatigue, exasperation, discouragement, and the burden of lifelong pain. “The doctor is saying I should take a thirty-minute rest every afternoon. What is he thinking? That I live a life of leisure?”
“Oh, Mom, it’s my being gone, isn’t it? Those afternoon breaks that you’re losing out on now.”
“Well, maybe so,” Mom admitted.
“I’m so sorry I’m not around to help out anymore. I feel awful. And I miss you guys so much.”
This seemed to cheer Mom up. “Well, we all miss you too. Apparently more than you miss us.”
She bristled. “I think about you all the time. Last night was the first time I’d done anything social and fun since I arrived. You don’t think I’m lonely the other ninety-eight percent of the time?” Her voice caught at these last words.
“Well, that’s good.”
“That’s good?”
“What I mean to say is, that shows you love your family. That we’re important to you.”
“Of course you are. Was there ever any question? Do you think this is easy for me, being all alone out here?”
It was as if the full force of Gil’s betrayal hit her all at once. Had it really only been yesterday afternoon that she’d been out with him, flying so high? Only to land so hard, so low. She wanted to climb under her blankets and cry.
“Honey,” Mom said after a pause, “just remember what I told you. There’s no shame in coming home, if all this proves to be too much. You just come right back to us.”
How good it felt right then to hear the conviction in Mom’s voice. “I’ll be okay,” she said. “I just need a quiet day, a good night’s sleep.”
“All right. But you call me, any time you’re down, you understand?”
“I will. Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome. Bye-bye, honey.”
After a long afternoon of reading and napping, a dinner of grilled cheese and Campbell’s chicken noodle soup (comfort food, Luke’s favorite), Lana settled down for the night, finding solace in all the little rituals. Teeth brushing. Washing her face and applying moisturizer. Making sure she had clean tights and leotards for tomorrow, hand-washing a few for Tuesday. At the thought of company class, her heaviness lightened. This was the single best reality of her dance life: there would always be class. This reassuring sameness, day after day, year after year grounded her, defined her. And tomorrow afternoon there would be a rehearsal for the sprightly Arpeggio, with the partnered trios of dancers, some of whom were warming to Lana. That counted for something.
Off Balance (Ballet Theatre Chronicles Book 1) Page 10