by Brady Hammes
Mariana smiled. “I actually have something you might be interested in.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Two problems though,” she said, holding up as many fingers.
“Okay.”
“The first is that you’d have to shave the beard.”
“Not a problem. I think it’s time for a new look anyway.” Perhaps it was the beard or his penchant for designer flannel, but for whatever reason he was often cast as the grieving lumberjack, the heartbroken longshoreman, or, in the case of Makin’ It, the hapless folk singer. He had a face casting agents described as Americana, whatever that meant. Renee had once told him he was accessibly good-looking, which she described as handsome but not so handsome that a woman might be too intimidated to approach him in a bar. “What’s the second problem?” he asked.
“You’d have to relocate to Taos, New Mexico—at least temporarily.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“I live there now,” she explained. “I’m just back here for the weekend. I met a local guy—now my fiancé—and we’re getting married in a couple weeks.”
“Congrats.”
“Thanks. Anyway, I’ve been doing some directing at a small theater there. It’s certainly not Broadway, but it’s fun and I’m proud of the work we’ve produced. We’re in the process of putting together a production of Long Day’s Journey into Night. The guy who was supposed to play Jamie just bailed and I need to find a replacement. I came back here to hold auditions since my pool of actors is pretty small, but the session today was a bust. I’m wondering if it’s something you might be interested in?”
“I’m interested,” Gavin said, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically.
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely.”
“Great,” Mariana said. “We have a house we can put you up in. There isn’t a lot of money, so we can’t offer much in terms of payment. But we could cover most of your expenses. And besides, Taos is beautiful. It’s not the worst place to spend a few weeks.”
“I know. I’ve been.” When Gavin was in high school, his family went to Taos for a ski vacation during spring break. Back then Gavin didn’t understand why they had to go to New Mexico when all his other friends were headed to places like Winter Park, Colorado, which seemed like the obvious choice for a ski trip. He associated New Mexico with deserts, and Taos with a brand of taco seasoning his mother used. But when they pulled into the valley at dawn, Gavin woke to the snowcapped peaks of the Sangre de Cristos glowing orange, and the scene struck him as quintessentially alpine, more Colorado than Colorado. “I love Taos,” he said. “And Long Day’s Journey. I actually played Jamie in a production back in college. It’s a role I know well.”
“Fantastic,” she said, removing her phone from her purse. “The play doesn’t start until mid-January, but we’ve been rehearsing for the past few weeks. I’d love to get you in the mix as soon as possible.”
The last month had been one long string of unproductive days. He needed a change. Actually, what he needed was a new girlfriend, but that wasn’t about to happen so he’d have to settle for a change of scenery instead. The idea of a few weeks in the mountains sounded nice. And besides, if today’s earthquake was any precursor, L.A. would soon be reduced to rubble and he’d like to be as far away from that mess as possible. A house in the mountains of New Mexico seemed like a good place to ride out the apocalypse. “Let me know when to show up,” he said.
“Perfect.” Mariana consulted her phone. “Are you still at the 323 number?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll call you in the next day or so, and we can hash out the details.” She finished what was left of her wine and placed the empty glass on the table. “I have to split, but I’m so glad I ran into you. I think this could be great for both of us.” She gave him a friendly hug and disappeared into the house.
“What happened?” Tim asked, reappearing from across the deck.
“She left.”
“Why didn’t you go with her?”
“I’m going to,” Gavin said. “I’m leaving for New Mexico.”
“New Mexico?” Tim said, baffled. “Why?”
Gavin shrugged. “Because I have nothing else to do.”
SAMANTHA
MORNING CAME AND IT WASN’T so bad. Gone was the anxiety from yesterday, the incessant gnawing at her nerves. She was hopeful about the day in a way she hadn’t been in months. Marie was in the shower, her laptop broadcasting Morning Edition. They were discussing a North Korean missile test and rising interest rates and trouble at the IMF, but Sam was interested in none of it. Since arriving in Russia, she had failed to keep up with the news from home. The only contact she had was the weekly phone call with her parents and the emails her brother sent with links to new music. She tried reading the online version of The New York Times, but even that seemed irrelevant, like studying a language no one else spoke. Besides Marie, no one here was concerned with America, and Sam had begun to share this feeling.
Like most children with talent, Sam had been encouraged. Encouraged to spend the hours after school at dance class rather than drooling over teen magazines with her girlfriends. Encouraged to spend her summers at dance camp instead of running around the neighborhood, sneaking beers and making out with boys. When she entered high school and the extent of her talent had begun to manifest—successful auditions, praise from her instructors, offers from prestigious dance academies—she was encouraged to try homeschooling in order to preserve her afternoons for dance. Unlike many girls with dreams of becoming a ballerina, she had the innate talent to make a legitimate go of it. When she was sixteen, she was invited to the Joffrey’s trainee program. She’d meet with a tutor from eight to noon every weekday, then hop on the Metra and travel into the city for a three-hour block of dance instruction. Still in high school, she was already fluent in the language of urban living. She was riding trains and hailing taxis and drinking enough coffee to power small appliances.
In December of that year she was selected to perform the Sugar Plum Fairy role in The Nutcracker. She was praised in the Tribune’s review of the production, the critic calling her a dancer of exceptional promise. The following spring, she danced the butterfly in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and followed that with a turn as Odette in Swan Lake, a role that further cemented her standing as one of the principal young dancers in the city. It went like this for almost two years—rehearsing endlessly, performing beautifully—and she regretted none of it. Unlike many child prodigies, she was free to step away whenever she pleased. There were no unrealistic demands, no “stage mother” directing her career. Her parents encouraged her without compelling her. They often made a point, particularly as the dance world began absorbing all other aspects of her life, to make sure she was still having fun, that it hadn’t become the kind of mechanized routine that causes most kids to burn out before they reach their full potential. And it never did. Sam loved to dance. She loved the difficulty, the hours of strenuous training, and it was this unstoppable work ethic, inherited from her father, that separated her from most every other girl with pointe shoes and inherent grace.
* * *
—
SHE ARRIVED TO FIND Max alone in the studio, marking through steps that seemed almost improvised, his body moving elegantly around the floor, as if blown by the winds of some beautiful brainstorm. She watched his body wind down, then applauded when the music stopped.
“Hello,” Max said, wiping his forehead with a towel, a small patch of sweat darkening the neckline of his Henley. He reached for his water bottle and took a drink. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to be impressed,” Sam said.
“That’s the clunky version. I’m hoping you can inject some grace.”
“What’s the music?”
“It’s by a Danish composer. What do you think?”
<
br /> “I like it.”
“Me too. He’ll be here after the first of the year to adjust the timing, so I’m hoping to have the piece in a solid place by then. Not sure if Nikolai told you, but we open the first weekend in February, so I don’t have a lot of time.”
“I’m here to work,” Sam said, dropping her bag on the floor.
Max’s cellphone rang. He walked to the other side of the room to take the call. Meanwhile, Sam removed her boots and put on her pointe shoes. She tried to eavesdrop on his conversation, which she imagined was about her, based on the hushed manner in which he spoke. After a moment, he hung up and walked back to her.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“All fine,” he said, setting his phone on the bench. “Should we get started?”
Max performed a sequence of steps completely foreign to her, part of a physical vocabulary she wasn’t familiar with. She watched closely, trying to follow along, but her mind struggled to keep up. He repeated the steps again, this time with Sam clumsily mirroring the moves back to him. After a moment, she stepped away, overwhelmed by the complexity of his choreography. “That’s a lot to remember,” she said.
“I just want you to get a sense of the blocking. We’ll refine the movement over time.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Is there a problem?”
“No,” she said through a pained smile. “No problem.” But that wasn’t true. Focus was the problem.
Soon the other dancers arrived and began stretching at the barre. Max gathered everyone together and began explaining the conceptual aspects of the ballet before narrowing in on how they related to the specific choreography. He spoke with an authority that suggested the piece would come together nicely so long as the dancers executed his vision. After a year of false starts, this was Sam’s chance to be a part of something meaningful, yet as much as she wanted to right her crooked path, she didn’t entirely trust herself. She wasn’t sure she could resist the beastly urges that had come to dominate her life.
As Max continued his instruction, Sam noticed Nikolai enter the studio with a young woman Sam had not seen before. She was a dancer no doubt: tall, svelte, a body designed for movement. She had the eager, wondrous look of a new recruit, and Sam recognized something of her former self in the girl. Nikolai escorted her over to the other dancers.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Nikolai said, “but I wanted to introduce everyone to our newest dancer, Marguerite. She was a soloist at the Paris Opera Ballet, but she’s decided to join us here. She’s a great talent, and I’d like everyone to make her feel welcome.”
Sam knew exactly what Nikolai was doing. This was an intimidation tactic, a thuggish way of letting her know the precariousness of her position. If Marguerite really was a soloist from the Paris Opera, she obviously had chops, which begged the question as to why she had defected here. Sam guessed it had something to do with Max’s name, coupled with a substantial amount of money.
“Very nice to meet you,” Max said. “Feel free to join us. I’m giving everyone a quick overview of the piece.” He turned his attention back to the group and signaled for Sam and Mikhael, one of the male dancers, to join him on the floor. They stepped through the first few moves, while Nikolai observed from across the studio. A moment later, Max cut the music. He put his arm on Sam’s back and guided her through the steps.
“You’re going horizontal when it should be diagonal,” he explained. “You have to match him. It’s good in the beginning, but you’re overextending at this point. It’s too much. Let’s go back to one.”
Sam repeated the steps, but Max soon cut her off once more. “No, no. That’s not it.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “It’s just not in my body yet.”
“Perhaps you’d like Marguerite to give it a try,” Nikolai suggested.
Sam ignored the comment. She wasn’t typically a spiteful person, but she resolved to make sure Nikolai regretted ever having doubted her ability. “I’ve got it,” she said. “Let’s go again.”
* * *
—
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, she returned to her room to find a manila envelope sitting on the kitchen counter. It was covered in a collage of postage, and in the upper left corner was a Christmas-themed return address sticker that read JEFF AND CYNTHIA BRENNAN. She opened the envelope and pulled out a DVD and a handwritten note.
Sweetie —
Not sure if you even have a DVD player over there, but I thought I’d send this to you anyway. It’s the latest episode of your brother’s show. He says it’s terrible (no comment) but I can’t help but be proud of everything you kids have accomplished. I can’t tell you how excited I am to have you all home for Christmas. I’ve been trying to come up with fun things to do, but let me know if you think of anything in particular you’d like to do while you’re here. Your dad and I have been looking at flights for February. Please let us know when you have dates for the ballet. We wouldn’t miss it for the world! Love you!
—Mom
P.S.—Email me your flight info so I know when to pick you up!
* * *
—
HER MOTHER’S LETTER ALLUDED to two things that weren’t wholly true. The first being that Sam had already bought a ticket home for Christmas (she had not) and the second being that she was going to dance the leading role in a new ballet (she was not). The second one was a lie that had recently acquired some truth. There had been a ballet scheduled—a horrid, uninspired piece of garbage—but it now seemed likely that Max’s piece would take priority, which meant that perhaps it wasn’t a lie after all.
Sam’s mother had been a dancer herself, a serious talent according to her father’s stories. Cynthia had been raised in a small factory town outside Pittsburgh. As a kid, she’d taken private dance classes with a Ukrainian woman, cleaning the studio in exchange for instruction. She eventually landed a spot with the Washington Ballet in D.C., but her career quickly ended when she became pregnant with Gavin at twenty-three. What amazed Sam was that her mother harbored no bitterness, especially considering how hard she had worked just to gain access to all the opportunities Sam had already squandered.
The front door opened and Marie entered, followed by her boyfriend, Owen, a twenty-four-year-old dancer from Ottawa. He was basically a third roommate at this point, which Sam didn’t necessarily mind. She enjoyed the presence of a nonthreatening male in the house.
“How was rehearsal?” Marie asked. “Did you work with the new choreographer?”
“I did. He’s nice enough. Little demanding, but that’s probably a good thing.”
“We’re heading to the bowling thing tonight,” Owen said. “You interested?”
The bowling thing was Nikolai’s way of building camaraderie among the dancers. He hosted social activities once a week, though Sam found most of them to be superfluous and a bit corny. She didn’t normally attend, but she’d spent most of the past week alone in her bedroom, so she figured it might be nice to log some face time with other humans.
* * *
—
THE EXISTENCE OF A bowling alley in Nikolai’s home was just another example of the absurdity of his wealth, more reason Sam would never be able to relate to him on anything close to a human level. The place was hopping when they arrived. A deejay was spinning bad EDM beneath a disco ball, while the female dancers sipped martinis on angular leather sofas, the irony of the scene seemingly lost on everyone but Sam. She’d only been bowling at birthday parties as a kid, but even she knew that martinis were as anathema to bowling culture as beef jerky was to ballet. She selected a pair of designer bowling shoes from a shelf, then followed Owen over to a rack of bowling balls, all of them lovingly polished and free of prints. They were a far cry from the gold-speckled ones at the alleys back home, most of those chipped and faded, their insides sticky with God knows what.
<
br /> “You’ll probably want something in the twelve-pound range,” Owen said, surveying the selection.
Sam found one she liked and carried it to the lane. Owen programmed their names into the electronic scoring system, while Sam and Marie laced up their shoes.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Sam heard a voice say. She looked up to see Max standing above her, holding a matte black ball against his hip.
“There isn’t much else to do on a Friday night,” she said.
“Do you bowl a lot?”
“Nope. You?”
“I was actually in a league when I was a kid,” he said with a giddiness that suggested he, unlike Sam, was tremendously happy to be here.
She glanced up at the electronic scoreboard. “How many strikes have you made?”
Max held up four fingers. “Two hundred and five is my personal best.”
“That’s good, right?”
He shrugged. “I like to think so.”
“You’re up, Sam,” Owen said.
Sam stood and lifted a ball from the cradle. She stepped up to the line, then looked back to Max. “Any advice?”
Max tapped his index finger against the side of his head. “Focus.”
“Right.” Sam took a few awkward steps and heaved the ball down the lane, where it quickly found its way into the gutter. She looked back to Max. “What else you got?”