84 Ribbons (29 page)

Marta returned to the basement practice room to do a final check. She’d cleaned, installed hooks for the little girls, and hung the totes she’d made for them. When she returned upstairs to her room, she stopped near Carol’s door, where she saw light escaping around the edges. Must be hard reading and writing for hours every night, she thought. No wonder Carol continued to be such a
grouch.

Carol’s door opened. Marta stepped back, nearly falling over her left crutch.

“What do you want?” Carol asked.

“Want?”

“Yes, why are you standing in front of my door?”

Marta shrugged. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” Carol stretched tall and crossed her arms as she looked down on Marta. “Stay away from my door. I don’t appreciate spies.”

“You don’t? Really? Then why do I hear you scuttling away from my bedroom door and from the basement door all the time?”

“How dare you accuse me of spying! I have every right to be in the hall and in the basement. Even though you think you’re Mrs. B.‘s favorite, that doesn’t mean you’re special. I’ve seen the drug store deliveries you receive when you think no one is watching.”

“What?”

“I know you’re taking something you don’t want anyone to know about. And I could have told you about Miss Wilson…”

The hair on Marta’s arms bristled. “What did you say?”

“Ah, nothing,” Carol stammered. Her face reddened. “Just keep away from my door.” Wham. She slammed the door.

Marta’s shock took her breath away. Carol spied on her and listened to the private conversations she’d had with Mrs. B.? Who had she told: the boarders, her college friends, who? And what did she know about the drugstore deliveries?

At breakfast the following morning, Marta surveyed the other boarders. Shorty and James savored their morning coffee and conversation. Carol ate with her head down. All the while, Mrs. B. kept a watchful eye on everyone and everything. It appeared that nothing had changed.

Marta relaxed as she dragged her spoon through her half-filled bowl of cereal. She made a mental list for the drug store: diet pills, chewable laxatives, tooth powder, deodorant, cotton balls, and two packs of bobby pins. Lynne predicted correctly; she’d cut her hair way too short. She’d need handfuls of pins to practice fastening on the hairpiece she’d picked up from Dolly’s Hair Emporium last week. It would never do to have  a mound of netted hair fly across the room during her audition. June was creeping closer; only a little more than two months left to prepare.

As she dried the last of the dishes, she thought about Miss Wilson. Focusing on what she could control took more energy than she’d expected. Working with the little girls promised to her keep her mind off the mountain of things she couldn’t control.

Four o’clock. Marta sat in the basement studio. When the girls arrived, Lynne escorted them downstairs. Marta listened to their chattering as they clomped down the stairs. The basement door opened. The girls stopped talking as they entered. The group stood so close together it would have been impossible to slide a piece of paper between them. Lynne’s aunt stood behind them, placing her hands on the shoulders of two girls. “Hello, Marta. These young ladies are excited to learn to dance. I told them you’re both ballet dancers.”

A tiny black-haired girl looked up. “Are you really dancers?”

Marta smiled. “Yes, we are. We want to teach you to dance. Will that be fun?”

“Yes, but, you have a cast. How can you dance?” another girl asked.

“I can’t until my ankle heals,” Marta said.

The black haired girl spoke again. “My mother said I couldn’t dance on my tippy toes.”

“You don’t need to dance on tippy toes to have fun,” Lynne said. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Carmen. I’m seven.”

Marta felt a chuckle rise in her throat. “Well, Carmen, and the rest of you lovely young ladies, let’s get started.” Marta pointed to the hooks she’d installed. “I’ve made each of you dance bags to store your dance clothes and carry them back and forth to our lessons. Carmen, Lucy, Tracy, and Brenda, check to see that I spelled your names correctly.”

The huddle broke apart as each girl found her bag.

“How did you know our names?” Carmen asked.

“I told her,” Mrs. Meadows said. “Now take off your coats, your shoes, any extra clothes, and put them in your dance bags.”

The girls did as directed. The room remained breathlessly quiet.

Marta turned on the record player and sat back down on the chair. “When you are ready, sit on a rug square.”

When the girls were seated, Lynne sat on the floor with them. “Let’s find out about each other. I’ll start. My name is Lynne. I love to dance. I have lots of brothers. I like to meet new people. Carmen, you’re next.”

Carmen wiggled around and smiled. Her short curly hair made her round face angelic. “I’m Carmen. I have two sisters who like to tease me. I like to swing.”

“So do Lynne and I,” Marta said.

The next girl looked down at her knees, letting her long straight hair cover much of her face. “I’m Lucy. I like to help my mother when she’s too sick to cook alone.”

“I like to cook,” Marta said. “Maybe some day we’ll cook together.”

Lucy looked up and smiled, then tucked her face down toward her knees once again.

“Who’s next?” Lynne asked.

The smallest of the four rocked back and forth on the rug square. “I’m Tracy. I like to read. I live next door to Brenda.”

“So what do you girls play together?” Lynne said.

Brenda shrugged. “Mostly we do ballerina paper dolls and play dress-up.”

“And we pretend dance,” Tracy said.

“You all do so many interesting things. Now you will learn to dance together,” Marta said. “Let’s get started.”

Lynne led them with simple stretches. Next, they practiced walking like dancers, putting their toes down first and lifting their arms like flower petals in the wind. When Lynne pulled out scarves, the girls danced and twirled, waving the scarves until they were called back to their rug squares.

“Next time,” Lynne said, “we’ll begin real ballet exercises at the
barre
.”

That evening Lynne called Marta. “You’ll never guess what happened. The girls chattered all the way back. They showed the rest of the kids what we did, and they’re all excited about coming back. Looks like we have our first students.”

Each class the little girls started with stretches at the
barre
. After floor exercises, they tried simple leaps and ballet steps. Their happy voices and quirky movements energized Marta, reminding her of her own early dance years. She forgot about her cast and set to work making costumes for the girls to wear when they danced for their families in June. Tomorrow, Tuesday, April first, her cast would be removed. Hopefully there’d be no fool’s trick waiting for her at the doctor’s office.

26

A
fter the dreaded weigh-in, a blood draw, and an iron shot, Dr. Wycoff removed the cast. While the nurse washed her leg and applied lotion, Marta stared at the ghost white skin of her shriveled leg. She held her breath to stifle her disappointment at its condition.

Dr. Wycoff twisted and flexed her ankle. Marta winced, but experienced no sharp pain. He massaged her calf muscle and her ankle. “Do this daily to stimulate and loosen the muscles before you exercise.” She nodded, wishing she could leap up and dance all the way home.

“Use the crutches for support this week. I know your leg looks bad, but with a few weeks of therapy you’ll be fine.”

“Therapy?”

“Yes. I suggest physical therapy twice a week for three to four weeks. The nurse will give you a list of names. Make a follow-up appointment with me if you experience any problems.”

“Okay.” Marta spoke to doctor’s back as he disappeared out the exam room door.

She wiggled her toes: a little pain and a stiffness she’d never before experienced. She lifted her leg; it felt weightless without the cast. Her muscles trembled. When she tried to rotate her ankle, she found she had no flexibility. The nurse returned, handed her a therapy list and crutches, then walked her to the waiting area.

On the ride home she thought about her pile of still-unpaid hospital bills. Where would money for therapy come from? She knew her own body; after all, she’d spent ten years doing warm-ups and stretches two or more days every week. Therapy cost too much right now. She’d exercise by herself.

Marta stood in the front hall leaning on the crutches. Sixteen steps up to her room; sixteen steps back down. Maybe she should have stayed downstairs longer, but she’d missed her room. Besides, using the stairs provided exercise. She’d follow Dr. Wycoff’s orders and take it slow for a few days, but then she’d practice every waking minute she wasn’t working.

Thursday. Two days since her cast came off. It was time. She smiled as she made giant flowers around today’s date on her calendar. A thrill sizzled through her as she put on her ballet clothes for the first time since the Christmas break. She turned side to side and looked over her shoulder. Saggy and flabby described her backside. Exercise should help reverse the damage.

When she reached the basement studio, she smiled and inhaled, feeling her lungs expand, welcoming her back. Now the real work began.

Marta knew her feet had swollen. Her ballet shoes felt extra snug, more like
pointe
shoes. Maybe she’d start barefoot and work back into her soft shoes after a few days.

She swiveled her neck to loosen her muscles, then stood in first position at her makeshift bar and took a cleansing breath. As the adagio recording began, she performed a
demi-plié,
then rose. Her body remembered even though her legs jittered. She sank into another and another. Her left ankle refused to flex to its full extent, but she pushed herself, ignoring the pain.

Sweat gather under her arms; they ached from holding their positions. She’d exercised every day these past two months, why did she feel so weak?
Demi plié
, point to second, and repeat.

Fourth position, fifth position, both sides. Her muscles vibrated as she added
ports de bras
, reaching forward and back, lengthening her torso further and further the longer she worked.

Battements
t
endus
next. Her right side looked strong and normal as she stretched her foot out to a point and brought it back to first position. Standing on her left leg caused so much pain she rested before continuing on the other side. At least her injured leg was off the floor now, doing the beats. The bad part: her foot cramped with every attempt she made to point her toes.

She inhaled, straightened, and pushed through her discomfort. Her foot cramped, locking her toes in a gnarled position. She reached for the nearby chair to sit and rub out the knot. I can do this, she thought, as the cramp continued to send a burning sensation up her leg.

On and on she worked:
grands battements
, beating the air with swift leg extensions,
ronds de jambes
creating imaginary circles on the floor. After dozens of
relevés,
unending lifts ending with
demi-pliés
, she stopped, grabbing the
barre
to keep from fainting or falling on the floor.

Twenty minutes later, she began again. Hours later she returned to her room and collapsed without taking a shower or removing her soaked dance clothes.

When she woke, her body shivered. It was dark outside. Her clock said eleven. She sat up, trying to orient herself. She gasped. She’d slept through dinner and her job at the theater.

27

M
arta and Lynne taught the
little girls
pliés
with the matching
ports de bras
so their body and arm movement positions aligned. They taught curtsies, flowing hands, jumps, and standing with straight backs. They taught them
glissades
and
balancés.
Whatever they taught, every lesson ended with the girls encircling Marta and Lynne with hugs before they hurried onto the waiting bus.

One evening after dinner dishes, Marta and Lynne sat in the dusky light of the common room talking. Marta massaged her leg and ankle, now an every day routine.

“How much longer do you plan to continue working at the hotel?” Lynne asked. “You look so tired you make me want to take a nap.”

“I need money, so I’ll stay on a while longer.”

“Have you contacted Damien yet? Checked on the audition date?”

Marta shook her head. “I want to be able to walk in without limping. He’ll not let me audition if I can’t walk.”

“Call him, Marta”

“I will. After I lose five pounds, I—”

“Forget the pounds. You’re making excuses. Call him tomorrow. Promise.”

Though Marta knew she should call, how could she when those extra pounds hung on her like dead weights? She’d call soon; just not tomorrow. Maybe by the end of next week.

Between working at the hotel, instructing the little girls, and baking for the boarding house, Marta anticipated she’d drop her excess five pounds like water off a raincoat. It hadn’t happened. Her energy remained the only thing that dropped.

Tomorrow Steve returned. He’d stayed on in San Francisco to finish his project. Their nightly phone calls became once or twice a week because of his work, giving her more time to worry about everything. Miss Wilson would not be pleased.

What should she say when he arrived? She hadn’t seen him since Valentine’s weekend. Phone calls weren’t the same as sitting next to him, watching his face, listening to his voice, or feeling his lips brush hers. What should she wear? When would he arrive?

Marta yawned as she set the breakfast table. She’d grabbed her clothes from yesterday, planning to shower once the boarders left. Mrs. B. finished scrambling eggs and frying the bacon. The front door opened and closed. Footsteps approached the dining room.

“Morning, Marta.”

She froze with the breakfast napkins clutched in her hands. “Hi.” Steve stood inches from her. He’d come back. She laid down the napkins, brushed back her hair, and stared at his face. “Wow. You’re really here. I didn’t expect to see you—and so early.”