84 Ribbons (3 page)

Marta whooped and hollered and jumped and cried before she fell into her mom’s arms. They held each other so tightly they blended into one.

“I’m proud of you, honey. You deserve this. What does the letter say?”

Marta paced the kitchen as she read the details of her new life aloud. The dance company wanted Marta in Billings in two weeks. She’d need a large suitcase for touring, half a dozen practice leotards and tights, and six pairs of
pointe
shoes to begin the year. The company would pay for one night’s lodging in Billings, but she’d need to find her own place to live and provide her own transportation to and around Billings.

Every few minutes she stopped, did a few ballet turns, then resumed pacing and reading. “I wish Dad could be here to know that I made it.”

“He knows. The whole street heard you. Why not heaven as well?”

Marta kissed the papers and threw them in the air. “I did it, didn’t I?”

The papers fluttered across the floor. As she retrieved them, she noticed a strange stillness inside herself. The butterflies she expected to be clamoring to escape her chest stayed quiet. A calmness spread through her, slowing her breathing as it moved into her arms. She’d done it. Her dream for a career as a professional dancer began in a few days.

The packet also contained a one-page biography of Madame Cosper and Damien Black, a map of Billings, and housing contacts. The enclosed ballet company brochure read:

The Intermountain Ballet Company
proudly presents...

1957-1958 Performances

October 4-20
Classic Sampler Excerpts from
Sleeping Beauty and Coppélia and select solos

November 28—December 10
Regional Nutcracker Tour

December 13-24: Nutcracker in Billings

February 6-23: Giselle

April 3-20: Serenade

May 30-June 8
A Tribute to American Composers
(selections TBA)

“Look at this, Mom. I’ll be dancing many of my favorite ballets this year.”

Her mom took the brochure and nodded. “It’s a wonderful program. Miss Holland will be excited to see this. I wish you were dancing closer to home so she could watch you dance.”

“Me, too. Will you be able to come to Billings?”

“I’ll try. I can’t promise, but I’ll try.”

Her mom picked up the biography page. “Hm-m. You’ll want to read this. Both Madame and Damien have impressive backgrounds. Madame danced as a principal for the New York City Ballet, and Damien’s choreographed all over the country. They’ve been in Billings for close to ten years.”

Bubbles jumped into Marta’s lap and settled into a purring ball as Marta scanned the brochure. “Madame looked beautiful as a dancer. Now she looks tired. Maybe she’s friendlier when she’s directing her company.”

“One thing’s for sure--you’re on your way to collecting those eighty-four ribbons. Even more. When you chose to save your
pointe
ribbons, I feared you’d be setting an impossible goal, but now--”

“Now it’s possible.” Marta danced around the kitchen, circled her mom, then twirled down the hall and into her bedroom.

She took down her wooden cigar box of ribbons and sat on her bed. Every time she opened the lid, she felt a tingle of excitement. She ran her fingers through the pink satin ribbons and smiled. Twenty ribbons so far.

Savings the ribbons began when she received her first
pointe
shoes. Miss Holland told the class about Maria Tallchief, a famous ballerina. A reporter wrote that Maria wore out hundreds of
pointe
shoes during the first dozen years of her career. Then and there, Marta decided that she was going to save the ribbons from every pair of
pointe
shoes she wore out. “I’m going to be a ballet dancer like Maria Tallchief,” she confided to Miss Holland. “And, when I collect eighty-four ribbons, I’ll be ready for my first professional solo.”

“Why eighty-four ribbons, Marta?” Miss Holland asked.

“If I work hard, I’ll perform lots. That means I’ll wear out several pairs of shoes every year. After I dance in the corps for a year or two, I’ll save dozens of ribbons, so I’ll earn a solo. I counted. I think eighty-four ribbons is about right.”

She found a magazine photo of Maria Tallchief and hung it on her bedroom wall. Evenings as she got ready for bed, she copied the pose Maria held. Each day as she prepared for ballet class, she touched the photo for luck. After five years, the touching had faded the photo to a mere shadow. But now her life as a dancer was beginning. Was eighty-four a reasonable number of ribbons? It had been a childish idea, but just maybe it was accurate. She put the photo in the ribbons box and set it aside to take with her to Billings.

Marta left home Thursday afternoon, August twenty-ninth, with two medium-sized suitcases checked through to Billings. She carried her small white shoulder purse and a vanity case. The hat and gloves she left home wearing had already been tucked into her bag. She hoped young Montana women didn’t stick to “the rules” during hot summer days.

The calmness from the day she received the invitation had lasted only a day. Jitters took over regardless of what she did to ease them away. Now she squeezed and released her mom’s hand every few seconds. “I hope I can do this. Wish you were coming with me.”

“Oh, honey. I wish I could. But your greeter will meet you and help you get settled. I’d just be in the way. Now stop worrying. You’ll be fine. Your friends last night thought you’d be a star before long.”

“Friends are good for that.”

Marta’s mom brushed away imaginary lint, a sure sign she’d cry any minute. “You have enough money? Remember to eat. And call me as soon as you arrive.”

“I promise.”

They stood side by side waiting for her bus to be announced. Her mom held her hand the way a parent holds onto a young child about to cross a busy street. They both startled when the loudspeaker blasted through the Greyhound depot. “Now boarding for North Bend, Ellensburg, Moses Lake, Ritzville, and Spokane.”

Marta grabbed her mom. They hugged with arms tangled in arms and heads tucked tightly against each other’s shoulders.

“What if I’m not ready Mom?”

“You can do anything you set your mind to; why would this be different?”

“I feel funny inside. First I’m scared, then I want to laugh, and then I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Remember to breathe once in a while.” Her mom shook her head and let out a slow sigh. “Marta, I love you so. I can’t tell you how much I‘ll miss you.”

“All aboard for North Bend, Ellensburg, Moses Lake, Ritzville, and Spokane. Last call, last call.”

Marta boarded the idling bus and slid into an empty seat next to a window. When everyone had settled, the driver closed the door and the bus pulled away. Marta waved until they rounded a corner and her mom disappeared from view. Twenty-four hours ahead she’d be searching for a place to live in a town with no friends or familiar faces. Time to be brave and independent. Time to bury her fears. Time  to take charge of her own life.

She placed her hand in the pocket of her shirtwaist dress and fingered the small leather pouch. It held the last stones her dad had polished, connecting her to the time she spent in the garage helping him tumble rocks. When she first bagged them, she’d felt a finality, an ending of knowing her dad. Now, they’d be a lasting connection, a talisman to carry on all her travels.

The bus traveled east from Tacoma, leaving the Puget Sound basin behind. Evergreen forests gave way to crags of granite where stubby alpine trees twisted and stretched sideways.

Across the Cascade Mountains, farmlands surrounded the roadway with long stretches of green fields similar to Gran’s Wenatchee farm. At the dozens of stops, Marta got off to stretch and execute a few
pliés
. The fresh air at the stops exaggerated the stale, gassy smell of the interior of the bus and the heavy scent of unwashed travelers.

In Spokane she changed buses. For the rest of the trip, she sat hemmed in by a plump, elderly woman who pulled out an unending supply of snacks and knitting. The woman rambled from one conversation to another, leaving no gaps in her comments for Marta to speak.

The swaying bus made Marta’s stomach queasy. She set aside her
Seventeen
magazine and closed her eyes. First thing she’d do with her first paycheck would be to start saving for a ticket home, by train.

All night, the bus twisted through the Rockies, following its headlights along deserted roads. In the early morning, Marta’s head jerked off her purse she’d used as a pillow against the window. She stretched her torso from side to side to loosen the kinks. Outside, brown prairie grasslands and scrub brush slid past in a blur. Her seat companion snored on.

The bus meandered through the tiny towns of Drummond, Deer Lodge, and Opportunity, making brief stops in each before descending into a wide valley. The bus slowed and turned off the highway. Sun streamed through the gritty window, blinding her view of the town. “Billings,” announced the driver. “All travelers going beyond Billings check inside the depot for connections.”

People rustled in their seats, collecting their belongings. Her seatmate moved slower than syrup. So far she’d not attempted to retrieve her oversized bag from the shelf overhead.

While Marta waited for her seatmate to pack up, she reorganized her questions for the greeter. She needed to locate her overnight accommodations and the ballet company, find housing in town, and learn to navigate Billings. Her hands began to tremble as she thought about all she had to do. Thank heavens for the greeter.

Marta stepped off the bus and into intense midday heat that hit her like an oven on broil. She began to sweat. Her mouth felt dry as a cotton ball. She moved to the side of the bus with the other passengers, watching the driver unpack the baggage compartment.

Bag after bag formed a pile beside the bus. People grabbed their bags and walked away. Now the pavement was empty. The driver closed the baggage compartment and walked toward the depot.

Marta looked around. “Excuse me, sir. Are there more bags stored on the other side?”

“No, Miss. That’s all I had. If yours isn’t here, it must not have made a transfer along the way. Check inside at baggage claim.”

Marta closed her eyes and let out a calming breath. Okay. It would work out. She’d ask her greeter what to do when she called her, after she got a drink of water.

The drinking fountain dribbled water; she couldn’t get a sip. She moved to the pay phone booth to call the greeter.

Her dime slid into the coin slot and dropped down inside the telephone. After she heard a dial tone, she placed her finger in the first slot and pulled it to the small, curved metal stop. She listened to the clicks as the dial rotated back to its starting position before she stuck her finger in the next slot. Number by number she waited as the dial clicked back to its original position.

The phone rang and rang. No answer. She gave up and moved to the baggage counter. A tired worker hefted a large box to the counter where a shaggy-haired man signed for it and walked away. The worker turned his attention to Marta.  “Help you?”

After she filled out her information, the attendant handed Marta two missing baggage claim tickets and disappeared through a dingy door. She  stared at the tickets, too depressed to move. There’d be no chance of changing out of her wrinkled, smelly traveling clothes now. 

She called the greeter again. Still no answer. Next she called the ballet company. The man she spoke with said the ballet office was closed for meetings until Tuesday morning.

She retrieved her overworked dime and placed a call to her mom.

“Mom? I’m in Billings. The greeter hasn’t come, my bags are lost, the dance company office is closed until Tuesday, and I’m so thirsty I could drink cold coffee.”

“Don’t fret, Marta. I’ll mail out
pointe
shoes and dance clothes right away. In the meantime keep calling your greeter. Maybe the person had an emergency.”

“Okay, Mom. I love you.”

Marta gave up on phoning the greeter and exited the depot. The Montana heat blasted her again. Her head ached from the bus trip, and her stomach growled from lack of food. Thirst became a focus, but she pushed it away. She’d wait and use the inn fountain so she’d have money for meals with enough left over to buy clothes and shoes before her first day.

At the curb she checked the map. The inn looked to be a couple of blocks north along Twenty-seventh Street. Thank heavens downtown Billings streets lay flat as a pancake.

Downtown appeared larger than Bremerton, but smaller than Seattle or Tacoma. Block after block of three and five story buildings hovered over small businesses. The pavement sizzled with heat. Marta took advantage of the recessed entries to look at merchandise as she cooled down. Clothing shops, jewelers, a dry cleaner, a department store, two cafes, and a drug store filled in spaces between hotels and office buildings. Across Twenty-seventh she spotted a five and dime, a bank, and a pet shop.

She continued through town, heading toward a long, high wall of rock. At the Rimview Inn she went directly to the drinking fountain in the foyer and took in a dozen swallows of tepid water. At the check-in counter she paid for an extra night to allow time to find a place to live, then  dragged herself up a flight of stairs, briefly glad she didn’t have extra bags in tow.

The room smelled antiseptic and looked spartan. Marta flopped on the orange bedspread and faded into a dreamless sleep. She woke to darkness. Her stomach growled and grumbled as she headed to the reception desk.