When the Music Stops (7 page)

Marta watched the way he laughed at her jokes and nodded with interest at whatever she said. When she dropped her fork, Dennis handed her a new one. Marta might as well have been a bush or a tree in the backyard for all the attention he paid to her. Did his attention matter? Sure felt like it did. But why should it when she professed her commitment to Steve?

She struggled through a wave of embarrassment over the gnawing in her heart. Somehow she didn’t want to share Dennis; as if she had any control over what he did or who he cared about.

h

Thoughts of Dennis, how they met, and her interest in him continued on as the work neared completion. Marta’s paint-by-number sky, bushes, and trees made her arms and back ache, but getting paid made up for the discomfort. Only an hour or so left now and she’d be out of work, just when she’d gotten the hang of it.

“Nice job, Marta,” a voice called from the back of the dark theatre.

She turned, careful to hold her paint-filled brush upright. As Hal approached the stage, her anticipation dropped. She’d hoped to see Dennis.

Hal hopped onto the stage and investigated each set and fingered the rack of costumes. “I like the terry cloth costumes idea and the way you stuffed the elephant with batting. The kids are thrilled.”

“Thanks. They’ll be able to move easily in them.”

“I understand the dancing is coming along as well. You’ve influenced Pam. Says she wants to take lessons and become a ballerina.”

“Good for her,” Marta said, but inside she shuddered. If Pam knew what she was setting up for herself, how she’d need to sacrifice her free time and her active social life, she’d never want to become a dancer.

“Dennis also tells me you’re a natural on sets. Sure you’ve never done them before?”

Marta laughed. “He made my job easy. It’s exciting to see canvas, wood, and wheat paste become usable parts of the play’s illusions.”

“I hope you’ll be available for future productions. You’re just the spark of energy and creativity we’ve needed. The theatre board is anxious to meet you during the walk through on July 21. Looks like the teen play’s a sellout, and our regular season subscriptions are starting to come in.”

Marta felt her insides swell with pride from Hal’s compliment. “Great,” she said. “The kids are excited. Willis told me he wants to become an actor and perform on Broadway. But I told him that, like ballet dancers, only one in a thousand actors get auditions and only a few spots open up every year.”

“Do you want to go back to dancing for a ballet company?”

She hesitated. What
did
she want? “Maybe, but not the one in Billings. I’ll need to wait and decide after I’m fully recovered.”

When Hal left for the evening, Marta remained behind enjoying the quiet of the theatre. Tonight she’d completed her jobs for the community theatre. The wages she’d earned from the set work, painting, and helping in the office would end as soon as the play ended. She’d need to find a new way to earn money until another play came along.

Since no one was around, Marta kicked off her sandals to make use of the stage. She stretched briefly, then recreated her final re-audition piece,
Rhapsody in Blue.
She imagined the long clarinet slide as she leaned back to add extension to the
grande developpe
followed by the swaying sidesteps,
balances,
and elongated sweeps of her arms moving toward the floor. Both ankles throbbed, but she continued dancing until the long string of
releves,
when she stopped and leaned forward with her hands on her knees.

Clap, clap, clap.

She looked up, startled to have an audience.

“You look amazing when you dance, Marta.” Dennis stood in the center aisle holding a white paper bag. He raised it toward Marta. “Thought I’d bring dinner so we might celebrate your job well done.”

“Thanks for the compliment. I thought I was alone so I took advantage of the free stage. But, I am also hungry, so thanks for the food as well.”

Dennis spread out containers of Chinese food on a tarp on the stage and handed Marta wooden take-out utensils and a napkin. “It’s self-serve tonight, even for dancers.”

“I love it. So, what brings you back, and with food no less?”

“You. Hal called. Said you’d finished. Thought I’d check up on you and see how things were progressing. Didn’t know I’d get a free dance performance as well.”

Marta dipped her face as she felt a rush of heat spread through her body. “Painting is like dancing. It relaxes me, and I sometimes forget I’m hungry. It also gives me the chance to let my mind wander.”

Dennis watched her face for a long moment and asked, “Where does your mind go, Marta?”

“I don’t know. Nowhere and everywhere.”

“Are you thinking of painting, dancing, or Mr. Sorta? Or me?”

How could she explain herself? She nibbled at bites of her dinner while she thought about where the conversation was heading. She had no intention of sharing her feelings with Dennis or saying anything more about Steve. Marta shrugged. “It’s hard to explain. Images float through my mind like clouds moving across the sky. They reshape themselves every few seconds. Does that make any sense?”

Dennis shrugged. “Yes, But they’re your images, so they only need to make sense to you.”

Marta fidgeted and twirled a spiral of her hair around her finger. “Thanks for saying that. They are mine.” His comment created a deeper respect for him than she thought possible after their first encounter.

When they finished eating, Dennis drove Marta home and invited her to join him for opening night on July 24. She accepted.

As they turned onto her road, she frowned when she noticed the line of cars parked along the fence. Damn. She’d pictured a hot bath and time to sit and rock before she went to bed. Why hadn’t her mom told her she hosted Canasta tonight?

Marta stopped in the kitchen for a drink of water, then took a deep breath and placed her performance smile in place. Enter stage right. “Hi, Mom, Robert, everyone. Nice to see you again.”

“Honey, you know everyone,” her mom said. “Last minute change in plans since Marjorie is sick. Want to join us? We need another player.”

“Thanks, but no. It’s been a long day, so I’m sneaking through and heading for bed. Night, everyone.”

A pleasant surprise rested on Marta’s bedside table. It was a letter from Lynne.

Dear Marta,

Bad news. I can’t make it to Bremerton this summer.

Got a great chance to teach at a dance camp in ole’ Colorado until company classes resume. Need the big bucks (ha) so I can afford a not-quite-so-old car.

Saved an article about our final performances. Look for my name; it’s not there. Next year, maybe I’ll get a solo.

Will call with my phone number if they have any out in the wilderness. Might meet a mountain man! Better than meeting a mountain lion.

Lynne

No matter what Lynne wrote, she always made Marta chuckle. Who else would send a long article about a ballet when she wasn’t even mentioned? The fact that Lynne wrote comments in the margins about what Madame said when she shared the article with the
corps
underscored just what a crazy friend she remained across the miles and mountains that separated them. She’d miss getting a humor boost from seeing her.

It wasn’t until Marta drifted off to sleep that she revisited dancing on the stage and hearing the music play in her head. She rotated her ankle, felt a tightness but no sharp pain. Perhaps her life, like her ankle, was beginning to mend.

4

S
weat ran down Marta’s arms and legs as she hurried to the dance studio. Was it her pace, the unexpected July heat, or her nervousness? Most likely a combination of all three. With her tasks for the play winding down, she’d finally scheduled time to meet with Miss Holland.

She straightened her body as she crossed the last street and entered the dance studio. Her mom’s reception desk looked bare. No sign of her or the usual clutter of catalogs, memos, and ledgers.

Ballet music streamed from the large practice room. Miss Holland’s voice instructed her students, her hands clapping the beat. “Spot your turns...
Clap, clap, clap, clap
. Better…Nice finish.”

Marta sat in the waiting area and looked around. At first she thought nothing had changed. Then she noticed her costumed photo hanging on the wall beside photos of Maria Tallchief and Alicia Markova. A warm feeling spread through her; for a brief while she’d been a professional dancer as they’d been. By hanging that photo, Miss Holland and her mom honored her accomplishment. She smiled and closed her eyes remembering her hours inside that room, working on
barre
exercises, center floor work, and ending her class time with turns and leaps. The familiarity of the music and routine relaxed her.

When the door opened, the smell of sweat filled the air. Teenage girls exited, pushing back their bangs and rushing for towels to dry their faces. They stepped around her, not noticing that they knew her, grabbed their bags, and headed out. One girl, a stranger to Marta, stopped and stared. She looked from Marta’s face to the photo hanging on the wall and back to Marta’s face again.

“Are you her? I mean, are you Marta?”

“I am. What’s your name?”

The girl blushed and looked to the photo again. “I’m Rosalia. You dance for a ballet company, don’t you?”

“I did until I got injured.”

“But, uh…why are you here? I mean, when did you come back?”

“In May.”

“And now she’s here, Rosalia,” said Miss Holland as she exited the practice room.

Marta stood and hurried to hug her long time instructor and mentor.

Rosalia stared until Miss Holland spoke. “Marta will be back to talk with your class one of these days. You can ask all your questions then.”

“Can I have your autograph, please? I can’t imagine how the others missed seeing you sitting here!”

Marta smiled and signed a recital program she found in her mom’s desk. Rosalia hugged Marta, packed up her ballet bag, and waved as she left the building.

“Looks like you have an admirer, Marta. Welcome back. Let’s sit in my office and chat.”

The crowded office space sat tucked in a corner of the large studio. It held Miss Holland’s desk, two chairs, and overcrowded shelves that reached to the ceiling. Pink
Capezio
pointe
shoe boxes and stacks of costume catalogs and dog-eared magazines shared space with a dying plant, a box marked ”old receipts,” and several bags of colorful trims. Despite her mom’s efforts, Miss Holland’s chaos hadn’t changed over the intervening months.

Neither had Miss Holland. She was tall, blonde, beautiful, and thin with her long hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. Her damp leotard accentuated her muscular body. She didn’t look to be as old as her mom, but she was. Maybe the sparkle in her blue eyes made her look younger. She cleared off the extra chair and sat behind the desk facing Marta.

“Well,” she said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Sorry about missing the recital.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Miss Holland said. “You’ve had lots to work through. Want to talk about it?”

Marta nodded. “It’s hard to know where to start. So much happened over the nine months I was away.”

“Start with the best parts. Tell me how it felt to be a professional dancer.”

“Magic. Total magic. We practiced three hours every morning, doing many of the same
barre
and floor exercises I did here, plus we reviewed choreography.”

“I knew I needed to push you ladies to practice longer hours.”

“You were right to push us even though we complained. In fact the afternoons were more challenging. We learned new choreography and broke into groups to practice bits and pieces. Knowing ballerinas around the world followed the same routine and listened to the same music decade after decade, I felt like I’d joined a fellowship of dancers; they moved through my muscles, guiding me from one step to the next.”

“That’s amazing.” Miss Holland looked as if she were imagining that sensation. “Your mom told me that the artistic director wasn’t supportive.”

“Madame Cosper? You could say that. She’s a perfectionist. She didn’t like me even though I worked hard so she’d respect me. Damien Black led most of our classes. He was easier to work with and gave me practice sessions while I prepared to return to the company.”

“How’s your ankle now?”

Marta shrugged. “It’s improving. I still have lots of pain and stiffness, but when I massage it and exercise cautiously, the pain lessens. That’s one reason I wanted to see you. I’d like to use a practice room when you have open hours. I’ll pay as if it were a lesson.”