84 Ribbons (27 page)

Long minutes later, after her stint on the cold x-ray table, Dr. Wycoff returned and placed the x-ray film on the light box on the wall. “See that space on the top of your foot? The scaphoid hasn’t healed the way it should. We’ll need to recast.”

“But you said seven weeks would be enough.”

“Usually it would. But you’re not healing properly. We’ll recast and check again in four weeks. The good news is you may switch to crutches. In a couple of weeks you may add weight to your foot.”

Before she had time to react, he tapped her chart, then looked up. “Your anemia concerns me. I thought you stopped dieting.”

“I’ve never dieted.”

“Hm-m.” Dr. Wycoff kept writing. “We’ll continue iron injections until I see improvement. Any questions?”

“Can’t I begin exercising sooner? My position with the dance company is coming up for review.”

Doctor Wycoff looked from her leg to her face. “If you add pressure too soon, you’ll prolong your recovery or cause permanent damage.”

Marta sucked in her bottom lip and bit down to keep from crying. Four extra weeks; might as well be four years. She needed as much time as possible to prepare for a June audition.

“The nurse will apply a walking cast to support your foot and ankle. It will let you maneuver more easily.”

She nodded. Her earlier excitement washed away like water sliding down the drain. She half-expected to see a puddle on the floor.

h

The new cast left her toes exposed. When she stood, the knob below her foot forced her to lean to her right. The nurse steadied her and brought in crutches. “Follow the doctor’s orders. Exercise your healthy leg, and only your healthy leg, understood?”

Marta nodded, then hobbled to the waiting room. She thumbed through the dog-eared magazines and watched the clock: noon, 12:15, 12:30. The reception room emptied.

Lynne bounded into the waiting room, nearly crashing into Marta’s crutches that stretched out beside her chair. “Hey! I thought you’d get your cast off.”

“So did I.” Marta swallowed and looked around. “Let’s get out of here.”

As they drove through town, Marta asked, “Can we stop at Olson Drugs? I need a bunch of personal things.”

“Want me to get them so you don’t have to get out?”

“No. But, if I’m too slow, come get me. I don’t want Madame on your back because I made you late.”

Marta made her way around with a tote collecting a
Seventeen
magazine, two packs of Chiclets, diet pills, and laxatives. As she stood at the counter paying, Lynne walked up behind her. Marta closed the paper bag to hide her contraband.

“Ready?” Lynne said, checking her watch and taking the bag from Marta’s hand. “You worry about walking, I’ll carry your bag.”

Marta twisted to free the knots in her back and shoulders before heading to the front of the store. The thumping sound her crutches made on the wooden floor sounded like Madame’s cane. She shuddered.

On the drive to the boarding house, Lynne flipped through radio stations, stopping at Buddy Holly and the Crickets singing “That’ll Be The Day.” Marta closed her eyes. When would it be her day?

“Want to go for a drive later?” Lynne said. “Maybe a movie? I need a break from dating, Madame, and everything else. You should see the mess I’ve made in my apartment.”

“No, not today,” Marta said. “I’m exhausted and maybe a little grumpy about this new cast. I’ll call you.”

Marta entered the boarding house and sat slumped on the hall bench. Her arms ached from maneuvering the crutches. She looked up the flight of stairs. Today didn’t appear to be the day to return to her room. Maybe tomorrow or the next day she’d have the strength. She made her way to the downstairs room and flopped across the bed.

Her shorter cast exposed pale skin. It reminded her of the bleached driftwood near Kalaloch: dead and useless. In her head she felt a scream building. If she could let it out, she’d feel better. No, she needed to handle it, not let frustration overpower reason. She settled for beating her fists into her pile of pillows.

The following Monday, Marta sat in the common room. She picked up today’s newspaper dated March 3. Postage would soon increase to four cents for a letter. The latest on the British expedition crossing Antarctica announced they were approaching the South Pole. The grocery store ad said bread had risen to nineteen cents a loaf, and oranges were five pounds for forty-nine cents. Food costs increased each month. When would it stop?

With her sewing projects ending, she needed to look for other income.

She turned to the newspaper’s classifieds and circled half a dozen help wanted ads. Over the next hour she called the grain company office, one movie theater, the library, a physician’s office, the Montana Inn, and an alterations shop.

Two had job openings: the Montana Inn needed a night clerk Monday and Tuesday from eight to eight. The Grand Theater wanted a ticket seller all day Sunday, plus evenings Thursday through Saturday. Both had no problem with her being on crutches. And, if she’d figured correctly, she’d earn more than dancer’s wages.

When Lynne dropped over two nights later, Marta showed her the schedule she’d drawn up.

“Good grief! You’re working long hours. How can you add this much and still sew? And what about the girls we’re supposed to teach?”

“Sewing’s ending. The new jobs will pay my rent so I don’t dip into my mom’s savings. If we delay the dance lessons a couple of weeks, I’ll be able to manage the steps to the basement.”

“You didn’t mention Steve. Is he back? Can he drive you around to all your jobs?”

“No. He’s still interning. I’ve arranged with Mrs. B.’s nephew to drive me. He needs pocket money. Once I get rid of this cast, I’ll quit working.”

“Until you do, I’ll never see you. What about Steve?”

“He’ll be too busy to notice me.”

“There’s no way he’ll not notice you, Marta.” Lynne pulled out her lipstick and refreshed her makeup.

Marta watched Lynne stretch her lips taut, draw an outline, and fill-in with hot pink. After she smudged her lips together, she smiled and turned. “You’re trading shifts and coming to watch me be amazing in
Serenade
, aren’t you?”

“I doubt it. No one wants the night shift. That’s how I got it. I’m sorry, Lynne.”

“It’s okay.” Lynne stashed her makeup and zipped her purse closed. “You’ve gotta work. I get it.”

“We’ll see each other when we work on the
Serenade
article. Madame gave the okay as long as my name isn’t on it. I need your help explaining the choreography.”

Lynne shook her head. “You’re on your own. I’m not getting in trouble with Madame over a newspaper article. I’m hoping to be selected to perform one of the small group dances in
Serenade
.” She headed for the door and turned back. “Take care of yourself. Call me, okay?”

Marta nodded as Lynne slipped out the door. The quiet deafened her.

Marta began her exercises with leg lifts while seated in a straight-backed chair. Her right leg felt weightless compared to hoisting the cast on her left. Next, she used the chair arms and pushed her body up, then slowly lowered herself back into the chair. Sweat covered her face long before she stopped to rest.

Last month she’d increased her arm raises from lifting soup cans to large cans of chicken and dumplings. Each time she curved her arms over her head, she gritted her teeth. Her arms quivered, but the line of her
port de bras
improved. Tomorrow she’d use her new strength to move upstairs to her bright space, the rocking chair, and the quiet.

After dinner that next evening, the men in the boarding house helped carry her belongings. Marta stood beside her upstairs bed and looked around. With everything tucked away, the space felt homey, inviting her to sit and rock. Her room, so far from the furnace, held an icy edge, so she grabbed a sweater, wrapped her plaid scarf around her neck, and covered her legs with Gran’s quilt. Thank goodness the braided rug tempered the icy floor beneath her cast.

She woke with a start, not realizing where she sat. Once she got her bearings, she moved to the window and trailed her fingers over the frosty bursts of ice that crossed the cold glass. Below, the walkway lay buried between two rows of white-capped bushes. Cars followed snow trails, their headlights glowing like cat eyes. The snow that she loved back in December had returned to box her in during March.

At least she’d get outside for a few minutes when she traveled to and from her new jobs.

The receptionist job at the inn turned out to be simple: sit, sign in guests, pass out keys, answer the phone, and smile until ten p.m. Then lock the front and back doors and sit in the office awaiting emergencies. At five a.m. she unlocked the doors, began wake-up calls, answered incoming calls, and accepted payment from outgoing guests. Eight a.m., her end of shift, refused to be rushed.

At the Grand Theater she worked in the ticket booth from four thirty until closing at nine. She sat in the glass enclosure on the sidewalk under the marquee, trading half dollars for tickets. Time passed slowly except for Friday and Saturday evenings and the kids’ matinees on Saturday; both attracted large crowds.

Sleeping strange hours and not knowing the day of the week frustrated her. She upped her diet pill regimen to boost her energy and found meals no longer interested her. Free time she filled with exercising, baking for the boarding house, or napping.

Sunday matinee hours dragged. Marta yawned and stretched her back. A tap, tap, tap on the glass startled her.

Lynne smiled and moved around to the front of the booth. “You remind me of Sleeping Beauty, awakening in her glass box. How does it feel in there?”

“It’s eerie. I’m alone, but I’m on the sidewalk in view of everyone that passes. People stop and look over the coming feature posters but don’t look my way unless they buy tickets.”

“Need your Prince Charming to come and give you a kiss?”

“He’s not my prince anything, Lynne. He’s in San Francisco for another two weeks.”

“Too bad. And now you’ll miss Bartley’s Sunday call, if she calls. She’s probably too busy going out with a rich guy and eating caviar to remember us.”

Before Marta answered, a large group approached the ticket window. Lynne waved and walked toward the Granary. After dispensing tickets, Marta sat alone, staring at the massive, four-sided face of the jeweler’s clock across the street. It stood atop a column on the edge of the sidewalk, silently ticking away the seconds. Did it always move so slowly?

The following night, Marta sprawled on her bed with a pocket size calorie counter book she’d picked up at the drug store. She thought she’d kept to less than eight hundred calories a day, but at her latest weigh–in she’d gained two pounds.

Page by page she located everything she’d eaten this past day.

Breakfast: oatmeal with fruit and milk—260 calories

Lunch: fruit cocktail and 7Up—160 calories, peanut butter and jelly sandwich—220 calories

Dinner: beef, string beans, a dinner roll—500 calories

That totaled 1140 calories in one day, and her stomach still growled.

Marta sent the book flying across the room. Whap! It hit the closet door and fell to the floor. She glared at it, willing her calorie intake to shrink, knowing it didn’t change by wishful thinking.

She retrieved the book and scoured its pages to locate low calorie foods: green beans, club soda, canned mandarin oranges, and not much else. How depressing. When hunger gnawed at her, she could chew a yucky Feen-a-mint laxative. Whoever thought it tasted like chocolate must not have taste buds!

Marta stepped on the bathroom scales and gasped. She’d gained ten pounds. Even counting the weight of the cast, if she didn’t slim down she’d never be accepted by Madame. Not if she weighed 110 pounds.

What more could she do? Give up eating altogether? She exercised as much as she could. Obviously the diet pills weren’t helping. Maybe a shower would inspire something she could do.

Just then, the phone rang. Marta answered upstairs. It was Steve.

24

“H
ello, Marta,” Steve said. “How’s the leg?”

“Don’t ask. He gave me another cast.”

“No. Oh, Marta. What happened?”

“It’s taking longer to heal than expected. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

The phone line was quiet for some time. “Okay. But Marta, what happened?”

“Don’t you get it? I do not want to discuss my leg.” Marta squeezed her eyes closed and waited. The phone line buzz stretched on.

“Maybe I should call back later. Marta?”

She swiveled her neck and exhaled. “No. I’m sorry, Steve. I’m disappointed, that’s all. Let’s talk about your week.”

“Um-m, I’m busy doing research for my mentor. Not nearly as exciting as working on my project or out doing interviews, but it’s part of the job. I bummed around my neighborhood, then called Bartley. She’s still gone.”

“We haven’t heard much from her either.” Marta twisted the phone cord around her finger while she searched for something to say. “Are you still coming home in two weeks?”

“I’m not sure. I need to finish my research on the issues for agriculture workers and other projects before I’m done here.”

Marta sat, waiting for him to continue.

“Say you miss me as much as I miss you, Miss Fluff.”

“I do. It’s too quiet with you gone. Lynne nearly backed out of helping me write out ideas for the
Serenade
article. I coaxed her into helping me, but promise me our names will not be anywhere on it.”

“I promise. Read your ideas to me. I’ll edit and send it on to Susan.”

Marta hobbled to retrieve her tote and the pages she’d written. Dumb cast. Why were things always somewhere else when she needed them? She used her time away from the phone to calm the tension building up in her chest. Why was she taking out her frustration on Steve? He called to talk to her because he cared about her. She shook her head, took a deep breath, and read what they’d written.

Serenade is a ballet with a musical story instead of being based on a well known fairy tale or folk tale. It is named for the music written by Tchaikovsky: Serenade in C major for String Orchestra. It’s a series of dances that explore moods. Patrice Royal is the company’s principal dancer. She performs with soloists and corps members to interpret the music. The ballet runs April 3 through 20.