84 Ribbons (31 page)

The front door opened, followed by Lynne’s usual jump directly into a conversation. “I tried calling with your rehearsal schedule; no one answered.”

“I must have slept through it.”

Lynne handed Marta the schedule. “Not many days for you to pick up the choreography, but you’ll get it, and I’ll come over and help you.”

Marta shrugged. “At least we can continue with the little girls. Their solos are coming along. Lucy is so excited to show her mother what she’s learned. She’s got a natural grace when she moves. Reminds me of Bartley.”

“I see a lot of you in her as well,” Lynne said.

The bus arrived before Marta answered. Soon the basement filled with laughter and music, creating a great way to end any day.

28

M
arta listened as the phone rang several times. She nearly hung up, but then a man answered. “Russell-Smyth residence.”

“May I speak with Bartley Timmons please?”

“Miss Timmons is not here. May I take a message?”

The business-like voice surprised Marta. “Are you Bartley’s grandfather?”

The man on the phone cleared his throat. “I’m the Russell-Smyth butler.”

“Oh,” Marta said. “When do you expect Bartley?”

“Miss Timmons has gone home for an extended period of time. Is there a message you’d like me to relay?”

“Home? Isn’t she dancing? I thought she’d be back by now.”

“Your message, Miss?”

“Please tell her Marta called. Or, could you give me her home phone number? I’ll call her myself.”

“I’ll deliver your message.”

29

T
he basement felt stuffy. Marta opened the window and continued to exercise. After two hours of movement, her left ankle ached and her calf muscle tightened. She needed a break; maybe a small lunch. She walked through the quiet of the boarding house, feeling its emptiness.

The month of April dragged more than she did; each day blurred into the next. Lynne remained busy with the final performances of
Serenade
. Steve’s schedule limited their time together as well. The latest news from Bartley dried up. Then the phone rang.

Marta answered, “Belvern Boarding House, this is Marta.”

“This is Alexandra Belfor-Timmons III, Bartley’s mother. Are you the Marta who broke her foot?”

“Yes, I am” What a strange question. Mrs. Timmons’ voice sounded so formal; more like a receptionist than a mother.

“Bartley asked me to call. She’s wondering if you’d come for a visit.”

“I’d love to see her. Is she back in San Francisco? I could take a bus...”

“No, dear, she’s not in San Francisco. A bus trip to Philadelphia would take too long. I’ll arrange a plane ticket.”

“A plane ticket?” A small warning tightened in Marta’s throat. “Is Bartley okay?”

“She’ll be fine. She asked to see you. She needs you.”

Marta felt faint.
Needed
her? She held the phone with both hands to keep from dropping it. “I can come the end of the week. Is that soon enough? I need to be back by Sunday night.”

“Thank you, Marta. I..., please keep this trip and this call between us.”

“Okay. Give Bartley my love.”

Marta stood by the phone in a daze. How could she not tell anyone? How could she not tell Lynne?

Saturday morning long before dawn, Marta dressed in her best outfit: a blue wool sheath with a lace-edged Peter Pan collar, her gray winter coat, and her plaid scarf. She tried on her two pairs of pumps, but her feet were swollen, so she wore black flats. No sense in creating deliberate pain.

A cab left her outside the airport. Her stomach had been dancing flip flops ever since Mrs. Timmons called. She’d covered her bases by making excuses to Mrs. B. about going out of town and by avoiding Lynne’s calls. She’d called her mom early since she’d return too late to place her traditional Sunday call home.

Once she entered the tiny airport, she moved to wherever people told her to move, handed over her suitcase, and took her ticket. She followed the line of passengers crossing the tarmac to the plane. A perky stewardess greeted her at the top of the stairs and showed her to her seat.

Marta sat by the window with an empty seat beside her. She kept her coat on but removed her scarf, hat, and gloves, gripping them like a lifeline as the plane vibrated down the taxiway.

Once the plane lifted into the sky, a cottony cushion of clouds covered the land below, blocking her view. For years she’d dreamed of flying but knew she’d not be able to afford it for some time. Now as she sat looking out the window, the joy she anticipated never materialized. All she could think about was why Bartley “needed” her.

When the flight attendant touched her arm offering her a soft drink and  breakfast, Marta nearly upset the tray. The food smelled horrid, like cooked breakfast at the boarding house. She smiled and refused the tray even though she hadn’t eaten since last night.

Her body trembled. She decided the jitters came from nervousness about flying and wondering about Bartley. Surely it wasn’t the diet pill she’d taken.

When Marta exited the plane, she watched for a sign with her name on it. A portly man dressed in a black suit smiled when she approached. “Miss Selbryth? I hope you had a nice flight.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Give me your baggage claim. I’ll secure your suitcase.”

The backseat of the black limousine looked like those she’d seen in movies: plush black leather seats for half a dozen people and a thick black carpet. The driver kept his focus on the roadway, so Marta sat in silence, feeling stiff as cardboard.

Philadelphia lay covered in clouds. Marta watched the dull afternoon light blend into a blur of skyscrapers much like Seattle. Within an hour’s time they pulled into a curved driveway where the entrance sign read
Eaglecrest
. The elegant lines of the building and the boxwood bushes that flanked the driveway created the appearance of a private club. What was this place?

The driver opened the limousine’s door for her. “Your things will be deposited in a room Mrs. Belfor-Timmons reserved for you. I’ll return to drive you to the hotel when the receptionist calls me. Shall I escort you to the entrance?”

“No thanks. I’m fine alone.” Marta walked to the double wide front doorway and pulled on the door handle. Locked. She heard a buzz and felt the handle release. A locked door? In a club? She walked inside.

The snap of the front door locking behind her startled her. A receptionist seated at a curved desk looked up from her typing and smiled. “May I help you?”

“Yes. I’m here to see Bartley Timmons.”

“One moment.” The receptionist turned away to use her phone, then turned back to Marta. “Someone will be with you shortly.”

Marta sat on a couch by the window that overlooked the grounds. The lush manicured lawn edged with yellow and blue primroses sloped away from the building. Was this a club or something else?

The air in the reception area smelled of lilacs. The huge space had small conversational areas, each with four chairs. The coffee tables held the latest magazines, a bowl of fresh tulips mixed with lilacs, a cigarette lighter, and an ashtray. Marta looked through the latest
Seventeen
without seeing the photos or reading the words.

A tall blonde woman approached. “Miss Selbryth?”

Marta stood. The woman, an older version of Bartley, stepped closer. Her golden hair pulled into a sleek chignon made her look narrow. She wore a mauve suit with a tailored rose-colored blouse, a diamond bracelet, and gray leather pumps. She extended her hand. “I’m Bartley’s mother, Alexandra Belford-Timmons. Thank you for coming. Let’s talk a bit before you see Bartley.”

They sat side by side. Marta waited for Mrs. Timmons to speak.

“I’m so glad you came, Marta.”

“I’m glad I could come.”

Mrs. Timmons played with her rings before she spoke with Marta. “Bartley is sick. According to her doctors, she’s had a problem with diet pills for a long time. It’s affected her heart and kidneys. We hadn’t seen her since the end of summer when she moved to Billings. Had you noticed she’d lost weight since fall?”

“Yes,” Marta said. “I thought she felt stressed like the rest of us from working long hours. Bartley is thin anyway.”

Mrs. Timmons nodded. “Her doctors say her body is trying to shut down. She’s trying to be a good patient, but it’s hard when she’s lonely and feeling like we’re all against her. I called you because she’s asked to see you.”

“Why me?”

“She says you’re her best friend.”

Marta stared at Mrs. Timmons. Her best friend? How could that be with all her family contacts and the dancers she knows in San Francisco? “If she’s sick, what can I do?”

“Encourage her to eat. She thinks she’ll get fat if she eats all the food on her plate. As it is, she only eats a few bites then says she’s full.”

Why was this such news to her mother? Bartley always did that. Marta did it. Most dancers, except Lynne, watched their weight.

“If she continues to refuse to eat, the next step will be a feeding tube. That won’t be pleasant.”

Marta suppressed a shudder by squeezing her hands together.

“Can you talk with her, encourage her to eat?”

“I’ll try. When can I see her?”

Mrs. Timmons stood. Marta stood as well. “She’s in Suite 110. Stay as long as you wish. If you stay for dinner it may encourage her to eat. Just promise you will not help her procure diet pills.”

Marta nodded. As she moved along the carpeted corridor, she pulled two diet pills from her dress pocket and slid them into the wallet in her purse, as if that would hide them any better.

All the doors were closed, but each had a wide window at eye level. Approaching Suite 110, Marta stopped and took a deep breath. Through the window in the door she saw Bartley seated in a swivel rocker reading a magazine. A young woman in a blue-gray dress sat at a desk to one side. When Marta knocked, the woman unlocked the door and stepped aside so Marta could enter.

“Hi, Bartley,” Marta said.

Bartley’s face lit up. She dropped the magazine and hurried to grab Marta.

“I knew you’d come. I’ve missed you so much!”

Bartley wore a soft peach skirt with a matching sweater set that hung off her bony frame. Her face looked skeletal. Her honey blonde hair that Marta had envied last August hung in dull strings around her face. Marta stared, unable to speak, so she encircled Bartley’s shoulders, feeling her shoulder blades beneath her fingers.

“Marta. Say something.”

“I’ve missed you so much. Why haven’t you called or written? We’ve worried about you.”

“I know, but this came up and I didn’t know how to tell you I wasn’t dancing right now.”

They sat together on a leather sofa and talked until dinner. Outside, the small pond disappeared in the darkness. The young woman in the blue-gray dress remained seated nearby and only moved to let the server enter and set the table with two covered plates.

Both plates held small portions of chicken, green beans, a dinner roll, and a pat of butter. Marta laughed. “This looks like my hospital food, but I bet it tastes better.”

“It’s good, but it’s hard to sit here and have someone watch me eat. They don’t give me a napkin or a trash can so I can throw away food. Ana even checks my pockets to be certain I haven’t shoved food in them. It’s like I’m in food prison. Will you eat my roll for me? I hate bread these days.”

“I can’t eat all I have. The flight wore me out. I guess I lost my appetite.” Marta shoved the food around her plate and noticed Bartley did the same.

When they set their plates back on the cart, Ana checked Bartley’s almost full plate, made a note in a file, and rolled the food cart back to the hall. She returned to her seat at the nearby desk.

Marta watched the scene unfold. Her plate matched Bartley’s. But she had an excuse, didn’t she?

After they exhausted conversation about Marta’s ankle, Lynne, Madame, their ballet companies, and Steve, Bartley stood and began to pace.

“I imagine my mother told you I have to stay here until I get stronger. They say I need to gain ten pounds before I’m released and can return to San Francisco. My mother’s such a worry wart. I feel fine.”

Marta reached for Bartley’s hand.  “What’s happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Bartley, you’ve lost a lot of weight.”

“So have you.”

“Me? I’ve gained weight from sitting around, waiting to get my casts off.”

“I had the flu and then…” Bartley began crying. “They won’t let me take diet pills. And the worst yet, that woman, Ana, sits and watches me all day long. She checks my room for diet pills and laxatives every day. Only my mother comes to visit me, and she’s the one who put me in here. If you weren’t here it would be worse. I’d have to go to see my shrink after dinner. I hate her. She thinks she knows me. She doesn’t.”

Marta forced a smile as she tightened her grip on Bartley’s hand. “I’m going to see a psychiatrist. She’s helping me sort through my jumbled feelings.”

“Does she make you talk about everything?”

“Only what I want to discuss. It’s helping me. Just try talking with her, Bartley. It might help.”

“Maybe.” Bartley picked at her stubby fingernails and bit her cuticles. “I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you by not being in San Francisco. I wanted you to be envious of my success. I was a bad friend. Then you got hurt, and it broke my heart.”

“You’ve been a great friend. And I was jealous. The San Francisco Ballet is a wonderful place to dance. It certainly beats out the Intermountain Ballet Company.”

Bartley smiled. “I guess it does. I’m sorry to have made you jealous.”

“I’d have done the same if I’d gotten a position there. Right now you need to get well and invite me to San Francisco. You promised, remember?”

“I’m so glad you came.” Bartley squeezed Marta’s hands tightly. Tears slipped down her face. “I started auditioning for small solos, but when I got the flu I had fainting spells. They sent me to a doctor, and he called my parents.” She scanned the suite, then moved close to Marta. “This looks like a nice place, but I can’t leave. Do you know all the doors are locked? They force me to go to nutrition classes every day. They’re all crazy. I’m no thinner than before. In fact, I’m fat.”