84 Ribbons (8 page)

After Monday rehearsals, Marta came home to find her lost luggage and the boxes from her mom piled in the entry hall. Seeing the return address created a homesickness she didn’t expect. As she unpacked
pointe
shoes and her dance clothing, she also lifted out family photos, her sewing box, fall clothes, shoes, the quilt Gran made, and a small diary. She opened the diary and read the first page:

Dear Marta,

The house is too quiet with you gone. Bubbles wanders around crying, looking for you. I‘m almost as bad; I can’t get used to your being away.

I shipped a few extra things. I’ll wait for your calls each Sunday. I love you and I know you’re doing a fabulous job.

        XOXOX  Mom

Right. A fabulous job of almost losing her position. Marta brushed her hand over the cover of the diary and sighed as she tucked it into a bedside drawer. She had lots to write, but not yet.

The sewing box felt heavy. Inside she found wooden embroidery hoops, a box of sequins, scraps of velvet, a length of mauve chiffon, twists of glittery yarns, and a dozen new spools of thread. Marta stroked the fabrics. Her mom knew she’d need projects to keep her hands busy. Being in charge of herself took as much energy as dancing; being alone evenings took more.

Marta stowed her clothes and carried the empty suitcases and boxes to the basement. She placed the photos on her dresser by the window, folded the quilt over the back of the rocking chair, and sat down to rock before going to bed. Since the time she could climb into her dad’s chair, she’d loved to rock. Year after year, she solved problems in his chair. Today had been a roller coaster of emotions but she’d survived her apology, gotten her luggage from home, and sealed a friendship with Lynne and Bartley. Maybe this chair provided the same comfort, the same effect as her dad’s. She closed her eyes and rocked.

6

A
t a quarter to five, the music stopped and the practice room emptied. Marta stretched side to side and swiveled her ankles. She longed to remove her
pointe
shoes, but if she planned to stay and practice, she needed to keep them on a little longer. She distracted herself from the pain by humming today’s music as she moved through the choreography.

Having the entire room to herself energized her. She moved through a dozen
changements
,
pas de bourees,
and
balancés
. On and on she danced. The
Sleeping Beauty
choreography helped her brush aside the pain in her feet.

She focused on her dad and how he loved the ballet. He’d have come to every performance and grabbed a front row seat, if he’d lived. And her mom. She loved ballet and dancing enough to work six days a week at Miss Holland’s studio for the past nine years so Marta could have free lessons.

The mirror reflected back her improving footwork. Her arm extensions looked more natural. Madame and Damien would surely notice. Soon they’d no longer doubt her ability and dedication. Her family could be proud of her as well.

As she finished, the tension in her shoulders melted away, leaving her battered feet as her only problem. She sat down on the practice room floor to remove her pointe shoes and pick the lamb’s wool from her open blisters. Pain flared as she exposed the raw, red circles on each toe. Time to start soaking her feet each night in Epsom salts and hot water.

Lynne stuck her head in the room. She’d already changed into street clothes and held her keys in one hand and her sweaty workout clothes in the other.  “Eww. Your toes look as hideous as mine feel. The guys are lucky they don’t wear torture shoes.”

“I agree. Are you in a hurry?”

“Kinda. My aunt has company coming. I promised to help her get ready. See you tomorrow.”

Lynne disappeared down the hall, leaving Marta no chance for a much-desired ride home.

As Marta pedaled west, the straps of her leather sandals pressed into her skin. She stopped, unbuckled her sandals, and hung them over the handle bars. The rough pedals dug into her bare feet, but she focused on her evening: shower, dinner, soak her feet, and fall into bed—hopefully in that order.

With a shower and dinner completed, Marta lay motionless on her bed, letting her body sink into foggy thoughts of the day’s practice. She’d survived Madame’s regimen, but each day brought one difficult expectation after another. “Keep the pace, watch your arms, head up, don’t crowd the principal dancers.” Would the commands and the scrutiny of the corps dancers ever end? She pushed herself to standing and spread a bath towel on the rug beside her bed.

She returned from the kitchen with a tea kettle of hot water and a tin basin that she placed on the towel. She sprinkled in Epsom salts and trailed her fingers through the milky water until it cleared. Then she sat on the edge of her bed and held her breath as she dipped her feet into the steamy water.

Relief and pain hit simultaneously. Broken blisters flared like liquid fire when the water rippled across them. Lynne and Bartley were probably doing the same thing in their apartments. Sacrificing her feet was a small price to pay if it meant continuing to dance as a professional.

She let her thoughts drift to imagining her mom fixing dinner for one: a salad from her vegetable garden, baking powder biscuits, and fresh blackberries. Her mouth watered as she visualized her mom’s low calorie cooking. Mrs. B. created great meals, but her dinners catered to hungry men: roasts, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn or peas, and pie or cake every night.

Dancing demanded proper food. Every dancer discovered a way to handle food issues. Lynne and Jer ate like hungry bears. Bartley never craved food or looked tired. Marta took small portions, ate half, and pushed the rest around her plate.

Marta considered her weekday schedule. It started at dawn and continued until she pedaled home, showered, ate dinner, and helped Mrs. B. Then she sat alone in her room or flopped across her bed. She loved the music, the dances, Damien’s calm directions, her new friends, and her new ballet home. But when she had free time, loneliness flooded her brain. She remained too tired to plan a sewing project. Maybe over the weekend she could make the time to embroider a scarf or something.

Friday afternoon Marta stood in line behind Lynne and Bartley waiting to collect one hundred-thirty dollars, her two-week paycheck. She had enough money for rent, her own stash of food, and shopping for small touches to make her room homey. Next payday she’d open a checking and savings account and begin to repay her mom. Sending money home would be a nice change.

“Hey, Marta. Are you going with us tomorrow?” Lynne asked. “Should be fun, right, Bartley?”

“Right,” Bartley said. “Cowboys on horses and weird rock formations. Whoopee for us.”

Marta shrugged. “Not Saturday. But maybe Sunday.”

“Got a hot date?” Lynne said.

Marta laughed. “Only with my comfy bed”

Mrs. B. hung up the damp flour sack towels and put on her rings as Marta put away the last dinner bowls. “I overheard you tell Shorty and James that you’d like to be able to practice on weekends. I have an idea that won’t cost you a penny.”

Mrs. B. led Marta to the basement and flipped on the light in the storage room. They navigated through the tenant suitcases and boxes, passing assorted piles of household supplies, as well as an array of dust-covered objects.

The musty smelling space opened up to an area the size of a small practice room at the ballet company. A small, dingy window let in light and a view of the flower bed next to the back steps.

Mrs. B. pulled hanging strings that turned on two ceiling lights. “What do you think? Would this work for you?”

Marta walked a slow circle around the room. “Wow. It’s a great space.”

“I knew you’d see its potential. Needs a little cleaning and rearranging, but it’s yours if you want. Feel free to use whatever you find.”

“Really?” Marta did a quick inventory: a large mirror, a coat rack, kitchen chairs, cardboard boxes, a table, a dress form, trunks, and empty picture frames.

“We can restack the luggage in the alcove. Practice whenever you wish. The room is below the common areas so you won’t need to worry about disturbing anyone.”

“It’s perfect. It’s...thank you.”

Together they restacked the renters’ boxes and suitcases before Mrs. B. returned upstairs. Marta hummed as she cleaned away cobwebs and swept the floor. She salvaged several items, setting them aside until she decided how she’d used them. Only the window refused to yield to her energetic work; years of paint layers sealed it shut.

After breakfast the next morning, she rummaged through the fabric bin Mrs. B. set out. She hand-stitched her yard of rose colored chiffon from her mom to a strip of gray satin to hang at the window. Then she draped scarf-sized yardage over the dress form and moved the headless companion to a corner. She sat on the floor and tore calico and gingham into strips to wrap the empty frames, creating wall art. Lastly, she repaired the desilvered mirror with kitchen tin foil taped to the back.

She wrestled with the wobbly chair, then pushed it aside and started
pliés
to the music in her head. Next paycheck she’d scout out a record player and buy long play classical records, or perhaps her mom would send a few of Dad’s.

That afternoon she practiced her corps dances numerous times before heading to the kitchen to bake bread. As she set the dough to rise, a calmness settled in. The basement improved her mood like a giant hug. Billings and the boarding house felt more like home every day.

For Saturday dinner, Marta went to her portion of a shelf in the boarders’ refrigerator and took out her bread. She swirled on creamy peanut butter, moving her knife from top to bottom and edge to edge before adding a dollop of Mrs. B.’s raspberry jam. She folded the bread in half without cutting it and took a small bite as she grabbed an apple from the basket on the worktable and headed down the stairs to the basement.

“What are you doing?”

Marta stopped and looked up. Carol leaned over the entry railing. Her black hair fell forward over her face; her eyes and nose looked like a white mask floating in the dusky light.

“You’re not supposed to go down there unless you’re washing clothes. And I don’t see any clothes.”

“Mrs. B. is letting me use part of the basement as a practice space.”

“Hm-mp. So you say. Just don’t interfere with my guests and my privacy.” Carol turned away, then turned back. “And keep your music turned down.”

Marta stayed in the stairway listening to Carol’s feet slap noisily against each step until she reached the upstairs landing. When the carpet silenced her movements, Marta shook her head. Good riddance, Carol, she thought as she reached for the storage room door.

“Marta?” Shorty called down the steps. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Hi, Shorty. “I’m going to practice.”

“Is it okay if I come watch?”

She laughed. “I’d rather you not, but come down and see how I cleaned up the space.”

Shorty clumped down the steps and held the battered basement door open for Marta. He scanned the room and nodded. “This is real nice, Marta.  Did you fix it up yourself?”

“Yep. It’s old stuff. Mrs. B. said to use whatever I found down here. Now I’m working out how to make a
barre
.”

Shorty scratched his graying stubble. “What do you need?”

“Something like a broom handle to attach to the wall.”

“Hold on,” he said. ”I saw an old broom on the back porch that looked kinda ragged. Bet that would work. Be back in a minute.”

Marta sat on the floor nibbling her sandwich and wiping away the jam that gathered in the corners of her mouth. Shorty returned with a neatly cut broom handle and two shelf brackets. His wide smile displayed his crooked teeth. “How’s this, Marta?”

Marta ran her hand along the handle and laughed. “You’ve massacred Mrs. B.’s broom.”

“Yep. She even handed me the saw.”

They mounted the broomstick
barre
waist high on the wall and stood back to admire their work.

Marta handed Shorty the tools and nodded with approval. “This looks great! Thanks.”

“My pleasure, Miss Marta. Maybe someday I’ll see you dance.”

“When I have records and a player, I’ll invite you down, and I’ll dance for you. How’d that be?”

“Sounds great,” Shorty said.

“Is there any way we can pry the window open?” Marta asked.

Shorty ran his hand along the bottom edge of the window and scrunched up his mouth. “Not sure. Might take a chisel or crow bar. I’ll talk with Mrs. B. For now I guess I’d better let you practice.”

“Thanks, Shorty. I appreciate your help.”

h

Sunday morning Marta stood on the front porch, waiting to join Lynne and Bartley for the day. Lynne drove them out along the Yellowstone River, stopping at two roadside parks where they walked the trails. Then they took the county roads through miles of rolling hills where late blooming wild flowers swayed in the breeze, creating a sea of pastels.

In the cowboy town of Hardin they bought ice cream and wandered through the trading post, trying on western hats and boots. At dusk they ended their adventures at Lynne’s place near Lake Elmo.

Lynne lived in an apartment above her aunt’s garage. Its one room furnishings consisted of two overstuffed brown chairs, a twin bed with a nine-patch quilt, two dressers, and a round maple dining table with two chairs. A bulky television stood near the table; its wooden box took up a space large enough for another dresser. A metal unit housed the sink, a counter, a small refrigerator, and a two-burner stove all in one.

Lynne hung her purse on a hook inside the door. “Well, what do you think? Not bad for twenty dollars a month. Anyone want a beer?”

“Beer?” Bartley said. “What are you doing with beer? Madame would kill you.”

“She’ll never know unless you tell her. The neighbor brings over a couple when he comes to visit. Beer tastes good on a hot day. From the looks on your faces, I guess it’s no to beers and yes to root beer instead.”