Ameera, Unveiled (10 page)

I swatted at the swarm as I wended my way toward the chattering voices and the jingle of coin scarves.

“I’m working on the belt for my purple skirt,” Polly said.

“I’m sure it’ll be perfect,” Cheryl answered.

I pulled the door closed and waved at them, interrupting their one-on-one.

“How’s your solo?” Cheryl asked me.

“Painful. If I was either of you, I’d be done,” I said, trying to hide my pain behind a smile. I knew they’d heard the razor edge in my voice.

An awkward pause told me I’d made them uncomfortable.

“How ’bout them Braves?” I joked, hoping to ease the tension.

“You’re gonna be fine, Kat,” Polly said. “Love the top. Is it new?”

“Yeah,” I answered, hurrying to the corner to prepare for class. We’d shifted the energy in the room. Before anyone could jump into another sentence, Sybil, wearing black workout clothes, opened the door, smiling.

“Hello! How was your weekend?” She looked at each of us as she positioned herself in front of the mirrors. “Hope you’re working on your solos. Let’s do a quick stretch. I wanna see progress. Then we’ll go right into Gypsy,” Sybil said, inviting us to circle around. Her usual matter-of-fact dialogue and lack of time for response kept us on track.

“Sybil, do you have any idea when you’re holding auditions?” Polly asked, releasing my no-see-um fear into the room.

I tried not to resent Polly for her eagerness.

“Troupe’s discussing it,” Sybil answered. “Between practices for our North Charleston performance, there’ll be revamping and new business policies to establish. Probably be in the summer. That’ll give you plenty of time to get these dances under your belt.”

“When’re y’all performing again?” Cheryl asked. “I missed Day of Dance.”

“Dress rehearsal for our North Charleston show is next week. The performance is May 5,” Sybil said as she led us twisting through module three (hips).

To the jingling of hip scarves, my mind flipped through my April/May calendar. North Charleston fell during my dive-trip week.

“Anytime you can show support as students, it makes an impression on the troupe members. We’ll be doing the Gypsy number. We’ve finished the costumes—it’s sassy!” Sybil’s face lit up. “Black gypsy skirt, white peasant blouse with corsets. Very flattering and sexy.” She finished our warm-up. “Okay, let’s see the solos.”

One by one, we demonstrated our solo efforts.

Each personality shone through her dance. Cheryl’s was romantic and Polly’s was energetic and full of stage presence. Mine was full of transition and mood changes. In my mind, the drama was cute and playful. In reality, the drama was a pink veil that refused to stay in my hands, drooped over my head, or tripped Ameera.

I joined the others as Sybil moved to the front of the room.

“Report card time,” she said. “Cheryl . . . lovely music. Glad you faded it where you did. Work on a softer step. Not so stiff in your moves.”

Sybil’s dimples appeared as she turned to Polly. “Girl, you love this! I know you love hip moves. But, remember, you’ve gotta use all three modules.”

I felt a ringing in my ears and my shoulders tightening as I anticipated another request to change steps late in the game.

“Kat . . . I’m glad you’re using a prop, but . . .’’ Sybil paused as I gulped. “You’ve gotta stop accommodating your veil. Use it. Don’t let it use you. Do you understand?”

I felt my eyebrows cross. The blonde in me didn’t see the correlation. How’s a veil using me? “I’m not sure,” I answered. “The veil’s a bit squirrely at times. Pink seems to have a mind of her own.” It sounded like a reasonable defense.

“No, you control your prop,” Sybil said. “Quit following the veil. Make it follow you. Keep working on it. I want the rest soon. Let’s get ready for Gypsy, ladies.”

Feeling a little dejected, I dragged Pink back to the corner to retire her in exchange for my new twenty-five-yard gypsy skirt.

We hustled into our Gypsy formation and showed Sybil what we’d retained from our last class. We muddled through. The skirts challenged our hands as we swished and twirled. I knew the dance was heading toward a beautiful performance, but there were so many no-see-ums aggravating me that I was having a hard time enjoying it.

“Stop, wrong!” Sybil said in a voice I’d never heard before. There was frustration and disappointment in it. She stopped the CD and insisted that we do it again, but focused.

After five do-overs, I felt exasperated. I searched for something from past classes that’d help me get the movements correct as I plodded to the side of the room. I tried to hide tears welling in my eyes. Sybil focused on the CD player as we waited to start again. Glancing over my shoulder, I looked at Cheryl.

“I’m ready to cry,” I whispered.

“Me too!” Cheryl shot back with a wrinkled forehead.

At least I didn’t feel alone in my dejection. The music started again, and we focused on trying to please Sybil. Three minutes later, we ended with some positive dance sequences.

“Let’s stop on a good note,” Sybil said. “Kat . . . have fun diving.” I’d mentioned to her that Steve and I were going to the Exumas. “Ladies, see you next Monday?” She waved and shut the studio door.

I couldn’t take the skirt off fast enough. No one discussed the strained class ambiance. Dance class was supposed to be fun, with everything moving toward a beautiful product, like a Charleston spring. But as I walked to my car, I realized something in Sybil’s voice had bit into my confidence and left invisible wounds. Damn those no-see-ums.

At least I had a great family vacation to look forward to. I’d definitely had worse ones.

Family vacation. I used to dread the words. They implied two conditions that didn’t exist in my world: a real family and a real vacation.

It was 1993. We’d never flown together as a family. My husband Chris had insisted we didn’t have the money to take extended family vacations, despite the $20,000 in savings that went to nothing more than his own toys. So when it came time to join his family for a vacation, I’d tried to get excited about the experience, but my joy had been short lived.

It had started with a suitcase. “Chris, we’ve borrowed my family’s stuff for years. I’d like to go out to see if I can find a new suitcase. One with wheels,” I’d added. “The buckles are starting to pop open on Isabella’s, and I don’t wanna keep putting more wear on my dad’s.”

I’d been loading the dishwasher. His reply had already played in my head. Right on cue, Chris had looked up from his dinner plate, glaring, as if I’d asked for a new car. “We don’t travel enough to waste money on that,” he’d said. “I can carry the bags. You don’t need wheels.”

His tone had made me feel as if I were the most selfish bitch in the world.

I’d pressed him. “The kids are getting older, and my job may have me traveling. You won’t always be around to carry the bags,” I’d tried negotiating.

“Just use your dad’s. I’d like to buy a new car soon. The tickets for this family reunion weren’t cheap,” he’d added sharply, punctuating each comment with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t waste money,” I protested. “Never have . . . not for fourteen years. What’s the big deal about a suitcase? I didn’t mind when you bought your new golf clubs, and you hardly play. Besides, it’s my birthday while we’re out there.”

I’d felt the fight coming. It wasn’t about the suitcase anymore. It was about me standing up to a man with whom I was trapped in a partnership that . . . well . . . wasn’t a partnership. I’d borne and hidden the stripes inflicted, physically and psychologically, for too many years. I’d begun questioning the “good wife” package sold to me by our religious faith.

“I work hard. You’ve got it better than a lot of women out there,” Chris had said. “I’m taking you to my family reunion. Why do you have to ruin it before we leave? You’re so ungrateful.” He’d stomped out of the room.

A week later, I’d found myself stashing clothes in a borrowed wheel-less suitcase, ready to non-roll out the door early the next morning. The kids were in bed. It was my son’s first flight and I wanted it to be a happy and exciting experience for him.

I’d heard Chris in the bathroom, getting ready for bed. I’d no desire to go to bed as I could sleep on the flight. My cat, Melkey, had climbed into the open bag and started kneading my sweatshirt.

“Sorry, Melkey,” I’d said. “You’ll get kicked out in a minute anyway. Let’s go watch
Gunsmoke
.” I scooped him up and quietly closed the bedroom door, heading to the living room.

Stacks of papers, notebooks, and Bible reference books littered the coffee table. I’d taken credit for the Waverly drapes and bird tie-back holders. To avoid conflict, I’d bought flawed material from a local fabric outlet and made the drapes myself. Everything else in the room was a hand-me-down or Chris’s choice.

Just the way it was his choice to keep the room dark. He’d pull the front window shades down each evening when he came home. It signaled to anyone coming to the front door that the welcome mat was not out. The vinyl blinds over the backyard French doors shut out the sunset or sunrise. The house felt like a tomb, not a sanctuary.

Even the morning light brought no relief.

The next morning, only after Chris had slammed the blow dryer on the bathroom counter, screamed expletives at the comb-over reflected in the mirror, and lacquered his hair with hairspray did I know that I could safely brush my teeth and retrieve my toiletries to finish packing. Every morning, Chris forbade a single hair to defy placement. So while this ritual played itself out, I’d gone into my children’s bedrooms to gently wake each child for the exodus. I’d first approached my daughter’s bed and kissed her forehead. Gently turning on her nightstand light, I’d said, “Wake up, sleepy head. Time to go see your favorite uncle.” She grunted and pulled her pillow over her eyes.

“Wake up. Beat your brother to the bathroom,” I’d advised, appealing to her love of the lotions and potions stored under the sink. “Don’t forget to pack your toothbrush.”

“Ummphhhh,” she’d said, peeling away her quilt. She sat up and slid her feet to the floor.

Walking into the dark bedroom beside hers, I’d turned on the hall light. Aiden was curled under his comforter. Kneeling and stroking his straight, blond hair, I’d coaxed him, “Aiden, time to get to the airport. Your clothes are on the end of the bed.”

Melkey had jumped on Aiden’s bed, looking for clues to the early morning activities. He’d seemed alarmed at the suitcases and unusual interruption of his house patrol.

“Mom, I’m tired. I don’t wanna get up,” Aiden had mumbled from under the comforter.

“I’ve got powdered doughnuts and milk in the kitchen. Jump up and get ready. Melkey wants his share of the loot,” I’d bargained.

I’d headed toward my bedroom to finish preparing for the trip. As I entered the room, Chris was slamming his sock drawer shut. “Why aren’t my socks paired?” he’d growled.

Does this ever end? I’d asked myself. “I gave you safety pins,” I answered. “Pin them before you throw them in the laundry basket.”

I stared in the bathroom mirror, pulling my straight hair into a ponytail. I didn’t need a blow dryer or added hairspray. Makeup was limited to some lip gloss and mascara. My pierced ears were abandoned, again thanks to Chris. His Pentecostal zealotry forbade even studs. God forbid someone labeled me a harlot.
Where was I in the reflection looking back at me
? I’d wondered.

“Chris, we’ve gotta make sure we’ve got everything. You have the tickets?” I’d asked as I passed him messing with the television. I’d placed the last suitcase at the front door.

“I’ve got it under control. We’re still waiting on your sister,” Chris snapped.

Irritated, I’d left the room and rechecked lights, kitty food, and litter box. We’re getting a free ride and he has to get his bitch on?

“Mom, come on. Aunt Kay’s here!” Aiden had said. He jumped up and down as he looked out at the driveway. “Isabella, come on!” He was wearing green corduroy pants and his favorite cowboy boots. He grabbed a beige canvas book bag filled with markers, tablets, and books for the ride. Before I’d picked up a suitcase, he was already running down the driveway.

Chris had clicked off the television, picked up his suitcase, and walked out the front door, leaving it wide open. I’d assumed he was coming back for the other suitcases. Isabella strolled down the hallway with her carry-on full of magazines and a few granola bars. She didn’t do mornings.

I sneaked back to the dining room and opened the blinds that Chris had pulled shut. At least Melkey could break up his week by watching some birds basking in warm sunlight.

I’d picked up Aiden’s suitcase and put it on the porch so I could grab my own carry-on. I looked to see why it was taking Chris so long to come back and help. Isabella was still heading toward the car, where I saw two additional silhouettes through the windshield. He was sitting in the front seat engaged in conversation with my sister.

Why couldn’t I understand that my passive-aggressive husband would never be a team player? I didn’t think my heart could drop any lower, but it did. I’d gone inside to get the last of the bags and stooped to give Melkey a kiss. “Bye, Melkey. Wish I was staying with you. But duty calls,” I whispered. “Enjoy the backdoor view.”