The Firefighter and the Virgin Princess (2 page)

Only half listening to the
debate, Lily stared into the mirror and pressed a sanitary pad to
her forehead, gently absorbing the sweat.
I wonder if they talk about me the same way when I leave the
room
, she mused.

In the next moment the discussion was off in
a new direction. Men. Who was hot, who was definitely gay, who
might not be. Which dancer they would sleep with, given the chance.
Who had fucked who. Who wasn't speaking to who. Who was being a
total little diva bitch.

Their voices were loud and excitable because
the performance was over and they were still riding that high.

Lily carefully peeled off her eyelashes and
wiped off the make up with baby oil, watching her face gradually
turn into ordinary again. Taking a swift, silent inventory in the
mirror, she realized that at twenty-two she was the eldest dancer
in that dressing room. There were several seventeen and
eighteen-year-olds — shiny new girls. A few nineteen year-olds with
that bold, devil-may-care attitude that comes from no longer being
new, but still being fresh. And finally there was a cluster of
twenty and twenty-one year-olds. At their age they were starting to
feel the shark bite of competition on their tail, but they weren't
yet desperate. They did a lot of snarking on other girls to make
themselves feel better.

Lily was the unofficial team leader,
casually appointed by Company Director, Henri Paradisi, to look
after the younger girls in the corps.

"We need you here, Lily darling. See how
they all look up to you," he had said to her one day as he passed,
his cool hand briefly resting on her shoulder, but his gaze never
even touching her. At least he knew her name, she mused. She'd
begun to think she was completely invisible to that man.

All of her dressing room mates came to Lily
for advice, but only about dancing, of course. She could hardly
advise them on things about which she had no experience. Boyfriends
for instance. Lily's life was so ruled by ballet that she remained
a virgin, despite the concerted effort of a certain notorious male
principal dancer who tried seducing her over Tequila shots one
night when she first joined the company. The same man made it a
point to sleep with as many girls in the corps de ballet as he
could, apparently anxious that no one mistook him for gay.

But those Tequila shots, a tongue down her
throat and a surprisingly clumsy grope down her Capezio sweatshirt
were the sum total of Lily's sexual experience.

She could, however, show a new girl the best
way to break-in new pointe shoes, could recommend the best muscle
massage, the best way to wrap bloody feet, the least painful or
foul smelling hair removal cream...

Here she was stuck, only occasionally
granted the gift of a solo part, watching younger girls move on and
up, while she was still playing surrogate mom. Lily was the quiet,
shy one who never made a fuss and kept her passions inside, never
making a display of it the way other girls did. Sometimes people
didn't even know she was in the room, she was sure of it, unless
they stumbled against her— as one of the younger girls now did,
backing into a leg of Lily's chair.

"We're going out for supper," she exclaimed,
turning to find Lily there and then grabbing her shoulders for a
quick squeeze. "You coming with us?" Her eyes had fogged over,
probably because she tried to remember Lily's name.

It was after eleven o'clock at night, but
they were going out for supper. Such was a dancer's schedule. They
had class at 8:30 AM and whatever they ate and drank now would lay
heavy in their stomachs and keep them up all night, but these
youngsters didn't care.

Why shouldn't she go out for a bite? Why
not? Who cares what she felt like tomorrow, damn it! Why not be
wild and free and young?

And then the unthinkable happened. Lily
yawned.

The girl standing behind
her laughed. "Poor thing! You look
haggard
."

So much for wild, free and young.

Lily needed sleep. She'd make do with a
cigarette, a cup of chamomile tea and then she'd wrap her foot
again and fall into bed. Hoping for the best. Hoping that tomorrow
she'd be in slightly less pain.

"You guys go. Have fun." She put on her wide
stage smile in the mirror. "See you tomorrow."

Always after a performance she felt
exhausted, but usually there was a sense of euphoria too, of having
made it through, danced well, lived her dream again for a few
hours. But tonight there was something else making itself felt
through her body's aches and pains. Discontent. And fear. The sharp
prick of panic. Her mind was too busy pacing and questioning, when
it used to be her body that fidgeted, couldn't sit still. She used
to have too much energy in her limbs, but not anymore. Now she just
wanted to sit there. And let her racing thoughts spin.

Now the last one left in the dressing room,
Lily cast a weary eye over the unromantic wreckage: worn palettes
of make-up; holey leg-warmers thrown over chair backs; shoe
ribbons; hair spray; bloody wads of tissue; band aids; pill bottles
and analgesic heat rubs. In a corner of the room sat a puddle of
discarded pointe shoes. Worn for a thirty minute performance, they
were thrown away because they were already dead— the form and fit
danced out of them so quickly.

How many hours of her life had she spent
breaking-in and preparing ballet shoes that would be worn for a
mere fraction of the time? She got through at least a dozen pairs
of shoes a week. What was it all for?

What could Lilianne Martha Keene have done
with all those hours, if she wasn't a dancer?

Nothing. She knew nothing else.

A few seats away from her there was a mirror
that had been emptied of all the cards, dead flowers, hairpins and
good luck charms that littered the other make-up stations. Pregnant
Carrie hadn't danced tonight. Nor would she dance tomorrow. No more
class, rehearsal or performance for Carrie. No more tendus and
plies. She was off celebrating, probably eating chocolate cake, not
worrying about her flat stomach for the first time in about fifteen
years. Getting watery eyed over a display of baby shoes in a shop
window.

Aware that her thoughts were turning to
bleak and self-pitying, which would do no good whatsoever, Lily got
up, pulled on her coat and flicked out the lights. There was no
time for self-pity in ballet. But there was always time for a
ciggie.

* * * *

"Frankly, Miss Keene, I don't know how
you've danced on it as long as you have." The doctor looked at her
over the top edge of his glasses, his face grave.

Because it's what I do. It's the only thing
I know how to do.

Panic again.

It had dulled a little from the sharp jab
she'd felt a few nights ago, but it was there still, turning her
stomach over.

"And I'm afraid there is more to worry about
than a sprained foot," he went on.

She stared morosely. After so many years of
aches and pains, she had no idea what he was going to zero in on
next. She'd gone to him about her foot, and the pedantic little man
had insisted on a full inspection and x-rays, much to her
irritation. It was pointless, a waste of time. Of course there was
pain. Of course her feet had calluses, deformed toes and hideous
blisters. Of course her knees had hypertension. Yes, her elbow was
stiff sometimes, and her shoulder hurt occasionally. Something to
do with a rotator cuff, it had been suggested. She iced it as often
as she could, what did he expect her to do?

These were the wounds of a dancer's
life.

She didn't go to him for a cure or a
solution, or sympathy, but he could give her something for the
pain. Something to hoist her back together.

"Do you have stiffness in your hip, Miss
Keene? Left side?"

"Sometimes." She shrugged. He had to be
kidding. Hip pain was as predictable as the sun coming up every
morning. She danced through it. They all did. As the company
orthopedist, he ought to be aware of the things they put their
bodies through.

"I'm afraid you're showing signs of
osteoarthritis in the hip socket, Miss Keene."

"What does that mean?" she grumbled
impatiently, for she was going to be late for afternoon rehearsal
if he didn't get a move on.

"It means you have calcium deposits on the
bone and you're wearing away cartilage."

"What can you do for it?" The winter season
had just begun and forty performances of The Sleeping Beauty lay
ahead. Lily had a burning hope of getting a solo this year– the
Lilac Fairy if luck was on her side and Stacey Glasson's bulimia
got so bad they had to take her off the roster. It was Lily's turn.
Her time. "You can give me drugs, right?" she added hopefully.

The doctor took off his glasses and rubbed
the lenses with a little yellow cloth. "Anti-inflammatories will
help only a little, Miss Keene. The damage is extensive, and I must
advise you to keep weight off it as long as you can. Osteoarthritis
is a degenerative disease. The cartilage— in layman's terms the
shock-absorber of your hip joint— is wearing away—"

"Won't it grow back though?"

"Miss Keene, cartilage does not grow back.
Once destroyed it is gone forever. There is no cure, but we can
ameliorate the pain as much as possible. Of course, surgery may be
an option down the line." He shook his head, lips pursed
tightly.

Surgery and hip replacement? Her heart
stopped beating. Surgery was very bad news for a dancer and had
anyone ever danced with a hip replacement? She could hear the girls
laughing now in the dressing room, mocking her dogged determination
to keep dancing as pieces of her bone fell off onto the stage. She
was quite positive no one had ever danced at NYBT with a walking
frame.

"Your hip has suffered severe wear and tear,
Miss Keene. Corticosteroids can be injected to help reduce pain and
swelling, but rest is the most effective treatment. I would advise
only moderate exercise with limited impact on the joint— cycling,
swimming..."

She tuned the rest of it out as his voice
droned on.

Eventually she got up out of the chair,
thanked him, took the prescription he handed to her and walked out
of his office.

Her mind, which had been so busy for days,
was suddenly blank, empty.

It was raining out, but she had no umbrella.
What did it matter?

Lily stepped out onto the wet pavement and
stared dully at the midtown traffic. What now?

Go on, of course. Go on just the same. She
could dance through the pain. No one else need know. The doctor was
not legally allowed to inform company management about her
problems. She was supposed to do that.

But inside she was screaming in agony. Not
from physical pain, but from her dreams slowly dying. Seventeen
years-worth of dreams down the drain. That was worse than a
shattered bone.

With trembling fingers she lit up a
cigarette.

As she stood there, limp and soaked, a
large, fire-breathing dragon roared by, splashing her from head to
toe with filthy water from the bubbling brown gutter.

She barely noticed, until someone shouted
and she turned her head to see a man leaning out of the fire truck,
waving. "Hey, sorry about that!" They had pulled over a short way
on, the fire truck's brakes wheezing to an abrupt halt. "Rookie
driver," he yelled. "Sorry!"

Lily looked down. Her cream, mohair peacoat
— a birthday gift from her beloved grandmother two years ago—was
now decorated with a lavish coffee-colored splatter.

Oh, well. Worse things had happened to her
today. Worse things would happen tomorrow. She'd get through it,
like she always did, by dancing. Eyes glazed over, she turned and
started down the street, wet cigarette wilting from her
fingers.

Chapter Two

"Hey! Hold up!" He opened the door and
jumped down.

"What ya doin', Joe? We gotta get back to
the fire house."

"Yeah, yeah. Just a sec. The food will still
be there." He knew the crew were extra eager to get back for dinner
because his brother Mike was on the rota to cook tonight and they
were looking forward to his notorious Chicken Marsala. Turning, he
looked for the woman they'd splashed. There she was, walking up
ahead with a pair of legs that could have belonged to a
giraffe.

"Hurry up, Joe. C'mon!"

"Just wait, okay?" He was annoyed with the
rookie who had driven like an ass. Maybe the guy needed more
practice before they let him take the wheel again. The last thing
they needed was some hapless pedestrian getting mown down by an
engine truck in mid-town Manhattan. That would not be good for
public relations at all.

Helmet under one arm, he
dashed after the splashed woman, leaping puddles in his heavy
boots. "Hey! Miss!"
Maybe she was a
Mrs
. "Hey! Ma'am!"

She didn't stop until he dodged in front of
her. Two wide blue eyes looked up in surprise, as if she hadn't
even heard him trying to get her attention. Her mouth tensed
warily, eyebrows arched. Despite those long legs she wasn't tall.
They gave her the illusion of being so, until he stood beside her.
Then he realized she was probably no more than 5'5'' - just all
legs. And blue eyes.

Lieutenant Joe Rossini forgot what he'd
meant to say. He stood like an idiot, gaping at the most beautiful
woman he'd ever met. She knocked him off his usually sturdy
feet.

"What?" she exclaimed, blinking against the
rain. "What is it?"

"Er...Sorry about your coat," he managed
finally.

She looked down. "It's just a little mud.
It's fine. It'll dry."

"Listen, let me pay for cleaning."

A frown gathered her elegant brows together.
"Why?"