The Hunger Moon (21 page)

Eleanor tried to shake herself out of the sudden stupor she felt. Why was she sitting here? Why wasn’t she home? The baby was heavy. Peter shouldn’t be out in this cold. Who was taking care of Helen and Janice?

She rose shakily. She looked around and didn’t recognize the street she was on. This didn’t look anything like her neighborhood. Perhaps she had gotten over one street too far. Eleanor tried to get her bearings. It looked like if she got off this busy street, she would be back into residential streets. Rosewood, the street her house was on, was surely in that direction.

Why was Peter crying so? She needed to get him home for a nap. “Hush, my darling,” she whispered hoarsely. “We’re almost there.” But where was there? Eleanor walked for a block or two toward the residential streets and didn’t recognize any of the names. How could she get so lost? Where was Robert? The girls must be with him, thank God. But Peter was turning beet-red with his cries. Her arms were breaking from the baby’s weight. Panic rose in Eleanor as she turned this way and that, looking for home.

T
HE FEELING OF RELIEF
J
UNE HAD
when Mrs. M. volunteered to take Charlie turned into nagging worry by the time the T deposited her in Kenmore Square. Mrs. MacGregor had gotten awfully confused the other day. But it was the problem with the bank that had made her so rattled. That day was the only time June had ever seen the older woman not completely sharp and lucid; Mrs. M.’s problems were physical, not mental. The only things that troubled her that June knew of were her arthritis and her stomach. After all, anyone who had the aisles of the supermarket memorized so completely that she wrote her lists in perfect order could not be senile. June had seen senile; her grandmother on her mother’s side had died of Alzheimer’s disease, and for years she had not recognized a single soul in her own family. But Mrs. M. was perfectly clear this morning. She had told June that she was right to go to her class; in fact, she had practically commanded her to go.

While changing into her leotard at her apartment, June had another thought: she hadn’t brought over a bottle to leave with the baby. He had taken about two ounces at five-thirty; it was now seven. Renata would probably be home soon, if she wasn’t already. He should be okay for another hour, June thought. He might get
a little cranky on her, but Mrs. MacGregor could handle it. She had to focus on the task at hand, and that was getting to her class.

J
UNE DRANK SOME JUICE FOR ENERGY
, and walked the fifteen minutes to the studio to warm up her muscles. By a quarter of eight she was one of half a dozen students already there, stretching out. She went over to sit by Max.

“Have you seen him yet?” she asked.

“Nope. I think he’s going to make an entrance.”

They fell silent, concentrating on their stretching. Max wore a black thigh-length unitard with a T-back and low scooped arm-holes and neckline. His long, sinewy limbs were hairless and gleamed in the studio’s overhead fluorescent light. Even his shaved head shone. June wore black as well; an ankle-length unitard cut with a tank top. Her skin was creamy next to the black leotard. Her long hair was coiled up at the back of her neck. Every dancer in the room looked scrubbed and awake, in contrast to the usual demeanor in early morning classes, and no one chatted. Each was absorbed in his or her own body, studying the flex of a foot, or the extension of a leg muscle.

Bruce Richard entered the studio flanked by Mary Ann and Judith, the two modern dancers on the faculty. The women seemed to disappear beside the aura of celebrity that he moved in. He looked older than the publicity photograph he used in newspaper advertisements for his company, but he still had the same flowing mane of curls and impishly curved lips. He was wearing a tie-dyed unitard with gray knit leg warmers, and sported a small hoop earring.

The class rose to their feet and waited, some students smiling nervously.

“Hi, I’m Bruce, and this is Marco,” he said, pointing to a short, stocky man in a tank top and jeans who had followed the trio in, lugging a couple of cases. “Marco’s going to drum for us, and we’re going to dance, not talk.

“Okay,”—he clapped, without waiting for the drummer—
“let’s stretch, two, three, four …” The students joined in as he led them in a series of lunging walks, hip circles, neck and shoulder rolls, and the other usual warm-up moves, which he somehow managed to make seem original with his emphatic and playful style. The drummer had finished setting up and now sat on a stool, closing his eyes and rocking his barrel-shaped chest back and forth as his hands traveled over the skins of the drums. Now the air was electric with rhythm. Bruce’s warm-up started to be more complex, more dancelike. Without stopping, he shouted counts and directions as he milled among the eight students, correcting the position of a torso or the angle of a hip. He passed by June as she was holding an arabesque and said, “Good,” as he swept by her.

Next they lined up and did some jumps across the room. With so few students, when you crossed the floor it was already your turn to reverse direction and go back; some students were panting after three or four trips. Max excelled here; June could see Richard’s eyes following him with interest every time it was his turn. “Nice work,” he said as Max crossed for the last time.

Marco slowed the pace of the drumming down to a meditative beat. Bruce led them in an improv across the floor. June was rapt watching him move catlike, then freeze, drawing his body up into a pose that suddenly exploded in a leap, then finish before she knew it in a series of small running steps.

They had several turns across the room, and June tried to change the mood of her improv at each crossing. Once he caught her eye afterward and nodded.

Max’s improvisations, it seemed to June, always looked the same. He was the type of dancer who could interpret someone else’s choreography with power, but wasn’t too inventive himself. Even so, he was always impressive to watch, with his athletic sureness and the elevation he got on jumps, and June saw with a sinking feeling that Bruce Richard was visibly impressed with him.

Richard took the last improv turn and treated them to a three-minute sequence that June suspected wasn’t so much improvisation as a set piece of signature moves that he used for classes like this. Still, the sheer professionalism of his execution took her bream away.

After the cooling down he led the class in a round of applause, which the class swelled and prolonged in appreciation of him. They broke out of lines. June watched with excitement as Richard walked over to Max and talked to him for a couple of minutes. Then Max followed him over to his bag, and Richard fished out a card and handed it to him. The students were filing out of class. Max looked like he was about to levitate from happiness. He kept staring at the card and looking up and grinning into thin air.

Richard was chatting with Mary Ann and Judith; he didn’t seem to be talking to any other students. June knew she hadn’t been singled out. Still, he was right here in this room. There was no law against asking him a question. June forced herself to walk over to him.

“Excuse me. I’m June. I really enjoyed the class. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You made some nice moves during improv.” The compliment was made dismissively, and June could already feel him turning away. She rushed to hold his attention.

“Do you—does your company ever audition new people? As student dancers?”

“Yes, we do.” He was looking at her now. Did he seem amused?

“Well, I was just wondering if, um, if I came to New York this summer, do you mink I would have a chance? With your group?” He was just looking at her. “I really admire your work,” she said inanely.

“Honey, let me save you some time. You’ve got nice moves and nice form—like a thousand other dancers who want to come to New York and audition. I’ve got twelve performing dancers, and five apprentice dancers, and that’s as big as I get. The short answer to your question? Forget New York. Stay in school, get
an education, and try out for local companies. There’s lots of ways to be a dancer without going to New York and getting turned down every day.”

Finished with this little speech—
Why not take dance classes at the Y Junie?
—Bruce Richard turned away, leaving June to arrange her face into a grateful smile as best she could.

W
HEN THEY DROVE UP TO HER BUILDING
, Renata wanted Bill to drop her and leave, but he insisted on staying with her until they found out everything was okay. She really wanted him to go, because she didn’t have time to think about him or what they had done last night. But she also didn’t have time to argue with him, so she concentrated on getting to Charlie; Bill could do what he wanted. They didn’t speak during the ride up the elevator. Renata watched the numbers crawling by, feeling as though she might explode. She had her key ready in her hand when they finally reached the seventh floor, and she dashed to her door, Bill trailing along behind.

A silent apartment greeted her. Everything was in order, down to the carefully washed baby bottles drying on the counter, but the objects mocked her without June and without Charlie. The domestic ordinariness of the scene seemed impossibly surreal. She didn’t know where her baby was.

“Renata, June left you a note,” Bill said. “It says, ‘Charlie is next door with Mrs. M.; I had to leave at six-thirty’” he read from the refrigerator.

“Oh, God, that’s right.” Relief flooded her. “She had some special class to go to this morning. The baby’s with the next-door neighbor; I’ll be right back.”

She left him in her apartment and went to knock on Eleanor’s door. When there was no answer, she rang the bell. She pressed her ear to the wood to listen for a television or radio. Silence. In desperation she rang the bell again and again.

“She’s not there,” she said, reentering her apartment. “What should I do?” She was suddenly glad to have Bill with her. He was calm. He could think.

“Check your answering machine,” he directed. The light was blinking with three messages.

The first message was her own from last night. She cursed the voice that blithely told June she was going out for a drink with a “friend.” The second call was a hang-up; that, too, was Renata, from this morning. She must have called shortly after June left. Charlie hadn’t been too long over at Eleanor’s then. But where were they now?

The third message was a familiar voice. “Renata, it’s me. I’ve been in town two days, trying to decide when and how to come see you. I’ve even been to Viva’s, but you didn’t see me. I was in the bar.” Renata looked up at Bill, who was watching her curiously. “Here’s the deal. I know about the baby. Rick told me, but I had already guessed it on my own, so don’t be mad at anyone. It’s Saturday morning, a little before seven, and I’ve decided to come over to talk to you. If you want me to turn around and go back to L.A., I will. But I want to see you, and I want to see the baby.” There was a brief pause. “Actually, I’ve already seen the two of you. I’ve been in the coffee shop across the street and watched when you’ve taken him for walks. Anyway, I won’t use up your message tape. We’ll talk soon. I’m looking forward to seeing you. I’ll wait for you downstairs if you’re not home.”

“You’re white as a ghost,” Bill said. “A voice from the old days?”

Renata nodded.

“The baby’s father?”

She nodded again.

“Let me go three for three. You never told him about the baby?”

She stared at him mutely. She didn’t need to nod.

“Wow.” Bill whistled and shook his head. “You know, I think I can guess which one he was at the bar. A guy by himself was in the last two nights, and just sort of sat there, not talking to anyone. Blond?”

She nodded.

“Drinks Coors?”

“Sometimes,” she said dully.

“Should I stay or go?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head hopelessly. “Stay.”

R
ENATA DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO
or whom to call. Bill convinced her that there was no reason to call the police, and of course he was right. If the police were to be called, she thought, it should probably be to report her for getting drunk and abandoning her child while she went off to have sex with someone she barely knew. She became conscious of her breasts, which were painfully hard and engorged; the front of her shirt was soaked with leaking milk.