When the Music Stops Page 3

  Snail’s pace ronds de jambes à terre, circling her foot on the floor, alternately standing on and using her injured left foot, feeling her toes refusing to support her need for proper balance. She ignored the stabs of electric pain shooting up her legs. Picture Lynne in her old car, remember Bartley smiling and dancing, visualize the ballet company practice room. When it hurts too much, don’t think; just keep moving.

  Sweat formed on her upper lip, her back, and under her arms. Six months ago, she’d executed these same warm-ups in the ballet company in Billings. How quickly her flexibility had slipped away. By now, when she should hear the piano music moving through her, no music played in her head to overcome the silence around her.

  She looked around. Playing her warm-up record would ease her jittery attempts as she worked through the tightness in her left foot. The record player she’d remembered in the garage was missing. So much for music. Today she struggled through a silent practice followed by icing her ankle while she waited for the possibility of a letter from Steve.

  h

  Marta retrieved the mail: the electric bill, the telephone bill, and A & P’s weekly grocery flyer. No letter from Steve. A small disappointment circled through her until she realized the selfishness of expecting a letter every day. Maybe she’d write to him. He’d be pleasantly surprised.

  Seated at the console radio her dad had remodeled into a desk, Marta opened her mom’s box of blue, scalloped-edge stationary.

  Dear Steve,

  She tapped the pen on the desk and looked around the room as if inspiration hung on the walls. Maybe she’d be more inspired if she wrote in the kitchen. She moved to the nook and started over.

  Hi, Steve,

  Thanks for writing. I love getting your letters. I’ve started exercising. I continue to ice my foot after I…

  Now what? The view outside, kitchen towels hanging by the stove, and the large apple-shaped cookie jar offered no inspiration either, so she stopped and wadded up the paper. Steve cared about her, but she doubted he’d want to read a listing of her complaints.

  She restarted the letter several times, then gave up and discarded her pages in the trash burner bin. At this rate she’d need to buy her mom a replacement box of stationary before she’d write anything worth mailing. She’d buy a handful of crazy postcards, tell him she loved him, and once she did something of value, she’d write a letter.

  h

  With dinner assembled and simmering on the stove, Marta went to the garden to pick green onions for their dinner salad. When her mom drove up, she hurried to open the garage door for her. In return she received a wave as her mom turned off the engine and retrieved a bag of groceries from the back seat of the car.

  “Hi, dear. It’s nice to have a smiling door valet. What a crazy day! Today was more hectic than you can imagine, even without students.”

  “How’s your pile of catalogs and samples? Sorted out for next year?”

  “Hardly.” Her mom laughed and shook her head. “I spent the day trying to find the top of my desk and getting bills paid. Tomorrow we’ll tackle the catalogs. I’m amazed at the cost of costumes. Do you know that a plain back leotard costs three dollars with shipping? Plain black.”

  Marta laughed. “Be glad you aren’t paying close to four hundred dollars for a short tutu like we do at the ballet company. We need, I mean, they needed to replace costumes, but the cost is so great they’ve had to make do with threadbare costumes for many corps dances. They looked okay from a distance.”

  “So, ballet companies have money worries as well. Sad isn’t it?”

  h

  They sat at the dinner table long after finishing their meal, enjoying iced tea while continuing their conversations.

  “So, you exercised today? How’d your ankle hold up?”

  “It’s not totally flexible. That’s going to take time.”

  “It will come.” Her mom took a sip of tea. “So, the other day you started to say something that sounded like it might be important. Want to discuss it now?”

  Marta shrugged. “Not really. My inability to dance keeps me restless. But since I’ve restarted warm-ups, my mood’s improved. I’m disappointed and…”

  Her mom covered her hands and patted them. “I understand how you feel. I have days like that. How about I give you a job. I could use your help at the studio. You could visit with Miss Holland. She….”

  Marta shook her head as she popped up to her feet. “No, mom. I can’t. Not yet.”

  A heavy silence swirled in the space between them. Finally her mom stood, patted Marta’s shoulder, and carried their dishes to the sink. Marta picked up the drying towel and stood beside her. They worked together in silence.

  h

  Week two. Marta sat at the kitchen table watching her mother back the car out of the garage. She left for the dance studio like clockwork at ten Monday through Saturday. Miss Holland’s summer classes didn’t kick in for another week, but acting as Miss Holland’s right hand and fielding every situation outside the studio classrooms meant closing out the studio’s finances mid-year as well as organizing and enrolling students for summer sessions.

  What started as a part time job to pay for Marta’s dance lessons had turned full time years ago. After avoiding any discussion of meeting with Miss Holland, Marta knew she owed her mother an apology or at least more support at home. Her mom seldom culled out time to sew for her private clients. Maybe she’d take on their sewing requests and earn a few dollars in the process.

  Guilt over not visiting with Miss Holland poked at her like the pointed stick her neighbor Leo used to jab her with to gain her attention when they were little kids. If she didn’t go to the studio soon, would she ever go? But how could she discuss her brief career and not the loss she felt or how sadness enveloped her every day? How could she talk about how she’d let Miss Holland down by failing to maintain her corps de ballet position?

  Yesterday her mom had brought home a reel-to-reel tape deck and several of Miss Holland’s recordings on loan for the summer. She’d gotten the message loud and clear from both her mom and Miss Holland: the time to visit needed to be scheduled soon.

  After she placed the tape recorder on the garage workbench, she sat staring at the space. What held her back from using the space like she used to do? Before going to Montana, she’d hurry home and practice. Now everything, including this space, felt like a burden instead of a joy.

  Once she moved to the barre, she began the tape. Even though she heard the music with her ears, she didn’t hear it in her body or in her movement. It felt as if the music bounced off her or dissolved before it reached into her heart. She stared at the reel circling on the tape recorder, turned it off, then began her practice in silence. Maybe tomorrow the music would regain its magical spell. The dissonance she heard today didn’t inspire her.

  After finishing her daily ballet routine in the garage and a morning bath, Marta steeped her second cup of tea, snugged her robe belt, and turned on the television. Soap operas, game shows, and news broadcasts to mid afternoon. Children’s programs at three-thirty, followed by the six o’clock news and evening dramas. The noise pushed aside the shroud of quiet that enveloped her. The near-daily letters and copies of articles Steve had written kept the post office in business. She enjoyed his newsy comments but still couldn’t think of what to write in return. Should she lie and say everything was peachy? No. She wrote a love note, drew hearts all over the inside, and wrote:

  I miss you and love you. I dream of you every night.

  I wish your arms were wrapped around me, holding me tight.

  XoXoXoXo

  Marta Fluff

  Then she found her mom’s red lipstick, smeared it on her lips, and kissed the card. That should hold him. She owed him a reply for all his efforts to keep her smiling even though she continued to feel adrift.

  The only d
aily jobs she’d taken on at home were making her bed, doing the laundry, and cooking dinner, except for the nights Robert took her mom out. The rest of each day she exercised, then sat and rocked. She watched the clock, waiting for her mother to return, hopefully alone but then not knowing what they’d talk about except Robert.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t like him. She did. In fact he reminded her of her dad: tall and thin with brown hair, a quiet and gentle man of few words. But why did mom need to spend so much time with him? Did she desire to replace her husband?

  Robert became the center of her latest phone conversation when Lynne, her fellow dancer and best friend in Billings, called as planned.

  “Hey, Marta? What’s going on? Are you ever planning to write or call?”

  “I’m…it’s hard to explain. Besides you said you’d call me, Lynne.”

  “True. So, I’m fine. The new ballet rehearsals are going well. I’m beginning lessons with our little angels. They miss you but love the fact that Mrs. B. lets us continue to use your old practice space in the basement.”

  Marta laughed and paced the kitchen as far as the coiled phone cord allowed. “Is Carol being a pest about you dancing near her laundry room?”

  “No. She doesn’t say much. I think I scare her. Enough about her. Tell me about you.”

  “Nothing to tell.”

  “Come on, Marta. Snap out of it. Shove that poor-little-me out of your voice.”

  Marta explained about the real estate sign, then about her mom’s interest in Robert.

  “Hey, it’s ten years since your dad died,” Lynne said. “Your mom deserves happiness and finding someone to share her life with is part of that. We all need it.”

  “I know. I’m acting grumpy because I’d like a little time with my mom. He’s here most evenings and stays for dinner and gin rummy, then on weekends he helps with projects before they vanish.”

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “I do. It’s just another change.” Marta sighed. “My biggest problem is me. I fear I’ve lost my connection to the ballet music I’ve loved so deeply for so long. When I practice, none of it means anything. I feel hollow as a porcelain doll, like I’ve become a different person.” Marta paused. “I’m scared, Lynne. I can’t feel the music anymore.”

  “Don’t worry so much, Marta. The music is still there. It’s changed a bit. Think of me practicing beside you like we did at the company and in the boarding house basement. I’ll gladly give you an imaginary little kick in the derrière.”

  Marta exhaled. “Okay. Thanks Lynne. I can always count on you to keep me smiling, even with all the changes in my life.”

  “Oh, Marta. Wait until I tell you the latest. Herbert didn’t leave for back east as promised last spring. He’s still in Billings, so Madame sees him after hours. She has no idea that I’ve observed their kissing sessions, and I plan to keep it that way until it serves a purpose.”

  “Be careful Lynne. Don’t anger Madame.”

  Lynne laughed. “Who, quiet little me? Hey, I should take off. Got a date with a drummer tonight. Do you hear much from Steve?”

  “He writes letters and calls me on Sundays when he has time. I miss seeing him.”

  “That guy’s still ga-ga over you even at a distance. Have your feelings for Steve changed?”

  “No. It’s just—”

  “Oh, oh. Larry the drummer’s here. Gotta go. You’ve got scads of free time so write to me, promise?”

  “I promise, I—”

  “Hey, I’m tired of only opening bills, so get out and find a funny postcard to mail to me. It’s the least you can do to save me. Love you, but I need to go. Write! Bye!”

  Click.

  Marta listened to the dial tone buzzing in her ear. Lynne was right. She needed to keep busy and be patient; the music would return.

  h

  After running a load of wash, Marta hung, dried and brought in the clothes from the backyard lines, folded them, and put them away. As she headed back into the kitchen, she caught her reflection in the large gilt mirror that hung behind the living room sofa. She hated the image looking back at her. That person had short, stringy hair and dull brown eyes with dark circles like a beat up prize fighter. She wore a scowl and no make-up. What did people see when they looked at her, if they even bothered to look? A loser with no job and no ambition? A person who didn’t dress until late afternoon? A disappointment?

  Shivers skittered down her spine. A diet pill would perk her up, give her energy to do something. When she rummaged through her handbag, she found two linty pills. She swallowed both, waiting for the familiar surge to begin. After these she’d quit.

  Minutes later she jittered with energy. Tingly electric vibrations travelled from her core to her fingertips and her head, down her torso, and into her legs. She dressed, combed her hair, and headed for the kitchen to make bread.

  By the time the local paper arrived, Marta had baked the bread, cleaned her bedroom, vacuumed the living room, shaken all the scatter rugs in the house, and swept the kitchen and hall. Now she sat in the nook and scanned yesterday’s Help Wanted ads. Same ads everyday: secretaries, bookkeepers, carpenters, truck drivers, and gardeners. If she’d stayed in Billings she could have continued her part time jobs, but no Bremerton theatres advertised for ticket sellers, and none of the hotels needed night clerks.

  When she called on a seamstress ad, the job had been taken. But a soft-spoken woman didn’t slam that door. “I’ll keep your name and number in case work shows up,” she said.

  Tonight’s dinner, beef stroganoff, simmered in the oven and fresh bread lay sliced on a plate. Marta hummed the melodies of Swan Lake, swaying through the steps, realizing that the diet pills had created the spark she needed and kept the music playing inside her head. One day soon she’d need to stop taking the pills, but not quite yet.

  She plopped down in the kitchen nook to play solitaire. Like usual, she lost before she ran out of cards. She watched the neighbor children across the road swinging on the lowest apple tree branch. Back and forth, back and forth. In past years their laughter lightened her soul; today their carefree laughter reminded her of how she empty she felt listening to Lynne talk about her busy life.

  As she cleared away the cards and got up to stir the pot, the phone rang and startled her.

  “Robert bought last-minute symphony tickets,” her mom said. “I won’t be home until late, so go ahead and eat without me.”

  “Okay. See you in the morning.” Marta clenched her jaw as she replaced the receiver, turned off the oven, and set the pot on thick hot pads next to the refrigerator. Now what? She had to get out of the house. Do something, anything. A walk would help even though it caused her ankle to swell and throb. As she slipped on her shoes and grabbed a sweater, the phone rang. She ignored it and walked out the back door.

  No destination sprang to mind. She missed The Rims of Billings, her chance to scan a vast plain and enjoy the mountains to the south and west. Here acres of evergreens surrounded her unless she traveled the three miles to stand near the downtown post office or drove to Kitsap Lake or Port Orchard to get a mountain view. Her mom had the car, so a neighborhood walk would have to do.

  Callow Avenue, a main thoroughfare, began two blocks west of her home. Small businesses stretched out along the west side of the street; homes occupied the east side. Adults worked in their yards weeding, mowing, and watering, while the children rode bikes with playing cards flapping on their spokes, just like they did in Billings.

  Marta took a side trip looping to Montgomery, past the dance studio where she’d taken lessons and where her mom worked. No visible changes over the last nine months. She should have gone to the recital and to see Miss Holland, but she didn’t feel strong enough yet. This late, no one occupied the studio, so she walked back to Callow Drugs to purchase a pack of Chiclets gum, tooth powder, plus two packet
s of diet pills. She’d wean herself off the pills once she got back on track, probably next week.

  As shadows grew long, parents called in their children and turned on lamps to make the day last a bit longer. A chill arrived. Back in Billings it would be too warm for a sweater, maybe too warm to be out walking. Was it the evening temperature or her isolation from her life in Billings that disturbed her? What was Mrs. B. doing? Who helped in the kitchen? Was her old room rented out?

  What about Steve? Did he miss her as much as he told her in his letters? He began their relationship when he’d purposely interviewed her for a newspaper article. She had resisted his advances, but over time he’d become her tour guide and later her first and only love. She wished he walked beside her now as she turned toward home.

  Mr. Dunbar, the elderly neighbor on Montgomery, sat on his white-washed porch swing. Pots of red geraniums marched up the edges of his front steps. She stopped, watching him rock back and forth. “Hello, Mr. Dunbar. How are you?”

  “Oh, it’s the little dancer isn’t it? All grown up I see.”

  “Yes, I guess I am.”

  “Good.” He removed his newspaper from the swing and motioned to Marta. “Sit with me.”

  She walked up the steps and slipped into the swing beside him.

  “I thought you were dancing somewhere in Montana.”

  Marta swallowed hard. “I was until I broke my ankle. It was a fragile break, too severe to allow me to dance en pointe. So, here I am.”

  Mr. Dunbar shook his head. “I’m so sorry, but I’m glad to have your company.” He shifted to face Marta. “Do you remember our berry contests when you were a little girl?”

  “I do. My strawberries only ripened before your raspberries one time. You looked so surprised when I knocked at your door.”

  Mr. Dunbar laughed. “I was. My wife told me there’d be a time when you’d win. I always hoped she was right.”

  They talked about the neighborhood, then sat and rocked in the twilight. When he scooted forward and reached for his cane, Marta stood and steadied the swing.