The Art of Falling (8 page)

“No, Mom.” I didn’t touch her or attempt to comfort her. It felt too good to stand beside her, separate, feeling stronger than I had in a long time. “I’ve cleared some space so we can start over.”

She stepped back and studied my face. “I don’t know who you are.”

This simple truth pleased me. “You know what? That makes two of us.”

I sent my mother off for a bath while I cleaned up the mess. I rolled up the few posters that had survived the mayhem and stuck them at the back of her bedroom closet. A small peace offering. Baryshnikov was a goner, though—I’d sent a glass shard right through his Achilles.

By the time I was done sweeping up the glass and vacuuming, I was physically spent, but in that invigorating way only dancers and athletes can appreciate. I turned off the lights behind me and lingered in the hallway. The walls were pale blue—funny how I’d never noticed. It looked so much bigger now. I ran my hand along the wall. Despite the lasting images of the missing rectangles, it felt relieved. Like my heart.

Back in my bedroom, I released Petrushka from his solitary glass confinement and once again taped him to my closet door.

There.

I tried to rest, but the house’s energy was haywire from sudden change. The open spaces in my heart begged to be filled with more positive energy.

I pulled out my cell phone and placed a call. While I couldn’t connect, the recording cheered me.

“Angela Reed here. Not! Leave a message.”

“In its structural sense, movement is ‘the arc between two deaths.’ On the one hand is the death of negation, motionless; on the other hand is the death of destruction, the yielding to unbalance. All movement can be considered to be a series of falls and recoveries; that is, a deliberate unbalance in order to progress, and a restoration of equilibrium for self-protection.”

—John Martin, dance critic

If Mauricio said fifteen reps, I did thirty. When he said rest, I took but a single breath. I’d show him what I was made of, and I’d find my way back to the life I’d always known to be my destiny.

I was pumping the shoulder press like a madwoman when a female voice broke my focus. “Hey, girl. Don’t break that equipment. I need it, too.”

I opened my eyes. Before me stood a thin woman with friendly brown eyes and a splash of freckles across her nose.

“Angela?”

She clapped her hands and gave a little jump. Her breathy laugh bounced up and down the musical scale before a cough chased it away.

“I left a message on your machine last night.”

“I know, I was so glad to hear from you! My first physical therapy appointment wasn’t until next week, but I called and told them I had a conflict.” She winked. “They said they could squeeze me in today.”

“How’s your arm?”

“Shrunken.” She held it up to show me. “I had complications, so my cast was on for more than two months. It felt like forever.” She threw what was left of her delicate arms around me. “We wonder about you all the time, but we didn’t want to bug you.”

“We?”

“Marty and I.”

“So are you two dating?”

She waved away the notion. “We’re more like buddies. So tell me what’s new. Are you dancing again?”

“Soon, I guess.” The words leapt from my mouth of their own accord. Mauricio wouldn’t call me on it; he was finishing up with an old woman learning to use a walker.

“Marty will be thrilled. Hey, let’s go over and see him when we’re done here.”

Mauricio walked over. “Angela Reed?”

“Yes, I am. How do you do?” She shook his hand and turned her head back over her shoulder to mouth a word in my direction—
Cute
.

“I’ll get you started in a minute. Penelope, you still need a massage, but I’m down one therapist and I had to squeeze in an extra appointment. Can you come back tomorrow?”

With that, a new plan fell together. I’d stay the night with Angela, and my mother would return to get me the next day. I was happy for the separation; the air in the car on the ride down was so charged I was surprised it didn’t interfere with the car’s electrical systems. I sat down to wait for Angela in the same seat my mother was vacating. She tossed me the magazine she’d brought along with her.

I smiled and shook my head as I opened the cover. At least she was consistent.

Dance
Magazine.

• • •

After Angela finished her PT, we walked south on Eleventh. “So how’ve you been?” I asked.

“Okay, I guess. I lost another roommate, though. A CF friend. That’s always tough.”

“Did you have a fight, or what?” I couldn’t quite imagine anyone having a poster knockdown with Angela.

She shook her head. “She died. Only twenty-two. She just couldn’t hang on any longer.”

The language struck me. Was death—or life—really a choice?

“Did she die…at your place?” I could not imagine the horror of it.

“No, she went back to her parents’. It’s weird, all you think about when you’re young is gaining your independence, but when those final hours come, people want to go home.”

We lapsed into silence. Death was a tough act to follow.

The city’s bustle soon distracted me. People propped open shop doors, strolled baby carriages, walked dogs. Thrumming engines energized the streets. Car horns traded pitches; a distant siren trilled. Snips from overheard conversations created random poetry. On Locust, the Philadelphia Muses—giant dancers and musicians painted on a five-story brick wall—blew stimulating breezes at our backs. In the midst of it all, once again finding their balance and rhythm, were my footfalls.

Thirteenth. Spruce.

Then I saw it.

Up ahead, over the other buildings, the top of the Independence Suites. For a while the happiest home I’d ever known, it now stared me down, determined to bring me to my knees. Why? I tried to convince myself that if I had no memory, I had no problem. But my heart raced. Palms dampened. Couldn’t catch my breath. I looked over at Angela. Had she sensed the sudden thickness in the air? The rattling of her lungs offered a convincing answer.

“You’ve been speeding up,” she said. “Could we knock back the pace a bit?”

I lost momentum; had to concentrate to place one foot in front of the other. The distance stretched, the sidewalk pitched, I had to train my focus at street level for balance. Doors propped babies strolled dogs walked that pink neon blinking “Independence Sweets”—did no one sense the danger?

Horns blared—
Now! Now!
The penthouse lured and my gaze responded. Five, six, seven, eight…I squinted against the brightness of the sky even as darkness chilled my core. Too close to the edge of the eighth-floor balcony, a lone scarlet flower swayed in the breeze.

Angela followed my line of vision. “Oh no—I just wanted to say hi to Marty. I didn’t think. I’m so sorry.”

Eleven, twelve…fourteen. There it was, so very far above me.

I shivered. My knees gave way; I braced myself against the building beside me.

“Penelope? Are you remembering something?”

Fingertips on concrete, icy-numb, grazing the balcony’s edge. A clacking, like bones. I looked down. Below me, a great tremor opened a crevice in the sidewalk. The void sucked me down. A fierce wind flattened my cheeks and whipped my hair and wicked the moisture from my eyes, my mouth, my throat.

“The wind…” I reached for Angela—little Angela—to keep from falling.

“What wind?” She pushed her shoulder into my armpit to brace me. “Are you all right?”

With Angela’s touch, the forces calmed. The sidewalk healed. The only shaking was my knees, the only crevice a scar on my soul. The space raging around me was once again, simply, space.

My throat was still dry from the wind and the falling and my words gelled—I had to squeeze them out. “I fell so far. How can I ever climb that high again?”

“Who said you had to build a high-rise? Not everyone likes them, you know.”

Angela looped her atrophied right arm through my mending left—a move that would have been unimaginably painful when we met—and gave it a squeeze. “Before you go razing the Independence Suites, let’s explore ground level. It’s pretty sweet.” Then, imitating Mauricio, she said, “You ready? Are you with me?”

I nodded, and together we crossed Spruce to enter the bakery.

It felt odd to be standing, for the first time, in this space at the very foundation of the building in which I’d lived for two years. Apparently, not everyone chose to pass it by.

It was so busy that Angela and I had to stand in line. I didn’t want to stare at the two women in front of us, but couldn’t help it—like rising dough, their flesh bulged beyond the confines of their colorful saris. Angela nodded toward them and mouthed the word “beautiful.” I waited for a giggle that didn’t come. Hmm. What did she see—their voluptuous health? Perhaps the red and gold and turquoise in the material struck her as an expression of vibrancy. Or flawless skin as brown and smooth as an acorn, or black hair so glossy it reflected the daylight. The delicate movements the one in turquoise made with her hands as she spoke.

Whatever Angela had meant, it gave me the courage to free my hips from the black sweater I’d tied around them to legitimize their bulk. I slipped it over my arm. In this place I would not be criticized for my size.

“Oh look, there he is,” Angela said, as if she had spotted Bruce Springsteen, not a Jewish baker. She pulled me from line by the sleeve, towed me past some tables, and knocked on a window separating the store’s back wall from the kitchen. Kandelbaum looked up from his work. Angela smiled, waved, and pointed to me as if I were some sort of trophy.

Angela threw her arms around him when he joined us. He kissed her on the cheek. When she pulled back, we laughed at the flour that had transferred from the belly of his apron onto her navy sweatshirt.

“No hug for you, then, Penelope. You are off the hook for today.”

“You guys can call me Penny.” A delighted look passed between them, as if I’d shared a secret handshake.

The two Indian women waved to Kandelbaum before leaving the bakery. “May Lord Ganesha smooth your path as he has mine,” he called to them, and they blew him kisses. Already inspired by a fit of well-being, I tossed them a wave as well.

Kandelbaum pulled out chairs, and we sat at one of the tables. “So what brings you downtown, Penelope?”

“Wait a minute. Ganesha?” Angela said. “That’s a new one.”

“No, that’s an ancient one. Ganesha is the Hindu elephant god, the remover of obstacles. And here’s Penny—it seemed appropriate.”

Angela told him about how she’d rescheduled her therapy appointment to coincide with mine.

“And so, are you stronger already? Let’s see.” He set his elbow on the table, and Angela accepted the challenge. He pretended to wrestle for a moment before laying his arm down in defeat. “I can see I’d better start working out.”

Musical laugh, punishing cough.

“So, Penny,” he said. “How are you doing? You look wonderful.”

“It’s great to be here.” I wondered at the enthusiasm in my voice. Last night I’d suffered a meltdown with my mother, and moments ago, an odd wind rush due to trauma I couldn’t recall. Just two months ago, on the other side of the front wall and feet from where I sat, movement had deserted me. The perilous scents of flour and shortening told me I was surrounded by foods I wouldn’t be caught dead eating. But this unexplored pocket of my former life held a surprising sweetness, and I wanted to dust my soul with it.

“Are you still in pain?” he said.

“I feel a hell of a lot better than the last time I dropped into the neighborhood.” After a beat, we all laughed. “I feel bad about your car, though.”

“Has your memory returned?”

“No, still going on your testimony.” I wished I could offer to help replace Kandelbaum’s car, but my microscopic savings account and the twenty in my pocket wouldn’t go too far. “So, how have you been getting to work?”

“I drive a van now,” Kandelbaum said. “The insurance covered it. I should have gotten it long ago. My wife’s car was never really appropriate for the bakery.”

“You’re married?” I said. Angela warned me off with a subtle shake of her head.

“Stories about me can be told another time,” he said. “Tell me about you.”

“Penny’s been at her mom’s in Allentown. She’s staying the night at my place. Why don’t you come over? We’ll get pizza.”

“If you make it Vito’s so I can get the salad bar,” I said.

“I’ll treat. Shall I meet you at Angela’s after I lock up?” Kandelbaum stood.

I raised my eyebrows and looked at Angela. Even I didn’t know where she lived, and I’d be staying overnight.

Angela stood and nudged Kandelbaum’s arm. “Aren’t you going to…? You know.”

“I almost forgot.” He offered an elbow. “Miss Penelope Sparrow, may I please show you to my product case? Perhaps you and Miss Reed would like to pick out something to take along.”

Perhaps not. To be polite, though, I took a look. Petits fours, baklava, rugelach, scones—they may hail from different countries, but they all spoke the same language to my thighs. In a corner of the case, though, down on the bottom shelf, was a hand-lettered sign: “Try our low-fat health breads.”

“It’s because of you I did this, Penny.” He gestured toward his new products.

“How so?”

“Your disdain for the fastnachts I brought—”

“Disdain?”

He looked at me, raised his eyebrows, and smiled. He’d read me correctly—I hadn’t had a doughnut since eighth grade.

“This made me question the nutrition in my baked goods. For the first time, really. The foods I bake have a long history of comforting people. Feeding the soul is what was important to me—I’d never thought the body might suffer from doing so. So I made up some new recipes.”

I squatted down to read the labels. They listed ingredients like whole grain flour and egg whites, dried cranberries and applesauce, spinach and carrots, honey and maple syrup. Listed prominently were calories, fat grams, fiber content—information no baker in his right mind would attach to a rack of fastnachts.

“I used to work at this dance supply store in New York,” I said. “For years I tried to tell the designer it was pointless to make a toe shoe so hard if the first thing its new owner did would be to soak it in alcohol, rap it with a hammer, and slam it in a door to soften the glue. He never listened to me. Now I refuse some doughnuts and look what happens.” I rose. “Any interest so far?”

“Like any change, people are slow to accept it. We try to mention it to all of the customers, and we put out free samples. But people like you are, as we say in the trade, a tough cookie. I'd value your feedback.”

I really hoped he hadn’t gone to all this effort just for me. My heart stuttered as if viewing the calories had already thickened my blood. Angela saved the day by ordering some maple oat bran muffins and something he called Harvest Loaf. “You’re going to love it,” she said. I slipped my hands into my pockets and nestled my palms against my hip bones. Around this much sweetness, I’d have to work hard to maintain my edge.

Angela and I took our time on the walk to her apartment. We actually strolled. The waxed bakery bag in my hand was evidence: I had crossed into a more malleable world, one that just might respond to my needs. If this were true, I’d have to watch what I asked for.