Authors: Meg Howrey
“It would be really horrible to look at,” I said, “if it were in color. But it’s so … white. And their bodies are so beautiful.”
Wendy nodded and we walked slowly around the sculpture, examining it from every angle. Her face, so quick to paper-crease itself with mild anxiety, was utterly serene, and her manner oddly confident.
“You would have made a great teacher,” I said, as we left the museum.
“A good researcher,” she corrected. And then added, with
one of her oddly girlish giggles, “I’m very selfish. I never wanted to teach. I just liked knowing things. You would be a good teacher, Kate.”
“Only I don’t actually know anything,” I said, which made her giggle again.
I was selfish too. I never brought Gwen to Wendy’s. Nor, when Gwen questioned me about her, did I reveal how much I enjoyed going there. Disloyally, I made it sound like a drag, something I felt obligated to do. Gwen, sympathetic, would sometimes try to talk me out of going.
“I mean, she volunteered to have you in her house. It was only a year. You don’t have to keep thanking her!”
“She donates to the company,” I would say. “It’s polite.”
“Yeah, I guess. Well, it’s really nice of you.”
This morning I pulled the envelope from Wendy out of the packet and walked to the fridge so I could post it up and remind myself to send a reply. But of course Gwen doesn’t have refrigerator magnets.
I went back in the bedroom to make the bed—tricky, since I’ve stashed so much crap in there with me. And yes, I did break something last night when I was doing Roger’s angel wings. A glass.
Sweeping up the remnants of this, I found a piece of paper under the bed. It was taped to the floor. I pried it up.
3333333333.
My neck hurt. I sat down on the floor, in between the dustbin of glass and the bed.
Gwen and her numbers.
And this one she told me about, didn’t she? I can say, “Oh, it crept up on me,” and “She wasn’t stark
raving
mad,” and “I was
focused on my career too,” but Gwen actually told me about the numbers. So I have no excuse.
We were doing laundry and I was going through her jeans pockets before I threw them in the wash. I thought they were my jeans and I had a bad habit of leaving books of matches in my jeans and then washing them. I pulled out a piece of paper with “55533555” written on it.
“Do you need this?” I asked, holding it out to Gwen. She paused, her arms full of sheets, and leaned over.
“No, that’s old,” she said. “You can throw it away.” Which I did without comment because it wasn’t particularly interesting or striking. Maybe my disinterest irked her, or maybe she genuinely wanted to share something with me, but after a moment she said, “Fives and threes are my favorite numbers. They’re like, similar but they do different things in different ways.”
“Huh?”
“Well, they’re both really comforting, right?”
“What do you mean? You mean like, the numbers themselves are comforting?”
“Yeah. Threes are like anchors. Fives are like rocking chairs.”
“What they look like, you mean? The shape?” I drew a 3 in the air between us.
“Not really that. Threes are more protective, and fives are more soothing.”
“Okay, so in what way is the number five soothing?”
“I can’t explain it.”
“Is this a numerology thing?”
Those were the only kinds of books Gwen would read. Crystals and tarot cards and astrology stuff.
“It’s my own thing. If I feel anxious I might just repeat the
number five to myself, or count to five for a while. Or if I feel scared I might say ‘33333.’ It makes me feel better.”
“Huh.”
And that’s all I ever said about it.
And even now I’m tempted to just stick the piece of paper back where I found it. Except that I’d have to sleep over it knowing it’s there, and I’m already not sleeping.
Maybe it’s not really that bad.
How different is this from touching a strip of tape on your dressing-room door? Or believing that you have a better class when your nails are done? Or maintaining an invisible audience in order to inspire more perfect behavior?
Who is to say that these things aren’t the mark of the extraordinary? Nobody says about a genius, “Well, they were really boring and normal.”
3333333333.
I threw the number in the trash, along with the glass.
Sometimes, when the cleaning and the numbers failed to do their job, Gwen would take pieces of masking tape and make Xs on the wall. This wasn’t something I could reasonably ignore. It was too strange. It was frightening.
“Talk to me,” I would plead. “If you talk to me, I might be able to help you.”
“You wouldn’t understand. You don’t believe.”
“What? What don’t I believe?” I would try to stay calm. I would make the gestures for sympathy, for calm, for understanding. But the body doesn’t lie. Gwen knew I was just pretending to be patient and kind. I didn’t feel those things. I wanted to run. I wanted to run away from her.
“Just leave me alone,” she would say. “Just pretend you don’t see. It’s worse if I feel like you’re watching.”
And so that’s what I did. I pretended I didn’t see.
I was never there when the tape came off the walls. But by their absence I knew that things were okay again. I could unclench my jaw, sleep through the night, stop trying to act like I wasn’t watching her, stop waiting for the thing to come around the corner and stab me in the eye.
When Gwen comes back, things will be different. I won’t let it all happen again. I will take better care of her.
I’m not ready for her to come back.
I don’t want her to come back.
3333333333.
It’s not a code. It’s an accusation.
I dragged myself through company class. I dragged myself through
Look At Me
rehearsal. I dragged myself through the rain across the street to get some sushi before dragging myself back to the theater for another round of
Swan Lake
.
At the theater: high drama. Marianna, who was supposed to be dancing Odette/Odile tonight, canceled. Her ankle. Gia, who was supposed to make her debut as Odette/Odile on Sunday, now had to go on. Four other people had called out in addition to people who were already on the injured list. The call-board was full of cross-outs and big red arrows and circled names. I read that Mara was going on for Big Swan/Hungarian Princess. She’s third cast for that and hasn’t performed it this season.
I ran into Yumi in the hallway.
“I just ate huge dinner,” she said. “And then they call me. Tell me Kim is out and I need to come. I tell them, Okay I come, but I puke up onstage.”
I found Mara in the dressing room I usually share with Tamara, slicking her hair back into a bun.
“Is it okay if I dress in here with you?” she asked. “My dressing room feels like a high school locker room. Everyone is screeching.”
“Is Mike coming?”
“I just left him like, five messages,” said Mara, jabbing pins into her hair. “I think he’s still at work. He works late when he knows I won’t be home.”
“Don’t worry about making the front perfect,” I said, taking the pins out of her hand. “Both headpieces will cover it.”
“Oh, right, right. God, what is this?” Mara asked, picking up an orange stuffed animal from the dressing table.
“It’s Tamara’s lucky bunny.”
“Jesus Christ. We’re in a company of children.”
“I would like to remind you,” I said, “of a certain teddy bear that gets taken on tour with a certain dancer. A certain dancer who, I might add, takes care to pack this said teddy bear in such a way that he has ‘room to breathe’ in her suitcase.”
“I’m nervous,” said Mara.
“Really?” I asked, surprised. “You’ve done it before. Didn’t you do it last time?”
“Once,” Mara said. “Big Swans only once. And I did Neapolitan Princess. Not Hungarian.”
“You’ll be fine. You’ll sail right through it.”
Mara gave me a level look through the dressing-table mirror.
“I don’t get all that many chances, you know. I’m not ever going to get promoted. I know that. I don’t even care anymore. I just want to have a few things to look back on where I knew I was really good. I don’t want to sail through it. I want … I want to own it. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I feel old,” said Mara.
“We’re not old,” I told her. “We’re in our prime.”
“Yeah?” Mara asked, twisting around in her chair to face me. “How good do
you
feel?”
I would have looked away, but that would have meant turning my neck. Mara and I confronted each other for a moment. There have been a lot of things that have come between us in the past ten years, but we are both, after all, women.
“Well, if that’s the way you feel,” I said, “don’t get nervous. Get even.”
“Okay,” said Mara. “Get even.”
“Get even,” I repeated.
“With who, exactly? You?”
“Why would you need to get even with me?”
Mara laughed.
“No, seriously,” I said.
“I don’t want to get into this now,” Mara said.
“Okay. Just get even with fucking ballet, then.”
“You’re the one with the problem with ballet.”
“Fine.” I pointed at Mara’s reflection in the mirror. “Get even with her.”
Mara squinted her eyes at herself.
“Oh, you,” she said.
When you put on stage makeup you are basically painting on a face that will transmit up to the second balcony. It’s great. You can white everything out and then draw whatever you want on top of it. I quickly assembled Beauty, stepped into my Big Swan
tutu, layered every available knit over it, and popped a pair of puffy down slippers over my pointe shoes. Mara went down to the warm-up room, and I stopped by Gia’s dressing room to wish her
merde
. She was in that excited state of nervousness where you can’t get your eyebrows to match. I told her that she would be magnificent and I would send Andrea in to do her eyebrows.
“Will you watch?” Gia asked. “In the wings? Take notes for me? I was thinking to ask you before but I was … I was shy.”
Why do people pick me? I’m the last person someone who needs someone should pick.
“Of course,” I said.
In the hallway, I passed Roger.
“I’m on for Von Goblin,” he said.
“Oh, goodie,” I said. “I love your Goblin. Wait. Who’s doing Ivor?”
“Alberto.”
“Really? He knows it?”
“He knows the pas de trois,” said Roger. “He’s a little sketchy on everything else. I told him that when in doubt, just point at something, smile, and slap Siegfried’s ass.”
“Oh dear god.”
“Should be quite a show,” said Roger, who disappeared down the hallway shouting, “You ARE what dance IS! And dance IS what you ARE!”
Normally cast changes are typed onto slips of paper and stuffed into the programs, but there wasn’t time for that tonight. Theo, our production stage manager, had to make an announcement on the mike. The changes were so extensive and the list so long that the audience actually started to
laugh a little. You could hear them through the curtain. I was in the wings, watching Hilel and Gia run through a few last things together. It’s a little ballet in itself: dancers before a performance. Hilel would sketch a lift with his hands. Gia would nod. They would do it. Then stand apart, nodding. Gia would walk in circles, hands on her tutu. Stop. Look at Hilel. Mime a pirouette. Hilel would nod. They would do it. Then stand apart, nodding.
I decided to stay in the wings and watch the Prelude. When Gia made her first brief appearance there was tremendous applause from the audience. I could see her shaking in Roger’s arms. It was so beautiful, how vulnerable she was. It was real fear though, so I don’t think she’ll be able to re-create it with the same simplicity. Once you start practicing emotions they look less cool.
Act I. Hilel as Siegfried got a nice entrance ovation. I watched Alberto scamper up to him and gesture either “Hello! Welcome! We are all having a good time and dancing! Please join us!” or “Thank god you are here, as I have been milling and mugging for what seems like an eternity! Do I slap your ass now?”
Things seemed to be going moderately well, so I retreated deeper into the wings to warm up until the music for the pas de trois began. Alberto, clearly grateful to have actual steps to dance, looked great. Galina came onstage as the Queen. It’s like she’s able to unhinge part of her jaw or something. No wonder Alberto got a little spooked. He nearly clipped Hilel with the crossbow.
The lake sets dropped in and the stage was bathed in blue. Hilel entered, woefully. Alberto entered, a full thirty-two counts
early, and all but shoved the crossbow in Hilel’s arms, before fleeing,
fleeing
, the stage. He ran right by me in the wings, crying, “Shit, shit, shit,” then doubled back and we watched Hilel improvise.
“It’s okay.” I patted Alberto.
“I fuck up,” he moaned. “Did you see me fuck up?”
“It just looked like Ivor was really scared of the forest,” I assured him. “Hilel is fine.”
But then it was time for the swans to make our entrance, so I ditched the knits and slippers and had a dresser hook up my bodice. Mara was right behind me. On and on we came, one after another, like heartbeats, like thoughts, like memory, like grief.
It’s not really the audience that one is frightened of, onstage. One is chasing ghosts, shadows, time. One is using the word “one” because to say “I” is to acknowledge that I might feel differently about dance than other people. As Mara pointed out, I’m the one with the problem.
Worth it? How do you measure that, please?
How does Gwen measure that?
Gia almost fell. There must have been a slippery spot just at the edge of the wings, and she stepped on it and skidded. I don’t think she was far enough onstage that the audience saw it, but the six or seven of us who did see it all sucked in our breaths simultaneously. Gia’s face went whiter than her makeup, but she composed herself quickly into the stricken ethereal femininity of all the White Swans who have come before her. I watched her out of the corner of my eye. We were all watching,
holding our breaths for her inside our narrow bodices. In moments like these, the family closes ranks. We want her to do well. We know how much it means to her, we know exactly how she feels. The empathy onstage was almost palpable. We danced our best, wanting to help.