The Cranes Dance (4 page)

“You see Dr. Ken?”

“And Dr. Wang,” I said. “He put the needles in my hands, though.”

“Dr. Wang told me that pain has two arrows,” said Roger. “The first arrow is like, the bad thing that happens. And the second arrow is the pain we give ourselves about the bad thing that happened.”

“How do you avoid the second arrow?” I asked.

Roger leaned against my chair.

“I forget. I think it has something to do with self-awareness? There might be a third arrow too.” Roger laughed and started to massage my neck.

“Jesus.” He prodded my yam.

“I can’t turn my head,” I said. “I’m stuck.”

“Sweetie,” said Roger, “maybe you should call out for a few days. You’re just going to keep reinjuring it if you keep dancing.”

“I’m kind of hoping I’ll throw it out in the other direction and achieve some sort of equilibrium,” I said.

“I don’t think that happens,” Roger said, gently, for him. “I think you need to rest.”

“I can’t rest.” I waved a hand. “I’m not in a resting place.”

“You have to induce that,” Roger instructed. “Smoke some pot. Watch
Oprah
. Eat Chinese. Rent porn.”

“Roger,” I said. “This is a very interesting formula you have created here.
Oprah
, Pot, and Porn.”

“And chicken with peanut sauce,” Roger said, dreamily. “That’s like, the best day off ever.”

I managed to get through Big Swans relatively unscathed, although I didn’t time the other half of the Vicodin perfectly and had to breathe in little puffs through my nose to keep going. Ella’s got that thing with her knee again and there was a moment when we turned together upstage and I caught her eye and all pretense of stage face dropped and we were just two injured worried people dressed up in feathers with white makeup sliding down in ravines of sweat from our foreheads and I almost panicked at the sheer heartbreak of it all. But then we turned downstage and got through it, so that was fine.

Recklessly, I swallowed the second Vicodin during intermission, and was consequently a little blitzed out for Polish Princess. Got very giggly in the wings with Roger. Last year during
Nutcracker
we started making up haiku backstage. Well, very loosely haiku. We’re not picky about the syllable count because 5-7-5 is too much math to do in the middle of a performance, and we’re not committed to the traditional nature reference. Roger had a good one tonight:

And I came up with:

I’m not totally clear on what happened during my solo. I may have gone a little overboard. It’s not
Swan Lake, The Polish Princess Story
. Did I discern a slightly more enthusiastic rumble of applause from the audience, or was that the vertebrae in my neck splintering?

What I had totally forgotten was that Gwen’s boyfriend Neil called me last week and said his sister was in town and that he had gotten them tickets to
Swan Lake
. This was all planned before Gwen had her “thing,” his sister loves dance, and it would be great to see me anyway, etc. We didn’t discuss the thinginess of Gwen’s thing. I have no idea what he knows.

Gwen met Neil on one of those trips to the Hamptons we would do with Andrew and his friends. This was after I had moved in with Andrew, and supposedly felt comfortable with his circle, and could just be myself. In truth, I had trouble being anything like myself when I was so thoroughly out of context, and usually ended up shrinking to an unimpressive version of a cliché I would make fun of in different circumstances: Andrew’s ballerina girlfriend, intimidating and remote beneath a thick layer of SPF 5,000, unable to get down with the Stacis and Rebeccas who would dance on the back of someone’s boat, lip-synching to rap. Having Gwen around was like seeing yourself in one of those multi-view dressing-room mirrors and finding better new angles, flattering postures, a way to cheat the overhead lighting. Gwen, reclining in a giant hat on the back of the same boat, holding a bottle of Corona like a wand, never
looked dour or arrogant. She looked sinewy and self-contained and yet fragile in a way none of the Stacis and Rebeccas could hope for. Neil, who is the kind of guy who would normally have a mid-level model or actress on his arm, scented out her status as a star dancer, a rarer and thus more valuable commodity, and was titillated by her indifference. Watching him go after her was like watching an episode of
Nature
.

I hadn’t thought that Gwen would go for Neil, though. The fact that Andrew had not only been to college but also to grad school, that he knew things about international politics and football stats and how to drive a stick shift, those were all weird aphrodisiacs to me. But Gwen had only ever dated dancers. I assumed Neil’s cred was off her radar, because what is membership at the Soho Club, a bespoke fedora, the usage of St. Barts as verb ’cause you’ve been there so often … what’s all that to being a Lord of the Dance? But they’ve been together, in a fashion, for almost two years now. From the outside it seems almost like they’re playing a game of Who Cares Less, with Gwen always winning because she really doesn’t care. My guess is that Gwen is just indifferent enough to Neil to keep him around, even though models make much better arm candy than dancers and our schedule only allows for a minimal of scene making. I’ve never been clear on what she gets from him. I don’t ask, because it makes me feel better to pretend that Gwen has a healthy relationship.

Neil was waiting at the stage door with the dressed-up-for-the-big-city sister hovering behind his shoulder, clutching her program and goggling at the exiting dancers. He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek before hugging me, which I don’t remember him ever doing before. I didn’t know if this was an
acknowledgment of Andrew and me breaking up, or of Gwen losing her marbles.

I took Neil and his sister to the place we take all people who come to a performance. Neil said to the waiter, “My beautiful sister would like a Cosmopolitan and the star will have …”

“A glass of Cabernet,” I said, impressed by Neil’s ability to sound both condescending and charming. He flipped open the wine list and ordered a bottle.

“Hardly a star,” I said, and then to the sister, “My sister Gwen is a star. I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to see her dance.”

“I know!” the sister gushed. “None of us have ever met her, even. We think Neil’s ashamed of us.”

“I told you she couldn’t come home with me for Christmas because of her performances,” Neil said easily.

“It’s true,” I told the sister. “We have an annual hell we like to call
The Nutcracker
. We haven’t spent Christmas with our own parents since we were teenagers.”

“Oh, but I love
The Nutcracker
,” began the sister, and then launched into the familiar non-dancer girl talking to dancer girl conversation. “Do your toes bleed?” “I had a friend/cousin/neighbor who danced who was really serious about her dancing until she got too tall/hurt her knee/went to college.” “You must not be able to eat
anything
.” “It must take a lot of discipline, I can’t even imagine doing what you do.” “All the men are gay, right?”

To his credit, Neil didn’t try to reroute any of this, or display insider knowledge, or make excuses for his sister’s gushings. He seemed a little remote, in that slightly showy way men do like they just read an article about how women find this attractive. I remembered that Gwen told me that Neil has a big dick. Eventually
the sister got up to totter to the bathroom. Neil picked up his wineglass.

“So you called the cops on Gwen?”

I rearranged objects on the table. Pushed the saltshaker away. Fiddled with the cutlery. Crossed my legs. Gingerly rotated my neck.

“If you mean I called our parents when I thought Gwen was … was really … had actually sort of … lost it,” I said. “Then, yes. I did.”

Neil made a little gesture of annoyance.

“Oh come on,” he said. “I admit our Gwen is a little unstable, but seriously? That’s like most of the women in this city. I’ve dated a lot crazier in my time.”

“Your time? How old are you? Like, thirty?”

“I’m just saying,” Neil said, twirling his glass like he was patronizing his wine just by sipping it. “You might have overreacted a bit.”

“Right, because you know my sister so well,” I said, gritting my gums. “From a couple of hours at a restaurant every other week? From a trip to Cabo? This makes you an expert on her.”

“I think I know her pretty well,” he said. “And I know that you do consider yourself to be like, Gwen’s watchdog or whatever.”

“Is that what Gwen told you?”

“That’s between me and Gwen.”

The idea that Gwen had characterized me as a “watchdog” to Neil was not unthinkable. She often slotted me into this kind of role, for getting out of things she didn’t want to do. “Kate would be mad.” “Kate wouldn’t approve.” “Don’t tell Kate.” The idea that I could stop Gwen from doing anything was pretty
ludicrous. The idea that I should now be in the position of defending my actions to Neil made my neck hurt.

“Everybody is a little bipolar in this town,” Neil continued. “It’s called being alive in the twenty-first century. Fine. She needs to take some drugs to level it all out. No big deal. You didn’t have to call Mommy and Daddy. You should have called me. I know a ton of people.”

I watched him take another sip of wine. I pressed the table down with the palms of my hands, but I couldn’t quite finish the gesture and stand up, walk out. I couldn’t believe he could sit there calmly drinking fucking Cabernet and accuse me of gaslighting my own sister. Especially since the fear that this is exactly how Gwen sees the whole thing is keeping me up at night.

I never wanted the job of watchdog.

“Look,” Neil said, leaning forward and, incredibly, putting a hand over mine. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Maybe she really did freak out. When I talked to her yesterday she seemed totally fine, though. She even said she wasn’t that mad at you. Just frustrated. I didn’t tell her I was going to see you, though. So we should probably keep that between us.”

Between us?
As if there could be a separate space with no Gwen. Even if she’s absent, her negative space takes up so much room. It has weight, texture, scent. I nearly ordered her a vodka tonic.

“I’ll be honest,” Neil said. “Things between Gwen and me haven’t been that great. But I care about her. I care about both of you.”

That’s a pretty ambiguous phrase, when you think about it. “I care about you.” What does that mean? I didn’t know what
to say or what to do. I was numb. I was exhausted. I was still wearing false eyelashes. Neil leaned forward.

“Kate?”

“Yes?”

“Are you wearing Gwen’s perfume?”

“No.”

I looked away and saw Neil’s sister weaving her way back to us. Neil let go of my hand. When I said I was a little tired they were both very solicitous. “Of course. You must be exhausted!” Outside the restaurant, the sister gave me a shy hug, “You’re so tiny!” and Neil gave me a kiss on the cheek without the hug. I got into a cab and thought about crying and calling Gwen and demanding that she speak to me. I thought about fucking Neil and seeing if that’s what he meant about caring. I thought about showing up at Andrew’s doorstep and making a big scene. But I would have had to change my entire personality to do any of these things and it wasn’t that long a cab ride.

When I got home I was ready for sleep, but the thought of all the pre-bed things—face washing, teeth brushing, flossing, getting undressed—was just too much. And my neck was throbbing. A bit of eyelash glue had made its way into the corner of my eye. I poured myself a glass of water. I knew if I went to bed I would just lie there, thinking, and I couldn’t stand the thought of thinking. I took another half of Vicodin, which hit my body almost at the point of ingestion. My mood improved. I remembered something Gwen once said about Neil. It was after I had suggested that Neil was a bit of a player.

“He can’t play me, though,” she said. In another person this might have sounded worldly, or sophisticated. But Gwen isn’t like that, exactly. What she is, is extremely honest and sort
of philosophically consistent. Once she thinks of something, that’s it. That’s her opinion. Faced with that, I often have to consider that what I think of as my own carefully reasoned philosophy is in fact just bricolage. A bird’s nest of things I’ve read, things I’ve heard, feathers and leaves and takeout containers, single socks and song lyrics. And that I never really understand anything at all.

“He can’t play you?” I prompted.

“The person he would play isn’t really me,” Gwen said simply. “It has nothing to do with me. So it doesn’t really matter. You know?”

I did know. I actually admired her point of view, although I felt some compunction about condoning it.

“So what’s the point of going out with someone if you’re not really yourself around them?” I asked, trying to make the question sound rhetorical even though I was genuinely interested in her answer. “Why date someone who you know won’t ever get the real you?”

“Oooh,” Gwen mocked, rolling her eyes. “Oooh, the
real
me! That’s so deep, Kate. Oooh!”

We laughed. Of course she was right. The real you doesn’t have a fixed location. And how could one possibly find the real among all the decoys? Actually, Gwen in her madness is way more consistent than most people, in terms of fundamentals.

“Besides,” said Gwen, with her heartbreaker smile. “I have you for the real me.”

It’s not easy to drink water, smoke, keep your neck perfectly mobilized in an ice pack, and peel off fake eyelashes. What
other professions engage in this difficult form of multitasking? Glamorous but aging discus throwers? Transvestite violinists?

Okay, I was wearing her perfume.

But it’s just that I used up all my perfume when I was hosing down Andrew’s linens. And I hate not having perfume on. It feels like going into battle without armor. Hers was there. I’m surprised that Neil could smell it. You would think after sweating though a four-act ballet I’d be back to smelling like me again. I shouldn’t have been surprised though. Everything about Gwen is so distinctive.