large dancing woman.
What are the steps?
There’s no choreography or anything.
Nobody to tell me what to do,
what step to take.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“What do you mean you can’t?”
This is stupid.
“Close your eyes,” she says.
I do, but cross my arms.
“Listen, Clare. Listen to your granddaddy
singing to you.”
I can’t.
“Be quiet and listen.”
I do.
The notes press their way
through my muscles and into my bones.
I open my eyes
and see I’m swaying
to the same beat as Mabel.
I follow her little tiny steps
into Grandpa’s song.
Over and over
with our arms lifted high.
I turn inside out
in front of
the huge mountains,
the marmots and Mabel,
the gray jay and Grandpa.
Grandpa breaks into the song
I danced to last year at my old school.
The Chinese one from The Nutcracker.
The beat flies at me fast.
I’m laughing out loud
as the steps storm back through my body.
Faster and faster
Grandpa plays.
Changement,
changement,
changement.
My boots thunk the pavement.
Double pirouette.
Triple.
And pose!
I collapse onto the ground.
Grandpa bangs his armrest.
“Bravo!” hoots Mabel.
“I’m-totally-out-of-breath,” I gasp.
“You lost me back at that
first twirly-mabob,” laughs Mabel.
“Wooo!” I lean against Grandpa’s chair,
and he pats my shoulder.
I just
danced ballet.
The hills whir past
as Mabel drives us home.
Seems like I floated down the trail
back to the van.
Grandpa played music
the whole way.
Now his snores rumble.
“We tuckered out your granddaddy,” says Mabel.
“Sounds like it.”
She changes lanes.
“You sure seem happy, Clare.”
I flip open the vent.
“You were dancing the likes I’ve never seen.”
“Only an old ballet routine I performed
last year.”
I tug my seatbelt looser.
“Did you like performing?” Mabel asks.
“It was okay.”
She raises the rearview mirror a bit.
“Well, I could tell you love to dance.
Someone along the way
has believed in you.
You’ve obviously had wonderful training.”
“Yeah. My dad and Grandpa.
And Mom.
They supported me for years.
I used to spend a lot of time learning.
But not anymore.”
“Well, you weren’t learning anything
back there. You were dancing.
I know. Same kind of passion comes over me
when I’m singing.”
“Really?”
“Don’t you know? Clare,
you need to have yourself
some space and time to dance now.”
I grip the arm hold
as the van bounces in and out
of potholes.
Grandpa sleeps through it.
“I got kicked out of my old class
because I’m too tall.”
“Well then, take a different one. Must be
something somewhere
for you to dance to. You sure wouldn’t want
to lose all that joy
because someone else
thinks you’re too tall.”
“But I won’t ever dance ballet professionally.”
“Probably not.” Mabel speeds up
and merges onto the freeway.
“But you’d be dancing
for yourself.”
If I’m not good enough
to be a superstar in New York,
and I’m too tall for City Ballet,
is it right
or fair
to want to dance
anyway?
Do I deserve the chance?
I open my bedroom door
and peek out.
The stir-fry sizzles in the kitchen.
Mom laughs at Dad’s joke.
I turn and shut the phone book.
The lady I talked to was nice at least.
My hand shakes
as I circle the dates and times
of the adult class on my notepad.
I could still take class
Monday through Saturday if I wanted.
The cost is so much less
than we paid before,
with lessons only an hour long.
Only flat shoes are used,
so there’d be no toe shoe expense.
I flop on my bed and pull my feet up.
And no blisters and bleeding.
There’s probably a couple people in class
with a little talent.
For sure Grandpa wants me
to keep taking lessons.
What would Mom and Dad think?
What do I think?
I match my domino on Mom’s train.
“Thank you.” She adds a tile
to mine.
“Your turn, Dwight,” she says.
“Yes, yes.”
Grandpa is totally focused on the game.
“So I called Ballet Conservatory today.”
“Oh, good.” Mom looks at me. “Did we have
any outstanding bills?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
Dad places a domino.
Grandpa matches one onto his train.
“What did you call for, then, Clare?” says Dad.
“I, you know, was asking
about the adult class
in case I ever wanted to maybe
take one sometime.”
The three of them
look at me.
“Well, Clare,” starts Mom,
“I thought we—you—had set that dream aside.
That you were going to look for a new pursuit.”
“Yeah. But maybe for some exercise
or something. What do you think, Dad?”
“Excellent idea.”
“But, Dwight. We all know
that class is unprofessional.
Remember that one time?
We saw them
when we were waiting for Clare’s class to begin.”
“I remember.”
“Well then, you know what I mean.
The form and technique are shoddy.
What’s the point, Dwight?”
“The point, Martha,
is that Clare loves to dance.
And it looked to me
like that class was there for the same reason.”
Grandpa grunts his approval.
“But there’s no goal or end.”
“Mom.” I lean forward. “There doesn’t
have to be.”
She rearranges her dominoes.
“Is that possible? I mean, after the failure—”
“It wasn’t a failure, Mom!”
I bang the table and the dominoes jump.
“Clare!” she says.
“I was good enough for the company.”
She takes a deep breath. “But you’re
too tall, honey.”
“Yeah. So I am. Too tall for their
cookie-cutter corps.
But I’m not too tall
to dance, Mom.
It’s what I want to do.”
“Glad to hear it.” Dad folds his hands. “Now,
do you have a play, Clare?”
I check my tiles.
I set down a double five on Mom’s train,
click my last on the table,
and play it on the double.
“I win.”
I get up and walk away
from the stupid look
on Mom’s face.
I rock on the porch swing.
Clouds skid away from the moon.
Mom never went for her dream
till now.
Maybe she didn’t
really have it before.
I wonder if she’s only writing
because she thinks one day
she’ll write a book?
A collection of poetry?
And then everyone will want to buy it.
And she’ll win some award.
What if she never sells a word?
Does that mean it’s a waste of time?
Why can’t doing the thing
be the goal?
Where the fun is.
Everyone should get
to do the thing.
Like Grandpa still skiing
when he was too old and slow
to win any more races.
He kept doing it
as long as he could
because he loved doing it.
I’m not good enough for New York,
but this is who I am
and what I want to do.
That’s the way it’s going to be for me
from now on.
As long as I can.
The best I can.
Dad and Grandpa understand
my dream now
is to dance.
While I’m waiting for the popcorn
to finish,
Dad comes in.
“I want some water,” he says,
and fills his glass.
“Thanks, Dad, for being so cool
He takes a long drink
and wipes his mouth on a napkin.
“I always said failure is not your future.”
“If I work hard enough, I’ll learn something
along the way.”
“Exactly.” He sets his cup in the sink.
“Far as I can see, you’ve learned
you are a dancer
who loves to dance.”
I make myself look him in the eye.
He comes over and gives me a hug.
“And don’t worry.
I’ll talk to your mother.
When is the next class?”
“Tomorrow.”
“You going?”
“I want to.”
“Then I’ll stop in on the way to work
and settle the costs.”
Beeeeee, squeals the microwave.
Tomorrow!
I kissed Grandpa good night,
and Dad gave me a hug
before I went to bed.
Mom called out
“Good night” to me.
I called the same back.
We were really
still yelling at each other.
I hear crying in the night.
Who is it?
I rush to Grandpa’s room.
He’s sitting up in the dark,
weeping.
I flick on the light.
“Grandpa, what is it?”
He points to his right arm and leg.
I sit down on the edge of his bed.
He reaches over,
grips my hand,
and presses it to the dead side of his face.
His tears are warm
from both eyes.
“Grandpa, I’m so sorry.”
He gasps in air.
I tug out a tissue and dry his face
and mine.
He lets out a big sigh
and looks over at
his old hymn book on the nightstand.
I pick it up and flip to the bookmark.
“The one by Medley?”
He grunts and lies down.
I read aloud,
“Whene’er my Saviour and my God
Has on me laid his gentle rod,
I know, in all that has befel,
My Jesus has done all things well.”
I look at Grandpa.
His eyes are closed,
and he’s smiling.
I lean over and kiss him
on the forehead.
“Clare, is everything all right?”
Mom clutches her robe
in the doorway.
“Yeah.”
I go over to her.
“Grandpa’s okay.”
I flip off the light.
“He’s okay.”
He’s changed.
Different
and the same.
I’m changed.
Different
and the same.
We can sit and remember
how good it was,
hiking,
skiing,
getting ready to audition,
and be
sad.
Or
we can be
who we are now
and
try to enjoy the new parts.
We are both trying.
I know that
for sure.
Grandpa said
he could always count on me
to try.
I must have
gotten that
from him.
The adult class is before my old class.
I’m up early with excitement,
even before Mabel gets here.
I tug my dance bag
down from the top of the closet.
My knee bumps the tube of posters,
and it clatters to the floor.
I toss my bag onto my bed.
Maybe I’ll hang the posters later—
at least Baryshnikov.
I grab clean tights and a leotard
from the dresser.
They slip on easily.
Today I don’t feel like a sausage at all.
It’s more like my ballet clothes
are hugging me just right.
I start brushing out my hair.
“Clare?”
Mom opens the door and steps in.
“Can I help you with that?”
I shrug. “I guess.”
She draws the bristles
over my scalp.
“Sorry.” My sarcasm sneaks out.
“Your dad and I talked
late into the night.
I wanted to really try and see
what you two were thinking.
But it’s completely different
from the way I’ve always thought.”
She hits a snarl and gently works the brush
to untangle it.
“Clare, being the best and winning
were extremely important to me growing up.
Dad won so many ski races,
and he and Mom were always top performers
in the Puget Sound area
for ballroom dance.
They were so good at everything.
I allowed myself to be too scared to try
anything at all.
I was afraid of them
seeing me fail.”
She looks at me in the mirror.
“I’m sorry I said you failed, Clare.
Not making City Ballet
had nothing to do with your effort.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She winds my ponytail
into a bun
and slides in the pins.
“I’m proud of you, sweetheart.”
She tucks a stray hair behind my ear.
“I’m p
roud of you for knowing
who you are
and doing what you want.”
I turn and hug my mom.
She brushes a tear off her cheek.
I pull my toe shoes out of the bag.
The blood stains on the boxing
are brown.
There’s already a musty smell.
“I guess I can leave these here.”
I go to set them on my dresser.
“Wait.” Mom takes them from me.
“Why don’t you display these
in Grandpa’s cabinet?”
“I don’t know, Mom.”
“Clare, you wore these. This is probably
your last pair of toe shoes.
I’m proud of what these represent.”
“What’s that?”
“A dream you reached for.
Hard work.
Perseverance.
Sacrifice.
And most of all,
love
for ballet.”
“Okay, Mom.
Let’s find a spot for them.”
Mom moves some ski ribbons
and dusts the shelf.
I unwind one shoe
and slip it on.
The narrow flat boxing presses into my toes.
I teeter on the hard leather sole.
It never did seem wide enough
to support my whole foot.
I go up on pointe.
Crunching
pain.
I roll down
and slip off the shoe.
Who ever invented toe shoes
anyway?
Dancing on pointe is totally unnatural,
unhealthy,
and painful.
“Hand them to me,” says Mom.
I quickly wind the ribbons
and put both shoes in her hand.
She places them
on the shelf
right under the light.
The glass door clicks closed.
“Perfect.” She gives me a squeeze.
“Dwight, we need to grab some breakfast,” she calls,
and hurries off.
The pink satin shines through the glass.
But there’s dust,
blood, and sweat
on them too.
This is the perfect place.
I don’t need them
to dance
anymore.
“You know,” says Mabel,
feeding Grandpa a spoon of oatmeal,
“since I don’t work Sundays,
I bet Clare could take Mr. Lawrence
to church.” She winks at me.
I filled her in yesterday.
“I’m sure I can,” I jump in.
“It’s right down the street.”
Even Grandpa grunts a yes.
Mom and Dad look up from their cereal
and say, “Okay,” before they even
think about it.
Nobody argues with Mabel.
Besides, it’s too important to Grandpa.
After last night, that’s for sure.
His religion comforts him.
And I’d kind of like to know
what that’s about.
Sunday
I’m
taking him.
Mom and Dad were giddy
going off to work.
They hung out the car windows waving
like this was my first dance class in my life.