Chapter 3
Three
It's Tuesday night, and I'm exhausted. Part of it is rehearsals.
Part of it is the emotional drain of what I did the other night, accompanied by last night's introduction to my blackmailer and jailer.
It's putting a lot of extra strain on me, and I'm pretty sure I didn't get more than four hours’ sleep last night.
I spent all day today at rehearsal trying to figure out who this guy is.
The principal dancers cluster together and keep to themselves, but I need to know if one of the male principals is my blackmailer.
Or is it one of the instructors or choreographers?
It's not Mr. V. Obviously. I know his voice. And this guy is younger.
All day I wondered if my blackmailer was right in front of me, quietly mocking me.
Henry pops in a DVD, pulling me from my thoughts. The movie starts. We're sitting in my living room: Me, Henry, and Melinda.
“Oh God, no, not this one again. I hate this one!” I whine.
“Nope, you have to. It's the start of the season, and we have to watch this movie. It's the ballet movie we all love to hate. It is our forever frenemy,” he says.
“It's like a hate fuck,” I say.
“YES!” Henry exclaims, shoving a bowl of popcorn onto my lap. “You hate it, but at the same time, it's so good.”
I know he brought the DVD to make us watch the bonus features. We're about halfway through the movie when Melinda says “I fucking hate her mother. What is wrong with this woman?”
“Oh, I know!” Henry says.
“Cue fragile emotional meltdown and stereotype of the uptight repressed ballerina,” Melinda says, sounding dramatic and distressed.
“Drink!” I say. Because we all drink every time this girl has some meltdown. “Where does that myth even come from? Like bitch, please, try living one day in my life and tell me ballerinas are these delicate fragile flowers about to fall apart every second.”
“They do that to the men, too,” Henry says.
“Not really in this movie,” I say. Which is probably why he likes it. The stereotypes are all on the girls this time.
“I mean in general. Like there is this assumption of weakness in men who dance ballet. And that we're all gay.”
“You are gay,” Melinda says throwing a handful of popcorn at him.
“Yeah, but I'm one of only three out of the whole company! I want a refund. I was sold a lie!”
In spite of the fact that tomorrow is Wednesday and all that may mean, I can't help laughing. I can't help trying to hold onto this moment where everything seems good and normal.
“Besides, the male dancers are always touching the female dancers pretty intimately,” Melinda says.
“If we had any other job, and our male co-workers touched us like our partners do for some of these lifts, it would be a sexual harassment scandal,” I say a little loud because I always get a little loud when I drink.
By this point, the movie has been drowned out with our rants about dance politics and how non-dancers will never understand us.
“When is Conall coming home?” Melinda asks suddenly, completely killing all the joy in this night—even though she doesn't mean to or even realize she did it.
My mind goes to the grout in the master bathroom. I'm like a hamster in a wheel with this grout issue. And I feel like I've got a guilty look on my face, but we're all drunk and nobody will notice. Right? “He said a few weeks.”
“Has he called?”
“He never calls when he's out of town.”
“I bet he's with that whore he named the boat after... what's her name again?” Henry asks.
“Stella,” I say. “And probably.”
“The Delectable Stella,” Melinda clarifies, as if this clarification needs to be made. “What kind of piece of shit takes his mistress on a not-so-secret vacation on his wife's birthday? And at the start of the dance season.”
“Conall does,” I say. “Anyway, I hate for him to watch me perform. He makes me nervous. He doesn't get ballet, and he gets weird about Henry. He thinks we've got something going on.”
Henry rolls his eyes. “Must be that magical sexual orientation altering vagina you've got.”
I laugh out loud at that and punch him in the arm, causing him to slosh tequila onto the sofa.
I'm glad we're off tomorrow. We all know we can't be drinking like this during performance season.
We have to be focused, but it's a last hoorah before everything kicks off.
It's not that we never have alcohol or go to parties during the season; we just try to keep it to a minimum.
We need to be in top performance condition—like any professional athlete—which is ultimately what we are.
“I don't understand why you're still in the corps,” Melinda says. “You're one of the best dancers in the entire company. They're idiots for not promoting you. Who did you piss off?”
I've often wondered the same, but it's nice to hear it from someone else, to know I'm not delusional, thinking I'm better than I truly am.
I wake on Wednesday morning with a jolt and heart palpitations.
It's like my body knows even before I'm fully conscious that I have to go back to the old opera house tonight and confront my blackmailer again.
I wish it was money. I wish I could just drop some amount every week in a paper bag and leave it by the back door.
I take several long, slow breaths and try not to cry, but the tears come anyway, sliding down the sides of my face onto my pillow.
What is he going to do to me? Who is he?
Is he going to hurt me? And in all honesty what I mean here is: is he going to hit me?
Is he a violent man? I don't really have the mental real estate right now to berate myself for my physical reaction to that voice.
I know I shouldn't have this sick attraction, but a part of me is grateful for it and hope it lasts because that's better than the alternative.
There’s already so much that weighs me down that I'm not going to blame myself if some part of me wants this man.
I killed my husband, and I don't feel especially guilty about that.
So I've pretty much left the realm of normal socially acceptable behavior.
I'm already a stranger to the world and to myself. What's one more thing?
But I am afraid he'll hurt me, like Conall hurt me.
Kicks and slaps and punches—always in places no one can see the bruises—aren't a theory to me.
I know what it feels like, and if this man is going to do those things.
.. if I freed myself from one brutal monster only to be abused by another.
.. would prison be better? I don't know the answer to that.
I just want to dance. And I don't understand why that has to be so fucking complicated.
His threat of punishment Monday night surges back into my memory.
What does that mean? I know what it meant when Conall did it.
Though Conall never said he was going to punish me.
He didn't use those words. He just flew into a rage and yelled, and threw things, and hurt me.
And he was never calm about it. This man—this stranger—was so calm that even when he used that word, even as my terror climbed, there was a stillness running through me under everything because I could feel the same stillness running through him.
I make bacon and eggs and sit quietly in the kitchen nook staring out the window at the birds crowding around the bird feeder as I eat. Then I try to scrub the grout in the bathroom again. Nothing I do matters though. Not even bleach. I can still see the faint stain of the blood.
Sometimes I think maybe I'm hallucinating it. But it's not as if I can ask someone to come over and tell me if they see the blood, too, or if it's just me.
I finally give up and leave the house. We're lucky to have a huge dance supply warehouse in the city.
Yes, people can order stuff online, but some things—as a dancer—you really want to try on.
Even if you know your size in a certain brand of leotard, unless the straps are exactly the same and the back is exactly the same, you want to try it on so you can get a feel for how you'll move in it.
If something pinches or digs in somewhere, you don't want to spend hours dancing that way.
Trying on shoes is also smart because all the brands and styles are a little different.
And I like to try on leg warmers personally because some of them are just way too thick—and then I'm too hot.
I like a lighter material—enough to protect joints and muscles until I warm up, but not so much that I have to get rid of them in the middle of class or rehearsal to not feel like I'm going to catch on fire.
I worry the entire drive to the dance warehouse that despite the size of the place they won't have the exact things I've been ordered to wear.
But then I reason it's unlikely he'll call the police just because the leotard is the slightly wrong shade or cut.
Right? I don't know what this man is capable of or how he defines the word reasonable.
A reasonable person wouldn't make any of the demands or threats he's made.
Luckily, this is a wasted fear. Everything he wants is here.
I try on and buy several medium gray and several plum-colored leotards with low scooped backs.
I grab extra tights while I'm here because you can never have too many pairs of tights.
I try on and buy several new pairs of canvas ballet shoes.
Mine are falling apart and definitely aren't up to his code.
They have a new line of canvas ballet slippers that a lot of the girls in the company are switching to, and as soon as I slip a pair on, I know why. They hug my foot in exactly the right places, and give me room where I need it, but none where I don't. I can't wait to dance in them.
And even though I have pink leg warmers, I can't resist the siren call of more.
And definitely more hip warmers. What the fuck, right?
I mean I'm being blackmailed so... it's not like this isn't necessary shopping.
It's the first time I've ever mentally defended a shopping binge with but I'll go to prison if I don't buy it.
I would probably be tempted to buy more pointe shoes if my shoes weren't all custom made for me and provided by the company.
I have a hundred and twenty brand new pairs.
I know that sounds like obsessive compulsive hoarding behavior, but most professional dancers go through a hundred pairs of pointe shoes or more in a season.
After the shopping, I pick up a bouquet of pink roses because I'm not convinced I can believably lie to him when he demands to know if I followed all his instructions. And it's not worth the possible cost.
When I get home, I take off tags and throw everything in the laundry to wash and put the roses in water. I sew my elastics into all my new shoes and try them on again. And then I'm a basket case for the next several hours waiting for my fate to unfold.
At seven p.m., I have dinner. I know it's morbid, but it's leftover lasagna from the other night.
I didn't poison the whole pan, just what was on Conall's plate.
I wasn't going to waste an entire pan of lasagna on that piece of shit.
I just don't have the mental energy right now to cook something else.
My mind is too full of what might happen tonight.
After dinner, I put the dishes in the dishwasher, as if this bit of housework is going to slow down the clock.
I draw a bath in the oversized garden tub in the master bathroom and pour in the warm vanilla bath oil.
I sprinkle the petals from a couple of roses on top of the water and light beeswax candles.
I push play on a swan lake CD and slip into the hot soothing water.
For just a moment I let myself forget about tonight and why I'm taking this ritual bath. I lean back against the edge of the tub and close my eyes. My fingers trail through the water, chasing rose petals around the tub.
When the water turns cool, I hop in the shower to wash my hair. By the time my hair is in a bun, and I'm dressed according to his dress code, it's already eight-thirty.