On Pointe (19 page)

line the way.

Massive meadows

roll down

to where Grandpa's van is parked.

It looks like a little green dot from here.

“Mmm. Smell that air,

Mr. Lawrence.”

Grandpa and I

take a deep breath.

“It smells so clean

and light,” I say.

“Yep.”

Mabel rolls Grandpa up the incline

like it's no problem at all.

We take the final bend

and come to a broad, paved circle

with picnic tables.

The Olympic Mountain Range

surrounds us.

“Wow. Snowy peaks as far as you can see.”

“Awesome and mighty,” says Mabel.

We stand there and look.

It's like everything

is looking back

at tiny us.

“These sweet pickles are delicious.”

I take another crisp bite.

“You a pickle lover?” asks Mabel.

“Definitely.”

She pulls Grandpa closer to the table

and gives him another spoonful of yogurt.

“Will Grandpa always have to eat soft stuff?”

“Oh, I imagine he'll recover

some more of his swallowing ability.”

“I hope so.”

We unwrap a couple thick sandwiches.

“Thanks for bringing all this.”

“You're welcome.”

Two marmot heads pop up

in the grass.

One whistles, and they disappear.

“It's nice no other people are here,” I say.

“Oh, I don't think so.” Mabel wipes

Grandpa's lips.

“I think it's fun to meet new folks,

don't you?”

I shrug.

A gray mountain jay swoops down

and tears some crust off my sandwich.

His slender claws graze my hand,

then he's off.

“Hey!”

He flaps to a tree top.

Mabel and Grandpa laugh.

“I guess we aren't so alone

after all,” she says.

“Nope.”

The gray jay

blinks

and nibbles my crust.

Grandpa pulls out the harmonica.

“Play us a doozy, Mr. Lawrence.”

Mabel gets to her feet.

Grandpa's notes slip and slide

into the air.

“Sweet,” says Mabel.

She looks up at the pale blue sky

and sways.

Grandpa tumbles the notes out faster.

Mabel lifts her hands

high over her head and hums.

The skin shimmies

on the back of her arms.

The music seems to slide right

through her body.

Her pudgy feet take tiny steps in rhythm.

She's incredibly graceful.

“Come on, Clare,” she says.

“What?” I grip the picnic bench.

“Come dance.”

She sidesteps over,

takes my hand,

and pulls me up.

I'm stiff in front of this

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

about the adult class.”

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