The Art of Falling (12 page)

He held up a tray of finished doughnuts for their approval, and they clapped, as did I. He waved, wiped his hands, and came out to the children now gathered at the counter. He carried a misshapen doughnut. “This one doesn’t pass my inspection,” he said. “I’ll cut it up, and you can each have a piece.”

The children squealed with delight. The mother thanked him by buying a dozen more, and they left.

“One of my favorite parts of this job,” he said. “I’m disappointed not to see Angela with you. Is everything all right?”

We parked in the Penn’s Landing lot and ate on the steps of the Great Plaza. While looking out over the Delaware, Marty ate his cheesesteak and I alternated bites of pear with spoonfuls of nonfat cottage cheese from the container balanced on my knee. “Angela says she comes here every New Year’s Eve and Fourth of July for the fireworks,” he said.

The poor man was consuming so many calories, what couldn’t fit in his mouth oozed out. I held my breath as I wiped some grease from his chin, and he smiled rather sweetly. With food choice alone he was in enough trouble. Did I have any business adding to his problems? If Angela might soon be gone, did it matter if his wife knew about her?

And who was I to get involved? I never meddled in other people’s business, let alone love affairs. What did I know of love? How it fails. How it can freeze-dry your heart and scatter your remains. I didn’t even remember what love looked like between my parents. Yet Angela made me want to matter—to her. If it took all the fight she had to keep from drowning in harsh medical realities, I’d do what I could to make her air sweeter to breathe.

I stood up. “Could we walk?”

We trashed the containers and headed down the esplanade in the direction of the river’s flow.

“Listen,” I said. “Angela isn’t well. She doesn’t need these kinds of complications.”

“Is it the cystic fibrosis? From what complications is she suffering? Tell me.”

“What are you doing, keeping a diary? Angela is more than her disease. And if you’re going to hurt her, you’ll have to go through me.”

“Why do you raise your voice?” he said. “I am in complete agreement. I’m lucky to have you both in my life.”

“And what about your wife?”

He looked baffled. “Of course, I was lucky to have her as well.”

“So you’ve left her?”

“I guess Angela didn’t tell you.” He stopped, took a deep breath, and let it seep out through pursed lips. “My wife died four years ago. It’s still difficult to speak of.”

I stopped and turned to him. “Wow. I had no idea.”

He nodded with his head bowed, then resumed walking. “I fear I broke down a bit when I shared it with Angela. She has been protective, and very sweet. I can sense the god in her.”

“If you’d rather not talk about it—”

“The sun is shining, and the bread rose today—I’m fine. It happened at a friend’s house, on a summer day. You know how steamy Philadelphia can get. She asked for a glass of iced tea to cool herself, and drank it right down. One moment she stood next to me, smiling and laughing—I keep seeing her that way—and in the next she blacked out and struck her head on the pavement.” He drifted off, watching a tugboat tow a freighter upriver.

“And she died from that?”

“She had an undiagnosed bleeding disorder. She’d been so healthy we never knew. For a week she lingered while blood filled her brain…” His voice grew rough. During a long pause, I sensed some inward struggle. When he spoke again, he said, “It was not meant to be.”

“I’m so sorry—”

“Well. A glass of iced tea should have been no match for my wife’s will to live.”

“There was nothing you could do.”

“Oh, but I tried. I knelt by her bed, every day, begging for her eyes to open. For her lungs to gasp for breath of their own accord. For her blood to do what it was supposed to do and keep her with me. But she just kept leaving. And I have been…so…angry.”

I touched his arm to stop his shaking. “It wasn’t her fault.”

“Wasn’t it?” If he didn’t look just like the gentle soul I’d come to know, I would have feared the blade of his passion. “She was only forty. So vibrant. Look at what you survived, Penny. What Angela rises above, every single day. There is such beauty in the fight to live. We must all find the courage to go on.”

I nodded at the truth in his last statement. “Angela has more of that courage than anyone I’ve ever met.”

His whole body seemed to relax at the mention of her name. He smiled. “And I love that about her.”

My love life intervention had gone so far astray I now wondered if Kandelbaum and Angela might be well suited for one another.

Maybe I should stick to the world of dance. Here, walking along the river of real life, I was completely out of my element.

Or was I only out of my element when it came to love?

• • •

“Contract the abdominals, it will help me, yes.” Holding me beneath the arms, Dmitri lifted me out of the split while I wondered if making things easier for him should continue to be my goal. For months I had continued to help him create roles he would ultimately let Karly or Tina perform.

“Dmitri, we need to talk.”

“Tsh,” he said. He stood behind me and watched himself in the mirror as he reached out to the left, gathered space with his arm, and then returned to hold it over my head. When he lowered his arm, all those bits of air he’d energized rained down over us. He ran his hand along my rib cage and down my thigh before allowing its downward motion to pull him into a dramatic fall to the floor. He popped back up to try it again and said, “I like when you say ‘we.’”

“About taking the company to Russia. I need to figure out how I can best support your goals while still performing.”

“You are a bewitching dancer, Penny.” He never took his eyes off the mirror. He began again, scooping and circling his arm, running his hand down my rib cage and thigh, this time spinning to the floor.

“I like that better,” I said.

“What?”

“It was different that time.”

“How so?”

I posed him in my former position and demonstrated. “The second time you spun down to the floor
sans
drama. It was better, like dissolving into a whirlpool.”

“‘Whirlpool’ means?”

I made a swirling gesture toward the floor with my arm and a swooshing noise.

“Yes, perfect.”

“We’re a good team.” I smiled at him in the mirror.

“Nothing is more true than this.” He put his hands on my shoulders to place me before him again and hesitated, smiling at me in the mirror, before repeating the reach, the scoop, the overhead circle. But this time, when his hand reached my rib cage, I felt something different. A sensitivity to his touch, an appreciation in his fingers. As if he were reading me with his hand in order to see me in a new way. His palm slid across the front of my rib cage and came to rest on my abdomen. I verified the sensation in the mirror, then shifted my focus to the reflection of his eyes. His hand reversed direction, as if to check out the goose bumps left in its path, moving slowly enough that its exploration of my breast could not be construed as an accident.

Until then, I thought I’d had an intuitive sense of Dmitri’s moves, but I had not anticipated this one. I pulled away and turned to look at him. I could barely breathe enough to say, “What’s going on?”

“Penny.”

It was like he called to me from the back of his throat. I looked at the way the pink of his lower lip didn’t quite extend all the way to the edge of its fleshy ridge and wondered how it was, in all the times we’d worked together, I’d missed this extraordinary detail. I had to divert all resources to the effort to remain standing.

He said, “I want you for myself all the time. You know how I feel about you.”

And I was thinking,
I
do?
He moved behind me. To start the sequence again, I thought. But he pulled my body back toward his and kissed my neck. He murmured, “Having you near makes me wild.” He gently squeezed all my most vulnerable parts—my thigh, my hip, my ass.

“I need you, Penny.” He pulled me off-balance and rocked my body against his. He continued the dance then, allowing his left hand to slur down my rib cage and ooze down my thigh before he spun down to the floor. But this time he never let go of my hand, and pulled me down on top of him. He traced my ear, my brow, my nose. Then brushed those imperfectly pink lips against mine, tickling and tasting until I slipped my hand beneath his curls and pulled him to me, almost losing myself in his pliable strength and the feel of that baby-soft neck hair curled against my fingertips.

It was only a small but demanding morsel of pride, way down in my right pinkie toe, that protected me from letting anything else happen in the University of the Arts, where at any moment a college student or professor could walk in on us.

“Not here.”

After a walk in the brisk night air, we rode the elevator all the way to the fourteenth floor of the Independence Suites next to a disheveled man who reeked of alcohol and cigarettes. After closing Dmitri’s door, we laughed when we noticed each other take a gulp of fresh air, then laughed again when the heat coming on sounded an awful lot like “Tsk, tsk, tsk.” If the spell had dissipated, I needed to find a way to preserve our relationship without any undue awkwardness, but before I could say
you
don’t owe me an explanation
, he leaned his face so close to mine I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face.

“You understand me, Penny. Sometimes it feels like you are under my skin, inside, where the heart beats and movement begins.”

Was it so easy for him to access his heart? What I couldn’t protect with calluses was too vulnerable to survive the abuses of my dance life, so I’d splinted and wrapped and plastered what was precious to me until I felt full no matter how little I ate. Dmitri’s whispers peeled back that protection like clothing, layer after layer, until nothing remained between us but my heart, frantic and fully exposed. One snide word at that moment and it would have stopped beating. But he spoke no more. He pressed his lips to mine, so gently, as if to taste my wounds. In return, I gave him all of me.

• • •

Kandelbaum’s voice intruded. “I’d better get you out of this sun. You’re flushed.”

I was wearing SPF 50. It was Dmitri. The man still had the power to stir such memory that my very blood responded. I wanted to believe that if Dmitri’s interest in me had been as obvious as Angela’s in Kandelbaum, I would have picked up on it sooner. Why can’t we see love when it’s staring us in the face?

To turn me back around, Kandelbaum put his arm around my shoulders, and left it. “Our universe holds many mysteries. In one way or another, it seems we move toward them, not away.”

“Yeah, well, you know I’m a fan of movement.” I looked at him and smiled. “You’re pretty philosophical for a baker.”

“Baking inspires philosophical thought. You should try it.”

Had to laugh at that one.

“Really. Every day, after mixing simple ingredients into a gluey glob, I test dough to the limit by kneading it. Then I leave it alone. All bread wants is time and warmth. When I return, the glob has doubled in size and is covered by a smooth dome. I punch it down until I beat the air right out of it, yet still it rises. It’s an act of resiliency, and great hope.”

Talking about Angela and the resiliency of dough had restored Kandelbaum’s spirit. On this sunny day, with my new friend’s arm draped protectively over my shoulder, I felt some good may have come from my own trauma: because of it, Kandelbaum and Angela had met.

When we reached the van, he opened the passenger side door for me. A philosopher and a gentleman—the type of person Angela deserved. I shook my head at my own cluelessness. I’d come here to flag him away from Angela. Now I hoped he’d head straight toward her.

“[Martha Graham’s] theory of ‘contraction and release’ was built on the act of inhaling and exhaling. The dancer, whether sitting, standing, kneeling, or lying down, caves in as if suddenly hit with a blow to the center of her body.”

—Deborah Jowitt, dance critic

I’d been working at the Fitness Evolution for a month when my mother waddled into the gym. It was the end of June.

“You still aren’t very good about staying in touch,” she said.

“How did you know where to find me?”

“This isn’t exactly a hideout. Angela told me.”

Is it ever possible for a daughter to break free of her mother? “I needed time on my own for a reason.”

“Well, excuse me.” She reached into her large handbag. “I’m still getting bills from the hospital.”

She plopped a rubber-banded bundle on the countertop—right on top of a fitness evaluation sheet. Inspiration hit.

“Come here.” I slipped a measuring tape, extra-long, from a hook on the wall. I put it around her waist and marked down the number—55 inches. More than twice my own measurement, and I was a head taller.

She gently elbowed me away. “What are you doing?”

“Selling you a membership.”

“Why? I don’t exercise.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Bicep: 16. I had to watch how tightly I cinched the tape. So much of her strength was bluster, so little of it muscle.

“It’s too late. I’m fifty-five—it’s all downhill from here.”

Bust: 49. Hips: a whopping 62.

“I don’t think I could fit on some of these machines.”

“That’ll give you something to look forward to. We have a pool, though. You could start with water exercises.” Thigh: 321/2. Calf: 17. Tears pushed at the back of my eyes. My mother had been such an overblown, unstoppable force in my life. I would have thought the size of these numbers would prove that. They didn’t. Seeing my mother bullied by numbers in the same way I was made her seem smaller. Weaker. More relatable.

I took a deep breath to steady my voice. “Step on the scale.”

“Can’t I work out first?”

“It doesn’t work that fast.”

At least she hadn’t lost height—she still measured five-foot-five—but she weighed two hundred forty-two pounds.

I showed her the sheet. She gave it a good long look.

“I guess I can try,” she said.

“Trying won’t be enough. You’ve got to commit for the long haul.” I held out my arms and spun around. “Look at me, Mom. Four months ago I couldn’t walk. Now I’m doing aerobics.”

She put her hand on my cheek. “It couldn’t have been easy.”

“It won’t be easy for you, either. But now that it looks like I’m going to be staying around…” I lowered my voice. “It would be easier to love you if I knew you cared about being here, too.”

My mother glanced nervously at the people around us. “Good mother of god, what’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing new, believe me. I’m just finally letting a little something out.”

She let out a long sigh. “What would I have to do?”

I took her around the room and led her through a pretty easy program. I didn’t want to be the one responsible for her heart attack after berating her for all the damage she’d done to herself. I had her finish on the exercise bike and showed her how to set it at the easiest level. I had to break away to tend to another client, though, and when I returned, sweat was trickling down her face.

“You have to start slowly.” I turned the intensity gauge back to where I’d left it.

“It must have slipped.”

“Right.” I handed her a towel. “That’s enough for today. How do you feel?”

“I never thought I’d be in a gym in my life. It feels weird.”

“Weird good or weird bad?”

“I don’t know. My heart is pounding, my lungs are on fire, and this sweat is coming out everywhere. Even my eyeballs.” She dabbed at her eyes with her towel to convince me.

“You described what it feels like to be alive, Mom.
Really
alive. It’s about time.” Something about our role reversal emboldened me to close the deal. “It’s forty-five dollars a month.”

She dismounted. “That’s a lot of money.”

“You used to spend more on my toe shoes.”

“But now I have to save for retirement.”

“So you can do what, sit around, bored? You need to get in shape so you have a retirement to enjoy.” She wanted to sit, but I made her walk around the room with me until she looked less flushed.

“How often would I have to come? With the price of gas and all, this will add up.”

“Three times a week. We have a gym west of Allentown, too, but if you buy the membership from me, you’ll be my first commission. In a couple of weeks, you can transfer, then just come back every now and again to visit. And to get measured—I’ll keep tabs on your stats from this end.”

“You’ve gotten quite bossy.” She smiled and snapped at me with the towel.

Another instructor, Haley, called to me from across the room. “Hey, Penny, next aerobics starts in two.”

“I have to teach. Make the check out to Fitness Evolution.”

For the first few minutes of my class, I caught my mother bopping along to the music out of my peripheral vision. I’d purposely put on Tito Puente. She’d left by the time I returned to the desk after aerobics. I picked up the clipboard with her fitness evaluation sheet, hoping to see a check. Looked under it. Moved things around on the desk. Even looked on the floor around it, once again succumbing to the irrational hope that she might give a crap about herself—and once again coming face to face with my own impotence in our relationship.

• • •

Joey greeted me at the front desk the next day. “Congratulations on your first sale. I hear you give a mean pitch.”

“I do?” Maybe he was joking. A lot of guests had come in for my aerobics classes lately, and come up to talk afterward. I wondered which of them had decided to join.

“And I haven’t even put you on the sales staff yet,” he said. “Guess I’d better catch up. But I need to talk to you about something else. Can you come into my office?”

Since Joey had never formally interviewed me for my position, I’d never been in his office. The walls were plastered with training certificates and pictures of him all oiled up and dressed in a teeny blue Speedo. The floor was edged with trophies. “You’re a bodybuilder. I don’t know how that escaped me, Joey.”

“That’s Mr. Pennsylvania to you.” He shut the door behind us. “But I didn’t always look like this. I was overweight as a kid. That’s why I think what you’re doing for your mother is so awesome.”

“My mother?”

“Oh, and her paperwork is all complete. She stopped by the office on the way out yesterday.”

He invited me to sit—not in the comfy leather lounger wedged into the room, but on a folding chair from which he cleared a pile of jump ropes as tangled as the skepticism and hope and pride and fear of disappointment his news inspired within me. Was this a commitment on my mother’s part, or a token purchase meant to placate a fragile daughter?

Joey perched on the arm of the lounger. “It’s about the schedule. Karen and Haley came to me on behalf of the other women’s fitness instructors to complain about your aerobics classes being so big.”

“This is a problem?”

“Afraid so.”

“Increasing participation in a program that promotes health and fitness—in a gym, of all places. Gee, where did I go wrong?”

“They say their prospective clients are distracted during sales tours.”

“Because the room gets so crowded?”

“Because your music is weird.”

“People like it!”

He crossed to his desk and opened his planner. “I think they’re really worried that members are flocking away from their classes.”

“With a little effort, they could find interesting music, too.”

“They feel threatened by you. They aren’t as creative.”

“For crying out loud. Did they give Suzie this kind of crap?”

“I’m filling in the blanks on some of this. Their official complaint is that since you took over for Suzie, you’re getting all the choice shifts.” He consulted the planner, on which he had drawn arrows reordering all the information. “I’d like to start you at five a.m. for a week or two and see if things calm down.”

I sighed, stood. “Whatever. Should I stay for my shift today?”

“Yes, but Karen will teach your noon aerobics.”

The noon class. A choice time, to be sure, with so many giving up their lunch hour to work out, but I was the one who made that class what it was. It had doubled in size since I started teaching it. I thought about walking out in a huff.

The thing was, I’d started to care about some of the women who came to the gym. I’d heard stories of abuse, broken hearts, surgeries, accidents. Some of them showed a lot of courage in facing the limitations of their bodies. They were starting to feel like family. I wanted to keep my job, and if they wanted to sideline me for my noon aerobics class, so be it.

But I did get a kick out of watching what happened that day.

At five of twelve, the usual suspects gathered in the middle of the aerobics floor. First a few, then seven or eight, then, by noon, a good thirty-five or forty. When a B-52s disco beat started blaring from the speakers, people looked at each other, wondering what was going on. I thought I saw one of them pointing over toward me, but I pretended not to notice and continued filing evaluation forms. In my peripheral vision, I saw Karen strut to the front of the room in her thong leotard.

“Okay, people, get your feet moving. Let’s run in place.” She lifted her knees and pumped her arms, exaggerating the effort it took to go nowhere. A flurry of false activity ensued and the crowd dissipated. They weren’t rude about it; they just acted as if they hadn’t really meant to be in the middle of the room at all, and continued on across to a piece of exercise equipment. Only a handful of prancers remained. It was all I could do not to laugh.