The Art of Falling (24 page)

Anger flashed through my body, but I would not let MacArthur ruin what I hoped to do.

I closed my eyes to clear my mind and create a strong image of Angela. When I reopened them I was ready to begin.

I pursed my lips to accentuate the sound and breathed…in two counts—out, two. Next to me, Stella and Vincent joined in…in, two—out, two. Rhonda and Gayle…in, two—and out, two. By the time Luke and Jeannie added in, we had built a sound big enough that the audience must have been breathing right along with us. With one last inhale and a turn, we gave our bodies to the dance.

We danced big, as an organic unit. Angela’s days were not limited to her “expiration date,” nor was her spirit bound by her disease, so we refused to let the confines of the room or the length of our limbs constrict our performance. We depended upon one another to sustain our counterbalances, in all their improbable asymmetry. Passes across the studio floor were powered by winds of fate we could almost feel. Above skittering feet, our hands sought to create something controlled and beautiful with fingers that tasted the air. My mother’s improvised score was sparse and stark and served to define the periods of silence. At the climax of the piece, our spirited swirls must have churned air all the way to the corner of Tenth and Lombard. Then we pulled it back in, making our way out of the piece by reversing the way it had begun—with fewer and fewer of us breathing audibly—until it was my lone, extended exhale that feathered into stillness.

Stillness, yes. But within it every single part of me—body, mind, and soul—thrummed with life. This celebration for Angela had produced within me a joy unlike any I’d never known.

We were still holding these final positions when a lone pair of clapping hands broke the spell we’d cast. Audience and performers turned their heads as one.

The hands belonged to Margaret MacArthur, watching from the doorway. “Brava, Penelope. Lovely.” Following her example, others joined her applause.

It occurred to me she might be drunk—what else would explain her nerve? I crossed the room, took her hand, and pulled her through the reception area to the top of the stairs.

“What are you doing here? This is a private gathering.”

Her eyes were clear when she spoke. “Why does it matter, Penelope? You make dance, I watch dance. Just because your motivations were private doesn’t mean the work should be.”

The woman with MacArthur distracted me. Her feet were still planted by the door to the studio, but she rocked back and forth, small movements becoming larger, as if powering up her body for the tour de force of putting one foot in front of the other. Her slow yet captivating movements mocked my urgency to get rid of MacArthur. Once the woman’s steps gained momentum, she walked to MacArthur’s side.

“Penelope Sparrow, I’d like you to meet my sister, Laura.”

I took Laura’s limp hand from her side and shook it. “I’m glad we had a chance to meet,” I said. She was tall like me and overweight, with thin, lifeless hair. I recalled MacArthur saying how difficult it was for her to be seen in public and wondered if in all the years since she had stopped dancing, Laura had ever once sat in an audience beside her sister.

Laura’s face was damp. She said, “It was good.”

“Forgive me, Penelope,” MacArthur said. “But when I heard you’d be dancing, I thought I’d better come. Who knows if I’ll ever get the opportunity again?” She turned to go and slipped a palm-sized notebook into her purse.

I called after her. “You aren’t writing about this.”

She guided Laura down the stairs. “You can’t control that.”

When I turned around, Bebe and Stella were coming out of the studio.

“Damn it, Bebe. I can’t believe you told her about this.”

“But I didn’t—”

“Don’t blame her.” Stella stepped forward. “It was me.”

This revelation struck me momentarily mute.

“And I won’t apologize. You got applause from Margaret MacArthur! I hear she never applauds. Just leaves her aisle seat as soon as the music stops.”

“And you deserve the attention,” Bebe said. “You always have. Get right back in the studio and make another piece.” She pressed something into my hand—my key.

“But I’m not a choreographer.” I remembered those painful days trying to create for Dance DeLaval, and how I came up empty. If only this key could unlock my creativity.

“What do you call what you just did?”

“I had special motivation. This was a tribute to a friend.”

“It was so much more. You allowed your feelings to spill onto the stage in a way everyone in that room could relate to. Angela inspired it, perhaps, but the specifics you chose made a universal statement. That is the art of choreography.”

The female dancers had moved into the dressing room, and I joined them to change. I pulled off Bebe’s dress, now damp with sweat. I hung it on a hanger.

“I wonder if Angela liked it,” Rhonda said. She threw a glance toward Stella. “And what Twyla would have thought?”

“I feel certain she’d say that if you had that much fun, you should do it again.”

“Okay, Stella, I hear you.”

When I turned to get my clothes, Rhonda pointed toward me and said, “Would you look at that.”

The other dancers paused and looked at my nakedness. Was it the darkened skin left behind by my bruising that had grabbed their attention? I looked over my shoulder and into the mirror—for the first time in a long time—and was surprised to see that I no longer wore the stain of my fall. Over the course of the past year, new pale skin had grown in its place. “What, Rhonda? What is it?”

They weren’t staring at my back—it was my front. I looked down—the damp paint from my costume had transferred to my skin a river of blue and green that spilled from my heart to my right hip, as if Angela had painted it.

In that moment, I loved her even more.

“Tell us, were you happy with the performance?” Jeannie said.

I shook off the bad taste MacArthur’s presence always left in my mouth. “Very. Thank you so much. How do you guys feel?”

They threw out words:
Energized. Open. Light. Whole
. I felt them all. I washed my face and ran a washcloth over the rest of my body, careful not to disturb the unintentional artwork transferred to my skin.

By the time I came back out, my coworkers from the Fitness Evolution were ready to leave. “Sorry we can’t stay longer,” Joey said when I approached. “It was…really something. Thanks for inviting us.”

I searched his face. “You had no idea what to make of the piece, did you?”

“The piece.” He straightened up as if to align his thoughts. “Well, actually, I, uh—no. Not a clue. But I’m glad we got the chance to pay our respects to Mrs. Reed.”

“If that’s the type of dancing you’re used to, it explains your weird music,” Haley said. “Looks like you could show us a few moves.”

“I liked that one part where you tipped your upper body over and bent your knee up to the side,” said Karen. “I couldn’t have come up with anything like that.”

“Really?” I wasn’t being facetious—when I was immersed in the images that Angela’s life presented to me, the movement came so naturally it didn’t seem like any special talent. “But you knew Angela, and how much effort it took her to get through the day. It was all based on that.”

“What can I say?” Karen said. “My brain doesn’t work that way. If it had been up to me, those dancers would have been doing a kick line to ‘Staying Alive.’”

“Watching dance isn’t about picking up moves,” I said. “It’s about noting the relationships between motion and space and rhythm to absorb a greater concept.”

“I liked your dress,” Karen said. “It made you look less hippy.”

It was then Haley said, “It was like life. It began with the breath, and ended with the breath.”

She turned to leave, but I caught her arm. “Hey—you really understood.”

Haley shrugged her size-two shoulders. “I was sitting by the woman in the doorway. The one in the red hat? She comes into the gym sometimes? She said that to the woman standing next to her.”

The dancers and some guests had gathered at the table where Bebe had set out juice, vegetables, and dip. Only Luke, Vincent, and Stella were eating. I hugged the dancers and offered each their colorful scarf as a memento of the evening, wishing I could pay them more.

My mother scooted over and threw her arms around me and said, “That’s my girl.”

“Thanks for being here for me. Here, and there. You know, always.”

“How long do you think you’ll be? We’ve got a long drive.”

I hated to tell her this now, with others around. “I’m staying down here, Mom. I’m taking on Angela’s lease. I can’t explain how, but I’ll figure something out.”

She touched my cheek, and smiled.

“I’ll call you,” I said. “Soon.”

“It was a lovely piece. Don’t stop taking class, though. Some of your articulations were rusty—”

“Mo-om.”

She opened her arms. “Come here. I mean, don’t stop.” She gave me an extra squeeze. “Don’t ever stop.”

I joined Mrs. Pope, Dara Reed, and Marty, who stood near the refreshment table talking quietly. “You’re not eating,” I said awkwardly, not willing to admit—even to myself—how very much their opinions of the performance mattered to me.

“We’re not here for that kind of sustenance,” Marty said. He had an emerald scarf tucked in the pocket of his white short-sleeved shirt.

Dara, in an uncharacteristically demonstrative gesture, took both my hands in hers. “I came to see you and Marty and Mrs. Pope, because when Angela arrived…when I saw the body, which shouldn’t faze me, I’m a doctor…but she’s my daughter…it was like I finally woke up and realized she was gone. I don’t know anything about dance, but tonight you honored the little girl I raised, and the extraordinary effort it took for her to grow into a woman. A tribute made with your body—it was just the right thing.” She started to tremble. I put my arms around her to hold her together. She whispered, “Angela tried so hard to wait for me. I just ran out of time.”

“Come now, Dara, a cup of soup and some rest will do you good,” said Mrs. Pope. Dara would be staying the night with her. “Let’s go, dear.”

Bebe said she’d see me on Monday, asked me to lock up, and headed up to her apartment.

That left only Marty and me.

We laughed when we both started to speak at the same time. Always the gentleman, Marty backed off first. “After you.”

“Shall we sit?” I motioned to the chairs by Bebe’s desk.

“Not here,” Marty said. “May we go into the studio?”

We sat in two of the audience chairs. Marty looked around the room—at the barres, the high windows, the curtains hiding the mirrors, the floor, the empty space. “So this is where you came from.”

I nodded. When his eyes at last rested upon me, they were moist.

“Penny. You look so beautiful tonight.” His voice sounded different. Softer, fuller. “That’s not the most important thing I have to say, but it was at the front of my head so I had to move it out of the way.”

He wrapped both of my hands in his, but said nothing. The silence became unbearable. I buckled.

“You didn’t like it?”

He looked down at our entwined hands and cleared his throat to speak.

Oh no. If he hadn’t liked the performance, I would fall all over again, and this time I might not survive. Angela and Marty were so precious to me; I didn’t want to let either of them down. A tear thinned on its path down Marty’s face, regrouped at his jawline, then dropped to the scarf in his breast pocket. It spread a jagged stain.

After a moment, he said, “I suppose if there were words to express it, we wouldn’t need movement.”

I let out the breath I was holding. He looked at each of the walls, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “She’s here, Penny. In this room. Now. I can feel her.”

I looked around, too, for evidence. “Angela?” I whispered.

“No.” He opened his eyes, his usual peaceful expression restored. “God.”

• • •

A good night’s sleep remained elusive. Margaret MacArthur seemed to have come to bed with me. I tried to focus on the more rewarding aspects of the evening. Like Dara Reed showing up. My mother’s restrained and stunning score. Laura MacArthur’s damp face. What Marty said, and didn’t say. Yet I couldn’t drown out MacArthur’s slow, arrogant clapping. Somehow, this woman always made me feel as if I hadn’t done quite enough.

At least the dancers enjoyed themselves. And I did get a chance to say good-bye to Angela on my own terms. And we raised money for CF—wait.

What had I done with that fundraising envelope? I prayed Bebe had taken it. I didn’t remember seeing it on my way out of the studio.

I climbed down from bed, turned on the light, and rummaged through my dance bag. Good thing I did, too, because the damp towel wadded inside would have stunk up everything by morning. As I pushed aside the makeup kit, everything fell out of it. I pawed around through lipstick, eyeliner, and foundation. Beneath my huge jar of cold cream, I found two envelopes.

The one on top was the invitation to MacArthur’s luncheon. Why would I care to celebrate her career? “Penelope and Guest”—she was probably hoping I’d coax Dmitri back to the country. I tore it in two and deposited the scraps where they belonged—in the trashcan beneath the desk.

I turned my attention to the second envelope. “Donations for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation.” Bebe must have put it in my bag.

It was disappointingly thin. What had I expected to find—fistfuls of cash? Nine checks don’t take up very much room.

The first, from the account of Vincent Mattei, was for $600. The memo line said “from your dancers.” They must have chipped in—how unexpected, and kind, considering they’d volunteered their time. The second, a corporate check from the Fitness Evolution, was made out for $2,500. I flipped through the checks, tallying as I went—our little gathering had raised close to $5,000.

It was the last check in the pile, which at $500 matched my own mother’s, that surprised me the most. The memo: In memory of Angela Reed. The signature: Margaret MacArthur.

• • •

I lit the votives and sat before them until the sun rose. I sat still, simply feeling what it was like to be alone in the apartment. A deep ache grew within me.

Around five a.m., I heard the flop of a newspaper hitting the floor in the hallway. Another day without Angela. I knew Mrs. Pope felt the loss deeply. But I didn’t rush to the door. I was sure I looked like hell and didn’t want to scare her. Or Angela’s mother, should she already be up. It was no added comfort to have Dara in the building—it made me think of all the times Angela would have appreciated having her here.

In time I did retrieve the paper, and placed it on the new stack growing beside Angela’s bed. Since her death, I’d been unable to cancel her subscription or toss any of them away.

A teaser over the headline caught my eye: “A Dancer’s Struggle with Body Image: Inside on E1.”

My breath caught. No—it must be the lack of sleep. Or the way the candlelight was playing across the page.

I flipped on the light and opened to the Arts & Entertainment section, and there it was: the article MacArthur had been threatening to write for a year now. Beneath a large photo of a thin girl in leotard and tights considering her reflection in a funhouse mirror was the title, “The Body and Its Image: A Dancer’s Silent Struggle.” Underneath, MacArthur’s byline. Adrenaline shot through me. How could she air my problems this way, when she knew how I felt about it? And now, of all times?

The article began:

The mirror is prominent in every studio, front and center, like a reflective altar. The supplicant moves before it, checking every line of her body against an unattainable standard of perfection. She seeks beauty, forgiveness for her flaws, and redemption through the movement she offers. Whatever encouraging feedback a teacher or choreographer might give will matter less than what the mirror tells her. It sees what others cannot.

Each year, all across a nation obsessed with thinness, the mirror’s relentless criticism will drive some seven million impressionable young women to the brink of life-threatening eating disorders. Among those at highest risk are dancers.

Few professional dancers agreed to be quoted on this topic. Yet I’ve been following one brave woman for about a year now, and she has finally agreed to speak. Her story began right here, at a studio on Philadelphia’s South Tenth Street.

That’s it, I thought. I’m suing. I had never been diagnosed with an eating disorder. I’d been so careful never to push it that far. Anything I’d ever said to her was off the record.

We stood in the school’s front studio, whose vaulted ceiling and high windows funneled in a heavenly light that belied her inner demons. The dancer offered her comments not to me, but to her reflection in the mirror: “The turnout isn’t complete, the foot won’t fully point, there isn’t enough height to the arabesque or sleekness to the thigh or flatness to the belly.”

That lying bitch! I did not say that. As to the heavenly light, the only time I ever saw her at Bebe’s was at Angela’s tribute. On a moonless night.

As she spoke, she stretched her bare foot along the floor until it reached a full point, then looked down at it and studied it as if she’d never seen it before. The cracks in her heel calluses were parched rivulets of white. “We reach for a perfection that is unobtainable and then damn ourselves for falling short. We try our best then push harder and then again harder—and when the results don’t materialize, we unleash our anger at our own bodies.” She closed the open leg and looked back to the mirror. “The pursuit of perfection is daunting and exhausting with no end in sight. Yet in spite of ourselves, we get up each day and try, while the joy of movement drains from our lives.”

Wow. MacArthur did capture my experience. Rather eloquently. But you can’t go around making up quotes.

I’d only wanted to be light enough that my inadequacies wouldn’t weigh me down. To finally see beauty when I looked in the mirror.

The dancer turned to me and said, “Those are the words of a bulimic.”

She has kept up a façade for years, she says, but her broken body now betrays its secret. More importantly, she says, her secret nearly cost her a relationship with a former protégé that was dear to her. This inspired her, finally, to go public with a disease most often kept hidden. She hopes to stop girls from trying to squeeze themselves into a prescribed and unforgiving mold, where pain—both psychic and physical—is the only possible result.

Oh my god…

Her name is Bebe Browning.

I dropped the paper and tried to absorb what I’d read. My whole life, I’d taken as gospel the nutritional advice of a bulimic. How had I missed this? Then I thought of that bad tooth. The unknown contours of her body, disguised by caftans roomy enough to hide a back brace.

Her suspicions about me.

How hard it must have been for Bebe to share her story. I would not have been so brave.

Years of psychotherapy have helped Browning address her eating disorder, but the calcium leached from her bones when she was young created a poor foundation for the hormonal changes of late middle age. Her soul still yearns to dance even as her body now struggles to climb to her third floor walk-up. A recent trip to South America on a study grant will probably be her last. At this point, medication can do only so much. Spinal fracture is a constant threat.

Browning says if she can keep one young woman from hating her own body the way she did hers, it will be worth speaking out.

“A dancer must work with her body, not against it,” she says. “One cannot evoke the symphony of life with only one kind of instrument. We need the tubas just as much as we need the piccolos.”

I scanned the rest of the article. Nowhere did MacArthur mention either my name or “Fall of a Sparrow”—she got her story while avoiding all reference to me. Relief washed through me and I laughed. Who did I think I was? I was certainly not the center of the Philadelphia arts world. I was one of millions of women attempting to reconcile their bodies with societal ideals.

I saw it, then: by writing this article, MacArthur hadn’t ruined my return to the dance world at all. If anything, she had rolled out the red carpet for the concept of nonconformist dancers.

I was done fighting my body—that war could have no victor. I yearned for the fullness of expression a range of body types could offer, and had so many ideas I couldn’t wait to get working on them. I laughed again. One day I’d have to thank MacArthur.

I went back and dug her invitation out of the trash, pieced it together, and read it again.

The Bellevue—my mother would love this sort of shindig. That would be her idea of the high society life, rubbing elbows with the prominent dance personalities whose careers she had followed so closely. “Penelope and Guest”—what would MacArthur think if I had my mother in tow?

Of course, Stella would love it, too. Her waylaid career had cut short opportunities to connect with like-minded artists. Vincent, Luke, Jeannie, Gayle, Rhonda—they had all proved their artistry last night; MacArthur had implied as much with her applause.

Hell, all of these dancers deserved a place at that luncheon, sitting in a fancy ballroom, sipping wine and eating food no doubt paid for by funds our own Commonwealth had allocated to support the arts. Each of the colleagues I danced with tonight had something unique to offer, and as much heart and raw expressive power as the long and leggy clones from the Balanchine factory.

I went to Angela’s desk, found some Scotch tape, and repaired the RSVP card. Next to “Name,” I wrote “Penelope Sparrow.”

On the line below, next to “Number attending,” I filled in the number eight and the name of my new company.