The Turnout(50)

“Me?” Mrs. Bloom said. “Oh, no.”

“Because I thought I saw you. At Derek’s truck. You were—”

“His truck,” Mrs. Bloom said bitterly. “Hardly.”

“Pardon?”

There was a brief silence, Mrs. Bloom breathing antically.

Then saying softly, “Is it true about Mademoiselle Durant?”

“Is what true?” Dara said, her head throbbing now. Afraid of what Mrs. Bloom might say, might mean.

“That she . . . she went blond?”

At that moment, the thundering wet-vac in Studio B started up again, the lights flickering with the surge.

“Mrs. Bloom,” Dara said, raising her voice, holding the earpiece close, “is there something you want to tell me?”

The whisper came frantic, tight, the words sliding together: “Listen to me. Listen.”

“I am listening,” Dara said, though she could barely make out Mrs. Bloom’s voice, so faint and strained.

“He has something he wants,” she said, her voice sliding in Dara’s ear like a blade. “He’ll hold it close until he’s ready.”

“What?” Dara said, not sure she’d even heard her right. “What?”

But Mrs. Bloom had hung up.

“Did she pay up?” Charlie asked. She set the phone down and felt something cold go over her, a chilled hand laid on her neck, her collarbone.

“What? No.”

“Not anything at all?” Charlie asked.

But Dara didn’t answer, her head lost in thought. Charlie wouldn’t understand. He hadn’t heard Mrs. Bloom’s voice. He hadn’t seen her down there in the parking lot, the fear in her crouch.



* * *



*

All day, Mrs. Bloom’s voice shivered in Dara’s ear.

Is it true? That she went blond.

He’ll hold it close until he’s ready.



* * *



*

But there was no time to think it through, not with sixty ten-to twelve-year-olds filling the studios, all getting fitted by two harried tailors, their mouths full of pins.

There was no time to think and there was that car in the parking lot, its brilliant orange already dimmed by mud and salt spray. By late afternoon, when Dara stole a glance, it looked shabby, a tired pencil eraser, a crushed safety cone.

That car.



* * *



*

It wasn’t until the end of the day that Dara caught Marie alone, sitting on the fire escape with a cigarette, that ridiculous leather jacket enclosing her, legs wrapped upon herself like a spider.

“I talked to Mrs. Bloom today.”

“Oh,” Marie said, gripping her feet, bare and beaten. Marie’s feet were the worst of any of their feet, like twisted slabs of raw meat. Dara never noticed unless she saw others staring. To her, they were a forever reminder of how hard Marie went, how relentless she’d been as a dancer, how she now carried that relentlessness elsewhere.

“She seemed to be implying things,” Dara said. “About Derek.”

“Really,” Marie said, studying her blackened toenail. “Did she finally pay her fees?”

Dara paused. “Do you know something about Mrs. Bloom and Derek?”

“No,” Marie said.

Dara didn’t believe her.

“How did you pay for that car, Marie?”

“I have money,” Marie said. “I just never had anything to spend it on before.”

“You mean anyone. You bought this because he told you to.”

“I bought it for myself,” Marie said, lifting her chin. “I needed it.”

“You needed it. For what, Marie.”

Marie didn’t say anything, scratching her forehead, the skin at her temple still pink and tender from whatever she’d used to bleach it, to bleach herself bare.

“Do you even remember how to drive?” Dara said. “It’s been years—”

“Derek’s helping me with the stick,” Marie said, her hand dropping to her lap, her eyes fixed on Dara now. “I should have done this years ago.”

She could see Marie was trying to make her understand something. It felt like Marie was accusing her of something.

“People have cars,” Marie continued, a new steeliness to her voice. “That’s what they do. They move away. They buy a car, fuck other people, buy a house.”

She stopped herself and looked at Dara. A look like she was accusing Dara of something.

“Are you sure?” Dara said. “Because some people seem to never do that. Who move away only to come back. Who move out only to hide in an attic like a little mouse.”

“You have a car,” Marie said. “You have a house.”

Dara looked at her, a chill behind her ears. A memory of something.

“Why are you bringing up the house now?” Dara asked, but Marie didn’t say anything.

Marie, her legs like a spider’s, head lowered, hiding itself, or something else.





EN GARDE


All evening, Dara thought about Marie. The car. Marie had rarely driven. Had never liked it, not after their parents. The last time she drove had been five years ago.