The Turnout(83)

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There she is!”

Dara looked up with a start.

At the far end of the emptying lobby stood a Nutcracker Prince—not the statue, but the Prince himself, in tunic and tights, his papier-maché head large and impossible, the jabbing mustache, the teeth big as playing cards, the eyepatch severing his face.

“Madame Durant!” the voice came again.

And, as if in a dream, he lifted his own head free, revealing Corbin Lesterio, his rosy face and that lustrous forelock, raking his fingers through it as teenage boys have done throughout time, spurring the deep, low-down sighs of all admirers in sight.

“Madame Durant,” he said, then whirled himself into an impromptu pirouette. “It was better, right? It was good? I was good today? Un gentil prince.”

As she moved closer, the sounds of his breath, the breathlessness of beautiful young boys—it made her forget, just for a second—an exquisite, piercing second—the low hum of death in her ear.

Here was this young and perfect thing, and the way he looked at her, his eyes bright with awe and desire—what could ever go wrong? What could ever be ruined or die? Everything is as it should be forever, no snakes in the garden, no temptation, no loss.

That’s what it does, their mother always told them. Ballet. It stops death.



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    She walked Corbin to his father’s car, the rush of the boy’s words spilling into her hands.

“I’ve never been so excited,” he was telling her, his breath a silver cloud. “This is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Dara smiled and waved to Mr. Lesterio, seated snugly in his overheated Plymouth.

“I guess I better enjoy it,” he said, moving to the passenger door, his face falling so fast. “Like you always tell me, there’s only one first. You never get it back.”

Dara looked at him, struck.

She didn’t remember saying that. She didn’t remember saying that at all.



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Bailey!” The voice tight and humming like a violin string. “Are you here, Bailey?”

Dara turned and saw a figure shimmering through the cascade of white lights, the enormous Christmas wreaths hanging from the lobby windows.

“Madame Durant! I’m late. Did I miss her?”

The princess coat, seal gray, the dark glasses, the shining bob. The careless mother. The contractor’s former client. He has something he wants. He’ll hold it close until he’s ready.

It was Mrs. Bloom, the elusive Mrs. Bloom, looking for her daughter, and Dara would not let her get away this time.





YOU WOMEN


Mrs. Bloom didn’t want to talk in the lobby, or her car, or a nearby diner.

She didn’t want to talk at all, but Dara was insistent.

“It’s very important,” she said. “About your daughter.”

Finally, she said Dara could follow her home. They could speak there, in private.

It was four miles away, a large brick house with the gleaming white columns of a wedding cake.

There wasn’t much time. But Bailey would be at least an hour with Marie.

Marie, Dara thought. Marie. Suddenly, she had this memory of her sister, age three or four, her music box open, reaching for the pirouetting ballerina, the net of her miniature tutu. And then snapping the ballerina loose. Staring at it in her dimpled hand.



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    They sat in the Bloom living room, cream-colored and feminine with candles everywhere and the smell of crushed flowers.

They both held thick-banded glasses clinking with vodka and ice from the bar cart.

It burned Dara’s throat, reminded her of the Fire Eater. Everything did lately. Those ladies, Dara had thought the first time they’d seen the Fire Eater, the Sword Swallower, they’re not afraid at all.

“Tell me about Bailey,” Mrs. Bloom asked, leaning back on her sofa, her eyes glassy and her head bobbing slightly. “I must admit, I haven’t been as attentive as usual. I’ve been dealing with some personal issues.”

“She’s coming into her own. She’s going to be a very fine Clara.”

“She will be, won’t she?” she said softly, a sip from the rattling glass. “But that isn’t why you’re here.”

“No.”

Mrs. Bloom set her glass down on the sofa arm, a ring forming immediately, and spreading.

“You came about him,” she said.

“Yes.”

She took a breath. “I heard what happened to him. Bailey told me. Then I read it in the paper . . .”

“That time I saw you at his truck,” Dara said abruptly, “you had an envelope you left there.”

“I owed him some money,” she said coolly. “But I don’t see how that’s your—”

“Why didn’t you mail it?”

Mrs. Bloom shook her head wearily and reached for her glass again.

“Because Derek didn’t operate like that,” she said, her voice looser, her shoulders slumping. “He didn’t want checks sent to his house. He wanted cash in hand. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”