No Story to Tell (26 page)

The refrigerator was offering her nothing, and she flung the door shut on its frosty interior just as the telephone jangled behind her. Whirling around, she lunged at it even though she was the only one home in the trailer. She’d grown skilled at beating Bobby to it, often snatching it right out from under his hand just before he closed down on it. Word about the studio had spread quickly, and although she finally had to cap the class at 16, she still received a few calls each week from mothers who’d initially scoffed at the idea but were now anxious to have their daughters put on the waiting list. Bobby, feeling vilified by the studio’s apparent success, viewed each call as a personal affront and answered the phone accordingly, offending people with his sarcasm and neglecting to give Victoria her messages. And, besides trying to intercept Bobby’s abuse of her possible future customers, Victoria could also never be sure when static would suddenly fill the line. The growing indiscretion of her words had left her feeling as anxious and guilty as if she’d actively welcomed a lover into their marriage bed and found him irresistible. Half expecting the call to be from Rose, she answered it with a distracted “hi,” then brightened visibly as static greeted her.

“I was thinking of you.”

“Of me? Really?” She felt flattered and flustered, off-center. “And what’s so special about me that you were thinking of me?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?” She laughed gently, encouragingly.

“Your eyes.”

“My eyes aren’t—”

“Your lips.”

She dropped her lashes and skimmed her tongue over her lips.

“I—” she started then stopped, paralyzed into silence by a sudden crushing ache of emotion. Squeezing her eyes tighter, she wrestled internally, forbidding herself from bleeding her desperation into the line. Biting her lip hard she sealed away how much she had missed him, how insane she had been for him to call again. Hot tears singed her face as she pressed the receiver to her cheek, taking strength from it as if it were a lover’s hand. They sat silent like this for measureless moments as she soaked in the comfort of his presence and felt it slowly dissipate the cold isolation within her. It occurred to her suddenly that his calls were nothing less than a gift. A kindness that needed to be repaid.

“Do you remember what you said?” Her voice, encumbered by emotion had choked itself to a throaty whisper. “A while ago. About me being . . . lonely?” Flickering her eyes open, she spotted a warm sliver of sunlight on the living room floor and settled herself into it. “It’s true, you know. I am. Except when I’m at the studio. With the children. I feel happier there. Happier, but still a bit lonely, I guess. It’s like it comes from the inside. Like it’s a part of me. I think it’s always been there. Even as a child I always felt out of place. Like a stranger in my own home. Do you think . . . do you think it’s possible to be born into the wrong life?” She punctuated this last thought with a self-effacing laugh in case he found it as ridiculous as it sounded.

The caller did not return her laughter or an answer to her question, but as they sat joined in mutual silence she began to sense that he could understand how she felt. He was a good listener, sympathetic, compassionate. The kind of person that heard beyond the boundaries that words set in the way. Encouraged by his patient silence she continued on.

“I think of you too, you know. All the time.”

She closed her eyes again, tighter, and felt the almost instant response of her body as she entered the freedom of her dark cocoon. It was as if here, with the outside world blocked away, she could finally be alone with him. As if she’d stepped into a moral no-man’s-land where thoughts and feelings and even rabid desire could linger in safety, no longer under the constant threat of reprisal or consequence. Pulling her legs up toward her chest, she let them fall away from each other then pulsed them gently with the slow, rhythmic beat of giant butterfly wings as she searched the line for the caller’s breathing. Impatience began to work its way toward her as she willed him to speak to her again, hungry to feel the delicate stroke of his word’s feathery touch.

“You’re so beautiful,” the words finally rushed through to her, erupting inside her head like an emotional orgasm. She clung to the receiver. Wanted to crawl right into it. To touch him. Feel him. Kiss the salty pleasure from his back as they swam into horizonless sex. She moaned a mix of physical and mental anguish into his ear as she felt the jagged impossibility of their desire cut through her.

The swoosh of the porch door startled her upright with a gasp, and she turned to face Bobby as he kicked free of his boots and stepped into the kitchen. She stood, receiver in hand, the long black cord leading past Bobby’s legs to where the telephone sat on the table.

“Who you talking to?” he gestured to the phone with his chin.

“No one.”

His eyes narrowed as he raised a dark eyebrow.

“No one?”

Blood rushed hot to her face. She pressed the handset hard against her leg.

“Well, no. Not anymore. It . . . it was just one of the mothers.”

He eyed her sharply for a moment, turned and walked down the hall into the bathroom. Waiting for the click of the door, she took a quick listen. Thankfully, the line was dead. She could only hope it had been that way for some time and that her and Bobby’s conversation had not been overheard. Hurrying to place the telephone back on the cradle, she began to straighten up the trailer although not one thing appeared to be out of place.

Christmas was coming to Hinckly. A few attempts at decorations had been made by the local businesses, only to be vandalized by kids who enjoyed the spoils of naughty over nice. Mrs. Barlow’s Santa had lost his head, and Mr. Graves’s Rudolph had been strung up by his horns with a silver garland and shot full of arrows. Pearl and Bud’s lights had been enlisted for target practice, but fortunately the young hooligans proved to be terrible shots: only a few lights were smashed and a couple were even jolted back into service.

Victoria pushed her way through the resistant hotel door and hurried through the lobby. She felt half-prepared and disorganized. Her plan had been to arrive early at the studio so she could make out some bills before the parents arrived with their kids. But by the time she had realized the kitchen clock was way behind accurate, she’d had to drive as fast as she dared all the way into town just to avoid being late.

The excited chipmunk chatter of small voices greeted her as she made her way toward the ballroom where the children waited outside the locked doors. Enjoying their enthusiasm and perhaps feeling overly optimistic, she had planned and choreographed a Christmas recital. Now, with performance night looming, she was feeling somewhat anxious about her decision and contemplating postponing it until spring. Shrieks and squeaks filled the air when the children saw her, a cloud of tutued little girls clamoring around her like frilly, miniature marshmallows.

“Hello, hello, hello,” she said, laughing at their spright-liness as they twirled and whirled around, each one eager to show off to their beloved teacher.

Scanning across their antics, her eye caught on a small, dejected form hunched down in the back corner of the lobby. Walking over, she tried to read the troubled face partially hidden beneath ribbons of brown curls.

“Hey, Lily. What’s the matter, sweetie?”

“I’m sad.”

“Sad? How come you’re sad?”

“Rufus said prayee-princesses can’t fly.”

“Who’s Rufus?”

“My bow-ther’s friend.”

“Your brother’s friend?”

“Uh-huh. He’s nine.”

“And so why does your brother’s friend think fairy princesses can’t fly?”

“`Cause they’re girls.”

“Girls can’t fly?”

“Nope. Just Superman.”

“Really?” Victoria felt herself bristle protectively. “But who do you think taught Superman to fly?”

Lily looked up brightly. “His dance teacher?”

“You bet. Now, come on, put on your shoes. We have lots to do.”

Imbued with a new sense of resolve, Victoria gathered the children into the studio and coaxed them through one of their more successful practices. Watching them, she began to feel it might just be possible to pull off the Christmas recital after all. Teasing and laughing with the children after the lesson, she waited patiently for parents to retrieve their respective charges. As usual, a few chronically late ones arrived well after the class had ended. Hastily waving them goodbye, Victoria quickly locked the ballroom doors from the inside, eyes dashing anxiously back toward the simple, unobtrusive side door that led into the deserted alleyway. Her stomach had twisted itself into a tight knot. She wasn’t sure whether she was more nervous that Elliot would show up or that he wouldn’t.

With a self-conscious glance around, she hurriedly shed her jeans and T-shirt and pulled her dance dress from a bag lying next to her purse. Her hands glided over the silky green fabric. It hung flawlessly against her body, her still-muscular, long bare legs forming a vivid contrast to its flowing smoothness. Grabbing her ballet slippers from the bag, she crossed to the center of the room and stared back at the reflections staring out at her. She ran a critical check over her body, searching out any defects, wondering how she could have been so gullible as to agree to let Elliot do a painting of her in the first place. She felt as exposed and nervous as a Victorian virgin on her wedding day. Twirling around, she checked her images from behind.

For a brief moment she considered that she could just not answer when Elliot’s knock came at the back door. But, as her gaze took in the colossal reformation of the ballroom, she knew it wasn’t really an option. Elliot’s vision had proved correct. Freed from years of neglect and misuse, the room had been transformed into a truly marvelous studio. Even its size felt more airy and spacious than it really was, thanks to the addition of a row of mirrors along one wall, which folded the room outward into itself.

The bottom half of the tall window had been blacked out to discourage curious onlookers, but the top half of its resplendent Gothic arch welcomed in the mid-morning sun, flooding the room with exuberant light. She looked down and smiled warmly at the barely visible filling and patch job Sam had insisted she let him do on the damaged part of the floor. All in all, she had been surprised by the generosity of people’s support for the studio. Pearl had even dropped by occasionally to offer advice, sending Victoria into a panic when she offered for Bud to hang up the mirrors. Bud, for his part, lurked about grudgingly, making it silently clear what he thought of the damage Victoria had wreaked upon his storage room.

The scrunch of shoes on snow jerked her attention toward the alleyway, and she followed the sound blindly as it made its way past the blacked-out window, up the three stairs leading to the side door and culminated in a sure knock. Heart fluttering, she rechecked her images, worked down a full smile then glided back to let him in.

Her smile was met with an armload of painting apparatus shoved her way.

“Hi! Here, can you take some of this stuff for me while I take off my shoes?”

“Shh!” Victoria whispered. “No, don’t take them off out there. Come in before someone sees you.”

“And a good day to you, too,” Elliot grinned, peeking around a large canvas.

“I’m sorry, Elliot. Hi. Been kind of a hectic morning. And I guess I’m just nervous someone might see you.”

“Well, don’t worry. I was careful. Besides, the amount of times I’ve been in and out of this place the last while pretty much makes me a natural part of the landscape.”

Victoria flushed. She was still uncomfortable with the amount of work he’d done to help her out with the studio. And she was still unsure as to exactly why he had done so.

“Wow! Look at this place. You’ve done a great job pulling it into shape, Victoria.”

“Well, I’ve had lots of help,” she answered, suddenly remembering that Elliot, asked by her to make himself scarce once other people started showing up to help, hadn’t actually been in the ballroom since he’d hauled away the last bent bicycle frame.

Slipping out of his shoes, he wandered breezily around, admiring the improvements and smiling at her in the mirrors. He turned and looked up at the waterfall of light pouring through the arched window.

“This place turned out just perfect, Victoria. Don’t you think?” he asked as he squatted down to inspect the repairs that had been made to the floor. “Who fixed the floor?”

“Um, Sam. Samson Billyboy. He’s a friend of Bobby’s. Have you met him?”

Elliot shook his head without looking up as he continued inspecting the floor. “No. Not really. Heard about him. Pretty good with his hands, I’d say. This repair is really well done.”

“Is it?” Victoria asked, bending over to take a closer look. She wished she had had time to at least sweep before this formal inspection. “Not too surprising, really. Sam loves wood. He’s always carving little statues of animals and birds and stuff.”

“Hmm,” Elliot murmured as he stood up, his sparkling eyes pulling her thoughts back from Sam.

“Hey, look at you,” he said, walking a slow circle around her. “That’s an absolutely exquisite dress. Fits perfectly.”