As for me, the boys saw me, they asked for dates, but Julian made it clear I wasn't available--I was his. He told everyone we were lovers. Though I persistently denied this, he would tell them in private I was old-fashioned and ashamed to admit we were "living in sin." He chidingly explained in my very presence, "It's that old southern-belle tradition. Gals down south like guys to think they're sweet, shy, demure, but underneath that cool magnolia exterior-- sexpots--every one!" Of course they believed him and not me. Why should they believe the truth when a lie was so much more exciting?
I was happy enough though. I adapted to New York as one native born, rushing about as every New Yorker had to--get there fast, don't waste a second, there was so much to prove before someone else with a pretty face and more talent showed up to knock you off the board. But while I was ahead in the game, it was wild and heady stuff, exhausting and demanding. How grateful I was that Paul kept sending me a weekly check, for what I earned at the dance company wouldn't have paid for my cosmetics.
The three of us who shared rooms 416 required at least ten hours of sleep. We got up at dawn to limber up at our home barre before breakfast. Breakfast had to be very light, as was lunch. Only during the last meal of the day,, after a performance, could we really satisfy our ravenous appetites. It seemed I was always hungry, that I never had enough to eat. In just one performance in the corps de ballet I lost five or six pounds.
Julian was with me constantly, shadowing me too closely, keeping me from dating anyone else. Depending on my mood or state of exhaustion, I was resentful of this, and other times happy to have someone around who wasn't a stranger.
Madame Zolta said one day in June, "Your name is silly! Change it! Catherine Doll--what kind of name for dancer? An inane, unexciting name--it doesn't suit you at all!"
"Now you wait a minute, Madame!" I snapped back, abandoning my attitude position. "I chose that name when I was seven and my father liked it. He thought it suited me fine, so I'm going to use it, stupid or not!" I longed to tell her Madame Naverena Zolta Korovenskov wasn't exactly what I'd call a lyrical name either.
"Don't argue with me, girl, change it!" She used her ivory walking cane to pound on the floor. But, if I changed my name, how would my mother know when I reached the top? She had to know! Still that wretched little witch in her outdated, silly costume could narrow her fierce dark eyes and lift that cane and brandish it so I was forced to yield, or else! Julian slouched nearby and grinned.
I agreed I would change the spelling of my last name from Doll to Dahl. "That is better," she said sourly, "somewhat."
Madame Z. rode my back. She nagged. She criticized. She complained if I was innovative and complained when I wasn't. She didn't like the way I wore my hair and said I had too much. "Cut it off!" she ordered but I refused to snip off even an inch, for I believed my long hair a great asset for the role of Sleeping Beauty. She snorted when I said this. (Snorting was one of her favorite means of expression.) If she hadn't been a wonderfully gifted instructor we'd have all hated her. Her very dour nature forced the best from us, for we so wanted to see her smile. She was also a choreographer, but we had another too who came and went and supervised when he wasn't in Hollywood, in Europe, or off in some remote spot dreaming up new dancing scores.
One afternoon after class, when we dancers were playing about foolishly, I jumped up to dance wildly to a popular song. Madame came in and caught me, then exploded, "We dance classical here! No modern dance here!" Her dry, wrinkled face screwed into a dried, headhunter's belt ornament. "You, Dahl, explain the difference between classical and modern."
Julian winked at me, then fell backward to rest on his elbows and cross an elegant ankle over a knee, as he delighted in my discomfort. "Succinctly, Madame," I began with my mother's poise, "the modern form of ballet consists mostly of groveling about on the floor and posturing, while classical stands up on its toes, whirls, spins, and is never too seductive or awkward. And it tells a story."
"How right you are," she said icily. "Now get you home to bed and posture and grovel there if you feel the need to express yourself in such a manner. Never let me catch you doing such before my eyes again!"
Modern and classical could be blended and made beautiful. The tightness of that small shrew enraged me, and I screamed back, "I hate you, Madame! I despise your ratty old gray costumes that should have been thrown away thirty years ago! I hate your face, your voice, your walk and your talk! Find yourself another dancer. I'm going home!" I flounced off toward the dressing room, leaving all the dancers standing in shock staring after me.
I ripped off my practice clothes and yanked on underwear. Into the dressing room stalked the grimfaced witch, her eyes mean, her lips pressed tightly together. "If you go home you never come back!"
"I don't want to come back!"
"You will wither away and die!"
"You're a fool if you think that!" I snapped without regard to her age or respect for her talent. "I can live my life without dancing, and happily too--so go to hell, Madame Zolta!"
As if a spell had been broken that old hag smiled at me, and sweetly too. "Ah . . . you have spirit. I was wondering if you did. Tell me to go to hell, it is nice to hear. Hell is better than heaven anyway. Now, seriously, Catherine," she said in a kind tone, kinder than I'd ever heard from her, "you are a wonderfully gifted dancer, the best I have, but you are so impulsive you abandon the classical and toss in whatever comes to your mind. I only try to teach you. Invent all you want, but keep it classical, elegant, beautiful." Tears glistened her eyes. "You are my delight, did you know? I think you are the daughter I never had; you take me back to when I was young and thought all life was one big romantic adventure. I'm so afraid life will steal your look of enchantment, your childish wonderment. If you can hang onto that expression, you'll soon have the world at your feet."
It was my attic face she was speaking of. That enchanted expression that used to so enthrall Chris. "I'm sorry, Madame," I said humbly. "I was rude. I was wrong to scream, but you pick on me all the time, and I'm tired, homesick too."
"I know, I know," she crooned as she came to embrace me, then rocked with me back and forth. "To be young and in a strange city is hard on the nerves and confidence. But remember, I only needed to know what you are made of. A dancer without fire is no dancer at all."
I'd been living in New York seven months, working even on the weekends until I fell into bed dead tired, before Madame Zolta thought I should be given a chance to dance a lead role with Julian to partner me. It was Madame's rule to alternate lead roles, so that there would be no stars in her company, and though she'd hinted many times she wanted me for Clara in The Nutcracker, I thought she just used that to dangle before me, like a rich plum I'd never be allowed to eat. Then it became a reality. Our company was in competition with much larger and better-known companies, so it was an absolute stroke of genius that she was able to sell a television producer on the notion that people who couldn't afford to buy ballet tickets could be reached by television.
I called Paul long distance to tell him my great news. "Paul, I'm going to appear on TV in The Nutcracker.
I'll be Clara!" He laughed and congratulated me. "I guess that means you won't be coming home this summer," he said rather sadly. "Carrie misses you an awful lot, Cathy. You've only paid us one short visit since you went away."
"I'm sorry, I want to come but I need this chance to star, Paul. Please explain to Carrie so her feelings won't be hurt. Is she there?"
"No, she's finally made a friend and is 'sleepingover.' But call again tomorrow night and reverse the charges, and tell her yourself."
"And Chris, how is he?" I asked.
"Fine, fine. He gets nothing but A's, and if he can manage to keep that up, he'll be accepted for an accelerated program and can finish out his fourth year of college while starting his first year in medical school."
"Simultaneously?" I asked, marveling that anyone, even Chris, could be that smart and
accompl
ish so much.
"Sure, it can be done."
"Paul, what about you? Are you well? Are you working too much, too many long hours?"
"I'm healthy and yes, I do work long hours, as every doctor does. And since you can't come to visit us, I think it would be nice for Carrie if we came to visit you."
Oh, that was the best idea I'd heard in months and months. "And bring Chris," I said. "He'll love to meet all the pretty ballerinas I can introduce him to. But you, Paul, you'd better not look at anyone but me."
He made a strange sound in his throat before he chuckled. "Don't worry, Catherine, there's not a day that passes that I don't see your face before me."
In early August the television production of The Nutcracker was taped for Christmastime release. Julian and I sat close together and watched the rushes, and when it was over he turned to take me in his arms, and for the first time he told me with the kind of sincerity I could believe, "I love you, Cathy. Please stop taking me so lightly!"
Hardly had we rested up from The Nutcracker when Yolly fell and sprained her ankle, and April was visiting her parents, so I had the chance to be Sleeping Beauty! Since Julian had played two roles in the TV production, both Alexis and Michael thought it should be their turn to partner me. Madame Zolta frowned and looked at Julian, then at me. "Alexis, Michael, I promise you the very next lead roles, but let Julian dance with Catherine. They have a rare magic between them that is spellbinding. I want to see how they do in a really lavish production like The Sleeping Beauty."
Oh, the thoughts I had on stage as I lay so still on the purple velvet couch, waiting for my lover to come and put on my lips an arousing, come-alive kiss. The glorious music made me feel more real on that couch than when I was just me with no royal blood at all. I felt enchanted, surrounded by an aura of beauty as I quietly, gracefully lay with my arms folded on my breasts and my heart pulsated in rhythm with the glorious music. Out in the dark audience, Paul, Chris and Carrie and Henny were watching for the first time a New York performance. Truly, I felt in my bones I was that mystical medieval princess.
I saw him dreamily from beneath almost closed eyes, my prince. He danced about me, then down on one knee he knelt to tenderly gaze upon my face before he dared to put a hesitant kiss upon my closed lips. I awakened, shy, disoriented, fluttering my eyelids. I feigned love on sight, but was so frightened, so maidenly virtuous, he had to woo me with more dancing and coax me to dance too, and in the most passionate pas de deux I soon succumbed to his charms and in conquest he lifted me high and up on the flat of his palm that knew well the exact spot to balance my weight just right, and I was carried offstage.
The last act ended; the applause thundered and resounded as time and again the curtain rose and came down. Julian and I took eight curtain calls of our very own! Red roses were thrust again and again into my arms, and flowers were tossed onto the stage. I looked down to see one single yellow buttercup weighted down by a folded slip of paper. I bent to pick it up and knew it was from Chris even before I had the chance to read his note. Daddy's four yellow buttercups--and here was one put in a freezer to keep it fresh until it could be thrown to me as a tribute to what we used to be.
Blindly I stared out into an audience of blurred faces, searching to see those I loved. All I could see was the attic, the gloomy, awesomely huge attic with its paper flowers, and over there, near the stairwell, was Chris standing in the shadows, near the shrouded sofa and the big trunk and his yearning desire was on his face as he watched me dance on and on.
I was crying, and the audience loved it. They gave me a standing ovation. I turned to hand a red rose to Julian, and again they thundered their applause. And he kissed me! Right in front of thousands--he dared to kiss me--and it wasn't respectful, it was possessive. "Damn you for doing that!" I hissed, feeling humiliated.
"Damn you for not wanting me!" he hissed back. "I'm not yours!"
"You will be!"
My family came backstage to lavish me with praise. Chris had grown taller but Carrie was very much the same--maybe a bit taller, not much. I kissed Henny's firm, round cheek. Only then could I look at Paul. Our eyes locked and held. Did he still love me, want me, need me? He hadn't answered my last letter. Easily hurt, I'd written only to Carrie to tell her of the upcoming performances, and only then did Paul call to say he was bringing my family to New York.
After the performance came the buffet party given for us by the rich patrons Madame Z. cultivated. "Wear the costumes you have on," she instructed. "The aficionados get a big thrill seeing dancers up close in costumes--but take off the stage makeup, use what you wear every day to look stunning. Never for one second give the public the idea you are less than glamorous!"
Music was playing and Chris took me into his arms for a waltz, the dance I had taught him so many years ago. "This is still the way you dance?" I chided.
He grinned in a self-effacing way. "Can't help it if you got all the dancing talent and I got all the brains."
"Remarks like that could easily make me think you have no brains."
He laughed again and I was drawn closer. "Besides, I don't have to dance and posture to win over the girls. Just take a look at your friend Yolanda. She's quite a beauty, and she's been giving me the eye all evening."
"She gives every good-looking guy the eye, so don't feel so flattered. She'll sleep with you tonight if you want that, and tomorrow night with someone else."
"Are you like her too?" he shot back, narrowing his eyes.
I smiled at him wickedly, thinking, no, I was like Momma, sweet and cool and able to handle men--at least, I was learning. To prove this I winked at Paul, seeing if he'd come over and cut in. Swiftly Paul was on his feet, moving gracefully across the dance floor to take me from Chris. My brother's lips tightened, then he strolled straight from me to Yolanda. In a minute or two they disappeared.
"I guess you think I'm all hands and clumsy feet, after dancing with Julian," said Paul, who could dance better than Chris. Even when the music changed into a faster rhythm with a jungle beat he followed along, surprising me that he could let go of his dignity and jiggle around almost as abandoned as a college kid. "Paul, you're wonderful!" He laughed and said I made him feel young again. It was so much fun to see him like this, relaxed, that I went a hit wild with my dancing.
Carrie and Henny looked tired and ill-at-ease. "I'm sleepy," complained Carrie, rubbing her eyes. "Can't we go to bed now?" It was twelve o'clock when we dropped Henny and Carrie off at their hotel, then Paul and I sat in a quiet Italian cafe and looked at one another. He still wore the mustache--not a neat, dandy one, but a thick brush above his sensual lips. He'd gained a few pounds, but it didn't detract from his looks or his appeal. He reached across the table to gather both my hands in his, then lifted them to his face so he could rub his cheek against them. And all the while he did this, his eyes asked a burning question, forcing a question from me. "Paul, have you found someone else?"
"Have you?"
"I asked first."
"I'm not looking for anyone else."
It was an answer to make my heartbeats quicken, for it had been so long and I loved him too much. I watched him pay the check, pick up my coat and hold it, and then his own for me to hold. Our eyes met--and then we almost ran from the restaurant to the nearest hotel where he registered us as Mr. and Mrs. Paul Sheffield. In a room painted dark red, he took off my clothes with such seductive slowness I was ready even before he went down on his knees to kiss me everywhere. Then he held me close, caressed and cherished me, kissed and pleasured until we were again made one.
After we were spent, he traced his finger along my lips, looking at me so tenderly. "Catherine, what I wrote on that hotel register I meant," he said, kissing me softly.
I stared at him, disbelieving. "Paul, don't tease me."
"I'm not teasing, Catherine. I've missed you so much since you've been away. I realized what a fool I've been to deny you and myself the chance to find happiness. Life is too short to hav
e so many doubts. Now you're finding success in New York; I want to share it with you. I don't want us to have to sneak around behind Chris's back, I don't want to have to worry about the small-town gossips. I wants to be with you, I want you forever, I want you to be my wife."
"Oh Paul," I cried, throwing my arms about his neck, "I'll love you forever, I promise!" My eyes filled with tears, I was so relieved he'd asked me to marry him at last. "I'll make you the best wife any man has ever known." I meant it too.
We didn't sleep that night We stayed awake, planning how it would be when we were married. I would stay with the company, somehow we'd work it out. The only shadow that darkened our joy was Chris. How would we tell Chris? We decided to wait until Chistmas, when I would be in Clairmont. Until then I had to keep my happiness a secret, hide it from the world, so no one would guess I was about to become Mrs. Paul Scott Sheffield.
A Fighting Chance
. That was the autumn of my happiness, of my burgeoning success, of my love for Paul. I thought I had fate fully under my control; I dared it to stop me, for I was free and running true on my course. Almost on top now. I had nothing to fear now, nothing at all. I couldn't wait to tell the world about my engagement to Paul. But steathily I protected my secret. I told no one, not Julian, nor Madame Zolta, for there was much at stake, and I had to bide my time, to make sure everything would continue to go my way. Right now I still needed Julian to partner me, just as much as he needed me. And I needed Madame Zolta to have complete confidence in me. If she knew I was going to be married, something she did not highly approve of, she might not give me all the lead roles, she might think I was a lost cause and not worth her time. And I still had to be famous. I still had to show Momma how much better I was than she.
Now that Julian and I were achieving a little recognition, Madame Zolta began to pay us more money. Julian came running to me one Saturday morning, terribly excited as he grabbed me up and swung me off my feet in a circle. "Guess what? The old witch said I could buy her Cadillac on a time payment plan! It's only two and a half years old, Cathy." He looked wistful. "Of course, I always hoped my first Cadillac would be a brand new one, but when a certain ballet mistress is scared to death a certain sensational danseur might join another ballet company and take along with him her best ballerina--how can that certain someone refuse to almost give away her Cadillac?"