The Life and Adventures of Gillian McKenna
“Not to laugh, not to lament, not to detest, but to understand.” -Spinoza
Part Two:
11
Gillian and Erin Baxter became friends when Erin transferred to West Jefferson High late in the semester. Erin was quiet, studious, unprepossessing, unassuming. She wound up in Gillian’s English class, where together they set the curve and took turns mopping up whenever there was an essay contest or a spelling bee. They were despised by the other girls, which was just fine by Gillian and Erin, and thus their friendship was solidified.
Erin had come along not a moment too soon. She didn’t live far away, and Gillian spent as much time as possible at the Baxter home while her own parents cursed one another. The Baxter’s were well to do and they liked Gillian. If she went along when Mrs. Baxter took Erin shopping, she ended up with a mini-skirt or blouse of her own. Erin always brought enough money for the both of them to buy snacks at school. To Gillian, the Baxter household was a wonderful enigma. Mr. Baxter was a somewhat renowned physics professor at Tulane University. Mrs. Baxter, who was always at home, read tarot cards, operated a ouija board, and burned incense and black candles practicing magic. Gillian heard a rumor in the neighborhood that Mrs. Baxter had torched someone’s house with one of her spells, but she didn’t believe it because Mrs. Baxter was so sweet and friendly and always in a good mood. Gillian witnessed magic of another sort when she and Erin occasionally walked in to see Mr. and Mrs. Baxter holding each other tightly and kissing. She had never seen her own parents so much as touch each other. Gillian once asked Erin in unalloyed, dumbfounded seriousness if she was sure her parents were married.
“Of course they are, silly,” Erin replied.
Gillian shook her head slowly. “That is so bizarre.”
“It’s bizarre that you would even ask,” said Erin.
Whenever the girls went into Erin’s room, Gillian made sure to reach out and touch a pair of pink ballet shoes that hung on the closet door. The phenomenon in which the presence of two otherwise unconnected individuals reveals a hidden capacity in a third occurs much more frequently in relationships than people suppose. Erin was half of one such dyad in Gillian’s life, as represented by the ballet shoes.
The other half was Gillian’s paternal grandmother, Louise McKenna. When in her grandmother’s presence, Gillian was comforted by the fact that she was a girl, because Gramma Lou made no secret of her contempt for males. A mother of three girls and two boys, she believed that disparity begins at home, and there she practiced her misandry actively and with fervor. Her aspirations for Betty, Faye, and Melissa were profoundly unimaginative but specific: they would marry doctors or lawyers and become famous. To these ends, she utilized every available dollar to provide them with piano and voice lessons, clothes, shoes, make-up, plus whatever trappings were necessary to bring them out as New Orleans debutantes. The role of the two valueless boys was to assist in making all this happen. Arnold Jr, Gillian’s father, and his brother DW were responsible for all of the household chores while the girls primped, tried on new clothes, and practiced their scales. As soon as the boys were old enough to work, all of their earnings went to the aforementioned lessons and wardrobe for the girls.
Over time, Gillian was able to glean that it wasn’t simply a case of Gramma Lou taking a stronger interest in the activities of girls than of boys. If Arnold Jr. or DW whined or complained about having to do all of the work around the house, Arnold Sr., with a nod from his wife, would beat them with a belt buckle until they bled. The same punishment was meted out if the boys spent one penny of their salary before bringing it home to Lou. She wasn’t an affectionate woman to begin with, but from her the boys never knew an embrace or any but harsh words. Gillian learned this in bits and pieces from various family members, but in later years she did hear, from her reticent father, one or two details. Arnold Sr., who worked as a policeman, came home every night slobbering drunk and all too ready to wield the belt, after which DW and Arnold Jr. would cower under the bed, knowing there would be no consolation from their mother. Gillian also saw the scars on her father’s back.
Gramma Lou was into the performing arts. She played the piano, and her own keyboard excursions into dixieland jazz might’ve earned a nod of approval from Jelly Roll himself. Later in life she joined an all female ragtime band. She took Gillian to see the Nutcracker at Christmas time and liked to say that she instilled in her granddaughter a love of the ballet. This was an outright lie, as Gramma Lou instilled nothing. The instant Gillian laid eyes on the Sugar Plum Fairy and her cohorts they proceeded to bowl her over, knock her socks off, and cause such strange and wonderful stirrings that she found it difficult to breathe. Because she didn’t yet know the words to describe the experience, she was utterly defenseless, waylaid by graceful, sensual, erotic beauty and gripped by unattainable desire and longing: she wanted look like that, to move like that, to soar through the air like that. She couldn’t help but reach out and touch Erin’s ballet shoes because in doing so she touched something deep inside herself she both treasured and feared.
The first time Erin took notice of her friend’s fascination with the pink shoes hanging on the hook, she said, “Why don’t you come to ballet with me?”
Gillian quickly sat on the bed to keep from falling down. “What?” she said.
“I said, why don’t you come to ballet class with me?”
“How can I come to ballet class with you? I can’t be in ballet with you. How can you be in ballet? Don’t you have to go to New York to be in ballet?”
“No, they have it here, too.”
“They have it here too…. they have it here too?”
“Sure. You can ride with me to lessons.”
“But how do I do it?”
“You just sign up.”
Gillian steeled herself for the inevitable battle, resigned not to give in. Her mother hit the ceiling when she learned that Erin, whom she considered “a rich little bitch with an attitude,” had introduced her daughter to the idea of ballet lessons, which cost a whopping ten dollars per month, and declared that it was out of the question. When Gillian argued that Gramma Lou said she had a real appreciation for the ballet, Emily shot back that she should ask Gramma Lou to pay for the lessons. Gillian did just that, and her grandmother ponied up for six months of classes. Emily was stunned, but when she learned that the requisite tights, body suits, and toe shoes came to almost fifty dollars, she triumphantly declared them out of the question. She forbade Gillian to ask her grandmother for any more money and considered the matter settled, but when Gillian joyously informed her that Mrs. Baxter would buy her ballet attire, Emily, speechless, surrendered.
Her parents’ marriage continued to decay by fits and starts, but Gillian hardly noticed. She took to ballet like a swan to water, all else receding into the background behind leg lifts, arabesques, and pirouettes. When she began bringing home Ds and Fs from school, Emily threatened to yank her from dance class. The threat was empty and Gillian knew it; both of her parents were far too preoccupied with marital combat to follow through with anything.
One day, on a fiendish whim, Emily took a cab to the jewelry store on Canal Street where Arnold worked. At the moment she walked in she found Gloria, the cute secretary Arnold had driven home, leaning over him from behind, her breasts pressed against his back. In the days that followed, Emily made much ado about the breasts on the back, which somehow failed, for better or worse, to bring the marriage to a close. Arnold and Emily remained locked in misery, Gillian’s grades hit bottom and stayed there, but none of it mattered. Every week, it seemed, she came closer to achieving the power of flight.
The large dance studio where Gillian and Erin attended classes had been gearing up for their own performance of The Nutcracker since mid Fall. The owner, Monique, had been in her younger days a senior soloist with the Paris Opera Ballet. She was tall, slender, beautiful, and spoke with a heavy French accent. As Christmas approached, when Gillian had been in lessons for about four months, the studio received a distinguished visitor. He was introduced as Andrei, a principal dancer with the Bolshoi Ballet. The renowned Moscow based company was in town for their performance of the Nutracker at the Saenger-Orleans Theater. To Gillian, Andrei was another species of man altogether. He had blond hair and a commanding presence, and his massive, astonishingly muscled legs looked as though they could propel him over tall buildings in a single bound. He and Monique went way back, and he popped in several times at her studio to visit and help her scope out potential talent. All of the girls watched surreptitiously, as they went through their exercises, whenever he and Monique stood to the side observing class. More than once Monique motioned him over and the two stood looking in Gillian’s direction. Andrei’s expression gave away nothing, for which Gillian was grateful. Whenever she found herself in his line of sight, Monique was leaning close, talking in his ear, while Andrei stood stone faced with his muscular arms folded, shaking his head.
On the day the students were to receive their roles for The Nutcracker, Erin and Gillian arrived early. Monique waved Erin into her office first. Gillian watched through the glass and felt elated when the grin spread across her friend’s face, indicating she had earned a role that pleased her. Erin bounced out of the chair and held open the office door, but when Gillian entered, Monique’s expression turned serious.
“‘Ow are yeu today, mon cheri?” Monique asked as her student sat tentatively on the edge of the chair.
“Fine, thank you.”
Monique nodded. She folded her hands on her desk and frowned for a long time. Gillian looked at the floor, awaiting what was obviously disappointing news.
The instructor took a breath and spoke. “I want yeu to dance Clara, the lead role.”
Gillian glanced around, half suspecting Monique was talking to someone else in the room. “Really? Me?”
“Oh yes,” Monique said. “Yeu are best choice absolutely.” She picked up a sheet of paper, turned it around, and placed it across the desk. Gillian leaned forward and tried to make sense of the lines as Monique continued apologetically. “Gillian, I wish eet ware not zees way.”
Gillian, finally comprehending the contents of the page Monique had given her, danced that afternoon with a mixture of happiness and despair. On the ride home with Erin and her mother, she kept the piece of paper hidden. Erin became put out with her because she refused, at first, to disclose what part she had been given. When she finally pulled it out of her, Erin was delighted that her friend had landed the role of Clara. Gillian basked in the accolades Erin and her mother lavished on her all the way home, which felt good but not wholly for the reason she expected. Erin was genuinely proud of her, without the slightest trace of envy. She was a true friend.
At home, Gillian told her mother she’d been chosen for the lead role, then with resignation handed over the sheet of paper.
Emily read it quickly and immediately handed it back. “Forget it, missy. She’s outta her god damned mind. Is she nuts?”
The page was a price list of items Gillian would need for the role of Clara. She danced in three major scenes, requiring three different costumes. The list included hiring a hairdresser, makeup artist, the cost of accessories and toe shoes. The total came to a little over three hundred dollars.
“There’s no way in hell we can afford that kind of luxury,” Emily went on. “People like us don’t buy expensive costumes. You’ll have to pass this ‘honor’ along to someone else.”
Gillian called her gramma Lou, who said she wasn’t able to put up that kind of money, either. The role was passed to a girl who attended classes on another day of the week. When Gillian told Erin, they sat down and cried about it together, Erin every bit as heartbroken as she was. Gillian was cast as a dancing girl in the ballroom after Monique dug up one such period costume that fit her. Gillian was disheartened but still dancing, which is the only thing that mattered in the long run.
By the time school ended at Christmas break she had failed most of her classes for the semester, but this, like everything else not ballet, barely registered in her consciousness. She was vaguely aware, one evening at home, of a change in their vocabulary when her parents’ shouts came through her closed bedroom door: her mother had unwrapped her birthday present from her father; It was “a big fat lady blouse;” Her father had never before gotten her size wrong; Gloria boobs-on-the-back had been with him when he bought it, and it was she who had chosen the blouse.
When she heard her mother yell “fuck” for the first time in her life, Gillian’s curiosity got the best of her. She walked into the living room to see Emily, who didn’t smoke or drink, kicked back in Arnold’s recliner, awkwardly holding a burning cigarette and guzzling from a bottle of bourbon. “I’m just going to be you from now on!” she shrieked at her husband. Bourbon and spittle sprayed from her mouth and her eyes bugged out of her head. It would have been comical had it not been frightening.
At the next practice, Monique again waved Gillian into her office, but only Gillian. The instructor came quickly to the point, but the conversation still took long enough that the other girls had finished their warmup and were growing impatient. They watched Gillian use the phone on the desk to make a couple of calls, saw Monique smile and nod before the two emerged to begin the session.
The meeting they arranged took place the very next evening at the McKenna home. Gillian’s heart began pounding earlier that afternoon and continued unabated. At seven PM Monique and Andrei arrived. Arnold was working late, fortunately, so her mother appeared relatively composed when she received the visitors. They all introduced themselves. Emily had made a pitcher of iced tea and, after the two guests settled uneasily onto the couch, she placed two glasses before them on the coffee table. She then took the chair opposite. Gillian stood near the wall and trembled.
Monique appeared nervous. Andrei’s accent was heavy but he was clear and direct. “I dance in contract vit Bolshoi,” he said. “But I haf studio in New York City. Vee search all over de vult finding best talent for program nastavnik.”
“Excuse me?” said Emily.
Andrei turned to Monique, who translated. “Nastavnik. In English, eez ‘mentor program,’” she said.
Andrei nodded. “Vee pick vun dancer every year to come. Only vun. Vit most potential. She vill train for six veeks in summer vit best instructors.”
“Uh-huh,” Emily said. “In New York City, I take it.”
“Yes of course. At studio.”
Emily shook her head. “I’m sorry Mr. Andrei, but we cannot afford that. We’re not a wealthy family.”
“It’s free, Mom!” Gillian blurted. “It won’t cost a thing!”
“What?” said Emily. She frowned at Andrei.
He nodded. “Nastavnik… mentor program… all paid. Room and Board. Transport. All classes, naturally.”
“I already called Gramma Lou,” Gillian said. She’ll come to New York with me on the plane. She can’t stay but she’ll make sure I’m settled in and everything’s ok.”
Emily shot a look at Gillian, unhappy her daughter had again gone behind her back to appeal to her grandmother. She turned to the visitors. “I’m sorry, it just isn’t going to work.”
Monique clasped her hands and looked at Andrei.
“Meeses Mckenna,” he continued calmly, “Gillian is born for dis, flexible and strong. She is made for prima ballerina.”
Monique interrupted and spoke excitedly to Andrei in his native language. It was one of the stranger sounds Gillian had ever heard, Russian spoken with a French accent.
When she was finished, Andrei nodded and turned again to Emily. “In ballet vee haf five positions. All of dance come from dis five. Very difficult. Years to study. Your daughter learn in vun day.” He held up an index finger and repeated slowly, “Vun day.
Monique looked almost beseechingly at Emily, who remained expressionless.
“In Russian, is called odarenny chelovek,” Andrei said, then again deferred to Monique.
“Eet means Prodigy,” Monique said. She pronounced it ‘prawdeejhee.’
Gillian felt her intestines ratcheting down as she watched her mother’s face. Emily had worn a simpering smile the whole time Andrei was talking and began shaking her head the instant he finished.
“Yes, well, Gillian has always paid attention in her classes,” she said. “Thank you both very much for coming to talk to us, but I’m afraid we simply can’t manage it.”
Andrei and Monique looked at each other. It was clear to Gillian they simply couldn’t believe their ears. Both of them came from cultures where a person would go to any lengths short of murder to afford their child this opportunity, and here was this idiot American woman refusing them for no reason.
“Mom,” Gillian whimpered. “Mom.”
“Would you like some more tea?” Emily said to the guests.
Before her mother had closed the front door behind them, Gillian was in her room, crying violently, grieving a loss she couldn’t possibly imagine. Emily walked briskly down the hall and leaned in the doorway. “That foreign pervert was only trying to get into your pants,” she said. “I’ll not be delivering my child to him like a lamb to the slaughter.” She vanished for a moment, then stuck her head back in. “I’m sorry that you feel this way,” she said sternly through Gillian’s sobs. “But I must do what’s best for you.”
Within the week, their parents sat Gillian and Gary down and solemnly informed them that their father was moving out. Gillian burst out laughing. She laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and couldn’t stop.
Her mother became angry. “What you’re doing right now is not very nice to your father,” she said.
“I don’t mind,” said Arnold. “She’s tired of all the yelling.”
Gary ran crying to his room. Gillian laughed hysterically.
