The memory of that moment filled Eugene’s mind, as the man toiled over him. This wasn’t at all what Eugene wanted. If he had arrived at the Ebenezer Swampscott house unsure of that, he was unsure no longer. The part of himself that Eugene didn’t control had led him here, but now it was as though he could say to that part of himself, “Get out of here! Who put you in charge!” He didn’t like his fur coat all that much. He didn’t want to mislead people with his earring. He still wanted to write poetry, but that was about it.

Down Benefit Street to Waterman, then up Waterman and through the parking lot, back to his dorm. He was so tired. He wanted to go to bed.

But when he reached his room a surprise greeted him. On his whiteboard was a note from the ballerina. It said, “I’m still up if you want to come by.”

When had she written that? What time was it now? Was she still awake?

Difficult to know what had happened. The boy had got scared, or felt guilty. Was it something I? Oh, well. Maybe he had a quiz in the morning.

Nothing to be done but freshen his drink. He banged into the kitchen to effectuate that, then brought his drink back to the living room, where he lit a cigarette, put the phone in his lap, and dialled the number to Jasper’s hospital room.

“Hello?”

“Jas!”

“It’s almost midnight. I told you not to call after nine.”

“I wanted to tell you about a change in my life. A resolution.”

“You’re drunk,” Jasper said.

“I’m not that drunk,” Kent said. “And, anyway, pot calling the kettle.”

“I’m completely sober,” Jasper said.

If Jasper had been thirty-eight when they met, that made him fifty-nine now. “Age isn’t kind to our kind,” he always said. But he didn’t mean this. Not death.

“Don’t you want to hear my resolution?”

“I’d like to get some sleep. It’s impossible in these places.”

“I met a boy on the train tonight. Coming back from the city. Brought him back here. He left a few minutes ago.”

“You can do whatever you like,” Jasper said wearily. “I’ve got other things to deal with now.”

“I didn’t touch him, Jas. It was purely platonic. I wanted to tell you that.”

“At midnight. You needed to tell me that at midnight.”

“Not only that. Also that I was thinking of flying down to see you. When this show’s over.”

“I’m not ready for my closeup,” Jasper said.

“I miss you, Jas.” What was this? Tears? He was crying. Oh, God.

Jasper wheezed on the other end. When he spoke, his voice was gentle. “Let’s do. Let’s think about your coming down. When I’m feeling better. I’ll have to get a lighting designer in here, so you won’t reel back in horror.”

“Jas?”

“No more. It’s late. Good night, darling.”

Kent hung up. Switched off the light. Sat unmoving. What was that sound? Something scratching to be let in. Oh, the record. He needed to lift the needle.

When he got up, he didn’t go to the stereo, however. He went back to the kitchen. There was the vodka bottle. There was Jas’s postcard. For the nonce.

That was all there was. The nonce. And then, Curtain.

Play ice, Kent Jeffries told himself, pouring. Become ice.

The ballerina opened the door.

“Help! I’ve fallen into obscurity and I can’t get up!” Facebook

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“My roommate’s away,” she said.

She didn’t mean it like that. She was just explaining why she was up so late playing music.

Erik Satie. Eugene recognized it.

About 1 A.M. at this point.

He stood outside her door, listing to the right. He still had his earring in but had left his coat in his room.

“I’ve been drinking copious amounts,” Eugene said.

“I know. I can smell it.”

She invited him in.

A poster for “The Turning Point” hung above her bed. Photos of the ballerina dancing were taped to the wall, along with a framed one on her dresser where she stood beside an old, twisted-up woman in a wheelchair. Her grandmother, maybe.

“Erik Satie,” Eugene said. “I love this.”

“You know it? Me, too! It’s so beautiful!”

Should he sit on her bed? Or was that too suggestive? He didn’t want to screw things up. Maybe better just to lean against her roommate’s desk.

He was waiting for the ballerina’s excuse for not meeting him at the movies. But she seemed to have forgotten. She asked if he wanted tea.

Why had she told him to come by?

Oh, good. He was still drunk enough to ask.

“Why?” the ballerina said. “I felt like talking to you. I can’t figure you out. You’re strange, but in a good way.”

“I’ve decided to be more normal,” Eugene said. “From now on.”

“I don’t know if you should,” the ballerina said.

On second glimpse, the woman in the wheelchair wasn’t that old.

The ballerina saw him looking, and said, “That’s my mom.”

He didn’t ask what was wrong. One of those muscle diseases.

No wonder Erik Satie. So beautiful, so sad.

He looked at the other photos. The ballerina at various ages, leaping, pirouetting.

She held up two tea boxes, asking his preference. He chose the box without flowers.

She went out to fill the teakettle. While she was gone, Eugene went over to the photos to scope out her body in detail. He was back in place by the time she returned and plugged the teakettle in.

Say you were a little girl and you took ballet. Maybe your mother forced you. Maybe you thought it was part of being pretty. Or because ballet was a realm that girls dominated. A sport that was also an art, so way better than tennis, or gymnastics. Didn’t ballerinas get deformed feet? Wasn’t the discipline cruel and unusual? If so, the ballerina was just as brave-hearted as Eugene sensed she was.

“This is weird, but can I see your feet?” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“I want to see if they’re all messed up. From dancing.”

“They are!” the ballerina said. She seemed excited to show him. She lay down on her bed. Eugene came over to look.

“Pretty ugly,” he said. (Not true.)

Then, brave himself, he sat on the bed and started massaging her feet.

“That feels good,” the ballerina said. She closed her eyes.

For the next minute they were silent. Eugene started on her other foot.

“Can I ask you something?” the ballerina said. “Are you gay?”

“No,” Eugene said.

“Because I was wondering.”

“No!” he repeated.

“I wouldn’t care,” she said.

“I asked you out on a date!” Eugene said.

“That was a date? At the movies?”

“Not a very good one.”

“I’m so sorry!” she said. “I thought it was like a bunch of people were meeting.”

It didn’t matter anymore. He wasn’t thinking about that.

He was thinking that dancing wasn’t like making a monument in bronze. With dance you did it once, perfectly or not, and then it was gone forever.

Whereas he was too clumsy for that, and so had to sweat and gnaw his mental cuticles.

When she got up to pour the tea, he tried his best. He didn’t have a pen handy, so he had to sound it out in his head:

At nine, her mother watches from her wheelchair

As she dips and leaps and pirouettes.

This girl, once curled inside a body

now curling in on itself

has been commissioned, on a patch of floor

in Scarsdale

to move for both of them.

Or something like that. Eugene could see it now. The scene, if not the words. But he could feel them up there, queuing inside his head. He just had to wait and let them out. Then fuss with them until they hardened. Until they weren’t going anywhere, anymore. ♦