She paused, flicked her stony eyes over me and went on breathlessly, "You came, you admired him, you loved him when you were dancing with him, and when you weren't, you were indifferent. The harder you were to win, the more determined he was to have you. I thought you clever, playing a skillful woman's game when you were only a child! And now you, you . . . you go and leave him when he was in a foreign country, when he couldn't speak the language, when you should have learned he has weaknesses, many of them, and that he cannot bear to be alone!"
She jumped up like a black, scrawny alleycat and stood above me. "Without Julian to give you inspiration and enhance your talent with his own, where would you be? Without him would you be in New York, dancing with what is fast becoming one of the leading ballet companies? No! You'd be here, raising babies for that doctor. God knows why you said yes to Julian, and how you can keep from loving him. For he tells me you don't, and never have! So you drug him. You leave him. You take off to see your brother become a doctor, when you know damn well your place is at your husband's side, making him happy and taking care of his wants!
"Yes! Yes!" she shrilled, "he called me long distance and told me everything! Now he thinks he hates you! Now he wants to cut you off. And when he does, he won't have a heart left to keep him alive! For he gave you his heart years and years ago!"
Slowly I rose to my feet; my legs felt weak and trembly. I brushed a hand over my aching forehead, and held back tired tears. All of a sudden it hit me hard, I did love Julian! Now I saw how very much we were alike, him with his hate for his father who had denied him as a son. And me with my hatred for my mother, making me do crazy things, like sending off hateful letters and Christmas cards to sadden her life and never, never let her find peace. Julian in competition with his father, never knowing he'd won, and was better . . . and me in competition with my mother-- but I had yet to prove myself better. "Madame, I am going to tell you something Julian might not know, and I didn't really know until today; I do love your son. Perhaps I always loved him, and jus
t couldn't accept it."
She shook her head, then fired her words like bullets. "If you love him, why did you leave him? Answer me that! You left him because you found out he has a liking for young girls? Fool! All men have yearnings for young girls--but still they go on loving their wives! If you let his desire for young flesh drive you away, you are crazy! Slap his face; kick his behind--tell him to leave those girls alone or you will divorce him! Say all of that, and he will be what you want. But when you say nothing, and act like you don't care, you tell him plainly you don't love him, or want him, or need him!"
"I'm not his mother, or a priest, or God," I said wearily, sick of all the passion she used. Backing toward the door, I tried to leave. "I don't know if I can keep Julian from young girls, but I'm willing to go back and try. I promise to do better. I'll be more understanding, and I'll let him know I love him so much, I can't abide the thought of him making love to anyone but me."
She came to take me in her arms. She soothed, "Poor baby, if I have been hard on you, it was for your own good. You have to keep my son from destroying himself. When you save him, you save yourself, for I lied when I said you would be nothing without Julian. He is the one who would be nothing without you! He has a death wish, always I've known it. He thinks he's not good enough to live on because his father could never convince him he was, and that was my fault too, as well as Georges's. Julian waited for years and years for his father to see him as a son, worthy of being loved for himself. He waited equally as long for Georges to say yes, you will be even a better dancer than I was, and I'm proud of what and who you are. But Georges kept his silence. But you go back and tell Julian Georges did love him To me he said it many times. Tell him too that his father was proud of him Tell him, Catherine. Go back and convince him of how much you need and love him Tell him how sorry you are to have left him alone.
Go quickly before he does something terrible to himself!"
It was time to say good-bye to Carrie, Paul and Henny again. Only this time I didn't have to bid adieu to Chris. He put his foot down. "No! I'm coming with you! I'm not letting you go back to a crazy man. When you've made your peace with him, and I know everything is all right--only then will I leave."
Carrie cried, as she always did, and Paul stood back and let only his eyes speak and say yes, I could find a place in his heart again.
I looked down as the plane began to lift, and saw Paul holding Carrie's small hand, as she tilted her face to stare up at us and waved, and waved until we could see her no more. I squirmed into a comfortable position and put my head on Chris's shoulder, and told him to wake me when we reached New York. "A fine traveling companion you make," he grumbled, but soon his cheek was on my hair as he dozed off too. "Chris," I said sleepily, "remember that book about Raymond and Lily who were always seeking the magical place where purple grass grew that would fulfill all their wishes? Wouldn't it be wonderful to look down and see purple grass?"
"Yeah," he said as sleepily as I. "I keep looking for it too."
The plane set down at La Guardia around three. A hot, sultry day. The sun played coy, darting in and out of gathering storm clouds. We were both tired. "At this hour Julian will be in the theater rehearsing. They'll use the rehearsals as a promotion film There have to be a lot of rehearsals; we've never danced in this theater before and it's important to get the feel of the space you have to move in."
Chris was lugging along my two heavy suitcases, while I carried his much lighter bag. I laughed and smiled his way, glad he was with me, though Julian would be furious. "Now you stay in the background . . . and don't let him even see you if everything goes all right. Really, Chris, I'm sure he'll be glad to see me. He's not dangerous."
"Sure," he said glumly
We sauntered on into the darkened theater. The stage up ahead was very brightly lit. The TV cameras were in position, ready to shoot the warm-ups. The director, producer and a few others were lined up in the front-row seats.
The heat of the day was chased by the chill of the huge space. Chris opened up one of my bags and spread a sweater about my shoulders after we both sat down near the aisle, midway back in the center section. Automatically I lifted both my legs to stretch them on top of the seat just ahead. Though I shivered, the corps de ballet were sweating from the hot klieg lights. The eye was down and a few flats were up. I looked for Julian but didn't see him
Just to think of Julian was to bring him out of the wings, onto the stage in a series of whirling fetes. Oh, he looked terrific in that snug, white leotard with bright green leg warmers.
"Wow!" whispered Chris in my ear.
"Sometimes I forget how sensational he is on stage. No wonder every ballet critic thinks he will be the star of this decade when he learns some discipline. Let it be soon . . . and I mean you too, Cathy.' I smiled, for I too needed discipline. "Yes," I said, "I too, of course."
No sooner had Julian finished his solo performance than Yolanda Lange pirouetted out from the wings, wearing red. She was more beautiful than ever! She danced extraordinarily well for a girl so tall. That was, she danced well until Julian came to partner her, and then everything went wrong. He reached for her waist and got her buttocks, then he had to quickly shift his hold, so she slipped and nearly fell and again he adjusted to save her. A male dancer who let a ballerina fall would soon never have a partner to lift. They tried again the same jump, lift, and fall back, and this time it went almost as awkwardly, making Yolanda seem ungainly, and Julian unskilled.
Even I, sitting halfway down the row of seats, could hear her loud curse. "Damn you!" she screeched. "You make me look gauche--if you let me fall, I'll see you never dance again!"
"Cut!" called the director, getting to his feet and looking impatiently from one to the other.
The corps de ballet milled about, grumbling, throwing angry looks at the pair center stage that was wasting so much time. Obviously, from the sweaty, hot looks of all of them, this had been going on for some time, and badly. "Marquet!" called the director, well known for having little patience for those who required two, or even more takes. "What the hell is wrong with your timing? I thought you said you knew this ballet. I can't think of one thing you've done right in the past three days."
"Me?" Julian railed back. "It's not me . . . it's her--she jumps too soon!"
"Okay," the director said sarcastically, "it's always her fault and never yours." He tried to control his impatience, knowing Julian would walk out in a second if criticized too much. "When is your wife going to be well enough to dance again?"
Yolanda screamed out, "Hey, wait a minute! I came all the way from Los Angeles and now you're sounding as if you're going to replace me with Catherine! I won't have it! I'm written into that contract now! I'll sue!"
"Miss Lange," said the director smoothly, "you are the cover only--but while you are, let's attempt it again. Marquet, listen for your cue--Lange, make ready--and pray to God this time it will be fit to show an audience who might expect better from professionals."
I smiled to hear she was only the cover; I had thought I was really written out.