Magnolia Wednesdays Part 7

"I'm not sure," Vivien said, noting Ruth's protective posture. She had the sense the woman would throw herself in front of Melanie, maybe even take a bullet for her, if necessary. "I'm taking a, um, somewhat open-ended break from work."

Ruth sniffed, but made no other comment. Vivien could just picture the woman's internal bulls.h.i.t-o-meter clanging loudly.

In the near-empty ballroom they prepared the mailing, with Vivien stuffing the newly printed flyers into the envelopes, Melanie affixing the address label and postage on each, then pa.s.sing it on to Ruth, who glued the envelopes shut. On the way home, Melanie and Vivien would stop back at the post office to mail them.

Home. The word practically made Vivien tremble with relief.

And speaking of relief, once again, Vivien's stomach rumbled. "Melanie, is there anything to eat here?" Vivien asked.

"You're hungry?" Melanie checked her watch as if time had anything to do with the yawning pit in Vivien's stomach. "We just ate two hours ago."

"And your point is?" Vivien asked as her stomach rumbled again, or maybe that was just an echo in the emptiness.

"I think we have some cookies from the last practice party," Melanie said. "And maybe some chips, too."

"Bless you!" Vivien followed directions down the lone hallway to the kitchen, where she poked through the cabinets. The chips hadn't been opened, but she found two different bags of cookies and wolfed down one oatmeal and one chocolate chip right there before filling a plate to take back to Melanie and Ruth. When they both refused them, Vivien settled the plate in front of her. Although she tried to slow her rate of consumption to near-normal levels, the look Melanie and Ruth tried to share over her head told her no one was fooled.

Vivien munched and stuffed envelopes, perking up with each cookie she consumed, until she felt almost revived. There were several private lessons going on now out on the dance floor, little pockets of activity in various corners of the long, rectangular s.p.a.ce, and she watched for a while, unable to miss how focused the students looked as they tried to master the steps and how happy they appeared when things started to come together. The music changed regularly, each instructor taking a turn selecting what would play so that his or her students could practice what they were learning.

"We've got six registered for the Wednesday night belly-dancing cla.s.s, including me and the bride-to-be," Ruth said to Melanie as she affixed the final mailing labels.

"You can add Vivi and me to the list," Melanie said. "Vivi's not so keen about dancing, but belly dancing is great exercise and there's no partner to maim." She grinned. "Um, worry about."

Ruth made no comment, but Vivi had no doubt that the woman would enjoy watching Vivien humiliate herself. Which was all the more reason not to let it happen. Now that her sugar high had begun to wear off, the only thing Vivien was interested in was getting back to Melanie's and crawling into bed. Well, okay maybe that was two things, but they were very closely intertwined.

As she followed Melanie to the minivan and climbed slowly into the pa.s.senger seat, she wondered how Melanie could look so . . . awake. They still had to go back to the post office to mail out the envelopes they'd just stuffed and addressed. And then, according to Melanie, there was dinner to be fixed. Homework to be supervised. Children to be spoken to.

Vivien yawned, her lids impossibly heavy.

Her chin nodded down to her chest as Melanie pulled the van out into traffic. As her head ultimately came to rest against the window her last semi-coherent thought was that triathletes had nothing on her sister and the other women she'd seen racing in and out of the establishments in east Cobb today. She was too sleepy to worry about a lead-in sentence, but somewhere in her subconscious she knew she had the subject for her second column.

She was asleep before they got to the post office and only roused when they got back to Melanie's. Later as she hugged the pillow and curled on her side, Vivien knew there was something she'd meant to tell Melanie. Something about not dancing. Ever. She yawned, trying to hold on to the thought even as she dove more deeply down into the welcoming abyss of sleep.

First thing tomorrow morning just as soon as she woke up and tossed Shelby out of bed, she'd make sure that Melanie understood. You could lead a klutz to a ballroom, but that didn't mean you could make her dance.

10.

I'M HERE," VIVIEN said from between clenched teeth.

"But as I've told you about a thousand times now, I'd rather just watch."

Vivien and Melanie stood in front of the mirrors at the far end of the Magnolia Ballroom dance floor. The six other members of the Wednesday night beginning belly-dance cla.s.s, as well as their instructor, stood in a ragged line about five feet away from them, trying to act as if they weren't watching or listening.

"Vivi, this could be your opportunity to learn how to dance once and for all. Mother was practically a prima ballerina; I started dancing before I could walk. Even Daddy and Ham can pick out the rhythm of a song and are able to lead. There is no way someone from our gene pool could be as utterly helpless on a dance floor as you pretend to be."

"I am not pretending." Vivien removed her arm from her sister's grasp, but was careful to keep her voice low. Vivi sneaked a peek over her shoulder at the a.s.sembled students. The kindest adjective she could think of for them was "eclectic."

Ruth Melnick, who was both short and barrel-chested, was the oldest. She wore black knit pants and a matching top and had tied the chiffon hip scarf that Naranya had brought for each student low on her hip-or at least the place where her hips should have been. It was bright red.

Diana and Delores Shipley were in their midthirties. Vivien had automatically christened them Tweedle Di and Tweedle Dee, due to the glaring disparity in their sizes. Tweedle Diana was tall and leggy while Tweedle Delores was much shorter and markedly rounder. They had blondish-brown hair and were attractive in a girl-next-door kind of way. Individually they wouldn't have drawn a second look; viewed as a pair it was impossible not to puzzle over the vagaries of heredity and the randomness of nature.

Angela Richman fell between the Shipley sisters height-wise and appeared to be the youngest member of the cla.s.s. Her deep red hair had golden highlights and she wore it in a short layered style that drew attention to her heart-shaped face and deep green eyes. The wrists that poked out from her long-sleeved black T-shirt were downright k.n.o.bby and her ankles and bare feet were narrow and trim, but the black yoga pants and T flopped loosely around her, at least a full size too big.

Vivien, who had squeezed into the only pair of black pants that still b.u.t.toned and tried to hide her burgeoning b.r.e.a.s.t.s and expanding waistline beneath a stretchy black camisole and black-and-white-striped overblouse, envied her the extra room.

Sally Hailstock, a fortysomething English teacher at Pemberton, had had a good bit of trouble stretching the chiffon hip scarf all the way across her broad hips, but she had a hearty laugh and a lot of enthusiasm. Beside her, Lourdes Gonzales's body in black leggings and matching jogging bra appeared quite small and curvy. She tied the lime green hip scarf at a jaunty angle and gave her hips a good shake to make the scarf coins jangle.

Vivien did not want to wear a scarf that jangled or learn how to isolate any body parts, which was apparently what the first lessons were all about. She seriously doubted that she could control her stomach muscles at this point-not that she'd ever possessed abs of steel-and she didn't want to draw attention to that fact. She drew a deep breath in a vain attempt to regain her composure and to find the upper hand. "I'd really rather sit this first one out. And maybe start next week."

"No." That was it. No negotiating, no conversation. Somehow, when Vivien wasn't looking, her little sister had begun to grow a backbone. "This will be a lot easier than couples' dancing and it doesn't really matter how good you are; only that you do it." She took Vivi by the elbow, placed her beside Sally, and tied a neon pink scarf with gold coin-shaped jangles around her hips.

"Naranya's a really good teacher," Melanie said as she tied a scarf around her own hips and stepped into line on Vivi's other side. "I'm sure you'll do fine."

But as Naranya punched a key on a laptop computer and the plaintive strains of Middle Eastern music wailed out of the speakers, Vivi suspected her sister's a.s.surances belonged with the better-known and equally untrue "the check is in the mail" and "I'll still respect you in the morning."

"I am Naranya de Costa," their instructor began. "I am from Brazil. Een my country there are many Egyptian and Lebanese and belly dancing is very big. Wherever you go, depending on the country, the version that ees danced is unique to that part of the world. You weel be getting a mixture of Brazilian, Middle Eastern, and American. But we all begin in the same way. With the stretching."

A group tango lesson was underway in an opposite corner of the studio, and a middle-aged couple was being tutored near them, everyone with their patch of mirror. Angela kept her gaze fixed on the golden-skinned darkhaired Naranya, and occasionally on the other members of the cla.s.s; too often when she glanced in a mirror it was Fangie who appeared.

All chatter ceased as Naranya raised her arms above her head and clasped her hands together, stretching upward. The cla.s.s followed. Carefully, Naranya led them through a series of stretches, demonstrating each thoroughly. Once her intro was completed, Naranya was not a big talker, but moved slowly and carefully, sometimes moving or turning in a different direction so that everyone could see the subtleties of each movement.

Angela had been exercising relentlessly for three years and had tried all kinds of cla.s.ses, so the stretching was both familiar and comfortable. Next came the isolation exercises, which were a bit more challenging. Angela kept her gaze on their instructor and the mirrored wall behind her intentionally out of focus. Occasionally, she closed her eyes in an effort to feel the roll of her shoulder, the sway of an arm, the shift of her rib cage. After a lifetime of trying to ignore her body, it was the oddest thing to tune in so carefully to its individual components.

"Now for the basic dance position, we turn to the side with our legs in a . . ." Naranya paused, looking for the right word and tossed a hank of heavy dark hair back over one shoulder. "Our legs they are parallel. Now we pretend to walk a step, we don't do eet, we just pretend. And we put all of our weight onto the back leg."

They "a.s.sumed the position" as best they could, all of their gazes trained on Naranya.

"Yes, yes," the instructor said. "That ees it. Point your tailbone to the floor."

She waited for them to adjust themselves. Some, Angela noted, did this more successfully than others. "Hold your arms out away from your body. Your chest, eet must be held high."

There were giggles and more than a few groans as Naranya moved from student to student checking their positions and making slight adjustments. The hip lift and drop was slightly more challenging.

"Pretend that you have a string tied to your right hip bone and somebody is pulling up on it," Naranya said to the taller Shipley sister as everyone's hips went up and down.

"I hate to break it to you," Vivien huffed nearby, "but my hips don't actually seem to work independently."

"Mine don't, either." This from the English teacher who looked like what Angela still felt: too big, overstuffed, hopelessly jiggly.

Ruth snorted and Angela stole a glance at the whitehaired woman. Even though Ruth's body was shaped more like a block of wood than an hourgla.s.s, she'd been able to turn the hip lift and drop into the "bounce" it was meant to be.

"Eees good, Ruth," Naranya said, smiling as they all watched Ruth's hip go up and down.

Lourdes was doing pretty well, too. She'd started smiling the minute the music started and hadn't stopped since.

Melanie's arms curved gracefully out to either side and her hip moved fluidly up and down in short controlled movements. She moved in front of Vivien to demonstrate. "You've got to feel your hip, Vivi. Shut out all the . . . stuff . . . and feel it. You've got to get the hip bounce before you can move on to the half-moon."

The hour went by in a blur of calculated moves and laughter. They ended as they had begun, with a series of stretches. "You must practice this week," Naranya said as she collected the hip scarves. "And next week we weel add on to our movements. I weel bring tapes of practice music for next time for anyone who wants eet."

"So what did you think?" Melanie asked after they'd waved good-bye to the Shipley sisters and then Lourdes and Sally.

"It was fun," Angela said. "I like the dance aspect, and it's kinder and gentler than Pilates."

Melanie smiled.

"And if there's even a tiny chance of developing stomach muscles like Naranya's, I'm sold." Maybe she and James should take some ballroom lessons to get ready for their first dance together as husband and wife, like her matron of honor, Susan, had. "How many lessons would we need to get ready for the wedding?"

"We have packages of either seven or twelve that include parents and other important family members," Melanie replied. "It just depends on how much work you feel you need to put in. And how ch.o.r.eographed you'd like the dance to be."

"We're not getting married until April." Angela's voice broke on the word "married." "We wouldn't need to do anything right away, would we?"

"No, of course not." Melanie hurried to rea.s.sure.

Angela felt Ruth's considering gaze. Vivien hid a yawn behind her hand.

"But you could bring him to a practice party one Friday or Sat.u.r.day night just to see how you both feel about it," Melanie said. "It's mostly social, but the admission includes an hour dance lesson before the DJ starts. There's food and drink, too."

But by the time they said their good-byes, Angela was no longer thinking about dancing. She was thinking that April was nowhere near as comfortably far off as it used to be.

11.

ON SUNDAY MORNING at eight A.M. a Bagel Baron delivery truck pulled into the Melnick's driveway like it did every week. It would make several private deliveries after this one: to their son and daughter-in-law's house a couple of neighborhoods away; to Temple Judea for the youth group to sell for fund-raising; and the last to Melanie Jackson's, though the Jackson order wouldn't include the usual portion of lox. Ruth had long ago discovered that while many non-Jews had embraced the bagel, they often mucked it up with toppings like grape jelly and sometimes even ham.

By the time the driver knocked on the kitchen door and handed over their standing order, Ruth had already been up for hours; it was one of life's great ironies that now when she could have slept all day if she wanted to, her eyes snapped open at six A.M. sharp no matter what time she went to bed or how many times she was up during the night.

Ira, too, was an early riser and had already been locked in his study with the Sunday papers-both the Atlanta Journal-Const.i.tution and the New York Times-even before Ruth got up.

"Bagels!" she called from the kitchen as she opened the brown paper bag and pulled out two still-warm bagels: an onion sesame for Ira, a poppy seed for her. In the center of the round gla.s.s-topped table, she set out a block of cream cheese, a small plate of lox, and another of tomato and red onion slices-everything the bagel purist required.

On the counter, a fresh pot of coffee dripped into the carafe, infusing the kitchen with a warm, homey smell. It was the one day of the week they made a point of eating breakfast together, supposedly keeping them in touch with each other and, as Ira liked to say, "the product from which they lived."

Sports section in hand, Ira entered the kitchen eagerly, only hesitating when she didn't greet him. Ruth wondered if he'd even noticed how little they'd spoken since she'd thrown down the gauntlet at their session with Dr. Guttman. They'd communicated when necessary: "Could you pa.s.s the salt?" "What time are we expected at the kids' house?" "The white shirt is at the cleaners; wear the blue." Not exactly deep or meaningful conversation, but apparently enough for Ira.

Ruth sighed as she bit into her bagel and chewed slowly. She had never been a big fan of the silent treatment, though she'd seen other women wield it effectively. When part of your problem was that your husband didn't talk to you enough, shutting off all communication seemed completely counterproductive. Not saying all the things she wanted to say to Ira, now, that was hard.

Ira layered his bagel with cream cheese, lox, and slices of onion and tomato. Munching contentedly, too contentedly as far as Ruth was concerned, he ate and read. Soon he'd be done with both the sports and the bagel. He was already dressed for golf and after a couple of hours at the office he'd head out to the country club to play nine holes. If they didn't talk now, when would they?

"You could at least come try a practice party at the Magnolia Ballroom with me. It's an hour lesson and some dancing after. How big a thing is that?" she said this bluntly despite the fact that even Miriam Youngblood had suggested that a more subtle approach might yield better results.

Ira looked up at her in surprise. "I don't know why you're making such a big deal about this. I haven't been a dancer for fifty years, and now all of a sudden you want me to be Fred Astaire." Ira wasn't exactly a sugarcoater, either.

Ruth wanted to wipe the look of righteous indignation from her husband's face. Could a man so aware of the nuances of business really be so oblivious of his wife's feelings?

"I want you to share something that means something to me," Ruth said calmly. Or at least as calmly as she could. "To have some time together that's our own. Why is that so difficult for you to understand?"

Ira lay what was left of his bagel on the plate. It stared up accusingly at her, as did Ira. Inexplicably, Ruth felt the press of tears beneath her eyelids. Unwilling to cry in front of him, Ruth stood, picked up her plate, and carried it to the sink. Flipping on the faucet, she smashed the uneaten portion of her bagel down the disposal, then turned it on for good measure.

There was an exaggerated sigh and Ira's chair sc.r.a.ped back from the table. He came up behind her and she closed her eyes, embarra.s.sed. Both of them were more comfortable with her anger than her tears.

"Ruthie." He put his hands on her shoulders. "What's going on with you? What's with all this meshugas?" He used the Yiddish word for craziness. Turning her to face him, he said, "You want me to work less. You want me to dance. You want a divorce. I can hardly keep up with all the things you want from me lately."

He kept his hands on her shoulders. For a big man his touch had always been surprisingly gentle. She'd been much too angry at him for too long now to seek out his touch. Or to be receptive to it when it was offered. Ruth had a brief flash of the scene from Fiddler on the Roof when Golde asks Tevye if he loves her. What would Ira say if she asked him that question? She realized she was no longer sure of his answer.

She sniffed back her tears and looked her husband in the eye. She didn't know why after all these years she needed proof of his affection for her. She only knew that she did. But it would mean nothing if she had to beg for it.

What did she gain if he gave her attention so grudgingly? If she had to force him to spend time with her, had to threaten him to get him to come to cla.s.s, what was the point?

"Never mind," she said as he watched her like she was some time bomb that might go off at any moment. "It doesn't matter. If you can't understand why I want you to come to cla.s.s with me, I don't want you there."

Ruth eased out of Ira's grasp and stepped away from him. For once she made no move to put away the food on the table or double-check his plans for the day. He could go and do whatever he wanted. The lox and cream cheese could spoil. The bagels could turn stale and hard. It wasn't like there weren't a million more where those had come from.

"I'm going to go lie down," she said, not even bothering to look and see how he was reacting to his reprieve. "I guess I'll see you later."

And with that she left the Bagel Baron standing alone near the sink staring dumbly after her. But she didn't think he had any idea that the bomb he'd been worried about had just been detonated. And she wasn't sure what was supposed to happen next.

THE SOUND OF the doorbell barely registered in Vivien's consciousness. She was asleep, blissfully asleep. Subliminally somewhere she heard someone open, then shut the front door. Heard steps on the stairs; heard what could only be someone, probably Melanie, extracting Shelby from bed.

Melanie and Clay and the kids were going to church this morning, but Vivi had chosen getting sleep over being saved. For a time she drifted in a lovely fog, not quite as asleep as she had been but still mercifully not awake. The ringing of her cell phone pushed her unhappily back into the real world. She tried to ignore it, but the ringing continued.

With a groan, she reached for her phone and managed to get it up to her ear. "Ummphh?" she asked, her eyes still closed.

"Viv?" Vivien's eyes flew open as Stone's voice penetrated her fog.

"Mmmmm, I mean, yes." She sat up against the pillows, her mind scrambling into consciousness.

"It's not like you to sleep so late. Did I wake you up?"

"I guess I was a little tired from the week."

There was a moment of silence while he registered what she'd said. "Are you sure you're all right? Marty said the wound was pretty superficial but . . ." He stopped, realizing he'd admitted to checking on her behind her back. Normally Vivien would have given him some s.h.i.t for acting as if she couldn't take care of herself. But right now, especially, she was grateful that he cared enough about her to be devious.

Vivien drew a deep breath, wishing with every part of her that Stone was here right now so that she could tell him, face-to-face, all the things that he should know. So that he could, what? Give up chasing stories at the heart of the War on Terror so that he could come home and take care of her? Escort her to Tuesday's ob-gyn appointment? Tell her everything would be all right? That he wanted to marry her? Have their child? Live happily ever after?

She didn't even know if she wanted that.

"I had no idea how rough the suburbs were. I think Melanie deserves a medal. I'd pin it on her myself if she hadn't forced me to take a belly-dancing cla.s.s."