Jake! she thought. So long, Jake.
A pair of wide escalators serviced the Hyatt Regency’s ballroom on the third floor. They’d taken the elevator to lobby level. Now Mary stood behind Helen as they ascended. Behind them was a spacious atrium with encircling marble steps that also served as benches. A few people were sitting on the steps talking. A man with a ponytail was strumming a guitar so softly Mary couldn’t hear it.
Mary and Helen turned left at the top of the escalator and saw a carpeted area outside the ballroom doors where rows of dance supply vendors had set up tables or booths. There were racks of colorful feathered and sequined ball gowns; displays of gaudy costume jewelry to complement dance outfits; stacks of instructional VCR tapes; rows of tuxedos on hangers.
And tables lined with new dance shoes.
Mary immediately felt relieved. If Helen would lend her the money, finding replacement shoes here was certainly possible.
They told one of the women behind the registration table they were signed up for competition, and she located their information packets containing program books and tickets to the various events.
Mary and Helen immediately stepped aside and leafed through the program books. The pages were stiff and slick, and they crackled when they turned. Mary experienced a thrust of near panic when she saw her name printed among the contestants for the first dance in the Newcomer category, a cha-cha at ten the next morning.
“The lower categories like ours compete earliest each day,” Helen observed. “A fine way to lose your breakfast.”
“We compete nose to nose in three dances,” Helen said.
Mary said, “Good luck, but not too much of it.” Which was exactly how she felt about tomorrow.
Helen apparently understood and didn’t seem to mind the remark. Probably she felt the same way. They slipped their registration packets into their purses and returned to the vendors’ area.
More people were browsing among the merchandise, many of them wearing jackets or shirts that advertised dance studios from different parts of the country. A trim, blond couple was wearing matching sweatshirts that bore the logo of a studio in Britain. Off to the side, a woman in jeans and a man in a tuxedo were practicing a fox-trot step. An elderly woman had tried on a low-cut yellow gown and was twirling in front of a full-length mirror to see how the yards of pleated skirt material flowed.
“She couldn’t have worn that dress even twenty years ago,” Helen said.
Something made Mary stop and stand staring at the closed double doors to the Regency Ballroom. In every life were doors of critical importance; sometimes they were recognizable.
“Let’s peek,” Helen suggested, and led Mary to the doors.
She pushed one of them open and edged aside so Mary could see beyond her.
A cool draft eddied from the ballroom, and Mary was instantly struck with fear. In this place she was committed to something she yearned to do but that terrified her. The gleaming parquet floor was vast, surrounded by pink-clothed round tables. A mile away, toward the front of the ballroom, was a long dais where judges and various dignitaries of the dance world sat. On the right, a row of video cameras was being set up on tripods on a raised platform. There were more cameras on the balcony that ran along the left side of the ballroom. OHIO STAR BALL was spelled out with pink, white, and red balloons on the balcony facade; strands of tiny lights were wound among the balloons, illuminating them. Workmen were stringing cables. More were setting up balloon decorations that would form a soaring arch above the dance floor. Behind the judges’ dais was draped a massive purple curtain lettered OHIO STAR BALL in silver, with a glittering silver star for the “A” in “Star.” Tiny bright lights were strung down the curtain’s folds, like evenly spaced drops of water frozen and glimmering in suspension.
I don’t belong here, Mary thought, intimidated by the size and glitter of the ballroom. I’m not nearly good enough. She was furious with Mel and Huggins for suggesting she come here so she could make a fool of herself. Everything was larger and glitzier than she’d imagined. It was for the pros, the talented, not for a thirty-five-year- old closing woman from South St. Louis.
“We gonna be able to cut this?” Helen asked. Even she sounded uneasy.
“We can do it,” Mary said. But she knew she hadn’t fooled herself with the empty words, and probably hadn’t fooled Helen.
“Say it often enough and maybe we’ll believe it,” Helen told her, letting the ballroom door swing shut.
As Mary turned around, she saw a man in a white shirt perched on a tall stepladder. He was hanging a rectangular banner above a display of shoes. As he lifted a corner of the banner, the lettering-SPANGLE SOUL SHOES-became visible.
“That’s where I sent away for my shoes,” Mary said. “C’mon, Helen, maybe I can get a replacement pair just like them!”
“I wanna check out one of those gowns,” Helen told her, motioning with her head toward a rack of dance costumes. She dug in her purse and handed Mary her MasterCard. “Use that if you need it, then come on over by that second rack of dresses, okay?”
Mary tapped the plastic card with a fingernail. “Listen, you sure about this, Helen?”
“Just buy the shoes, Mary Mary, then meet me by those dresses and lie about how well one looks on me.”
Mary squeezed her hand, then whirled and hurried toward the Spangle Soul display, as if someone might beat her to the last pair of Latin dance shoes.
Actually the display wasn’t completely set up; only a few dozen shoes sat in a row on the long table. Their toes were pointed forward in precisely the same direction, like compass needles indicating north. Half of them were men’s shoes.
The man on the top step of the ladder noticed her, shifted his body awkwardly, and stared down at her. His white shirt had perspiration stains under the arms. Mary saw that his spine was misshapen, and one of his own shoes had a built-up sole. “Sorry, we ain’t quite open,” he said from on high with a nervous smile. It was a long way down from where he was, and he couldn’t abide further disability.
“I just need to know if you have a certain shoe,” Mary said.
He knotted a length of twine to fasten the last corner of the banner. Now he began placing sparkling silver stars on the material; they appeared to be fastened with Velcro. “Be about twenty minutes,” he said. “I gotta get these stars in place.”
“I bought a pair of shoes from you by mail,” Mary persisted, “and the heels are broken. I need to replace them. Tell you the truth, I’m desperate.”
He stared down at her again. “You mean they was broken when you got them?” He sounded incredulous, as if she’d just confirmed that the moon was made of cheese.
“No, no. Someone-they got broken later.”
“Well, we can’t exchange-”
“But I don’t wanna exchange them, I’ll buy another pair.”
The profit motive prevailed. The man wiped his hands on his thighs, then carefully worked his way down the wooden ladder, balancing his box of stars. She noticed that what she’d thought was a wallet jutting from his back pocket was actually a small Bible; maybe he had a conscience and a charitable heart, and finally religion was coming to Mary’s rescue. All those hours of mandatory youthful prayer might not have been wasted. He limped over to stand behind the table and face her. She was surprised by how short he was. Whatever was wrong with his spine or his leg caused him to list to his left like a sinking ship even when he stood still.
Mary picked up one of his business cards from the stack on the table. His name actually was Spangle. Albert Spangle. Be a good Christian, Albert Spangle.
“I’m Mary Arlington,” she said.
He smiled, transforming his pockmarked, fiftyish face into a mask of rough beauty, the face of a simple and solid man. His eyes were kind and bright blue beneath craggy, graying brows. “Ah, I remember now. Them white open-toed ones with straps and two-and-a-half-inch heels.”
“Those are the ones,” Mary said, pleased. “But I dyed them black. What I really need’s a black pair.”
He raised a gnarled forefinger. There was a speck of glitter on its tip, from one of the stars. “Lemme look, Mary. Size… six, am I right?”
“You’ve got a good memory.”
“Got to, when you sell most of your merchandise by mail.”
