passable. How’s the rest of you feel?”
“Nervous.”
“Well, so’m I. I mean, physically how do you feel?”
Mary knew she hadn’t convinced Helen yesterday. “There’s a little pain in my side, but I can move okay.”
“You go see a doctor after Jake beat you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not hurt that bad. I know. I’ve got experience. Just bruises, nothing busted.”
“Sure?”
“Honest. Anyway, Jake knows how to hit so he doesn’t break anything.”
Helen’s jaw muscles flexed. “So take your shower while I go back to bed, and we’ll both feel better. Then we can help each other get made up and fit ourselves into those dresses.”
Mary did feel much better after her shower. She toweled dry, peeled off the hotel’s complimentary plastic shower cap, and stood nude before the mirror. Yes, not too bad. And the bruises did seem fainter. Or maybe she was getting used to them. A nasty purple bruise had developed on her left side, but that wouldn’t be visible when she was dressed. She raised her arms and tried a rumba step with plenty of Cuban motion. The ribs ached as her hips swayed, but not enough to bother her in competition if she didn’t let the pain show on her face. And she wouldn’t let it show. Everything was on the line here; a little pain wasn’t going to stop her from dancing with destiny.
She woke Helen again, then stood before the dresser mirror and applied her makeup while Helen showered. She dabbed foundation over the bruises and blended it with a brush. Then she applied flesh-colored cover makeup, carefully blending that with a tongue-moistened fingertip. She sat back and tried to decide how successful she’d been.
She looked like a woman with two black eyes.
“I bought some stuff at the pharmacy downstairs that might work,” Helen said, suddenly standing behind her in a pink robe.
She went to her cosmetic kit on the dresser and got out several small tubes and jars, then returned and showed them to Mary. They were expensive brands of makeup.
“When’d you buy these?”
“Yesterday. Bought them for me, but you can use them. That is, if you wanna give this stuff a try.”
“Well, there’s nothing to lose, with the way I look now.”
Helen dragged the desk chair over and told Mary to sit facing the mirror. She tilted the lampshade, then opened the various containers and stood over her, working gently on her face with the practiced skill of a professional. “I used to have a job at one of those department store counters that give free makeovers,” she explained. “Years ago, but I still got the knack. You’re no problem, after some of the disasters I’ve made presentable. Be sure’n let me know if I hurt you.”
“You’re doing fine,” Mary said, and sat perfectly still, trying not to think or to feel the relentless hammering of her heart.
Twenty minutes later, they studied her reflection in the mirror. The other Mary stared back at them wonderingly, then smiled.
“Hardly be noticeable from a distance,” Helen said, grinning.
She was right. “It’s amazing,” Mary said. “You’re amazing!” She gave Helen a hug. “What you are is an artist!”
“Oh, no, just a miracle worker. You can put on that fake tan stuff you brought so Mel’ll be happy, then let’s finish getting dressed.” Helen began replacing lids on jars, caps on tubes and bottles. “And for God’s sake don’t look at yourself in that bathroom mirror. The damned thing belongs in a carnival fun house.”
Helen was such a good friend. For a moment Mary considered telling her about Rene, but this wasn’t the time to talk or even think about Rene and the murders. Or about Angie. Important as they were, right now they represented distractions, and Mary had come too far to defeat herself by agonizing over what she was helpless to change. She was finished wandering into that sort of trap. She hoped.
The competition was scheduled to begin with American-style rhythm. Mary would dance in the first heat, a cha-cha. She struggled into tan panty hose, then got her black Latin dress down from its hanger and worked it over her head without mussing her hair. She adjusted it and extended her elbows awkwardly to zip it halfway up the back, causing a stitch of pain in her side that for a few seconds left her breathless and light-headed.
“Terrific!” Helen said, looking at her with approval. “With that dress, put on your glitzy earrings and barrette and nobody’d notice your face if you were Frankenstein’s bride.”
She zipped Mary’s dress the rest of the way and fastened the clasp. Then she wriggled into her own Latin outfit, a red dress with a ruffled skirt.
“With or without the gloves?” she asked, and worked her hands and arms into elbow-length red satin gloves. She did some arm styling, then peeled off the gloves and extended a bare arm gracefully in an identical gesture.
“Looks great either way,” Mary said, “really.” Seeing the dress on Helen instead of on the hanger was a startling improvement.
“Then I’ll go with the gloves,” Helen said decisively.
Mary arranged and sprayed her hair, then she fastened it in back with her curved silver-glitter barrette and put on her dangling silver earrings.
She stepped into her new Latin shoes and snapped the straps, then stood up straight and appraised herself in the full-length mirror.
She looked put together and professional, she really did. Helen, too, all of a sudden looked like a dancer. Maybe Howard the bellhop hadn’t simply been bucking for a bigger tip with his compliment. Maybe he’d actually seen something in 1011’s new occupants. Well, what the hell, they were dancers. Hadn’t they taken lessons for years?
“Satisfied with how you look?” Helen asked.
“With how we both look.”
“So, it’s finally crunch time.”
“I guess it is.”
“Ready to go after ’em?” Helen swiveled on a high heel before the mirror, jutting out a hip and sneaking a glance over her shoulder like a wary coquette.
“Right now, yeah. But I can’t swear how I’ll feel down in the ballroom.”
Helen said, “Let’s find out.” She started toward the door, skirt rustling. “Don’t forget your key. In these dresses, we might wanna dash back upstairs and use the bathroom.”
Mary said, “I’m sure I will.” She felt to make sure her perforated-card room key was in her purse, then followed.
As the door clicked shut behind her, her mouth went dry and her heart took flight like a bird.
40
The ballroom seemed even more vast and intimidating this morning. Towering arches of red, pink, and white balloons had been constructed to soar from each corner and intersect over the center of the dance floor. Mary felt small, clumsy, and out of place. Her body forgot how to dance and wanted only to bolt and run for miles. And it was possible. She didn’t have to stay here. There was no law.
Suddenly Mel was there, in his black slacks and baggy-sleeved white shirt for rhythm dances, not the all-black outfit he’d worn at the studio and in Mary’s dream dances.
“Romance Studio’s over at table number twelve,” he told her, pointing. “C’mon so we can talk, then we’ll get in a little practice.”
Mary nodded numbly.
