himselfâshirt first; how many times he washed his handsâfrequently; when he washed his handsâalways after touching me. What did he think of me, and the way I piled my clothes on the chair, and how my bed-head looked, and how my breath smelled and how the sheets had creased my face? Did he notice?
We rushed out the door, Daniel looking far more together than I felt.
âWelcome to your first day as an independent person, not following the pack.â
âIt feels strange.â
âGood I hope.â
âGood.â But I felt like the prodigal son, again.
Â
Back at the beginning of my big dreams, I had this groovy little dance bag Iâd bought at Army & Navy. After a year of dancing, disguised as swim practice, it all came out. I was between swim practice and dance class, and I had come home to wolf down my dinner. I tossed the bag by the front door and, as bags do, it fell open. Dad came home a few mouthfuls into my meatloaf. After the called Hi and the requisite, Do you want a drink? he walked into the living room with the bag, threw it on the floor, where the contents spilledâthe shoes, tights, leg warmers, the layers of ripped t -shirts and sweat socks and the dance belt. âWhat are these?â he asked. âSomething for Halloween?â
Ballet slippers . For my father, I imagine this was something that only happened to other peopleâs children, in other cities. This was something you only heard about and never, ever dreaded because it seemed so far-fetched.
âItâs my dance stuff.â It lay on the living room floor, deflated, dirty too.
âDance stuff? What kind of dance stuff?â
âShoes.â ( Ballet slippers caught in my throat.) âSlippers.â
âSlippers. What the Christ?â he said. Well, wouldnât it have been an education to see me sew the elastics on them, and carefully sew exactly where the shoe folds down? You canât sew the elastic just anywhere, and if you want two elastics to hug the slipper to your foot, then youâve got a little geometry to do.
âWhatâs this?â he asked in a confident monotone, as if the battle had been won and he was simply making a point. âA bathing suit or some queer kind of jockstrap?â
âItâs a dance belt.â
âA what?â
I wanted so badly to tell it like this: tighter than a Speedo and smaller than one. It cuts up your ass-crack. You pull it on, then grab your nuts and dick and pull up. The old ladies in the audiences watching The Nutcracker for the umpteenth time say why do they have to have those horrid bulges? Itâs anatomy, honey. Arms, legs, boobs and cocks. Theyâve been around for a while. So your nuts are crammed into these things because between your entrechat and anything else that slams your thighs together at the speed of light, if your nuts arenât out of the way, you could end up seeing stars. The only hazard when the equipment is out there is turning to your Swan or Princess or Sultana and in the midst of careless fouetté or pirouette having her knee whack your nuts. The pain. The numbing, bent-over-crippling, dizzying pain. It happens to all of us at least once.
âWhat else? A goddamn tutu?â
âA t -shirt.â Something loose and rag-like, showing tendon. Muscle. Line. Thatâs the dance bag. Maybe a skanky towel for the shower. âItâs ballet dance stuff. Tights, too, for men. Black, is that okay? Male dancers wear them.â
âPart of your school work?â
âNo.â
âAnd what about swimming?â
âI still swim.â
âIn your tights?â
âIn my Speedo.â
âHow long has this been going on?â
âAbout a year.â
âWhere?â
âThe studioâthe one near your office. Madameâ¦â
âDéfilé?â
âHow do you know?â
âSheâs been there for years. She came in for
Letting Go 2: Stepping Stones