Protégé Karl Grunberg drew glances and a few outright stares as he wove between other pedestrians on the sidewalk on his way to class. He did not notice, though he knew that he was even more good-looking at seventeen than he had been as a striking, serious boy of five, or eight, or ten. He had fine-grained white skin, high cheekbones marked by a vivid natural blush, a sensitive, feminine mouth, and straight, dark red hair cut long in front to soften his high forehead. He took his physical beauty nearly for granted, not because it didn’t matter to him, but because it was so much less important than his other genetic gifts, which could not be maintained or heightened with simple attention to shampoo or soap. His arms, for example, were longer than average, which meant that a sweeping gesture looked more graceful when Karl made it than it might otherwise look. But he was so naturally slim that he had to work to build the strength necessary in his shoulders to lift a girl —admittedly usually a girl so slender herself that she could proudly declare a weight in the double digits —over his head and spin her around like she was a doll, or a snowflake, or a swan. And while his legs were just as unnaturally long as his arms, they too were an area on which Karl worked every day. He seldom moved from sitting to standing or vice versa without feeling a tingling burn in his thigh muscles, because they were always sore. He could count himself lucky, at least, that so far he felt no genuine knee pain, the bane of the life and career of every dancer. He knew that the breakdown of his knees was almost certainly inevitable, that a back injury was more preventable but even more likely to end his career. So he worked out with weights for an hour five days a week, took six hours of classes and rehearsals, ate whatever he could get his hands on, did not drink, did not smoke, didn’t even know anyone who did drugs, and woke every morning ravenous for his own life. To be the best at something, and to know it, and to be able to do nothing but that thing at which you excel and which you love —Karl knew it was a privilege, but he also believed, more strongly every day, as he observed his male classmates and watched the female dancers vie with one another to partner with him, that it was his right. In the men’s locker room, Karl nodded to several of his friends and shed his jeans and turtleneck without modesty. They all wore tights and t-shirts to class, and Karl paused only to sniff at how clean his shirt was before pulling it over his head. Leo had mocked Daniel, one of the seniors, just last week, for smelling too strongly of sweat, and they had all begun washing their clothes more carefully. Stuffing his bag and clothes into his locker, Karl thought of Leo, but carefully. He had never felt about a teacher the way he did about Leo, and the craving he felt for the man’s respect made him wary. Karl was unused to feeling nervous around anyone in the ballet classroom, even his teachers. For a long time in his group classes he had noticed that the teachers virtually ignored him, never stopping at his side by the barre to straighten his back, or tapping his leg and urging it higher in a pose. When he had stayed after class once to ask for feedback, the woman had not even turned from the mirror in which she was re-applying her lipstick. “Karl, there’s nothing to say. You’re an exceptional dancer, as you obviously know, and I’m not in the habit of stroking young egos. My job is to help the students who need help.” In the private lessons that Karl had taken during middle-school from a retired male member of the corps of the Houston ballet, he had gotten the “ego-stroking” that he was denied elsewhere. His teacher, Sam, had made a satisfying career as a supporting dancer, but he knew as well as anyone else that he himself had never approached greatness. The excitement he felt watching Karl dance was tinged with awe, and the deference of a future fan. Karl remembered Sam, who had been the one to recommend him to the school here, with tremendous fondness, but he did not miss the effusiveness of his praise. What he wanted, what they all wanted, was praise from Leo. Looking at Leo, it was hard to believe that he was a dancer, that he had once been a very great dancer indeed. His face was deeply-lined, weighted down with heavy black eyebrows and thick hair the color of steel wool, and he had the hard, round belly of a man who drinks too much and eats too little. But what had made Leo great were again things that most people wouldn't know to look for, things that Karl could still see in his teacher and that he observed with a tense mixture of envy and admiration: the once perfect turn-out of Leo's crabbed feet, the potential for explosive height in his thickly-muscled thighs. Nonetheless, Leo at 50 was nothing like Baryshnikov at 50, still slim and vibrant, a man with the united precision and grace of a piece of exquisite clockwork. Karl had paid $750 last May for a one-day workshop with the master, for the privilege of sweating under the gaze of those glacial Russian eyes. There had been a moment, as they were stretching before the afternoon session, when Baryshnikov had come up behind Karl and touched him, lightly, right between his shoulder blades. “Good,” he had said. “Good.” That was all, but God knows it was enough. More than he ever got out of Leo. Leo had been a principle dancer with the Bolshoi until he'd ruined his knee trying to catch a train moving out of Paris. (He'd been out drinking the night before and had missed the company's wake-up call that morning.) Flinging himself up onto the precarious bottom railing of the car, enjoying laughing encouragement from his friends leaning out the windows, Leo had leapt too nimbly onto the steps of the train, slipped, and hit the bottom step with all of his weight on his right knee. He had saved himself from being crushed beneath the train by grabbing the hand railing just in time, but, as he himself frequently observed, perhaps it would have been better if he had just let go. Sans la dance, he would say, what was the point? So he had done the only thing he could do, that would allow him to remain a part of the world as he knew it: he had founded a ballet company and a ballet school that had risen, under the reins of Leo's brutal determination and the once exceptional reputation that he had enjoyed with the Bolshoi, to become one of the premiere young companies in the country. Leo managed their production schedule and sat on the audition panel for the school, and he still insisted on teaching Classical and Modern Ballet Form 556, the most grueling class of the men's division, every year. Only ten students were permitted in Form 556, and fewer than ten were ever actually selected in one year. The fate of those who failed to find their names on the list posted on the wall of the student lounge was sealed for another year: secondary members of the company, members of the corps, the chorus, or —as Karl's friend Marc called it —the maddening crowd. Even for the members of 556 a primary role was hardly assured, but at least they had a chance, and they were all convinced that a chance was all they needed. So far, Karl felt nearly as ignored at this barre as he had in previous classes, though he knew it could not be for the same reason. Leo occasionally snapped at a boy for things they’d never thought of before —like Daniel’s sweaty shirt, or Li Jen’s bad haircut. And he stalked around the room constantly as they moved, barking out positions and patterns with little break, such that they were all trying hard not to breathe audibly by the end of the 90 minutes that he put them through their paces. He had corrected Karl a couple of times, as he had all of the others, never by name, but simply shouting out the color of their shirt or their position at the barre. But Karl didn’t feel noticed by Leo. Not yet, anyway, he told himself as he swung his leg up onto the barre and began to stretch before class.
During the school's brief Christmas break, Karl went ice-skating and fell hard on his left ankle. It didn't break, thank God, but the swelling and soreness persisted for several weeks into the semester. One evening after class he remained in the locker room after the others had left to rub Ben-Gay into his ankle and re-wrap the ace bandage he had been wearing. It was healing well, but Karl knew better than to take chances with an injury. One of the older male students had danced for weeks on a bone spur in his heel, until he finally collapsed and they had to cut his foot open and file the bone down. Karl was standing with a towel around his waist and his foot up on one of the changing benches, rubbing the ointment onto his skin with smooth circular motions to stimulate circulation, when he heard the door open. “Huh,” Leo grunted. “I thought everyone had gone.” Karl turned and straightened up quickly. “I'm sorry. I was—” he would have liked to pretend that he was just running late, taking extra care getting dressed because he had a date or something. But the bruised skin around his ankle and the pungent menthol smell on his hands gave his injury away. He prayed that Leo wouldn't demand to know what the problem was, or worse, insist that he go see the doctor. If Leo thought Karl had weak ankles or was injury-prone, he could forget any shot at a lead role with this company. But Leo stood with his arms folded over his chest, frowning right into Karl's face and seeming not to notice the ankle at all. He wore a thin black sweater that stretched tight across his belly, and revealed a patch of thick, curly gray hair in the vee of the neck. “Karl,” he said, “what did you think you were doing, today, hmm?” “Sir?” “You make me think of those acting coaches, the new-age ones, is that what they call themselves?” Leo paced the short gap between the banks of lockers, his face furrowed with contempt. Karl nodded. Karl felt a flush stain his cheeks. He was the youngest student admitted into 556 in over ten years, a fact that made for a very chilly relationship between himself and many of the other male students, but one which Leo himself had not commented on until this moment. Karl knew he ought to be grateful that Leo even paid attention to him; he knew he ought to nod his head gravely and thank Leo for his critique. But his cheeks burned. A puppy! “Hmmph!” Leo snorted. “That wounds you, hmm? Hurts more than that ankle does, I think.” “There’s nothing wrong with it!” Karl burst out, and rose to his feet as if he could prove it. “It’s just bruised, that’s all—” Leo cut him off. “Leave it. It is nothing. You will not let physical discomfort stop you, Karl. That is not your problem.” There was no way around it, Karl realized. Leo had something to tell him about his dancing, something terrible, and there was no escape from it. “You think I’m too young,” he said, and then wished he had not spoken, because his voice sounded sullen even to his own ears. But Leo gave a short bark of laughter. “You are too young, boy. Too young for your own good. You have no discipline, no patience, no control of your instrument, of your body, but still you come into my classroom and all the others watch you as if they could learn from you. Tell me,” he stepped away from the locker, toward Karl, “what do you think you are doing in my classroom?” “Sir?” “What are you doing there, Karl?” Leo demanded. “What do you want? What is your goal? Can you tell me even that much, or do you not even know?” Karl met Leo's narrowed eyes, saw the challenge in them, and began to breathe a little easier. So it was not to be a condemnation, but rather a test of his desire. “I want to be a great dancer.” “And if you don't make it?” “I will.” Leo raised his thick eyebrows as if he was surprised by Karl's confident tone, but Karl knew better. He knew this game and he knew he could play it and win it, because he had all the right answers. And now, Karl thought, feeling his mouth curling up into a smile, for the one hundred-point bonus question. Leo's hand shot out, so fast that Karl would not have had time to react even if he'd known the blow was coming. It struck him open-handed across the jaw and sent him staggering back a step until he could feel the bench against the backs of his knees. Without thinking, his face stinging, he sat down and immediately Leo was there, looming over him, his hard belly practically in Karl's face. “You arrogant little shit,” he said. “You think you are so talented, do you? And you know you are beautiful, too, and that will help, won't it? Oh, yes.” he grabbed a handful of Karl's hair and jerked up so that Karl was forced to look at him. But Leo didn't kiss him. Instead he leaned in close to Karl's ear. “Turn around!” Leo let go of Karl's hair long enough for him to half-rise and turn around, and then he shoved Karl so hard that he instinctively flung out his arms to catch himself on the bench, and Leo was ripping the towel from his hips and grabbing his hair again even harder than before and Karl felt Leo's lower body pressed up against his and he gasped. “Be quiet!” Leo ordered, and Karl realized that all he knew was to obey that voice, just as all his body knew was to do what it was told, even though the sudden change of position made his ankle throb and a hot pain was tearing through his scalp. Leo was fumbling for something with his free hand, squeezing some ointment out of the open tube of Ben-Gay and rubbing it roughly between Karl's legs. Then he was pushing and prodding against Karl's thighs, his hand wrapped around his own flesh as he thrust himself forward. The pain was explosive, intolerable, bizarre. Ugly blotches of red light burst behind Karl's eyelids and he jerked instinctively away from the intrusive pressure. The menthol in the cream that Leo had smeared on him made it worse, like there was a fierce burning flame licking its way into his body. Karl felt a sound in his throat that might have been a scream and concentrated on holding it back, swallowing it, choking it out of existence. Finally Leo let go of Karl's hair and grasped his hips with both hands, and his breathing quickened into a series of grunting exhalations that did not cease until he eased himself from Karl's body. His breath still ragged, he rested a hand on one of Karl’s buttocks. “Think about the things I told you, Karl. Listen and think or you will never learn anything. Wanting it is not enough.” The hand moved in what might have been a caress, might be just an unconscious shaping of the muscle beneath it. For a moment Leo’s thumb stroked across the opening he had torn, and Karl’s whole body jerked away from the light touch. Karl heard him adjusting his clothes, heard his shoulder hit an open locker door as he walked away, heard the sound of the main doors closing after him. Then he was alone again in the locker room and he found that he did not want to open his eyes. He straightened up slowly and felt around for the towel to wipe the flow down his legs that felt like it must be blood but that he knew was not all blood. He tossed the towel somewhere behind him where he couldn't see it, opened his eyes, and began to put his clothes on. He felt —he had to fumble for the word —fragile, and as soon as he named the feeling he rejected it, quickening his movements, rewrapping his ankle so tightly that the skin bulged out above the bandage, grabbing his bag from the locker and practically running from the room. He made himself walk all the way home that evening, though it was ten blocks, and the physical agony of each deliberately long stride was attenuated by the certainty that everyone he passed on the street knew exactly what had happened. He let himself into his apartment with a shudder of relief that at least he lived alone, not crammed into a three-bedroom apartment with four other students like most of his friends were. And with that thought came the reminder that he was able to live alone because he was a fellowship student at the school, and that the terms of his particular fellowship were that the student “must show an extraordinary potential for excellence in dance.” Karl held the word extraordinary close as he walked straight to the bathroom and stripped off all his clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. His underwear he crammed into the trash can. He thought of his friends in the class, all of them joined as much by their hatred and envy of each other as by their locker room camaraderie. They envied Stefan the perfect turn-out of his feet; they hated Marc for the natural power in his shoulders that enabled him to lift a girl over his head as though she really was the airy confection of ribbon and tulle that she appeared to be. And they hated Karl most of all, hated him and envied him and sought him out helplessly because they knew that this might be the closest they would ever come to the spotlight: to be able to say, someday, that they had not only known of him, they had known him, shared a locker, been friends with him. Every member of Form 556 was a good dancer. Several of them were already (occasionally) great dancers. Karl knew that he was. But beyond goodness or greatness was the shimmering possibility of something more. The possibility of Baryshnikov stretching in a scene from White Nights, his face reflective, his whole body relaxed, and one leg extended over his head, flush against the wall. The possibility of Nijinsky, of Nureyev, or of Leo. Karl did not know what to call it, and he knew that he was not there, that he had barely set his feet upon that path, that he might never reach the pinnacle. But he could. That was the difference between Stefan and himself, between Marc and himself, the difference that he knew Leo had to see: he could. Karl stood under the shower for so long that his shoulders and chest were bright red. As he toweled off, he thought that what Leo had done must have been a test, an initiation, tinged unavoidably with Leo’s rage at seeing in Karl something he had once had himself, but lost. For Leo, Karl imagined that it had been an ugly but necessary first step in his training, like the use of the whip when breaking in a wild horse. In class the next morning, Karl knew, both he and Leo would act as though nothing had happened.
Sometimes Karl thought that the worst thing was not even the pain and shame of the act itself, but the proof it provided of his own naïveté. Because it never occurred to him, that first night, that it would happen again. But when he checked his mailbox in the student lounge a week later, there was a folded note on Leo’s personal stationery —ice-blue paper so thick and soft that it barely held a crease —asking him to stay after class. There was no reason given, nor any possibility of refusal. And when Karl found himself pressed up against the mirror in the practice room, the barre grinding against his pelvic bones so hard that he had bruises later and Leo’s hands once again knotted around his hips, he knew that he was probably not only naive but weak as well. Because it had never occurred to him to say no. So it continued, for four months, at least twice a week, always by private invitation and always in relative silence. Sometimes Leo cursed him while they grappled together, and sometimes Karl had to choke back curses of his own, because even after months of invasion his body still arced away from Leo’s in instinctive agony. After the first time, when he had glimpsed the ugly stains on his briefs, Karl shoved all of his white tights to the back of his drawers and wore only dark colors to class. He tried to make his mind a blank the moment he felt the contact of the other man’s skin, but the constant awareness of his own body that kept him so disciplined when he stretched or when he danced betrayed him now, as he discovered that he did not know how to turn it off. Instead he developed mantras for the pain, grasping whatever thought or memory burst into his head at the time and hanging onto it obsessively: the moment when he had realized that he would be a dancer (he was five); the first great ballet he ever saw live (Giselle); the day he got the scholarship letter from the school (April 3). When all else failed he bit down on the insides of his cheeks and tried to lose himself in the rhythm of Leo’s thrusts. Submit, he told himself. Submit. Submit. And it worked, in a way that he had never anticipated, and that made his utter submission seem perhaps not merely a weakness after all. Because his dancing improved. He knew better now the possibilities of pain that must be suppressed, denied, fought through, and he handled his female partners with a new respect that made him gentle with them, almost tender. A ballerina in a pas de deux with Karl danced in a protective sphere that made her appear infinitely delicate and infinitely desirable, and sometimes, even when they were only rehearsing in front of the other students, Karl heard a whispered sound when they stopped, of collective breaths released in wistful pleasure. His own movements, too, began to change, to become more controlled and at the same time more exciting. He found himself in the dance as he had never done before, felt himself become a creature of fire, restrained from the audience by some thin, invisible screen against which he battered himself as if his intention was not to perform for them but to leap out on them and devour them utterly.
The mood of all the students changed in the Spring, as the summer break loomed, both feared —for everyone but the youngest students knew how much you could lose in a summer, and how lonely those months could be away from the dance —and desperately anticipated because it was, after all, a break. Karl associated the mood with the smell of sweat and hot asphalt, since the classrooms were largely un-air-conditioned. Leo and most of the other teachers were of the opinion that artificially cold air increased the risk of injury from muscle pulls, and so beginning in mid-April many students showered after every class, and all the windows were flung open to let in the street smells and the cooler outside air. One afternoon in May, Karl stopped at the vending machine outside the girls’ locker room to buy a bottle of water before class. Through the door, he could hear several of them arguing, practically shouting at each other, about one girl’s habit of borrowing toe tape and never returning it. Listening to the raised voices, he heard the shrill undercurrent of the greater tension humming through the school and felt his own stomach clench. The close of the Spring semester meant that letters would soon be appearing in mailboxes. Many students would simply be relieved to be invited back for the following year, while a select few would be promoted to a new status with the addition of private lessons to their class schedule, or even a block of free rehearsal time such as might be needed by a soloist. And of course some students would not be invited back at all. Karl knew he would not be among that unthinkable group, but the other tantalizing possibilities of the letter he would soon read were nerve-wracking enough. If he did not get singled out for a soloist next year —his mind was a blank, and he let it remain so, as he had taught himself to simply not think about so much in the past few months. He tucked his wallet back in his bag along with the sweating bottle of water, and headed up to class. It was Friday and he had been invited to stay after class for the first time that week, for which —had he allowed himself to think about that either —he would have been grateful. Afterwards, Leo crossed the room to his bag and wiped his face on a towel. “Come to dinner tonight, Karl. Seven thirty at my home. I assume you know where it is.” Karl did not even know if a reply was required, but found that he couldn’t speak to even acknowledge the command, silenced by the unexpected strength of the horror he felt at the thought of spending the night in Leo’s bed. He had a vivid image of lying awake in the dark and feeling the hot weight of Leo’s arm over his hip. Leo slung the towel around his neck and picked up his bag. Karl had never been to Leo’s house, nor did he know any other student who had, though they could all pick out that particular elegant brownstone from the street of virtually identical elegant brownstones that they passed on their way to the school. Karl was exactly on time, and the existence of the uniformed maid who opened the door to him was his first shock. The house itself was almost easier to take in, because it signaled wealth in ways that Karl felt anyone must recognize: there were fresh flowers on a small table in the entrance hall and paintings on the wall with lights angled down onto the canvases to show them off to best advantage. Karl felt disoriented, by both the grandeur of the rooms he was ushered through and by their impersonality. He had imagined that Leo would have imprinted his personality as strongly on his house as he did on his school. But, Karl realized as he walked through a hall, a formal music room dominated by a gleaming grand piano, and a paneled library, these were public rooms, no more personal than a stage set, but certainly just as carefully designed. He was able to hide his second shock when the maid escorted him into the living room and he saw who else was there under the relief that he had indeed dressed appropriately, in gray slacks and a dark blue silk shirt that set off his coloring and the grace of his movements. He stood behind a velvet sofa, holding a flute of champagne that someone bearing a tray of them had slipped into his hand, and silently confirmed the identity of each person in the room: the Trustees of the school, all of the faculty and the major donors, the mayor, the governor, some people whom he knew were famous in some way but whom he did not recognize —and himself. He was the only student present. He was also the only man there who was not in a suit and tie; in his elegant but unconventional clothes he stood out as the only artist among them, and he knew that this was what Leo had intended. He wondered idly what would have happened if he had appeared on the doorstep in ripped jeans and a rude t-shirt but realized that the speculation was pointless. He would never have done so, and Leo knew he wouldn’t have. Karl tried the champagne, which he assumed must be very fine, though he’d never had champagne before. Leo emerged from the crowd and took Karl’s arm, leading him from group to group and introducing him to each individual. Karl drank more champagne, gravely answered the questions he was asked, and wondered what Leo was doing. Dinner passed in a haze of wine and gleaming surfaces —china and crystal and silver. There was a cold soup, a risotto, a salad of bitter lettuce tossed with strawberries, then a main course of poached fish. Leo invited his guests to join him in the living room again for dessert and cheese and Karl followed the group, holding himself deliberately apart, watching the flushed and laughing faces intently. They were fascinated by him, he could see that in the way they kept glancing at him when they thought he wouldn’t notice, their expressions intrigued and admiring. As waiters brought out trays of after-dinner cordials and brandies and set them around the room, Leo went to the natural stage created by the flagstone hearth and clapped his hands. “Attention, my friends,” he said, “your attention, s’il vous plait.” The room quieted and Leo waited until every person in the room had turned toward the fireplace before lifting his brandy snifter from the mantel and saluting his guests. Everyone around Karl laughed, but he barely heard them. He felt himself drawing in, focusing his whole body on Leo and what he was about to say. “I have a special purpose for this evening,” Leo went on, “that will come as a surprise to almost everyone in the room.” He paused and waited for silence before continuing. “It has been a long time since I have seen great talent among the students at our school,” Leo went on, “extraordinary talent of the kind that must make us realize what a wonderful thing is dance, what a wonderful, mysterious thing.” Karl could feel the heat of the eyes on him, matched by the hot wave of triumph that was surging up in him. He could feel the flush along his cheekbones. “Karl,” Leo said, and held out his hand. Karl went and stood beside him and Leo put his arm around Karl’s shoulders. The applause was not deafening, but the roaring in his ears was. Karl felt himself begin to shake, violently, and he stepped quickly out from under Leo’s arm. He felt an unfamiliar thickness in his throat and an aching pain behind his eyes and realized, almost too late, that he was about to cry. Somehow he made himself smile instead, gritting his teeth and digging his fingernails into his palms as people surged forward to congratulate him, to shake his hand, to assure him that they would be there to see his opening night. He smiled and thanked them and bowed slightly over innumerable hands and accepted innumerable compliments that meant nothing. Less than nothing. He was a principle dancer. He was seventeen. He would debut with a starring role in one of the most popular romantic ballets. Then, as if that were not enough, he would have a solo debut. A solo debut. He turned his head slightly, carefully, feeling as though he might break at any moment into a million sharp pieces, and looked at Leo. Leo met his gaze and raised his brandy snifter in salute. The party broke up soon after Leo’s announcement. As the guests clustered at the front door, waving and calling good night to one another, and thanking Leo for a wonderful evening, as usual, Karl quietly asked the maid for the way to the bathroom and locked himself in. He splashed cold water on his face again and again, then dried off on one of the luxurious guest towels. When he emerged, he saw Leo in the open doorway, saying goodbye to the mayor and his wife. Karl waited until they had driven off before he approached the door. “Well, Karl,” Leo said, still looking out into the street after his guests. “A night to remember, eh?” “Why?” The question was out before he could stop it, in a desperate hiss that betrayed him. But Leo only lifted his shoulders, his face a picture of exaggerated surprise. Why? Not ‘thank you’ but ‘why’?” They stood a moment in what felt like a frieze to Karl, every muscle in his body so tense he had to fight to stay still. But Leo, his arms crossed over his chest and his face only half-turned to Karl, perhaps Leo did not even feel it? Karl made a lunge without conscious intention to do so, though his aim was precise, and his fist slammed into the brick wall just next to Leo’s head. It made a dull smacking sound and blood burst from Karl’s knuckles, freckling Leo’s cheek and neck. In the instant that he swung his arm, Karl saw a flicker of fear in Leo’s eyes, but the sight of the blood on the older man’s face and the pain of the blow forced Karl to lower his own gaze. He cradled his right hand in his left and held it out away from his body a little, so blood wouldn’t drip onto his pants. After a moment Leo straightened up, slipped one hand into the pocket of his pants, and pulled out a handkerchief. He unfolded the neat cotton square and raised it higher than Karl was willing to lift his eyes, wiping the blood off his face. Then he re-folded it and tucked it back into his pocket. “You asked me why,” he said, and Karl’s head snapped up to meet Leo’s gaze. Leo shook his head, but he was smiling slightly, as though both disappointed and amused. |
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© 2007 prickofthespindle.com |
Ann Claycomb is a writer living in Morgantown, West Virginia with her family. Her stories have appeared in The Madison Review and Fourth River. She is currently at work on a novel and a short story collection and is forever grateful that writing is not as physically demanding an art form as, say, ballet. |