for a Dancer

For A Dancer

In November, 1950, all Woolworth’s novelty fabrics went on sale. Mama found a piece of orange tulle left over from Halloween and sent me to find thread to match. She haggled with the sales clerk as soon as I was out of earshot, buying a yard of ivory satin from a larger remnant. My mother counted the change from her two dollars, but it was not enough to buy a pattern.
“What did you buy, Mama?”
“Never mind. It’s a secret. After dinner tonight, I want you to pack up your clothes for the good will. That old swimsuit, for instance.”
“But it still fits. “
“Just put it all in the bag. I’ll figure it out later.”
Fridays Mama usually stayed up late reading, sleeping in late Saturday mornings. I took my bath and was heading off to bed when I noticed her studying my bathing suit and tracing the outline on the new material. Once in my bedroom I heard the sound of her scissors knocking against the kitchen table. Next morning the floor was slippery with satin scraps, and my swimsuit was back on top of my dresser.
That night I woke to find her working on the project again. Seeing me, she spoke sharply: “It’s time you were in bed, little girl.”
When I stirred in my sleep, I heard the whirring of her old sewing machine. She began again right after Sunday dinner, with another early bedtime for me. I woke up after midnight to find her bent over the table, her head on her arms, asleep by the machine next to rows and rows of orange ruffles. Her cigarette had left a long grey cylinder in the ashtray.
My ninth birthday arrived a week later and I opened the box to see my mother’s handiwork wrapped in white tissue. I was proud, but speechless.
“It’s a tutu, honey. It’s what ballerinas wear,” she said.
I wanted to ask if there were shoes as well, but I knew better. I put on the tutu after pressing the satin against my cheek, and Mama, who loved to dance, led me through the five positions as I followed in my bare feet. We whirled and swayed to her Nutcracker record on the phonograph. Crashing on the couch, we went through the ballet book my father gave me, looking together at photos of Maria Tallchief and Alicia Markova.
That Christmas Mama had sat us down to show us her budget—her bills and her income. We learned there that children learned the Santa Claus story, but that it was parents who bought gifts. Mama reminded us that our father was absent, and so our presents would be what she could afford on her salary. Stevie cried.
For Christmas 1950 I got ballet slippers, but there was no money for lessons. Four years later when I was thirteen, my Aunt Nellie paid for a beginners’ class that lasted six weeks. I was lacking whatever passion Mama had for classical dance, so I didn’t press for more instruction in such an ordeal of discipline. Six weeks was quite enough for me in 1955, when dancing changed with Elvis’ gyrations and James Brown’s bold moves.