Endings Erin

Pesut

Takethis one time, for example: when my phone did ring. For years Gabriel has had his very own ringtone, Night Owl, and suddenly it was all around me in the Westside Market on Broadway. I dropped everything, furiously unearthing my cell phone from the bottom of my backpack. I couldn’t just leave. I was still shopping, but I dashed out anyway abandoning my grocery basket on the floor near the imported cheese. I dipped into 98th Street and leaned into the silence of a brick wall. People were passing, horns were honking, sirens wailing, steam cropping out from the manholes. Hello, hello, hello? There he was. I just wanted to say hello. My team won phone privileges. That’s all I have time for. I have to go. I love you. The call lasted less than two minutes. He was there, then gone again. I wasn’t sure it had even happened. No one could give me proof. My phone reverted to the home screen. Back inside the store, my basket was gone.

pretend there’s a raindrop rolling down your shoulder and off your middle finger. Radenko Pavlovich had all sorts of visual cues to teach us ballet is as of the body as it is the mind. I started dancing at his studio on Forest Drive in Columbia, South Carolina, just as soon as I could walk. I began with tap, then jazz, but settled on ballet. Maybe it was the shoes: I liked the soft pinkness of my leather ballet slippers and how quiet they were compared to the clicky clack of tap shoes. I preferred when no one could hear you cross the floor.

Radenko was from Sarajevo and had studied at the Vaganova Institute in St. Petersburg, Russia. He went on to study under Rudolf Nureyev, the Soviet-born ballet dancer and choreographer, at the Royal Ballet School in London. I’m not sure what brought him to South Carolina, but I loved how he walked the length of the barre correcting our arms, lifting our elbows, and placing our fingers, his cigarette-musk rolled in with him. Inside the studios, the walls were white and the maple sprung floors always swept clean. Framed performance posters of infamous pas de deuxs lined the worn and walked-on gray carpet to the dressing room. There were two dance studios, one smaller and one larger, but I adored the high-vaulted ceilings, the width, and the floor-to-ceiling mirrors of the big one. That’s where we had the company-wide rehearsals for ballets like The Nutcracker, Coppélia, and To the Wizard, an Oz-like rendition where the girl who dances as Dorothy wears these beautiful red-and-sparkle-in-the-spotlight pointe shoes they made special just for her. When I had finished my part of rehearsal, I watched the older dancers from the doorframe near the rosin box, marveling at their crisp spotting during their turns and their sky-high leaps across the diagonal space. I loved their layers, their legwarmers, their garbage bag sweatpants. I loved the way they stood with their hands on their hips, catching their breath and drenched in sweat. I remember Radenko wore these tasseled brown leather loafers without any socks. This meant when he was ready to give corrections, he could kick off his shoes, face the mirrors, and show a dancer just what he meant in his bare feet. as for gabriel and the phone, it felt like it was the only connection we had. In a sense, it was. I dialed his number when I walked across Manhattan, knowing it would go straight to voicemail. Hello. You’ve reached Gabriel. I will be attending United States Army Training until late December. Please leave your name and number and I will call you back as soon as I am able. I’d hang up. I’d look both ways before crossing the street. I’d dial again just to hear him say something. gabriel, my husband, enlisted in the United States Army with an 18X (Special Forces) MOS contract while I was a graduate student studying fiction at Columbia. I was halfway through the two-year Master of Fine Arts program when he signed on the dotted line and handed in his paperwork. I had one more year to go. We got married in Central Park next to where the rowboats are, a small wedding with just our families. It had poured rain the day before and my mother had asked me if we had an alternate location—“You know, in case the weather doesn’t clear, Erin.” We did not. The sun shone on all of us that day, the air as clean as could be from the storm the day before. After the ceremony, we all crossed the park for dinner at the after gabriel left for basic training, we were only allowed to communicate by writing letters. It seems old-fashioned, but it was modern day. It was 2014. I sent him off, kissed my husband goodbye at Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn. I stood at the edge of the room and watched my husband take his final vow before they left, he with his shaved head and all the other recruits with their hands straight along the side seams of their pants, swearing to support and defend the Constitution of the United States, and then watched him, my husband, and other much younger soldiers load into a van that would take them all to the airport. I walked back to the subway along unfamiliar sidewalks and past neighborhood bodegas I’d never venture into and endured a long and silent train ride back up the spine of Manhattan to our home in Harlem. on saturdays a pianist joined us for dance rehearsal, but mostly we danced to the vinyl records of classical music Radenko kept in a yellow milk crate at the front of the room. He’d show us the combination once at the barre and again, more quickly, demonstrating with his hands as if they were feet, and then he’d walk to the record player, lift the tone arm, and start the track. We were ready at the barre, waiting for the music to begin. There were crinkles, cracks, and pops as the stylus worked through dust to find the music, and when the first few notes came through, it marked a moment: one world falling away and another taking its place. with ballet, I loved having an edge to push against. You spend years learning how to use your body to play with the appearance of perfection. I didn’t hate that. It’s athleticism disguised as artwork. During grande battements, the last “big kick” exercise at the barre before we came to the center of the room, Radenko would often hold his hand up higher than any of us could reach. We finished each combination with an épaulement, tilting our head and looking out beyond our body to the high corner of the room. There wasn’t a feeling that beat that. My blood felt like champagne. Good, he said. Other side. before i could reach gabriel, he needed to fully in-process at Fort Benning, about an hour outside of Atlanta and become a number. For the longest time, he was held in what is called reception, a black hole where no one has an address. That didn’t stop me. Gabriel, I can’t stop writing to you. I still don’t know your mailing address and yet this is my fifth letter. When a letter from him finally arrived, it was a halfsheet of graph paper. He wrote: Erin, I’m in a sea of mad movement right now. Here’s the address again for reference. Check Back!!! And on the flip side of the half-sheet of lined paper he wrote: Tell people to send letters only. Just about everything else is contraband. his letters did not come very often, but I wrote him every day. Gabriel, I am on the train to New Haven. Gabriel, I just finished reading this book called, Life on the Refrigerator Door, all correspondence between a mother and daughter, the whole story told in their notes to each other. Dear Gabriel, I’ll be honest not speaking with you regularly is hard. It hurts. Dear Gabriel, my hair is getting longer. I noticed this morning. Dear Gabriel, it’s my lunch hour. It’s Tuesday. he could not have books sent to him, so I included pages of quotations. I wrote out quotes from Montaigne, Anthony Doerr, Ann Zwinger, Ezra Pound, Michael Bernard Beckwith. The Dalai Lama’s, “The enemy is a very good teacher.” James Baldwin’s, “I really do believe we can be better than we are. I know we can. But the price is enormous—and people are not yet willing to pay it.” as a young girl, I was desperate for pointe shoes. Desperate. I had this book, a thin, hardcover book The Young Dancer by Darcey Bussell, that I’d pull off my bookshelf routinely in my bedroom and flip through. The cover was cold against my lap, and I inhaled the glossy photographs of girls about my age with their sea-shell-pink pointe shoes already, satin ribbons tied up and around their ankles. At Radenko’s, I watched the older girls sew the ribbons on their pointe shoes together in the corner nursing their blood blisters with medical tape and padding their shoes with lambswool. I watched them measure out long pieces of thread that they cut with shining silver scissors, a needle between their teeth. They worked quickly. Then they slid their feet into their shoes, adjusting the elastic and flexing their ankle. They wound and wound and wound until they made a small knot they tucked inside. It was like choreography. It was a movement so memorized it became like dancing. erin, he wrote, It’s in the boots and cadence. Motivated, motivated, downright dedicated—ooh ah I want to kill somebody—ooh ah I want to shoot ‘em in the face. Brutal maybe, but it will wake you up. And the boots make the uniform. The baggy ACU pants can now be tucked and rolled over the upper of the boot—we seem closer to becoming soldiers. We do not always form well, we talk too much, and there are even some who are trying to drop out. But the boots and the cadence wake me back up. during one registration period at Columbia, an advisor told me I had extra credit hours and could tack on an elective. I walked home wondering what I might take. Art history? Philosophy? Some fitness class out of the gym? Back home at our studio apartment which seemed much too large for just one person, I sat at my desk and typed one word into the search bar: ballet. There it was: Advanced Beginner Ballet through Barnard College, which happened to be right across the street from the School of the Arts. I had to dig in our closet to find my black leotard, my pink tights, my split-sole ballet shoes that had been worn through in the toe from my dancing through the years. I’d never been able to give ballet up. Whenever I moved or if Gabriel and I travelled, I’d drop in for a class. While Gabriel wandered around or had a beer by himself at the bar, I’d go dance. I loved how in those moments, like, say, at the barre in an adult ballet class at Boston Ballet, my body would start talking again. It was muscle memory, like sorting through old storage boxes in my brain. During a tendu, I’d recall a song, a smell, the name of someone I used to dance with. It spurred me on. What else could I remember by just being at the barre? It was like going back to church. It doesn’t matter

Loeb Boathouse, my parents’ wedding gift to us. Gabriel and I had known each other for four years, and now we had 16 days. He was leaving. The clock started ticking as soon as we said our vows.

Erin Pesut

how long you’ve been away, it’s nice to come back and realize you never forgot the words to the prayers.

when i walked in for the first time, I felt as if I had come home. The dance studio at Barnard was all white and wide with a high ceiling and big windows looking out onto Claremont and a thick heavy curtain you could pull all the way across to cover up the mirrors at the front.

the barre became a place for me to show up to every Tuesday and Thursday. I just had to get there. It helped to mark the time. It helped the weeks go by. By the end, I’d be three silent months without him. I changed out of my street clothes into my leotard and tights in a small, usually unlit bathroom at the end of the hall. I stood in front of the mirror and porcelain sink and put my hair in a high, tight bun, raking my hands through my scalp to smooth the bumps, bobby pins in my teeth until I used them all up. At the barre, my muscles recalled what they once knew. Like always, forgotten combinations came back into focus. My flexibility deepened. For two hours, I forgot who I was. Early in the semester, our teacher, Kathryn, who adhered to the same Vaganova technique I had learned in South Carolina, and who showed correct body positions by referring to an anatomical chart of a dancer tacked up onto the wall, stopped to adjust my neck and hands and said, “I see you’ve danced before.” Each class I chose the same risky spot at the barre: on the end. If I needed to remember the combination, I could keep my eyes on the person in front of me, but when we turned to the other side, I was face-to-face with myself in the mirror. This was another edge. This was a test. I had one person to rely on and that was me.

i sent gabriel song lyrics from Tegan & Sara’s “Closer” or Electric Youth’s “A Real Hero,” songs we listened to a million times together, writing out the words with music notes drawn around them so he could catch the beginning and let the music unfurl in his head. In New York, I wrote stories for workshop, I paid our bills, and I trudged from Harlem to Morningside Heights and back again. When ballet let out on Thursdays and my body was still warm from dancing, I worked at Hawthorne Valley’s stand at the Broadway GrowNYC farmers market right outside the gates of Columbia selling sauerkraut and organic bread and pastured meats and ground-grown vegetables rubber banded together and displayed on wooden crates. I kept my phone in my pocket at all times, just in case he might call. He did not. radenko had pulled me aside after ballet class a number of times and told me to come and face the barre. “Relevé,” he said. He felt around my ankles and pushed my arches forward. “Passé.” Balance. I balanced and focused on a smudge on the wall, hoping, literally praying. Please God let me be strong enough. Please. God. Please. Each time after his assessment, he would shake his head. One day he did not shake his head. He looked at me and said, “You are ready. Your calves are strong and the muscles in your feet are fully formed enough. Next week we’ll talk about where you can get your first pair of pointe shoes.” But it was too late. My heart sank. We were moving. My family was moving to Indiana. I had just been told at dinner a few nights before. There was a brochure with Indianapolis all lit up at night that my parents had slid across the dinner table. My father was taking a job at the university. My older brother and I were each in charge of packing our suitcases, of telling our friends. Movers carried out my family’s furniture, our fake ficus tree from the dining room, our piano, our couches, our dishes, our books, our beds. When it was time to go, the wheels of my suitcase banged down each brick step of our porch. as i wrestled with my new identity as a wife, it felt as though Gabriel was some dead man in my world. Was I married? I had pictures to prove it. But could I talk to him? No. I couldn’t. I would ride the MTA bus and feel envious of people texting or talking on their phones. I eavesdropped on conversations of people telling the person on the other end of the line where they were, where they were headed, why Sean was a bitch, what they’d need to pick up if they still wanted them to make those Rice Krispie treats for the party tonight. I didn’t talk much about this new aspect of being “a military spouse” with my writing cohorts. I mostly stayed quiet, fearing they wouldn’t understand. erin, he wrote, I’ve never sweat so much every day and every moment. My bowel movements are erratic, and I don’t know which way is up. But we got our M4 Carbines today—our rifles—and I was finally able to organize my locker a little. erin, he wrote, We went to the Post Exchange the other day to resupply on toiletries. I bought a bigger notepad, some new socks, baby wipes, and some razors. When I walked by the food section, with a gas station-style coffee bar, I could think of nothing else but coffee and Snickers. It’s seriously every day that I think of the items and experiences I took for granted. Donuts. Ice cream. Thai noodles. Late lunches with your wife in New York City while the rain gushes outside. once you learn the basics of ballet, you lean into embodying what you know. Combat, I suppose, is the same. At a certain point, they both go beyond language. “You should be very proud of your Soldier’s selflessness and courage to serve our great nation in a time of prolonged combat operations. His military training will be demanding: it includes physical fitness, rifle marksmanship, tactical skills training, field training exercises, first-aid, and other basic combat skills. We strongly encourage your Soldier to write home as often as possible and share their experiences with loved ones. Please do not be concerned if you do not hear from your Soldier as often as you desire, his military training is very challenging and will sometimes consume all of his personal time. Therefore, always assume no news is good news.” ballet is equal parts focus and surrender. War is forward momentum and plans of attack. They both exist in motion. Then they evaporate. It’s all imprint. It’s shadow. When they’re over, they become whatever gets left behind. after i helped pack up the farmers market stand, I caught up on homework in Butler Library and went to my class dedicated to the art of editing that ran late into the night. Most days I was still wearing my ballet tights and leotard underneath my jeans. Our teacher, an editor at Grove Atlantic, proofed our stories in real-time on a big TV tacked onto the wall. I could see the blue of the screen reflected in the windows that looked out onto the quad. After class, I waited in the dark for the M60 bus that gushed to a stop, crossed town, and dropped me in Harlem. I walked the rest of the way down 125th Street, hoping for a letter from him. I unlocked our front door, the second door inside the foyer, and walked up the 14 creaking and carpeted steps to our studio apartment. Maybe there would be one. erin, he wrote, Everyone got a big letter dump yesterday, and people would say to me “bro how many did you get from your girl?” I’d say seven. One would be sufficient but many is exciting. Eat a doughnut for me and sip a cup of good coffee. Your words are precious to me here. at a particularly low point, I reserved a ticket to see the New York City Ballet. I went by myself and wished almost distractedly throughout the entire performance that I had brought a pen and a piece of paper so I could have written things down. Ideas ricocheted through my body as the dancing rose in swells and I squirmed in my seat and had to swallow each idea down like it was a big rock. Afterwards, my throat was dry. My ticket included a backstage tour, and we all met our guide in the rich and red-carpeted hallway of the theatre and he took us back. The stage and the wings were all emptied out. It smelled like dust, hairspray, sweat, and vanilla. There were sequined costumes in crates and an American flag tacked up high on the cinderblock wall. Rosin boxes were askew. Show notes were taped to the scaffolding. Our group moved as a herd, but I cut out to stand alone at the edge of the stage. I looked out at the jeweled chandelier hanging from so high up. Life had turned out to be so different. Never really a dancer. Never even on pointe. Once we had moved, there hadn’t been the money. A writer, okay, but could I hold onto that? Would I keep writing as the years dragged on? And married—ha!—but somehow barely a wife. Our guide called out. Look! Hope burst in my heart. What could it be!? He had a lone pointe shoe from Sara Mearns, one of the principal dancers. We gathered around him. He pulled out a paper towel wedged into the toe box. It was wet and crumpled. A paper towel. He held it above his head saying she must have used it to pad her toes, this paper towel, some bland artifact. It was nothing close to a treasure for all of us to see. erin, he wrote, I was on flag duty this evening which means I assisted in lowering the flag at Brigade Staff Headquarters. At 1700, the brigade plays “Retreat” and “Taps” to signal the lowering of the flag. The flag, as a symbol and the philosophical points for which it stands has been a huge part of my decision to enlist, you know this. So it was an important task for me to help with if very modest. I like standing at attention and saluting the flag. It is one of the moments here when I think people’s egos dissolve and we find ourselves in some better union. once while Gabriel was siphoned away in the dim silence of Basic Training, my mother came to visit. This was the first time I’d seen her since our wedding. As her daughter, I wondered, was I somehow different now that I was also a wife? We slept in the same bed and wrapped scarves around our head because of a drafty crack in the window insulation. We went to MoMA and came home at night to roast sheet trays of root vegetables in the oven. After being unmoored for so many months, I loved moving through the city with someone from my own family beside me. The day before she left, we ate dim sum and decided to go to the ballet. We walked to Lincoln Center, bought our tickets in the marble lobby, and went to find our seats. I flipped through the silky program until the orchestra finished tuning and the lights went dim. A hush spread among us. Then it happened: a feeling rose fast and sharp in my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I could barely make its shape. Could I name it? Was it grief? Her leaving? Him being gone? Whatever I was mourning, my mother was no protection. What in this world can we really call our own? Even love is a borrowed thing. I sat there and felt every single ending. They crashed upon me. Up on stage, the curtain began to rise.