The Four Temperaments by Yona Zeldis McDonough Page B

could you?” said Oscar, feeling the need to reassert himself; even at this late and wholly compromised juncture, he was still the father, the authority, the one in charge. He stood up.
    â€œWhat about Mom? Does she know about this?”
    â€œNot that it's any of your business but, yes, she does.”
    â€œJesus Christ,” Gabriel repeated, but this time more softly, almost like an entreaty.
    â€œLook, Gabriel, you're a grown man now. It's not my place to tell you what to do. But I promised your mother I would talk to you. Warn you. Think about what you're doing. About what it will mean to Penelope if she finds out.”
    â€œYou haven't told her, have you?”
    â€œNo, of course not. But someone always finds out, don't they?”
    â€œYou should know,” Gabriel said bitterly. Oscar said nothing, for he knew he deserved this. “Poor Mom,” he added.
    â€œYour mother is special,” Oscar said. “She takes a broader view of things than most people.” He took a deep breath to steel himself. “Penelope isn't like her.”
    â€œAnd I'm not like you!” Gabriel shot back, and then he was gone, striding once more down the shoreline at his angry, young man's pace. Oscar sat back down on the rock; only after he was seated did he realize that the rock was now wet, drenched by a cold, foamy wave that had splashed over it. He stared out at the wide expanse of water, wondering what in the world he would tell Ruth when she asked how this conversation had gone.

GINNY
    I
n December,
the ballet company would start dancing
The Nutcracker
again. Ginny couldn't wait. They did it last year, of course—the company danced it every year in time for Christmas—and she had been so excited that during her first performance, she anticipated her cue and came onstage a full sixteen beats early. The group of dancers already there had to try very hard not to laugh out loud. Ginny knew she must have looked ridiculous prancing around the outside of the stage, but she had tried to make the best of the situation. Later, Erik didn't even yell at her. He seemed to understand how thrilling it was to perform to live music when all you were used to was the canned stuff.
    But it wasn't just the music. Ginny believed
The Nutcracker
was part of her destiny. Rita used to take her to see it when she was very small. She remembered how they sold souvenir books and other trinkets in the lobby of the theater, and, after some pestering, Rita had bought her a tiny silver pin shaped like a pair of pointe shoes. Ginny wore that pin for years, during ballet classes and the performances of the one-act
Nutcracker
that Wes staged for the winter recital. One year, Ginny was the little girl, Marie. Another time she was a snowflake and the best of all was when she danced Dewdrop. Rita sewed the costume herself. The skirt was net and over it were layers of filmy, silver material that lifted and floated like petals. The top was an iridescent silver and pink fabric, and the whole neckline was studded with rhinestones. Ginny was dazzled—her mama had outdone herself. Most of the other girls, even the rich ones, went to the costume shop over in the strip mall just outside of town. Rita and Ginny tried going there too, but Rita fingered the crudely made satin and rickrack numbers with disdain. “Pretty ugly and pretty apt to stay that way,” was her verdict, and instead they went to a sewing shop where the fabric came from France and Italy. Rita bought everything she needed—trim, material, silver thread and bobbins—and when they went home, she pulled out her portable Singer sewing machine from the bedroom closet and set it out on the pink-and-white-checked plastic tablecloth that covered the kitchen table. “You'd better strip,” she told Ginny, a mouth full of pins muffling her speech, “I'm going to have to fit you.”
    When Rita had finished, Ginny thought the result looked