EDITOR'S PICKS
Sharon Hurlbut's Pick:
White Blossoms
by Judy Cabito
I was pulled in by the dialogue and beautiful imagery of this piece, and the wistfully perfect ending keeps me coming back to it.
The producer has broad shoulders.
Her mother told her, "That tells a big story, sweetie. Everything you'll need to know about a man sits on his shoulders."
But she thinks this is true of everyone.
Her mother said, "Always remember to keep your back straight; chin up, walk and look like you're expecting the Queen of England for tea."
But today she's only concentrating on the sound of his voice.
"Honey," he says, "you can start now."
When her mother asks her to dance for her friends, she feels awkward.
"Show 'em your pretty legs, sweetie. Pretend you're a beautiful bud opening for the first time. Point them toes. Chin up! Chin up! Oh, sweetie you gotta practice more. Watch your hands too. Them people look at everything, they don't miss a thing."
So she worked harder.
"See! My sweetie is good, got music in her head. She's going to make something of herself someday. Gonna dance in some fancy European places, make a ton of money, too. Huh, sweetie?"
But there'd always one who'd ask, "You takin' any lessons, girlie?"
She'd shake her head.
"Then you better keep workin'."
So she did, even when her toes bled.
Now she asks him, "Here?"
He says, "It doesn't matter, honey. You're not auditioning for the Bolshoi."
She pushes her back against the door.
"Over here, honey," he says.
Outside, the hot Santa Ana pushes through the dusty eucalyptus. An over grown camellia rubs against the screen, and the scent of a prolific gardenia, the tips of its white blossoms burnt by the afternoon sun, swishes through then disappears, repeatedly.
"Honey."
She takes a step forward, scans the room. A bare sink, attached only by its plumbing protrudes out of the wall like a clown's nose, orange and rusty, its faucet dripping. Above, hangs the only light source, a bulb, swinging ever so slightly and looking like a solitary ballet-slipper.
She passes between the light and him and sees her shadow fall across the bed, face down.
"Pull the cord," he says.
"Huh?"
"The light. Turn it off. Everything's better in the dark, don't you think?"
She hopes he's right. She pulls the cord. Between the continuum of the sudden darkness and before their eyes can adjust, she performs a perfect pirouette, spinning on one foot. Quickly, breathlessly, ending with a low curtsy, a pas marché, bending at her waist, opening her arms out wide, graciously as she would for royalty, and then she hears the music and begins her dance.
Judy Cabito lives in California. She was born in Oregon but spent most of her youth in the green state Washington. She considers herself a West Coaster, if there is such a thing. She writes. She's been published.
Copyright 2006, Judy Cabito