Tiny Dancer Read online

  TINY DANCER

  By

  PATRICIA HICKMAN

  Visit Patricia Hickman’s website at www.patriciahickman.com

  You may also follow her on FaceBook Pinterest, and Twitter

  Copyright © 2013 by Patricia Hickman. All rights reserved.

  Southern Cross Publishing

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. The only exception is brief quotations in printed and referenced reviews. This novel is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental. Kindle Edition.

  Cover Design by Robin Ludwig Design Copyright © 2013 by Patricia Hickman All rights reserved.

  Cover Art by Creativa

  Edited by Nicci Jordan Hubert

  acknowledgments

  Thank you to Michele Soderquist, who was generous with providing historical facts about the setting for the Pinehurst Resort in Pinehurst, North Carolina. Additional thanks are in order to Jason Hickman who is not only a great nephew, but a fantastic Irish Step Dancer. Thanks for helping your auntie get all the dance steps right. Also, thank you to the editor Nicci Hubert for your professional insights and guidance. Thank you, Robin Ludwig, for the art design for the beautiful book cover.

  dedication

  To Jason Hickman

  Our favorite Irish Step Dancer

  “If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end; if you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth, only soft soap and wishful thinking to begin, and in the end, despair.” ~ C.S. Lewis

  “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction so that we will be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” 2 Corinthians 4: 7-11 NASB

  ALSO BY PATRICIA HICKMAN

  Fiction

  Seeking Christmas

  The Pirate Queen

  Painted Dresses

  Fallen Angels

  Nazareth’s Song

  Whisper Town

  Earthly Vows

  Sandpebbles

  Katrina’s Wings

  Voyage of the Exiles

  Angel of the Outback

  The Emerald Song

  Beyond the Wild Shores

  The Treasure Seekers

  Children’s Fiction

  The Red-Hot Pepper Fiasco

  Bustin’ Loose!

  Non-Fiction

  Secrets From the Treadmill

  With Pete Briscoe

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TINY DANCER

  ALSO BY PATRICIA HICKMAN

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter 2

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Prologue

  Siobhan and I were not close as sisters, not like people believed about us. We appeared inseparable for the simple reason that we were groomed from our earliest years as a sister act. Irish step dancing was our calling card.

  By the time I turned thirteen, our two-sister act was performing in two states including our own state, North Carolina. We did start out as a small time act performing for the local downtown gigs, impressing the locals at the veteran’s meetings, and performing for the emerging golfing set at Pinehurst Resort. My stepmother Vesta wanted acclaim for us and might have gotten her wish had her dream not collapsed the spring of 1961.

  The whole country had entered a season of upheaval. President Kennedy was in a stew with Cuba. The Civil Rights Movement was losing momentum in fits and sputters lacking the money to keep it viable. What I remembered most though was how life came to a dead stop, like a ship taking on water, no wind in the sky, only the uncomfortably quiet doldrums of disappointment falling down on us in reams.

  Daddy did not care all that much for his girls gaining fame and fortune as much as he wanted a portion of the money back our little hobby had cost him. A single Irish costume was well over a hundred dollars in 1961, and that was homemade. Vesta had often hidden our new costumes up in the attic until the day of a performance only to get the whistle and sigh from Daddy when each of us appeared in our new dress. We’ll hit the Big Time—Vesta had said that a lot to reassure Daddy. The Ed Sullivan Show, she promised him while we girls rehearsed until our toes were raw empty sockets. Flynn Curry, though, was a man of quiet perseverance and put up with all our nonsense, and most of it because of his love for his girls.

  The days dropping away from our small sister duet prior to the first awful week of June of ’61 were like the days of many a girl set on acquiring a share of fame and fortune—mornings bustling with early morning dance rehearsals that dovetailed with late night gatherings to add more sequins to our Irish dancer’s skirts.

  In our own way, we had become local celebrities. Vesta spent much of my formative years scheming big time for her daughters. She had trained up the High-Stepping Curry Sisters to hit the big time as no sister act had ever done. I held down the post as big sister to little sister Siobhan, the only daughter born to both Daddy and Vesta. I once said Siobhan was the kid born of glue, the girl who had made us all a family.

  The Curry sisters had taken our dance training under a young dance teacher named Billy Thornton, a boy too old for my young hopes. But nothing stopped me from thinking about him, in that way. Billy not only danced, he played in the drum circle at the annual Highland Games. I still remember how he whooped as if he were calling up the dead.

  It was during the Highland Games Festival, though, that my little sister announced, “I hate dancing.” She was shuffled out of our Ford that instant by Vesta. For it was rumored that a talent scout was in town to see the Curry sisters perform.

  I left them to feud and followed the sound of drums all the way to the drum circle. Billy’s drumming pounded inside me as if it were my own heartbeat. He carved the air with his arms when he drummed. His drumming friends joined him whooping and pounding fast to keep up with him. I moved and swayed within feet of him, like a girl under a spell.

  It was nearly time for our number. Vesta was still manipulating Siobhan, talking softly to her, her demeanor kinder than she had been when Siobhan was squeezing into her costume. She took advantage of the empty grand stand leading her up stage left. Siobhan followed Vesta up onto the stage, her shoulders slumped in passive resistance. I watched distantly and not fully engaged, more interested in the boys in the drum circle beyond the main stage.

  Vesta rehearsed her expertly. Siobhan made a misstep twice. Vesta stopped her and coached her to start again. She could get things out of Siobhan. She was talented in getting what she wanted from people.

  I moved in closer to the drum circle leaning against a longleaf pine tree turning first to watch Billy and then back to peer at Vesta and Siobhan.

  The drum circle’s number ended and the audience cheered like townspeople in Dublin. It was then the announcement was made that sent my heart into nervous somersaults every time I heard it. Our dance act was announced over the public address system. “Five minutes folks. Take your places at the main grandstand. The High-Stepping Curry Sisters are bac
k again this year!” Vesta had named the dance troupe after Daddy’s side of the family. It never hurt to marry a man with a good Irish name, she often said.

  After the drum circle finished its performance that day, I caught Billy’s eye, waiting for the bright smile that was meant only for me. I approached the grandstands, tamping down the remaining jitters ping-ponging around inside my stomach.

  “Places, Flannery!” Vesta hollered from the stage door.

  The heat had risen. Bees sang monotonously around discarded canned sodas. A group of kindergarten-age boys and girls hid behind the stage shooting rubber tipped arrows into the air. One of them smacked the back of the temporary main platform. My thin hair was salty wet under my thick curly red dancer’s wig as I walked back toward the stage. Siobhan said she was stepping out for air. She took that opportunity though to pull one last sullen rebellion. She folded her arms and turned her back to the backstage entry. Vesta cupped her by the chin. She talked low so none of the stagehands preparing the talent could hear. Nonetheless, judging by the resignation in Siobhan’s eyes, Vesta told her to dance and not spoil the day for everyone.

  Siobhan had memorized Vesta’s speeches so well, her lips moved with her mother’s. You can’t leave an empty space. How would it look with a girl missing, and only Flannery left to dance alone? Dance alone were the words that would haunt me. Siobhan’s head moved up and down, agreeing while her eyes seemed to float in a small pond of no retreat.

  “Where is your sash?” Vesta asked her.

  Siobhan turned, but in that space of a second, her eyes locked onto mine. For it had fallen to me to be sure my little sister’s costume was properly fastened. Vesta had been ragging about Siobhan’s diet, so the waist was tight and the sash hanging precariously. But in the moment the drum circle had lured my attention away, I walked away from her and told her to take care of her own costume. “You’re big enough, Siobhan.”

  “I fastened it myself, Vesta,” I said, not wanting to confess to her I had not pinned on the red sash as I was told.

  Siobhan rolled her eyes at me, but surprised me when she didn’t snitch. She had more mercy in her little ring finger than I had had my whole life.

  “Well it’s gone now,” said Vesta. “Flannery, trace her steps back. Hurry!”

  Daddy showed up forking meat pie into his mouth. He was often reticent to Siobhan’s resistance, so he sighed. “Let it go, Mother.”

  “Her costume is unfinished,” Vesta said to Daddy as if he had not a clue about the situation in front of him. “Flannery, go and find it and get back here instantly!”

  “I’m going,” I said, seeing the anger building in Vesta’s eyes. I traced our steps back to the parking lot, bird-dogging the crowd-trampled lawn, seeing if the bright red sash was being kicked around in the foot traffic. I came upon the long leaf pine tree where I found Billy had pinned a laughing young woman against the trunk. It wasn’t the first time, of course.

  He pressed against her, his long silky hair covering her face from the side. Billy’s shoulders were mirrors. She moaned slightly as he kissed her, saying, “No, no, I have to go.” But she couldn’t resist him.

  “I came back for Siobhan’s sash,” I said, so Billy would have to let go of the girl and look at me.

  He pulled back from her, lifting up his hands as if surrendering to being caught.

  “Flannery Curry, you get out of here, said the girl and that was when I saw it was my own cousin Aila. “You snoop,” said Aila, hissing through her teeth and untangling herself from Billy’s arms.

  “Siobhan’s lost her sash. We’re up now,” I said, outwardly put out with the both of them even though I was wishing it was my lips Billy was tasting. I took off for the grandstand knowing Vesta would gripe about the length of time I had taken already. I climbed quickly up the back of the stage feeling sticky and not ready. Not poised or together. I took my place as the curtains drew open in a long sigh. Siobhan was not facing me, nor did she acknowledge my last minute arrival on the stage. There she stood, poised and facing the audience as if she would dance alone if need be. I knew it was her way of getting back into Vesta’s good graces.

  Billy took a long time about coming back to the grandstand. The bleachers were full so he stood in the back, his head barely visible as he looked for us, the little girls he had trained for the big time.

  The cued music recording started up. As I positioned my arms, I caught Vesta’s eye, stage right. “No sash,” I mouthed.

  Vesta’s mouth drew up and she gave Siobhan a cold stare that made Daddy cringe. Siobhan was still, nothing moving except her skirt cuffed by a faint breeze. I took a small step to the right and behind her. Siobhan’s right toe lifted, her fingers closed like dying lilies pointed toward the stage.

  My right toe lifted next, my eyes searching the grandstands until I found Billy’s eyes again, and his look of approval. I realized in that instant I cared more about his approval than Vesta’s.

  “This is the big one,” whispered Vesta so faintly I knew it was just for me she said it. I smiled and felt the audience reciprocating warm acceptance. All of the worry about the lost red sash faded. It was show time.

  Vesta took her spot eight feet left of us, off stage. Siobhan was front and to the left of me. All I could see of Siobhan were the blonde ringlets of the wig she hated. The music introduction modulated. The technician was familiar with our hearty act and raised the sound so loud that children cupped their ears. Up the two of us rose, like a couple of buds blooming on cue. Siobhan’s curls danced in front of me, her feet bouncing along with mine in flawless precision.

  The audience clapped in the same blithe response I’d always known as we performed. I relaxed thinking again how lucky I was to hold such power over adults. I knew that Vesta was fighting the urge to scan the audience for sight of the rumored talent scout, as if she would recognize her on sight. Better to do it as Billy had taught, for the passion of it, I told myself. But even I could not contain the yearning to be loved by everyone.

  The three of us were unified, not fighting any more, nor striving. Not on this day. Siobhan and I lifted above the floor like sprites, touching down like delicate thunder, black shoes in sync with our very souls. We danced under the approval of every eager eye, each jealous girl; every boy examining me, the curve of my calves, and my confident posture.

  My thoughts blocked out all but our dance steps—And skip two-three, and skip two-three, jump two-three, jump two-three.

  I first noticed a subtle change through the scrim of our power over the audience. A woman in the stands stopped smiling. Her hands dropped to her lap. She turned to say something to another woman seated right next to her. Vesta and Daddy stared at Siobhan as if watching a tragedy. The levity of the sister act no longer held the audience in its magic, the clapping slowing and finally stopping. I could only see the back of Siobhan’s head. But the concern in the two women’s faces spread up the bleachers. Our spell had been broken. I discerned fear from the audience, at first, but misread their faces. No, it was pity.

  An audience is susceptible to child performers, especially young tiny dancers who own them from the time their eyes fall on them until they bow. People expect the youngest to impress them, to make them smile wistfully while wishing they had not wasted their childhood on math drills. The youngest child could fall flat and make off with all of the applause. But Siobhan Curry was not reared to misstep or stumble. Her right foot lifted, turning inward, as perfectly matched with mine as a classic ballerina’s.

  Hop two-three-four-five-six-seven.

  I turned, spinning back to face the audience. I nearly gasped when Siobhan’s red, tear-licked face flashed in front of me. I winced at the sight of my little sister falling apart in front of the whole town.

  Siobhan was crying streams yet she did not miss a step. She cried and danced in perfection. She would not be the missing piece, but she did not want to be here.

  The tune trilled on demanding we move forward into the continuum of
performance and perfection. No faltering. No fear. We had rehearsed it so much that the tune wound through my thoughts in my sleep.

  I dreamed of Siobhan and I dancing down hills, of people following us. I dreamed of people crowding into our bedroom, waiting for us to jump up and dance for them again.

  But my dream melted into the reality of Siobhan’s final coup. What made me shudder was how the clapping stopped, every eye focused on my bawling sister. The nit! How dare she undermine all our work! That was the fireworks going off in my head in that moment.

  One-two-three-two-two-three-three-two-three. . .

  Vesta glanced once at me in a manner that said what the blazes do we do now? Since I expected Siobhan would surely pull herself together, I kept my mind on my own steps.

  Four-two-three-five-two-three-six-two-three . . .

  It was during a spin that I stole another gander at Siobhan’s face. Her entire visage was pink, like Vesta’s fuchsias she grew in the spring. A moist trail ran through her make-up. Dark lines raked thin fingers down her face from her perfectly applied black eyeliner. She looked like a neglected little scarecrow.

  Vesta stiffened still standing to the side of the stage. But she was as powerless as I was to stop Siobhan’s meltdown.

  Finally, the music ended. The crowd was silent. Then Billy’s hands came up clapping over his head, clapping as if he were chasing birds from a windowsill. A lady in the stands joined Billy, the two of them taking the quiet awkward pause out of the air, filling it with applause. Finally, polite applause gave way to a few whistles. But, everyone was clapping for my little sister. No eyes were on me, but all were on brave Siobhan, the little girl who kept up her routine in spite of her presumed stage fright. In a way, I was glad no eyes were on me. For all that was going through my head, none of it was something for which I am proud.

  For that was our final performance as the High Stepping Curry Sisters.