Ellin Pollachek

Author & Photographer

www.ellinpollachek.com

Meet some of the characters.

Published by Bantam Books under a pseudonym--Ellin Hall.

PROLOGUE

Isn’t that. . .
I can’t believe how young she looks.
A child.
She’s only. twenty.
Did you see her in. . .
Odile! You could die for her Odile.
And Giselle! Balanchine says she was born to dance Giselle!

Olive Kingsley couldn't help but brush by the crowded tables in the "21" Club's posh interior. She tried to smile. Someone asked for an autograph. She graciously accommodated the request, then joined her mother at their table.

As if expecting photographers and a journalist to record the event for posterity, Karen Kingsley rose to greet her, kissed the air on either side of her daughter's cheeks, and sat back down.

Karen was in heaven. She so adored the ambience of "21." Black and white checkered each other on the tables, matched the cushions and the chairs, then gave way to a larger order of gracefulness. Walls intentionally crackled with age to resemble an ancient Roman villa. Flowers were everywhere. Cigar smoke. Famous faces. Ah, this was what Karen had always wanted.

It was 1971 and "21" was the hottest restaurant in New York City. A perfect setting for plastic people and hothouse orchids. It oozed power, insinuated pleasure. Lunching there guaranteed exposure. The food could have been : better, but no one seemed to notice.

When Olive asked her mother to meet her at "21" for lunch, it never occurred to Karen to ask why. She didn't have to. It wasn't to celebrate any one thing. It was to celebrate everything. After all, she knew her daughter like a book.

But this was a chapter Karen hadn't written.

As soon as Olive was seated, Marcos, their waiter, appeared beside their table. The "21" Club's service was just as pretentious as its clientele. At those prices it was expected to be.

"Would you like to hear les specialites?" he asked, pen in hand.

Karen nodded, and he recited the, list. Cold lobster salad with cayenne mayonnaise was guaranteed to make one's mouth water. Swordfish. braised with caramelized onion, rosemary, and risotto was no less scintillating than Bardot in the flesh. Salmon with saffron noodles was divine, and just the mention of chicken breast sauteed with apple and brandy sauce was an orgiastic experience.

"Shall I give you ladies a minute?" Marcus asked. Karen turned to Olive, who, in an effort to think better,
closed her eyes and wrinkled her nose.

"Don't do that, sweetheart," Karen said lightly. "You'll get wrinkles." At forty Karen didn't have a line on her face. Her skin wouldn't dare.

"'I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger," Olive said.

"Olive!" Karen's voice had the tone of a finger pointing.

Olive turned toward Marcos. Why was it life seemed to be nothing more than a tapestry of menus these days? she wondered. "You bring me what you think is best." She spoke in her most little girl I'm-starving-to-death voice, which she saved for occasions like these. She knew, of course, that Marcos would bring her exactly what she'd ordered, hiding the bacon beneath the burger.
Karen knew it too. In fact, there wasn't much Karen Kingsley didn't know about her precious Olive. But she decided not to make a fuss. Karen had long ago learned to choose her battles well.

“And I, Marcos," she said, smoothing out the lap of her prized luncheon suit, "I'll just have a large green salad."

"Mother!" Olive knew how much her mother loved. the food at "21." "Why aren't you ordering the salmon? You love it so."

"Well, the truth is, Olive darling, I got on the scale this morning and it showed that I had put on four pounds. Four pounds! We know that four pounds is not water weight, Olive."

"But, Mother. . ."

"Madam," Marcos interrupted, using the reprimanding, demanding voice that customers like this one required. “A green salad is not a meal."

"No?" Now it was Karen's turn to be soft, cute, seductive. "No."

"He's right, Mother."

“All right. For you, my darling Olive, I'll order the fish." She glanced up at Marcos. "Do bring me the salmon, Marcos, but remember-"

"No butter, madam."

"Yes, and..."

"No dressing on the salad."

He was such a good waiter, Karen thought before
turning her attention back to Olive.

"I'm hungry."

"But the cholesterol, Olive dearest." No, age hadn't touched Karen's skin. Just her eyes. They had lost the fervency of youth long ago.

Karen could almost hear Marcos judging her, thinking she was depriving her daughter of pleasure. What if he thought Olive was her meal ticket and she, Karen, was being ungrateful?

"Darling, either a cheeseburger or a bacon burger. Not both."

"Now, tell me," she said, gazing at her younger mirror image. "What is the cause for this celebration? And why ever are you playing with your napkin, Olive? Have you been drinking coffee? You know how nervous it makes you."

Karen smiled and once again took her daughter's hand.
"See that? I go out of town for a few days and you pick up bad habits. I don't know, dear."

"Mother. . ." Olive had been practicing all morning. No, since last night. No, since yesterday morning, when she'd gotten the report. She let go of the napkin and immediately began toying with her braid, but Karen would complain about that too. The only solution was to sit on her hands.

While she waited for Olive to speak, Karen impatiently brushed a nonexistent speck from her Chanel jacket. It was her one good suit and she wore it everywhere. Accessories make all the difference, she had once told Olive. Not just handbags and gloves, but people too. Always surround yourself with people who bring out the best in you. "If you have something to tell me, Olive, please do so and stop fidgeting. It doesn't become you to fidget."

Olive looked directly at her mother. They were carbon copies of each other. Both inordinately thin. Both inheritors of enviable- bone structure, the cheekbones high and pronounced. Black hair, porcelain skin, dark almond-shaped eyes, but most importantly, they exuded elegance. Olive had been born elegant, had come out of the womb that way. Refined, soft-spoken, with a nature that made people want to be with her. She was an authentic masterpiece in a world of artifice. Karen Schultz Kingsley was not. Her elegance was a pretense. Her soft-spokenness was an acting exercise. Karen Kingsley was a fraud, but a fraud of the highest caliber.

Karen reached across the table and placed a perfectly manicured forefinger under Olive's chin. "Now, darling, I'm not an ogre. Just tell me what you need to tell me."

"Mother," Olive began, attempting to hold Karen's gaze. She couldn't. Say it quickly.

"Mother-I'm-going-to-have-a-baby." Oh my God, it’s out. I can't believe it’s out. Oh my God.

Karen's nostrils flared ever so slightly and her face paled. Then, as if it were as easy as applying lipstick, she put her smile back on. "If this is your sense of humor, it's much too bizarre for me."

"Mother! It's true." Oh please, don't make it more difficult.

Karen's nostrils calmed down, but her eyes turned black, scalding, hateful. Obviously her daughter saw fit to pick this moment to torment her. The reason, as yet, was unknown.

"How dare you tell me this in a public place?" It hissed out in a frightful whisper. "I will not discuss this with you here. We will wait until you get home this evening."

"Mother!" Oh, these feelings. At first they had frightened her. Karen had once told her that feelings were for actors, not ballet dancers, and Olive had believed her. But now they rose within her like unwanted bile, anger and hurt and confusion and an appalling vulnerability, and she accepted them. Just as she accepted the life that was growing inside her.
"Mother, please don't make it so hard. As it is, I don't know what to do." She looked away and began playing with her braid. The sweetness was gone. "I thought for once you'd support me in something I wanted."

"Support you?" Karen's mouth tightened. "How dare you suggest I'm not a supportive mother? I sacrificed my life for you, Olive.. I gave up me for you. Do you know what that means? If it weren't for me we'd be accepting relief."

"A scholarship is not relief, Mother." They had been through this so many times before.

“A scholarship is a handout. It's admitting to the world that you can't afford to pay your own way and no one, repeat, no one in the Schultz family accepts a handout."

"Kingsley."

Karen let the interjection go, then spoke softly. "I created you, Olive. Balanchine may have put the dancer together, but I, Karen Schultz, made you great."
She sipped her water, then returned to the attack.
"With all that I've put into you I could have become a designer. Yes, apprenticed with Chanel. Or married a man who would have provided me with a closetful of them. But no, I was Olive Kingsley's mother, first, last, and always. And you... you think men don't want me. You think I have to be alone now at forty. I gave it all up. For you, Olive." She stopped and caught her breath.
"You're killing me, Olive. Do you know this is killing me?"

Olive, with fingernails bitten to the quick, reached out and touched her mother's soft, lotioned hand. "Mother, you're not alone. You-you have me."

"I have nothing," Karen said between clenched teeth. Then she composed herself. "Tell me. Who is the father, Olive?"

Olive blushed pink, as if she had a fever. Her palms began to sweat. "It doesn't matter."

"It certainly does. He's ruined your life. I want his name, Olive. I want his name and I'll have him arrested for statutory rape."

"I'm twenty-one, Mother." She wanted to add that she hadn't been raped, but she decided not to fuel the fire.
"Not for another two weeks you're not." Karen had never felt her heart beat so furiously. Not when Olive tried out for Balanchine's company. Not even when her husband Arthur had died. Not even when Parker Grant had told her. . . Damn this child. She brought it all back.

"Your fish, madam," Marcos said. "And your chopped sirloin with melted cheese, Miss Kingsley."

"Thank you, Marcos," Karen said, dismissing him. She took a few deep breaths, then another sip of water. At last she was calm. "Well, Olive, this is an unfortunate turn of events. An abortion could prevent you from attending rehearsals for as long as a week. We'll call Dr. Hardy in the morning and see what he has to say. You want to be ready to leave for Copenhagen on the first of July with the rest of the company, don't you, dear?"

"I . . . don't want an abortion, Mother."

"What do you mean, Olive darling?" The words were uttered with deadly precision.

"I mean... I mean I feel something, Mother. For the first time since Daddy died, I feel something."

"You feel something," Karen said, mimicking her daughter. "It's lucky we're in a public place because if we weren't, you'd feeeel the palm of my hand across your face. What do you mean you feel something? Don't you feeeel something when you dance?"

"Yes, Mother, I do. When I dance I feel pain. I am always in pain. You know that." It was true. The human body was never meant to adapt to such strain as pointe or a grand jete. The pain was extraordinary, and while some dancers blurred it with pills or powders, Olive knew better. The pain of the body was easier to bear than the pain of the soul.

"That pain comes from a higher good, Olive. This child that's a laugh. This cell is born from your lower nature." . "How would you know, Mother? Have you ever been in touch with yours?"

Karen let the remark pass. “And who will raise this child, Olive?"

"I will."

"Oh, really." Karen began to play with the rolls on the table. "You don't even know how to keep yourself from getting pregnant and you're going to tell me you can raise a child." She was actually considering putting a roll in her mouth. "Marcos, remove these, please."

"Other girls do it."

"Please, Olive. I'm not interested in your romantic notions of motherhood." Karen's eyes narrowed into slits. "You think you know something about raising a child? No one knows what it is to raise a child except a mother. Had I had any idea-"

"Mother!"

"When I became pregnant with you there were no abortionists. Butchers, maybe, but no abortionists." Olive's eyes widened, filled with tears.

"Olive." Karen really wasn't an ogre. She didn't want Olive to cry, but. . . "Now don't cry, dear. I'm happy I had you. You've turned out wonderfully. Except. . ."

"But Daddy," Olive said. "Didn't Daddy want me?"

"As much as the father of your child wants it."

Olive didn't understand.

“Arthur Kingsley. . ."

"Father."

“Marcos," Karen said to the nearby waiter. “Please do find me a cigarette. I think I left some when I was here last." Karen never carried cigarettes because it might lead to excess, but allowed herself the occasional indulgence.

"Of course, Mrs. Kingsley."

She turned back to Olive.

"Your father... Do you think I would have married a man like Arthur Kingsley if I hadn't had to?"

"Had to? What are you talking about?"

"Would you like me to spell it out?"

Marcos returned and Karen transformed her glare into a smile. With cultivated grace, she withdrew a cigarette from the pack, allowed Marcos to light it, and thanked him ever so much.

“Arthur was a stand-in, my darling."

Olive still didn't get it.

“He wasn't your father."

Olive wanted to smack her mother. How dare she?”
don't believe you."

"I. . . " Now it was. Karen's turn to stumble. «I foolishly assumed that the man who said he loved me, meant it.” Correcting herself and becoming Karen Schultz again, she asked, “Who is it, Olive? One of those fairies you dance with?"

"I'm going to have it, Mother. I will love this child."

Karen smirked. "What do you know about love? You loved the man you called your father and you-you killed him." Yes, she'd show this little snit who was boss. "If it weren't for your arguing with me and insisting on having your way all the time, he wouldn't have had to fight for you. He wouldn't have bought you those skates. He never had a heart condition, Olive. Never. Until you gave him one."

Olive opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. If only she could die.

Karen looked at Olive and could see she had won. Yes, this had been a battle worth taking on. With a single gesture she dismissed both the problem and the salmon and took a bite of her salad. Actually, she hated greens, but they kept her so nice and slim that she had resigned herself to them a long time ago.

Karla Kingsley came into the world early on the morning of February fourteenth. Fifteen years later she was keeping the same hours. Early to bed, early to rise. She had inherited her love of daylight from her grandmother. The grandmother she had never met.

For Olive it was a different story entirely. Night was her time. It was when her muse came out. When her body was more pliable, allowing her to move easily and effortlessly in and out of pas de deux, plies, and grand jetes first on the stage and now in the studio in her apartment.

Nighttime, the time of the artist. . . the con artist as well as the performing artist. Nighttime. When the murderers mingle with the muse.

That Tuesday morning, when Olive emerged from the bedroom at nine, Karla had been up for hours. Mixing batter, working, cleaning. There was no school today.
«Homemade French toast?" Olive asked, planting a kiss on her daughter's cheek. "Undoubtedly I can expect to find something on your Bloomie's bill this month that shouldn't be there."