Pirouettes Get No Applause in Goldengrove

© 2002 by LeLand William Howard. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, restored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or

otherwise, without written consent from the author.

ISBN: 978-0-7596-6548-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-0-7596-6549-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-0-7596-6547-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012916647

This book is printed on acid free paper.

1st Books - rev. 09/27/2012

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

Chapter Eighty-Four

Chapter Eighty-Five

DEDICATIONS

To

Stormy Yin Yang Døg (ca. 1983-2000)

Old Soldier, Buddha, Survivor

An Elegy

There’s room enough now for my hand

next to the pillow,

but I’ll keep it at my side tonight.

Even a shorter trip

than the one you now resist couldn’t have

torn you so easily

from a place

you fought so hard to win.

You braved Big Black Betsy

time and again

to make it your own.

You were braver

than you looked.

So shy of strangers

and of travel (even to the vet’s),

you couldn’t have gone far.

In fact, I feel you hovering near,

like a hummingbird

with invisible wings,

seeing yet unseen,

hearing yet unheard,

moving without legs

between two worlds,

a stranger to both.

Do they play Haydn in Heaven?

Snout in prayerful paws,

before the mirrored door

leading to your sanctum,

Betsy waits

for the little brother

she loved to tease

with playful pounce and snarl.

With faith that simple,

I know you must be near.

No more to wake

to your wet nose

and sandpapery chin.

No more the motor-muffled resonance

through your silver-sabled striped ribs,

so swift to soothe or send sage counsel

in the stress-filled hour.

You have gone behind the door,

the door that’s deaf to the cries of the living,

the door that lets out,

but closed, never lets back in.

With my finger I reach out

and caress the air

where once your furry back

lay burrowed against my face.

It smelled of attics, cellars,

and old books.

Over the edge of the bed,

I feel you waiting—silent,

longing, patient, ever calculating

the right moment

to catch Betsy off guard

and take your place next to me.

Over my head, I half hear

the scratch of your paws

as they pad across

the sofa’s back to the wing-backed

chair and the pillow which still bears

the imprint of your dreams.

The kitchen’s awfully quiet.

On its table

sits an empty plate,

once resonant with the

clink of your Yin Yang medal,

and a bowl on whose bottom

is painted the silhouette of

a cat. It was made in China.

So were your eyes:

slanted teardrops that changed

from opal to emerald in the

changing light. In them

swam worlds of wisdom.

That debate over dropping

the French course

you settled in a cinch,

jumping on the

telephone keypad.

You always knew before I did.

Now I hear

sounds like quiet kisses

coming from the kitchen,

scratching in the litter box,

or are my ears deceived?

No. Betsy’s ears are up and

listening. Dogs have no delusions.

Old soldier, Buddha, spirit guide,

mother of pearl gray coat

with stripes, tiny tiger

with white gloves

and fluffy jabot,

hungry all the time,

your biggest joy:

the moment I got home,

you streaked like a comet

toward the kitchen,

one jump to the chair,

one leap to the table

where you did the Harlem Shuffle

and sang Tin Pan Alley

till the can was opened

and your plate filled.

I look for you now

everywhere:

the mantelpiece

where you rampaged

on weekends

when I slept past seven,

your paws

knocking down

one picture, then

another if I didn’t budge;

and then a statue

or candlestick,

accompanied by

a ragged whine

that left me no choice

but to fall in line,

and failing these ploys,

with one claw

lifted my eyelid—

what I called ‘The Can Opener.’

That never failed.

The mantelpiece: I now strain

to see your outline there,

like a photographic negative,

some sign more convincing

than grief

that your presence

is not projection.

On the wing-backed chair,

whose side you used as a

scratching post. I used to

think it ruined. But now

no painting by Van Gogh

could be more treasured

than the etchings made by

your artless claws.

Down the hall where I followed

you seven times a night

to the landing where

you initiated me,

down on all fours, into the Tribe of Tiger,

I feel your prowling presence,

see before and below me,

those white paws

rising,

falling,

like twin matchsticks;

the stairwell spokes

against which you rubbed your chin.

You came to us well advanced in age,

a wise old Mandarin sage

who had no love of nonsense;

loved esoteric things;

loved listening to Hadyn’s

‘Clock Symphony’

on WQXR. His style, so sleek,

so smooth of line, harmonious,

with a movement for every mood,

suited you, that need for

cleanliness and order

so often found in those

who’ve been through the mill.

Your first name was Stormy,

and so were your early years

when home was a bar

where you’d been the sport

of drunken hands,

your only value

how many rats you

could catch

or performing for

the regulars who

would sometimes wrench a meow

from you by pulling your tail.

I, too, knew what it meant

to be bounced from place to place,

like a ball

for the amusement of others

and cast aside

when not fitting

into other’s plans.

We both knew,

the first time I babysat you,

that this was the basis of our bond.

Your second name was Yin Yang,

because you embodied

the perfect balance

of male and female,

and the third (a name

that T. S. Eliot said a cat

never reveals) was,

according to your daddy

(for I was your godfather):

Døg (pronounced Doag)

because you were, are,

by nature, half-cat, half-dog.

I will no longer sit on

the wing-backed chair

nor eat at the kitchen table.

They are holy places now,

like this spot next to my pillow.

When Haydn plays,

I stop

whatever I am doing

like the British

when the band strikes up

‘God Save the Queen.’

And then you come

to me in tears,

a tingle in the scalp,

a curious surge of

warmth in the spine.

It was raining

the day your daddy and I

put you to bed

between two pines

where two streams meet,

clouds drifting

gray as ghosts overhead.

I read from the

Episcopal Burial of the Dead

while Betsy and Rumi romped.

Animals need no lessons in

letting go.

You never did things by guesswork,

studied every corner

with paws and nose

before giving it your faith.

Could heaven deserve no less?

Were you there when

we bundled you up

in your favorite blanket

with all your toys?

As we spade the earth

and prayed and wept?

Were you there in the red-bonneted

cardinal that sang on the

pine branch over your grave?

Or in the cloud that cleft in two,

like the wound

the Centurion made in the side of Christ?

Where are you,

I asked—in these clouds

overhead, the cardinal in

the tree—

and you answered,

I am everywhere.

Now it’s time to sleep.

So sleep with angels,

blessed boy,

and when you go to heaven,

may you be welcomed

into its courts

with praise and honor

for a job well done.

I only hope

they play Hadyn there.

BETSY HOWARD

Born New Orleans, Louisiana 1990

Passed to heavenly reward Las Vegas, New Mexico 2008

A daydream, that’s all you were in the beginning,

and a fleeting one at that,

forgotten as I walked to the A & P

in the distance of whose parking lot

you became incarnate:

a lean, virtually hairless street dog,

scampering here, there for a morsel or scrap

thrown by a kind-hearted shopper.

My heart felt the first forgings

of a bond, kinship:

another outcast, like me,

the heart more hungry than the stomach.

Your image followed me into the store,

down every aisle. What was it that I was

looking for anyway? I had quite forgotten,

my own hunger too. I could only feel

yours all the way to the pet food section.

You were ready and waiting before the sliding doors

even before I came out, Gainesburgers in my hand.

You knew I was the one

How greedily you devoured the contents

of each pouch, before they were even opened.

That’s when they started to come,

my tears, one by one,

swelling to rivulets, a river, and

finally a veritable Niagara scorching my eyes

to the burning blindness called for by faith.

The angel at your side softly said,

She’s asking you to take her home with you.

On the walk home, how easily you nestled

in my arms, as if you had known me for eons,

two outcasts long separated by time, distance, space.

My eyes opened the following dawn

to hear another angel say,

Her name is Betsy.

Betsy, Betsy. Soon to take on

many a variation: Betsy Tau,

Koleikola, Betsy Koteach, Na-Ya-Tau

Koleikola, Bookelah, Boo-tique,

all uttered or sung to an improvised

melody out of a distant Chinese

ancestral past.

But none of these names were enough

to contain the love I felt for you.

Yourself rejected by all, you were sent

to rescue me from loneliness and grief.

With your broad smile and shining eyes,

you made a heaven of hell and life itself

a Blessing for which to give continual praise.

With you, every walk was an adventure,

holding the promise of a new friend or acquaintance.

You kept me young. Your discriminating eye and sniff

led me only to those working for my highest good,

and for those who meant me harm,

a shrill bark or blood-curdling growl.

You were the draw, of course. I had neither

your charisma nor confidence.

You might have been a movie star

on our promenades down Fifth Avenue

for all the requests for your snapshot.

Though in the body of a dog,

you were so much more than that

your eyes—they’re human,

people would say.

And yet, how unbearable,

the discriminations you suffered

for your canine status,

barred from trains, buses, subways, restaurants,

bookstores, libraries, and on planes,

obliged to suffer the indignity of the cargo hold.

The New York Yankees would have been lucky

to have you as their shortstop.

A born athlete,

you required no special training

other than the gifts Nature had bequeathed:

to stay on a circular running course,

sure as a racehorse in a steeplechase

and without losing a breath;

or to soar high into the air with all fours

to snatch up a fly ball

as easily as if you were pocketing a handkerchief,

and to come back to earth on all fours

with a grace surpassing that of Nureyev.

Your only limitation,

the gift of human speech,

must have been frustrating for one

who, carrying the wisdom of the ages,

had so much to teach me.

And yet, you did succeed in teaching me much.

And yet, you bore with it all without complaint,

happy enough to be my companion.

Through seventeen years,

you were my teacher, guide, best friend,

playing with me,

bearing with me,

licking away the tears of every trial and tribulation.

Had I no other friend,

I couldn’t have had a happiness

as complete, as whole as that you gave to me.

Now you’ve moved into another sphere,

dear, great lady of a

Barbara Stanwyck toughness and heart of gold.

All I am, will ever be, have ever done,

will ever do, I owe to you.

And yet, I still feel you here

alongside my pillow as I sleep at night,

trotting eagerly ahead of me as I walk

our accustomed routes, and all the while

I still hear you say:

Of all the stars in heaven,

There’s one that’s your’n alone,

Follow it with faithful eye,

And you will find your way back home.

Mary Yde

1912-1967

I could never get your name right.

But you smiled anyway

whenever I called it.

With step serene

as a swan gliding along

the surface of smooth waters

and sky-blue eyes

as gentle as those of a doe,

you brought peace

with whatever you said

or wherever you went,

could quell Edna’s tirades

with a few gentle words,

easy as the upraised hand

of Christ

when He commanded

the Sea of Galilee

to be still,

and invariably lent an ear

to a troubled heart,

the repository of

everyone’s problems.

For myself,

You were the candy lady

with a Chihuahua named Ginger,

who promised nothing

but what tasted sweet.

Any judgment

under which I stood vanished

in a flash

beneath the adoration of your eyes.

Whatever pang of childhood infraction

I owed to conscience

in your eyes

became a cancelled debt.

Your eyes were a mirror

in which my reflection

stood redeemed,

as pure, good, and clean

as before I fell,

a loving boy

worthy to be loved

as much as he loved.

The very sight of you

spelled Rescue

as the Carpathia

to those who survived the Titanic,

or the American troops

marching down the Champs Elysees

in ’44 to those Parisians who survived

four long years of Nazi Occupation,

and sent my joyous steps

in your direction,

with arms outstretched

as eagle’s wing in flight,

crying, Murray!

Katie Mae Wilson

Stalwart, strong as a mighty oak tree which has weathered many a storm, this great lady gave me courage in the face of my profoundest fears and pointed me to the path of a miracle that made it possible for me to go on living and loving and writing.

Marjorie Liebman

1911-2007

Joyous, exuberant, lovely lady who, over the course of more than seven decades, celebrated color in her paintings and who, with an open palm, taught me that one must let go before one can receive.

Lorraine and Richard Eliot

Who have given me much support and encouragement in my writing endeavors.

The Reverend Percival Val Rogers

Who rescued me from six years of unending chaos and who, through Our Lord Jesus Christ, helped to restore within me a sense of inner peace.

Bruce Bascle

1948-1992

For believing in me, being there for me, and giving me friendship and moral and material support when I needed it the most.

Debra Ceaser

For extending to both Betsy and me the hand of friendship in a very dark situation and for putting into my hands a prayer that worked the miracle of Betsy’s and my continued relationship.

Larry Butler

Who, during the dark days following the passing of my mother, held out to both Betsy and me the hand of friendship, opened his door in hospitality to the two of us, gave me the gift and practice of the Rosary; and who, in faithfulness and obedience to the prompting of the Holy Spirit, saved the life of my beloved dog Betsy.

Rix Mohay

Who was healed from a terminal illness by the Love of Our Lord Jesus Christ and from whose laying on of hands, I received, from Our Lord Jesus Christ, healing from a potentially serious skin condition; who has been a true Christian brother; and who, at any hour of day or night, has unfailingly put aside his own concerns when I have needed spiritual guidance, and with heartfelt and devout prayer, helped me overcome many obstacles standing in the way of my relationship with Our Lord Jesus Christ.

Gus and Mike and John

Two great and loving G.I.s, who daily braved the dangers of savage fighting in the jungles of New Guinea during the Second World War and without whose courage and selfless devotion to the preservation of our nation’s freedom, I would never have had the freedom to choose my own life and to derive joy and fulfillment from my writing endeavors.

Herbert Berghof

1909-1990

Great actor and director, who doubtless would have been Germany’s greatest actor had it not been for the anti-Semitic policies of the Nazi Regime; who, for over six decades, consecrated his life to the quest for beauty and truth in acting on both sides of the Atlantic; and finally, through the establishment of the HB Studio in New York City, gave to generations of aspiring actors and actresses an affordable home where they could cultivate their talents.

Saundra Halberstam and Eliot Cameren

Who, through their Clinton Chronicle, have given The Clinton area of Manhattan a voice where the major issues of the city can be honestly addressed, and who generously accorded recognition of my first published novel, Pirouettes Get No Applause in Goldengrove.

Gordon MacDonald

Splendid stage and screen actor, who believed in the worth of this novel more than I did when it was only a thirteen page short story, and without whose encouragement, it might have remained in a desk drawer or disappeared.

Miss Katharine Hepburn

1907-2003

The living embodiment of the Emersonian ideal of individualism and greatest screen legend who, over the course of seven decades, enriched and inspired generations of movie-goers with her magical performances and who, during the moral decline of a great nation, was a reassuring icon of honesty and integrity.

Miss Elisabeth Bergner

1897-1986

Enchanting actress of Escape Me Never fame (she was nominated for an academy award for her role in this film in 1935) who, until she was expelled by Hitler from Germany, was that nation’s leading dramatic interpreter of Shakespearian heroines and who, over the decades, distinguished herself in many stage productions and films on both sides of the Atlantic, and who also was a beloved acting colleague of Herbert Berghof.

Bruno Moser

Who taught me how to swim, really swim, and thereby gave me an exercise that has brought peace and health to my body, mind, and spirit.

Orange Buddy

1985-2006

Beloved cat and fellow red-head who hung on long enough to be my friend.

Lily Claudette

1999—?

Namesake of the celebrated screen actress Claudette Colbert and beloved companion and prayer partner who mysteriously disappeared in 2005 and whose presence in our lives is sorely missed. May God be with you, dear heart, wherever you may be.

Rebecca

Beloved cat and sweetest little angel that ever walked on earth.

Merry Howard

1996-2011

Nature dealt you a cruel hand,

Even before your eyes opened upon the world.

Forced to the sidelines of life,

barred from active participation in its field,

you learned early on

to draw from the well of strength

you carried into flesh

from the days of eternity,

chosen to carry the weight of a weakening world

upon your two front legs.

Some thought that a merciful end

be made to your misery,

but not to Mama Pat,

whose history of the cloister

and long hours spent in prayer

recognized, as did Christ,

that "your weakness is your strength

and your strength your weakness."

To her, it was clear: God’s hand was upon you.

Your green eyes, so wide, so round,

in your handsome, square-cut face,

shining like emeralds,

made of all that came within range of their vision

objects of wonder and beauty.

The discovery of the defect,

at first a source of alarm,

inspired pity and compassion in others, both human and feline.

Yet, for you, it was but another challenge to overcome,

another lesson to impart.

To see your brother Pippin scamper

across the yard and leap with the greatest of ease

onto chair, sofa, kitchen cabinet

must have made of the weight

you dragged behind you

like a ball and chain,

your body, a prison cell

through whose bars

you could only derive

a vicarious taste of perfect freedom:

the games of your fellow felines,

the scaling of trees,

the catching of birds,

activities impossible of achievement,

except in your dreams.

You had to work harder than the rest.

To cross a room was a supreme effort,

but when accomplished,

far more treasured in your heart

than the capture of a bird of mouse

to keener, quicker cats.

You took nothing for granted,

not even your life.

You had fight in you,

but a limited arsenal to do so;

whatever conflicts of strength

common to all cats,

the drawing and defense of territorial lines,

the derivation of power at another’s expense

was, in your case, a contest

with yourself.

For answers,

you had to go deep down inside.

Infirmity made of you

an introvert,

a curiosity to other cats,

a spectator, not a player.

How many times you wished

you could jump in,

be part of the game,

can only be guessed.

Shut out,

barred out,

the frustration and pain

occasioned in you

beyond all calculation.

You dreamed of wings.

And yet, you didn’t whine,

didn’t complain.

Like Our Lord upon the Cross of Calvary,

you submitted to God’s Will

without protest,

tilling the soil of your garden plot

with what meager tools

He gave you.

The endless exercise

of dragging yourself forward,

the efforts required to scale barriers

and catapult yourself

onto chairs and sofas

made of your forearms

the dukes worthy of a boxing ring

and your chest

the prow of a whaling ship,

plowing through the most turbulent seas.

No wind in the sails

was life for you,

but a slow, sure plodding

against the current.

It made you all the stronger.

The petty bickering, jealousy

marring mortal relations

was beneath you,

content to occupy the quiet corner

given you for contemplation.

God’s hand was upon you,

singled out by and for the Lord,

His special child,

made crippled,

not only to carry the weight of a weakening wwworld,

but to make manifest, in the Healing Hour, His Glory.

By infirmity

forced to the sidelines of life,

barred from its field,

you nonetheless made the players take notice.

You learned to scale a wall,

to jump onto a sofa or chair,

or climb up through the mazes of your cat castle.

Amoeba-like, you pulled yourself across a room,

almost as fast as any cat

to whom Nature had been kinder

in the limb department.

Your impeded steps

taught you the greatest patience.

For perseverance

you had no peer

in man or beast.

No gate could keep you out

of where you wanted to be:

if it took all night,

you made of the gate a xylophone

until it was opened

to give you passage.

The other cats respected you,

even the meanest of them;

stopped to pay you homage,

giving you a loving lick

or playful paw.

You were a good egg,

and they respected you.

Through childhood, youth,

middle and old age,

you traveled,

undaunted, undiscouraged,

surmounting every obstacle,

patient, persistent as those millions of Chinese

migrating, in the wake of the Japanese invasion,

westward toward Yenan and freedom.

When seizures made of your world

a dizzying, disorienting nightmare,

you snapped out of them,

continued to plug on.

Limitations made you a seeker.

That was the kind of soul you were and are.

Never taking No for an answer,

ever pushing forward against the stream.

A quitter

you never were.

God’ Hand was upon you.

and when you could no longer lift yourself up,

He raised you up on all fours,

and gave you a renewed lease on life.

He rewarded you for your faith.

You dreamed of wings,

and now you’ve won them,

not only jumping and running

but flying over hill and dale,

field and stream,

and realize, at last, every dream

you ever had on earth

stored up like treasure in heaven.

Peanut Butter

Beautiful black cat (with vocalizations never before heard in a cat) who insisted upon joining our family and who, though tough girl on the outside in all tender-hearted on the inside, has enriched it with her presence.

Little Princess (Principessa)

Beautiful emerald-eyed beauty who, sleek of line and silhouette, moves with the grace of Pavlova and who can never get enough affection

Fluffy

Handsome little MGM Lion who is the most vocal when demanding attention

Princess (Mama Cat)

Sleek of line and emerald-eyed beauty who will only vouchsafe a show of affection by the Eskimo kiss of two noses.

Spice (Papa Cat)

Tough as a Marine on the outside, and on the inside tender as a peach, this father of many cats is the gentlest and yet bravest of Toms, formidable to all those who would inflict harm on the innocent and helpless, and fiercely protective of the widows and orphans and all members of his family who cannot fend for themselves.

Pascha

The Tomcat who doesn’t want to be or live like a Tom, who’d rather smell the lilacs than engage in a territorial fight and snuggle contentedly against my side on a cold winter’s night and dream of gentler things.

Tortie

Eleven months old tortoise-shell beauty who is now the proud mother of four adorable kittens, three girls with markings like herself, and one sweet red-headed boy.

To the Cat I Never Knew, Abraham

You were in my charge

but a few hours twixt

midnight and dawn

on a cold last day of March.

From God knows where,

out of the darkness of the night,

there you were,

long, large (or seemingly so)

scampering across the yard

toward our door

before which plates of food stood.

You were hungry, ravenously so,

but were frightened too,

hesitant in your approach

for the eyes of the other cats

who have become part of our

sanctuary—a black sheep really,

and maybe that’s why I felt a tug at my heart,

your rejection by all.

Life had done a tough number on you,

to judge from the bare patches on neck

and head and back,

had been none too easy

for however many years you had here.

Likely born under a house

along with numerous other brothers and sisters,

you never knew the touch of human hands—

the caresses, so loving, so gentle

that tame-house cats have come to know so well.

Your large round dark eyes

had seen from their first opening onto this world

only a life of struggle, for sheer survival—

the bird on the wing

your only hope for food,

or the rat or quite possibly

an overturned garbage can

from which spilt the remnants

of food unwanted or needed by others—

and then early on,

the other Toms

prowling their territories

ever on the look for a trespasser—

the slow, circling approach,

the slow drawling whines

deceptively innocent in sound

as those of a wailing infant,

but the feline warning call for combat.

This was the stuff of your daily,

nightly existence—the outstretched claw,

the gaping jaw, the showing of the fangs—

and on your coat they showed,

the battle scars of a battered life.

This winter was cruel,

terribly cruel, changeable as

the emotions of a schizophrenic

and wore you down even further

to the bone quite literally

(though I knew it not

for the still beautiful long

black hair that shrouded

your emaciated skeleton).

But the will to survive,

to cling on to the only life you ever knew,

painful, agonizing as it was,

was still there.

It seemed as if I had seen you before

somewhere, some time—perhaps

you were the battered old soldier

who came into our sanctuary on an erstwhile

basis during the past two years.

I hadn’t seen you in awhile

but you looked worse.

I could see that no one in this life,

no human hands,

had ever given you a chance.

Like thousands of others

in your race, you were plunked down here

(whether by choice or fate)

to fend for yourself

in a world

whose only law was that of survival.

Had you ever known love?

Your big dark eyes showed

only fear, caution.

I wanted to change all that,

to give you what you had never known,

even if for only a little while.

I had the traps

set for what I saw

as the road to health and healing

and who more worthy than yourself

of one than yourself?

I hoped, I prayed

that you would walk into it,

lured by the scent of the only kind of food

(though I knew it not at the time)

you could handle.

You did

and I rejoiced.

At last,

you would be given a chance.

I slipped under the covers

but couldn’t sleep

for the thought of you being out in the cold.

Getting up,

I brought you in.

How still you were.

No struggle,

no thrashing,

no clawing efforts

to escape from your new prison.

Just still,

staring in front of you with those large round

dark eyes.

You had no name,

or none that I knew of.

When the sun rose,

a name came to me: Abraham,

whose descendants numbered

as the stars in heaven for multitude,

the Chosen People of God.

With a single glance, the vet tech

assessed your situation as very grave.

But I would not believe it.

You had been chosen

and you would make it.

But you did not,

not by God but by Man

deemed a hopeless case,

or, at best, destined a dark future:

besides, your chances weren’t good

and you’d have to be kept indoors

the rest of your life,

away from the other cats

and being a feral Tom,

would likely go crazy.

The prayed-for miracle,

in a more hopeful hour,

was prohibited

possible fulfillment

by professional opinion

with a view of life

no broader than

the perspective

afforded through a microscopic lens:

the regions beyond whose borders

are disregarded,

not taken into account.

In your case,

not even God

stood a chance

against those

insistent on

wresting the driving wheel

from His hands,

and I was denied the chance of seeing a miracle,

of seeing a withered flower resurrected,

of beholding you

lying on a comfortable bed

in the bathroom,

serenaded by Beethoven’s Fifth

or Mozart’s Jupiter,

for the first time in your life

pampered and petted and cared for.

Your life has ended, dear Abraham,

at least on this earthly plane.

May heavenly angels escort you

to heaven, an honor guard for an old veteran

who did his best with what he was given,

never complained, whined

as humans often do

who have it so much better,

nor questioned in a bitter heart

why life had to be so tough.

May Our Lord wrap his loving arms around you

now, stroke your furry head and tickle your tummy

in a way you never received on earth.

May you gambol and frisk and frolic

with those other feline souls

who have gone to their reward,

your bare patches gone,

your flesh restored to fullness,

your pain and hunger gone

replaced by everlasting love and joy.

Lucky

1998-2012

Strong of body,

strong of soul,

you knew, as did Judah Ben-Hur,

the chains of servitude

for seven long years.

But they did not leave you

mean or bitter,

only stronger

in the patience, gentleness, and tolerance

that you brought with you

into the world,

And for your sufferings,

You were rewarded with Jill

who rescued you from slavery

and gave you not only her undying love

but the life

of the prince you always were,

are, will always be.

Sleep with angels,

Dear blessed man.

My Mother, Bernice Ball Howard

1918-1992

Who survived the poverty and backwardness of an upbringing in the Mississippi logging camps during the 1920s and who went on to become a loving and devoted mother, accomplished and award-winning artist, and active fund-raiser for the American Heart Association.

My Father, Leland William Howard, Sr.

1914-1992

Civil Engineer, who served his country by helping to build bridges across Europe for General Patton’s advancing Fifth Army during that continent’s liberation by Allied Forces during the Second World War and who instilled within me the values of hard work and a sense of responsibility.

The entire technological, artistic, and marketing staff at AuthorHouse, who have done such a splendid job in bringing out this new, revised edition of Pirouettes Get No Applause in Goldengrove.

Chapter One

The waves washed up, white and frothy, like freshly-poured beer foaming over the rim of a stein. Further out, in ever-shifting hills and hollows, undulating like the belly of a boa constrictor digesting its prey, the ocean stretched to the horizon, its surface etched with the spiny ridges seen in a fossilized stone.

How thin it is, Katharine thought, staring down into its watery depths, the thread separating the living from the dead, delicate as the framework of the deck railing. The deck railing. That’s all there was, she thought, gripping the railing more tightly, the incessant roar of the wind resonating in her ears like the furling of a thousand flags. All there was between being alive and going over the side. Her cries would go unheard, her absence unnoticed until the arrival of the dinner hour. But even then, without alarm.

Perhaps she’s not feeling well, Marge might say.

And then, they’d all go on eating, as if nothing had happened.

It won’t make a bit of difference, she had thought, gazing out the window of the automobile on the ride home from Dr. Kleinfeldt’s. The same people going about business as usual, driving here, driving there. Cops issuing traffic tickets. Garbage men dumping refuse into the back of trucks. People shopping. What was a single leaf to the tree from which it falls? The tree does not weep, but remains where it is, shedding one leaf after another until, totally naked in winter, it waits patiently for the spring to bud again.

No more than a leaf, she thought. And only a railing between her and eternity.

Fall she must. But not now, she thought, clutching the railing more tightly. If her voice was to be silenced, she would make it heard tonight.

She started to sing A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square. But she hadn’t even reached the end of the first stanza when other voices, distant yet distinct, intruded themselves upon the melody. She stopped singing and looked around with a cat’s precaution. Two middle-aged women were walking across the deck. She walked slowly back and forth, casting a periodic glance in their direction. When they disappeared down the starboard deck, her courage revived, and she started her song once more.

She walked back and forth along the rim of the deck railing, giving, to each phrase, the appropriate manual expressiveness, her eyes half closed in an effort to enter into the mood of the song.

But no sooner her eyes turned toward the ship than the song died on her lips. She was being watched, and at close range too. She hadn’t heard any footsteps. But there he was. Jack Swanson. The least favorite of her dinner partners. A middle-aged bachelor from Ohio, he looked, with his perfectly pressed suit, neatly combed hair, and smile of perfectly straight and gleaming white teeth that could have figured in a Pepsodent commercial, as if he had just emerged from the pages of GQ. How long had he been standing there?

Don’t mind me, he said.

The very sight of him, with his smug smile betraying confidence in his indisputable charms, made her sick.

If I’d wanted an audience, I would have asked for one. The resentment she showed evidently did nothing in the way of dispelling his imperturbable smile.

You’re an enigma to me, Miss Monahan. I ask myself, why would a sixteen-year-old girl be allowed to go off all by herself to Paris, especially with all these terrorist bombings going on? I wouldn’t let a daughter of mine go off that way.

He was a fine one to talk about having a daughter!

She still hadn’t forgotten how embarrassed she had been when, the previous evening, Monica had asked him if he was her father. Not that the case of mistaken identity hadn’t bothered her too. Considering her own circumstances, she didn’t like being taken for anyone’s daughter.

But you’re not my father, she said. Remember?

Jack affected a noiseless chuckle to conceal his uneasiness.

My embarrassment last night had nothing to do with you personally. I just don’t like being reminded that I’m getting on. Now, if Monica had mistaken me for your boyfriend, I would have been flattered.

I wouldn’t have been, she returned sharply, only too happy to deflate his vanity.

You wound me to the quick, Jack returned, placing his hand over his heart. Am I that repulsive?

God, he was insufferable. Nothing could shake him.

You’re not my type, she said, hoping that the insult would hit the mark.

But it didn’t. With the same imperturbable calm, he asked, What is your type?

If he didn’t leave soon, Katharine wasn’t sure she could curb her anger any longer.

Mr.Swanson, would you just—?

She was so angry that speech failed her, and the only way she could demand his departure was to point her finger sharply in the direction that she wanted him to take. This gesture, too, failed to shake him.

Call me Jack, he said with a warm familiarity that masked contempt.

Too proud to give him the satisfaction of seeing her lose her temper, Katharine turned away and faced the sea.

Your parents either have a lot of faith in you or they simply want you out of the way, he said.

He wasn’t going to leave off. That she could see. But Katharine decided to maintain silence, wishing he would simply go away. She could hear his footsteps coming closer to her. But she would not turn to face him.

Get on with your song, she heard him say. But mind. It needs some work. You’re a little flat here and there.

That was the limit! Wheeling sharply around, her outstretched hand poised to slap him straight across the face, she found that he was already walking away.

Not as flat as you! she cried.

Swanson looked over his shoulder, silently chuckling.

Katharine swung around again toward the sea, and giving a hard blow to the railing, shot her flint-like eyes toward the watery expanse, as if she were daring it to cross her too.

From below, she heard a sound like that of bacon sizzling in a frying pan. She looked down. As the stern of the ship cut through the water like a plough, the ocean’s spray bounced off its edge like beads of shattered glass. She became fascinated with the way it rose and scattered every time the stern took a fresh plunge, its sound lulling her into a mesmeric daze. The sizzling sound soon insinuated itself into that of shimmering leaves. She could see them now, high overhead St. Charles Avenue, over which the boughs of ancient oak trees arched like the ribbed vault over a cathedral nave and now over her upturned eyes.

Spring was almost over now. School too. Then why wouldn’t Mother let her leave now? Why wait until the autumn? That was four months away. Four long months of steam-bath-hot days and nights. Four months less to enjoy everything she wanted to enjoy.

In the distance she could hear wheels of the Streetcar, grinding like knife sharpener. Like a green beetle bug, it lumbered slowly, tediously up the avenue, its windows framing tourists’ curious glances, which, every time she fell within their range, made her feel like another Crescent City souvenir.

Over its rounded sloping roof the shadows of the overhanging oak leaves were drawn like a black veil lifted to reveal the face of a widow in mourning. It was so slow. Like everything and everyone in New Orleans. Slow as a funeral procession.

Everyone here acted as if they were going to live forever. As if Time itself didn’t exist. Where tomorrow was no more a cause for a sense of urgency than yesterday was a cause for regret.

Life was without hills or valleys, a line as straight as that on an oscilloscope measuring the brain waves of a zombie.

Just ahead, standing together near the wrought-iron gate enclosing the school courtyard, she saw Debbie Liveau and Tiffany Marshall, both deep in conversation. Debbie. She was sure she had been the source of the ugly rumor which had been in circulation.

Katharine felt like turning around and going the other way. But they had probably already seen her. So, she kept walking forward, steeling herself for the unwanted encounter. Catching sight of her, Tiffany said, Hey, Katharine!

Hey, Katharine said and would have kept on her way if Debbie hadn’t said something.

I know why your parents are packing you off to Paris, she said.

Come on, Deb, Tiffany said in a low voice of reproof.

Katharine stopped and faced Debbie.

"They’re not packing me off. I decided to go."

Don’t think I didn’t hear what happened on the Riverview last summer!

Nothing happened! she said.

Debbie smiled. That’s what they all did when she tried to maintain her innocence. Smile.

Again, she felt that sense of helpless rage whenever she came up against something she was powerless to change. People were going to believe whatever they wanted to believe, even if they had no evidence to support it. And never more so than when the object of false report was someone they didn’t like to begin with.

Well, at least she didn’t have to hear that anymore, she thought, gazing out over the sea. The waves, looking as thick as mercury, now darkened beneath a recollected melody, and became dappled with moonlight. Just ahead of herself, she could see, through the car windshield, the lazy surface of the Mississippi.

From the car radio blared the latest pop tune, Give It To Me, Baby.

Pete was nibbling away at her ear. It was a pleasurable sensation. But she was alarmed at the movements of his hands which widened their range of exploration into anatomical regions which feminine self-respect had deemed forbidden terrain. The accompanying pop tune, with lyrics so graphic that it left nothing to the imagination, certainly did nothing in the way of discouraging the liberties he was taking. She reached over to turn off the radio, but Pete intercepted her hand.

I’m as horny as hell, he said, and so are you.

Katharine tried to free herself from his embrace.

Don’t tell me what I am! she said.

Pete’s handsome face, so tender till now, suddenly tightened with fierce resolution. With a quick, deft movement of one hand, he reached under her dress and grabbed her panties.

Cut it out! Katharine shrieked, slapping and beating at him with both hands. Suddenly, she felt a burning sensation across one side of her face. Pete had slapped her hard, and now held her roughly close to him.

Listen, you fuckin’ bitch!

His eyes were almost in her own, and they were filled with rage.

No girl comes out here unless she wants it. You’ve invited me to lunch. So let’s eat.

Katharine was trembling now.

I didn’t invite anything, she quavered.

Pete’s hand lunged at her panties again. She had often heard about date rape, but never thought it would ever happen to her. If he succeeded, there would be no way she could prove she was innocent. She had to do something. And quick. Doubling up her fist, she cuffed him under the chin as hard as she could. Pete fell back. Quickly, she opened the car door and, jumping out onto the grassy Riverview, started to run as fast as she could toward the railroad tracks.

Through the darkness, she could hear Pete’s voice.

Come back, you crazy bitch! You’ll get yourself killed!

Katharine kept running toward the road that crosses the railroad. Yes, it was dangerous to be out here all alone and at such an hour. But if she went back, there was no telling what he would do. She ran down the sloping road and crossed the tracks. She stopped to catch her breath. Christ, her dress had been torn completely off the shoulder! That bastard, she thought, looking back over her shoulder with terror-stricken eyes.

Kathy! Kathy! she could hear him crying as she kept on running.

Katharine was now staring into the white foam of the waves. Suddenly, from within her own head, she heard a high pitched screech of sound, like the signal that resounds from the screen of a television set when the Emergency Broadcasting system is conducting one of its periodic tests. A look of alarm came into Katharine’s eyes. She began to feel faint, and her heart started racing wildly. Clutching the deck railing more tightly, she tried to steady herself.

She was now clutching the edge of her desk, her sheet-white face drenched in perspiration, her breaths coming with difficulty. Sister Jude, standing up the aisle at the head of the class, was saying something which became increasingly more inaudible for the infernal ringing in her head.

There were four basic issues which led to the Civil War. One was moral, one economic, one constitutional, and the other political. What were these issues? Miss Monahan?

The infernal ringing was so loud now that only Sister Jude’s lips were moving. But nothing was coming out of them. Katharine started gasping for breath.

Sister Judge was looking sternly at her now, and her noiseless lips were flapping furiously. But she couldn’t hear what she was saying. As the blood began to rush out of her head, her wet hands, now weakened, lost their grip on the edge of the desk. Black, inky spots began clouding her field of vision.

Suddenly, Sister Jude’s figure fell away and sank. Then, the stained glass window behind her flashed up and disappeared. The next thing she knew, she was staring up the ceiling. Then, everything went black.

Oh no! Not again, Katharine thought. Not here! Not now! Oh, please, dear God, not now! Gasping for breath, she crouched down next to the deck railing. The siren in her head began to diminish in volume, and the drum-beating of her heart began to cease. She could hear indistinct voices in the background.

You all right, young lady?

She heard a man’s voice at close range. Turning her head, she looked up to see a fat smiling face looking down at her with helpful solicitation.

Yes, she returned, annoyed at being seen in such a helpless state.

Suddenly, she felt the man’s hand under her arm. She slapped it away and gave him a sharp look.

I can get up myself, she said.

She heard a woman’s voice, growing louder and louder, accompanied by the sound of footsteps.

Katharine! Katharine!

Marge Rowland, another one of Katharine’s assigned dinner table partners, wearing a black pants-suit and sequined vest, was scurrying toward her, a look of alarm on her face.

You’re as pale as a ghost! Marge exclaimed. "I’ll

get the ship’s doctor."

No! Katharine said.

But you look like Death!

Death. That’s all she needed to hear. Why didn’t people just leave her alone?

Go! Just go, she said.

Katharine made her way through the group of passengers, and brushing away further offers of assistance, walked toward the starboard deck where a staircase descended to the level where the second-class cabins were situated.

When she reached her tiny cabin, she closed the door and went up to the mirrored dresser. There they were. Waiting for her as usual. The bottles and vials, some orange, some green, some brown. Some cylindrical, some square. Inanimate reminders of what she most wanted to forget, their contents in all the colors of the rainbow. She eyed them with exasperation and disgust.

But what are you going to do when the time comes? her mother’s voice echoed down the corridors of memory. She regarded her own reflection in the mirror, the thin, aluminum frame of which was transformed into one of wood, carved with garlands and pieces of fruit. She was in her room at the Plaza Hotel in New York. The surface of the mirror was sometimes crossed by the reflection of her mother, pacing back and forth.

I don’t want to think about it, Katharine said.

You have to think about it, Mother said. "Going to

Paris is not going to make all this go away. It’s going to get worse. There are going to be days when you won’t even be able to get out of bed."

What difference does it make? Katharine said, turning away from the mirror and sitting down on the edge of her bed. I’m feeling all right now. So why shouldn’t I enjoy now?

Her mother sat down next to her and put her arm around her shoulder.

I want to be with you, she said.

Revolted by her mother’s touch, Katharine quickly rose from the bed.

You’ve had sixteen years, she said.

You hate me.

Katharine looked at her mother. There was an accusingly look in the latter’s eyes.

I just don’t want to be part of your world anymore, Katharine said.

My world? her mother looked perplexed.

The world you’ve made for yourself and have tried to make for me. With the Junior League on one side, The Opera Guild on the other, and a lot of social bullshit in between. I don’t belong in it. I never did.

Katharine now stared at the vials and bottles with mounting hatred, and with one sweep of the hand brushed them all off the dressing table. Horrified at her action, she put her hands to her face, and started sobbing uncontrollably.

Recovering herself, she gathered up the fallen vials, and rearranging them methodically on the dresser, opened each one and gulped down the assortment of pills. Finishing this task, she lay on the bed and drifted off to sleep.

The dirge-like peals of distant organ music resounded in her ears. Opening her eyes, she found that she was reclining in a silk-lined coffin surrounded by a thick cloud of mist, through which could be heard the murmur of voices.

Two figures, both blurry, came into view through the mist and stood over the coffin. They were both looking down at her. One of the women was Jeanie Minelli, her mother’s best friend, and the other was Helen Wilcox.

Doesn’t she look lovely? Jeanie said.

Better than she did in Life, Helen returned.

Jeanie looked around herself to see if anyone else might have heard Helen’s remark.

Helen! she said with hushed, warning voice.

Don’t worry. She can’t hear.

Like hell I can’t! Katharine exclaimed.

But neither woman appeared to have heard her.

She looks as if she might wake up, Jeanie said.

I AM awake! Katharine cried out.

But again, neither woman appeared to have heard her.

Lucky for us she can’t, Helen said.

Helen! You don’t want Peggy to hear you.

But Helen seemed unmoved by Jeanie’s admonition.

I have never seen Katharine in a more agreeable disposition, she said. If she got up now, she’d probably start arguing with us.

Damned straight I would! Katharine angrily exclaimed, trying to get up. But she couldn’t.

What a thorn she was in Peggy’s side. Remember the time she told Belle Babcock she thought being a maid of honor at the Comus Ball was nothing but bullshit?

It was bullshit! Katharine exclaimed.

Helen and Jeanie walked away. Two more figures appeared. One was her mother, Margaret Monahan, and the other, Father John, the parish priest. Mrs. Monahan was daubing away a few tears with a handkerchief. Father John’s arm was around her shoulder.

Why so young? Mother sobbed.

"God often takes those whom He loves most at a tender

age," Father John returned in a gentle voice.

She always wanted to go to Paris, Mother said.

She’s in a far more magnificent place! Father John said.

How would you know? Katharine shot him a belligerent look. Have you ever been to Heaven?

I wish I could believe that, Father, her mother said.

In time you shall, Father John said.

Then, they both slowly walked away.

Again, Katharine tried to get up, but couldn’t.

Suddenly, the figures of two men came up to the edge of the coffin. They were both wearing tuxedos. Their faces were indistinct, and neither said a word.

Who are you? she asked.

The men did not answer. Instead, one of them reached into the coffin, and maneuvering a latch, began to lower the lid.

What are you doing? Katharine demanded in a panic, struggling to get up.

But neither man appeared to have heard her and continued to lower the coffin lid.

No, don’t do this to me! Katharine exclaimed in tears. Please!

The lid slowly descended.

No! No! No! Katharine cried out.

The lid now struck the edge of the coffin with a deafening roar, like echoes of a door being slammed in a long corridor. The darkness now enveloping her resounded with her own screams.

All of a sudden, she heard a rapid knocking sound. Starting up in bed, her face filled with terror and drenched in perspiration, she could hear the swish of ocean waves outside the porthole. The knocking sound continued, this time more insistent in tone.

Everything all right in there? she heard a man’s voice just outside the cabin door, under the lower edge of which glowed a beam of light as intense as the coil of an electric stove burner turned on high. The knocking continued.

I say! Everything all right? the man called out again.

Katharine got off the bed and flicked on a light. Brushing back her hair, she composed herself as best as she could and opened the door. It was one of the ship’s stewards, and behind him stood a few passengers.

We heard screams, the steward said. Clear on the upper deck.

Oh, yes, Katharine said, suddenly realizing what had happened and wondering how she could explain her screams without making a confession of her innermost fears and anxieties. I was rehearsing. I’m an actress, you see, and I was rehearsing a scene from a play I’m doing in Paris.

The steward looked puzzled and gave the others congregated behind him a dubious expression.

Must be a thriller, eh? he asked her.

Yes, that’s right, she said. A real thriller!

Well, you were really going it! he said, as if impressed with her performance.

Evidently satisfied by her explanation, the porter turned to the other passengers.

Everything’s mum. Sorry if we disturbed you, miss.

Katharine closed the door, and leaning her head on it, deeply sighed. She looked over at the porthole. It was black. My God, she thought in a panic. What time was it? She looked at the clock on the dresser. It indicated a quarter of seven in the evening.

Christ, she thought. Almost seven! And she hadn’t even gotten ready!

Hurriedly, she flung open the closet door, and dragged out one dress after another, muttering an anxious critical commentary on each one’s suitability for the occasion at hand. When five of them were ranged side by side on the bed, she compared them with nail-biting probity and hurriedly chose one: a full-length affair of black satin with a low-cut bodice and thin shoulders straps.

Between periodic consultations of the clock, she slipped it on as quickly as she could, applied make-up, brushed her hair out, and adjusted a pair of small pearl earrings. After giving her reflection one final consultation, she quickly went out the cabin door.

Chapter Two

When she arrived at the second-class lounge, a considerable number of people had already gathered there, some sitting at the tables on the lower tier and other standing on the upper one, reached by a winding staircase. The ship’s band was already tuning up in the orchestra pit beneath the second tier.

Katharine!

A short, slightly chubby middle-aged woman with raven-black hair and wearing a black pants suit and a black sequined vest, came scurrying toward her with tiny steps, her face glowing with excitement. It was Marge Rowland.

Are you gonna sing after all, honey? she asked.

Yes.

Oh, I’m so glad! I was afraid you wouldn’t.

Are you still going to? Katharine asked.

Marge gave her an astonished look.

"You