Chords that Bind Ch. 17

"For me?"

"Yes Sir. For you."

"I don't need anything."

"That's not what I asked."

James smiled as Cecilia probed him for present ideas. "I have everything I want, too. I think I'm the happiest man in Britain."

"Oh come on. Please tell me something! Please? Sir?"

James's mobile buzzed, interrupting her playful begging. A frown crossed his face as he read a message.

"An answer," he said as he set his phone to airplane mode.

"What do you mean?"

"For Christmas. I want an answer for Christmas."

Cecilia sighed, exasperated with James's enigmatic evasions of her question.

"What's the question then?"

"Forty-two!" Abe barked. Cecilia looked at him and James groaned.

"No. That's the answer," James shook his head.

Then Cecilia got it. "Really, Abe? Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy?"

"That's the one." Abe had a feeling he knew what James was getting at. He hoped he was right. Just then, the lights dimmed.

"Less space-age philosophy Abe! Honestly, the curtain's going up!" Cecilia whispered. Abe shook his head and stifled a chuckle. Yes, Cecilia and James worked miracles on each other.

***

All the fun and verbal sparring aside, the three did quiet down and enjoy the ballet. The first act was dedicated to children. But the second act was a parade of technical artistry embodied in a delegation of sweets.

When the woody tones of the double reeds ushered in the Arabian Dance, Abe had to smile. He rather did like Clara's costume. In spangled harem pants and a midriff-baring top, she sashayed onstage.

It seemed a bit indecent. Clara's dance solo demanded an erotic display of flexibility, supported only by the sparkling sound of tiny bells. That was, until a retinue of men—also looking like they stepped out of the One Thousand and One Arabian Nights—joined her dance. Then, Clara hardly seemed to touch the ground as she was spun and lifted back and forth across the stage. Her toe shoes elongated her slim legs, highlighting the lines her body made as she contorted herself.

Yes, this dance was definitely too sexy for children, Abe thought. She finished with a geometrically perfect heel-stretch that collapsed and twisted into a full split on the floor and spinning her body quickly to arch her back and catch her foot over and behind her head.

Cecilia smiled. She knew from exercising with Clara and her other friends in the company just how much time, stretching, and strength training went into pulling off the steps Clara just performed. But to make it look so effortless as well: that was superhuman.

***

It had become something of a routine that after attending one of James's or Clara's performances that they would go out together. Abe, in particular, insisted on this practice. He joked that they needed to go to wash off the pomp and snobbery with a draught or two of proper English ale. After the show ended, Cecilia asked him if they were still on to have supper.

"I think I may break with tradition today. You two don't mind do you?" Clara had been working so hard for the last four weeks, that he thought they were overdue for some alone time. Maybe a lazy and sensual afternoon followed by a quiet dinner...

Cecilia shook her head. James asked, "Do you want to take the car? Cecilia and I might take a walk and grab something."

"I think I will. Thanks mate."

"We'll congratulate Clara before we set off. That was a remarkable display."

Abe knew he was right to get Clara home when she emerged from backstage. She looked a bit worn. When she caught sight of her husband and friends though, she brightened into a smile. A few of the other girls saw Cecilia and gave her warm greetings, not having heard she was back in London.

James glowed with pride to see Cecilia's friendships renewing and blossoming. After hearing about her mother, he was determined that she should have all the experiences she'd missed out on, including close friendships. Cecilia congratulated the storm of snowflakes (for that was the role most of the corps members danced in the show) and then turned to her best friend, hugging her and complimenting her on her solo.

Abe remained quiet and solid, slipping an arm around Clara's waist. He felt her slight weight rest against him, and knew that the last thing Clara needed was a night out. When the dancers turned their attention to James, realizing that Cecilia had thrown over Sebastian Echevarria for the stoic pianist, Abe saw their chance to escape.

"Come on sweetness. Watching you dance gave me a caffeine buzz. I'm taking you home."

"Yes Sir," Clara said, secretly relieved to be done.

***

When they arrived home, Abe kissed Clara nearly out of the blue. She responded immediately, but looked surprised when he broke the kiss. "Look up," his deep voice rumbled.

Clara smiled weakly. She'd been the one to hang the mistletoe that dangled over the doorway in the hall.

Abe turned serious then. "Upstairs. Strip. You need a hot shower."

Clara looked inquiringly, but her husband pressed a finger to her lips. "Hush. Do as I say."

She nodded and climbed the stairs. Abe noticed her slow ascent and how she favored one leg. Poor thing. It wasn't possible to work that hard and not be run down.

He went to the medicine cupboard to find some painkillers and filled a tall glass with water. When he entered their bedroom, Clara was already in the bathroom, waiting for the hot water to come on.

"Here, Sweetness," he handed Clara the glass and ibuprofen tablets, "drink the whole glass."

Clara accepted the pills and drained the glass. Abe knew what she needed. "Good girl, in you get."

He pulled off his clothing and joined her in the steaming shower. Clara stood under the hot water with her head tilted back, the spray soaking her blonde hair. She groaned.

"On a scale from one to ten, ten being complete agony, how are you feeling right now Clara?"

Clara looked up and saw the seriousness written across his face. She sighed. "Well, most of me is at a five or a six, Sir."

"And your feet?" Abe nudged.

Clara nodded. "They hurt."

Abe didn't press her for a number, but knew what it took for her to admit that. "I thought so. Come here." Abe hugged her under the spray, letting the warm water wash down her back and help to relax her overwrought muscles. Clara was exhausted and as Abe let go of her and started to massage a fresh bar of soap over her body, she whispered, "Thank you, Sir." She let him move her almost as if she were a doll. His hands felt so good. He washed her and adored her until they ran out of hot water and Clara was kissing him fervently. He shut the water off and Clara groaned as she started shivering.

Abe picked her up and she curled her legs up, eager to take the weight off her aching feet, seeking out his warmth so that Abe carried her in a tight bundle out of the bathroom. He set her down on the ottoman of his armchair, leaving her for a moment and returning with a fluffy terry-cloth robe. He held it out for her and she slipped it on, wrapping it around herself.

Not nearly as cold as Clara, Abe wrapped a towel around his waist. Then he sat behind her in his armchair and used yet another towel to wring the excess water out of her hair. When she felt him untangling her knotted hair, she made to stop him. "Oh, I can—"

"Shhh." Abe hushed her again. "Let me take care of you." His voice was firm behind her, but his hands were gentle as he brushed the knots out of her hair.

When he was finished she turned around and smiled. It seemed he wanted to work in silence, so she tilted her head urging him to say something.

"Do you feel any better?"

She nodded. His attention felt heavenly. Abe stroked her cheek, pleased that she instinctively picked up on his desire for quiet.

"Up on the bed. Don't speak."

That was when Clara felt anxious. She made her way over to the bed.

Abe suspected that Clara needed extra encouragement to look after herself. He was going to make sure she used all her recovery time today and tomorrow to the best effect. But first, he was going to reconnect with his wife. He missed her during this month of constant performances and rehearsals.

He opened one of the trundle drawers under their bed and pulled out two sets of soft leather cuffs. Clara offered her wrists to him without a word. The ease with which she gave her body over to him blew him away. He hadn't yet told her of his plans for the evening. Even though she was being very good, he could tell her curiosity was burning. So was his.

"Tell me Clara, have you been taking good care of yourself?" Abe intended to take very good care of her tonight.

"I think so, Sir."

An interesting hedge. He clipped her wrists together in front of her, and pushed gently on her shoulders, guiding her to lean back against the pillows. Then he ran his hand slowly over her leg, amazed that her slight body was capable of all her dancing feats. He worried that she was too thin as he traced the contour of her calf. When he came to her feet, to wrap a cuff around her ankle his heart broke.

Abe knew that all dancers' feet were covered in blisters, bruises, and other disfigurements. But Clara was his dancer. And her feet were a sickening palate of purple and yellow, blue and black. Her right foot was noticeably swollen. "Clara!"

She looked up at her husband, certain she was in trouble, tears welling already.

Abe set the cuffs aside without a word. His jaw set tight as he gave Clara a hard stare. Anger boiled over his plans for the evening.

Clara thought she'd been careful. She wondered if Abe knew. So much of her body hurt.

She bit her bottom lip while Abe collected extra pillows from the linen closet.

With the look his wife gave him, Abe was certain something was wrong. He stacked the pillows under her calves, elevating her legs and feet so that they rested comfortably on the pillows.

Elevating her feet would help with the swelling. Clara tensed at the methodical way Abe was taking care of her. The cuffs and rope lay forgotten. He hadn't actually known how much pain she'd been in, until he saw her feet. It made him angry that she hadn't said anything. If there hadn't been visible evidence of her pain, would she have continued hiding it from him?

Abe released the cuffs on Clara's wrists and left the room. She wished he'd say something, anything. There were silent tears running down her cheeks when her husband returned with an ice pack. With a grimace, he laid a dry hand towel over her right foot. Clara braced herself from the shock of the cold, but still gasped as Abraham wrapped the coldpack around her foot.

"Clara," she jumped when he finally spoke. She could tell he struggled to keep his voice from shaking or rising. Now that he said something, she wasn't sure she wanted him to talk. He was going to ask her.

"Clara." Abe needed her attention. "I'm not convinced you've been taking very good care of yourself."

"S-sir, I-I-I—it only just happened," she wasn't trying to blubber, but already she knew that her husband was disappointed.

"What only just happened, Clara?" Abe kept his voice even.

"My foot." A week's worth of suffering in silence and smiling through pain broke through the dam. Clara was sobbing.

Abe was stunned. He didn't know the extent yet, but Clara had been letting her body take abuse for her art. It was something he'd lectured her on when they first got together. He thought that he'd impressed on her how important it was to be careful with her body. But looking at her break down before he could even respond, he could tell there was more.

"Tell me. Now." The tone of his voice was hard and gravelly.

Clara just buried her face in her hands, inconsolable. Abe ignored his confused feelings to comfort his wife. The bed dipped where Abraham sat next to her. He didn't speak, but leaned in to hug her into his big chest.

"I'm afraid. I'm so, so, so, afraid. So afraid," she sobbed.

That tugged all of his heartstrings. "Clara?" his voice gentled, "What are you afraid of?"

Clara gasped for breath, her small chest rising and falling rapidly. "That I won't dance again," came out in a rush. The rest of the sentence was drowned by more tears.

"Clara. Breathe. Listen to me and be good. Be a good girl for me. Can you do that?"

She nodded her head and Abe moved in closer, cradling the back of her head with his huge hand. "Breathe with me. Slow. Breathe in. Breathe out. No. That's too fast. Slower. Slow it down. In... Out..."

It took several minutes of coaxing before Abe got her breathing to calm down. He handed her a bottle of water. There was no way they were going to have the evening he'd planned in his head. Abe's plans for the evening had involved rope and cuffs—that was out of the question with Clara in this condition. Abe still didn't know what to say so he started to put away the aforementioned items.

When Clara saw what he was doing, she started crying again. She'd spoiled their evening together. Her body had failed them both.

Abe didn't understand what set her off again. "Clara, what is it?"

His submissive started begging. "No please. Please! Please Sir! I need you to tie me up. I'm sorry for disappointing you. I didn't mean to. I've failed. I've failed. Please tie me up. Please. I need it. I need you to punish me."

Abe stopped and stepped back. "Clara! Stop it. I'm not punishing you. You're hurt."

"No. No! I need you to. You have to."

"Clara, I'll determine that. You need rest and medical attention."

"But I failed you. I did. You need to punish me."

Abe still didn't know the full extent of what was wrong. "Why do I need to punish you, Clara?"

She dissolved into pleas again. "Clara, talk to me. I'm not going to punish you for being hurt."

It took several minutes for Clara to calm enough to explain.

"I didn't want to risk loosing my place. It was going so well." Clara paused to take a gasping breath. "I think I hurt it during Streetcar . . ."

Abe had to school his face to neutrality.

"It wasn't terrible at first, but then it was a shooting pain. I had to finish the run of the show. You know what a big deal that was. If I keep it up like this, they'll make me principal . . . "

Abe thought it was best to say nothing, now that Clara was coherent.

"We had a break after Steetcar and the pain went down. A lot. I thought it would be fine. But, with all the work and shows for Nutcracker . . . Oh Abe! I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't- I didn't want to tell you until we were done the run of this show."

"Clara, how bad is it?" Abe had a feeling it was bad.

She dissolved into tears again. Her litany of 'so so afraid, so afraid' was all that came out.

Abe had enough and picked up his phone. "Yes, hello. Doctor Kessler? Yes, it's me. Fine. It's my wife, actually. I think she broke her foot."

At that, Clara's sobs grew louder.

Abe stepped back a bit, so he could hear the doctor. "Yes. Very swollen. She's a dancer, you remember." A pause. "Alright. We'll see you first thing in the morning then."

He hung up and sat back next to Clara. "Clara, I need you to listen to me. We're doing everything right for your foot. You need to keep it elevated and iced. If it hurts, you can have another ibuprofen. The doctor will see you first thing in the morning and we'll see how bad it is. Okay? Clara?"

"Y-y-y-yes S-s-s-sir." Clara feared she'd never dance again.

"Have a drink of water, Clara." With shaking hands, she obeyed.

Now that Abe had her attention, he wanted more answers. "Be brave for me. Is there anything else hurting?"

"It was just that foot. I thought I felt something give yesterday. It hurt so, so, much. But then it went numb."

Abe didn't know how she'd had the stomach to dance today. "Clara, what about today? Didn't it hurt today?"

"I wrapped it up and compensated with my other foot. Everyone's a little worse for wear right now. No one noticed. Or if they did, no one said anything."

This was bad. Abraham was outraged. "You know if you kept that up you could damage your left foot too. You're smarter than that, Clara."

"I thought if I could get through the last performances that I'd have enough time to rest it before we returned for the rest of the season. I thought it was just a sprain."

Abe didn't respond to that flimsy excuse. He cast a careful eye over her and voiced his other nagging worry. "Clara, are you eating?"

He remembered when Clara tried to go off meat early in their relationship. That had been the first time he realized what Clara and other girls were willing to endure for the sake of their dancing careers.

Clara sniffled. He knew. "I am. Honestly, Sir."

"And are you eating complete meals?" He controlled his voice, but on the inside, Abe wasn't sure what to do, or if he wanted to know.

Abe noticed the paleness that Clara had been hiding behind cosmetics and blush. She had lost weight. When she didn't answer him, Abe fumed.

Clara ran out of tears and now her mouth was dry. She took another pull of water. "All the other girls who eat a vegetarian diet—"

Abe got up and stalked the room. This was very bad.

"All the other girls who don't eat properly are idiots Clara! Maybe they have a nutritionist, but you've done that before. You lose weight too easily. You can't treat yourself like this Clara. You can't punish your body day in and day out at class, and rehearsal, and cross training, and then not eat properly! How long did you think you could keep that up!? You've been rehearsing and dancing so much that I haven't seen your diet change. How long has this been going on?"

"Since I got the lead in Streetcar," Clara whispered.

Abe was reeling. He'd seen her eat meat in that time. "Are you lying to me? I've seen you eat meat. You ate dinners with meat with us."

"I ate meat when I couldn't avoid it."

Did his wife have an eating disorder?

"And when you could?"

"When I could, I just ate veggies." Clara hung her head.

"Clara," he took a steadying breath for himself, "were you skipping meals?"

That question hammered home the severity of her foolishness.

"No. No, Sir. I promise. I swear it." She reached out for her husband's hand begging him to believe her.

"Are you certain, Clara?"

"I promise. I never have."

Abe wanted to believe her. He didn't want to her to have such a serious condition, but after the subterfuge about her foot, he was worried her dancing ambition would take her from him.

"Have you eaten today?"

"I have. I had some yoghurt and fruit just before the show."

"Yoghurt and fruit?" he asked incredulously.

"I can't dance on a full stomach. You don't go to gym right after you eat a heavy meal."

Abe ignored the smug look Clara wore after scoring the small point. "Before we do or say any more, you're eating."

She knew better than to fight him. She was in deep. "Yes Sir."

Abe set off down stairs.

Clara. His Clara. He could stand to watch her dance in front of countless people. Her performance tonight was overtly sexual. He wasn't an idiot; any red-blooded man would watch Clara dance and desire her, but he didn't let that bother him. He didn't care about her dancing with other attractive dancers. Even when he didn't appreciate the violence or eroticism inherent in some of the company's repertoire, he was able to support Clara.

She promised him long ago that she'd never let the competitiveness of her world take a hold in such a way as to do damage to herself. It was the only thing that gave him reservations when he started falling in love with Clara.