Page 31 of The Wilder Widows

“I’ll move it.” Doris stepped to its side and cracked her knuckles.

“Doris. It’s got to be two hun—”

She leaned down and pressed her palms into the side, grunting while she pushed the dresser across the carpet.

“Holy shit,” I whispered as I watched her face turn red, but she never let up speed.

“Here I come!” She kept pushing and slid the dresser in front of the door while Marge and Sylvie jumped out of the way. When it slid to a stop, she leaned against it, puffing, and then stood up to catch her breath.

The three of us stood gaping at her, and finally, Marge broke the silence.

“Cripes, Doris. What are you? The Hulk?”

Doris only shrugged. “I bake a lot. The stirring and kneading are a surprisingly good arm workout.” She gestured in the air as she stirred her invisible bowl.

The lights flicked again, and we all jumped.

“Oh my God. This is it. It’s time.”

“We’ll be in the audience cheering you on! Good luck, Alice!” Sylvie pulled me in for a hug.

“Break a leg.” Marge gave me a nod.

“We’ll see you after!” Doris waved, and I watched them file out the door.

While I stood in the dressing room alone, I wondered if I would have felt this way if I’d have been given a chance to star in my own show all those decades ago. There was so much fear inside me now. Fear I didn’t think I would have had back then. Fear I was too old. I would forget the routine. Fear that security would pull me off the stage and toss me in the clink. But as I stood there watching the lights flash for the final time, I pushed it aside and reminded myself I deserved this. My whole life, I had trained for my chance to shine, and it was stolen from me. Well, this time, no one was taking it away.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ignoring the muffled pleas of the dancer, I opened the door to the backstage and lowered my head, my oversized headdress hiding my face. Careful not to draw too much attention to myself, I followed the sounds of the audience until I saw the dancers lined up, each one in their own zone, while they rehearsed the routine in their heads one last time. When I saw no open hole awaiting the star, I knew her place was at the back of the line. I hurried to my spot and took a deep breath while I did the same thing as them, closing my eyes and practicing the steps in my mind one more time while I stretched.

“Jesus, Shelley. I thought you were going to miss... Who the fuck are you?”

I opened my eyes to see my line neighbor’s shocked expression.

“Shelley is sick. I’m her replacement.”

“What? Where’s her understudy? If she’s sick, it should be Donna here.”

“Donna’s sick, too. Diarrhea.” I sucked the air through my teeth.

“I have never seen you before. What the fuck is going on?”

“I’ll be great. Just worry about yourself.”

“Hey! Someone get Roger!” she called to a man behind us. “Find out what the hell is going on and who the fuck this woman is!”

Panic of my discovery took my already racing heart to speeds rivaling my favorite vibrator. While it hammered against my ribcage, I watched the man disappear around the corner. Shit. I didn’t have long. I stared out past the dancers onto the dark stage, pleading for the lights to turn on. To beckon me to dance beneath them once again. To turn on before this Roger fellow came and ripped me from my dream.

Again.

As if they could hear my silent plea, they responded, and the darkness flooded with light. The music broke the silence and merged with the applause I lived to hear.

“Showtime,” I whispered to the girl beside me, watching her face drop. “You’re a professional. Just get out there and do your job. Don’t worry about me.”

Before she could argue, the line of ladies leaped forward, each woman moving with grace and elegance as she took the stage. I started my counting, letting the music creep back through me until my neighbor followed behind them.

“5, 6, 7, 8...” I counted and then let my feet do what they were born to do.