“Cute.”
She phased into active strength training for her injured leg. She started in the pool, using the resistance of water to gain the suppleness back in her left knee and ankle and build up the strength in her quadriceps. Long hours just learning to put weight on the leg again. And then walk on it.
She often sounded tired and frustrated on the phone. Her heart wanted pliés and relevés while her body could only handle supported baby steps. Sometimes she cried and Erik, unable to hold and comfort her, wanted to tear the walls apart. Just as her little triumphs brought him joy, her stumbles filled him with aggravation. Those were the days he wanted to take the penny out of his pocket and chuck it in the street. Only a gripping superstition kept him from doing so.
So the rest of May passed. Cardiovascular training. Treadmill. Elliptical. Weight training. Strengthening and conditioning. Stretch. Massage. Ice. Elevation. Little by little, the left leg began to come back. All the while, the therapists were keeping her right side strong. Her right leg was her ticket out: Daisy was a southpaw in the sport of dance, a natural left turner, balancing on her right leg and spinning counter-clockwise. All her dancing was right leg dominant. It inspired an Abbot and Costello routine Joe Bianco ate up with a spoon:
“At least he shot you in the right leg,” he would say.
“You mean the correct leg.” Daisy always went along.
“Right, he shot your left leg.”
“Right.”
“No, the left.”
“Right.”
*
June arrived. And Erik began to rebuild.
The carpet in Mallory’s auditorium had to be replaced, stained as it was with blood and human gore. The upholstery on two rows of seats was unacceptable for public posteriors. With minimal debate, the university decided not only would the carpet and seats be replaced, but the theater was getting a full overhaul, including a new electrical system. And in an astonishing cut through normally-clogged bureaucratic channels, the plans and the budget were approved and the project went out to bid. When construction crews rolled on site the first week of June, Leo Graham had created four summer internships within their ranks, securing two of those spots for Erik and David.
Erik drove down to Pennsylvania the weekend before his job started. His car ate up the rolling, scenic miles of Amish country, passing farms and vineyards and produce stands. Just at sunset he turned up the dirt road at the sign marked BIANCO’S ORCHARD: Farm to Market. Outside the driver’s side window were hills of apple and pear trees. On the other side, grape vines were rigorously bound to posts and wires, following the ridgeline in near-military formation.
Just where the private driveway branched from the road was a funny little statue, a squat, ugly creature somewhere between a dragon and a turtle. It crouched at the base of a signpost which read, “La Tarasque.” It was both the name of the house and the name of the odd, lizardy beast—a beloved legend from the region of France where Joe Bianco was born (Joe told Erik “Tarasque” was also the name of a beloved anti-aircraft gun towed by the French military).
Erik rounded a bend and the farmhouse came into view, pale grey with black shutters and a yellow door. Francine’s treasured flower beds sprawled on either side of the stone walk, a riot of colors competing for attention. The porch ran the full front of the house and wrapped around both sides. Daisy was waiting, her red sundress bright against the grey shingles. As Erik switched off the engine, she took up her crutches and came carefully down the steps, swinging the last few feet as fast as she could. With a cry she let her crutches drop to the ground and flung her arms up around his neck. He locked his arms around her slender waist, buried his face in the curve of her sweet-smelling shoulder and exhaled.
“Dais,” he whispered.