text: tw: brief mentions of body image - 1956 Cindy is 14. Sometimes, when I close my eyes at night I see a woman. She drips with jewelry and burgundy silk. Gold lays on her neck softly, coiling around her wrists in dainty loops. Her hair is in pins and her teeth are the color of paper. I see her now, on the stage. She’s swaying as she sings; her voice comes from deep in her stomach. In the heart of the stage, her body doesn’t reflect the spotlights that hit her; she soaks them in. The beams wrap around her, sliding under her skin - she glows. I’m awake now. The hallway towards the kitchen is long, dressed with rows of framed photos in velvety black and white. The young woman from my dreams is posing in them, smiling wide with those paper teeth. Bonnie Wright signed every picture. In the kitchen it’s dark and smells like warm salad dressing and cigarettes. I walk on my toes and the floor still creaks. I pull a box of crackers from the empty pantry and head back to my room. Hot smoke wraps around the walls of the hallway, reaching towards me from the living room like long gentle arms. I sink to the ground, my back to the wall and eat quietly. Around the corner, the radio plays. My aunt Bonnie rocks in the coffee-stained chair, balancing a lipstick-stained cigarette between two red fingernails. Playing from the radio is her thirty years younger. She sings softly, her voice gravely and deep now. She could listen to herself sing for hours; to be fair, I do the same. * * * In my room I stretch my legs out as far in front of me as I can, curling my hands over my toes. My hair falls over my shoulder and tickles my thigh. “Cindy?” calls a voice from the hallway. “Cindy, it’s -” Bonnie enters my room, “oh good, you’re dressed.” I nod, still holding my stretch firmly. “I’m going to pick you up from ballet at 3,” my aunt tells me, pulling my hair tightly into her hands. “You have singing lessons at 4.” My head is nearly ripped from my neck as she twists and twists the hair atop my head, securing it in a bun. “Okay,” I say. I slide like butter into my middle split, and my body aches from the days of work before. Bonnie sits on my bed and it groans, tossing her pink house slippers to the floor beside my face. She smokes for a moment, watching me. “Perhaps we lay off the crackers for a while.” “Hmm?” I look up, confused. She leans forward until her face is right in mine. There is a bit of food between her teeth. She runs a hand down my sides like I’m a cat. “Do you see that bit of fat when you sit down?” My heart is on the floor. “Yeah.” “People will see that, in your recital dress.” She takes another little puff. I nod. Bonnie shrugs and tells me, “I know it’s harsh, but that’s just show business.” * * * It’s after rehearsal one night and Bonnie is asleep. Still, her voice hums from the radio, floating through the apartment, being soaked up by the walls. In my room, I put my clothes for the next day in my dance bag. It is brown and has my initials embroidered on the top - I think it was a gift from my dance teacher when I was only five. In the mirror I stand square and upright, bringing my stomach into my ribs and giving my back an arch. I drag one leg in front, across the other and smile as best I can. Now I look just a little like my aunt in the picture that hangs above her bed. When I breathe out my stomach relaxes, rounding out naturally. I tighten my jaw and turn out the lights. Some nights, I dream of Bonnie in the audience. She sits in those cushy wine red theater chairs, her elbow on the armrest as she pulls the cigarette from her thin lips. Her legs are crossed. I stand in the heat of the spotlight, with sweat rolling in beads down my neck. My hair is tight in a bun as I sing from my chest and breathe from my stomach. In this dream, my words dance through the theater all night. Afterwards, my aunt meets me backstage. Somehow the absence of flowers in her hand or a smile on her face speaks far louder than anything she could have said. “We need to work on your breath control,” she tells me, placing a hand on my low back to guide me to the dressing rooms. It seems harsh, but that’s just show business. - 1962 Cindy is 20. Bonnie has passed. Tonight the casino is loud. Men are wearing suit jackets that smell of whiskey and playing cards. At their homes, the landlines ring off the wall with angry wives demanding they end guy’s night and just come home. It’s already 11:00. I stand on the stage with my hands behind my back. The floor is creaking when I step, like it used to back home. The man who is setting up my microphone finishes the job, and gives me a nod. Stepping forward, I push my dress behind my heels. The rim of the skirt is lined with a red feather boa that tickles my toes. As the music starts I close my eyes gently, swaying a little and placing my hands on the mic stand. When I sing, I draw breath from my stomach like Bonnie used to say. My head burns but not as badly as my throat, and as the words come out they feel hot and dry. In the large room, the men still play cards. Perhaps I saw a head turn my way; the eyes crawled from my feet to my neck then looked back at their hand. Still, I sang. Because that’s just show business. * * * The bus was late arriving so I was late getting home, but that didn’t matter as nobody was waiting on me. My apartment is warm and the air is thick. Dishes make a large shape in the sink that is hard to make out in the dark. The counter is scattered with half empty glasses. In my room I turn on the lights and set my bag down on the bed. The embroidered letters have begun to fray, and now they barely say anything at all. I put my heels by the door and sit on my carpet in my floor length dress, stretching my feet out in front of me and grabbing my toes. I exhale with the burn of the stretch, burying my face in my knees. My mirror leans against the wall, with the hook for hanging it and the nail to attach it to the wall in a clear bag beside it. On the floor as well is an old photo of my aunt. Fifty years old by now, it must be at least. Bonnie Wright is still scribbled at the bottom. I look into her eyes with her smile and her perfect white teeth as my feet ache from the heels. They have blisters underneath the bandages. Truthfully, she likely would have been proud of the blisters because beauty is pain and that’s just show business. - 1967 Cindy is 25. Tonight at the casino I got my picture taken. I was told I’d get the hard copy of it on Monday when I come in for the night shift. As I was taking it I was in a sleek red dress. I wore gold earrings that dripped over my shoulders; my honey skin absorbed the spotlight. My stomach was relaxed in a deep exhale. After work, I took the bus to the only open cafe down the street. The light-up sign was missing two letters as they had burnt out, but it was open until 4. I swept my red dress under the table, and folded it atop itself in layers like a deep red ink. My coffee and sandwich came with a napkin. Cindy Wright I scribbled on it again and again until the paper looked akin to a storm. It’s how I’m going to sign my pictures, I decided. It may seem like stealing, but that’s just show business.