by Shannon Hale
“How is it not weird?”
She pulled one knee up to rest her elbow. Four weeks old and the little fellow was getting heavy. “Somehow. It’s just not.”
“I don’t know about that. He’s starting to sound stalkerish.”
“Mike, come on. Felix Callahan is not going to stalk some frumpy mommy from Layton, Utah. That’s not how these things work.”
“I don’t know if we should go.”
The idea was impossible to her. Not see what would happen next? That would be like turning off a movie ten minutes before the ending! “But aren’t you curious?”
He shrugged.
“I think you have a good thirty pounds on Felix anyway, so if it comes to that, my money’s on the hubbie.”
“Fifty pounds,” Mike mumbled. He went back to polishing his shoes. “This spring I’m thinking of pulling up that honeysuckle vine and planting a silver birch instead. I think the kids would rather have some shade in that part of the yard. What do you think?”
She agreed, and they talked about the yard and the kids, dance lessons and piano lessons and chess club events, who was going to parents’ night at Hyrum’s preschool on Friday and who would stay home with the baby, until they read scriptures together, prayed together, and went to bed.
The first time Mike snored, Becky opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling.
Why isn’t it weird? she asked herself.
It was nearly two A.M. before she fell asleep.
The Valentine’s Ball, in which someone gets punched in the face but no one is seriously injured
Becky and Mike were going to be late. Her parents drove up from Cen-terville, where they had moved in retirement to be closer to a community theater. (Last season, Alice Hyde had portrayed Mama Rose and Casper Hyde had played Don Quixote.) After the obligatory greetings, Becky went through the how-to-care-for-the-newborn list, with such important items as “never microwave the bottle of breast milk—heat it by placing it in a cup of hot water” and “watch Polly with the baby—she thinks ‘kissing’ and ‘mauling’ are the same thing,” while her mother kept insisting, “I know, Becky, I know. I raised six of my own.” And Becky said, “Yeah, back in the day when they thought smoking was medicinal and breast milk inferior to formula.”
“And dinosaurs walked the earth,” her father added.
Alice laughed her wonderfully loud cackle.
“You’re the only ones in the world I trust to take care of my teeny guy,” Becky said, hugging them both.
“I know, I know.” Alice stroked her hair. “I give you my grandmother’s oath that Sam will still be alive when you get back. Forget about it all for a few hours and go be carefree.”
Carefree, Becky thought ironically. Her mother didn’t know who might or might not be waiting at the ball.
Just as Becky and Mike were leaving, Becky decided she had to hold Sam one last time, and he spit up on her dress—not just a dribble, but a couple of pints of cheesy regurgitated milk. It was the only nice dress that she could fit into postpartum, so she was forced to change into her maternity Sunday dress. She had put in contacts for the evening, because glasses felt informal, but they were pokey and irritating, so she pinched them out and shoved back on her sturdy wire frames. Then there was an accident on the freeway and the twenty-minute drive from Layton to downtown Salt Lake took thirty-five minutes. Parking was chaotic, Becky’s corsage got caught on the seat belt, but finally, at quarter to eight, they speed-walked into the rotunda of the state capitol building, red-faced, breathless, and only mildly surprised at the sight that awaited them—Felix Callahan in a black tuxedo and Celeste Bo-dine in a sparkly scarlet low-cut gown, both looking like they’d just waltzed off the red carpet.
They were standing in one corner of the gray stone chamber, whispering to each other. The rest of the ball-goers danced or bustled or moseyed through the buff et line, all the while keeping an eye on the Hollywood couple.
Felix spotted Becky and said something to Celeste, who looked up and smiled. The Frenchwoman had chestnut hair, twisted up with a little spray escaping from the top. Her face was long and lean; her nose was long too and would have looked ridiculous on anyone else’s face, but on her it was exotically beautiful. Her slender neck was bare of jewelry, as if to say, do I need any adornment beside this fabulous bust? (The answer was no.) But she wore gems the size of nickels in her ears, glinting in that we’re-real-diamonds-and-we-know-it way, that you-couldn’t-afford-us-if-you-sold-your-house way.
Becky fingered one of her own earrings—genuine pink enamel, $11.95 at Fred Meyer.
“There they are,” Becky said, waving.
“You don’t say? I never could’ve picked them out of the crowd.”
“I can’t believe they actually came. What on earth are they thinking? Come on.”
“Okay,” Mike said, which meant he’d rather go back home and watch the news, if that was all right.
“Hello, hello!” Becky called. “Look at you two. My, don’t you blend in like cougars in a petting zoo.”
Felix adjusted his bow tie. “Yes, we thought we’d dress down tonight.”
Becky believed Celeste was showing remarkable restraint by not so much as glancing at Becky’s pink cotton maternity dress.
“Hi, I’m Becky.” She extended her hand to Celeste.
“How do you do? Celeste Bodine,” she said, her accent as rich and yummy as rum sauce.
Celeste took Becky’s hand but then leaned in for a cheek kiss. Becky had never encountered a Continental greeting before, and in her panic, she planted her lips on Celeste’s cheek, leaving two lines of lipstick.
“Oh, whoops.” Becky tried to smear the mark away with her thumb, momma-style. “I nicked you there with my Seashell Pink grocery store lipstick. I did that wrong, didn’t I? Sorry, I’m not used to the whole cheek-kissing thing.”
“Let me show you.” Celeste took Becky’s hand. “Now lean in, touch your left cheek to mine, and gently kiss the air. That’s right. Now we switch, touch right cheeks and repeat. Ah, you are a natural, Rebecca!”
And despite the fact that Celeste was way beyond Barbie doll, Becky already liked her. She tried to imagine what she herself would look like in that red sparkly getup. It was enough to make her fl inch.
“Hey there!” A woman with a razor-perfect bob came upon them like a bulldozer, dragging her husband behind. “You’re Felix Callahan! Wow, you’re taller than I expected, and paler too. Maybe it’s all the makeup you wear on-screen? That helps? Anyway, I need an autograph for my daughter or she’ll never believe me!”
Felix gave her a half glance. “To be fair, I don’t believe you myself. Tell me you’re a singing telegram in the Stepford model someone hired as a joke, and I’ll breathe a sigh of relief.”
“Huh?” she said. “I . . . I really need an autograph for my daughter.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t keep a surplus of damns on hand, so I don’t have one to give right now.” He turned his back.
The couple blinked a lot as they walked away, as if trying to decode the insult.
“Somebody’s grumpy,” Becky muttered.
“Oh no,” Celeste said, looking through her clutch purse as if to ignore the scene. “This is Felix with his fans. Ever diplomatic.”
They browsed the buff et, taking plates back to their table to eat while watching the Brigham Young University ballroom dancers. Mike barely tolerated this part. He liked dancing with Becky okay; watching others prance around was just a bit too close to sissy.
The two other couples at their table flicked their gazes at the Hollywood pair and whispered in each other’s ears. The glances morphed into stares, and Becky steeled herself for another obscure and biting comment.“
Excuse me, aren’t you famous?” the balding man asked, raising his voice to be heard above the music.
Celeste looked away, and Felix opened his mouth to speak when Becky interrupted with a laugh.
“You win, Rufus!” she said to Felix, offe
ring him a fake name. “I thought you were kidding when you said people mistook you for that British actor. I owe you five bucks.”
Felix hesitated the barest moment before smiling a very un-Felix-like smile, tight-lipped and toothy, and saying in an American accent, “Happens all the time. Thought we’d play it up to night.” He straightened his bow tie and made a clicking noise with his tongue while winking.
“I told you, honey,” his date said. “He doesn’t look like him at all.”
“I’ve heard stories about that actor.” Becky leaned forward conspiratorially. “His looks are all fake, loads of plastic surgery, you know, and they say he doesn’t eat food like a normal person, just drinks glass after glass of whiskey. He’s actually ninety-five, but the alcohol preserves him, like pumping a corpse full of formaldehyde.”
Celeste laughed into her napkin. Felix shut his eyes and shook his head. Mike pressed his knee against Becky’s under the table, his way of sharing a joke on the sly.
As soon as the floor opened to dancing, Becky and Mike hit it, pulling out their favorite—the fox-trot. He slid her along, the firm pressure of his hand on her back directing her steps. It gave Becky a thrill. At home she was the CEO, in charge and responsible for everything. It was lovely to feel so light, to turn over her motions to Mike, to feel a part of his strength. He didn’t love to dance, but he did it for her sake, and that made him completely lovable.
“You have to admit that this is bizarre,” Mike said.
“I admit it. But isn’t it funny bizarre?”
Felix and Celeste whirled by. They looked like an ad for expensive things—luxury cars, gold watches, purses that cost more than a minivan.
After a couple of songs, Felix tapped Mike on the shoulder. “May I escort your wife for a number? My own has kindly offered to keep you occupied. On the dance floor, I presume.”
Celeste smiled mischievously. “Or wherever he likes.”
“She’s not so dangerous as all that,” Felix said. “You should be safe so long as you don’t do anything foolish, such as give her diamonds or feed her human blood.”
Mike looked to Becky for help. Becky shrugged, no more certain of the situation than he was, though probably more curious.
“If you want to, hon . . .” Mike said.
Celeste took Mike’s arm. “That’s right, I will take care of your husband. You go have fun.” Celeste seemed eager for Felix and Becky to dance, for some reason, and showed not the least sign of jealousy—and really, why should she? Becky was so aware of her stiff pink maternity dress that she might as well have been wearing the skin of a grizzly. Besides, it would be unfair to deny Mike a chance to dance with a supermodel.
Becky let Felix lead her to the dance floor.
After Mike, dancing with Felix felt strained. First, she kept remembering who he was, and that made her suspect that she was in a movie, which then turned on her underutilized self-conscious glands, because she didn’t belong in a movie. What on earth would she be doing in a movie?
Besides, she was used to Mike, and Felix’s hands confused her. Dancing with him while pregnant had been one thing—the weight of her belly and the twisted, bloated, stiffened peculiarity of every limb made her feel a stranger in her own body. It hadn’t been her body then—her mind had been transplanted into a 180-pound incubator.
Now that she was back to being Becky, dancing with Felix wasn’t just a joke.
But by the second song, they stopped knocking knees and pulling away from each other and began to move as one. He held her in three places—hand on her lower back, hand holding her hand, and then sometimes, his leg against hers. Mike didn’t do that.
She laughed, because how does a grown woman and mother of four interpret such a thing as dancing with Felix Callahan? And she laughed because she glimpsed Mike and Celeste, and Mike’s arms and back were stiff, his expression uncomfortable bordering on painful, and he seemed to be looking everywhere in the room but at Celeste’s highly visible cleavage.
The cleavage reminded Becky of that place in the bathroom where the baseboard was pulling away from the wall. She needed to glue that back on and recaulk. Around some of the windows too. Maybe she and Mike could make that their project next Saturday. And maybe replace the hinges on that one cabinet. And this was a good time of year to go shopping for winter clothing, buy the kids’ next-year sizes from the discount racks—What are you doing, Becky? Focus! You’re dancing with Felix Callahan. You need to be enjoying this on behalf of every woman in America.
She snapped back. He was still there, holding her. Back, hand, thigh. Back, hand, thigh. Felix Callahan. Felix Callahan?
It had seemed safe to have a crush on Felix Callahan from the sanitized distance of the screen, but having him this close was . . . well, a little confusing. She’d fallen in love with characters all her life—Gilbert Blythe, Mr. Rochester, Harry Hamlin as Perseus. Then she’d met Mike. Real men had thinned into the scenery; fictional men were briefly entertaining but faded out of her consciousness as soon as she closed the book or emerged from the movie theater.
So her only dalliances were inside those story moments. There was that pesky romance gene that needed a little twanging from time to time, and crushing on a fictional character or unattainable movie star was completely kosher. Everyone knew those rules. Of course, those rules assumed that said Unattainable Crush would never actually step into your very real life. So, how to deal with the disorientation when the man you’ve blushed about from a movie seat is suddenly quite real and leading you in . . . what dance were they doing now?
It was the waltz (one-two-three, one-two-three . . . ). The music had a rubbery, echoey tone in that large, round room, the wails from the stringed instruments bouncing off stone. That particular waltz wasn’t as circusy as some, nor as stately—it was a tender tune. The melody rolled under her, made her feel as if she were dancing on water. It curled around her, wrapped her up, and spun her out, till it seemed the music itself was moving her body. The waltz . . . there was something about the waltz she used to know . . .
The Waltz (according to Desdemona Yap, instructor of “You Can Ballroom Dance!”): “The Waltz took Europe by surprise, the first dance where the man holds the woman to his body. To dance it properly, you must feel the romance of that music. Mike, hold her tighter there. Becky, relax your upper body. Surrender yourself to the movement. It is intimate, it is erotic, it is—”
“Ack!”
Yes, Becky said “ack” right then on the dance floor of the Valentine’s Ball. She was in no way a fan of the word “erotic,” and she had just thought it while dancing with Felix Callahan. (Felix Callahan!) She let go of him as if of hot metal and took a step back.
“Maybe we shouldn’t dance anymore,” she said.
“All right.” He gestured with his chin toward the far part of the rotunda. “I glimpsed some interesting statues that way, and I wouldn’t mind removing myself from all the—how would you say?—rubberneckers.” He offered his crooked arm. “Walk with me?”
Even though she was still thrumming with that e-word, she didn’t want to interrupt the evening. It never entered her thoughts that walking with Felix might be dangerous in a moral sense. For one thing, she was clad in that hideous pink maternity dress she’d purchased in 1987. It wore like armor. Besides, she trusted herself absolutely, as much as she trusted Mike with those most perfect breasts west of the Mississippi. He wouldn’t be biting into any off-limits apples, and neither would she.
On top of that, she was sleep deprived (Baby Sam was a cutie, but he still had day and night confused), she hadn’t put on makeup or gone farther than the grocery store in six weeks, and before she cracked and went completely insane, she wanted to see where this crazy night was going. Because it was going somewhere, and on Felix’s arm. So she took it. And they walked toward the edge of the room.
She caught Mike’s eye and waved so he would see where she was going. He nodded, still dancing.
Moving into the quiet corne
r was as much of a relief as walking into shade on a blazing day. She’d never in her trimmed-and-tidy life been so accosted by stares—except that one time when she’d left the church restroom with the back of her skirt tucked into her pantyhose.
“Thanks again for your help with the contract,” she said as they passed a marbleized Philo T. Farnsworth, inventor of television. “Nothing’s happening with the film, of course, but Annette gave me five thousand dollars for the option. After taxes and all, it’ll be enough to cover the baby delivery bills, and just in time.”
“Oh, I see, you’re still expecting. For some reason, I thought you said you’d already had your baby.”
Becky stopped so fast, her low heels squeaked, and she glared at Felix until he actually stepped back and adjusted his tie.
“Were you raised in a barn? Don’t you know that you never, ever assume a woman is pregnant? Not even if she’s nine months and in labor—Not ever, never, never!”
He winced. “I . . . er . . .”
“I just had the baby six weeks ago, and it was my fourth pregnancy and it takes time for a body to readjust, and I haven’t had more than two hours of sleep in a row since December, and I’m normally a very nice person but I would like to hit you.”
“Then you probably should. On the jaw.”
“Are you serious?”
“Quite.” He stuck out his jaw. “I’m ready. Bombs away.”
She readied her fist.
“No, no,” he said, “get your thumb out of your fist, and you need to pull back more. That’s it. Get a good range and extend your arm all the way.”
She pulled back, pictured hitting her target like Mike had taught her to do before driving a golf ball, then swung. She struck him dead in the jaw. He wheeled around, clutching his face.
