Will rocked his head from side to side to indicate a bit of both.
“Okay, that’s good enough for me,” said Mr. Coleman. He tore a piece of paper from a spiral notepad, scribbled Sorry Will and Mo were late, I was rambling like an idiot, and signed it before handing it to Will. “Give this to your next teacher so you don’t get into trouble.”
Will looked at the note and frowned when he saw Mo’s name. Mr. Coleman nodded towards the door behind Will, who turned just in time to see Mo’s face quickly disappear from the window.
“He’s been waiting for you the whole time,” said Mr. Coleman. “He’s good at charades, but he’s terrible at hiding. Go on, get going.”
CHAPTER 17
When Danny was twelve, he tried to impress a girl on his street by shinning to the top of a sycamore tree. The purpose of the mission, aside from showcasing his climbing skills—something he believed, like most boys his age, to be one of the defining characteristics of a superior boyfriend—was to rescue a cat that didn’t even belong to the girl in question (he didn’t know this at the time) and almost certainly didn’t need rescuing (he had an inkling this might be the case, but he needed a pretext to demonstrate his pre-man manliness, and saving a cat from a tree seemed as good a reason as any). As if to emphasize this, the animal calmly waited for Danny to scale the most challenging parts of the tree until the two of them were well within spitting and hissing distance of one another, at which point the animal scarpered down the trunk and bolted up an adjacent tree while Danny was left teetering in the branches for just long enough to contemplate how stupid he looked before he lost his footing and tumbled to the ground.
His plunging body took a trajectory that miraculously avoided every branch, a divine stroke of luck that enabled him to limp away from the scene with his dignity shattered but his body intact. Danny often thought how fortunate he was to survive the accident at all, never mind with all of his appendages still working and his brain fluid still in his skull, and sometimes he had nightmares about that day, flinching awake in the darkest hours with the sense of falling still churning his guts. As with all good bad dreams about falling, however, he always woke prior to impact. But that night, when he crawled into bed after his session with Krystal and once again found himself tumbling towards the earth as the neighbor’s daughter looked on in horror and the cat looked on in morbid amusement, not only did he hit the ground before waking, he also hit every branch on the way down. He lay there in agony at the bottom of the tree until the sound of his alarm delivered him from torment. When he groggily opened his eyes and tried to switch it off, the slightest movement hurt so much that he felt like somebody had broken into his apartment and beat him all night with a rolling pin. He wondered for a second how pain from a dream could migrate to the real world before his foggy brain caught up with him and he realized that his dream was in fact a manifestation of the actual pain that he now felt as a result of yesterday’s visit to Fanny’s.
Forcing himself onto his feet and into his slippers, Danny ignored Will’s curious stares as he hobbled around the kitchen and made his breakfast before waving him off to school. Then, lowering himself onto the couch, slowly, as if he were entering a scalding-hot bath, he quietly took stock of the situation.
He wouldn’t be dancing that day, that much he knew. Nor would he be dancing for the next few days unless he somehow developed Wolverine’s gift of recovery. Still, given his laughable earnings so far, Danny felt confident that his temporary stasis would have no impact on his current financial situation. He did rue the wasted hours that he could have spent practicing, but unable to move so much as a finger without fearing it might fall off, he grudgingly accepted that whatever dance moves he wanted to try would have to be tried in his head.
Recalling his conversation with Krystal, he rolled off the couch and over to the television cabinet, where he searched through the various DVDs and computer games for Liz’s copy of Dirty Dancing. She used to own it on VHS, but she’d watched the film so many times that the tape had worn out (particularly around the parts where Patrick Swayze appeared without his shirt on), so Danny had bought her the DVD for Christmas one year, although that didn’t stop her from trying to wear out that copy as well.
He’d lost count of the number of times she’d asked him to watch it with her, seriously at first and then later jokingly when she realized it was never going to happen. Over time it became something of a running joke between them, with Danny responding with deliberately elaborate excuses whenever she suggested popping it into the DVD player. He’d always planned to give in one day, to surprise her when she least expected it by either agreeing when she asked him or perhaps even suggesting the idea himself. It had never occurred to him that he’d never get the chance, that a day would come when their running joke would no longer seem funny but instead unbearably cruel. As the opening bars of “Be My Baby” started playing over the title credits, all he could do was grab Liz’s picture and prop her up on the couch beside him.
“Better late than never, right?” he said to his wife, blinking away the tears as Baby Houseman’s opening monologue began. “No spoilers, okay?”
They sat there together for the next hundred minutes while Danny quietly took notes. He apologized every time he rewound a scene so he could scribble down observations about Jennifer Grey’s footwork or Patrick Swayze’s impossibly hairless body. He cheered when Johnny Castle rescued Baby from the corner. And when the end credits rolled, he clutched Liz to his chest and cried so hard that the neighbor’s dog started howling. He cried for every time he’d stubbornly refused to dance with her, which was every time she’d asked, and he cried for letting her dance alone, something she actually quite enjoyed but still broke his heart when he pictured her now, in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by strangers while he watched from the sidelines. He cried for caring more about making a fool of himself than he did about putting a smile on her face, and then he laughed, because he had to laugh, when he reminded himself that the man who wouldn’t dance for fear of what people might think was now taking notes to improve his dancing-panda abilities. Danny had no idea how he had ended up here, but he knew that Liz would be proud of him. She’d be pissed that he’d waited so long to get his dancing shoes on, but she’d be proud of him.
Wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, Danny began to search for as many dancing films as he could find. He started with the ones that Krystal had mentioned and then made a list of all the others she hadn’t. Saturday Night Fever Singin’ in the Rain Moulin Rouge! Step Up (all of them—even the last one). Silver Linings Playbook Save the Last Dance Magic Mike La La Land. And as many old Torvill and Dean clips as he could find. And that’s all he did for the next two days, watching movies from the time Will went to school to the time he came home, and from the time Will went to bed until the time he woke up, rarely moving from the couch for any reason other than to use the bathroom, to forage some food from the kitchen, or to stretch his stiff but slowly healing muscles.
When he felt sufficiently recovered, Danny began to practice what Krystal had taught him as well as whatever moves he’d picked up from the films he’d recently marathoned through. He downloaded a metronome app and listened to it while doing anything and everything he could to synchronize himself with the rhythm. Brushing his teeth. Clipping his nails. Tapping his hand on the dinner table. Pacing from the front door to the kitchen and back. Nodding his head. Moving his shoulders. Nodding his head and moving his shoulders. Cleaning the windows for the first time since Liz had died, and then cleaning them again until the view didn’t look so bad anymore. Scrubbing the stain on the carpet left by his dirty work boots. Chopping carrots into slices. Chopping the slices into pieces. Chopping the pieces into smaller pieces. They ate a lot of carrots during that time, something that neither Danny nor Will was particularly thrilled about, but whether it was down to the carrots or the metronome or Krystal or Johnny Castle or a combination of all the above, it was clear that something had cha
nged when Danny returned to the park five days later. His dancing skills were still far from impressive, but they had at least evolved enough to draw a modest crowd. Also, unlike the handful of people who had stopped to watch him previously, many of whom regarded him in the same way they’d regard half a mouse lurking in their sandwich, this new wave of spectators actually seemed to enjoy his performances, if not tremendously then enough to part with whatever spare change they happened to be carrying. He made more money in that first day back at the park than he had in all the other days combined, and even though it was barely a fraction of what he owed Reg, it nevertheless felt good to receive some validation for his efforts.
As if his day couldn’t get any better, his mood was further bolstered by the sight of El Magnifico storming towards him across the park in what appeared to be a purple dressing gown.
“Where is it!” he demanded. He looked pale and fragile without his robe, like a recently evicted hermit crab.
“Are you wearing a dressing gown?” said Danny, removing his mask and staring at the man’s clothes.
“Yes, I am, and you know why, don’t you, you furry little bastard.”
“I hope you’ve got something on under there.”
“Cut the shit, ferret, where is it?”
“Where’s what?” said Danny, struggling to keep a straight face.
“You know what!” said El Magnifico. “Where’s the robe?”
“What robe?”
“You know what robe!”
“I’m sorry, La Fantastico, but I have no idea what you’re on about.”
“You know that’s not my name! And you know exactly what I’m talking about. You and Worzel fucking Gummidge over there took it.” He pointed at Tim across the park.
“Somebody stole your robe? How terrible. You can’t trust anybody these days, can you?” He pulled his mask down to hide his smile.
El Magnifico started to tremble as one eye began to twitch.
“Wait, are you just angry with me right now, or are you actually trying to set me on fire?” said Danny.
“You’ll pay for this!” said El Magnifico, marching off with his dressing gown billowing behind him like an angry homeowner searching for the paperboy who’d mangled his Telegraph.
Danny sat down and chuckled to himself as he tied his shoelaces in preparation for his next performance.
“Hi,” said a voice that was strange yet also somehow familiar.
Danny stared at his shoes, his skin prickling with excitement and his blood pumping loudly in his ears as he took a deep breath and looked up to find his son standing in front of him.
“Thanks again for the other day,” said Will.
Danny nodded, unsure what else to do. An awkward silence descended.
“What are you supposed to be anyway?” said Will, coiling and uncoiling his tie around his hand. “A panda or something?”
Danny nodded again, vaguely aware that Will was the first person to correctly guess his species but too dazed to rejoice in the fact.
“Why don’t you talk?”
Danny froze while he tried to figure out how to answer anything but a yes-or-no question. Noticing his bag by his feet, he took out the pad that he used to record his takings and scribbled something down in capital letters so Will wouldn’t recognize his terrible cursive.
Because I’m a panda, read the message.
Will smiled. “I get it,” he said. “You know, not wanting to talk. I don’t talk either.”
You sure about that? wrote Danny.
“Okay, I don’t usually talk. You’re the first person I’ve spoken to in over a year. And the first panda I’ve spoken to in, well, forever, I guess.”
How does it feel?
“I don’t know,” said Will. He shrugged. “Normal. Weird. Both.”
Why did you stop? wrote Danny, the anticipation of learning the answer to the one question that had plagued him since the accident causing his hand to shake slightly.
Will said nothing for so long that Danny started to think he’d lost him again.
“It’s hard to explain,” Will said at last.
Try, prompted Danny. Pandas are great listeners. He flicked his moth-ravaged ear for emphasis and accidentally ripped it off in the process.
“Another time maybe,” said Will, returning Danny’s rogue appendage. “I have to go.”
Danny’s pen hovered over the pad as he desperately tried to think of something to say that might keep the conversation alive, but Will was already halfway across the park by the time he’d finished writing. He looked at the paper and sighed.
Wait, read the note.
CHAPTER 18
“Hi, Will!” shouted Danny as he closed the front door and paced around the apartment excitedly. “Will? You home, mate?”
He’d left the park early that day, unable to focus on anything other than his unexpected encounter with his son. Even now, several hours later, the whole thing still seemed unreal, as if he’d just been magically cured of some terminal affliction.
He found Will playing with his iPad on his bed.
“There you are!” said Danny. He tried to look casual by leaning on the doorframe until he remembered that he never leaned on doorframes and was probably just making himself look suspicious. He stopped leaning. “How was your day?”
Will shrugged and returned to his iPad.
Danny continued undeterred. “Do anything interesting?”
Will shook his head without looking up.
“School okay?”
Will nodded, his eyes still fixed on the screen.
Danny changed tack. “What do you want for dinner?”
His son shrugged.
“We can have anything you want. Pizza. Burgers. KFC. Just say the word and it’s yours.”
Will put his iPad down and looked at Danny then.
“Anything at all,” prompted Danny. He looked like a dog waiting for a tennis ball. “Just say the word.”
Will’s eyes narrowed. His mouth opened a fraction and for a brief moment he looked like he was about to say something. Danny leaned forward, keen to catch every syllable, but the only sound that emerged from Will was that which accompanied his powerful sneeze. He wiped his nose, shrugged, and returned to his iPad.
Danny slowly backed out of the room and closed the door behind him, quietly reprimanding himself for believing that things would be so simple. Still, he couldn’t help but smile as he rummaged through the freezer that was long overdue for a defrosting and chipped a lasagna from the arctic wasteland. He was still smiling the next morning when he made his way to the park.
* * *
Danny danced for the biggest crowd he’d ever danced for that day. There must have been thirty people at least. None of them had gathered because his moves were slick, because they weren’t. Nor had they gathered because his timing was impeccable, because it wasn’t. What drew them over was the fact that even though Danny didn’t have much to give, he still gave everything he had. He performed with an energy he didn’t know he possessed, he moved with a confidence that far surpassed his abilities, and he danced without the ever-present fear that he looked completely ridiculous, which he did, but Danny didn’t care, not that day. He didn’t see the crowd that encircled him. Nor did he see El Magnifico glowering at him from across the park. He saw nothing, he heard nothing, and he felt nothing except for the music. When the track ended and Danny took a bow, it wasn’t the sound of coins landing in his lunchbox that made him smile. It was the sound of applause—real applause—that warmed his spirit. He didn’t even notice the money until the crowd had dispersed, and when he did he was shocked to find that his one performance of barely five minutes had brought him more than ten pounds in change.
By the end of the day he’d managed to make more than sixty pounds plus a handful of pennies, and by the end of the week he’d taken close to half of what he used to take home from the building site, and had a lot more fun doing it. For the first time since he’d become a danci
ng panda bear, Danny felt like what he was doing might not be so crazy after all.
* * *
“Blimey,” said Tim when he saw Danny counting his money. “Maybe I need to start dressing Milton up as an animal.”
“Milton is an animal,” said Danny, nodding at Milton.
“People don’t like cats anymore. They like pandas. You’re the park’s main attraction these days. Look at you, you’re rolling in it!”
“Hardly. I still can’t afford to pay my rent.”
“Then maybe this might help.” Tim pulled a flyer from his top pocket and handed it to Danny.
“What’s this?” he said, staring at the piece of paper pinched between his furry fingers.
“Battle of the Street Performers. Four weeks’ time. Hyde Park. First prize—”
“Ten grand!” yelled Danny. “Holy shit.”
“That should help with the rent.”
“Only if I win.”
“So, make sure you win.”
“Hold on,” said Danny, checking his phone. “What time is it?”
“Close to four.”
“Bollocks,” said Danny, slapping the flyer with the back of his hand. “I’m too late. Registration closed at three.”
“I know,” said Tim. “Which is why I signed you up this morning.”
“You’re serious?” said Danny. Tim nodded. “I want to hug you right now. Can I hug you right now?”
“I wouldn’t. Milton’s got a bit of a jealous streak. He’s basically the reason I don’t have a girlfriend. Well, that and my face.”
“Got it. Maybe just a handshake, then.”
“Probably best,” said Tim. The two men shook hands.
“Why are you helping me, by the way?” said Danny. “Won’t we be competing against each other?”
“Yeah, we will, but more importantly, we’ll be competing against El Magnifico, and the more competition he has, the less chance he has of walking away with the trophy. I don’t mind losing to you. I just don’t want to lose to David Tosserfield over there.”
Bear Necessity Page 12
