Dead Man Dancing

by Marcia Talley

  Ten minutes later, the waiter was back with the check on a black plastic tray covered with fortune cookies. Neelie slipped the bill out from under the pile of cookies and handed it to Dad, then took charge of the tray. ‘Fortune cookies, anyone?’

  I love fortune cookies, especially with Chinese tea, so I grabbed first. I tore off the cellophane wrapping and, as was our family custom, prepared to read it aloud, when Ruth beat me to the punch. ‘Listen to this: “A closed mouth gathers no feet”.’

  Paul snorted. ‘Closed mouth? You, Ruth? That’ll be the day.’

  ‘Speak for yourself, Professor,’ Ruth said. ‘So, what does yours say?’

  ‘Let’s see here.’ Paul tore open the packet with his teeth, and read, ‘“A member of your family will soon do something that will make you proud”.’ He considered each of us seated around the table in turn, grinning. ‘OK, which one of you is going to make me proud. Ruth? Surely this must refer to your dancing.’

  Ruth blushed. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

  It was also a family custom, appropriated from our daughter Emily, who picked it up from her classmates at Bryn Mawr College, to add the phrase ‘in between the sheets’ to the end of any cookie fortune.

  Paul smacked his forehead with the flat of his hand. ‘Duh.’

  Hutch had been part of the family long enough to be familiar with the game. He reached across the table for the fortune. ‘Hey, Paul, can I see that?’

  Paul surrendered the slip of paper to Hutch who made an elaborate show of putting on his glasses, clearing his throat, and reading, ‘“A member of your family will soon do something that will make you proud – in between the sheets.”’ He laughed out loud, gave Ruth an affectionate peck on the cheek. ‘Now that’s more like it.’

  Neelie opened her fortune, then dissolved into giggles. ‘Mine says, “Flattery will go far tonight – in between the sheets”.’

  Daddy slipped an arm around Neelie’s shoulders, and gave her a hug, an intimate gesture, which made me wonder just how ‘platonic’ their relationship was. Daddy’s fortune, when he held it up close to read it next, did nothing to dissuade me of the notion that when he got Neelie home, he was going to jump her bones: ‘“A thrilling time is in your immediate future – in between the sheets”,’ he read.

  At least Neelie had the manners to blush attractively as she said, ‘Your turn, Hutch.’

  Hutch read: ‘“He who laughs at himself never runs out of things to laugh at . . .”’ He paused, then balled up his fortune and tossed it into his empty tea cup.

  ‘. . . in between the sheets?’ Ruth added.

  ‘I hope that’s not a commentary on my, um, equipment.’ Hutch raised an eyebrow.

  Ruth punched him in the arm. ‘As if!’ Then she turned to me. ‘Well?’

  I’d been holding the slip of paper between my thumb and index finger thinking about its significance, hoping it wasn’t an omen. ‘“If you want the rainbow, you must put up with the rain – in between the sheets”,’ I read.

  Everyone laughed.

  As fortunes go, though, mine turned out to be depressingly accurate, if you discounted the part about the sheets.

  Four

  To the casual observer, waiting for his car to be finished at JiffyLube across West Street, our mass exodus from China Garden must have resembled a bomb scare. The six of us, irresponsibly responsible (ecologically speaking) for four automobiles, pulled out of the restaurant parking lot almost simultaneously; Ruth’s aged green Taurus in the lead, and Hutch’s burgundy BMW just behind. The cortège turned right on to West Street, and right again at the traffic light at the intersection of West Street and Chinquapin Round Road, the busy corner where a condominium complex called 1901 West had replaced the venerable Johnson Lumber yard which had served Annapolis’s home construction needs for more than seventy-five years. The developers had reserved space on the ground floor of the high-rise for retail shops, but with the exception of a lone, optimistic Starbucks, no retailers had stepped up to the plate, and the storefronts had remained vacant for more than a year.

  A few blocks later, Paul pulled into one of two dozen marked parking spaces reserved for clients of J & K, where we sat, idling, listening to the end of Marketplace on WNPR, and waiting for Daddy and Cornelia to catch up with us. The J & K parking lot was on George Avenue, directly across from The Rapture Church. Down the street and to the left was the Harley-Davidson dealership. We’d just driven past Mr Garbage, Global Van Lines and The Air Works, light industrial businesses that were typical of this part of town.

  ‘Air Works?’ Paul asked, switching off the ignition as Marketplace came to an end.

  I shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t like to speculate.’

  The J & K building itself, flat-roofed and constructed of cinder blocks painted a creamy yellow, was as far removed from the modern brick, glass and steel facades of the towering condos two blocks away as a building could possibly be. In a former life, it had probably been a dark and dreary warehouse, but in converting it to a dance studio, the contractors had opened the building up to the light by replacing the cinder blocks along one wall with a row of picture windows. Through the windows, illuminated by bright overhead track lighting, I could see polished wooden floors. Mirrors covered the opposite wall, reflecting our cloaked, gloved and hooded images as we peered in.

  Paul turned toward the entrance, but I tugged on his sleeve. ‘Look, Paul.’

  Inside the studio, two couples were circling the ballroom, dancing to music we couldn’t hear. From the hopping, bobbing and quick little running steps they were doing, I guessed it must be the quickstep. One tall, impossibly slim couple was dressed almost identically in black stretch pants and white, sleeveless, high-necked tank tops. The second male dancer wore a green polo shirt with white and yellow horizontal stripes, tucked into a pair of slim black jeans. Only someone as trim as he could have gotten away with horizontal stripes, I thought. His partner was a woman I guessed to be in her early thirties looking incredibly sexy in a red leotard. A comb headband held her chestnut hair away from her forehead, and her shoulder-length curls bounced like springs as her partner led her in a series of slow-quick-quick-slow-slow steps across the dance floor. Then, after an appraising glance at the other couple, they switched seamlessly to a quick-and-quick-and-quick-quick-slow pattern that was so rapid and intricate, I marveled that their legs didn’t get impossibly tangled, causing them to trip and fall down in a heap.

  I squeezed Paul’s arm. ‘I want to learn that. Doesn’t it look like fun?’

  ‘Looks suspiciously aerobic to me,’ Paul complained cheerfully.

  ‘Aerobic, yes, but without the boring bits.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to run a couple of 800-meter dashes?’

  I was about to clobber him with my handbag, when Ruth and Hutch arrived and joined us at the window.

  ‘I can’t believe how much this area has changed, Hannah. Guess I’ve been spending too much time in my shop.’ Ruth pointed to the Rapture Church across the street. ‘The last time I went into that building, I was wearing red and white shoes a half size too big, and I bowled a 120.’

  With chain-store encroachment, rising rents, and the recession (whatever the economist Alan Greenspan might have had to say to the contrary), Ruth had been through a couple of tough years with Mother Earth, the New Age shop she owned on Main Street in downtown Annapolis. But with a renewed emphasis on stocking natural, eco-friendly products, she was turning a tidy profit these days, enough to hire a full-time assistant so she didn’t have to shanghai relatives like me to store-sit on a regular basis.

  I did my part, though. My elderly LeBaron boasted one of her ‘Compost Happens’ bumper stickers, and my kitchen shelves were stocked with spice jars made out of re-blown beer bottles, and bags of fair trade coffee and tea. I’d bought a hemp notebook, and a picture frame made of recycled newspapers from her shop, but I drew the line at alternative menstrual products like washable GladRags (Glad? Get real.)
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  As the four of us rounded the corner of the building, Daddy was waiting for us, holding open one of the glass double doors. Neelie waited inside, and we tumbled in after her, appreciating the welcoming blast of warm air. We huddled to the right of the doors waiting politely for the dancers to finish, enjoying both the warmth of the ballroom, and the impromptu exhibition. Now we were inside, I could hear the music: Cole Porter’s ‘It’s Delovely’.

  Unaccountably, my heart did a flip-flop. I grabbed Paul’s hand and squeezed. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  Paul turned his head and grinned down at me. ‘I hope neither of us will regret it, sweetie.’

  The music ended and one couple made a swooping spin while the other did a death drop finish. I realized that we had been watching a private coaching session between a pair of instructors – red leotard and green shirt – and a couple of advanced pupils – the black and white twins. After giving her pupils a brief critique, the woman in red dismissed her partner and came over to us, breathless. ‘You must be Ruth,’ she said to me, extending her hand. ‘Jay told me your group was coming. I’m Alicia Sweeney.’ She nodded toward the guy in the striped shirt. ‘Chance Baldwin and I will be your instructors tonight.’

  I squeezed her hand. ‘Hi, Alicia. I’m Hannah Ives. That spiky-haired individual over there is the bride, my sister, Ruth.’

  Alicia giggled charmingly, then beamed her 1000-watt smile on Ruth. ‘So you’re the bride?’

  Ruth’s cheeks, already red from the cold, got redder. ‘And this is my fiancé, Hutch,’ the blushing bride said.

  After introductions all round, Alicia pointed out the closet, and the dressing rooms. ‘One for the boys and one for the girls. Bathrooms are in there, too.’

  Alicia waited until we’d hung up our coats, then clapped her hands to get our attention. Chance had relocated to an alcove containing what appeared to be a state-of-the-art console, where he was fiddling with dials and punching buttons. Black, industrial-size EV speakers were supported on tripods on either side of the alcove.

  Alicia herded us into two lines, facing one another, boys on one side and girls on the other, just like sixth grade. ‘First,’ she said, draping her right arm over Ruth’s shoulders, ‘we’re going to learn the waltz. Picture yourself, Ruth, your wedding gown frothing around you, dancing in the arms of your prince.’ With her left arm, she made a sweeping motion, indicating Hutch. ‘Waltzing, waltzing, one-two-three, one-two-three, just like Cinderella at the ball.’ She went on in relentless fairy tale mode for a minute more while across the room, Paul tried to act cute by pantomiming dabbing at his eyes with a tissue and mouthing, ‘I think I’m going to cry.’

  I gave him the evil eye.

  Somewhere in the middle of an anecdote about Sleeping Beauty, just as I was about to cry, Alicia finally wound down. ‘Chance. Over to you.’

  ‘First, the man’s part,’ said Chance, smoothly taking over from Alicia. ‘Gentlemen. Watch me.’

  He raised both arms, as if holding an invisible woman. ‘Think of the waltz as drawing a box on the floor. We start with our feet together, like this. Then – watch me now – left foot forward, right foot to the side, left foot closes to the right foot, right foot back, left foot side, right foot closes to the left foot. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. Now, you try.’

  I watched with some pride as Daddy and Paul executed the steps flawlessly. Hutch, bless his heart, performed the maneuver right along with them, as if he hadn’t been doing box steps all his life.

  Alicia coached us ladies through our steps, which were mirror images of the guys’ – right-left-right, left-right-left – until we got it perfectly, too.

  ‘The waltz,’ Alicia said, planting herself midway between our ragged boy-meets-girl lines, ‘was first introduced in the early 1800s, but denounced by the church for its immorality. It was the first time polite society had seen a man holding a woman so close to his body, and in public, too! But that, of course, was what made the dance so appealing, and why the waltz is here to stay.’

  ‘For the waltz, and for most ballroom,’ she continued, ‘we use the basic, closed position.’ Alicia clapped her hands again. ‘OK, find your partner.’

  I waltzed across the room to Paul, muttering, ‘One-two-three, one-two-three,’ as I went. Paul gathered me into his arms, his left hand in my right, my hand and forearm resting lightly on his upper arm, and we waited for our position to be inspected and approved.

  Alicia made some minor adjustments to Daddy and Neelie’s posture, then turned her attention to us, moving Paul’s hand from the small of my back up to my shoulder blade. ‘Slightly cup your hand, Paul, don’t spread your fingers out.’

  Meanwhile, Chance had retreated to the control panel where he appeared to be waiting for a signal from Alicia.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Alicia. ‘Go.’

  Almost immediately, the music began, an electronic version of ‘You Light Up My Life’. Paul waited, nodding his head in time to the music, whispering, ‘One-two-three, one-two-three,’ until the vocalist began crooning, ‘So many nights . . .’ before we stepped out. We made it all the way down the length of the ballroom before Paul stomped hard on my toe – ‘Shit!’ – and I lost my concentration.

  ‘Gosh, sorry, Hannah.’

  ‘No problem.’

  His breath was warm on my neck. ‘One-two-three, left-right-left.’ Paul tapped a foot for two bars, getting his bearings before setting off again, this time narrowly missing a collision with Hutch and Ruth who were quite literally floating counter-clockwise around the dance floor, eyes locked, seemingly oblivious to anyone but themselves.

  As I said, I’d watched dance shows on TV, and except for the sexy, steamy numbers like the cha-cha and the paso doble, I thought it must be against the rules for couples to look at one another. In my experience, the guy’d be staring deadpan left, and the girl would be gazing at some fixed spot over his right shoulder with a crimson-lipped, full-toothed perma-grin on her face. But there was something so up close and personal going on between Hutch and Ruth on the dance floor just then, that Paul and I stopped dancing and stood transfixed.

  ‘Jeesh,’ Paul whispered in my ear, ‘get a hotel room.’

  I jabbed him in the ribs with my elbow.

  By then, even the instructors had stopped what they were doing to watch my sister and her fiancé.

  ‘I thought you told me Ruth hadn’t danced in years,’ Paul muttered under his breath.

  ‘She hasn’t,’ I said, but couldn’t believe it either.

  While we watched, Hutch eased Ruth into an effortless six-count underarm turn.

  And the music ended.

  Everyone breathed a collective, ‘Ahhhh.’

  For a moment, nobody spoke. Then we burst into applause.

  Still holding Ruth’s hand, Hutch made the tiniest of bows.

  ‘Now, don’t tell me they’re beginners,’ a voice behind me grumbled.

  It belonged to the guy half of the black and white-clad, quick-stepping couple.

  ‘Well, he isn’t, but my sister is,’ I told him. ‘Or at least she’s supposed to be.’

  I glared in Ruth’s direction. Clearly, she had been practicing, and I wanted to know what all that bullshit in my kitchen that morning had been about.

  ‘Tom Wilson,’ the guy said, extending his hand. ‘This is my partner, Laurie Wainwright.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Tom. Laurie. You were fabulous out there, by the way.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Laurie, adjusting the bright red scarf she wore around her neck. Her voice was low and throaty, sexy, like Lauren Bacall. Or me with a chest cold. ‘We’re practicing for the Sweetheart Ball International Championships in DC in mid-February. We’re dancing intermediate.’

  ‘That’s gold,’ Tom explained.

  ‘Gold?’

  ‘The competitions have several levels,’ he said.

  Laurie said, ‘With a partner like that, your sister could go straight from Newcomer to Br
onze, don’t you agree, Tom?’

  ‘God, yes. He’s amazing.’

  Alicia and Chance were trying to gather their far-flung sheep back into the fold for what I imagined would be another go at the waltz, when a door at the back of the room flew open, and a woman dressed in a pink tracksuit breezed out – Kay Giannotti.

  I caught her eye.

  She waved.

  I waved.

  Kay was carrying her coat, making a beeline for the door, when she stopped so suddenly that her pink-trimmed Nikes squeaked on the hardwood floor, almost as if she’d been shot.

  But it wasn’t a bullet that had brought the woman up short, it was Hutch. ‘Hutch? I swear to God, it’s Hutch Hutchinson.’

  Hutch dropped Ruth’s hand as if it had suddenly grown hot. He squinted at the woman bearing down on him like a diminutive, but determined tank. ‘Kathleen? Kathleen O’Reilly?

  Ruth moved aside as Kay pounced on Hutch, enveloping him in a hug. ‘My god, it’s good to see you!’ Kay purred. ‘What brings you here, to my studio of all places?’

  ‘Your studio?’ Hutch shook his head, and then the penny dropped. ‘Kay? The “K” stands for Kathleen?’

  Kay tucked a wayward strand of long blonde hair behind her ear. ‘When Jay and I hooked up, it seemed like a good idea. Jay. Kay. The Kay kind of stuck, but my credit cards still say Kathleen.’

  ‘How many years has it been? Twenty? Twenty-five?’

  ‘Who the hell’s counting?’ Kay waved a manicured hand, setting enough silver bracelets jangling to make up a Slinky. ‘After we left Ithaca, you promised we’d stay in touch. And you didn’t, you naughty boy.’ Kay had neatly inserted herself between Hutch and Ruth. Hutch was red-faced with embarrassment, and Ruth, red-faced, too, seemed ready to explode. ‘Hutch and I were quite a team. We won the Intercollegiate Dance Spectacular three years in a row, didn’t we?’ She pinched his cheek with easy familiarity, as if she were an elderly aunt and Hutch were a child. ‘Have you kept up with your dancing?’