Dead Man Dancing

by Marcia Talley

  Hutch rose from the sofa and went over to sit on the arm of Ruth’s chair. She looked as if she’d been tasered, a smile – a grimace, rather – frozen on her face.

  Melanie leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees. ‘I certainly understand your reluctance to partner with a complete stranger, Hutch, but I’m in the same position as you are. Don and I were going to audition for the show and then, boom, he’s shipped off to Iraq.’ Melanie looked as disappointed as if she’d been dumped by the star quarterback at the senior prom.

  ‘The show’s very popular,’ Hutch argued. ‘I’m sure it’ll be cluttering up the airways for several seasons to come. Ruth and I can put off auditioning to another year.’

  Ruth’s expression suddenly softened. She shifted in her chair and rose (figuratively speaking) to the occasion. She lifted her chin and looked into Hutch’s eyes. ‘I don’t mind, really, I don’t. Next year we’ll be married and have other concerns.’ She turned back to Melanie. ‘Thank you, this means a lot to him.’

  ‘And to me, too, Ruth.’

  Jay rubbed his hands together rapidly. ‘Excellent!’

  ‘Hutch and I have been working on this routine,’ Ruth began, but Jay raised a hand and cut her off.

  ‘Are you free next Friday?’

  Everyone nodded, including Ruth. I knew my sister, and could translate that lower lip quiver. She’d shown courage by agreeing to Jay’s plan, but she wasn’t going to sit on the sidelines like a wallflower. Ruth would attend every rehearsal, cheering her fiancé on, and since I was her de facto chauffeur, it appeared that I wouldn’t miss a single rehearsal either.

  ‘Well, OK, then.’ Jay exhaled noisily, as if he’d been holding his breath, waiting for the go-ahead. ‘Perhaps I can have some of that plum pudding now?’

  Melanie smiled – apparently the arrangement suited her, too – but as I rose to get the cake, she surprised me by getting up from her chair. ‘Here, let me help. I’d also like some pudding, if you don’t mind.’

  Melanie followed me down the hall. While I uncovered the steamer to remove a fresh hot pudding, she wandered around the kitchen, touching Hutch’s state-of-the-art appliances with reverence and awe. ‘This under the counter wine cooler is amazing!’

  I had to agree. My wine cooler was a quick twenty minutes in the ice cube bin of my refrigerator’s freezer compartment, and Lord help me if I forgot and left the bottle in there to freeze, as often happened by bottle three, or maybe four.

  When Melanie tilted her head for a closer look at Hutch’s ‘cellar’, her hair shifted, and I noticed that she wore one of those newfangled ear bud phones. If I had an ear bud phone, I would have taken it off to go visiting, but perhaps she was expecting a call from her husband in Iraq. IEDs to avoid, suicide bombers to steer clear of; who knew when a call would come in.

  ‘The forks are in the drawer next to the stove,’ I told her as I scrabbled in the cupboard, reaching way back for the last of the hand-painted plates that matched the ones I’d used earlier. Call me a perfectionist.

  ‘Please turn around,’ Melanie said. ‘I can’t see what you’re saying.’

  I had the plates in hand by then, and nearly dropped them. I turned to face her. ‘You’re deaf?’

  ‘As a post,’ Melanie said. ‘I lost my hearing to meningitis when I was five. That’s why I talk funny.’

  ‘I never would have guessed,’ I laughed. ‘I thought you were from Boston.’

  ‘Cleveland, actually. They talk funny there, too.’

  I realized then that what I had taken for a cell phone hooked around her ear, was actually an industrial-strength hearing aide. And she wore two of them.

  While Melanie held the plates, I served up generous spoonfuls of the cake-like pudding, and topped each with a dollop of hard sauce. While the hard sauce melted and drizzled deliciously down the pudding mounds, I asked, ‘Do you sign, too?’

  ‘I know how,’ Melanie told me, ‘but I don’t use sign language very often since I lip-read so well.’

  ‘I studied ASL at AACC,’ I signed, finger-spelling the letters clumsily. It’d been several years since I’d taken the class, and I was a little rusty.

  ‘Good to know,’ she signed back.

  ‘But, how . . .?’ I began, then paused, searching for the right way to ask what might be an embarrassing question.

  Melanie interrupted me. ‘How do I dance if I can’t hear the music?’

  ‘Exactly. Do you feel vibrations through the floor or something?’

  ‘I wish. No, you’re moving around too much for that.’ She pointed to one of the plates. ‘Forks?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. I intended to tell you. They’re in the drawer by the stove.’

  Melanie picked out a couple of salad forks and arranged one on the side of each dessert plate. ‘My hearing aides help with the bass notes,’ she continued, ‘and I’ve been told that I have a good inner sense of timing.’ She smiled. ‘But do you want to know the real secret?’

  I nodded.

  ‘A good partner. All I have to do is follow his lead.’

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly got that in Hutch.’

  Melanie and I returned to the living room with the dessert, interrupting Jay in mid-sentence. From the startled looks on Ruth and Hutch’s faces, I suspected Jay had taken our absence in the kitchen as an opportunity to tell them about Melanie’s ‘handicap’.

  Melanie served Jay his pudding with a smile, then settled down in her chair to sample her own. ‘Delicious’ she said after a moment.

  ‘Ditto,’ said Jay. Once he’d swallowed, he turned his back on Melanie (deliberately, I was sure), waved his fork in the air and continued. ‘As I was saying, handicapped contestants have a leg-up with the producers, if you know what I mean. Remember Heather Mills on Dancing with the Stars?’

  Hutch nodded.

  ‘She went a long way on that artificial leg. Big sympathy vote from the fans.’ He took another bite of pudding. ‘And So You Think You Can Dance had a gal with an artificial arm, and a pint-sized dancer with rheumatoid arthritis or spina bifida or something. Judges love ’em. Melanie’s deafness could be a real asset. Trust me on that.’

  I was embarrassed for Melanie, who kept glancing in Jay’s direction, clearly suspecting that he was talking about her.

  I was about to say something, when Jay turned to look at us. His face could have been flushed with embarrassment, I suppose, but it was hard to tell what might be going on under all that tan. ‘Sorry, Melanie,’ Jay said, tap dancing as fast as he could. ‘You’re so normal in every other way, I keep forgetting you can’t hear.’

  Melanie managed a sugary smile. ‘If that’s a compliment, Jay, I’ll accept it.’

  When Jay turned his attention back to Hutch, Melanie flapped a hand to get my attention, then began signing. ‘A-S-S-H-O . . .’

  If anyone wondered why the two of us began laughing hysterically, they never asked.

  Twelve

  The following Wednesday, while I was sorting laundry, Eva called. ‘I got your Christmas card today, and the delightful surprise that was inside.’

  I’d sent my friend a gift certificate for Spa Paradiso. ‘I thought you could use some pampering, Eva.’

  ‘That was very thoughtful and generous.’

  ‘Special deal,’ I chuckled. ‘Seems I know the owners.’ I folded a washcloth and set it on top of a stack of towels. ‘Are you going to cash it in any time soon?’

  ‘I’d love it if you’d go with me, Hannah. Any chance of that?’

  I frowned at the laundry basket, a sink full of dirty dishes, two loaves of bread rising in their pans on the countertop and said, ‘How about tomorrow?’

  Eva and I arranged to meet at the reception desk of the spa at nine, but I pulled into the parking lot a bit late. I had taken my time getting there, enjoying the drive through Eastport and out Bay Ridge as the road narrowed, snaked through woods, topped a hill, until there it was, spread out before me in all its ice-blue winter beauty – the Chesa
peake Bay. Built on the site of a former restaurant, Spa Paradiso had inherited its landscaping and spectacular view, including a generous front lawn sloping gently down to end at a sandy beach gently lapped by the water. I smiled as I drove through the spa gates, up a short drive and pulled into one of the two parking spaces reserved for ‘Family’.

  Eva was waiting, dressed for the occasion in a gray U.S.N.A. tracksuit, her shaggy hair pulled back into a ponytail. She’d been reading one of the wellness brochures the staff had tucked into acrylic holders arranged along the countertop.

  ‘Did you bring a bathing suit?’ I asked.

  Eva returned the brochure to its holder, then tugged up on the hem of her top, revealing an expanse of bright red Lycra.

  ‘That will do nicely,’ I said.

  We signed in together, consulted briefly with Heather, our spa guide, and reached an easy agreement on the plan of the day: hot tub, full body massage, lunch by the pool, and haircuts, in that order. Heather escorted us to the luxurious dressing room – a far cry from the one used by the ladies at J & K – where we stripped off our clothes, hung them in a locker, and wrapped ourselves in the plush pink spa robes.

  ‘Ready?’ I asked Eva, who was wandering trance-like around the dressing room, running her fingertips over the lockers (walnut), the countertops (polished marble), and poking her head into the multi-jet shower stalls where state-of-the-art dispensers held body wash (lavender), shampoo (aloe and honey), and conditioner (peach). ‘Remind me to look out for bees after this,’ Eva said.

  ‘It is wonderful, isn’t it? Dante hired the same architect who designed the spa at Pinehurst, North Carolina and a number of other fancy spas.’

  Eva followed me into the hot-tub room where we padded in our terry cloth spa slippers over to the drinks bar which was kept stocked with a constant supply of fruit juice, herbal teas, and water. I brewed myself a cup of lemon-ginger tea, but noticed that Eva thumbed lackadaisically through the tea bag selection. Perhaps she wasn’t in the mood for tea. ‘When Heather comes to check on us in a couple of minutes, you can order a fruit smoothie, if you prefer.’

  ‘Strawberry?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ I said, remembering Dante’s decadent recipe for smoothies.

  A few short minutes later, tea and smoothie in hand, Eva and I eased into the hot tub, submerging ourselves gradually as our bodies adjusted to the heat. When we were both neck-deep, Eva closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the rubber head support that Heather had positioned for each of us along the tiled edge of the tub. ‘Ah! Jesus, take me now, because I have died and gone to heaven.’ She sucked a bit of smoothie through a straw. ‘This may be the last moment of peace I have the rest of my life.’

  Until that point, I’d been blissed out, with only my head and the hand holding my tea cup out of the water. My eyes flew open and I stared at Eva. ‘What do you mean?’

  Eva sighed. ‘I wanted to get comfortable before I told you.’

  ‘Told me what?’

  ‘Jeremy knows I’m no longer in Utah.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘I would have said hell’s bells.’

  ‘Same difference. How did he find out?’

  Eva closed her eyes and sank until the water bubbled over her shoulders. ‘Some helpful parishioner, I imagine. I’ve run into a few people from St Cat’s at the grocery store.’ She took another sip of smoothie. ‘But I haven’t actually laid eyes on the guy.’

  ‘How do you know he’s found you?’

  ‘Two weeks ago the van from Flowers by James pulled up to the St Anne’s Parish office and dropped off a dozen long-stemmed roses.’

  ‘From Jeremy?’

  ‘Uh huh. The card said: To Eva. You are the Rose of Sharon and the lily of MY valley.’ She groaned. ‘Lord help me I can remember every word.’

  Holding my cup aloft, I slid down until my head was completely under water, my cry of argh! making bubbles in the water. When I came up for air, Eva was giggling just a bit hysterically, making me wonder what they’d put into her smoothie. I said, ‘So, did you keep the flowers?’

  ‘I did not. I took them over when I visited Bessie Brelsford at Manresa,’ she said, naming one of Annapolis’s high-end assisted living facilities. Manresa, a former Jesuit retreat, boasted a panoramic view of the Severn River from the Naval Academy all the way down to where the river spilled into the Chesapeake Bay.

  ‘Has the creep shown up to see how you liked the flowers?’

  ‘No, thank goodness. I haven’t seen him at all, so I was counting my blessings, until yesterday.’

  ‘What happened yesterday?’

  ‘The UPS man paid a visit.’ Eva sipped her smoothie and didn’t say anything for what seemed like five minutes, but was probably only five seconds. The silence drove me nuts.

  ‘Eva! Don’t torture me!’

  ‘Jeremy’d sent a box of See’s chocolates. Dark chocolate-covered caramels, to be precise. This time the card said: Dear Eva, Your words are sweeter than honey to my mouth.’

  ‘Who’d you give the candy to?’

  ‘Are you kidding? I love See’s chocolates. I ate them all, practically in one sitting, while feeling sorry for myself and watching a Monk marathon on USA.’ She set her empty tumbler on the tiled floor next to the tub. ‘I’ve been catching up with Hollywood since I didn’t have TV in Utah,’ she said by way of explanation.

  That wasn’t the explanation I was looking for. ‘Have you talked to Hutch about this?’ I asked, growing concerned.

  Eva nodded. ‘Sort of. I called his office and left a message. But if Jeremy isn’t actually harassing me, I’m not sure there’s anything Hutch or the police or anybody can do.’ She sighed, hoisted herself out of the water with both arms, and perched on the side of the tub, legs dangling. She retrieved her towel and started wiping her forehead. ‘I’ll have to face Jeremy eventually when I go back to St Cat’s. There he’ll be, sitting out in the congregation and gazing at me as if I were Mother Theresa.’

  ‘Jeremy or no Jeremy, I can’t wait for you to come back,’ I said. ‘St Cat’s has really missed you. The interim, Rory Chase, is a good man – and quite a fine preacher, by the way – but it’s just not the same without you.’

  ‘You can’t exactly forbid someone from coming to church, can you?’ Eva mused, obviously referring to Jeremy Dunstan and not the good Reverend Chase.

  Not like keeping pedophiles away from schools. The thought leaped into my head, but I kept it to myself. Eva had troubles enough without being reminded of her late husband.

  Eva slipped the rubber band off her ponytail, shook her head and used her fingers to fluff out her hair. ‘In anticipation of going back to St Cat’s in two months’ time, I’m counting on Wally to give me that professional cut you were talking about.’

  ‘Have you decided whether to color it?’

  ‘No, I find I’m rather liking the gray. I’m planning to ask Wally to cut off everything that’s not gray, so my head doesn’t look like a piece of candy corn.’

  She noticed me staring at her hair: dark brown at the ends, reddish brown in the middle, with about three inches of white where it emerged from her scalp. ‘Don’t ask how it got that way,’ Eva said with a grin. ‘It’s what happens when you do-it-yourself with products well past their sell-by date, bought over the counter at a combination pharmacy and farm supply store in rural Utah.

  ‘It’ll be kind of short, Eva.’

  ‘I don’t care if it is short. Although, that could set the man off.’

  ‘Who? Wally?’

  ‘No, Jeremy Dunstan. I can hear him now: “But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her.” First Corinthians, chapter eleven, verse fifteen.’ She snorted. ‘Right now it’s closer to something from the Song of Solomon: “Thy hair is as a flock of goats.”’ She gathered the offending tresses together at the nape of her neck, wrapped the rubber band haphazardly around it, then rejoined me in the spa.

  ‘If Hutch or one of his associates doe
sn’t call you back by tomorrow, you let me know. Promise? He won’t intentionally ignore you, but he’s had a lot on his mind lately. Have you heard what he’s up to?’

  ‘He’s an attorney. That can cover a lot of territory. Are you going to make me guess?’

  ‘No, sorry. Here’s the thing: Hutch has been encouraged by his dance instructor to audition for a reality show on television, something called Shall We Dance? Have you heard of it?’

  She raised a hand, dripping water. ‘No TV, remember?’

  ‘It’s like American Idol meets So You Think You Can Dance.’

  ‘Hannah, you might as well be speaking Serbo-Croatian. Explain, please.’

  ‘Couples audition to be chosen as one of twelve pairs who compete for the title of best dancers. The winners each get $10,000, a Chrysler Crossfire Roadster, and the use of an apartment in New York City for a year.’

  Eva sat up straight, adjusted the headrest. ‘Sounds wonderful, but when are the auditions, and will Ruth’s leg be healed in time?’

  ‘Alas, no. With Ruth out of commission, Hutch has agreed to enter the try-outs with another one of Jay’s students, a young dancer named Melanie.’

  ‘And Ruth’s OK with that?’

  ‘She seems to be.’

  Eva closed her eyes, apparently mulling that over. After a few minutes had ticked away, she spoke. ‘What’s Hutch going to do with an apartment in New York City? Commute to Annapolis?’

  ‘I guess he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it,’ I said. Just like everyone else in our family, though, I was already mentally planning museum excursions and theater weekends to New York City.

  Like Momma always said, It pays to plan ahead.

  Thirteen

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Ruth announced from the depths of her recliner when I showed up the following day to help her survive yet another day on crutches.

  ‘Call the New York Times!’ I quipped.

  ‘Hannah, be serious, for once.’

  I put down the clothes hamper I’d been in the process of lugging to the basement and gave Ruth my full attention. ‘OK, I’m listening.’