Bone Dance

by Martha Brooks

  Lonny fell back in the sand and laughed some more.

  “Robert,” he said, patting his friend’s back. “Don’t tell me you’re getting into some weird shit. Let’s buy you a cup of coffee, man, and sober you up. Then we’ve got to get home. Pop’s likely going crazy by now, wondering where I am.”

  They went into Deena’s Deli and ordered two cups of coffee and a couple of burgers to go. They stood waiting by the big front window. The door swung open and shut, open and shut. The place was busier than usual, but Deena, her wild blond hair flying, her skinny hips held skinnier by faded jeans, her long freckled neck gleaming with sweat, came out of the kitchen at the back to deliver their order herself. She placed it on the counter, peered at them through her bangs, and said to Lonny, “Honey, you look a mess. Where have you been sleeping all night?”

  “On the beach.” Lonny grinned at his mom’s old friend and then at Robert, who was smiling foolishly as Deena leaned over. Her breasts were compact and golden all the way down the front of her navy blue V-necked sweater. “How did you know we didn’t go home?”

  “I know everything there is to know about you and then some,” she said, easing a couple of napkins into the bag that held their order. “And you didn’t call home either.” She raised her eyes, smiled, shook her head. “He called not more than five minutes ago. Looking for you. You want me to tell him you’re on your way?”

  “It’s okay, Deena,” Lonny said, chuckling. “We’ll be home before you know it.”

  The day of his mom’s funeral, it had been Deena who had comforted him, back home, as Pop lay in his room on the bed that he and Lonny’s mom had shared for only four years. Pop was inconsolable, so full of grief that he couldn’t stand up.

  Lonny thought about how he saw Deena practically every other day. But he still couldn’t talk to her about his mom. He couldn’t because Deena carried her grief around, wore it close to the surface. It was visible in the way she wiped off the red-topped tables, her bony shoulder blades moving sharply beneath her thin knitted tops, beneath her honey-colored flesh. It was there, probably, when she groomed her horses, up the road from them, on that little piece of land she had lived on ever since her hippie days. It was there, he could plainly see, in every lonely look she gave to Pop whenever he shyly ordered the daily special.

  He thought back to how, in the year following his mom’s death, they saw less and less of Deena. And then one September day she’d come riding down the road on her horse. He had been sitting there, chucking rocks into the ditch. Across the way in the wheat field, Pop was combining, sitting high in the air-conditioned cab, his total attention on getting another crop off the land before freeze-up.

  It was Saturday. Lonny was supposed to be out on the land, helping. But when he wouldn’t, Pop swore under his breath and left him lying facedown in bed, inhaling the smell of sour sheets.

  Deena slid off her horse and left the animal to wander down and graze in the ditch. Lonny continued to chuck stones. He didn’t even want to see her. That’s how bad he felt. Maybe she’ll go away, he thought. She’s stupid, just stupid.

  But she sat down in the grass beside him, her hands on her knees. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around,” she said. “I’ve been really busy.”

  Yeah, right, he thought. Liar, you big liar.

  And then she said, “I miss her, too.”

  She moved closer. He felt her gently tug on the elastic that held back his hair until it was free, blowing in the hot prairie wind. He could smell an earthy perfume rising off her skin. She combed her fingers through his hair, her nails raking his scalp in a soothing way, and then she tied it back again.

  “Your mom always liked you to wear your hair this way,” she said.

  “Robert,” he told her, “that first day I met him? He was standing at the drinking fountain, and he told me I was an Indian.”

  Deena laughed. She had a wonderful warm musical laugh. “That’s obvious,” she said. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.” Lonny grinned at her. “I stared him down. I made him look away and be ashamed. Nobody teased me about my hair after that. The girls wanted to touch it.”

  “I’ll bet they did,” said Deena, smiling into her open hands. “You have a way about you that’s so much like her, you know. So much like your mom.”

  He sank his head down, felt his hair resting between his shoulder blades. “Yeah, well, I’m not her,” he mumbled. “She’s gone. And she’s never coming back.”

  “Do you ever talk to your pop about this?”

  “About what?” He lifted his head, gave her an angry look.

  “About how you’re feeling.”

  “I’m not feeling anything,” Lonny said defiantly. “And Pop would be better off without me.”

  “Oh, don’t say that,” she told him, and the sun glanced harshly across her face, lighting it with a fierce white light. “You are all he has. You’re his reason for getting up in the morning. He likes taking care of you.”

  It was a moment that stood out in his heart. To be all somebody has, to be their reason for getting out of bed, that was something you could hold on to— even if nothing else mattered.

  Months of silence were replaced, after that visit with Deena, by a thousand little kindnesses. A floor scrubbed. A vase of blue prairie asters on the table. The black shoes Pop had worn to the dance the night Mom died were pulled out of the bottom of his closet, polished, the laces replaced, and left conspicuously beside his chair where he would find them.

  And from Pop, a new hockey stick laid across Lonny’s bed. A hand briefly hugging his shoulder as he sat doing his homework. The word son appearing in every single request: “Come to town with me, son.” Or, “Help me with the chores now, son.” Blessing him, pulling him away from his dark thoughts.

  They left Deena’s Deli, and he and Robert got into Pop’s truck and ate their burgers, parked on the main street of the town of Lacs des Placottes. Its sun-soaked streets, its tall overhanging trees, the cheerful mall by the grain elevator, the farmers and their round wives, the John Deere dealership up the street, the bakery and all the pretty girls who worked there had seemed at first strange to him when he was a small boy, coming from Winnipeg.

  Tammy Martel slowly made her way up the street, a white T-shirt skimming her navel, her little dark-haired brother leaping on the end of her hand like a trout fighting air.

  “Hey, Tammy,” Robert called out the window, slapping the side of Pop’s truck. “C’mere!”

  Tammy in a back bedroom at Tyler Lakusta’s family cabin on Fatback Lake. An eleventh-grade drinking party with a mix of kids from all over the valley. Tammy, breathing underneath him, her hair smelling like vanilla. For weeks after, she would call him at home, show up at the gas station, arrange to sit beside him in band class, her slender hands moving like liquid up and down the strings of a bass guitar.

  By then, he had moved on to Jen, her arms fragile as wings, her breath hot as July, who pulled him behind Petro-Can, where they both worked, and said, “I don’t know where you think this is going, Lonny, but I’m tired of your bullshit. Talk to me.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

  “Sure you do,” said Jen. “Do you think you can just go around getting involved with people’s hearts and then walk around like you don’t respect them?”

  “What? What the hell have I done? Tell me what I did.”

  “You don’t call me, that’s what. Then, when you feel like it, you pick me up and take me to the quarry, and you pull out a blanket and a condom, and I’m supposed to be so damn impressed. Well, I’m sick of it. You don’t love me. You don’t talk to me. I’m just some… some temporary distraction. What the hell is wrong with you?” She stood there waiting for him to deny his guilt. But it was true what she said.

  After a long terrible silence, in which he kicked at the ground and wished for it all to be over, she finally said, “You just like to screw me. That’s all. No big deal. Nothing. I’m a person,
Lon. Look at me.” Big tears welled up in her eyes, rolled down her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. It’s me, Jen,” Lonny mumbled. “I’m sorry… for everything.”

  “Oh, yeah, you big jerk,” she sobbed, her thin shoulders heaving. “Don’t you ever touch me again.”

  Tammy Martel strolled toward the truck, Lonny’s side. Her baby brother broke free and crouched down in his little red rubber boots, his John Deere cap slapped on the back of his head. Lonny watched him scratch a beautiful iridescent green beetle out from between the cracks of the sidewalk and place it, helpless, on its back in the center of his palm.

  “Hi,” said Tammy, dangling one soft perfumed arm over the open window, her brunette hair a shiny cloud around her face.

  Robert, face flushed, said, “What are you doing later?”

  “Nothing much,” she said casually, peeling away to glance back at her brother, who was now poking at the desperate beetle with a small stick. Lonny had to look away to keep himself from saying something.

  “You want to do something later?” Robert asked Tammy.

  “Like what?” she said flatly, shifting so that her arm almost touched Lonny’s shoulder.

  “We’ll go to the drive-in. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. Shane, we have to go. Are you finished torturing that thing?”

  Shane looked up, grinned, swiped the dead beetle on his jacket.

  “Bye,” Tammy said softly to Lonny, and then she disappeared from the window.

  Robert called after her, “I’ll pick you up around seven!” And he watched, hopefully, for several seconds before he finally turned his head back to Lonny. “Did you see the way she looked at me? Did you? This is amazing. This is my lucky day, man.”

  “Yeah,” Lonny said wearily.

  After that, they went home, where Lonny tried to get used to the idea of the LaFrenière land now belonging to some spoiled-rotten city girl who didn’t deserve it. And not to Pop, who did.

  A month later he was still not used to the idea.

  “Maybe she’ll just not bother to show up,” he said, taking his morning coffee out in the June sunlight to join Pop on the front steps.

  Pop slowly sipped his coffee and looked up at the drifting clouds. “She’ll be here,” he said. “It’s just a matter of time.”

  11

  Mid-June and the morning of their graduation dance. She and Serena were going as each other’s date. Sprawled on top of Alex’s bed, they were doing their goddess thing. Alex painted Serena’s toenails. Gypsy Gold.

  Out of the blue, Serena opened her mouth and said, “If it were me, I’d sell the land, take part of the money, and spend it on a modest vacation to, say, oh—Brazil! Then I’d invest the rest in Serena’s Catering Service. It’s the best gift. No strings attached. Alex, why haven’t you at least gone out there? You’ve had it for five months already. Don’t you even want to see it? We could go together. Let’s do that!”

  Outside, the noisy traffic whined by. Serena dropped an orange section into her mouth and said, “Come on, it’d be fun.”

  Alex flicked bloodred, gold-flecked polish on Serena’s toes. Flick. Flick. Flick. Skip a beat. Skip a breath. And a sudden image spun wildly in, crashing powerfully against her heart. A bone-shaped lake with the hill of her dreams rising above. Grandpa and Old Raven Man fishing at the rocky shoreline. Grandpa’s fish breaks the surface. Beads of water, flung from its massive tail, arc far across the dark green skin of the lake. It flips and dances and fills the sky. It’s the mother of all fishes, full of God and terrifying magic. Old Raven Man suddenly sits down, laughing, his long birdlike hands slapping his knees. Grandpa turns his head. His lips form these unmistakable words: “Alexandra! It’s time!”

  She smeared the polish. This is not normal, she thought. Normal people do not go around having visions.

  Serena rescued the pot of Gypsy Gold. “What?” she said with a strange smile. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  12

  She and Serena sat at their table at midnight. Purple and white balloons drifted across the floor. A few couples still danced under the dim lights. A scattering of people in the bathrooms were throwing up. Jason Lavoie swayed over to their table with Melissa Singar-ajah on his arm. He was very drunk, and she more or less held him up.

  “Alex,” he said, falling into a chair beside her. “Alex,” he breathed again.

  Melissa folded her arms and pretended to look at everybody dancing.

  He sighed. “Alex, you’re beautiful. Look at her, Melissa. Don’t you think she’s beautiful?”

  “Are you trying to say something meaningful, Jason?” asked Serena with a huge smile.

  “Gawdamn, yes,” he whispered, pawing at Alex’s hand. “Right, Melissa?”

  He lolled his head back at Melissa, who then decided to go to the washroom or something. She disappeared in a cloud of Exclamation! perfume.

  “I’m drunk. I’m very, very drunk,” he said, sadly wagging his head. “But”—he lifted his hand, pointed a finger at Alex—“not so drunk that I can’t ask ’er for a dance. Okay, Alex? ’Kay?” Right in her face.

  She wanted to escape. She wanted to leave. To hide.

  A hand on her bare shoulder. She turned to see Peter, resplendent in a T-shirt emblazoned with a thunderbird, black tuxedo pants and cummerbund, a black opera cape. He opened up his arms. “Dance with me, darling.”

  She laughed but felt like crying. She stood, wobbling slightly in her satin heels. He led her onto the dance floor, where he promptly lost all his bravado. He put his head on her shoulder and confessed, “It’s this night. I don’t know. I felt so good. And now I feel like crap. Know what I mean? Nothing feels real.”

  The music man started up with “Stairway to Heaven.” She swayed with Peter, in one spot, until the lights came on again.

  Later, when Serena came back to her place, trailing a peach satin jacket, the morning light beginning to pierce its way past post-graduation-dance fog, they collapsed on Alex’s bed, a bag of taco chips between them and a carton of milk that Alex had hauled out of the kitchen downstairs.

  “You never tell me what’s going on in your head. Not really,” said Serena. She had found a half-eaten package of M&M’s at the bottom of her purse and socked back a handful, munched thoughtfully, shoved her hand back into the taco bag.

  “Why are you telling me this?” said Alex.

  “I always have to guess.” Serena turned her head on the pillow. “Don’t tell me you enjoyed yourself tonight.”

  Alex remembered the way Peter clung to her on the dance floor. And how Serena, sitting at the table, had watched them, straight shouldered, with an excruciating unveiled longing.

  She wished that he were here now, not Serena. To have his lone-wolf heart right here, beating beside her own, that would be comfort enough.

  “You’re such a good friend to me,” continued Serena sadly. “You put up with all my crap. And I always end up disappointing you.”

  Alex shivered, sank down under her quilt.

  “Like I’m looking at you dancing with Peter tonight. And I’m thinking—I don’t know what made me think it—but I started thinking about your grandpa. About how he was such a pal. Always around. Like the best dad. Know what I mean? Steady as a rock. You were so lucky to have him—even if it was only for part of your life.”

  “Don’t let’s talk about this right now. Okay?” Hot tears began to pool in her eyes. She blinked them away. Reaching over, she took Serena’s hand and held on tightly to this friend from her childhood days. She felt as if she were sinking. As if she could disappear altogether. And no one would be able to find her again.

  “Alex,” said Serena as they both blinked up at the ceiling, “I have to say something. I’m sorry I ran out on you. You know, with Peter. That I sort of abandoned you. Again. Like, it was all just so stupid. I don’t know if I will ever forgive myself for doing that. But, you know, and this is the truth, sometimes you make people
feel so lonely.”

  Two nights later, she had another dream. In this one she is sitting in front of a large slate-colored rock. It’s drum shaped, about three feet in circumference. She and Grandpa and Old Raven Man are all around it, beating it, trying to make its voice come alive. It’s a frightening ceremony. She feels her own voice rise in song. It comes from a deep and primal place. As the song rips up toward the sky, the rock begins to pulse with life. And its life is huge, as if it is waking up from a century-long sleep. She is awestruck that a rock can be so alive. She’s worried that it will sprout feet and walk.

  Drenched in sweat, she woke up and reeled off the bed. Staggered to her dresser. Pulled off her nightshirt and hauled on another one. In bed again, she fell back into a stunned sleep.

  In the morning, she contemplated how her dreams fell into two categories. There were the ordinary dreams, like the usual kind people have every night. And then there were what she’d begun to think of as the big, scary dreams. The drum dream was another of those. Lying in the middle of her bed, in the June sunlight, she still felt its overwhelming spell.

  She shivered every time she thought about it, all day, at her weekend job at Cuppa Java, where she foamed milk and emptied tiny containers of coffee grounds and made an endless procession of lattes and mochas and cappuccinos and vegetarian sandwiches. She thought about it, and goose bumps did a slow loose-minded dance up and down her arms.

  Back in her room at night, as she lit a candle, the phone rang. It was Peter. He had something to give her. Could he come over?

  Twenty minutes later, he appeared at her back door with a huge unrolled poster of Geena Davis and Susan Sarandon as they appeared, on their road trip, in Thelma & Louise.

  “You’re Thelma,” he said, rolling it up, handing it to her. “I’ve always thought you look sort of like Geena Davis. The red highlights in your hair. The eyes. The bones. This is your graduation gift. It’s all I could afford.”