Last Dance at Jitterbug Lounge

by Pamela Morsi

  She sat down in the swing, drawing it forward slightly so that she, too, could rest her heels on the railing next to his.

  Jack smiled at the comparison of the two pairs of peds. His feet were very long and narrow, with little tufts of dark hair on each of his toes. Hers were wide for a woman, but they had a high arch that kept them from looking blocky. Her toes were long and thin and her nails were painted with a bright pink shimmer.

  “What are you doing?” she asked him.

  He handed her the sketch pad.

  “Oh wow,” she said. “This is really different. Is this for Butterman?”

  Jack shook his head. “Oh no, it’s much too…discreet for that guy. It’s just something I thought up this morning.”

  “I like it,” Claire told him. “It’s kind of hidden in the landscape.”

  Jack nodded. “That’s what I was thinking,” he said. “I was thinking of a quiet pool that doesn’t draw attention to itself.”

  “Where is it?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Nowhere, it’s just something I dreamed up.”

  “Really? It looks kind of familiar, somehow. I thought it was maybe somebody’s backyard, maybe one of your brothers or a friend or someone we know.”

  “Nope.”

  He took a sip of his coffee. He wanted to share the feeling of the morning with her, but he wasn’t sure exactly how.

  “It was the birds,” he said.

  She glanced at him with a skeptical frown. “Birds?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I came out here to get the paper and the birds were singing like crazy. It was kind of nice. I realized that I never design anything with birds in mind, so I just came up with an idea for a grotto unobtrusive enough to hear the birds.”

  Claire glanced up into the trees around the yard and Jack followed her gaze. There were a lot to look at. Jack recognized the big-breasted robin, but most of the birds he didn’t know. They were small and gray, sparrows or wrens. His one year of Cub Scouts didn’t make him any expert.

  “Oh look, a cardinal.”

  Jack followed the direction of her finger to find the brilliantly bright red bird with its peaked feathered crown. He’d seen them before in pictures or in passing. But now he really looked at the bird.

  “Do you see his mate?” Claire said. “On that limb just a little higher and on the right.”

  Jack didn’t see the other bird at first, expecting it to be just as vividly colored. Instead it blended in with the color of the bark, and he’d looked past her a couple of times before the bird moved and he saw it.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said.

  The bright red one then flew up to where the brown-colored one was. He had something in his mouth that he shared with her.

  “She must be sitting on a nest,” Claire said. “The male feeds her while she’s doing that.”

  “That’s a pretty good boyfriend, I guess,” Jack said, joking.

  “Husband,” Claire responded. “Cardinals mate for life.”

  “Really? I didn’t know there were animals that did that.”

  “A lot of creatures do,” Claire said. “Monogamy is not so artificially imposed as many men like to pretend it is.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow, refusing to take the bait.

  They watched the male cardinal fly away, perhaps to find another seed.

  “Birds,” Claire said thoughtfully and shook her head. “I can’t remember the last time I thought about birds, let alone listened to them.”

  “Me neither,” Jack said.

  “The last time was probably when Zaidi was doing that school report on emus and we drove out to the wildlife ranch.”

  “Who could forgot that fiasco. The twins strapped in car seats, still managing to throw the emu feed at each other.”

  “The stuff was all over the car.”

  “And Zaidi complaining because it was her report and the backseat of the minivan has the worst view.”

  “I agreed to trade seats with her, but she was afraid for us to open the door, so both of us had to climb over the seats and crawl the entire length of the vehicle.”

  They laughed together.

  “You should do that more often,” Jack said.

  “What?”

  “Look happy.”

  Claire frowned uncomfortably. “I guess there’s just not a lot of reasons to be happy these days.”

  She took a big sip of her coffee and immediately rose to her feet. “I told Theba that I’d come visit their church this morning. So I’m headed for the shower. You should call the hospital to check on Bud. We’ll talk to the children in the afternoon.”

  Jack returned his gaze to the sketch pad before the screen door shut behind her. Then, thoughtfully, he gazed up at the redbirds once more.

  Claire typically went to church on Sundays. That was as much for the children as for any great insight she received from the pulpit. Her venture on this particular Sunday stemmed from similar motives. Theba and McKiever had been very helpful to Bud and Geri. Though that was true of the whole family and no one seemed to take it as anything special, Claire wanted to be supportive of them. And if they had their whole church praying for Bud, she wanted to acknowledge that, as well. There was no clearer way to do that than by showing up for the morning service.

  Claire understood her own motives, but she was completely clueless as to those of the man who walked beside her up Bee Street toward the highway.

  Jack rarely attended church at home. He was either “working through the weekend” or he was “taking a day off from everything.” He always seemed somewhat cold and distant from his family in Catawah. And on this trip he’d seemed to take a particular dislike to the preacher.

  Nevertheless, he’d donned his suit, combed his hair and tied his tie.

  “Guess I’ll go with you,” he’d said. “There’s nothing much to do around here.”

  In fact, she’d been surprised at all the things they’d found to do. Yesterday, while she’d spent her time sorting and hauling off the recycling. Jack had made some repairs to the front porch and had marked several other small repair projects that needed his help. This morning, however, they were taking time for spiritual reflection.

  Claire didn’t know what to expect of Theba and the preacher’s church, but she’d grown up walking into situations that were not familiar. She could give her parents credit for that. They were brilliant, charming, insightful people. But dragging their daughter from New Guinea to Zambia and then Bulgaria and back was not Claire’s ideal of child rearing. It did, however, make her comfortable in all types of situations and with strangers. In truth, she sometimes craved that adventure, of seeing the lives of other people so different from her own.

  Perhaps that was why she was enjoying these days in Catawah. Yes, she admitted to herself, despite missing her children and the sad nature of the visit, Claire was feeling happier, more upbeat than she’d felt in a long time. Jack had said as much on the front porch that morning. She’d rewarded his insight by turning sullen and walking away.

  It’s because Dana’s not here with us, she thought to herself spitefully. Of course, she knew that wasn’t true at all. Dana was only a very frequent phone call away, just as if they were in their own home in San Antonio. Still, something was different. Maybe it was like Jack’s design for the “quiet pool.” Simply getting away from the normal routine inspired him to look and think differently about his designs.

  Maybe this unfamiliarity could inspire Claire to think differently about her life, too.

  The Iglesia de Jesus did not have that sweet, homey white frame and tall steeple look of a country church. It was long and narrow with a low-pitched roof and was devoid of ornamentation. It looked like the roadhouse that it had been for so long. And the exterior paint job didn’t help. Perhaps they had chosen based on cost rather than aesthetics, but for whatever reason, the building was painted a dull, dusky pink with dark burgundy trim. Claire thought it might have been an attractive combination for a prom gow
n, but it was certainly not traditional for a place of worship.

  The grassy patch on the east side of the building was already full of parked cars. There were more along the edges of Bee Street and a few parked off the shoulder of the highway. The vehicles were mostly older, more sedans and pickup trucks than SUVs.

  The front door was open. A portly man in his early fifties stood there shaking hands and offering greetings.

  “Bienvenidos,” he said to the couple who went in just ahead of them. As they stepped up, he offered Jack his hand. “Welcome to our church,” he said in only slightly accented English. “I am Jorge Trevino. You must be the old uncle’s grandson.”

  “Jack Crabtree,” he answered. “This is my wife, Claire.”

  The man acknowledged her with a nod as he took her hand in his own.

  “Mucho gusto,” Claire said to him.

  The man’s eyebrows shot up and his smile brightened.

  “Habla español?” he asked.

  “Un poquito,” she answered, modestly.

  “My wife is fluent in four languages,” Jack told him. “Unfortunately, I don’t think Spanish happens to be one of them.”

  Claire nodded agreement. “Hablo bastante para entender y nada más,” she told him—I speak only enough to get by.

  “I am the same with English,” he replied, understating his ability.

  He ushered them into the tiny vestibule, and with Jack’s hand resting on the small of Claire’s back, they made their way into the sanctuary. The place was obviously makeshift. There were no pews, just rows of folding metal chairs lining a center aisle. On the west side the long mahogany bar ran the length of the building. The far end held several long rows of small, lit candles. The shelves behind were used for books. At the end of the room was a raised stage with a plain wooden mourners’ bench in front. Above it an equally simple podium served as the pulpit. The place was no awe-inspiring cathedral. Despite the gleaming floor and the fresh white paint on the walls, it looked rough and poor.

  The people in the seats did not. The well-dressed men in conservative suits sat next to fashionable wives with neat and scrubbed children under the watchful eyes of their parents.

  There was much potential for Claire and Jack to feel like interlopers. It seemed to be a close-knit group of no more than a hundred people, counting the children. The opportunity was ripe for fear and distrust of strangers. But Claire felt none of that sentiment buzzing around her.

  They sat down about midway up the aisle next to a young women with a bright-eyed baby on her lap. Between her and her husband at the end of the row were three more kids—the oldest couldn’t have been more than six or seven.

  “You have very handsome children,” Claire told her in very rudimentary Spanish. Being fluent in French was a great help in understanding Spanish, and living in San Antonio she’d had some practice, but she was aware that she often sounded either childlike or foolish. That, Claire believed, was her secret to learning languages. You have to put your ego aside and be willing to sound like an idiot. Having done that a lot, she knew how difficult and lowering it could be. Which was why she admired other people’s willingness to do the same.

  “You kind,” the woman said to her in English. “The children very noisy. I’m sorry. Here. Sometimes. Very noisy.”

  Claire smiled at her. “I have three myself,” she said. “They can be very noisy in church, too.”

  “Three?” the woman asked, incredulously holding up her fingers. “You are young.”

  Claire accepted the compliment gratefully. She was fairly certain that this woman was her age or perhaps even a few years younger.

  “Mi niña tiene ocho años,” Claire told her—I have an eight-year-old girl. “Y tengo dos la misma edad, niño y niña. Twins, como se dice?”

  “Mellizos,” she answered. “Que suerte!” You are so lucky, the lady said.

  The service began with a familiar hymn with unfamiliar lyrics. Claire took her cue from the preacher, who belted out the words in a croaky English baritone as his congregation sang them in Spanish.

  Claire had had exposure to a number of different religious traditions and was inclusive enough to find spiritual renewal and common ground with many of them. At Iglesia de Jesus she found the quirky mix of Southern evangelical and Latin America to be surprisingly compelling. McKiever’s preaching was very typical of what she’d heard from evangelical pulpits elsewhere. However, after each thought he uttered, the preacher paused to allow Jorge Trevino to repeat it for the congregation in Spanish. Claire noticed, after only a few passages, that Trevino was not doing a literal translation. Even with her limited understanding of the language, she could detect the much more lyrical and stylized presentation of the words in a tonality that was old church liturgical. Protestantism for Catholics, she thought to herself. All the guy needed was a thurible of burning incense to wave back and forth.

  After the benediction the congregation filed out into the grassy area in front of the building. Claire and Jack were with them. Everyone seemed friendly, open and welcoming.

  “We wanted to thank all of you for praying for my grandfather,” Jack said to a middle-aged woman who was acting as spokesperson for the congregation.

  “We think of Mr. Crabtree as one of us,” she said. “He is not a member of the church, but since his wife died, he comes some Sundays just to sit with us.”

  “Really?”

  Claire was surprised and from the look on Jack’s face, she knew that he was, as well.

  “Yes,” she said. “He would come in some Sundays. He would sit in the back. I asked him once and he said he liked to be here to remember his wife. He said this was the place he felt most close to her.”

  “Did Geri go to church here?”

  “No. I met her a few times,” the woman said, “but she never came here. But I guess any house of the Lord is close to heaven, yes?”

  Bud

  On the sea at night the predators come. Across the water tiny microscopic plants that live there have a phosphorous glow. Anything that disturbs the water shows in the dark depths like a beacon attracting those that feed. I sat in my tiny raft, less than a flyspeck on a giant ocean, wishing myself smaller. I knew what the monsters of the deep could do. I’d watched them eat Lt. Randel. He was dead already. He couldn’t feel a thing. It was only the remains of his body bobbing on the surface. I was at quite a distance by then and what my eyes mostly viewed was a thrashing of water as they swarmed him. My imagination filled in the detail. And a bump underneath the raft sent me screaming, screaming, screaming.

  I heard the other voice. I was not screaming alone. Was it Randel? No, no, of course it wasn’t, I realized, as the sun streamed in upon the chenille bedspread that covered me. It was J.D.

  Geri came rushing into the bedroom, the baby in her arms.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said, her eyes wide. It was a fearful look. My dreams and my screams scared her. But she never ran from them, from me. She was still that defiant little waif with her upturned chin daring Piggy Masterson to try to get the best of her.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He may be teething or coming down with a cold. I think he’s too big for colic.”

  I threw back the covers. It was a chilly fall day, but the dreams had left me wringing wet with sweat. I climbed out of bed.

  “You haven’t slept long enough,” Geri cautioned. “You need at least a couple more hours before you’ve rested enough to work. I don’t want you getting a hand caught in those presses.”

  “I’ll catch another nap later,” I lied. Sleep was my biggest enemy. If I never had to close my eyes again, I could be happy with that. “Give the little guy to me. We’ll walk the floor together.”

  Geri handed me the baby. The furious little fellow was reluctant to let go of his mama. He looked up at me with Geri’s eyes and her determined chin. Then, as if he’d thrown a switch, thrust himself into my embrace and clung to me crying miser
ably.

  “Oh yeah, poor little guy. Are you having a hard time, today? I know exactly how you feel.”

  I bounced him slightly in my arms as we walked.

  “You go on and do what you have to do, Crazy Girl,” I told her. “We men will take ourselves a short stroll through the garden.”

  She winked at me and stood on her tiptoes to give the baby a tiny kiss on the forehead.

  It’s strange when you realize later how one thing affects another thing, and that affects something else, until your whole life turns out to be different than you thought it might be.

  Because the bad dreams affected my sleeping, I decided to take a night job. Being home during the day allowed me to be closer to my son than maybe a lot of fathers of my day could be. He was a strong, healthy baby. He had his mother’s looks and, I thought, her temperament. He didn’t give up easily on anything he might try. When he was ready to eat, he’d scream bloody murder until he made it to his mother’s breast. But he was no crier. He was stoic through the requisite bumps and bruises of a little fellow still unsteady on his feet. And I knew I couldn’t always be there to catch him when he fell. But I caught him when I could and trusted him to take it well when he landed on his own.

  As the years passed Geri took care of more than just our house and our garden. She took on every good work in town and made sure all of her sisters’ husbands had jobs and all of her nieces and nephews had shoes. I watched J.D. as he moved from crawling on all fours to running full tilt. I made him a stick horse with a strip of real leather for a bridle, we went fishing together at the river bluff and built a tree house among the branches of the catalpa tree.

  When I slept Geri kept him at a distance. Her father, by then very ill, took up a lot of her time, and she had her sister schedule his care so that she and J.D. could be at his house during any of my possible dream time.

  I walked him to school his first day of kindergarten, with great relief. He’d made it through childhood at home without ever knowing my nightmares, and now he would be safe at school when I was sleeping.

  Awake, I was able to keep him close. We played all the sports. We passed the football in the fall. We shot free throws into a basket on the side of the shed in winter and used the garden for the foul line when we batted in summer. As he got older and had his friends from school, I spent more of my time as a coach than as a participant, but I enjoyed his childhood much more than I’d enjoyed my own.