Dancers on the Shore

by William Melvin Kelley

  “Grandpa?” Willard led Peter by the elbow. “This is a schoolmate of mine. Peter, this is my grandfather.”

  The old man looked up. “Who?”

  “Peter Dunford. He goes to school with me.” Willard was shouting into the old man’s ear.

  “Oh.” The old man eyed Peter, it seemed, suspiciously.

  Peter extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.” The old man made no effort to shake the hand. His own hands lay in his lap like two small bundles of wet straw. Peter pulled back his hand.

  “If you two boys will help Daddy, we can start dinner.” Missus Jackson was at Peter’s side.

  Obediently, Peter and Willard lifted the old man to his feet. He had a look on his face of a man being dragged to some forbidding place. Through his coat sleeve Peter could feel thin skin shifting over bone. After they had deposited the old man at the head of the table, Peter found himself wiping his hand on his jacket.

  They sat down to dinner. Mister Jackson, dark-brown and plump, much like Willard, was at the other end of the table, carving. Missus Jackson sat on her father’s left. Bruce was on his right. Isa, a rather homely girl, a plump version of her mother, sat between Bruce and Peter. Willard was next to his mother.

  Mister Jackson said Grace, and Missus Jackson attacked her father’s plate, cutting his turkey into quarter-size chunks. “There now, Daddy, can you manage those?” She spoke as if she did not expect him to be able to.

  He nodded and picked up his fork. She spread a linen napkin across his lap, tucked another under his chin. He began to eat.

  “How’s the baby, Isa? Daddy didn’t try to pick it up or anything, did he?” Missus Jackson was spooning mashed potato and cranberry now, and passing plates.

  “All right, Mama. They were both all right.” She turned to Bruce, who, fork in hand, was contemplating his food. “Bruce thinks he hears him say Da-Da. I think it’s bunk, myself.”

  “He’s saying it all right.” Bruce made his choice and began to eat.

  The old man’s fork was moving slowly toward his mouth.

  “You should see that kid, Peter.” Willard was leaning toward him on his elbows. “He’s about three feet long. I don’t even think he’s Bruce’s.”

  “Willard!” Missus Jackson and Isa squealed at the same time.

  Bruce looked up slowly, and smiled. “Well, whoever did it, did me a favor.”

  Willard and Peter laughed, then Bruce joined them. The old man had succeeded with the first piece of turkey and was starting after another.

  Bruce turned to Peter. “You a classmate of Willard’s? No wonder you’re behind.”

  Peter laughed.

  “Don’t eat so fast, Daddy.” Missus Jackson had turned from the conversation and was scowling. The rest were waiting for Peter’s answer.

  He gave it: “He’s not the best influence in the world.” No one seemed to notice his concern for the old man.

  “He’s a little pest. He always was.” Isa was staring at Willard.

  Missus Jackson had grabbed the old man’s fork from him, and was halving the already cut meat. Peter felt a knot growing in his stomach, pushing up against his lungs, making it hard for him to breathe. He was quickly losing his appetite.

  “What’s your major, Peter?” Mister Jackson’s voice came from his right.

  He was grateful for not having to look toward the old man’s end of the table. “English.”

  “Are you going to teach?” Mister Jackson had a nice face.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Don’t!” Bruce spoke too emphatically to mean it. “You’ll starve like we are.”

  “Daddy’s finished. Do you want to take him up to his room, Bruce?” The old man’s plate had barely been touched. He was collapsed back into his chair. Missus Jackson was holding his fork.

  “Sure.” Bruce stood up. “Come on, Grandpa. It’s your bedtime.” He helped the old man to his feet.

  The old man eyed them all; Peter could not look into the tired brown eyes and chose that moment to carefully wipe his mouth.

  Bruce led the old man from the room and the conversation resumed. But Peter could not take part. He felt more and more confined, more and more removed from them as if his place at the table had been enclosed in glass and he was not breathing the same air, or eating the same food. He scolded himself for having expected anything from such an old man. It would have been better if he had stayed in his room trying to stuff himself with Stuart drama.

  After a decent time had passed and they were once again in the living room, he told Willard he would have to leave. “I’d like to stick around, but Ben Jonson calls.” He held up one finger.

  Willard got up and came over to him. “Let me get your coat.”

  “No, sit down. I know where it is.” He whispered now: “Besides, I have to make a trip.” He did not want to talk to Willard now.

  “Okay.” Willard went back to his seat.

  Peter climbed the carpeted steps to the second floor. A door was open on his right at the head of the steps, a light marking off a square of the wine red carpet. That must be the old man’s room; Willard’s room was far back on the left. Peter tiptoed past the door and got his coat, adjusted his tie in front of the mirror, and started downstairs. As he approached the old man’s room, he noticed the door was open a bit wider. “Hey!” The grumble came from inside.

  At first Peter tried to pretend to himself he had not heard, but his conscience forced him back to the room. “Mister Robbins?” He did not look in.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Peter Dunford; I’m Willard’s schoolmate.”

  “Will you get me some tissues from the bathroom, Dunford?”

  “Yes, sir.” The bathroom was next to Willard’s room. On his way back, he realized with distaste that he would have to enter the old man’s room to give him the tissues. At the door, he built his courage, then almost charged inside.

  The old man was sitting up in bed, a book of Dylan Thomas poems four inches from his nose. When he lowered the book, his mouth was twisted into what seemed a smile. “Thank you, Dunford.”

  Peter handed him the tissues. He realized he could not stare at the book without saying something. “Do you like him?” He pointed to the book, now in the old man’s lap.

  The old man nodded. “I saw him when he was here in March, fifty-two.” He paused. “Sorry you didn’t have a good time.”

  “Sir?” He listened to the blankness of his own voice.

  “Downstairs. You were miserable. Sorry. Don’t hold it against her.” He closed his eyes. Surely the old man could not know how much Peter had resented Missus Jackson. “You wanted to talk to me about the old days.”

  “Yes, sir. I did.”

  The old man shook his head. “What’s the use? The past’s a young man; the present’s an old one. I guess he’d say I’m not raging enough.” He tapped the book. “Besides, it’s her innings.”

  “Sir?” Peter had come forward so his knees were touching the bed.

  “It’s her innings. Maybe I kept her too close. She was thirty-two when she got married. So now it’s her innings and I get babied. Isn’t anything to me and it gives her some revenge. I can’t cut my food or walk without help anyway.” He looked up at Peter now. “Thank you again for the tissues. Hope to see you again.”

  “Good night, sir.” Peter backed from the room.

  Willard had just started up the stairs. “I thought you got lost.”

  “No, nothing like that.” He thought about telling Willard what had happened, but decided against it. It was not really Willard’s business.

  Connie

  CLUTCHING A SMALL HANDBAG, Connie Dunford waited for her brother, Peter, under a theater marquee on East Eighty-sixth Street. In the week since she had told him, she had discovered it helped her to keep from c
rying if she held something, anything tightly. It might be a comb or a coin, a wad of paper or a piece of fruit, some string or a book of matches; she gripped all with equal terror. An hour before, at three, Peter had phoned her at home to tell her to meet him. Now she saw him coming toward her from Park Avenue, tall, gangling, his jacket open and flapping, his face twisted into a scowl.

  He grabbed her elbow. “Come on. We can get a cup of coffee. Your appointment isn’t until four forty-five.” He yanked her along. They came to a luncheonette and went in.

  She sat across from him, squeezing a salt shaker, studying his face. Peter was the younger of her two older brothers. Chig, her senior by five years, was in Europe now. She missed him, and wished he was with her, making these arrangements. Not that she loved Chig more. It was simply that he was naturally more kind, generous, understanding. Peter, though he was doing everything she asked, was the kind of person who, if you mentioned you owned forty bobby pins, might count them to see if it was true.

  He did not speak until the coffee came and the waitress disappeared. “I’m only warning you once. You say a word about this, and this guy goes to jail. Understand?”

  She realized she should keep quiet, but could not. “Is he…is he…good?”

  “The best.” He breathed through his nose. “You may be a dunce, but I don’t want to see you dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Without acknowledging her apology, he began to sip his coffee. It was black and the lights of the shop bobbed in it. “He asks plenty—fifteen hundred.”

  Her whole body started to sweat. “Peter, where’ll we—”

  He locked his jaws. “I borrowed two thousand dollars for you. Going to an Ivy League school is good for something after all.”

  He was digging at her, for instead of attending one of the name schools that had admitted her, Connie had decided on a Negro school in the South. She had her reasons. She had graduated third in her class from one of the finest private schools in New York. For twelve years, she had been the only Negro in her class. When time came to choose, she told her parents that what she wanted, even more than a good education, was, for the first time in her life, a normal social life. If she was happy, the education would take care of itself. Peter had never approved. Perhaps he had been right.

  “He’s a classmate of mine,” Peter went on. “He won’t need it for a while. He spends that much money on beer every week….You can pay him back anytime in the next fifty years.”

  They waited until it was time, then walked to Park Avenue and north to a building with a long black awning with the house number in elegant script, and a white doorman, who carefully inspected but did not stop them.

  At the door of the office, Connie started to tremble and hoped Peter did not notice.

  The office was cold with air conditioning. Two women sat reading magazines. Expensively, tastefully dressed, they glanced up, then returned to their reading.

  The receptionist, in a gray wool suit, came over to them. “Constance Dunford?”

  Connie nodded, afraid to use her voice.

  The receptionist smiled. “Have a seat, won’t you? I’ll tell Doctor you’re here.” She spoke beautifully, like an English actress. Her high black heels sank into the thick carpeting.

  Peter leaned toward her. “Listen, I’ll walk around the block a couple of times. I’ll be back in half an hour.” He stood up.

  Connie wanted to beg him not to leave her alone, but was afraid. She watched him through the door. Her shaking increased.

  The receptionist returned and asked Connie to follow her. She stood up; her knees were weak, but she managed to lock them.

  The doctor was quite small. He was a thin man with gray hair and gentle blue eyes. He wore a freshly pressed suit and a dark tie. She was surprised when he greeted her, for from his appearance she expected a tenor, but instead his was the deepest voice she had ever heard. “Well, Constance…Is that what they call you?” He smiled at her.

  “Connie.” Her shaking broke it into three parts. She took a deep breath.

  “Your brother tells me you think you’re pregnant.”

  After the first week, she had not thought it possible she was not. “Yes, sir.” She admitted it, and her trembling stopped. Now a world of strangers knew too.

  * * *

  —

  PETER WAS IN THE WAITING ROOM, watching her, blank-faced, when she emerged from the doctor’s chambers.

  She went straight to the door, hearing him groan behind her, getting up. They did not speak until they were outside in the late afternoon. Connie had wanted to feel the sun very much, but it was behind the tall buildings.

  “When you going back?” Peter walked with his hands in his pockets.

  They came to a corner. Connie stepped down gingerly. “I’m not.”

  Peter was amazed. “It’s all over? Holy Christ!” He looked her up and down, trying to detect a difference. “That must be a snap. Don’t you even feel sore?”

  “No. I don’t feel anything.”

  Peter remembered the money he was carrying in his pocket. “When do I pay him?”

  “You don’t. It’s too late. It’s too dangerous.”

  He stopped short. She kept walking and heard him running to catch her. Beside her again, he began to scold. “Why didn’t you write me when you first knew?”

  “I don’t know,” she snapped.

  They walked on, Peter glaring at her, Connie nearly marching. Finally, he grabbed her elbow and stopped her in the middle of the block. A doorman stood watching them.

  “What you want to do now?” There was an almost kind quality in his voice, but searching for it on his face, she found instead a frown.

  “Go home.”

  “Of course.” He winced. “But what then?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook free and began to walk again. They came to the next corner. The light was against them. Taxis dashed by, trying to cross before the red light blinked them to a standstill. If she walked out in front of one, it would never be able to stop in time. But, she thought bitterly, she would probably cripple herself for life, and still have the baby. She waited for the green light.

  She wished Peter would put his arm around her shoulder. Chig would have done that. Peter was being so unsympathetic and she wanted to make him feel as bad as she felt. “At least you saved yourself two thousand dollars, Peter.”

  He smiled at her. “You mean, you saved yourself two thousand dollars.”

  They started across the street. All at once the waist bands on her clothes felt tighter, but inspecting herself, she could see no change. “Yes, I guess that’s right.”

  * * *

  —

  SITTING ALONE IN HER ROOM an hour after dinner, she first realized she was no longer clutching things. She felt none of the pressure of the past months. Before, she had been waiting to do something; now she waited for something to be done to her. There was peace in resignation.

  She was sitting on her bed, her back against the headboard, dazed, when Peter knocked and came in. “Well, what’ve you decided? I’m in this too, you know.” He stared at her from the foot of the bed.

  “Oh, sure you are. You’re having half a baby.”

  “I tried to help you, didn’t I? You asked me to help you.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice was flat. She picked at fluff balls on her bedspread.

  “You won’t be able to keep it a secret much longer. You’ll start putting on weight. How long can you hide twenty pounds—all in one place? What’ll you say? That you’re eating too much?”

  “Shut up and leave me alone! Some help you are! If you were in trouble, I’d be a lot kinder to you than you are to me.”

  “What do you want me to do? Tell you everything’s all right? That you’re a good innocent little girl? You made a stupid mistake. So face
it!” He was shouting at her.

  “I’m sorry I ever told you!” Screaming now, she wished she had something to throw at him.

  “You messed up! Face it!”

  “Get out of here!” She started to scramble off the bed, searching for a weapon.

  Peter backed up and bumped into their father, who had lunged into the room at a dead run a second before. “What is this?”

  Peter glanced quickly at Connie.

  Connie went cold all over. She sat heavily on the bed, inspecting her knuckles.

  Her mother appeared beside her father, looking angry. She was breathing hard from the run up the stairs. “Aren’t you two old enough to stop that? What do you mean shouting like that?”

  “Nothing, Mama. We were just discussing something.” Peter was backing toward her. He loomed until she could not see her parents at all.

  She heard her father: “You don’t have to discuss it at the top of your lungs. What’s wrong anyway?”

  She leaned out from behind Peter. “My brother thinks I should’ve gone to a so-called good school.”

  “Won’t you ever leave her alone about that, Pete?” Her father sounded bewildered.

  Peter made no answer. Connie knew that if he was going to join her in her lie, he would have spoken immediately. She put her hand on the small of his back. “Please don’t, Peter.”

  “Connie’s pregnant.”

  “You had no right to tell them,” she whispered.

  Her mother did not hear her. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Peter. That’s a terrible thing to say!”

  Her father moved out from behind Peter, staring down at her, searching her face. She forced herself to return his look.

  “Peter?” She heard her mother again. “Aren’t you going to apologize?”

  Peter backed up a few more steps, spoke to Connie over his shoulder. “You had to.” He started a smile, but did not finish it, and turned back to their parents. “She made a mistake. That’s all.”

  Connie watched her fingers lace together and hold tight. She knew her parents were staring at her.