Ballroom: A Novel

by Alice Simpson

  “What happened? You’re losin’ the beat, Sarah. Come on . . . and a one and two . . .”

  He counts out the mambo beat.

  “That’s it. You got it now, sweetheart.”

  Whenever she faces the entrance, she searches for Joseph’s silhouette, backlit against its brightness. The band plays one Latin song after another. Finally catching Walter off guard, she slips out of his grip and quickly walks away. He reaches to grab her arm.

  “I need to sit.”

  “Come on, sweetheart, one more dance. It won’t kill you.”

  Another mambo, and her head is throbbing from the heat and the repetitious rhythms.

  “I really think I need to rest a while.”

  He won’t let go. “Ah, come on. Just till it finishes. Your boyfriend will wait. You’re real good, Sarah. How come you don’t come here Thursdays?” He repeats the same steps. “You sure are sweating.” He laughs. “Relax. What are you so nervous about? You’re as red as a beet. You know, sweetheart, if you’d relax you wouldn’t sweat so much.”

  Clearly Joseph has stood her up. She has no idea how to reach him; despite having danced with him for two years, she doesn’t know anything about him. Not even his last name. She feels alone and vulnerable. She’s sorry she has come.

  A hand takes hold of her arm. She pulls away.

  “I hope you haven’t waited too long?” With an elegant bow, Joseph takes her hand to lead her onto the dance floor.

  “I just got here myself,” she lies.

  After they dance, they find a small table and order drinks.

  “To the evening,” she toasts.

  “So, what interesting things have you been doing this week?” he asks.

  “Last night I went to the theater to see Long Day’s Journey into Night.”

  “Strong subject matter.”

  “Did you see it? Pretty disturbing. Talk about dysfunctional families!”

  “Epic. It’s an extraordinary piece of theater,” he says. “O’Neill’s own family. The Times gave it an excellent review last week. I’d be interested in your opinion.”

  She hasn’t had anything to eat, and the drink goes right to her head. She considers Joseph, his formality, his eagerness to talk, while she prefers to dance. She hasn’t paid $12 to have a conversation.

  “Ah, a rumba.” She stands up. “My favorite dance.”

  With the right partner, the rumba is a very erotic dance. But Joseph dances without any sensuality; his movements are mechanical, and she knows every step he leads. No surprises. At the Ballroom she’s watched him dancing, week after week, in his uniform of gray pants and navy blazer, and she knows that he looks presentable and shabbily elegant, with his aging-movie-star looks. She wonders if she could develop him as a potential dance partner; they could dance together on Saturday nights at Roseland, at least until she makes some progress with Gabriel Katz. She has often considered whether she should go to bed with Joseph. Would he finally tell her his last name?

  Curious to see if he’ll respond, she leans in to him closer than usual, putting her arm around his neck, and feels the tightening of his muscles as he pulls away. He wants to keep his distance.

  It is when the song ends and they return to the table that Sarah sees Gabriel across the room, dancing a Viennese waltz with an elegant woman. In his pressed blue blazer, gray pants, and silk shirt, he definitely looks like a movie star. Yes, Robert Taylor. The same heart-shaped face, and the widow’s peak. Even his eyebrows enhance the valentine.

  As they pivot, Sarah recognizes his partner: Rebecca Douglas, her perfectly coiffed and highlighted hair in a French twist, like Grace Kelly. She is wearing a low-cut red dress, fitted to below the waist, where it turns into sheer, star-studded silk chiffon that flows with her movement. The stars flicker in the spotlights as Gabriel maneuvers her around the room, and she keeps pace with Gabriel’s long-legged strides. As they whirl by, Sarah notices the flawless frame they make, the balance of give and take between partners.

  The long, manicured fingers of Rebecca’s left hand rest on Gabriel’s upper arm. Sarah is certain she can hear Rebecca’s heels touch, as they should, each time she brings her feet together. In red shoes, their heels higher and thinner than Sarah can imagine dancing in, she moves on tiptoe. Gabriel’s head is held high, his expression arrogant. Turning, moving swiftly in long steps, taking full advantage of how few people are dancing this Viennese waltz, they are the most beautiful couple on the dance floor. All eyes are on them. Sarah longs to be the woman in Gabriel’s arms.

  “Care to dance, Sarah?” Joseph asks, breaking through her reverie.

  “Let’s wait. It’s not my best dance.”

  Gabriel probably called Rebecca early in the week to invite her to Roseland. He probably picked her up, took her somewhere elegant for dinner, and paid for her Roseland ticket. At the end of the evening he will drive her home in his black Cadillac. Yes, she decides, she must develop Joseph as a regular Saturday-night partner at Roseland. So that Gabriel will see her.

  Turning to Joseph, she says, “I’m having a lovely evening. We must do this again.”

  “Are you really? Are you free next Saturday?”

  “You ought to give me your phone number.”

  “I don’t enjoy talking on the phone,” he says quickly. “I’m on the phone all day, and happy not to speak to anyone in the evening.”

  “I only thought . . . that if anything should happen.” She pauses. “If I were to get sick and not be able to meet you, you’d be waiting. You might think I’ve stood you up.” She notices his tense expression relax as he considers this possibility. “Since I don’t know your last name, I wouldn’t be able to find your—”

  He abruptly stands and holds out his hand. “A fox-trot. ‘My Funny Valentine.’ Shall we?”

  Chapter 20

  Joseph

  Before making a visit, you should be perfectly certain that your visit will be welcome.

  —Thomas E. Hill, Evils of the Ball, 1883

  Sarah is waiting for him as he leaves the Ballroom the next night. “I’ve noticed you walk home. Do you live nearby?”

  “On Perry Street.”

  “May I walk with you? Keep you company?” she asks as they walk along Fourteenth Street. “I imagine you live in a prewar building. Is it one of the Art Decos?”

  “Yes, it is from that period.” He can’t say no to her walking with him.

  “That would suit your Adolphe Menjou looks! I’m familiar with the area, actually. I had a great time last night. We should do that again.”

  Each time they pass a subway entrance, he hopes she will say good night, but she continues with him all the way to Perry Street.

  As the elevator rises slowly to the fifth floor, he’s aware of the odors of tomato sauce, garlic, onions, and oregano. He is unable to control the rapid blinking of his eyes. Once they reached his building, she invited herself in, despite his protestations.

  “It’s all my mother’s old furniture, I’m just about to renovate. I’m sorry the place is kind of a mess,” he says as he opens the door.

  “No need to apologize.” She laughs. “Do you have a fireplace?”

  “I’ve intended to throw away that arrangement.” He picks up a vase of faded roses on the console, taking them into the kitchen. “I’m going to paint. Do it myself. Just need to get to the paint store. You know, I get home from work and I’m just kind of tired. I thought I’d get a new sofa, too. Maybe blue leather like my Barcalounger. Would you like a cup of tea? A glass of water?” He takes the week’s newspapers off the chair, carrying them into the kitchen. “Sorry for the mess.”

  “You wouldn’t have a glass of wine, would you?”

  “Sorry. I can make you a cup of tea,” he calls out from the kitchen.

  “I’ll have a cup of tea. I expected you’d have more books.”

  “I used to read more, go to the library. I . . . I just about have enough time for dinner and the paper before I go to sleep. Except,
of course, when I go to the Ballroom,” he says, handing her a glass of water.

  “I really did enjoy the evening with you at Roseland.” Sarah picks up the metronome. “Nothing like live music. Hope we can do it again, soon. Do you play an instrument?”

  Grabbing it from her, he presses it to his chest. “Please, this was my father’s. It’s an 1816 Mälzel. I’m sorry, I mean . . . It’s all I have.”

  “Oops! Excuse me. I didn’t realize it was special.”

  She walks across the room to sit on the sofa. He doesn’t want her to see the stains and tears.

  “Please—don’t sit there. I’m sorry. It’s . . . very old. Sit in my chair. I’m sorry. I’m not used to company. I need to fix things up. I keep planning to—”

  “It’s all right. Relax.” When she pats him on the shoulder, he can’t help flinching. This is definitely a mistake.

  “May I use your powder room?”

  He’s having difficulty breathing. She probably expects him to make love to her. How should he begin? Where would they do it? Certainly not on the old sofa, with the worn-out sheets, and definitely not in the bed his mother slept on in his bedroom. He still can’t sleep in there.

  By the time Sarah returns, he’s sweating profusely, but he doesn’t want to take his wool jacket off. The armpits of his shirt are wet, and he worries that the odor will offend her.

  He puts his arms around her and kisses her on the mouth, which he’s not used to doing. He never kisses his sisters anywhere but on the cheek. He does it as gently as possible, but Sarah pushes him away and pulls out of his embrace.

  “No, no. I think you misunderstood.” Two rosy patches have appeared at either side of her throat. One is shaped like Florida. Flustered, she walks around the room, searching for her bag and coat. “I only wanted to see your place. I need to go home. It’s late.”

  “I’ll walk you to the subway,” he offers.

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll take a cab. I really shouldn’t have come.”

  “I’m really sorry,” he says. He was certain she expected him to kiss her.

  “It’s okay. Really it is. No need to apologize.” She won’t look at him.

  The endless ride down the five floors is a silent one, and he keeps his eyes focused on the floor. He’s so ashamed. Hailing a taxi for her, he pushes a hundred-dollar bill into her hand as she pecks him on the cheek.

  “I’m really sorry,” he repeats as she gets into the cab. “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  He can’t say her name.

  Chapter 21

  Joseph

  Excessive gaiety, extravagant joy, anger and jealousy are to be avoided as much as possible.

  —W. P. Hazard, The Ball-Room Companion, 1849

  With his arms in dance position, Joseph can almost feel her, almost hear “My Funny Valentine.” He tries to recall her perfume, capture it, and breathe it into his chest. Feel her heartbeat again. He has been sitting on his blue Barcalounger since dinner, trying to concentrate on the newspaper, but his eyes are growing bleary. Roseland had gone so well Saturday night.

  “You should count in your head while you dance,” he’d said when she lost the rhythm.

  “Yes, but it spoils the romance.” Romance. When she had said that, he had decided to ask her out again for the next Saturday night—for dinner too.

  The way she looked at him. He’d felt her relax. The rosy patch disappeared, but her cheeks were flushed. He wanted to smooth the copper wildness of her hair, to touch the graceful curve of her neck, the pale skin; feel the in and out of her breathing. He remembers seeing the shape of her nipples through her silk blouse at the Ballroom. He yearns to telephone her, hang up right away; hear her voice whisper his name. “Joseph.” What a terrible mess he made of things last night.

  He turns on the television. Surfing channel to channel, nothing satisfies him. His collar and tie feel like a noose; he loosens a button, removes his tie. His feet throb. He slips off his shoes, looks at the phone, at his watch. It’s beginning, that inescapable feeling. If he could only get himself out of the apartment, take a walk to Hudson Street. Have an espresso. Relax. But it is too late. Eleven o’clock. Taking his shoes and tie, he heads down the hall to the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pauses before removing his clothes, hopes the feeling will pass. His skin is beginning to feel warm, that excitingly familiar sensation of anticipation. Just this one last time, he tells himself, then never again.

  He reaches into the back corner of the cupboard under the bathroom sink for the golden bottle of Intimate Evening Oil, and places it into a glass of hot water. In the living room, he puts the bottle on a coaster by the side of his Barcalounger, while he finds a white washcloth and sheet. Immaculately clean. He folds and fits the sheet around the seat pillow, smoothing it with the palm of his hand; folds the washcloth, attentively matching edges, placing the perfect square on the right arm of the chair. Sitting upright, he repeatedly checks that everything is perfectly in place before setting the metronome in motion. His heart is pounding as he covers the receiver with the washcloth and dials. One-two-three-four.

  “Crisis line. Who’s calling?”

  “My name is Phil,” he answers through the layers of cloth, deepening his voice. One-two-three-four.

  “I’m Joan. How can I help you, Phil?” He feels a rush of pleasure that Joanie is there. Five-six-seven-eight. He will take it very slow, be very careful this time.

  “Joan, I’m feeling very lonely.” He cradles the phone on his shoulder. Pouring a pool of hot oil onto his palm, he moves its silkiness in slow circular motions on his bare chest. The strong, voluptuous odor sears his nostrils.

  “Do you have family, Phil?” Ben told him that Joanie worked as a volunteer at the Forest Hills Crisis Center on Mondays from nine until midnight. She is the easiest to call, because it is part of her work to listen and comfort. But it’s Sarah he really wants to hear. “Hello. Hello?” Sarah said when he first called her. “I can’t hear you. We must have a bad connection. Can you call back?” Over the years, with each consecutive call, she’d become more suspicious, her words fewer and fewer. Now she answers with a friendly yet somewhat tentative, “Hello,” and when there is no response, she hangs up. He has called Andrea several times, but her machine always picks up. Once he called Maria Rodriguez, but a man answered.

  “No, I’m all alone,” he tells Joanie, careful to disguise his voice. He pictures her holding the dainty black brassiere. Putting it on; each breast seen through lace; a pink nipple hiding within a black rose. As she bends over, they swell, up and out as she adjusts the straps. Rubbing the oil on his own nipples, he imagines pushing his mouth into that soft place, thrusting his tongue into the secret cleft. His mouth feels slack and open, and he can hear each breath, as if he’s filling and emptying a giant beach ball. He wants to slow down, but it is too late.

  “Phil, may I ask you a few questions?” she says. “Any difficulty sleeping? Eating?”

  “Sometimes . . . I feel so terrible . . . so terribly . . . sad.” He is breathless. One-two-three-four. “I . . . I don’t know what I’ll do.” He releases the chair’s lever; the leg rest rises from its base. Spreading his legs, he pours a tepid puddle of oil on his belly, filling his navel, watching the rise and fall of his chest. His head reels from the overpowering odor of the perfume. He sees her, sitting on an unmade king-size bed; first one leg, then the other, through her blackbird bikini. Around and around, rubbing the oil in more vigorously, his skin responsive to his own touch.

  “Any suicidal thoughts?” Joanie’s voice is calm, soothing, while his breathing is growing increasingly more difficult to contain. He rubs oil into his groin, and when he can bear it no longer, eyes closed tight, he begins rubbing his penis with the velvety oil, remembering the musky sea smell of her underwear.

  “Oh, God. Please help me, please,” he moans. “Sarah,” he gasps, then quickly hangs up the telephone, before he can say more, do more. Sarah . . . Naked . . . A wild copp
er flame between her legs . . . Arms spread . . . Pale skin painted with pink smudges . . . “It’s you, Joseph. I want you,” Sarah begs.

  Moments later, holding the walls for stability as if he’s passing though a moving train, he staggers down the darkened hallway, sinks into the bathtub, turns on the tap, and feels the rush of hot water rising. His white feet with their blue veins look like those of Jesus on the crucifix that hung over his mother’s bed.

  Water rises over his thighs, surrounds and covers his flaccid floating penis, his pubic hair, then on to his belly, reaching his chin before he turns the faucet off. An iridescent residue of oil floats on top of the water, a reminder of his sin and his need to be punished. With his toes, he pushes open the drain and listens to the sucking sound of the water running out of the tub. Languishing in the receding water and lamenting his weakness, he begins the obligatory promising. Never again. This sin, his sin, has a life of its own, a beginning and an end. Trembling, holding his penis in one hand, he begins to beat himself with the other, slapping harder and harder. “Forgive me, Father. I have sinned.” Over and over he strikes the part of himself that he can’t control. With each pulse of agony, he feels closer to forgiveness.

  At midnight, showered, cleansed, and exhausted, Joseph steps out of the tub. Falling into bed, he knows that in God’s forgiveness there will be glorious sleep. Sleep without the nightmares that pursue him. Through absolution, he is given respite for one night.

  Chapter 22

  Joseph

  Usually a married couple do not dance together in society, but it is a sign of unusual attention for a husband to dance with his wife, and he may do so if he wishes.

  —Walter R. Houghton, Rules of Etiquette and Home Culture, 1886