Slow Dancing

by Suzanne Jenkins

  “It’s her address. 85 Oak Lane, Saint Augustine. Secretary, Hartland Insurance.” She skimmed unimportant facts.

  “Okay, are you ready?” She pulled back from the eyepiece and looked at him.

  “I don’t know if I am or not,” he said nervously.

  “Well, you better make up your mind, because once you know for sure about having a child, it will change your life.” Alan wasn’t sure how Noelle would know about such things since she’d never mentioned having a child.

  “All right. Read,” he said.

  “Okay, here goes. Live birth of a six pound, eight ounce female at two pm.” She leaned back to look at him again and he was pale, sweat on his forehead. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I’m not sure,” he replied. He thought, I’ve been a selfish asshole all my life and now when I’m preparing to take advantage of yet another woman, I discover I have a kid. What the hell? Before he opened his mouth, he came back to his senses. “Keep reading.”

  “There’s not much more here, just what they did to her, and her date of discharge. It looks like she only stayed a day.”

  “Is there a name?” he asked. “For the baby?” Noelle turned the knob on the side of the machine as she scrolled through the film.

  “Ellen Marie,” she said. “Fisher. Ellen Marie Fisher.” Alan was numb. He never thought of having his own kid. Now, here was this thing; he had a daughter. He looked off into space and tried to figure out how old she’d be.

  “When was this?”

  Noelle repeated the date. “She was fifteen in April.” Alan turned to look at her.

  “I have a fifteen year old daughter?” he asked, incredulous. His face was twisted, the handsome Alan reduced to the distressed Alan, all cockiness and ego swept away. “How the hell is that possible? That bitch! Why didn’t she tell me?” Noelle grabbed his shoulder.

  “Shush,” she whispered. “You left for the Persian Golf, remember?” Alan did remember; he left with Margaret’s ten grand. Capable of feeling shame, that did it for him.

  “Is there any more to see? Because if there isn’t, I want to get out of here.” She bent over and looked in the viewer, scrolling through more documents.

  “Nope, looks like it was a normal birth and she left the next day.” He pushed away from the table, eager to be in a place where he was free to explode.

  “Now what the hell am I going to do? She’s nowhere around here. We’ve looked.” Noelle resisted telling him to grow up.

  “Be patient, Alan,” she said soothingly, desperate. “I’ll think of something.”

  The next morning, Noelle left for work and Alan set out on foot, walking to Margaret’s old neighborhood again. He didn’t know what to do or how to begin searching for her. When he reached the house, Margaret’s landlady was in front pulling weeds out of the flower bed.

  Alan cleared his throat to give her a warning he was behind her on the sidewalk. She turned, shielding her eyes from the morning sun. “All full,” she said. “Expectin’ a vacancy next Friday, if you kin wait that long.”

  “I came to ask about one of your former tenants.” He reached out his hand to shake, but instead she took it trying to get out of the crouching position and grunted, using it to pull her body up.

  “Who might that be?” she asked, wiping her gloved hands over her dress.

  “Margaret Fisher,” he said. She screwed her face up and looked over her shoulder, and then back, giving him the stink eye.

  “That was a long time ago,” she answered. He launched right in with the facts and his lies, no reason to keep back a thing because it would give him more clout. A child always made a big difference in a sob story. She nodded her head.

  “Ay, she did have a baby. Moved from a big apartment right there,” she pointed to the front first floor, “to a studio up on top. ‘To save money,’ she told me. She sold all her furniture. I bought a few pieces myself. ‘That table belonged to my mother,’ she said. I can show you if you want.” Alan was trying to stay calm.

  “When did she leave?” he didn’t want to rush the woman, but needed to ask the questions as they came to him. The landlady screwed up her face again in thought.

  “I don’t remember exactly,” she answered. “But the little girl been walkin’ for a long while already. And talking. She was talking real good.” Alan tried to remember the exact date that Margaret had contacted him about moving to Galveston. It was in late spring, thirteen years before. The little girl, little Ellen Marie, would have been about two, talking and walking.

  “Why’d they leave?” She screwed her face up again.

  “Let me think. She got family somewhere out west, I’m pretty sure that’s what she said. It’s been so long my memory can’t be sure. She sold all her stuff again, what she collected since having the baby and all. I do remember that. We made a deal that I’d hold on to a few things for her and if it didn’t work out and she’d be back, she’d get it. But I never heard from her again.” Alan was afraid to walk away from the landlady because he might remember to ask something.

  “If I think of anything else, do you mind if I come back?”

  “No, not at all,” she said. “And the same with me. How can I get in touch with you if I remember anything?”

  “You got a pen?” Alan asked. She waved him to the porch.

  “Wait here while I get one,” she said, pulling herself up the steps by the handrail. She went inside and returned with a pen and paper. He recited Noelle’s phone number.

  “Anything you think of, don’t hesitate to call me,” he said. “And thank you very much.” He tipped an imaginary hat as he walked down the path from her house. He didn’t know anymore more than he did before he approached her, but she confirmed that Margaret left Florida for Texas thirteen years ago with a two-year-old daughter.

  Noelle knew he was struggling with the new information that he had a child, but that was no reason for him not to look for a job, too. She handed him a section of the classified ads, possible jobs circled. “You need to keep looking, even with unemployment. The payments are apt to stop if they find out you aren’t going on interviews.” The next morning, Noelle left for work at five and he left Florida for good, driving toward Texas with one thought; try to find out what had happened to Margaret and his daughter thirteen years ago.

  Chapter 10

  Ellen was sorting through a bucket of bolts in the garage when Frank walked through the door with the mail. “We made the city paper last Friday,” he said, digging through the pile. Pulling out the envelope from the Phillip Anderson Dance Studio, Inc. he passed it over to her. Frowning she delicately took the folded paper out of the envelope.

  “Oh boy, this is an awful picture of me,” she complained, holding it up. “Look at how skinny my legs are. I should have worn nylon stockings. I’m too old for anklets.” She handed the paper off to her stepfather and they looked at the picture together.

  “But it’s a good picture of you, I think. We make a fine lookin’ dance team, Frank.” She started to laugh.

  “Your legs look fine,” Frank said. “But my paunch.” He clicked his tongue and they laughed together. “We’ll never be satisfied.”

  “No, I don’t guess we will,” Ellen said.

  “Do you have any desire to take dance lessons?” Frank asked.

  “We already dance nice,” she said. “Keep that for my scrapbook, but no other reason.” He folded the article up and threw the envelope in the trash, Phillip Anderson forgotten.

  While Frank went about repairing the cars that lined up outside of the garage and Ellen turned to her fiction novel, flipping through the pages to find her place, Alan Johnson pulled into the Overlook Drive-in in Mobile for lunch. He’d been on the road since Noelle had left for work that morning. It was getting hot already, too hot to eat in the car. The air conditioning hit his face when he entered. “Sit where you want,” a man in a white apron said. He slid onto the first stool at the counter although he had the whole place to himself. P
ulling the greasy menu from the holder, he flipped through it and decided quickly.

  “Grilled cheese and a Coke,” he said to the waitress, poised with her ticket book in her hand.

  “Pickles and chips?”

  “Just chips,” he said, glancing over at a booth under the window; a folded paper on the bench seat forgotten by the last patron. “Mind if I take a look at that paper?”

  “Help yerself,” she said.

  “Afraid I’ll fall asleep while I’m eatin’ if I don’t have something to read,” he said.

  “Been drivin’ a long time?” she asked, putting a glass filled with ice down on the counter in front of him. She got a bottle opener out and popped the cap off a bottle of Coca Cola.

  “Since daybreak,” he answered. “Got my wife off to work and headed west.” As planned, the wife reference would either shut her up if there were ideas of a possible connection, or not faze her if she was just being talkative.

  “Where you comin’ from?” she asked, turning to look at the greasy wall clock. “Lord, that’s six hours worth of drivin’.”

  “Saint Augustine,” he said, stifling a yawn. A bell rung and she turned to the shelf, his sandwich was waiting under a red heat lamp.

  “Here you go,” she said, sliding it to him. “Mobile your destination?” Alan looked at her sideways. “I ask ‘cause we get a lot a travelers headin’ to New Orleans.”

  “In that general direction,” he answered. “You got any tips for travelers?”

  “Just be careful at the next intersection,” she warned. “We get people in here for lunch who make the wrong turn and then they’re back at dinnertime after wastin’ a couple a’ hours drivin’ around.”

  “Okay, I’ll be careful,” he said. “Where’d they end up?”

  She pointed over her shoulder. “Upriver. Towns up north. A lot of ‘em in Seymour.” Alan froze, hearing the name again after thirteen years, Margaret leaving the message for him that her car broke down in Seymour.

  The bell rang and she turned to get another lunch order. Alan bit into the sandwich, the grilled bread crispy with butter on the outside, the cheese oozing. He reached for the paper, unfolding it on the counter leaving greasy fingerprints. It was Friday’s paper, old local news, but not to him. He read while he chewed, about unemployment and a murder downtown, rising food prices and the weather. Nothing important registered, even as he skimmed over the picture of a young girl and her father, dancing together at her graduation. Ellen Fisher and her stepfather, Frank McPherson, dance partners at Longbow Middle School Ninth Grade Graduation. The significance of what he read wouldn’t hit him until later, having already forgotten the baby’s name.

  The infamous wrong road was a two-lane highway, dotted with abandoned buildings and small gas stations and an occasional road sign pointing to towns east and west. He imagined Margaret on the same road, not realizing she was lost at first, with a small child in the backseat. Driving north for an hour, he pulled into a gas station to call Noelle before she left work. She’d have to monitor her words and the time she kept him on the phone would be limited, unlike a call to her apartment.

  “Where are you?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

  “I’m going to stay here for the night,” he said, ignoring her question. “I took a detour from the main highway, and there’s a string of small towns that I want to check out.”

  “Alan, it sounds like a waste of your time. It’s like a wild goose chase.” Something about her tone struck a cord; she was bossing him and he couldn’t abide by it. But he needed Noelle and her money if this turned out to be what she was prophesying; a wild goose chase and he had to return to Saint Augustine.

  “Yes, well it’s all I’ve got right now.” He told her what the waitress at the restaurant said about people often taking a wrong turn, heading to the towns north, the familiar sounding name of Seymour. All he wanted to do was hang up on Noelle. He tried to remember the circumstances of Margaret calling him the last time; her car had broken down on a Friday and she would see him the next week. Did he hear from her again once she was on the road? He recognized that he’d used her like he was using Noelle, taking her money with no intention of paying it back. No wonder she didn’t tell him there was a child; he couldn’t be trusted. “I better hang up. It’s getting late and I need to find a place to stay.” Noelle was reluctant to let him go, she could hear the tension in his voice, the change when she criticized him.

  “It’s not that I don’t think you’ll find her,” she said. “Just that it’s so unlikely.” There was silence on the other end of the line, but she could hear him breathing.

  “Think of someway to find the child,” he said. “I’m hanging up now.” She reluctantly said goodbye, realizing after that she didn’t have any more information about him than his name. If he didn’t call her again, she wouldn’t have a clue where to find him.

  “Wait!” she yelled, but it was too late. He’d already hung up.

  Alan got back in his car and continued north. A sign for Beauregard, Pop. 12,000, larger than the other signs scattered along the road, directed him to make a right turn. It looked promising, the small shacks he passed switched to larger homes with well-kept lawns guiding him into town. The road lead to a bridge across the river and on the other side of the river the houses changed again, this time into brick apartment buildings and older, Victorian homes, some with elaborate signs in front announcing rooms for rent. It was getting late, the sun starting down its course, casting shadows and bathing what was in its path in golden light. Pulling into the driveway of the least pretentious of the houses, he got out his wallet to count his cash. His last unemployment check was seventy dollars and he had half of it left, along with a new credit card with a five hundred dollar limit from which he’d taken one hundred dollars. He’d better make it last. Not bothering to lock his car, he got his bag out of the backseat and walked around to the front door of the house. A large, hand painted sign said this house was Towering Pines. He looked upward and sure enough, towering above the high peaked roof were pine trees. The house had a deep porch with shabby but inviting seating interspersed with tea tables running the length of house. A large window next to the door revealed a lighted desk at which a young woman sat reading. Alan knocked on the door and the woman looked up at him, put her book down and walked to the door.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, unsmiling.

  “I need a room for the night,” he said. “Maybe longer.” She stepped aside so he could pass through. The house was dark, the only light coming from the desk lamp.

  “Ten dollars cash a night includes breakfast. If you want dinner, it’s another five a day.” He looked down at the floor. It was more than he wanted to pay but didn’t think he’d find anywhere cheaper. She added, “Or fifty a week, paid in advance.” Taking five tens out of his wallet, the place could be his command center. If he didn’t discover anything in a week, he’d go back to Saint Augustine.

  “Okay, I’ll stay a week, to start,” he said, looking at her for the first time. She was not as attractive up close, one of those women of indeterminate age, but she might be older than he thought; maybe more like thirty than twenty. “This your folks place?” She looked up at him, surprised.

  “No,” she said sharply. “Mine. Why do you ask?” He scrambled, trying to cover his faux pas.

  “I’m sorry,” he replied quickly. “I’m impressed, that’s all. This is a lovely town and an impressive house.” He didn’t add what he was thinking. I can’t even afford to rent a room let alone own a house.

  “Beauregard is a great little town,” she said, relaxing.

  “What’s the industry here?” She looked at him curiously.

  “The mental hospital,” she answered, amazed. “I thought everyone knew that.” His original plan was to be honest about why he was there, looking for Margaret and his child. But his nature was to sneak around. Common sense caught up with him and he changed his mind.

  “I’m not from thes
e parts,” he said, scrambling again. “In addition to the mental hospital; any commerce? I’m looking for a job.” She turned to a stack of paper behind the desk and handed it to him.

  “There are a few small places around, some hiring, too.” He nodded his head to her.

  “Thank you very much,” he said.

  “Your room’s at the top of the stairs, to the right. Just three others here now; Mr. Rosen, on this floor, Emil in the lower level, and Miss Logan above the garage. Miss Logan owns the beauty shop in Seymour. On Sunday’s she’ll cut your hair free if you buy her lunch.”

  “Who’s talking about me?” an attractive, middle-aged woman walked into the room from the back of the house.

  “When’d you get home?” the owner asked. She looked at Alan. “I’m Cate by the way. This is Miss Logan.”

  “Just now,” she answered, sticking her hand out to shake Alan’s. “Well, you’re tall.” Alan burst out laughing.

  “I guess I am to some people,” he said. He was anxious to get started looking around town before the sun was down, but forced himself to relax and listen to their banter.

  “Can I make tea?” Miss Logan asked Cate. “The salon was steady all day and I’m famished but too tired for dinner.”

  “I’ll make it,” she answered. “That’s the reason for tea time. Will you have tea, Mr. Johnson?”

  “Okay,” he said, fighting the urge to look at his watch. “Where’s your salon again?”

  “Seymour,” Miss Logan answered. “It’s upriver, a raggedy little town with one café, my salon, a garage and a crappy grocery store.” Cate laughed out loud.

  “Seymour’s not that bad,” she said. “It’s just too far from Mobile. If you want to hop on a plane, you need to go to Mobile. Need a big department store? Mobile again.”

  “I’m there everyday,” Miss Logan replied. “It’s got a small town mentality. Beauregard is more convenient to Mobile and it’s just nicer. I wish my shop was here.”