Slow Dancing

by Suzanne Jenkins

  A sly expression came over Miss Logan’s face. “Maybe not a boyfriend…” Margo looked at her, shocked.

  “What are you saying, Sally Logan?”

  “Oh don’t tell me you never heard the rumors,” she replied.

  “I have no idea what on earth you are talking about,” Margo said emphatically. “None.”

  “She goes both ways,” Miss Logan said, comically lifting her eyebrows up and down.

  “That’s a lie,” Margo said. “It’s a bunch of gossips from your hair salon, jealous of her youth and beauty.”

  “Now why’ you defending her?” Miss Logan said, exasperated. “We keep taking turns being loyal to her.”

  Margo laughed again. “We must be true friends, I guess. Mary is many things, but she’s no lesbian. I’d have gotten an inkling about it and there’s never been even a hint.”

  “Maybe she’s just not attracted to you,” Miss Logan said, putting an end to the talk. She knew for a fact that Mary went both ways because she’d come on to her. It wasn’t something she’d admit to Margo Portland though; keeping it to herself, often wondering what would have happened if she’d responded. It was material for nighttime fantasies.

  The temperature in the bus rose as it bumped along, the women weary and sweating by the time they reached their destination in front of the post office. “Can you squeeze me in today? I just need a wash and blow-dry. The cut can wait.” Margo asked as they got off, waving goodbye to Hal. Miss Logan was grateful for Margo’s loyalty.

  “Of course I can. When can you get away?”

  “Around one, if that will work.”

  “See you then,” Miss Logan said before she walked away.

  Ellen watched the women getting off the bus from her garage office perch across the street. It was a familiar routine every morning; the men waiting to help customers with their grocery bags at the food store, Miss Logan coming to open up by ten, Mary walking across the street to start her shift at the café. The simple order of life in their village used to bring Ellen security; she was part of Seymour, her father was an important businessman, they were well thought of in town as far as she knew. But last night changed all that.

  Coming home to her decimated garden so soon after the late night visitor frightened her caused something to shift, a sense of well-being exchanged with fear. Someone didn’t like her or Frank. A childlike confidence in which she felt she was the center of an adoring universe she replaced with anxiety. In her orderly way of thinking, Ellen tried to understand what possible reason someone would do what had been done to the garden; jealousy of Frank, anger over the unlikely possibility of a botched car repair, a classmate who suddenly no longer liked her. But the extent of the damage was such that her reasoning was flimsy. “Wonton destruction of property,” she heard Frank whisper to Sheriff Dalton. Coming on top of the stranger who lingered at the edge of the forest, this was too much of a coincidence.

  ***

  The boarding house kept Cate Ashbury busy until noon daily. She was a fanatic about bed making and bathroom cleaning, going from room to room as soon as the boarder vacated even temporarily, just like at a hotel. “You should only have to do it once a week,” Miss Logan had advised. “Most boarding houses don’t even offer cleaning services; the tenant has to do it.

  “Yes, and that’s how a house gets bugs. No thank you. I want to see what condition the room is in every day.” After three years, Emil Magda had finally gotten it through his thick skull that he was going to keep his room neat or Cate would throw away everything that he left out. She couldn’t force him to bathe, but she did relocate him to a neat single in the basement when the others complained about his hygiene. Mr. Rosen was able to convince him to stay out of the dining room unless he bathed, and although there was some debate about his adherence to the request, he was less smelly than he’d been in the past.

  Each evening, Cate prepared the breakfast items, making fruit salad, assembling casseroles or the muffin batter, starting the oatmeal in a slow cooker, filling the coffee pot and setting the buffet table. The next morning, all she had to do was pop the casserole into the oven along with the muffins and turn the coffee pot on. Occasionally, she put out little boxes of dried cereal and a tray of ready-made pastries, but the lodgers seemed to like the change.

  Although it wasn’t formerly part of the rent, she started serving dinner, too. Unsure how well it would be received, she was shocked when the residents showed up promptly at six every night for their evening meal. Like breakfast, dinner had evolved so they could expect certain dishes on certain nights. No one complained and no one ever passed up a meal, so she must have been doing it right and she was able to increase the rent.

  After she finished cleaning the private rooms, she dusted and vacuumed the rest of the house and started dinner. Once dinner was underway, for the rest of the day she’d sit in an overstuffed chair on the porch with her feet up on an ottoman, the latest best seller in her hands. But after Alan Johnson checked in, Cate couldn’t relax on the porch, worried he’d show up and see her being lazy. Changing her routine, after cleaning up the breakfast dishes, she went to her room and primped. Hair long and straw colored; normally, she wore it in a braid down the middle of her back. Wanting something different, she twisted it around her hand and pinned the bun in place, but that was too different, so she combed it into a ponytail. Applying pale lipstick on, and penciling her eyebrows in; small changes that made a big difference in her appearance and gave her self-confidence a huge boost. She didn’t do it until Miss Logan was gone for the day; she’d make a big deal out of it and embarrass Cate. Hardly used to it herself, she wanted to feel what it was like before she showed herself off to anyone, so she stayed in her room to read after putting a sign on the door for visitors to ring the bell, hopeful that by dinner tonight, she’d be comfortable enough to dine with Alan Johnson.

  Mary overslept, again. Exhausted from partying the night before, she would pay for it today, in the way she felt and the way she looked. Sleeping through the alarm, she only woke up because the neighbor’s dog barked. “Oh, Lord,” she picked up the clock and squinted at it, unable to see the hands unless she put her dime-store magnifying glasses on. “Jesus!” she screamed, hoping He’d help her get to work on time. Since her shift started in fifteen minutes, there wasn’t time for a shower or to do much more than brush her teeth. The makeup on her face from the night before would have to do with a little fresh powder and lipstick, her hair in a ponytail. Glad she’d taken the time to do laundry the weekend before; at least her uniform was crisp and bright white. Grabbing her purse, sprinting to work, she got there just in time.

  “Not like you to come in without time for a cup of,” June said. “I was beginning to get worried.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mary said, stashing her purse under the counter. “I went out last night and didn’t get home until two.”

  “That’s okay. As you can see, it’s dead around here this morning. How much longer do you think you can burn the candle at both ends?” June said, wrapping silverware bundles with paper napkins. “It’s gotta catch up with you, don’t it?”

  “It has already,” Mary said sadly. “Look at me.” She stood with her hands out at her sides, turning around. “I’m a wreck. I lost more weight, and not in a good way. My hair is a mess, that cigarette I sneak every so often is starting to show on my face. I’ve got to pull it together.”

  “You still look better than I ever did,” June said. “I meant playing around with your health, honey. Not the way you look. You’re still the best looking gal here in town.”

  “Aw, you’re so sweet, June. Thank you.” They looked up as the bell on the door jingled, and Mary involuntarily gasped. “Woa!”

  “You take this one,” June whispered, giggling. Alan Johnson had arrived.

  “Sit anywhere you wish,” Mary said, and then to June, “Why today of all days do I have to feel like I’ve been rode hard and put up wet?”

  “You look great, as usua
l. No worries.”

  “So what can I get you?” Mary said, handing Alan a menu. “Coffee?”

  Pulling the chair out from under the table, he looked around the café and then up at Mary, who was smiling at him, more than curious. This one was grinning at him, and he took it just the way she meant him to take it; she was going to flirt. The sins of the previous night forgotten, Mary would jump back up on the horse that threw her.

  “What do I want? I guess it’s too early for a drink,” he said.

  “No it’s not. How about a Bloody Mary?” she asked, pointing to her nametag. Perking up at first when he realized she was thee Mary he was seeking, he grimaced and laughed, imagining the worst.

  “Sorry, but that just sounds unappetizing. No offense. How about a shot of Kahlua in my coffee? I can build up to the vodka.”

  Mary laughed and nodded her head. “Okay. In the meantime, the french toast is to die for. They put a little rum in the egg wash.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve already had breakfast. I actually came here to see you.” Mary stopped and turned back to the table.

  “Me? Why?” Her heart did a little pitter-patter; was he a cop?

  “Can you sit a few minutes and have a coffee with me?” She looked around the empty restaurant.

  “I think that can be arranged,” she said, trying to keep the flirtation out of her voice and failing. “I’ll get your coffee and Kahlua.” She turned to get the coffee and Alan watched her, trying to drum up interest and failing. I must be getting old, he thought. For the first time in his life, he was thinking about a woman with something other than his genitals and it was a little disconcerting. He looked around the café, at the antiquated cash register, and the linoleum topped tables and vinyl covered bar stools. It was a throwback to another time, one he wasn’t crazy about. He hated anything old and moldering, maybe because of having lived in poverty most of his life. Why purposely choose to live that way?

  Mary walked toward him with two coffee mugs. “Here you go. Kahlua on the house.” Alan picked up the mug and took a sip, the egg casserole sitting in his stomach like a lead weight.

  “Oh, that’s good. Thank you.”

  “So what did you want to talk to me about?” she asked, sitting down next to him. Her body language was making him uncomfortable; that was another thing. Anyone else would sit across the table to talk, but Mary would cozy right up to a stranger.

  “I heard an interesting story at breakfast this morning,” he said, deciding to tell the truth without revealing his secret. “It’s just a coincidence that I’m staying at the same boarding house as Miss Logan.”

  “Oh! Are you visitin’ the area?”

  “Yes, but I’m looking for a job, too.” He looked around the café and then at her to prove a point, which she didn’t miss. “If I’d known about Seymour, I would have stopped here, first.”

  “I rent rooms,” she said, smiling.

  “I heard after the fact. But I drove to Beauregard instead. Towering Pines. Miss Logan and I talked during breakfast. Somehow the conversation went from bachelors in town, to Frank in particular.”

  “Oh yes. Frank. So you want to know about Frank?” Alan decided that allowing Mary to lead the conversation was better than conjuring up some outrageous lie to get information.

  “Sure, we can start with Frank. Why aren’t you and Frank together is the first question that crosses my mind,” he said, pulling out the charm. Feed her ego, it can only help.

  Without asking why he wanted to know, Mary launched right in. “I’ve known Frank since I was a kid. He was just never interested. It hasn’t been for lack of trying to get his attention, either.”

  “Who’d he date?” Alan asked, thrilled the conversation had take the turn it had so quickly. Mary thought back to those early days. Younger than he was, she wasn’t familiar with the kids he graduated with. But the girl, she remembered the girl. In love with Frank since she started kindergarten, when Mary saw him with Beverly Majors the first time it made her physically ill. It was the first week of high school and she was lingering with friends after classes, watching the upperclassmen walking to their cars. Frank always had the best car. He and his dad would scour the countryside looking for a wreck, and then tow it back to Seymour where they’d spend months tinkering and searching for parts. In spite of having an enviable car collection, since high school Frank drove the most unpretentious vehicles.

  “Oh, just some girl from his grade,” Mary said, unwilling to relive those days in case old wounds she worked hard to suppress might fester again. “He went away to school after graduation. Studied engineering I think. He lived above the garage after college and when his papa died, he moved into the family home. It’s nothing much; a cottage on the river.” The derision about the cottage shocked her; a hot flash cruised through her body. She’d have given anything to live in that modest cottage. She twisted around in her seat and pointed out a window behind a row of booths.

  “He’s shop is right there,” she said. “That’s Frank’s garage.” Alan was leery about asking more. He didn’t want Mary to get suspicious; he wasn’t sure himself what his next move would be. Jumping right in, telling her Margaret Fisher was his ex and Ellen was his kid, well that might sound easier, but something told him it wouldn’t be, that he’d better be careful around the likes of Frank McPherson. The man probably carried a gun.

  “So,” he drawled, looking at Mary with a Cheshire grin. “What’s there to do around here?”

  Mary tilted her head and looked at him carefully. “You mean like for relaxation? Or employment.”

  Alan laughed out loud. “Both. But I’m thinking relaxation. With you. Would you go out with me?” Mary wasn’t sure about Alan Johnson. He was very smooth. But there was something about him she didn’t trust.

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “Miss Logan will vouch for me, I bet. Isn’t that her salon across the street?” Mary nodded her head. But the last thing she wanted was for Sally Logan to know she was going on a date with the new guy in town.

  “I believe you. Now just to keep it straight, I like my private business to stay private, and if Miss Logan has your ear, she’s got everyone else’s in town, as well. If I go out with you, you have to promise me that it’s our secret. That woman has got a nose on her like a blood hound.” Alan started to laugh; Miss Logan said the same thing about her. But he’d remembered other, nasty things Miss Logan had said during breakfast, things that rankled. She might be capable of being vicious.

  “You have my word, no conversation regarding our date with Miss Logan.”

  “So, what time do you get off work? I’ll come back and pick you up. What will we do? You never answered me about what our choices are.”

  “Dancing. Everyone dances here. There are ballrooms all over the county, and every bar has a cabaret license. But the best place is Phillip Anderson’s in Beauregard. The dance floor is surrounded by dining booths like they had in the old days.” Alan’s heart sunk; it sounded expensive and he was nearly broke. She must have seen his expression change. “Oh, don’t you like to dance?”

  “I love to dance,” he said enthusiastically. “It’s not that at all. I’m embarrassed. I’m here, looking for work.” Strangely, she brightened right up.

  “Oh, I got it. That’s why you were asking about Frank! For a job, correct?”

  “Well, I have spent my life working around cars,” he answered.

  “The ballroom is very inexpensive. Admission is only five dollars a person or eight a couple. They make their money off lessons and food. We can eat at my place first anyway.”

  “Thank you for understanding,” he said smiling. “I’d like to take you out for dinner tonight. Eight dollars won’t break the bank.” He pushed back his chair.

  “What do I owe for the coffee? I have some errands to run, but I’ll be back later to pick you up. What’s your address?”

  Mary wrote the number down on the back of a ticket, along with her phone number. “See
that street?” she pointed to a corner with Miss Logan’s one side and the library on the other. “I’m half way down the block. Say about six tonight?”

  He took the paper from her and folded it neatly, tucking it in his shirt pocket. “Okay, six it is.” Reaching in his wallet, he took out his billfold but she put her hand up.

  “On the house, remember?” The doorbells jingled and they looked up as an elderly couple came in for lunch. “See you later.” She smiled and walked to the counter to pick up two menus.

  “Wherever you want folks,” she said. Alan waved and left the café, ghe sultry heat hitting him after the air conditioning. The summer weather was just like Galveston; humid, miserable. He could feel the heat radiating off the sidewalk as he walked to the car, almost painful through his shoes. Frank’s garage was right across the street. He paused at his car door, looking over at the building, the front office window sparkling clean, the silhouette of a young girl sitting with her nose in a book visible clear across the street. He walked around his car and back up the sidewalk and a few steps to the grocery store. A bevy of unkempt looking men stood around, some sitting on a bench waiting to help shoppers with their bags. Looking across the street again, he could clearly see her. It made him angry that she was sitting in full view of the men. Wanting to get a better look for himself, he walked a few feet out of view of the garage before he crossed the street, trying to come up with a reason to talk to her. His car hadn’t had an oil change in months. That was as good an excuse as any.

  The big garage door was closed against the noonday sun so he was unable to see Frank right away. Opening the door to the office, a blast of cold air greeted him, and a beautiful, young replica of Margaret Fisher looked up from her book. She didn’t smile at him, but her expression was pleasant. “May I help you?” she asked softly.

  “I’ve gotta Olds out front. Well, across the street, actually.” He pointed down to the café. “Needing an oil change and this looks like the place.”

  She looked at a handwritten list tapped to the counter. “Frank can fit you in about two. Will that work for you?”