Mystery Dance: Three Novels

by Scott Nicholson

“Jooolia,” he whispered, arousing a last shiver of doubt.

  To hell with it.

  She threw herself into the fire.

  THE END

  Table of Contents

  ###

  DISINTEGRATION:

  THE DELETED CHAPTER

  ORIGINAL CHAPTER SIX

  (This chapter revealed how Jacob and Renee met and the how their relationship grew in the first year, but since flashbacks weaken a novel’s structure, and I didn’t want to move it to the beginning and take away the intensity of the opening scene, I deleted the chapter. However, it works well as a standalone piece. Maybe a few of you remember the late 1980’s.)

  They had met in Ogre’s Tavern, a seedy dungeon accessed by a set of unstable concrete steps behind a restaurant that changed the nationality of its food with the seasons and the fluctuating economy. Ogre’s was famous for its two-dollar pitchers of beer and the absolute lack of pretense. Patrons were just as likely to see State’s star quarterback knocking down cold ones as to see some bum with fingerless gloves fishing stray butts from the ashtrays. The jukebox was a decade out of date and still played vinyl, but that was okay because Hank Williams, Sr., was timeless and most of the New Wave performers that dominated its play list had long since gone to regular jobs. In Ogre’s, Pat Benatar still sang about love being a battlefield and local acts like the dBs and Let’s Active still elicited their share of quarters.

  Jacob had wrapped up university classes early that Friday, skipping Introduction to Mass Media because Happy Hour was still legal in 1989 and alcohol had become a way to obliterate the life he’d left in Kingsboro. The stuff loved him, simple as that. In his brighter and sloppier moments, he convinced himself that it was a perfect symbiosis, the drink and him, a match as natural as Bonnie and Clyde. In the dark hours of vomit and confusion, he didn’t reflect on the philosophical aspects at all.

  That afternoon, he wore his Army jacket with the frayed cuffs, because September had brought a misty hint of coming winter. He thought of himself as non-uniform in corduroy pants, loafers without socks, and a Carolina Tar Heel T-shirt. His closet was full of Izod and Dockers, and he was afraid he’d eventually be pressed into those successful clothes. But for now, he wanted to be a poet and didn’t care how low he’d have to go to accomplish his goal. There was plenty of time for selling out later, when the price was higher.

  He usually hit the bars with a couple of his co-dependent alcoholic buddies, but on this particular life-changing Friday he was at the bar alone. He didn’t think drinking alone was either anti-social or a sign of alcoholism. The symbiosis required a mutual commitment, and the beer always held up its end of the bargain. Meeting it halfway was the least Jacob could do.

  The bar surface was pocked with carved graffiti, the uneven runes dark with mildew and age. “One Life To Live” played on the television in the corner, the sound turned down. The bartender was a chunky woman who looked as if she could lift a full keg over her head and hurl it at anyone trying to run out on a tab. Jacob lifted his face from the beer foam’s hundred staring eyes and checked out the crowd.

  The blond he later learned was named Renee was at a table with some sorority girls. Jacob didn’t see her at first, because on his first sweep of the table he was making note of the ratio of people per pitcher. Six girls and one pitcher didn’t sound like good odds. He was lousy at making the kind of small talk that ended up back at somebody’s place. But some primitive instinct always drove him to hunt just as if he actually had a chance at the prey.

  Just the way Joshua would do it.

  He first noticed Renee when she stood up. She was six feet, most of it long, slim legs that ran from her suede clogs to the high hem of her plaid skirt. She was in typical Sorority Suzy gear, a school sweater, her hair pinned back. What set her apart from her sorority sisters was that her skin glowed, even under those green fluorescents and without the benefit of makeup. And set amid that face were green eyes that moved behind her glasses with quick intelligence, despite the evidence that she’d had a few drinks already. She continually dabbed at the table with a paper napkin, wiping up the beads of condensation from their mugs.

  He watched as she bent and mouthed something to the girl beside her, words lost in the sonic chaos of some rowdy Lynyrd Skynyrd. The other girl shook her head and shrugged, leaving the green-eyed, nearsighted wonder to walk toward the rest rooms. The guy on the stool beside Jacob turned and ogled her for an appreciative moment. Jacob downed his beer in two nervous gulps, abandoned half a pitcher to the wolves, and followed the girl.

  He was a buffoon, he knew. He wouldn’t have the courage to make a move. All he wanted was a glimpse, or a smile, or maybe get stupid lucky and have somebody accidentally shove him against her. Happy Hour was always crowded and some impromptu contact was expected even when not actively solicited. His palms were sweating and he was ice sober despite four beers. He felt like a stalker.

  Like Joshua.

  She stopped at the jukebox that stood between the two bathroom doors. Even from twenty feet away the stench of urine from the men’s room competed with the sweet odor of beer and stale cigarette smoke. The sink hadn’t worked in years and served as an extra toilet. When the line was backed up so that the sink was taken, the floor was pressed into emergency service.

  But all those assaults on the senses fell away as he approached the jukebox. She was running her finger down the rows of song titles and stopped at one she liked. She dug into her purse and a tampon fell to the floor. She stooped and looked around to see if anyone had noticed. That’s when their eyes met.

  Jacob thought it should have happened to violin music, a placid and sweeping concerto by one of those sedate Viennese. Instead it was Lynyrd Skynyrd and ooh that smell and simple, defiant chord progressions. No matter that the band needed some vowels in its name or that a plane crash would one day silence the music. For right now, it was their song.

  Love at first sight was the kind of thing you could analyze later, which Jacob often did. But during that first sight, there was no room for anything else. His breath reached around his throat like a noose and his heart hammered louder than a rock’n’roll drum kit and his eyes grew so wide that even darkness stung. Two hundred people breaking the fire code in a room large enough for eighty, yet he and she were alone. He was pulled toward her by magnetism as old as the human race and as strange as extraterrestrial gravity.

  And then there was the matter of the tampon.

  “I’m not going to use it,” she said. “Not after it’s been on that floor.”

  He wasn’t nervous at all. Crazy. Different. Joshua-like. “What song did you find?”

  “‘Crimson And Clover.’ The Joan Jett remake.”

  He fished in his pocket. Plays were still a quarter, or five for a dollar. He had seven quarters. He slid them all into the slot and punched the numbers for “Crimson And Clover.” Over and over.

  “I have some change,” she said.

  “I wasn’t trying to impress you with my big spending.” He grinned, not even caring that his teeth were less than perfect despite the wonders of orthodontia.

  He could tell by the almost imperceptible flare of her nostrils that she was as curious and wary of him as he was of her. Her pupils had grown large and her cheeks flushed slightly. The bar lights reflected in her glasses with all the chaos of a carnival.

  “You go to State or are you just slumming?”

  “Oh, this Tar Heel shirt,” he said, looking down. “Strictly for shock value. I’m a junior.”

  “What’s your major?”

  “No. That’s too obvious. I don’t want our first conversation to be normal.”

  “Okay, then, who’s your favorite writer?”

  “Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

  She laughed, and the sound somehow cut through the drunken laughter and the rattle of glass. Jacob felt a mild floating sensation, as if he were on a disembodied high. Then he realized why the feeling was so fresh. He was himself. There was none of t
he usual anxiety that attacked him whenever he was in a social situation. She didn’t know he was a Wells.

  “So, what’s the deal with ‘Crimson and Clover’?” he asked.

  “Good drinking song.”

  “Can I buy you one?”

  “I need to be getting back to my sisters. They’re giving me the eye already, and they’re going to give me hell for talking to somebody outside the Greek tribe.”

  “I could be Delta Chi for all you know.”

  “Maybe so. Isn’t that the gay frat?”

  “Maybe I’m gay, then.”

  A beefy guy heading for the bathroom overheard him and veered a couple of steps away. She gave her thousand-watt grin. “Then why are you sort of hitting on me when this place is full of good-looking men?”

  He thought of what Joshua might say. “Because I have absolutely nothing to lose but another minute with you.”

  The Skynyrd died and “Crimson And Clover” came on. “Excuse me,” she said. “I really was headed to the bathroom before I got sidetracked by the jukebox.”

  “Use a clean one,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “The tampon.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  He waited for her by the jukebox. The line to the women’s room was usually longer than that of the men’s. Jacob wasn’t sure, but he guessed that the women’s sink wasn’t used as a third-string urinal. He caught his smeared reflection in the jukebox glass amid the neon beer signs and psychedelic glitter of the turntable.

  And just who do you think you are, Jakie boy?

  Whoever I am, I’m not you, Joshua.

  He thought he was very much himself, for the first time ever. Even if he had to pretend to be Joshua to manage it. “Crimson and Clover” had just ended and was starting for the second time when she emerged from the bathroom.

  “Nasty in there,” she said.

  “You should see the men’s. On second thought, you don’t want to.”

  “Do you want to come meet my friends?” she asked.

  He looked at the table of sorority girls. Somebody had ordered another pitcher. They all looked full of humor, giggly, teasing. He preferred his drunks to be serious about it. “Not really.”

  “I don’t blame you. I need to clear my head. All this smoke is getting to me.”

  “Want to go for a walk?”

  “For the record, I’m not an easy lay. I’m not totally against sex, but as a general rule I don’t do it with strangers.”

  “If we get to know each other, then we won’t be strangers.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” she said.

  “Look, I just want to walk. No promises. Besides, I’m engaged.”

  “Really? I thought you said you were gay.”

  Engaged. He wasn’t sure where the lie came from. Maybe it was part of this new natural self, the true Jacob that had drawn courage from the interest displayed in her eyes. Maybe he was a stone liar deep in the real heart of himself. “Just once around the block. That’s all.”

  “Let me tell the sisters. I don’t want them to worry, plus–”

  “–if I turn out to be a maniac, they’ll have a good description to give to the police.”

  “I don’t think you’re a maniac. You’re just nuts.” The smile went off like a photographer’s flash. “So tell me your name.”

  For a moment, he almost said “Joshua.” His hand trembled. It wanted to be wrapped around the handle of a cold mug. His liver screamed at his betrayal. His entire body, his skeletal structure, his very cells, had been anticipating a long soft ride into oblivion, and now this other creature had come along and spoiled the fun.

  “Jacob,” he said. “Jacob Wells.”

  “A good, trustworthy name. Not at all the kind of name a serial killer would go by. I’m Renee.”

  “That’s one of my favorite names.”

  “Hey, don’t go corny. You were doing so well there.”

  The turntable needle started its third trip through “Crimson and Clover.” The sorority sisters were looking over at them and bending their heads together, no doubt sizing up Renee’s prospects. They probably saw a guy doomed for the lower middle class who’d probably end up teaching English in elementary school and building birdhouses in his garage for fun. He wondered what their opinion would be if they’d have known he was in line to inherit seven million and a half or so.

  “I was being sincere,” Jacob said, and for a moment, he felt outside himself again, as if he were still sitting at the bar watching a carbon copy perform. A little of the old fear returned, and he struggled to hide it. The room suddenly seemed oppressive, the noise and bright lights and strong aromas hitting him in waves. Even the crimson and clover over and over was making him reel.

  “Something wrong?” Renee asked.

  Jacob fought for control. Not here. Not when he was close to being human, a normal guy making a normal pass, hitting on a babe and sealing the deal.

  He managed a smile. “Just wondering what your friends will say.”

  “Back in a minute. I want to say bye.”

  “I’ll meet you by the door.”

  She left him and headed for the table where her sorority sisters had started on a third pitcher. He stumbled through the crowd, at times almost swimming in the sea of drunken people, and their laughter was as tilted and disorienting as carousel music. If he didn’t reach the door, he was going to….

  He wasn’t sure. Explode. Start screaming. Fall to the floor and flop around in the sour beer and grime.

  But then the door swung open and he was in the sun, or at least the shaded stairwell. Autumn’s brisk scents swept his head clear and he leaned against the concrete block wall until the trembling stopped. Had it been real, or had he imagined it all? How many beers had he downed this time? Had he blacked out?

  The door opened and she emerged from the dimness, the chorus of “Crimson and Clover” leaking from the bar. “Around the block,” she said.

  It had been real. He wiped his forehead, hoping she didn’t notice the sweat beneath his eyes. He took a slow breath of September’s sweetness and caught a faint, teasing whiff of her hair. The shampoo had the sort of scent he would use if he were a woman. Subtle and suggestive of the country, meadows and flowers.

  They walked down the buckled sidewalk, talking of nothing, astronomy, what they did when all the students were at football games and the campus was dead, why Kurt Vonnegut was better than Ernest Hemingway. The best time to go to the library, the worst time to do laundry. They finished the block and turned left instead of heading back to the bar. She knew a small park near campus where there was a creek and some statues.

  Talk turned to family. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” she asked.

  “No.” It was the first real lie he ever told her. Besides that silly business about being engaged. And that his name was Jacob, not Joshua.

  They didn’t spend the night together. She was honest about not sleeping with strangers. He was plenty satisfied with nothing more than a promise to get together sometime soon. The “soon” ended up being lunch the next day. Renee had to study for an exam and Jacob visited Ogre’s for old time’s sake, but his heart wasn’t in it. He could still walk a straight line by the time he headed home. By Monday, they were in daily contact and within two weeks were meeting on campus between classes. He had her over to his cramped apartment and one night she cooked dinner for him in the house she shared with yet more of her sorority sisters.

  On a rainy night in November, while drinking wine in his apartment, she took his hand and kissed his lips in a different way than before. His hands went for her sweater and she helped him lift it over her head. She smelled like ripe fruit and warm honey, all the delights of the world, and he took great pleasure in exploring her soft folds and moist, secret places.

  “Take it slow,” she whispered.

  The only thing that could have made the moment better was if Joan Jett and the Blackhearts had been on the radio, performin
g their remake of the 1968 hit by Tommy James and the Shondells.

  Crimson and clover, over and over.

  They exchanged presents at Christmas, and he resisted the urge to spend a lot of money on her. Instead, he got her a leather-bound copy of The Raven And Other Poems by Edgar Allan Poe because it was precisely not the sort of romantic gift she might expect. She outdid him by slipping some photographs of herself under his front door. They had been professionally done in a studio and in them she wore nothing but silver tinsel and a smile. On the back of the envelope, she had written in magic marker: “The next best thing to being there.”

  By spring semester, they had become a serious item without any negotiation. Jacob finally told her about his dad, who was a developer, county commissioner, and owner of hundreds of acres in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Jacob managed it without bragging and also without bitterness. Renee’s eyebrows had lifted at the mention of wealth, but she didn’t press him about it. They planned an Easter visit to her folks’ place at Myrtle Beach, separate rooms because her parents were conservative Catholics. That meant Jacob had to reciprocate by scheduling a summer visit to the Wells homestead.

  He was ashamed of his father’s obscene wealth, especially since the corrupt largesse of the Reagan years had caused a social shift toward a lack of generosity. His mother was already dead, but he didn’t share any of the details with Renee. The last vestige of family dignity rested on the hunched shoulders of Warren Harding Wells, a man with a long memory and an even longer list of enemies. Some of the enemies even shared his genetic material.

  The visit was short and unsuccessful. Jacob didn’t want Renee to see the family photographs, to learn anything about his past. They rented a motel room and met his father for dinner instead. Renee was fascinated with the Wells estate, the plantation-style house with the land stretching from ridge to ridge. Jacob gave her an abbreviated tour, veering away from the places that held his deepest memories.

  The three of them sat down at the table, eating summer squash and wax beans from the garden raised by what his father referred to as “them damned Mexicans.” The old man was an abrasive piss ant as usual, grilling Renee as if she were only in the relationship for a free meal. Renee lost her appetite before Warren Wells could put the roast on the table.