Blues Dancing

by Diane McKinney-Whetstone

  He started himself a light dinner and listened to the tape again after that, and again. Didn’t know what he was listening for as he stirred around broccoli and bowtie pasta in tomato paste. Didn’t want to admit that he was listening for a slurred voice. Wished he’d been home to answer the phone, could have at least insisted on picking her up so she wouldn’t be out alone on public trans. He felt unsettled as he allowed the blandness of the pasta to linger on his tongue, felt an ominous something lurking, felt it as dark wavy lines dancing just along the edges of his peripheral vision. He dumped the meal after only a few forkfuls. Took off his glasses to see whether he needed to tighten the arms. Looked around again because it was still there, went to the window and closed the white wooden blinds.

  He went upstairs after that, poured the bag filled with brochures onto the bed, spread them out in a variety of fans covering the comforter. Stretched himself out on the chaise and felt his stomach sink in discernible degrees the longer it was taking to hear her key turn in the door. Was just about to call the shop when he did hear it.

  Clicked on the megawatted chandelier and met her downstairs in the foyer and was struck by her smile, too broad a smile, and were those traces of red showing up under the brownness of her skin? His palms were sweaty and his stomach was grinding all the way to his groin. “I was just beginning to worry,” he said as he went to her and took her face against his chest. Ran his fingers through her hair. Loved her hair short and straight, could feel it crinkling near her scalp though. He pressed his nose into her hair, missed the aroma of the perfumed spray they used to mask the harsh scent of the chemical straightener.

  She tugged away and let her briefcase drop from her hand to hit the floor with a thud. “That shop was sooo packed,” she said as she went to the closet and hung her trench coat. She started humming then. It was either hum or cry with all the contraries rising up in her right now so that she was at once weighted down and buoyant, mournful and giddy, whorish and innocent. Didn’t know whether to sing right now, or moan. Was on a seesaw. Knew only that she had to plaster a semblance of normalcy on her face, especially when she caught his face as she walked past the hallway mirror, face looked so boyish and desperate, as if he were watching his favorite ball roll into a busy intersection and he was trying to decide whether to chase it. Now it was guilt that overrode all the other paradoxes swinging like a jagged-ball pendulum inside of her. She went to him then and circled her hands around him. “I’m so tired, babes, I’m going to take a nice hot shower and then I want to hear all about your day.” She swallowed hard. Was that the best she could do? she asked herself, even as she felt his nose rifling through to the crinkles in her hair.

  He did ask it. Shocked the shit out of her because he used those very words. “Is that the best you can do, Verdi? Getting your hair done?”

  “What are you talking about?” she said as she pulled away from him and started walking toward the stairs. She just wanted to get in the shower. Though she’d showered already at Johnson’s she was feeling gritty all over again, feeling as if Rowe could see Johnson’s mouth prints straight through her blouse, as if her breasts were exposed right now still dripping Johnson’s saliva.

  “Un-unh. Come back down here,” he said with a crackling authority. He caught up with her then midway up the stairs. Grabbed her elbow. “Why you lying to me, Verdi, huh, where have you been, what in the hell have you been doing?” He was breathing hard, had her pinned now between him and the banister. Had himself braced for what she might say, had his stomach sucked in, his shoulders squared, even pulled himself in at his bowel, feeling he might actually shit on himself if she blurted out that she’d started using again.

  “What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy? Get off of me,” she screeched, allowing an anger to rise up in her because at least it felt better than the guilt. “Why would I have to lie? What do you think I’ve been doing, it’s your deranged mind that’s conjured up some fantastic scenario.”

  He loosened his grip on her arm. Felt somewhat deranged, actually. Didn’t know why he was suddenly so overtly preoccupied with her shooting drugs again. It had been twenty years after all; she certainly couldn’t be thinking about going down that drain again after twenty years.

  “Look, Verdi,” he said, trying to get his breathing under control, “you come in here after nine, looking all flustered, you say you been getting your hair done, hair looks like it did when you left out of here this morning.”

  “I was gonna say I didn’t get my hair done, that I’d still be there waiting right now. You didn’t even give me a chance, just rushed me with accusations is all you did.”

  He was staring at her trying to decide whether or not to believe her, felt embarrassed now too at his possible overreaction.

  Verdi saw the embarrassment. “You want to call?” she said as she pushed past him back down the steps and grabbed the cordless from the console in the hall. “Call. Ask for Jeff. Here, call.” She threw the phone at him. Tore off her jacket and pulled at the cuff on her stark white blouse, rolled her sleeve up. “You want to check my arm like you did the other week.” Almost hit him in the face with her arm. “Look at it good, Rowe. I don’t want to have to go through this shit every time I’m a little late getting home. You weren’t here when I called you, suppose I accused you of doing some aberrant thing.”

  “I didn’t accuse you of anything, Verdi. I just asked you where you were.”

  She turned her back on him. Started up the steps again. Stomped up the steps. She was shaking by the time she got into the bedroom. Went straight to the bathroom, closed the door, wished the door had a lock on it as she ran the shower as hot as she could stand it, let the water singe her skin to punish herself, absolve herself of the guilt of what she’d done, had almost convinced herself she was telling the truth. She took a long shower and said her prayers and asked for forgiveness even as images of her and Johnson’s togetherness rose up in the steam and condensed against the tempered glass of the shower door. She couldn’t do this again, wasn’t cut out to have an illicit affair at this point in her life. She’d either go crazy or have a heart attack trying to do this. She lotioned herself down then and wrapped up in her white chenille robe. She’d apologize for the outburst. Whatever he wanted she’d do tonight.

  He was stretched across the chaise when she came out of the bathroom. Had gathered the travel brochures from the bed and thrown them back in the shopping bag and was now leaned back, the hum of a tennis tournament radiating from the television. She sat on the end of the chaise and took his feet in her lap. Pressed her thumbs against his soles. He looked at her and smiled a settled smile. “Okay, so I worry about you,” he said. “I love you too goddamned much and I just want to keep you safe, forgive me for caring, please.”

  She struggled not to look away, managed to hold his smile, then did look away, up at the flowered border dripping from the rim of the ceiling; she shook her head, that was Johnson’s ceiling she was seeing, her ceiling was rimmed with a cedar molding. Rowe sat up then. “What? What is it?” he asked.

  The thump of her heartbeat rushed in her ears and she grappled for something to say. Told him then about her vice principal’s treachery. “It’s just eating at me,” she said. “I didn’t want to admit it to you, but you were so right about her.” She knew that would satisfy him, give an explanation for her strangeness if she was in fact being strange. Plus he’d enjoy having it confirmed that he’d accurately predicted how things would play out.

  “I told you you should have gotten rid of her sneaky ass, Verdi, didn’t I tell you? There are ways, legitimate ways, manuals filled with ways to give the victors the spoils.”

  She told him then how wise he was. “I just thought I could bring her around, you know what I mean, Rowe, I was trying to be gracious, you know, not stooping to her level.”

  “That’s because you’re sweet,” he said, “come ’ere.” He reached for her to prop her up next to him. “And a lot of people out here have no conscience
, they’ll lie and cheat all they have to to get their way.”

  Her stomach tightened when he said that and she couldn’t find a position where his shoulder wasn’t pushing into her face. She sat up then. Asked him if he wanted a bowl of frozen yogurt. Anything so that she didn’t have to be so close to him right now, afraid he might pick up her lies through the pores of her skin.

  “Frozen yogurt sounds good, actually,” he said as he patted her butt, “and don’t worry about that lying Shannon bitch, we’ll figure out what to do about her.”

  She rushed from the bedroom, dialed Johnson’s number when she got down to the kitchen. “I was just thinking about you,” he said, and she pictured his smile.

  She whispered into the phone. Made her words come fast and with an urgency. “I can’t do this, I’m rusting inside. I can’t be with you anymore.” She mashed the button to turn off the phone. Held the phone to her cheek, then went to the freezer for the yogurt.

  Rowe told Verdi that she should float a rumor at school that she was leaving, that would catch the vice principal off guard, cause her to ease up some of her instigating, might even make her willingly look for another position too since the principal slot would appear less desirable to the woman with Verdi so willing to abandon it. “It’s not about the position,” Rowe kept reiterating, “it’s about you being in the position, she only wants it because you occupy it. She’s made it personal, you got to go a little dirty here.”

  And Verdi thought that’s what she’d do, but when she got to school and planted herself at the front door so that she could smile and hold the gaze of each of her children and she caught the folded red construction paper pinned to Sage’s Elmo raincoat she swooned a little, she knew it was about Johnson. And when the aide whom Rowe suggested she use as the mouthpiece joined Verdi at the door to help with the more physically challenged children, Verdi just said good morning, pulled Sage from the line and unpinned the note, and snuck in a kiss on the cheek and returned her to the children. Slipped the note in her pocket where it burned a hole she wanted to read it so badly. But this aide was infectiously nosy, had large eyes to match her mouth, and would have had no problem reading Kitt’s oversized scrawl. So she continued with her ritual she’d been criticized for of greeting the children as they entered each morning—the group of dissident teachers said that Verdi was disrupting the bonding that the children needed to have with them, not her. Verdi stood her ground, and her spot here at the front door, and also greeted teachers now as they came to collect their children from what Verdi had named the Gathering Room. She opted out of starting the rumor today, even as Shannon came down the hall, telling Verdi that Room 2 had called out sick, that she’d left the message on the answering machine, her voice rose when she said that their previous principal didn’t allow such looseness, that she manned the phones instead of standing at the door and it cut down on absenteeism if someone knew they had to explain it to the boss, not an answering machine. Also reminded Verdi that staffing plans were due to the headmaster that day, that she’d thought they’d complete them yesterday but when Verdi didn’t show up—Verdi cut her off, was calm though, at least pretended to be, said she’d cover Room 2 until the sub arrived, they would get right to the plans after that, though she wanted to do as Kitt had advised and tell her to get the fuck out of her face, even as the aide’s eyes further bulged, itching, Verdi knew, for a confrontation.

  And once her time was up with the class—just four children in this class, mildly to moderately autistic though she had been able to keep all four simultaneously engaged for up to three-minute stretches, enough time to practice D sounds—she’d had to rush to her office to get on the staffing plans, had to have her secretary in and out getting her data, also to her chagrin, Shannon. So it was the end of the day before she could empty her office, sit back, squeeze her temples, wonder out loud if she was in over her head with this job, and finally pull Kitt’s note from her jacket pocket.

  “Okay, I shouldn’t have put you two together,” Kitt began. “So my penance is that now I’m the go-between, I’m not, I’m out of it after this. He said call him, following is his day number. He said he’s begging. Love you, cousin. Peace Out.”

  Verdi was disappointed in herself that her resolve hadn’t lasted eighteen hours as she dialed the number in Kitt’s note, committed the number to memory as she tore the note into shreds, dumped it in her trash can, and spilled her leftover coffee into her trash can to cover her tracks. Was further disappointed in herself when she felt a tinge of jealousy at the sweet, young, sultry voice answering Johnson’s office phone, saying may I tell him who’s calling, with a certain authority. But then she heard his voice pushing in her ear, and her disappointment in herself transmuted into a mammoth desire to be with him again, even as Rowe’s face flashed across her mind all excited at being involved in the shaping of her office politics. She blinked hard to get rid of Rowe’s face, was seesawing again as Johnson asked her if they could meet just for a cup of coffee, she could name the time and place, didn’t mean to pressure her, he said, but he couldn’t just let things end with her phone call last night. And she told him that she couldn’t today, or tomorrow, or the next day—

  “Verdi, please,” he said, “just for coffee.”

  She sighed into the phone, felt herself swooning. “Friday. There’s a Mexican restaurant off of Thirty-sixth Street, meet me there at four-fifteen, but I won’t have long to spend.” She tried to slow her breathing as she hung up the phone and smoothed her fingers through her hair, and thought about what excuse she’d give to Rowe for coming home late on Friday.

  There were intermittent silky strands of rain falling by the time Johnson got to his car and reminded himself how to get to Thirty-sixth Street from downtown. Charee had helped when she’d given him directions to her house for this weekend. Only his second week here and already he’d been hit on. One of the teachers assigned to one of the teams he was charged with leading, this one was gathering case histories on the boys who would serve as prototypes. Pretty woman. Soft. Said she was having a few friends over this coming Saturday. Nothing lavish, just an intimate evening with two other couples she knew. Would he like to come and keep her from being the fifth wheel? She’d laughed. He’d tenuously accepted at first, then after Verdi called he declined, said plans that hadn’t been confirmed had just been confirmed. She apologized for crossing the line if she in fact had, said that she’d assumed he wasn’t involved with anyone since he’d just arrived, that he was so approachable and warm and that she’d actually felt herself liking him after only one week of their working together. He smiled then and told her he’d grown up here, still knew people here, that he was and he wasn’t involved, that it was both simple and complicated but that please she shouldn’t misinterpret his unavailability this one time as his being permanently unavailable. She told him to call if he changed his mind even if it was as late as Saturday. That her friends would probably leave by eleven and even if he wanted to drop by after that, just give her a call, no pressure, no expectations, she’d emphasized.

  He spotted the restaurant now and started hunting for a place to park as he thought about how there had been a Charee in every city he’d ever lived. Smart, confident, principled, beautiful women, unattached for whatever reason; women he respected, politically astute, easy to laugh with, or slow drag; women with whom he could have settled into a sensuous monogamy, so unencumbered with excess emotional baggage they mostly were. So unlike Verdi in that regard. He’d actually almost married one in Chicago; lived with another for two years in Cincinnati; spent eighteen months with one in Detroit. All of them though ultimately sounded the same plaintive note, that there was a too-huge chunk of him that he held back, what was it, they all begged, they couldn’t go on with him without knowing what it was. So he’d allowed them not to go on with him, better than trying to explain about his darker past, how he hadn’t reconciled his greatest transgression, that he’d slipped and fallen in love with a sweet pretty southern miss
named Verdi Mae, that he’d allowed her to be pulled, deeper, too deep, until it was so easy, so unintended that he strung her out, and then baited her, left her to be captured, ensnared by the wolf in professor’s clothing.

  The street felt swampy from the light rain by the time he stepped out of the car. Only April and already in the eighties. He walked slowly, allowing the steaming pellets of water to sizzle against his head and run down his face as if they were so many ladies’ fingers. Now he felt his manhood edging him on to go ahead and let things develop with Charee. Told himself to settle down.

  He knew what the pattern would be with Charee: soft yellow lighting, mild potpourri scent to the room, a plush velvet couch under a framed Varnette Honeywood, signed first editions by contemporary authors stacked up on the mahogany-and-glass coffee table, Waterford crystal flutes holding champagne for her, sparkling water for him, spinach-filled phylo-type hors d’oeuvres, mood music, light conversation, a smile, a laugh, a finger against an arm for emphasis, a prelude to his genuine display of affection, their eventual attachment for one another, the push by her for a commitment, his yearnings for the same, then the prolapse, the dropping out of place of his emotions because of his unresolved guilt over how he’d brought Verdi down, as if he didn’t deserve to be fulfilled in a relationship until he’d made sure that Verdi was too.