Keep Dancing

by Leslie Wells

  “Oh, that would be great!” Incredibly flattered, I wondered what Ted told him about me. He’d probably mentioned that I was Freeman Fyfe’s editor at my former house.

  “Perfect,” Dermot said, standing up. “I’m running off to do an interview for The New Yorker, but call me tomorrow and we’ll set up a time to get together. I like to dig in and revise from the ground up.” Dermot waved Ted off when he started to escort him, saying he knew his way out.

  “I’m so excited,” I said to my boss. “Thank you.”

  Ted frowned. “I’ll have to finesse it with Erica. Initially she was assigned to him. She’s already met with him several times.”

  I was confused. “Then why switch?”

  Ted looked a little embarrassed. “Dermot was pretty insistent about working with you. I don’t think there’s any way around it now.” He sighed. “Erica’s going to have a conniption.”

  “I don’t want to cause trouble.” I dreaded starting off on the wrong foot with this woman, who seemed super-confident and aggressive in ways I couldn’t even imagine. I’d hate to make an enemy in my very first month. And if Dermot wanted me to be his editor based on a chance meeting in an elevator—well, that was weird. But maybe his agent had heard I was a whiz with a red pencil.

  “I’ll fix it with Erica,” Ted said. “You should set up a meeting with Dermot as soon as possible. He requires a lot of hand-holding, and we paid a king’s ransom for this new novel. It’s slated for next spring, and of course it’s late. So you’re going to have a very full plate for the next few months.”

  I licked my dry lips. “I’ll do my best.”

  The apartment was quiet when I got in. I opened a beer to have with the slice of pizza I’d picked up on the way home, assuming correctly that Jack wouldn’t be there. I poured some kibble into Muddy’s bowl and grabbed the phone on the third ring.

  “Still swotting away at those manuscripts?” came a distinctive British voice. Suzanne and I had bonded last fall during my ups and downs with Jack, and I counted her as a real friend. Jack was great buddies with her husband, Mark.

  “As always. How are you?” I asked. “Are you getting any painting done?” Suzanne was struggling to be an artist, along with the full-time job of managing and coddling her wayward spouse—who definitely walked to the beat of his own drum.

  “The artwork has taken a backseat to getting Mark ready for the tour. Has Jack had his concert wardrobe dry-cleaned yet?”

  I was surprised at the question. “I don’t know. Doesn’t Mary Jo handle that kind of thing?”

  “She may have assumed you’re doing it. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it happens. Listen Julia, I wanted to talk to you. Is there any way you can come for longer than one week? It really gets crazy on tour; it would be good for Jack to have you there from the start. And you could help me keep the guys sorted.” She paused, and I heard the flick of her lighter. “Plus you and I would have a great time together,” she continued. “Mary Jo doesn’t have much of a sense of humor, y’know? And I’m so sick of Patrick’s ditzy tarts. He picks one up at every stop. Or two or three.”

  “I wish I could. I know it would be fantastic, but I can’t get more time off.” I took a sip of beer and scratched Muddy’s head.

  “That’s what Jack said, but he seemed kind of ticked off about it. I thought I’d give you a heads-up, woman to woman. There are packs of girls with sharp claws, eyeing the guys like a piece of meat. I’ll try to keep tabs on Jack, but it won’t be easy.” She took a puff of her cigarette. “I can’t tell you what that scene is like; you have to live through one to believe it. Women bribe security and turn up naked in their dressing rooms with suitcases full of drugs—you name it.”

  This was sounding worse and worse. “Thanks for letting me know.” I tried to get a grip. “I guess I’ll just have to hope for the best.”

  “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I told her goodbye. Having lost my appetite, I fed my slice to Muddy.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bad to the Bone

  “Surprise!” Dot crowed into the phone. I was making tea and toast for yet another solo dinner that Friday night, since Jack was still at the studio.

  “Surprise what?” I crooked the receiver under my chin so I could spread the butter.

  “You’ll never guess where I am.”

  “Um, you’re borrowing Buck’s phone to make a call?” I pictured the cord stretched across the beer-splattered bar at her favorite watering hole.

  “I’m in the Big Apple!” she exclaimed.

  I sank into a chair. “Why—how did you get here?”

  “I rode up with Darrell in his eighteen-wheeler. We’ve just started seeing each other.”

  I couldn’t quite take it in. This past fall my mother had caught a ride with a trucker named Darrell who’d had a delivery in New Jersey. From there, she’d taken a bus into Manhattan to visit me. But I couldn’t believe she was here now—and with a date. “Where are you staying?” I asked.

  “A hotel on 42nd Street. Darrell got a deal on this place; a buddy of his stays here when he’s passing through,” she said.

  “Mom, Times Square can be dangerous. What kind of hotel is it?”

  “I didn’t catch the name. Don’t worry, there are lots of women coming and going. Some of them are dressed really fancy; Broadway actresses I guess.”

  They may be on Broadway, but they probably weren’t in that profession. “How long are you staying?”

  “Just two nights. I have to be back at work Monday. Darrell suggested we pop over here after he dropped off a load of lawnmower parts in Scranton.”

  I had a bad feeling about this. “Have you told him I’m seeing Jack?”

  “I might have mentioned it. Don’t worry, he’s more into country music. I’m not sure he’s even heard of Four to the Floor.”

  He’s been living in a cave for the past fifteen years if he doesn’t know The Floor, I thought. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “The plan? I’m planning to see you, of course. And Jack. He told me to come back and visit New York again soon. That was when you were in the bathroom at the luau.”

  I’d have to clue him in that Dot took everything literally. “Jack’s not here right now. Why don’t I take you and Darrell out for dinner?”

  “We’re going to stay in tonight; Darrell’s pretty tired from all the driving. But tomorrow let’s walk around downtown, the way you and I did last time. I want to show him the sights, especially that Washington Square Park. I told him about some of the crazy stuff we saw. He’s dying to see it for himself.”

  “Sure, we can do that. Jack will probably be busy, but I’ll take you around,” I said.

  “Well, I hope he can at least have dinner with us. I did tell Darrell he was going to meet a famous rock musician.”

  Just what I suspected. “Okay Mom, I’ll try to arrange dinner. But please tell Darrell to be sort of low-key around Jack. He doesn’t like kissing-up. He doesn’t like talking about himself at all, especially to people he doesn’t know well.” I’d seen Jack clam up the minute he got a whiff of flattery; it really wasn’t his thing. Unlike their lead singer Patrick, who seemed to soak it up like a dehydrated fern.

  “Oh, I’m sure Darrell will be low-key. He’s seen it all, driving his truck from coast to coast. He’s a grown man, not some screaming teenybopper.”

  “Just one more shot to show the guys. They’re not gonna believe this.”

  We were standing on an icy patch of sidewalk outside the Erotic Bakery in the Village. Darrell took yet another picture of the window display, which featured cannoli penises, strawberry tart breasts, and an array of other body parts done up in pastry. Then he handed Dot the camera and posed as if cupping one of the tarts, a lascivious grin on his face.

  I’d already had my fill of Darrell. All morning he’d been broadcasting his opinions about the clogged traffic, the weird people, the piled-up garbage, “the beggars” (as he called the homele
ss), and anything else that caught his eye. I was kicking myself that I’d forgotten the Bakery was on this block; we’d been stuck there shivering for twenty minutes while Darrell got his pictures. And from his comments about women passing by, he obviously considered himself a connoisseur of the female form. Which was pretty annoying, since his own figure was that of a bantam rooster: short, spindly legs topped off by a barrel chest, red face, and bulbous nose with spidery purple veins. Dot had said he was only a few years older than she was, but based on his looks, he had her beat by a decade.

  “All right; why don’t we move along?” I suggested. “Do you want to see some of the galleries on West Broadway? There are some great vintage shops on Prince Street. Or there’s Canal Jeans, if anyone needs a new pair of jeans,” I added desperately.

  “Why don’t we sit in one of these ca-fés and have a beer? My dogs are dead.” Arms crossed high above his protruding belly, Darrell shook out his right foot, then his left.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s have a light lunch, since we’ll be having a big dinner.” Jack was coming along tonight, after all. Darrell had stated that he only ate fried meat, and Mary Jo had found a West Village pub called Texarkana that served it.

  “I can handle a big lunch.” Darrell patted his belly. “No problemo.”

  “Darrell has a huge appetite,” Dot said, making eyes at me.

  After our meal, I flagged a taxi and dropped the lovebirds off at their hotel. As I’d imagined, it was swarming with prostitutes. I had tried to convince them to let Jack pay for a room at the Plaza, but Darrell wanted to stay put. Dot ran upstairs and came back holding a pie that she’d baked for Jack at home and brought along with her. Unable to summon a cab for the return trip, I had to wend my way down the snowmelt-slippery steps and through the turnstile of the Times Square subway, cradling the cling-wrapped dish. The platform was jammed with panhandlers; I would have given the pie away, except Dot never would have spoken to me again. Holding it high so it wouldn’t get jostled, I shoved off the train at Astor Place and made it to the loft by four. To say I dreaded tonight was the understatement of the century.

  “I thought you said she was dating a man.” Darrell eyeballed Jack, who was still wearing his sunglasses as he followed the maitre d’ across the crowded restaurant toward our table. “That longhair looks like a girl.”

  “It’s the style for these rockers,” Dot said. “He’s really very masculine.”

  “Shh!” I hushed her. Dot jumped up and gave Jack a big hug. Darrell remained seated, so Jack reached over to shake his hand, then sat between me and my mother. He took off his shades and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “So, did you take in the sights this afternoon?” His accent sounded even more British compared to Darrell’s drawl.

  “Julia dragged us all over Greenwich Village.” Dot shook a cigarette out of her pack, and Jack held out his lighter.

  “Yeah, we nearly froze our butts off,” Darrell said. “But I did get to see your famous bakery.”

  Jack looked puzzled. “We passed by the Erotic,” I said.

  “Oh, that place.” Jack signaled to the waitress hovering nearby. “Someone gave me a bunch of those things for my birthday once. Very lifelike, but they tasted awful.”

  A woman in a low-cut dress exposing creamy cleavage came over to take our drinks order, first informing us that her name was Serena, and that she was thrilled to be serving us tonight. Jack asked for a bottle of whiskey along with our beers, and Serena quickly returned with the drinks. She leaned over much farther than necessary to put the bottles down, making Darrell’s eyes goggle.

  “So you drive a truck,” Jack said. “What’s a typical route?”

  Darrell reared back in his seat. “Hotlanta, the Big O, Beantown. Sometimes I haul out to the Big Shaky.” He noticed Jack’s confused look. “That’s what we call Los Angeles.”

  “Oh, I love L.A. Do you spend time out there?” Jack asked.

  “Nah, usually I have a return load. I just pop a few West Coast turnarounds and head right back cross-country.”

  Jack’s antenna went up. “What’s a turnaround?”

  “You’d probably call them bennies,” Darrell said.

  “I’m familiar with those,” Jack replied with a reminiscent air.

  “Forty-two that, good buddy. Anyway, the last time I was coming back from the Left Coast, hauling a big reefer load, a Kojak with a Kodak pulled me over. I was doin’ eighty in a double nickel.”

  “You carry reefer in your trucks?” Jack sat up straight in his seat. “Do you ever sell to individuals?”

  “Negatory.” Darrell shook his head. “A reefer’s a refrigerator trailer. That cop got me with hand-held radar hiding behind his unmarked vehicle. Gave me a ticket for going twenty-five over the limit. I told him I was going into a downstroke.”

  “Ah, a double nickel’s the fifty-five speed zone,” Jack said. “I get it.”

  The waitress sashayed over. “I hope everything’s all right.” She took up Jack’s empty beer bottle, nudging his shoulder with her breast.

  Jack leaned away slightly. “It’s fine.”

  “I’ll be right back with your dinners,” she added, not bothering to remove our empties.

  “I think somebody likes you.” Darrell grinned.

  “Not my style,” Jack said. “But very friendly.”

  “Roger that,” Darrell said.

  “I’m Jack. Roger’s in The Who,” Jack muttered.

  “I hear you’re going on tour soon.” Dot ground out her cigarette in the bread plate. “Will you be anywhere near Pikesville?”

  Jack nodded. “We’ve got a gig in Philly. I can have Mary Jo send you tickets if you want.”

  Dot sighed. “Erwin probably won’t let me have off. But give me the date, and I’ll ask.”

  “I’m not into rock,” Darrell declared with a burp. “I’m a country man, myself.”

  “I dig country. Especially the older stuff,” Jack said. “Johnny Cash, ‘Ring of Fire.’”

  “My favorite’s ‘If Love Was Oil, I’d Be a Quart Low,’” Darrell opined.

  “I’m not familiar with that one,” Jack said.

  Serena appeared with our meals. As Jack picked at his overcooked prime rib, Dot pushed away her catfish platter. “I brought you something,” she said to Jack, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a few faded photographs and passed them to him. “I thought you might like to see some pictures of Julia growing up.”

  “God, Mom, that’s terrible.” I recognized the third grade class photo of me with light blue cat-eye glasses, bangs chopped high on my forehead, my new front teeth far too big for my mouth. “Let me have it.” I made a grab, but Jack swatted my hand away.

  “What year was this?” he asked me.

  “I was eight. I think that’s the worst picture I ever took.”

  “That’s some haircut,” Darrell said, leaning in to look. “Who did that to you?”

  “I did,” Dot admitted. “We couldn’t afford a beauty parlor.”

  “Good thing you didn’t go into that line of work,” Darrell said. “I’m gonna hit the little boys’ room.” He lumbered off toward the back of the restaurant.

  “And here’s one of her in high school.” Dot passed another picture over to Jack.

  My mother must have spent hours searching for the most ghastly photos she could find. In this one I wore the ubiquitous bell-bottoms of the era, skinny as a toothpick, thick brown glasses curtained by long, middle-parted hair. Dorked-out hippie would be a kind way to describe it.

  “Couldn’t you have found something a little more flattering?” I asked.

  Dot shrugged. “I looked and looked, but this was the best one of the bunch.”

  Jack held the picture close, scrutinizing it. “Does Julia take after her dad?”

  Dot shook her head emphatically. “Oh, no. He was really good-looking.”

  Jack cocked an eyebrow; I could tell he was trying not to laugh.

  “Thanks a lot, Mom,” I sa
id.

  “I was just telling Julia she should try to get in touch with him.” Jack leaned back in his seat.

  “Why would she want to do that?” Dot’s furrowed brow caused a perverse resentment to rise up in me. Why wouldn’t I want to find someone I’d once been so close to, I couldn’t imagine spending a day apart from him? Who I’d run to meet in the driveway the minute he got off his shift at the factory? Who’d introduced me to the love of music that had shaped a huge part of my life?

  “She could get to know him again. See what he’s been up to,” Jack said as he signaled for the check.

  “I have no idea where he is now,” Dot said. “It was really hard on Julia when Paul left us. I doubt it would do her any good to look for him now.”

  “Maybe he’s missed me too,” I blurted out.

  “You always thought your father could do no wrong.” Dot’s expression hardened. “But it’s time you faced the facts. It’s been ten years, and he hasn’t called you once. What does that tell you?”

  Jack spread his hands. “All I’m saying is, maybe the guy has his reasons. It’s worth finding out.”

  Dot frowned at the photos like she’d been dealt a bad hand of cards. “Anyway, that was Julia back then,” she said as she stuffed them into her purse. “Now don’t order dessert, Jack. I made you a pie. Julia took it home this afternoon,” she said as Darrell returned to the table.

  “You carried it all the way from Pikesville?” Jack asked.

  “It sat in my nice warm lap the whole time in the truck.”

  Jack initialed the check and left some cash for Serena. Since he didn’t bother carrying credit cards, all the bills went to Mary Jo. He donned his sunglasses, and we hurried past the other diners whispering and pointing. Luckily Rick was waiting nearby with the car; a big crowd was waiting to get into the restaurant, and people started to recognize Jack as he went past.

  As we sat stalled in Times Square traffic, Rick caught up with Dot, whom he’d met on her previous visit to New York. Darrell just glowered out the window. Finally we pulled up in front of their garish neon-lit hotel. Dot kissed both Rick and Jack on the cheeks, and climbed out.