Dances of the Heart

by Andrea Downing

  At times, he asked himself why he had decided to do this. Protecting his father from knowledge about Robbie was one thing, but getting caught running drugs, well, that was quite another. If he was caught, it would only lead to more heartache for his father. Yet, every time he tried to tell his dad, tried to get the words out, something stopped him, something just wouldn’t let him go on.

  Over the past month since his father had first called Carrie, the older man had gone around whistling as if the world were his oyster, like a child who had just discovered wishes do come true. He had even told his lawyers to increase the offer to Leigh Anne in the hope of getting the divorce over and done with, once and for all.

  So, Jake just went on, letting his father bask in his sudden, newfound happiness. Happiness? It had made him happy, too—happy his father wasn’t drinking any more, happy he didn’t have to worry about coming home and finding his dad out cold, happy he didn’t have to think of ways to take his dad’s mind off the next drink. Happy.

  Eagle Pass was an uninviting little town, originally growing up around a fort built to protect the border with Mexico during the Mexican-American war, and going on to protect its citizens against Apaches. Trailer parks littered the outskirts and, whatever historic center might have been preserved, there was little to invite the tourist to this outpost on the Rio Grande. Jake had a sudden flash of Iraq, of isolation, the same exclusion from the world he considered normal. Dust blew in a dry heat, specters of the hopelessness for fresh starts, new beginnings. And there was the fear—the fear of the murderous drug cartels, the fear the river wouldn’t be enough to separate this side from the other, this world from theirs, the fear the invasion wasn’t a thing of past history but an on-going virus, a worm eating the flesh of America. It would take a bigger bite, always wanting more.

  Jake shivered, as if someone had stepped on his grave, and then he surveyed the border scene.

  As he expected, there was a line of cars waiting to get into Piedras Negras across the International Bridge, but the North Americans would be more or less waved through on this side. Vehicle occupants rubber-necked as choppers flew overhead and a team of Department of Public Safety guys hung around the riverbanks, preparing to snatch ditched cars out of the Rio Grande. It was getting back into the States that would be the problem.

  He sat in the car sweating now, fear running through him as his stomach lurched.

  As he crossed the river, hills of tin and cardboard shanties glinted with a false welcome, rising out of the dust devils that marked the forsaken sprawl that was a settlement.

  It had been easy enough to sort the car papers to get into Mexico. Now, driving through the least desirable section of the Mexican town’s filthy streets, a haze rose like released souls from hell, kicked up by barefoot boys knocking around a ball. A pack of wild dogs chased after them. Jake bent his head to try to read street signs, most of which were either torn, hanging off or so dirty they were unreadable. He pulled over to study a map he had printed off the internet, glanced again at the street sign above and decided he had a few more roads to go.

  The turning was not promising. Shabby houses, crammed together, lined either side with forlorn old women sitting on doorsteps getting fresh air, more dirty children playing in the street, and an air of hopelessness difficult to ignore. He parked in front of thirty-one; a stench like rotten cabbage mixed with the sickly sweet smell of sour vinegar greeted him as he grabbed his bag and got out of the car. Looking around, he beckoned over one of the boys to negotiate with him to guard the vehicle while he found his contact. Then he knocked on the door.

  A hot sun crusted the street as he stood listening to voices within before the door croaked open an inch. The man who eventually stood before him was about half his size and in a shirt so filthy and sweat-stained, Jake doubted it had ever been washed.

  The man’s black, greasy hair hung down over dark, unfocused eyes appraising Jake, raking him over from head to toe, before he shook his head in acknowledgement and put out a hand to motion him to wait.

  “No no, tengo que entrar para cambiar mi ropa.” Jake held up his bag.

  The contact’s eyes darted around the street nervously. “Ábrela!” he ordered. Open!

  Jake slowly bent down and opened the satchel.

  The man’s hand darted in like a snake attacking to bite, no doubt feeling for a gun, but only the cotton of Jake’s army uniform greeted him. Then he found the wad of notes and lifted it to the brim of the bag, letting it drop back in before anyone on the street saw. He waved his hand at Jake and led the way into the dark of the house.

  His eyes took time to adjust. A row of three small children sat on a stained, torn sofa in front of an old television set, virtually the only light source in the room.

  “Donde puedo cambiar…?”

  The man shook his head. “Aqui, aqui,” he insisted. Then, no doubt recognizing his frustration, he snapped off the television and shepherded the children into a back room.

  Jake sat on the edge of the sofa. He yanked off his boots and struggled into his army trousers as quickly as possible before completing the change. He stuffed his clothes back into the satchel before calling out, “Señor?” and scrambled to get his army boots tied on.

  The contact came out, a large brown paper parcel tied with string held out in front of him. The exchange was made.

  “Go,” he said in English. “Salgate ya! Go.”

  Jake took the parcel, stuffed it under his two cowboy boots and placed them at the bottom of the bag with his clothes covering. For a moment, he wondered if he should insist on opening the parcel to check its contents, but decided it wasn’t his problem; if Ty was scammed by his dealer, that was his worry, not Jake’s. His brother’s old buddy was just a small-time dealer, a nothing, and what would it matter in the end? But then it struck him, Ty would blame him for switching packages. He glanced back at the man, one of the children by his side. No, it would be all right; if the man wanted more business, he couldn’t swindle Ty.

  Jake opened the door, nodded once, and got to his car. He had a dollar in the outside pocket of the satchel and handed it to his small guard, got in and headed back to Texas.

  The line back into the USA was a sludgy, muddy river of traffic, long and slow moving. Leaving Mexico was easy once the car papers were re-checked, but entering the US was quite another matter.

  Guards with sniffer dogs patrolled the vehicles and Jake drew his bag close to him on the passenger seat. Sweat started to color his shirt with dark Rorschach patches of wet and run down his face as his hands rested tensely on the steering wheel. He abruptly yanked down the sun shade and shunted the air conditioning higher, then flicked the shade back to watch the dogs and guard circle and inspect a truck several vehicles in front of him, beasts closing in for a possible kill.

  A tap on the glass made him jump, and Jake rolled down the window.

  “Open the trunk, sir, if you don’t mind.”

  Jake thrust down the lever, hoping the man didn’t notice nerves making his hand shake uncontrollably. His face twitched as he watched in his rear view mirror the door to the trunk go up, then slam shut again after a few moments.

  The guard walked slowly around the vehicle before he came back to Jake’s window.

  “Passport or military I.D., please.”

  The officer kept a careful watch as Jake reached into his glove compartment and hauled out his passport before handing it through.

  “You still serving, soldier?”

  “Yeah,” Jake lied, just about finding his voice. “Came home for a funeral.”

  The guard nodded. “Next time you enter Mexico, sir, don’t leave your passport in your glove compartment. It’s an invitation to have it stolen.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Though reaching into the bag wouldn’t have been too wise either.

  “Okay. You can pull your vehicle over to that lane and go on through. Welcome home…and thanks for serving.”

  ****

  Car
rie looked forward to Ray’s calls, anticipated his calls, wanted them. She didn’t bother to question how she had gotten to this point, how her desire to hear from this man had grown from pure curiosity about his well-being to actual heart-lifting happiness every time the phone or Skype rang and it was him.

  She appreciated that Ray never once asked why she didn’t phone him, why she was never the one to call. To her, it was not that it was his job to keep the relationship going, but it was the mechanics of their lives—he could find the time at the end of the day, had a time at which work stopped; she was too far engrossed in her work to stop and think about calling unless the phone actually rang. It was as if Ray expected to take the lead, to do the chasing, and she expected to be the quarry, to be chased.

  She saw time on the phone with Ray as her work break, but when she told him, as she had on occasion, that she needed to get on, that she was in the middle of something and couldn’t stop, to please ring again later, Ray never complained; he let her set the pace.

  And she loved to laugh with him. Discussing the minutiae of their day, Ray would find humor in just about anything, from something one of his dogs did to what one of his hunting guests didn’t do. He put a whole different perspective on her life so, eventually, she was able to see the funny side of her dealings with her co-screenwriters, her agent, her daughter and her workaholic life. When she flew to California for meetings, when she had to tramp back into the city for doctor’s appointments, when she went to search locations with the director and location manager, Ray’s call was the highlight of her day. Using Skype, she worried somewhat as to how she appeared, hardly realizing she actually wanted to look good for him. For him alone.

  Yet, she didn’t feel she could consider anything more than the phone call, when she might see him again. And Ray never asked, never put pressure on her, never mentioned a meeting or wanting anything more. It was an undercurrent, the eight hundred pound gorilla in the room never declared. And while the calls increased slowly from one the first week through every few days to every couple of days to daily by the end of June, she never spoke with him about taking the next step, about seeing him again.

  When next the phone rang, Carrie beat her maid, Carmen, to the cell and picked it up on the third ring.

  “Hey,” said Ray, “Where are you?”

  “What do you mean? I’m at the beach. I have a beach house. I told you that.”

  “Oh, yeah, you did. I forgot. Sort of.” There was a small pause during which she heard him take a deep breath and let out a sigh. “See…I’m in New York.”

  “What? Sorry? You’re where?” Carrie let a longer pause follow this bit of information while she tried to absorb it and process it. She motioned to Carmen to get on with offering her poolside guests some refreshments. “Ray, where did you say you were?”

  “See, I just suddenly thought it might be nice to spend the Fourth of July weekend together, so I got the early plane and, well, I’m in New York like I said. I haven’t got your address though. It was sort of spur of the moment. Had to grab the plane—the seat they offered—and there wasn’t much time really. No time to phone.”

  Ray is in New York?

  Phone plastered to her ear, Carrie surveyed the activity of preparations for her party. It was just past ten o’clock in the morning, and the festivities were due to start at eight p.m. She tried to remember if she had made any mention of all this to Ray in a previous phone call, but it didn’t matter.

  “Okay,” she said, finally coming to her senses. Ray was in New York, she was in East Hampton, and she had to somehow magically get him here in time for the soiree. “Listen to me carefully. I’m two to three hours away—”

  “You’re joking,” he grumped. “I just traveled nearly four hours from Austin. Add to that traveling time to the airport, check-in, security, the whole damn thing, and now you’re telling me I got two to three hours more. Carrie?”

  “I…I can’t help it. I would come into the city for you, but I have a party here tonight. And—look—you didn’t tell me, did you? Listen…” She tried to quiet the erratic way her heart was beating. “It’s really quite simple. You can get a train or a bus. Well, actually, I think we better aim for the train as that doesn’t require a reservation and the buses will be filled this weekend, plus of course there’ll be so much traffic,” she rushed on. She waited for a reply. “Ray? Are you still there?”

  “Of course I’m here. Where else would I be?”

  Carrie took a deep breath. “Okay. Listen. You need to get to Penn Station and get the Long Island Railroad to East Hampton…”

  “I’m listening. Long Island Railroad to East Hampton…”

  “And I’ll pick you up at the station…”

  “Can I sleep on the train?”

  She glanced around for a tissue to blot the wet that seemed to be running down her face. She didn’t understand what set her off, whether it was some sort of happiness as he spoke, or nerves about his being there, but, despite not being a lachrymose person, wet streaked her face. “I hope so. We have a party here tonight, so I truly hope so, Ray.” There was momentary silence before she said, “Gosh, this is amazing.”

  “Amazing good, or amazing bad?” he asked with a hint of humor in his voice.

  She threw a hand out in question as Paige strolled into the kitchen to check something on her tablet. “Amazing good, of course… Look, you can get a plane or helicopter. I’ll pay for it of course…”

  “No! No, no no… Nothing doing, lady.” Ray shuffled a bit into a quieter corner, suddenly wondering if this had been the right choice. “I’ll sleep on the train. I’ll take a nap when I get there. Being a kept man is…not my thing.”

  Outside, the passers-by beyond the glass doors of the terminal were moving quickly, getting where they wanted to be.

  He shoved his bag between his feet for a moment and squinted into the dazzling sunlight outside the building’s miasma. “How do I get to Penn Station? Taxi?”

  “Let me try to arrange a plane or chopper. It would be so much quicker.”

  He inhaled another deep breath and sighed once more. He wasn’t giving in. “I know you’re absolutely dying to see me, sweetheart, but you’ll just have to wait another few hours.”

  Carrie started to say something, but Paige’s voice interrupted. “Mom, he can get the train from Jamaica. He doesn’t have to go all the way back into the city. I checked and there’s a train from Jamaica at 11.30.”

  “Ray? Paige just told me you can get a train from near the airport. You can be out here by around two p.m.”

  He heard the excitement in her voice, the joy. He laughed. “All right, I heard all that. Tell me what to do.”

  ****

  Carrie’s eyes widened at her daughter as she jabbed at the phone to end the call. Paige’s Missoni bikini highlighted the sun-gold color she had worked on all month and displayed her beautiful figure to its full advantage. A small shot of jealousy ran through Carrie, and her body slumped with a sigh.

  “What’s the matter now?” asked her daughter. “Lord, I thought you’d be delighted.”

  “I am delighted. Only…where the hell am I going to put him, Paige? Your friends are on the television sofa-bed, the Statlers are in the pool house, Diana and Tom have their usual guest suite, as do the Burlinghams, and Jo-Jo and Pete will be arriving shortly for the garage apartment.”

  “Mother, I don’t need a manifest of your guests. Anyway, you’re being ridiculous—Ray’s going to stay with you, of course. He hasn’t traveled half a country to see you in order to be stuffed on a sofa bed or left on his own above the garage.”

  “I can’t!” She threw her hands up to mark the end of that idea.

  There was disbelief in her daughter’s eyes. Paige held her in her sights like a deer she was about to take down. “You are kidding me, aren’t you?” Her voice was slow and crisp.

  Carrie nodded back toward Carmen who was re-entering the kitchen with an empty platter. “I can’t discuss t
his here, now.”

  She started to move toward the sliding doors to the pool area.

  “Oh, yes you can. And you will.”

  Carrie felt the tight grip of Paige’s hand on her shoulder.

  “I have watched and seen how you absolutely light up every time that man calls you. Lord only knows why, because I sure as hell can’t figure it, but it happens. And you can’t go insulting him now, letting him come all this way and then acting as if you don’t want him. You don’t do that!”

  “He’ll understand. Ray will—” She knew she was fighting a losing battle, but she continued to struggle.

  “Listen! He may be a great guy. For all I know, he may be the best damn man on God’s green earth. But he is still a man. And there isn’t a man—not a straight one anyway—who comes two thousand miles to see a woman and not expect to get laid!”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Paige—do you have to be so crude?”

  Her daughter gulped a deep breath and let it out in frustration. “You better get used to the idea, Mother. You are getting laid tonight. And by my reckoning, there won’t only be fireworks out on the beach.”

  “Oh! Who’s getting laid tonight? How exciting!” Diana Shawcross slid her mint-thin body through the screen door.

  Tall and elegant, Diana was the epitome of the ‘lady who lunches.’ At times, Carrie appraised her and wondered how they had become friends, but their friendship went back to college days, and Diana could be uproariously funny and a breath of fresh air.

  “In this house?” her friend continued. “Do we all get to listen? Tom never makes love to me when we’re guests in other people’s homes. In hotels, yes. He sees that as a ticket to ride. But homes, no. Thin walls.”

  Carrie pinched her lips together and raised a brow at Paige.

  “You’re in your own separate wing on one side of the house and no one is going to hear you. I promise. Did you ever hear me when Steven and I were at it?”