by Rodney Jones
I looked down at my scuffed shoes—hints of old polish, an almost shiny spot here and there, and the toes worn to a gray suede. My shirt was stained and had more wrinkles than not, while my trousers fared no better. “There wouldn’t maybe be a tailor nearby, would there?”
“Where’d you find your clothes, anyway?”
“Jacobsons’ General.”
Tess looked me up and down. “Yeah, you could do with some new duds, dude.” She tapped her lips with her index finger. “How about this? Let me get the kitchen cleaned up, then I’ll give Liz a call and see if she wants to come and do a little shopping with us.”
Liz impressed me pretty much the same as she did the first time I’d met her. I couldn’t recall ever seeing a taller gal or one so peculiar-looking. Her hair was as black as coal and her skin nearly the color of milk. I couldn’t deny she was pretty, but I found it difficult to look at her face for any length of time, what with that little silver ball attached to her left nostril.
The three of us climbed into Liz’s car. We flew down the road toward Rutland. The endless stream of motorized cars, parking lots, and businesses was every bit as thrilling as I remembered.
We stopped at a store called T.J.Maxx, which offered sundry dry goods, scads of clothing, even ready-made dresses for gals and a startling variety of unmentionables. I found myself a fine-looking pair of plaid britches—though Liz and Tess both felt that blue denim jeans suited me better. Perhaps they were right. I’d noticed a lot of folks—fellows and gals alike—wearing jeans.
Tess pulled a pair of pants off a shelf and held them out as if she were about to step into them. “Check these out. On sale for twenty-one ninety-five.”
“Twenty-one ninety-five?” I blinked. “For one pair of trousers?” When I’d first walked into that store, I felt like a king with three hundred dollars in my pocket, just about what I’d earn in four years’ time of working hard and steady. “You think that’s a fair price, Tess?”
“John, they’re good jeans. Originally almost forty dollars.”
From a king to a yokel. But it was only six pennies that got me the three hundred, I assured myself. I tried on three different pairs before I found a fit that satisfied the two gals. They then helped me select a shirt. Tess found a slate-blue one with a grid of dusty gray overlaid with a thread of orange. I’d never owned anything as nice as that, and it too was marked down—thirty percent off. I stood before a tall mirror, first admiring my new clothes, then trying to figure out how to attach my old suspenders. Tess and Liz snickered.
I glanced over at them. “What’s so funny?”
Liz pointed at my new pants. “You really don’t know what those loops around your waist are for?”
“For sticking your thumbs through, far as I can see.” I tried looping one of the suspender button-braces through and lashing it, but that proved awkward and untidy.
Liz went to a nearby rack, still chuckling. She returned, holding a brass buckle with a long leather strap dangling from it.
“Well, I knew that.” I swiped the belt out of her hand. “I just didn’t know they’d have ’em here.”
The truth was, I’d never in my life worn a belt. I’d only ever seen them worn with military uniforms. But I didn’t want to embarrass myself further. I ran the belt through the loops and fastened it. Everything I was wearing, down to my stockings and shoes, was brand spanking new and made in China. I turned sideways to the mirror, reached back, and tucked the shirttail in a bit more. Tess was watching with more than her usual interest. I pretended not to notice, but I could see her reflection in the mirror.
Next, we drove to Ramunto’s Pizza, an eating establishment that, according to Liz, served the finest ethnic cuisine in the state of Vermont. I found no reason to doubt her as I stepped in at the end of the line of waiting customers—Liz and Tess both insisting I go first. To my right was a glass display scattered with golden-colored breads and rolls and massive cheese-covered pies. The warm, savory aromas made me dizzy with hunger. When I reached the front of the line, one of the fellows behind the display case asked if he could help me.
“Yes, sir. I’d much appreciate some ethnic cuisine.”
He looked at me as if I’d just asked for a plate of duck lips and gravy. “Excuse me?”
“Eth-neek cuisine,” I repeated, a bit louder.
Liz snorted, prompting Tess to give her a nudge.
Tess said, “Try the meat-lover’s pizza.”
“No, no.” Liz pointed at a large wheel of flattened bread covered with chunks of meat and melted cheese. “The buffalo chicken pizza. Really, try that one.”
I ordered a portion of each and wound up happy I did.
Later, we met up with Tess’s friends at the McCullough Student Center, a large, three-story, gray stone building with tall arched windows all around—more like a big church than a barn. Outside, Tess introduced me to Kyle, a scrawny fellow about my height, with curly brown hair and a firm handshake, which I was careful to match. Next, I met Nicole, a spirited little gal with a pretty face and a straightforward manner that immediately put me more at ease.
The five of us took a flight of steps to the third floor, where the dancin’ was to take place. I hesitated at the entrance to the ballroom, awed by how spacious and bright it was. The polished maple floor reflected the electric lights hanging high in the rafters, and at the far end, a raised stage was handsomely framed in red curtains and trimmed in polished walnut.
The evening kicked off with a middle-aged lady giving thirty or so people a dance lesson. She was decked out in a colorful, ankle-length skirt with wide bands of red, blue, and purple blending like wet paint. Like at the dances of my time, there were folks of all ages. Men and women both wore short pants, long pants, jeans, and even overalls, with just a few gals in skirts or dresses. Ideas about dressing up had clearly changed over the years.
Apart from Liz and a handful of others, everyone seemed at least partially familiar with the figures being demonstrated, which varied only slightly from the way I’d always seen them done. Tess and I were partners through the first half of the lessons. I was surprised at how serious she took it. She’d trip, stumble, and step left when she should’ve stepped right but then correct herself—without so much as a smile—learning quick as a filly.
About midway through the lessons, she noticed Liz struggling and suggested we switch partners. I helped Liz through the second half, and by the end, she had at least learned enough to enjoy herself.
The lights overhead dimmed, then another row—red, blue, yellow, and green—lit up the stage. A stocky fellow with a closely trimmed beard stepped out onto the raised platform. He stood in front of a thin, shiny pipe that extended up from the floor. He lightly tapped a tube about the size of a wallower cog mounted at the top. Thum thum thum. The racket was akin to hammering on a barrel while your head’s inside it.
“Welcome, everyone,” he said, sounding as though he was standing two feet away and shouting. He introduced himself as the caller then had everyone line up for a walkthrough.
Maybe fifty folks were out on the floor, and another twenty or so mingled around the perimeter. Nicole stepped up and asked to be my partner. After an awkward moment in which I had to remind myself that I was in a new, downside-up world of inside-out etiquette, I accepted.
Everyone stumbled through the walkthrough, then a group of musicians stepped out onto the stage—two fiddlers, one of them a gal, a man on a mandolin, and another man on guitar. As they struck up a jig, I nearly tripped over my own feet. I had never heard music like that before—so full and melodious—and so loud.
Nicole and I stepped through one figure into the next. I kept glancing toward the stage, trying to figure how they made that sound, so deep and sweet. It seemed to resonate from everywhere at once. It took a while getting used to the music, the lights, the crowds, and the smell of perfume, but once I did, I
just let go and enjoyed myself.
“Ladies, allemande right,” the caller called. “Go once and a half, now look for your partner, balance and swing.”
I swung around with Nicole, her ponytail flying through the air behind her. Her blue eyes, light hair, and careless manner reminded me of someone I once knew.
“Gents, allemande left, once and a half, two steps to your neighbor, balance and swing.”
I took the hands of the gal to Nicole’s left and stepped through a figure with her.
“Now take your partner down the hall…”
As Nicole looped an arm through mine, Zella Shaw, the Weston gal I’d nearly courted, came to mind. I had been quite fond of Zella for a time—may even have been in love with her—but I reckoned fate had other plans for her and me, which I was grateful for.
“Turn as a couple and come back up. Bend the line to a circle. Circle left three quarters.”
We ended in a star, switching to our neighbors for a figure. Then, we went back to our partners for a swing, an allemande, and finally a curtsy and bow.
Nicole looked up at me with a big wide smile and the same flirty eyes as Zella. “You’re really good at this.”
I felt as if I were standing before a fire—my cheeks were baking. “I… well, you... I mean…” I grinned and nodded. “Thank you.”
I caught Tess looking our way. I excused myself, made my way through the crowd, and asked her for the next dance. We started out with a few fumbles, lost our place a time or two, and laughed it off. She eventually got the hang of it, then we moved on to new partners.
The dancing improved as the evening wore on, everyone appearing more sprightly and confident toward the end. Tess was clearly enjoying herself, laughing and even throwing in an occasional flourish of her own. It was the best time ever, just as I’d dreamed it would be. Toward the end of the evening, I begged Tess once more to be my partner.
“Oh.” She slapped a hand over her heart. “I thought you’d forgotten about me.”
Her eyes sparkled as she hooked an arm through mine. The music started, and we went off together to make the last dance ours.
chapter seven
Tess
I’d never felt more messed up than I did during our drive home. I wouldn’t have thought that hillbilly dancing could be so much fun. Everyone had a ball. The evening had been close to perfection, but then, in an instant of panic, I screwed it up. I didn’t mean to. It was a fumble, like the vase I once dropped—that split second where it left my fingers, tumbling, and I thought I had it but then realized, as I watched for the longest two seconds ever, that it was gone.
The band had taken a break, and John went off to find the men’s room while I stepped outside with Liz, Nicole, and Kyle to cool off and get some air. Nicole asked if John and I were a thing. I didn’t hesitate in saying no.
“He’s so sweet,” she’d said.
Then, for some reason, I started to backpedal. “He’s not really your type.”
Kyle nodded. “Yeah, there’s something a little off about the guy.”
“Well, I think he’s sweet,” Nicole said, “and kind of innocent.”
“I think you’re mistaking innocence for naïveté,” I said. “And he has a bad habit of telling stories.”
“Oh?” Kyle raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Like…” The damning words were right there at the tip of my tongue. I could actually see myself saying it. Don’t… don’t do it. “I don’t know. I—”
Liz blurted, “He’s from 1875.”
I twisted around in the front passenger seat. John was sitting behind the driver’s seat, staring out the window. He seemed to gawk at each and every passing car, like a kid playing a travel game.
“What letter are you on?” I asked him.
He turned. “Pardon?”
“The license plate game.”
“How do you play?”
“Um, never mind,” I said.
“Why do you do that, John?” Liz asked.
He looked confused. “Do what?”
She shrugged. “Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”
I couldn’t risk Mom seeing John—she’d freak—so I had Liz stop a little ways before the house to let him out. He undid his seatbelt then grabbed the bag containing his old clothes.
“Thanks for going with us,” I said.
“My pleasure,” he said then turned to Liz. “And thank you for driving.”
She stared past John, toward the woods. “Can you see where you’re going?”
“No, but I can feel my way there.”
I looked off to my right. It was like peering into a black hole. “Liz, you have a flashlight in the glove box, don’t you?”
“Uh, I think the batteries are dead.”
“I’ll find my way all right,” John said.
“Turn the lights off,” I told Liz.
Liz twisted a knob on the dash. Up ahead, the road and the trees were dimly lit by light coming from my house. Behind us, the dim glow from a neighbor’s house fell across the gravel road. Peering up through the windshield, I could see an occasional star through the tree branches. All else disappeared into blackness.
“Oh, man,” Liz said. “You wouldn’t catch me out there without a jacklight.”
“Wait. I have an idea,” I said. “Go around to the back of my house, the northwest corner. I’ll get you a flashlight. Don’t make any noise, though. You don’t want mama bear catching you.”
“All right,” he said then pushed open the door and stepped out.
Liz drove forward and pulled in at the end of my drive. I was relieved to see the porch light on. Mom would sometimes forget.
I climbed out of the car. “See ya later.”
She gave me a wave then backed out onto the road. Before I even got to the porch, I heard the muffled whine of a smoke alarm. I hurried up the steps and twisted the door handle—locked. I rummaged for the key buried at the bottom of my purse, worked it into the little slot, twisted it, then pushed. Chink. The door was chained. The piercing buzz of the alarm spilled out through the open gap. A thin wisp of smoke leaked over the top of the door.
“Mom!” I yelled. I shoved the door, but it wouldn’t budge. “Mom!”
John dashed from around the corner of the house. “Tess, what’s wrong?”
“The house is on fire, and I can’t get in.” I jerked on the door. “Mom’s in there.”
He leapt up onto the porch. “What’s holding it?”
“It’s chained.” I slipped my hand through the gap to show him the chain. “I tried to break it, but I can’t.”
He backed up for a running start then slammed his shoulder against the door. I heard a cracking noise, but the chain still held. He repeated the move, and the door flew open, a piece of splintered trim dangling from the chain.
The stink of burning food hit me as I rushed inside. “Mom!”
A glowing white fog floated just below the ceiling. The smoke detector kept up its relentless wail as I dashed into the kitchen where a column of smoke rose from a saucepan on the stove. I twisted the burner knob then turned on the exhaust fan.
“Mom!” All I could hear was the alarm.
John stood beside the dining table, his hands covering his ears, his eyes darting about. “What can I do, Tess?”
“Open the back door! I have to find my mom.”
I darted down the hall to her bedroom. The door was closed. “Mom?” I twisted the knob and pushed open the door.
She was sitting on her bed, looking groggy and woozy. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “What is that racket? I’m trying to relax in here.” An empty bottle of gin stood on her nightstand, a half-full tumbler next to the booze.
“Well, keep trying, Mom.” I slammed the door and marched back to the kitchen.
John had
managed to get the patio door open. I pulled a chair under the smoke alarm, climbed up on it, and popped out the battery. Silence at last.
“My mom.” I huffed. “She’s drunk.”
John glanced toward the smoking pan then looked at me. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “Would you mind waiting outside, somewhere out of sight? She might be getting up, and I don’t want you to be a part of this.”
“All right.”
“I’ll be out in a minute.” I slipped back down the hall and put an ear to Mom’s door. When I didn’t hear anything, I slowly pushed it open.
She was lying on her back, snoring. Her legs dangled over the side of the bed, as if she had been about to stand. When I was little, I had carried around the crazy notion that Mom was always happy. I had a cherry picker’s perception of the world and thought everyone was happy. As I stood there, gazing at my unconscious mother, I realized that at some point, I had stopped picking cherries.
I eased the door shut and went to my room for my flashlight. Then I headed out to where John was waiting. “This is the second time you’ve met my mom, isn’t it?” I said, taking a seat on the step next to him.
He glanced toward the door. “Lucky we showed up when we did.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “This should be a wake-up call for her, but I’d rather she sleep through it. She can be ugly when she’s plastered like this.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I shook a finger toward the house. “That was crazy.”
John turned toward the woods. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
He put a finger to his lips. “Listen.”
I stared off into the darkness and heard the faint hum of traffic then the hoots of an owl. “I like that.”
“Me, too.”
“John, you know no one believes it, right? Your story? 1875? You don’t really believe it, do you?”
He gazed down at his hands. “I know it looks like I’m a dumb liar. I’m not, though.”
