ELEVEN SHORTS +1
by Shireen Jeejeebhoy
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 1988 to 2011 by Shireen Anne Jeejeebhoy
Their Mistake Copyright 1919 by Dorothy Searby
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to events, locales, organizations, or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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For the Duffys and Dar
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The Girl with the Glistening Plaits
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AUTHOR NOTE
I WROTE THESE short stories from 1988 to 1997. I seem to have had a dry period in the early 1990s before starting up again in the late 1990s. But ever since my brain injury in 2000, I have been unable to write short fiction. Actually, writing any fiction at all eluded me until 2009 when I wrote my first novel. Funnily enough, before Y2K, although I easily planned and started writing Lifeliner, a non-fiction book, I had trouble writing book-length fiction while shorts used to pop into my mind almost fully formed. I’d see something — a thing, a scene, an event — and a story would form about something different.
I always wrote longhand prior to my brain injury. I’d often write two or three drafts on sheets of paper with whatever pen came to hand before I’d type a story into my computer. I kept every computer draft, but the handwritten ones are long since lost. I noted with each story when I first typed it into the computer and the last recorded date of editing. Some stories I whipped off and left alone; others I kept tweaking for years. Pale Glitter I wrote during a short story writing workshop at the 1997 Canadian Authors Association conference. We were tasked to write a story, and I wrote it all in one go. Like Beads of Time garnered an Honourable Mention in the 1988 Hart House Short Story Contest and was published in 1997 in the anthology WORDSCAPE 3. I hope you enjoy this ebook homage to my old writing self.
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ANGELICA
Put in computer: October 1990
Final edit: January 1997
I HAD TROUBLE washing the pile of dishes that I had been avoiding for the past two days, for my eyes kept being pulled through the open window to the activity outside as I tried to distinguish the bird calls: the raucous caw of the crow, the demanding call of the blue jay, the twittering of the sparrow, and the high-pitched singing of — Angelica? Home so soon? I looked up at my clock. Good Heavens, it’s four o’clock, and I still have the whole sink of pots to wash up before I can put supper on. I washed the pots quickly while I half-listened to Angelica’s childish whisperings. As the filmy water drained out, I took some leftover potato soup out of the fridge and put it in the microwave to heat up. Then I went outside to my herb patch to pick my first sprigs of chervil.
The chervil grows next to the fence, quite close to Angelica’s swing set. I often use the pretence of gathering chervil or other herbs to talk to my young next-door neighbour. But when I went out, Angelica was on her swing, deep in her own world, so I didn’t disturb her. Instead I slowly picked chervil sprigs while I watched her covertly.
When I first saw Angelica playing by herself in her backyard, I tried to make some neighbourly comments; but she told me sternly that she did not consort with strangers. Yet as I became a familiar presence, she shyly became a friend of mine, partly I think because she was curious about all my strange-looking plants. At first, she just watched me furtively from afar. But soon she was standing beside the fence, peering at me through the slats. One day, she asked me what I was doing. As I was explaining to her, I suddenly found her standing next to me. Somehow, she had managed to climb the fence. When I finished my explanation, we introduced ourselves formally to each other. After that, she visited me regularly since Sue (Angelica’s babysitter) preferred to spend much of her time gabbing on the phone and since — of course — her parents were busy professionals. Although Angelica would brazenly climb over the fence when I was out in the garden, once over she would stand with her hands behind her back, say hello politely, and ask me equally politely what I was doing. Then she would help me gather some basil or plant tulip bulbs or pluck juicy tomatoes from their vines, always questioning me and studiously listening to my answers. And occasionally we would share life stories or, rather, anecdotes of my childhood and sobering revelations of her short six years. When we finished, she would thank me, say good-bye, and leave. Recently, though, I had noticed that she tended to stay in her own world much of the time. So I watched her, hoping that one day she would confide in me.
Abruptly, she stopped singing. She turned her dark eyes on me pensively; her hands gripped the chains. Then she smiled. I could feel my face creaking in response as, after one darting look at the house, she ran over to the fence and climbed over.
“What are you doing, Mrs. Shaw?”
“I’m picking chervil for my potato soup.”
“Mom doesn’t have time to grow chervil, and she says potatoes are bad for you: too much ca-ca …”
“Carbohydrates.”
“Yeah.” She crouched down to scrutinize the lacy leaves of the chervil. “Mom and Dad are going away. They said they need a holiday where they can get peace and quiet.” She peeked up at me, “Am I noisy, Mrs. Shaw?”
“No, of course not, Angelica. You’ve never been too noisy for me, and I’m old. Old people are not supposed to tolerate little children and their noise.”
“Oh. I gotta go. Bye.” And she was back over the fence and racing for the house.
I had a practically bare plant and a full plate of chervil sprigs by this time, much too many for my modest pot of soup. But I carried them in and dumped the lot into the soup. I fixed the rest of my supper and sat down to a quiet meal. Afterwards, I gathered up my knitting and settled down in front of the T.V. But the inane programs eventually bored me, so I went to bed, hoping for sleep. Instead, I found myself thinking of my happy childhood in India. I, being an only child, was the centre of my parents’ attention, and their warm, comforting love enclosed me, protecting me from the bad world out there.
The sun burned, blinding those who dared to look up. Inside, the fans whirred, trying to cool the apartment down; but they succeeded only in stirring up the hot sticky air. I couldn’t wait to get outside.
“Be still, Korshed. How can I possibly comb your hair when you’re jumping around like a rabbit.”
“But Mummy, I want to go outside.”
“Not until your hair is combed and remember what Mummy told you?”
“Yes, I’m not to let go of your hand or go near strange men without your permission. Are you finished yet?”
“Yes.”
I squiggled off my chair and ran to the door, but Daddy grabbed my arm. I made a face at him, but he only grinned back, and he didn’t let go.
“Don’t you have her harness?”
“No, I seem to have misplaced it. We’ll just have to keep a sharp eye on her; for some reason she’s full of beans today.”
“Can we go, Mummy!”
My parents finally responded, and we finally got to leave the stuffy apartment. Each of my hands in theirs, I pulled them along the corridor, down the concrete steps, and into the blazing sun. Crowds of people covered the front lawn of the apartment building, chatting and laughing carelessly; nobody wanted to miss the fair.
I found myself in a cold sweat. I had not thought of that experience in ages. It was one I would sooner forget. But why would I remember it now, after all these years? I lay on my back, my hands convulsively holding the covers up to my chin, trying to think pleasant thoughts. Slowly, my limbs relaxed as the sun rose and gently lit my room. I decided to get up and work in my garden. I was out there for most of the day, and so I heard, from behind the forsythia bush, Sue and Angelica come outside.
“Why can’t Mom and Dad come out to play with me?”
“You know why, Angelica. I have already told you several times.”
“I know, I know. Because they are packing for their holiday. But why don’t they want to play with me? They never play with me.”
“Now, that’s not true, Angelica. They took you to the zoo last Sunday, and two weeks before that they took you to the museum.”
“But they never play with me. When will they get back?”
“I’ve already told you.”
“But I forget.”
“Your parents are going to Japan for four weeks, which means they’ll be back in mid-May. And you get to stay at your grandparents’ place. You’ll enjoy that. You’re always begging to see them.”
“Yeah, I guess so. How come I can’t go with them?”
“Because you’d be bored. Now do you want me to push you on the swing?”
“I want Mom to push me. Why won’t she come out and play?”
“Angelica, I’ve already gone over this a hundred times with you. No wonder your parents don’t want to play with you when you keep nagging them with questions! Now do you want me to push you on the swing or not?”
“Okay.”
I heard the swing sag with Angelica’s weight and then the creak of the chains as Sue pushed Angelica higher and higher.
I went in.
That night, despite myself, my wakeful nightmare continued.
I hung onto my parents’ hands as I devoured the scene before my eyes. Half-naked acrobats shinnied up and down bamboo poles; others, with colourful handkerchiefs in their hands, leaped and somersaulted in the air; still others walked on stilts above the crowds, singing out for alms. And fakirs were everywhere. My parents and I weaved through the hordes, narrowly avoiding being stepped on by those on stilts. The crowd seemed to get closer and closer, and the voices grew distorted. Soon all I could see was a forest of strange legs: trousered legs, bare legs, wooden legs. My skin crawled with goosebumps, as my lungs thirsted for fresh air. I suddenly feared that my parents had left me, and my fear kept my eyes down in case they had really gone. Yet I had to look. Against a great weight, I forced my head up. They were still there.
“Do you want to ride on my shoulders, Korshed?”
“Oh yes please, Daddy.”
Daddy swung me into the air and onto his shoulders. The air was so much fresher up here, and the fair was fun again.
I loved riding on Daddy’s shoulders and shouted out to my friends to show them how much taller I was than they were. Inevitably, though, Daddy became tired, and he put me down despite my loud protests. I hung onto his hand and pouted: I wanted back up. But he said no. I hung back and whined and screamed; then I saw my friend Anita with a candy apple.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked enviously.
“My Mummy bought it for me from that man over there.”
“Mummy, can I have one. Please, Mummy, please?”
“One what?”
“That,” and I pointed to Anita’s apple. “Can I have one too?”
“Sure, here’s the money.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“He’s only two steps away Korshed, and I’m watching you. Don’t worry, you’ll be all right.”
It was dark inside except for the moonlight that shafted across the bed. Beads of sweat covered my skin, and I was shivering. I sunk further into my bed and waited for the dawn to break.
In all the years that my husband and I had attended the church around the corner, we always went with our neighbours. Afterwards we would have lunch and a game of Scrabble at one or the other’s house. But these new neighbours preferred to go to church alone. I arrived there before they did and sat in my favourite pew halfway up the aisle. I did not need to sit in the front to hear the minister, unlike some of my contemporaries, since I could hear as well as ever. But that also meant, unfortunately, that I heard every word between Angelica and her mother when they sat down across the aisle from me.
“Oh, Mom look, there’s Mrs. Shaw. Can we sit with her?”
“Who?”
“You know, Mrs. Shaw!”
“Oh her. No, Angelica.”
“Why not? I want to sit with her. You never let me. Why can’t I?”
“Because I said so. Now be quiet. We’re in Church.”
“But I want to sit with her.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, why would you want to sit with an old woman!”
“But she’s my friend.”
“Don’t be silly. Now be quiet, or your father will take you home.”
Angelica slumped back in her seat. My heart went out to her, sitting there between her unrepentant mother and her uncaring father. At that moment, the organ boomed as the minister and his assistant walked in, and everyone stood up piously.
After the service, I pottered in my garden. I didn’t see Angelica, but shortly after I started digging, I heard a car draw up and a horn honk.
“We’ll be right out. Can you take these bags here. Walter, the taxi driver is here. Where is my hat?
“Here it is.”
“Oh, thanks Sue.”
“Walter, would you hurry. Please take my make-up bag to the car. And mind you be careful with it; I paid good money for that. And have you got the tickets and our passports?”
“Yes dear, I took care of everything. Bye Angelica. Don’t worry, you’ll be all right.” After an infinitesimal pause, her father walked quickly to the taxi.
“Now Angelica, your grandparents are eager to look after you, so don’t whine and nag like you have been for the past few weeks, or your grandparents will tire of you. Give me a kiss good-bye, there’s a good girl.”
“Sue, my parents will pick Angelica up at three o’clock sharp, and they won’t want to be kept waiting, so make sure she’s ready.”
I heard the car door slam, and the car roar away. The front door had already been closed.
An hour later, I heard another car draw up and another horn honked. The front door opened and closed; shoes tapped out a steady beat on the front walk; a car door opened and slammed shut. The car roared away.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be all right,” echoed in my brain as I walked down an aisle of legs to the candy man. Loud voices swirled and washed over me as I clutched the sticky coins and made my way steadily forward, looking neither right nor left.
“You want a lollipop? I have red twists and big round swirls — anything your little heart desires.” The candy man grinned at me toothlessly from way, way up.
“A candy apple please,” and I stuck my fistful of coins out.
The candy man took the coins, counted them carefully, and gave me one back with a sly look in his eye. Then he gave me my apple. I grabbed it quickly and turned to run back to my parents. But they weren’t there. I looked up to search for them and found a man staring cold-faced down at me. I stared back and felt my eyes grow wide and my hair stand on end. I no longer heard voices: only my heart thumping in my ears. I looked around for my parents, but I saw neither one, only backs turned to me as people laughed silently to each other. Where were they? I looked hypnotically back up at him. My back prickled; my whole body pounded with the rapid beat of my heart, for he was still staring at me and now with an appraising gleam in his eye. He moved slowly towards me, placing one foot precisely in front of the other. Oh where were my parents?
“There you are.” And Daddy swept me up into his arms as the beggar dealer melted away into the crowd.
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THE GIRL WITH THE GLISTENING PLAITS
Put in computer and final edit: December 1990
THE GIRL WITH the long black hair pulled back in two glistening plaits, stood demurely at the front of the class as she had been taught to. Her new teacher, Miss Prunet, was telling everyone her name and where she was from. It seemed to take forever. She hid her restless thin hands behind her back; only the blackboard saw her nervousness. Her brown eyes looked sideways at her new teacher. She was tall and thin. Her scrawny neck topped her severe face and stiff iron-gray curls. Her voice held a steely note and no sympathy for a new pupil.
The small girl shifted slightly to ease her feet in their unaccustomed black leather shoes. She ached to take them off. Instead, she turned her fathomless eyes to the sea of pale strangers in front of her. They stared back with a mixture of curiosity and fear. To them, she was a dusky angel from an unknown land; to her, they were a roomful of waxen exotics.
Miss Prunet’s wrinkled, claw-like hand pointed her to a desk three rows back and in the centre of the class. The girl walked between two aisles of desks to her new place, shrinking into herself away from the prying eyes.
“What’s your name? Nutty something, eh darky,” hissed a voice from behind her. She turned and looked into a pair of cold light blue eyes. Her inky hot eyes widened at what they saw: the boy had no lashes and no brows, it seemed, and she could see his pink scalp through his almost-white, stuck-up hair. How awful.
“Moti,” she snapped and turned back.
“Moti, I will warn you only once since you are new here and not accustomed to our ways. I will not tolerate any talking in class or any disturbance of any kind. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Miss Prunet.”
“When you wish to answer a question, raise your hand and wait for my permission before you answer. And if you want to go to the little girls’ room, raise your hand for permission. But I would prefer that you do not disturb the class, so I expect you to go before class starts. These are our rules, and I expect you to follow them. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Miss Prunet.” Really, Moti thought, Miss Prunet was no different from her old teacher. They were both mean. She started to feel at home.
“Good. Now then, your books are in your desk. We are reviewing numbers up to fifty. I do not expect you to know them, but please try to follow, and I will help you catch up after class.” With that last pronouncement, Miss Prunet bestowed a superior smile upon Moti and turned to the blackboard.
Moti lost interest in the lesson quickly: she had learned her numbers up to one hundred last year. For her, the day stretched into an infinite yawning tunnel. She clamped her jaws tight against the boredom and let her eyes roam around the room without turning her head too much. She did not want to attract Miss Prunet’s dreaded attention.
No one had black shiny hair like hers. Their hair ranged from brown to white, and no one’s hair glistened with oil. How come they didn’t like it nice and shiny? Some girls had short hair, and others had their hair held back by barrettes; only one girl’s hair was in plaits like hers, but it was done differently: her plaits were wrapped around in giant circles above her ears, and she too seemed to be by herself. She wondered why — she had blonde hair and pale skin like the others. Maybe it was the plaits. For the first time, a doubt about how her mother did her hair crept in. Maybe she should get barrettes like everyone else.
As she judged them one by one, she became aware of others watching her from out of the sides of their eyes. Blood rushed into her face, and she bent her head and concentrated on the desktop. Carved initials littered the top of the desk; these mysterious letters conjured up ghosts of students long grown up. Had any of them been like her? Had any worn plaits like hers? Probably not. Some had been almost rubbed out by the wear of time. Recent pencil markings contrasted harshly with the old carvings. She itched to carve her own brand into the desk. Maybe later. For now she traced her fingers idly along their rough lines.
The pointer cracked across a desk, startling Moti. She brought her head up sharply. Her eyes flew to Miss Prunet’s face, which was turning an interesting shade of red and was looking right at her! What had she done? She followed the teacher’s gaze and saw the boy with the stuck-up hair.
“Red Smith, give Ann that eraser, now!” Moti exhaled softly. It wasn’t her. It was the bully behind her. Red gave the eraser back to the girl next to him.
“I have told you before not to take things, and where is your eraser?” She bore down on him and stood next to Moti as she glared at the boy. Moti held her breath again.
“I lost it,” mumbled Red into his chest.
“That is the fifth eraser you’ve lost this month.” Miss Prunet grabbed Red’s ear and dragged him through the cloakroom doorway to the left of the giant blackboard. Moti’s eyes widened — her old teacher had hit their palms in front of the whole class when she was mad. Why did this new one drag the boy out of sight? Like the others, she leaned forward and strained to make out the sounds that filtered through the blackboard. They sounded so much worse than her old teacher’s ruler. She resolved to be a good girl. She did not dare carve her initials in the desk now. Those old ghosts must’ve been brave.
The rhythmic sounds stopped although the snuffly ones did not, and the class quickly shifted into a nonchalant position. Miss Prunet emerged through the door to the right of the blackboard, her face a triumphant purple, and went to stand behind her desk. Red followed a few seconds later, his face reflecting his name, his eyes glittering. He walked slowly, and his hands hovered at his side.
“Hurry up Red. You cannot expect the class to wait for you.”
“Yes, Miss Prunet.” He sat down gingerly.
“We shall continue.”
Moti noticed that she called upon many pupils during the review, but not once upon her. It didn’t matter though: she knew the routine of seeming busy, while hiding her skipping thoughts and inattention to the work. To while away the time, she flipped through the books she had taken out. Baby stuff, she thought with disgust, and longed for home. She could be learning exciting stuff, like Hindi, instead of last year’s work. The unfamiliar red and white flag drooping at the front of the room caught her attention, and she tried to make out the design hidden in its folds. The other red, blue, and white one she knew. Idly, she scratched her legs through the itchy wool stockings. She ached to remove them and her shoes as well, regaining the freedom she’d lost when she and her parents had moved to this cold country. She fidgeted with the sleeve of her cardigan and caused her bangles to jangle merrily.
Miss Prunet turned from the blackboard, chalk in poised hand: “What was that?” Her grey eyes prodded first Moti’s face and then others suspiciously, but Moti had stuffed her traitorous bangles out of view and had put on an innocent face, just like the other girls. Getting no response, Miss Prunet resumed the review. Moti relaxed, but she would have to remember not to wear her bangles to school. She just knew that Miss Prunet had not really gone after her since it was her first day. She did not think Miss Prunet would spare her again. She sighed inwardly. She loved her bangles; they jingled just like her mother’s. But they made her stick out, and she didn’t want to. So much to learn about these unfamiliar people and their ways.
She sighed to herself and slanted her eyes towards the window. The sun shone out of a brilliant, dark blue sky. Bare brown trees reached up past the window, their branches laden with glittering snow. She had never seen snow until one month ago and was fascinated with its pure white colour and textures that varied from soft down to frozen crunchiness. The rooftops that she could see beyond the branches were also covered with snow, and one had a chimney from which thin smoke drifted upwards. Her eyes ceased to register the frozen scene as her thick lashes lowered partially, and she saw instead a hot, noisy street where she and her friends had played on the concrete, skipping rope or chasing each other in hide ‘n seek. Up and down the steps they ran and along the sun-heated balconies, a flash of brown arms and legs and bouncing black plaits.
The shrilling of the bell startled her out of her reverie. She noticed that none of the others moved and that Miss Prunet was still talking. She did not want to be the first to move, so she waited impatiently for the teacher to dismiss them. At last, she did, and they all raced for the cloakroom.
In the dim, confining space, Moti looked for her outdoor clothes. She finally found them between two squiggling girls. She pulled on first her heavy boots, as her mother had taught her, then her coat: She threaded her right arm into its sleeve and watched her hand emerge, to her great relief. She always thought the long thick sleeves of the coat would swallow up her arms. She sought the other sleeve with her left arm, but her hand slid along the material. She twisted round to try and reach the recalcitrant sleeve, but it danced away. She twisted again and soon was hopping round in a backwards twirl until with a final angry thrust she found the sleeve and jerked it on. Her coat was on. Her face burned red. The others were all pulling their coats and hats on easily and quickly, and watching them, her face flared brighter at her clumsiness. She yanked her hat off the hook and pulled it down over her face, pushed it back up to reveal her eyes. It fell off. She tried again, and again it fell off. Inhaling deeply, she exhaled her frustrations at these cumbersome clothes she had to wear in this white country, and this time when she put her hat on, she remembered to fold up the front bit. The hat stayed on. She wound her long scarf round her neck, mouth, and nose. And lastly, she pulled her mitts out of her pockets and tugged them onto her hands. She felt like a stuffed doll. Her clothing’s heavy unfamiliarity seemed to pin her to the floor, and she wanted to take them all off and stay inside. She raised her head and saw that she was alone. She pushed herself to start moving. Her encumbered frame waddled down the hall and out the door.
White balls whizzed in the air; kids lay in the snow, doing strange things with their arms and legs; others chased each other, their breath puffing out in little clouds. The air rang with the shouts and screams of children playing. This shouting was familiar. Her frustrations dissipated in the cold air, like her steamy breath. She walked a little way from the door and along the reddish-brown brick wall of the old school. She liked this school-yard better than her old one because it was much bigger and the air tasted clean and clear, so different from the ever present grey concrete and the thick smelly air back home. She leaned against the sun-drenched wall of the school and watched the others play with their friends. She couldn’t see that boy — what was his name? She clicked her tongue sharply, angry at herself for forgetting it. Then two girls playing nearby distracted her; she thought they were from her class and smiled at them, hoping they would ask her to play. But they only stared at her. Perhaps they, like her, were too shy to ask. She would take the first step. Just then they turned away after a last uneasy glance in her direction and ran around the corner of the school.
Moti felt her eyes prickle, but she crinkled her face to stop the imminent tears. She could do nothing about the hollow feeling in her stomach. She inhaled deeply to steady her nerves. She would make a friend. The happy chatter of three girls as they rounded the corner near her caught her attention. She looked towards them and stepped away from the wall. Their smiles disappeared and their chatter faltered. They ran back around the corner. Her difference humiliated her, and she wished she could melt into the school wall forever and ever. Instead, she leaned back against it and kicked at the snow, over and over and over.
“Do you want to play?” Moti stilled herself and looked up. A girl with red hair and green eyes stood in front of her. Moti had never seen red hair before, and its fascinating colour stopped any reply in her throat. But just as the girl was about to turn away, Moti blurted out a yes. The red-haired girl smiled, a most brilliant smile.
“My name is Catherine. I sit in the back row. I’ve never seen anyone like you before.”
“Me neither, Cath … Cath …” Moti could not say her new friend’s name, and she felt the red tide suffuse her face. Catherine laughed, though not at her, but with her, and Moti felt her face return to normal as she relaxed.
“Call me Cath, and I will call you Mot. They’ll be our pet names for each other.”
“Ajah, I mean all right.” Moti smiled, a smile that reached from her toes and softened her face. She skipped away from the wall with her new friend in her new home, mitten in mitten.
~~~*~~~
DANCE CLASS
Put in computer: January 1990
Final edit: February 1990
MARY AND BILL collapsed into their chairs and simultaneously gasped for water. Eve pointed at the glasses of water that she had already poured for them.
“After I saw you do the swing and cha-cha, I couldn’t believe it when you then danced the merengue. Where do you get such energy?”
Mary put up her hand since she could not tear her thirsty lips away from her second glass. Finally, she put it down empty, satiated.
“I lost all my energy halfway through the swing, but I was having so much fun, I didn’t want to stop dancing. It’s like getting a whole new lease on life — at least for the time that you are up on the floor. Why don’t you dance with Bill?”
“Yes, Eve. I’m beginning to think you consider me a monster or something with your constant refusals.”
“Oh, of course not Bill —. It’s just, well — you know.”
“No, I don’t know, Eve. Mary and I never danced as well as you used to, but we still got up and danced.”
“Used to is the operative word Bill and what I did wasn’t really dancing. Besides which you’ve taken lessons, so the two of you look really good on the floor. I’ll just look ridiculous.”
“No you won’t.”
“Nobody will be watching you, Eve. And there are lots of people on the floor who don’t know how to dance.”
“I don’t see any.”
“Oh, come on, Eve. You promised me that you would dance at least once this time. And why do you come out every week with us if you profess not to want to dance. I think you really do,” Mary said.
Eve blushed, tried to stifle it, and blushed harder. “Nonsense, Mary, I haven’t danced in ages.”
“And whose fault is that? Now that he’s gone, it’s high time you started dancing again. Listen, they’re playing a foxtrot. That’s an easy dance; used to be your best if I remember correctly.”
“That was a long time ago, and I couldn’t dance it then anyway. Only Adam had the courage to tell me that; if he hadn’t told me, I would have gone on making a fool of myself. I’m too old to learn now anyway.”
“Too old? I don’t consider myself old, and I learnt to dance properly after all these years. So if I can, you certainly can. And Adam was jealous of you because he couldn’t dance, and he couldn’t stand watching you have fun with other men. Adam is gone now. It’s about time you started enjoying yourself. What Adam did …”
“Come on, Eve, let’s dance. I promise I won’t bite,” Bill hastily interrupted before Mary could spout off on her favourite subject.
Eve had to smile, “All right, but only because I promised. I must warn you though that I step on all my partners’ toes.”
“Only he believed that and made you believe it too, the bastard,” Mary muttered to herself as she watched Eve and Bill walk onto the dance floor and join the promenading crush.
It had been decades since Eve had danced, but to her surprise she hadn’t forgotten the basic steps. Her body flowed into the dance like joining an old mate. Her feet followed the accustomed pattern, some of her muscles relaxed while others tensed appropriately, her heart sang to the music, and her eyes closed blissfully. Suddenly, Bill swung her through an unaccustomed step; her eyes flew open as her feet stumbled all over his. Fool that she was to think that she could dance; Adam was right. But she felt no consolation in that thought. Bill’s words of encouragement and apology broke through her self-beratement. After a pause, Bill again led her through the familiar steps, and this time he stuck to the basics. But dancing had lost all of its magic for Eve as Adam’s mocking words played in her head. Eve was glad when the music ended.
“Wasn’t that fun, Eve?”
“She had a little trouble with some of the steps, but she hadn’t forgotten,” Bill replied. “I’m going to get a drink. Do either of you girls want one? No, okay.”
“You did have fun, didn’t you Eve?”
“Adam was right, I can’t dance.”
“Oh, for God’s sakes, Eve, Adam just didn’t like you to dance period. If you were so lousy, why did all the guys want to dance with you those many years ago? I’ll tell you why, because you were great, and if you can still dance the basic steps, that proves my point. Adam was — well, never mind.”
Eve stared at the tablecloth in angry confusion; all sorts of thoughts tumbled through her mind. A part of her clung to Mary’s words; another part of her categorically dismissed her words as those of a benign person with no sense.
“If you really think you can’t dance, why don’t you take lessons? Bill and I enjoyed ourselves much more after we’d taken lessons at the studio that I told you about. It took us a year to become decent dancers, but we discovered a whole new social life.”
Eve continued to trace patterns.
“Give it a try Eve.”
“I can’t Mary.”
“But I bet you want to.” Mary tucked the studio’s business card into Eve’s purse as Bill came back.
Eve forgot about that card until it fell out while she was clearing out her purse a couple of days later. The card landed on the table and dared her. Eve froze and became aware of the bleak silence around her: no laughter, no yelling up and down the stairs, no bellows from the front room. Adam was dead; her children had long ago scattered to the north and west. She felt the silence oppress her life. She looked at the card again: well, why not?
It wasn’t far from the subway station, the receptionist had told her. Just look up and you’ll see it. Sure enough, she saw the sign, blazing energy into the night. Her watch told her that she was ten minutes early; a constant failing of hers, being early. She did not want to go in and wait in front of strangers, yet she felt stupid standing outside in the sunless air. As she looked up into the window above her, she occasionally glimpsed a couple whirling past the window. They seemed remote in their tight, warm world as their bodies moved to the invisible music. How could she ever hope to achieve such perfection? What was she doing here? Eve looked at her watch again; it was time. Well, since she was here, she might as well tell them that she had changed her mind; it was exceedingly bad manners not to show up at all.
Opening the door, a blast of tango hit her ears and stirred her long-dormant blood. As Eve looked around, a very young man with fiery hair came up to her.
“You must be Mrs. Schilling. May I call you Eve? I’m Randy your instructor. Here, let me take your coat. It’s miserable outside isn’t it? But we’ll warm you up in no time. Did you wear leather-soled shoes? Good. Well, here we are; have a seat while I hang up your coat.”
Eve surveyed the small office with a wry grin; obviously she wouldn’t be given a chance to change her mind.
“Right then, before we begin dancing, I’d like to confirm a few details and ask a couple of questions. okay?”
Eve nodded. She confirmed her name and phone number. She told him her age and that she had hardly danced and she hated exercise. After the short interview, Randy led her to a small room upstairs at the back of the building; at least no-one could watch her stumble all over the place. The room had a hardwood floor, fluorescent lights, a dilapidated record player with a CD player next to it, small speakers, and a table littered with records and CDs. A chair sat in one corner, and a mirror lined one wall, the better to embarrass you with, thought Eve. As Eve surveyed the room, Randy put on a CD at a low volume.
“I’ll teach you a few steps first to see what you can do, okay?”
Eve nodded.
“The dance we’re going to do is called the foxtrot. You can dance it to any piece of music with a four-four beat. The timing is slow slow, quick quick.”
“Slow slow, quick quick,” Eve responded.
“Good. The first pattern I’ll teach you is called the magic step. Your pattern is,” and Randy demonstrated her step. “You always start with your right foot and you step back like so. When you start, all of your weight must be on your left foot, okay?”
“Okay.”
Randy demonstrated the step again and asked Eve to try it. She did so well that he decided to teach her two more steps: the magic left turn and the swing step. He then went over the timing with her. Eve had a bit of difficulty at first; she felt the timing instinctively, but saying “slow slow, quick quick” to the music and starting on the first correct beat seemed hard. At last she got it.
“Well, shall we have a dance? Now stand here, that’s right. Put your left hand on my shoulder. No a little lower; I think you’ll look more graceful with your hand lower since you’re much shorter. Now lift your elbow up so you get a nice line and tense that arm; you want to push your hand against my arm so when I move forward you have to move back. That’s it! Now, your right hand lies in mine like so. Try to relax that arm.” Randy moved forward and promptly crushed her toes. Eve apologized profusely, whilst hopping on one foot and massaging the other.
“No, don’t apologize. Just remember to put all of your weight on your left foot and have your right free to move back. That’s it. See how easy it is. But if I step on your feet again it’s your fault, and if you step on mine, it’s my fault,” Randy smiled down at her as they started to dance. Eve stepped back gingerly and decided to watch her feet. She felt Randy’s hand lift her chin up, but her head drifted down again. Again Randy’s hand lifted her chin up. The music ended.