Ballroom: A Novel (28 page)

Sliding down onto the linoleum floor, oblivious to the broken glass beneath him, he buries his head in his hands and sobs.

Avoid the use of slang terms and phrases, they being to the last degree, vulgar and objectionable. Indeed, one of the charms of conversation consists in the correct use of language.

                
—Edward Ferrero,
The Art of Dancing
, 1859

P
uta!
Whoring under my roof. I fed you. Sent you to the best schools. Then I find out you’re running off to Argentina. With that sick old man in Four C. Get out. I won’t have a slut living under my roof. Pack your things. Get out. You’re all the same.”

Maria has just walked in the door. In the kitchen, her father is standing with an envelope in his hand. She’s never seen him so agitated. His hair, usually smoothed into place, is tousled.

“What are you talking about, Papi?”

“Lying to me. How could you?” He thrusts the envelope into her face.

“Lying? About what? Please, Papi. Tell me what this is about.”

“Your boyfriend Harry Korn is dead, and I found these in his apartment.”

“Harry’s dead?” She is stunned. “Oh, God, no. What did you do? What happened?”

“What did I do? What is this?” He takes out two tickets and shows them to her. Tickets to Buenos Aires in her name and Harry’s. “Maria Rodriguez? That’s you, isn’t it? Why is your name on a ticket to Buenos Aires? Were you running off with . . . that . . . that . . .
pervert
to Argentina? Behind my back? Were you going to tell me? Or simply disappear? And you lied about you and Angel?”

She is terrified. Holding the tickets in her hand, she can’t believe that Harry actually bought them. And now he’s dead? It has always been her fear that her father would find out and kill Harry. Now it has come true.

“I didn’t lie to you about Angel. We
are
getting married. I love him.” She wants to scream “I love him, I love him!” again and again. Instead she asks, “How did Harry die?”

“A heart attack. I wish I had stabbed him. In the heart.” His face is twisted with hatred. “The cops said it happened a week ago. He was up there for a week, dead. This woman, she says he was shouting your name at the Ballroom. Why
your
name? What was he doing at the Ballroom with you, Maria?” He doesn’t even give her a chance to answer. “And these?” He is banging his fist on the kitchen table. “What are these? These pictures of you. Baby pictures, too.” The photographs are lined up like cards in a game of solitaire.

“Oh, God, no.” Maria is shaking, overwhelmed. She is afraid that if she tries to speak, she will break into tears, and he has no patience for crying. She needs to find a way to calm him. Walking to the table, she gathers together all the photographs and puts them into the pocket of her jacket.

“What has been going on behind my back?
Dios mío
.”

She puts her arm around him, feels him pull away, leads him to a kitchen chair. “Sit, Papi. We must talk. He wasn’t my lover. I swear.” She sits across the table from him. “I love Angel.”

“Carrying on with that cowboy every time I went out of the house.” He isn’t listening.

There is too much happening at once. She is not sure which is the worst part. Harry dead. The tickets. The photos. Her father’s terrible accusations. She doesn’t know how to begin to tell him the truth. Once she reveals that she has lied to him for so long, she is sure he will never forgive her. Yet she has no choice. Taking his hands in hers, she takes a deep breath.

“Listen to me, Papi. Harry gave me dance lessons,” she begins, as he struggles to be free from her grasp. “I never thought he’d ever buy those tickets.”

“Dance lessons?”

“Yes, for a very long time, Papi. Please listen to me, Papi. Shhhh.”

“How long? And where? Was he taking you places to dance?”

“No, Papi. He never took me anyplace.” She tries to keep her voice modulated and calm. “Papi, you’re not listening to me. It was just Harry’s dream. A crazy dream. To buy me those things. That I would be his partner. He gave me lessons in his kitchen. But I told him I wasn’t coming anymore.” She wants him to understand. “I never thought he would do it. I told him it was over. I knew it was wrong.”

“Wrong? How long have you been . . . going up there? Behind my back? Sneaking around . . . like your mother? Deceiving me?” With each question he poses, his anger grows. Unable to sit, he stands, pushing his chair away, and begins pacing the room.

“Like my mother?” She is confused by his rantings about some cowboy. “What are you talking about? What cowboy?”

He ignores her question.

Maria is caught off guard. In her dismay she momentarily forgets about Harry. “I thought my mother was dead.”

“When she ran away with that cowboy, I said, ‘Never again.’ Never. Now you.” He is distraught. Rambling.

“But you told me that my mother died.”

“I don’t want to speak of her. Think of her.” His eyes are closed, and he shakes his head as if to toss away memories. “Are those clothes yours?” he demands. “That dress, that turquoise dress. The one in the suitcase. And the shoes, too? Tell me the truth, or get out of my house.”

Maria can barely breathe. A rage begins to build as she realizes her father has been lying to her. She follows him into the living room, where he circles like a caged animal. “You told me she died. Tell me, Papi. Please. Where is she? My mother.”

“I don’t know, Maria.” Defeated, he collapses into his chair. “I don’t know.”

“I promise I
will
tell you everything, Papi. But you need to tell
me
the truth.”

Should there not be as many gentlemen as ladies present, two ladies may be permitted to dance together.

                
—Elias Howe,
The Pocket Ballroom Prompter
, 1858

I
t’s been, what, five or six months? You never come dancing anymore.” It’s Tina Ostrov, with flaming red hair, carrying a huge bag of greens in her arms. “Sarah, how are you?”

It’s late autumn, and Union Square Park is ablaze. The air is crisp and smells of apples, and at the outdoor farmer’s market across from the Ballroom the pumpkin-lined paths are crowded.

“Jimmy J called me this week. The Ballroom’s closing,” Tina says. “After all these years. They don’t want to renew their lease. He said that beside that awful incident with Harry, the inspection didn’t go well. The ceiling is leaking, the floor’s a mess, and repairs will cost a fortune. The place is falling apart.”

“I never even noticed.”

“I’m not certain where everyone will go. Maybe Roseland will resurrect itself.”

“I kind of miss Harry, oddly enough. I had no idea he knew Maria Rodriguez. Did you?” says Sarah.

“I don’t know if you heard. He died.”

“Who?”

“Harry. Yeah, the old guy had a heart attack. In May, right after that horrible night.”

Sarah feels disbelief, then guilt. “I called three or four times, but he never answered. I called the cops, but I never heard anything more. That night just about did it for me. I haven’t been dancing since.”

It was like a nightmare when Harry ran onto the dance floor, reaching out to grab Maria as she danced with Angel, shouting Maria’s name over and over like a madman. Dancers scattered in every direction, and Maria and Angel disappeared.

Harry was left alone in the center of the floor, spinning around and around, his arms lifted toward the light. When he began grabbing his chest, in what looked to Sarah a heart attack, she ran to help him.

“Get away from me,” he shouted, and pushed her. Staggering up the stairs, he vanished into the night.

“I gave up after he didn’t answer the phone,” she says. “God, I wish I’d gone to his place to see if he was all right. I thought maybe he’d moved or something,”

“No. You shouldn’t have gone to his place. You can’t get involved in these things. People like Harry who go to the Ballroom, they don’t want people messing in their lives. They come to dance. They come, they dance, and they go home. That’s all. Harry was a private kind of person.”

“I felt as though I abandoned him. Forgot about him altogether, wrapping myself up in classes. How did you find out?”

“From Angel. Harry lived in Maria’s building. Her father’s the super, and he found Harry. Poor guy had no family.” Tina continued, “I saw your buddy, Tony DiFranza, dancing at Tavern on the Green. He says he’s thinking of moving down to Miami permanently. He’s got an enormous condo there. Three bedrooms! There’s great dancing there, you know? I’m thinking of moving there myself one of these days. I went down last month to look for a place. Found a great two-bedroom. It’s time for me to retire.”

“Retire? You’re kind of young for that.” It astounds Sarah that Tina knows all the details of everyone’s lives.

“I’m past sixty. It’s time.”

Sarah looks more closely at Tina.

“Fooled you, didn’t I? Nothing like a great surgeon.” She laughs. “How come you’re not dancing, Sarah? You spent all that time and money. Where’ve you been lately?”

“I really love my work, Tina. I finished my classes, and I’m with a large senior facility near Borough Hall. It’s a great job. You know? Sometimes I bring dance tapes, and they sing along to the music while they work. I think I make a difference in their lives. They’re like family.”

“That’s great, Sarah. Still, you should be dancing. You’re good. Graceful. Besides, I know you love it. Nothing could stop me. I keep going. You always got too emotionally involved. That was always your problem. Looking for love—in all the wrong places!”

“I guess I was always thinking I’d find romance. What an illusion that was. Seeing you makes me want to dance again. Maybe finally take your advice. Just dance. Where’s everyone going dancing?”

“They closed down the Latin Quarter. They were getting a rough crowd, and the neighbors were complaining. I’ve seen Gabe Katz at the Copa and China Kim’s a couple of times. I saw Dr. Rebecca at the Lafayette Grill Saturday night with her hunky messenger friend. They really look like an item. . . . There’s one last dance at the Ballroom in December, though. I do know that much. Imagine—the last night at the Ballroom. Like the end of an era.
And
it’s the end of a millennium. Why don’t you come for old time’s sake?”

“Maybe. It won’t be the same, will it?” Sarah says. “I can’t believe Harry is dead.”

“Angel and Maria are opening a dance center, Club Paradiso. Great name. Mostly salsa and tango. She agreed to be his partner in the business,
and
. . . they got married.”

“That’s wonderful. At least someone had a happy ending!”

“Tell me, Sarah, have you found a guy?”

“No. I thought I wanted to be Gabriel Katz’s partner.” She laughs.

“Did he give you his old line about looking for a partner?” Tina asks. “He doesn’t want a partner. Says he does, but don’t believe it. He’s always looking for someone new.” She pauses and then adds, “Someone to screw.”

Someone to screw
. If she’d known that, would she have been so eager, desperate, for him? She feels the color rising in her cheeks.

“He took you home, didn’t he?”

“No,” Sarah lies. “Really.”

“He’s probably taken every woman at the Ballroom home, but you, Rebecca, and me. We’re too smart. He knows I know too much about him, and Rebecca, well, she wouldn’t go home with him. Yeah, everyone thinks they want Gabriel. Handsome, elegant, just the right looks, all the accouterments. The dancer with diamonds. But, you know, he’s got absolutely nothin’ to give.”

“I noticed,” Sarah says. She will never tell anyone, not even Tina, what happened that night. No one ever spoke about what happened when Gabriel drove them home. Just another secret of the Ballroom.

“Angel and Maria are planning to open the club in Chelsea for New Year’s Eve. If anyone can open a classy place, they will.” Tina pauses. “Jeez, I’ll miss Korn. I knew him from way back. He was something.”

“Way back when?” Sarah asks.

“Just a long time. What a dancer he was then. Handsome, too.”

I
used to dance at the Cotton Club, you know?” says Sam Freeman, as he works on his drawing at the center. “I was somethin’ else in my day. All the gals wanted to dance with Dancin’ Super Sam. I was taller, then . . . better lookin’, too,” he adds. “Even did the Wildwood Marathon in Jersey in ’thirty-three. Almost made it to the end too. Eighty-one days. Never stopped. Except those five-minute breaks every hour. Would you believe I could dance that long?” Always laughing about something, Sam is her favorite student at the center.

“How old are you, Sam?” Sarah asks.

“Eighty-seven, and I can still move my legs, thank the Lord.” He takes the wire-rimmed glasses off his ears with care and sets them on the table next to the colored pencil drawing he is working on, a picture of his mother. She picked cotton in Alabama and worked hard to get her eight children, including Sam, an education. He retired after fifty years working for the railroads, and now he’s making progress in Sarah’s art classes. He is developing a series of family portraits from memory and old photographs.

He pushes back his chair and holds out his hand to her. Usually Sam uses a cane; his knees need replacement. But as he stands and puts his arm around her, he leaves the cane hooked on his chair. “Come on, sweetheart, we’ll cut a rug. When I hear the music, I just got to dance.”

Aretha Franklin is singing “I Will Survive,” and Sam leads her into a smooth fox-trot. If he has any pain, it is all forgotten in the music, the beat, and the dance.

“You sure can dance, Sam,” she says.

“You’re not bad yourself, girl!” With his strong lead, they glide around the room, and he adds some fancy steps.

She can tell from the light in his eyes that Sam is impressed.

“Where’d you learn yourself to dance so good, darlin’?” he asks. “You make me feel twenty, girl.”

“Want to go to the Ballroom with me Sunday night?”

Everyone is laughing and clapping, and soon they are all dancing. The women dance together, because there are so few men.