Bygones (25 page)

“Dance, Bess?” he asked.

“I think we should,” she answered.

He pulled out her chair and followed her onto the dance floor, conscious of Lisa's wide smile as she watched. He winked at the bride and turned to open his arms to Bess.

She stepped into them wearing a smile, wholly glad to be with him again. They had danced together for sixteen years, in a fashion that attracted the admiring gazes of onlookers, which happened once again as they struck the waltz position, waited out the measure and stepped into the three-quarter rhythm with flawless grace. There might have been no lapse, so at ease were they together. They danced awhile, smiling, making wide sweeping turns, before Bess said, “We always did this well, didn't we, Michael?”

“And we haven't lost it.”

“Isn't it great to do this with somebody who knows how?”

“Boy, you said it. I swear,
no
body knows how to waltz anymore.”

“Keith surely doesn't.”

“Neither does Darla.”

They did it properly, with the accent on the first beat. If there'd been sawdust on the floor they'd have scraped a wreath of neat little triangles through it.

“Feels good, huh?”

“Mmm . . . comfortable.”

When they'd danced for some time, Michael asked, “Who's Keith?”

“This man I've been seeing.”

“Is it serious?”

“No. As a matter of fact, it's over.” They went on waltzing, separated by a goodly space, happy and smiling at each other without any undercurrents. What each of them said, the other took at face value.

Bess inquired, “How are things between you and Darla?”

“Uncontested divorces go through the courts quite fast.”

“Are the two of you talking?”

“Absolutely. We never stopped. We never cared enough to end it with a war.”

“Like we did?”

“Mm.”

“We were so bitter because we still cared, is that what you're saying?”

“I've thought about it. It's possible.”

“Funny, my mother said essentially the same thing.”

“Your mother looks great. What a pistol she is.”

They chuckled and danced in silence until the song ended, then remained on the floor for another song, then another and another. Finally walking her off the floor after four numbers, Michael said at her ear, “Don't go far. I want to dance some more.”

The music got louder and faster as the night wore on. There was a predominance of young people present, and more drifted in as the night got older. The band catered to their wishes. The slower ballads—“Wind Beneath My Wings,” “Lady in Red”—gave way to the kind of songs that lured even doubtful middle-agers out onto the floor: “La Bamba” and “Johnny B. Goode.” When the crowd had caught the fire and were heating up, the band threw in “The Twist,” followed by “I Knew the Bride,” which filled the dance floor and got everybody sweaty, including Michael and Bess, who'd been partners the entire night.

Moods were high. Michael said, “You mind if I dance one with Stella?”

“Heavens no,” Bess replied. “She'd love it.”

To Stella he said, “Come here, you painted hussy. I want to dance one with you.”

Gil Harwood snared Bess, and at the end of the song the foursome switched partners.

“You having fun?” Michael asked as he reclaimed Bess.

“I'm having a ball!” she exclaimed.

They danced another fast, hot one and when it ended, Michael had curled Bess up against his side, puffing. “Come on, I gotta get rid of this jacket.” He hauled her by the hand to the table where they'd left their drinks and draped his jacket over the back of a chair. They were taking quick gulps of their cocktails when the band struck up “Old Time Rock and Roll.” Michael slammed his glass down on the table, said, “Come on!” and towed her back toward the dance floor. Behind him, she snapped his suspenders against his damp shirt and shouted above the music, “Hey, Curran!”

He turned and dipped his ear to catch what she was shouting in the din. “What?”

“You look pretty sexy in that tuxedo.”

He laughed and said, “Yeah, well, try and control yourself, honey!” They elbowed their way into the crowd and launched themselves into the joie de vivre of the music once again.

It was easy to forget they were divorced, to join in the merriment, raising their hands above their heads and clapping while beside them old friends and family did the same thing and sang along with the familiar words. . . .

I like that old time rock and roll . . .

When the song ended they were flushed and exuberant. Michael stuck two fingers between his teeth and whistled. Bess clapped and thrust a fist in the air, shouting, “More! More!” But the set was over and they returned to Barb and Don's table, where all four of them collapsed into their chairs at the same time.

Sapped, exhilarated, wiping their brows, reaching for their glasses, they slipped back into the familiarity of their long-standing friendship.

“What a band.”

“Aren't they great?”

“I haven't danced like this in years.”

Barb's eyes glowed. “Gosh, it's good to see you two together again. Is this . . . I mean, are you two seeing each other?”

Michael glanced at Bess.

Bess glanced at Michael.

“No, not really,” she said.

“Too bad. On the dance floor you look like you've never been apart.”

“We're having a good time, anyway.”

“So are we. How many times do you think the four of us went out dancing?”

“Who knows?”

“What happened anyway? Why did we all stop seeing each other?” Barb asked.

They all studied one another, recalling the fondness of the past and those awful months when the marriage was breaking up.

Bess spoke up. “I know one reason I stopped calling you. I didn't want you to have to take sides or choose between us.”

“But that's silly.”

“Is it? You were friends to both of us. I was afraid that anything I said to you might have been misconstrued as a bid for sympathy. And in a way, it probably would have been.”

“I suppose you're right but we missed you, we wanted to help.”

Michael said, “I felt pretty much the same as Bess, afraid to look as if I wanted you to take my side, so I just backed off.”

Don had been sitting silently, listening. He sat forward, working the bottom of his glass against the tabletop as if it were a rubber stamp.

“Can I be honest here?”

Every eye turned to him. “Of course,” Michael replied.

“When you two broke up, you want to know what I felt?” He waited but no one said a word. “I felt betrayed. We knew you two were having your differences but you never let on exactly how bad they were. Then one day you called and said, ‘We're getting a divorce,' and selfish as it sounds now, I actually got angry. We had all these years invested in a four-way friendship, and all of a sudden—pouff!—you guys were dissolving it. The absolute truth of it is, I never blamed either one of you more than the other. Both Barb and I looked at your relationship through pretty clear eyes, and we were probably closer to you than anyone else at that time. Anyway, when you said you were getting divorced from each other it felt as if you were getting divorced from us.”

Bess reached over and covered his hand. “Oh, Don . . .”

Now that he'd said his piece, he looked sheepish. “I know I sound like a selfish pig.”

“No, you don't.”

“I probably never would have said that if I hadn't had a couple of drinks.”

Michael said, “I think it's good that the four of us can talk this way. We always could, that's why we were such good friends.”

Bess added, “I never really looked at our breakup from your viewpoint before. I suppose I might have felt the same way if you'd been the ones divorcing.”

Barb spoke in a caring tone. “I know you said you haven't been seeing each other but is there any chance you two might get back together? If I'm speaking out of line, tell me to shut up.”

Silence fell over the group before Bess said, in the kindest tone possible, “Shut up, Barb.”

* * *

Randy and Maryann had danced the entire night long, talking little in the raucousness, playing eye games. When the second set ended she fanned herself with a hand while he freed his bow tie and collar button and said, “Hey, it's hot in here. Want to go outside and cool off?”

“Sure.”

They left the ballroom, walked down the grand staircase and collected her coat.

Outside, stars shone. The fecund smell of thawing earth lifted from the surrounding grounds and farmlands. Someplace nearby, rivulets of melted snow could be heard gurgling toward lower terrain. The air was heavy with damp that had left the painted floor of the veranda slippery.

Randy took Maryann's arm and walked her to the far end, where they stood looking out over the driveway while the evergreens below them threw out a pungent scent like gin.

Now don't say Jesus,
he thought.

“You're a good dancer,” Maryann said as he released her arm and braced his shoulder against a fluted pillar.

“So are you.”

“No, I'm not. I'm just average but an average dancer looks better when she dances with a good one.”

“Maybe it's you making me look good.”

“No, I don't think so. You must get it from your mom and dad. They look great out there on the dance floor together.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Besides, you're a drummer. It makes sense—good rhythm, good dancer.”

“I never really danced much.”

“Neither did I.”

“Too busy getting straight A's?”

“You don't like that, do you?”

He shrugged.

“Why?”

“It scares me.”

“Scares you! You?”

“Don't look so surprised. Things scare guys, you know.”

“Why should my straight A's scare you?”

“It's not just them, it's the kind of girl you are.”

“What kind am I?”

“Goody two-shoes. Church group. National Honor Society, I bet.”

She made no reply.

“Right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I haven't been around many girls like you.”

“What kind have you been around?”

He chuckled and looked away. “You don't want to know.”

“No, I guess I don't.”

They stood awhile, looking out over the horseshoe-shaped drive, surrounded by the burgeoning spring night, a moon as thin and white as a daisy petal, and tree shadows like black lace upon the lawns. Once he looked over at her and she met his gaze, Randy with his ivory tuxedo sleeve braced upon the pale pillar, Maryann with her hands joined primly on the veranda railing.

“So a guy like me just doesn't . . . you know . . . make a play for a girl like you.”

“Not even if you asked first and she said yes?”

Miss Maryann Padgett, in her proper little navy-blue coat, stood with her shoes perched neatly side-by-side, her hands on that railing, waiting. Randy drew his shoulder from the pillar and turned toward her, standing close without touching. She, too, turned to him.

“I've been thinking about you a lot since I met you.”

“Have you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then . . . ?” Her invitation was just reserved enough to make it acceptable.

He lowered his head and kissed her the way he used to kiss girls when he was in the seventh grade. Lips only, nothing wet, nothing else touching. She put her hands on his shoulders but kept her distance. He embraced her cautiously, letting her make the choice about the proximity of bodies. Close but not too close, she chose, resting against him the way chalk rests on a blackboard: a touch and it'll disappear. He offered his tongue and she accepted shyly, tasting the way she smelled—fresh, flowery, no alcohol or smoke. As kisses went, it remained chaste, but all the while sweetness coursed through him and he experienced a return to the innocent emotions of first kisses, knowing he wanted more of this girl than he either deserved or probably ought to dream about.

He lifted his head and kept a little space between them. Their fingertips were joined at arm's length.

“Pretty wild, huh?” He smiled, lopsided. “You and me, and Lisa and Mark?”

“Yeah, pretty wild.”

“I wish I had my car tonight so I could drive you home.”

“I have mine. Maybe I can drive you home.”

“Is that an invitation?”