Dancing with the Dead (25 page)

As he handed Helen the perforated plastic cards that were used for room keys at the Hyatt Regency, the young bellhop wished them both luck in the dance competition.

“How’d you guess that’s what we’re here for?” Helen asked.

He grinned. “Easy. You both got the look of dancers. Real graceful-like.”

Helen tipped him five dollars.

“Anything else you need, ladies, let me know. Name’s Howard.”

“Thanks, Howard, we’ll do that” Helen said, and stood waiting while he bustled out and closed the door behind him.

“Howard knows the way to a dancer’s heart,” Mary said.

“Or wherever he wants to go.” Helen sat on the nearest bed and bounced up and down a few times to test the mattress. For a moment she looked like a twelve-year-old lost in play. Maybe that was really why they were here, Mary thought, to lose themselves in the maypole motion of childhood.

An adult again, Helen rested her hands on the edge of the bed and stared up at Mary, frowning as if she shared Mary’s pain. “Your friend Jake did that to you, right?”

“You know he did,” Mary said. “Everybody else seems to know, too, so there’s no sense talking about it.”

“Talking can help sometimes. Relieves the pressure.”

“Sometimes not.”

“I thought you threw the guy out again.”

Mary walked to the windows and looked out at the sun-streaked haze of pollution that lay over Columbus. Unhealthy, she told herself, but undeniably beautiful. Too much in the world was that way.

“Don’t let him come back this time, Mary. Be smart and don’t let him back in.”

Mary turned to face her. “He’s out for good, Helen. I know it this time. He knows it, too. I guess that’s maybe why he did this to me, because he knew it was finally over.” She raised her arms and did a slow rumba box. “Let’s concentrate on the competition, huh?”

“You got it,” Helen said. “First thing’s to see what we can do with makeup so your black-and-blue marks don’t show too much tomorrow.”

“I think that’ll have to wait till morning, when we know how much the bruises have faded.”

Helen stood up, making the bed creak. “Okay, then let’s unpack and go downstairs and register, find out when we’re scheduled to compete.”

Mary removed her two dresses from the garment bag and hung them carefully in the closet.

“You got a couple of great outfits,” Helen said, holding up her own competition dresses on their hangers, a pink and white gown, for smooth dancing, a low-cut red dress for rhythm. She was apparently waiting for Mary’s comment. A little confidence boosting was in order here.

“You, too.” Mary actually thought the red dress was a bad choice; it would showcase Helen’s gelatinous upper arms.

“I got real long gloves to go with the Latin dress,” Helen said.

Mary hoped they were long enough. She hoisted her suitcase onto the bed and began unpacking.

When she unzipped her shoe bag and withdrew the new black Latin shoes, she saw that both heels had been reduced to stumps less than an inch long, their truncated ends shredded as if they’d been sawed or whittled with a dull knife.

Jake! Jake with a parting gesture of disdain, a final slash at hope before her flight took off.

Her stomach tightened and blood rushed from her face. For an instant she thought she might have to dash into the bathroom and vomit.

“Whazza matter, Mary?”

She held up the shoes.

“Oh, Christ!” Helen said. “
Goddamn
him!”

Mary sat slumped on the edge of the bed, suddenly very tired. Weary of fighting Jake and circumstances and the world. And herself.

“What now?” she heard herself ask. “What in God’s name am I gonna do now?”

Helen’s hand was on her shoulder. “I front you the money for a new pair, that’s all. It’s no major deal.”

Mary looked up at her. “It took me four months to find
that
pair, Helen. I’ve got feet like an extraterrestrial.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Helen said. “Probably the places you sent away to for shoes have all got booths downstairs. There’s supposed to be a whole room full of merchandise down there, every kinda dance paraphernalia you can imagine. That’s what Nick told me. I’m planning on looking for a different pair of shoes myself.”

Maybe Helen was right! Maybe it
was
possible to replace the black shoes. And if the new shoes weren’t perfect, the hell with it, she’d dance anyway. She wouldn’t let Jake do this to her. She was finished with that.

At least her stomach had calmed down; it wasn’t tightened and drawing her body forward like a tautly strung bow. No way to dance feeling like that. “Helen, it’s great of you—”

Helen waved a hand as if swirling water. “You’d do the same, blah, blah, blah. C’mon, Mary Mary, let’s head down to the lobby and find out where we register. Then we’ll hit the vendors’ room and romp through those acres of shoes Nick told me about.” She was already striding toward the door.

Mary left her suitcase and cosmetic kit on the bed and hurriedly followed. There’d be plenty of time to unpack later.

On the way out, she hurled the mangled dance shoes into the wastebasket by the desk, listened with satisfaction as they
thunked
against the metal bottom. There was a solid finality to the sound.

Jake! she thought. So long, Jake.

A pair of wide escalators serviced the Hyatt Regency’s ballroom on the third floor. They’d taken the elevator to lobby level. Now Mary stood behind Helen as they ascended. Behind them was a spacious atrium with encircling marble steps that also served as benches. A few people were sitting on the steps talking. A man with a ponytail was strumming a guitar so softly Mary couldn’t hear it.

Mary and Helen turned left at the top of the escalator and saw a carpeted area outside the ballroom doors where rows of dance supply vendors had set up tables or booths. There were racks of colorful feathered and sequined ball gowns; displays of gaudy costume jewelry to complement dance outfits; stacks of instructional VCR tapes; rows of tuxedos on hangers.

And tables lined with new dance shoes.

Mary immediately felt relieved. If Helen would lend her the money, finding replacement shoes here was certainly possible.

They told one of the women behind the registration table they were signed up for competition, and she located their information packets containing program books and tickets to the various events.

Mary and Helen immediately stepped aside and leafed through the program books. The pages were stiff and slick, and they crackled when they turned. Mary experienced a thrust of near panic when she saw her name printed among the contestants for the first dance in the Newcomer category, a cha-cha at ten the next morning.

“The lower categories like ours compete earliest each day,” Helen observed. “A fine way to lose your breakfast.”

“We compete nose to nose in three dances,” Helen said.

Mary said, “Good luck, but not too much of it.” Which was exactly how she felt about tomorrow.

Helen apparently understood and didn’t seem to mind the remark. Probably she felt the same way. They slipped their registration packets into their purses and returned to the vendors’ area.

More people were browsing among the merchandise, many of them wearing jackets or shirts that advertised dance studios from different parts of the country. A trim, blond couple was wearing matching sweatshirts that bore the logo of a studio in Britain. Off to the side, a woman in jeans and a man in a tuxedo were practicing a fox-trot step. An elderly woman had tried on a low-cut yellow gown and was twirling in front of a full-length mirror to see how the yards of pleated skirt material flowed.

“She couldn’t have worn that dress even twenty years ago,” Helen said.

Something made Mary stop and stand staring at the closed double doors to the Regency Ballroom. In every life were doors of critical importance; sometimes they were recognizable.

“Let’s peek,” Helen suggested, and led Mary to the doors.

She pushed one of them open and edged aside so Mary could see beyond her.

A cool draft eddied from the ballroom, and Mary was instantly struck with fear. In this place she was committed to something she yearned to do but that terrified her. The gleaming parquet floor was vast, surrounded by pink-clothed round tables. A mile away, toward the front of the ballroom, was a long dais where judges and various dignitaries of the dance world sat. On the right, a row of video cameras was being set up on tripods on a raised platform. There were more cameras on the balcony that ran along the left side of the ballroom. OHIO STAR BALL was spelled out with pink, white, and red balloons on the balcony facade; strands of tiny lights were wound among the balloons, illuminating them. Workmen were stringing cables. More were setting up balloon decorations that would form a soaring arch above the dance floor. Behind the judges’ dais was draped a massive purple curtain lettered OHIO STAR BALL in silver, with a glittering silver star for the “A” in “Star.” Tiny bright lights were strung down the curtain’s folds, like evenly spaced drops of water frozen and glimmering in suspension.

I don’t belong here, Mary thought, intimidated by the size and glitter of the ballroom. I’m not nearly good enough. She was furious with Mel and Huggins for suggesting she come here so she could make a fool of herself. Everything was larger and glitzier than she’d imagined. It was for the pros, the talented, not for a thirty-five-year-old closing woman from South St. Louis.

“We gonna be able to cut this?” Helen asked. Even she sounded uneasy.

“We can do it,” Mary said. But she knew she hadn’t fooled herself with the empty words, and probably hadn’t fooled Helen.

“Say it often enough and maybe we’ll believe it,” Helen told her, letting the ballroom door swing shut.

As Mary turned around, she saw a man in a white shirt perched on a tall stepladder. He was hanging a rectangular banner above a display of shoes. As he lifted a corner of the banner, the lettering—SPANGLE SOUL SHOES—became visible.

“That’s where I sent away for my shoes,” Mary said. “C’mon, Helen, maybe I can get a replacement pair just like them!”

“I wanna check out one of those gowns,” Helen told her, motioning with her head toward a rack of dance costumes. She dug in her purse and handed Mary her MasterCard. “Use that if you need it, then come on over by that second rack of dresses, okay?”

Mary tapped the plastic card with a fingernail. “Listen, you sure about this, Helen?”

“Just buy the shoes, Mary Mary, then meet me by those dresses and lie about how well one looks on me.”

Mary squeezed her hand, then whirled and hurried toward the Spangle Soul display, as if someone might beat her to the last pair of Latin dance shoes.

Actually the display wasn’t completely set up; only a few dozen shoes sat in a row on the long table. Their toes were pointed forward in precisely the same direction, like compass needles indicating north. Half of them were men’s shoes.

The man on the top step of the ladder noticed her, shifted his body awkwardly, and stared down at her. His white shirt had perspiration stains under the arms. Mary saw that his spine was misshapen, and one of his own shoes had a built-up sole. “Sorry, we ain’t quite open,” he said from on high with a nervous smile. It was a long way down from where he was, and he couldn’t abide further disability.

“I just need to know if you have a certain shoe,” Mary said.

He knotted a length of twine to fasten the last corner of the banner. Now he began placing sparkling silver stars on the material; they appeared to be fastened with Velcro. “Be about twenty minutes,” he said. “I gotta get these stars in place.”

“I bought a pair of shoes from you by mail,” Mary persisted, “and the heels are broken. I need to replace them. Tell you the truth, I’m desperate.”

He stared down at her again. “You mean they was broken when you got them?” He sounded incredulous, as if she’d just confirmed that the moon was made of cheese.

“No, no. Someone—they got broken later.”

“Well, we can’t exchange—”

“But I don’t wanna exchange them, I’ll buy another pair.”

The profit motive prevailed. The man wiped his hands on his thighs, then carefully worked his way down the wooden ladder, balancing his box of stars. She noticed that what she’d thought was a wallet jutting from his back pocket was actually a small Bible; maybe he had a conscience and a charitable heart, and finally religion was coming to Mary’s rescue. All those hours of mandatory youthful prayer might not have been wasted. He limped over to stand behind the table and face her. She was surprised by how short he was. Whatever was wrong with his spine or his leg caused him to list to his left like a sinking ship even when he stood still.

Mary picked up one of his business cards from the stack on the table. His name actually was Spangle. Albert Spangle. Be a good Christian, Albert Spangle.

“I’m Mary Arlington,” she said.

He smiled, transforming his pockmarked, fiftyish face into a mask of rough beauty, the face of a simple and solid man. His eyes were kind and bright blue beneath craggy, graying brows. “Ah, I remember now. Them white open-toed ones with straps and two-and-a-half-inch heels.”

“Those are the ones,” Mary said, pleased. “But I dyed them black. What I really need’s a black pair.”

He raised a gnarled forefinger. There was a speck of glitter on its tip, from one of the stars. “Lemme look, Mary. Size . . . six, am I right?”

“You’ve got a good memory.”

“Got to, when you sell most of your merchandise by mail.”

“I’ll be praying you find them,” Mary said. Well, why not a little schmaltz?

She watched silently as he limped over to a jumble of large cardboard cartons, each of them apparently containing shoe boxes.

Spangle crouched down clumsily and rummaged through the boxes for such a long time Mary began feeling guilty. He really did want to help her now, and she was taking advantage of his kind nature. After all, there was no reason she had to have shoes identical to the ruined ones.

She was about to tell him she’d come back later when he said, “Bingo!” and straightened up holding a pair of black shoes. “Only difference is, these here are leather,” he told her, limping back toward the display table. He handed them to her with the toes pointed down, as if they were weapons that might discharge.