Dancing with the Dead (28 page)

“Not great enough to win anything.”

“Listen, don’t feel bad. This is some of the best competition in the world. Where you from?”

“St. Louis.”

“I’m Minneapolis. This is the third time I’ve competed, but I’ve never won anything either.” He led her through a hesitation step, grinning down at her. Her hand resting on his shoulder felt hard muscle beneath the smooth material of his suitcoat. He really did dance beautifully. “Competing tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes, in American smooth. My best chance is the tango.”

“I’ll be pulling for you.” He moved back slightly and peered down at her face. She knew he wanted to ask about her blackened eyes, much more visible close up, but he restrained himself. Maybe they lived in the same world, where a gentleman never inquired about a lady’s bruises.

The music stopped. “Thanks for the dance, Mary.” He crooked his arm for her to take, then escorted her back to her table. “And incidentally, I don’t have one.”

“One what?”

“A butler.”

“Me, either.”

“I hope we can dance again.”

“Me, too,” she told him.

He patted her shoulder almost paternally before walking away.

“See,” Helen said, as Mary settled back down in her chair, “that dress of yours was worth the money. That blond guy’s a hunk, and he knows how to put one foot in front of the other without falling down.”

Suzanne and David Nyemchek, a professional couple from St. Louis, were taking the floor to do a
paso doble
routine. Mary had seen them once before, at an exhibition, and she ignored Helen and watched them, lost in admiration.

That night she fell asleep immediately and slept dreamlessly, and was surprised when the alarm sounded.

He didn’t sleep a total of an hour that night. Several times he got up and went into the bathroom. He’d watched her dance and she still danced in his mind and he wanted desperately to masturbate but the voice told him not to because there was a reason so he got out the knife and stared and stared at it and then pressed the cold flat of its blade against his forehead and felt calmer. “Soon,” the voice said, speaking to him through the knife.

He lowered the knife and ran his thumb along the blade’s edge, cutting it deliberately very slightly. Raised the thumb to his mouth and tasted the blood.

“Soon now.”

Saturday morning she was as scared as she’d been the day before. It was as if she’d never danced in competition. Her first heats, fox-trot and waltz, passed in a blur, and she knew she hadn’t done well.

“Jesus,” Mel said under his breath, leading her back to the staging area, “we gotta get it on, Mary.”

We?
She knew
she
was the problem. She was moving too stiffly, not quite on the beat. Her bruised ribs still ached, and she seemed to have lost some mobility. Messages from brain to feet were taking too long and arriving garbled.

Concentrate, she urged herself. You’re who and what you are and the people watching and judging are no better than you. If you can do it in the studio, you can do it here.

She breathed deeply, willing herself to be calm, and felt better.

Thank God fox-trot and waltz had been scheduled first, leaving time to atone for sin.

When the dancers took the floor for the tango, Mary was surprised to find herself firmly in control despite her nervousness. She could do this—she knew it! Confidence smoldered like an ember in her stomach, then, when the music began, it flared brightly through every inch of her.

Mel led her through a basic, a promenade turn.
Nose follows toes.
She snapped her head around to give the dance definition, shadowing his lead perfectly.

The music took her, and he was a part of it. She could read his mind and body, knew what he was going to do an instant before he did it. And somehow this didn’t surprise her. Primal rhythms of communication were older than speech, linked to life and emotion in ways not understood. Dance itself must have preceded speech. Far away, people were applauding and shouting out numbers. It didn’t matter to Mary. She and Mel and the music were all that the ballroom and the moment held. Mary was flying.

Then the moment ended, and she was standing still and the applause was now and near.

“Oh, Christ, Mary!” Mel whispered in her ear as he led her off the floor. “That was perfect! That was what we wanted.”

If that tango was perfect, so was the one they danced in the Bronze division. They added flares and
cortes
to their steps, drawing applause from the audience.

Mary was sorry when the music ended.

She was nervous again standing in the dancers’ semicircle, listening to the names and numbers for the waltz and fox-trot awards, watching the other contestants rush joyfully forward to receive their medallions and applause. The ceremony for those dances seemed to last half an hour, though she knew it actually took less than five minutes.

Then it was time for the tango awards.

“Third place, number one-seven-seven, Lee and Brockman.”

Mary watched the couple stride forward smiling and receive their award. Applause. Humble time. Camera flashes like indoor lightning.

“Second place, one-twenty, Frazee and Nyemchek.”

Okay, they were competing against the best, even though Nyemchek was only the instructor half of the team. Mary was trembling again. Either she and Mel had won, which seemed highly unlikely now, or they hadn’t even finished in the top three.

Time dragged to a halt, as if the earth had paused ponderously on its axis. Mel gripped her elbow, squeezing so hard it hurt her. More bruises?

“First place, number one-ninety-nine, Arlington and Holt!”

Reality spiraled away. Mary floated up to the judge, watched her hand reach out and accept the shiny gold medallion with the numeral
1
engraved on it. She was barely aware of shouting and applause. Mel had to stop her and hold her still while photographs were taken. He didn’t have to tell her to smile.

Then they were back at the table. Everyone was standing, shaking Mel’s hand, patting Mary’s back and shoulders. Helen and Lisa pecked her on the cheek. Nick hugged her.
Ouch!
She let him hug her again.

Finally Mary slumped down in a chair. Ray Huggins was leaning over her from behind. “One for Romance Studio!” he was saying. “Terrific, Mary! Just terrific!”

When he placed his hand on her shoulder she reached up and squeezed it. Released it and felt him move away.

Suddenly she was tired and her legs were numb. So what’d you think, Duke? What can you say now, Jake? Bastards!

She shook thoughts of the two men from her mind. What did Jake, or her dead alcoholic father Duke, have to do with any of this? Thinking of them now would only spoil things. Men like Jake, Duke, Fred, had nothing to do with this world.

She should call Angie and let her know what had happened.

Duke.

Why had she thought of Duke?

Helen sat down next to her, unable to stop grinning. “Well, Mary Mary?”

Mary said, “I need a drink.”

A
FTER THE PROFESSIONAL
competition that night, Helen talked Mary into going with her to the hotel bar for a victory celebration. Or was it Mary who’d talked Helen into going? Mary wasn’t sure. Of that or anything else right now. Ordinarily she drank only limited amounts of wine, but this wasn’t an ordinary night. Wasn’t an ordinary time in her life. But she’d had only three martinis and didn’t understand why they should be affecting her this way. Alcohol and the flush of triumph were an unexpectedly heady combination.

Where was Mel? Why wasn’t he celebrating with her? Mary remembered him hugging her again in the hall outside her room, just after she’d changed into slacks and a sweater, then he’d hurried away toward the elevators. Was he meeting someone? Should Mary feel jealous? She didn’t feel jealous right now. Triumph left little room for other emotions.

A man was suggesting they go somewhere else. Mary felt a tingle of hesitation. She liked it here in the hotel bar, though she had to admit the drinks were expensive. But there was no dancing. That was the problem, there was no dancing.

She saw then that the man who’d made the suggestion was Benson, good old Benson Amberson . . . Ambersomething, who’d waltzed with her last night. Blond, handsome Benson, of Minneapolis.

Helen decided she’d rather go to bed and went up to the room, after pecking Mary on the cheek and urging her to have fun, she deserved it. Then half a dozen dancers, two of them instructors, piled out of the bar and went with Benson and Mary to Spectrum, a lounge on Meter Street not far from the hotel. They had to travel in two cabs, and Mary wound up sitting on someone’s lap. Well, she didn’t mind; it was a night for that kind of thing.

Spectrum had a five-piece band and a tiny dance floor flooded with colored strobe lights that flashed in time with the music. But at least there was dancing, despite what was happening out on the floor right now. Disco. People twitching and jerking around by themselves. Not dancing, from Mary’s point of view, more like a kind of whole-body masturbation.

She did swing and rumba with all three of the men, and she had several more drinks. But she wasn’t drunk. Of that she was sure. If she’d had too much to drink, how could she be dancing with such grace and precision?

And her ribs no longer ached. Winning had relieved the pain. Winning was sweet medicine. Her life was well now. Mary was complete and well.

Amazingly, time had rushed to one in the morning. Spectrum remained loud and crowded, but Benson and Mary were the only ones from the Hyatt Regency group still on the dance floor. Dancing with Benson, occasionally getting jostled by the spastic fanatics who thought they were dancing, Mary peered over his shoulder through the hued and hazy lighting and saw no one she knew.

Well, that was all right; she knew Benson, didn’t she? And after another few dances she’d suggest they return to the hotel. Her legs were getting heavy and unresponsive. She was finally tired and wouldn’t mind going to bed. Benson might have the idea he could include himself in those plans, but she was sure he’d discourage easily enough. Benson the gentleman butler, or the gentleman who employed a butler. Gentleman, anyway.

When they returned to their table and she suggested it was time to leave, he was immediately agreeable. Maybe he was tired, too. She wondered again about Mel. Where was he at this moment? Doing his own kind of celebrating? Maybe there was more promiscuity at dance competitions than she imagined. So many healthy, attractive people in top physical condition, under so much stress, maybe it was inevitable.

Benson had overridden Mary’s protests at being treated, and he settled with the waitress, leaving an obvious and generous tip to demonstrate to Mary that he wasn’t cheap. Now he was striding ahead of her, projecting machismo so he could forge a path along the perimeter of the packed dance floor toward the door. She followed in the vacuum of his wake, avoiding the writhing bodies closing in behind them.

And suddenly they were out in the cool night, standing on damp pavement made iridescent red by the glow of the overhead sign. Benson’s handsome face, the backs of Mary’s wrists and hands, had the same red cast to them.

“We in hell?” Mary asked.

“Huh?”

“Never mind, just a thought.”

The music from inside was barely discernible, only the deep beat of the bass throbbing like a heartbeat through the thickness of walls and door.

Mary shivered and clutched her coat tighter around her. Her stomach did a couple of loops and dives. Maybe she
had
drunk too much. After all, she wasn’t used to alcohol any more than she was to victory. “Whew! I hope we can get a cab.”

“No problem,” Benson said. “We don’t need a cab. My car’s parked in a lot just down the street. I had to leave it there yesterday because the hotel lot was full.”

“There’s some luck,” Mary said.

“Sure. I’ll have us back in our rooms and tucked in within a few minutes.”

“Our
separate
rooms.” She smiled when she said it, not wanting to wound him.

“ ’Course. I wouldn’t wanna spoil your big night by trying to hit on you.” Now he was smiling, confident and aware of his charm in the way of one who used it often. “Unless of course I can help make your big night even bigger.”

She shook her head and touched his arm, partly for support. “If it’s all the same to you, I’m ready for my night to end.”

“Well, it’s not all the same, but it’s totally up to the lady.”

“Very gallant.”

“That’s
moi
, all right.” He took her arm and began leading her along the sidewalk, away from the brightness outside Spectrum.

She noticed the neighborhood was mainly industrial. The block was lined with drab office buildings, all of them closed and desolate in the faint orange glow of sodium streetlights. Far down the street, perhaps three blocks away, was the flashing green and blue neon sign of what might have been a bar or restaurant. Now and then traffic hissed unseen on a nearby street, an oddly reptilian sound, like that of monsters stalking in an old Japanese horror movie.

Mary put her weight down crookedly on a high heel and stumbled. Benson helped her regain her balance. Wouldn’t do to sprain an ankle now. What would Mel think of her if she managed that bit of clumsiness?

“You okay?” Benson asked.

“Sure. Where’d you say you were parked?”

“Right here.”

They’d come to a small parking lot surrounded by a tall chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The attendant’s booth was dark, but the driveway gate was open and there were half a dozen cars on the dimly lighted lot. The nearest streetlight appeared to be burning out, casting a wavering, sickly orange glow over the angled cars. A wind gusted through the lot, seeming to make the streetlight flicker, sending debris and crumpled newspaper skittering in tight circular patterns. Miniature young cyclones full of bluff and bluster, as if boasting they might grow and destroy the city.

“Which car?” Mary asked.

“The dark one near the back.” Still gripping her elbow, he led her toward a black or midnight blue compact parked near the alley and back driveway of the lot. He’d simply described it as dark. Funny he wouldn’t know the exact color of his own car.