The Day of Small Things (18 page)

But there ain’t time to worry about Sharleen for the boss has gone to talk to the musicianers—likely telling them to step out and take care of the necessary so as to be ready for a long spell of picking and fiddling. Folks is crowded round the bar getting drinks and now the boss is having some to push back the tables and make more room for the contest.

The fellers who are known to be strong dancers are talking big and making bets. I see a few right young men—just boys, really—calculating their chances, their spotty faces all grinning foolish-like. Some are turning out their pockets hoping to find two bits or are asking friends to stake them. Over by the bar a couple of old drunks who can’t hardly stagger are limbering up and doing a few shaky steps. And every one of these is eyeballing me like I was already in the bed with them.

I hold up my hand so’s I can say my piece and, for a wonder, they all hush as I begin to speak.

“Mr. Revis,” I say, lifting my voice so’s he can hear me above the scraping of the chairs and tables being moved, “now, iffen it happens that I outlast all these fine fellers …”

There is a burst of laughing and hooting but I keep my hand up and afore long they settle down.

“I want to get it clear,” I go on. “Iffen I was to win, then there’d be no going upstairs with anyone, not tonight.”

It’s like all them voices come out of one throat and it makes a single sound, a big
Awww
of disappointment. But then the one voice breaks into many and they all commence
to buzz again. I plow right through them, almost hollering to make myself heard.

“And I’ll take part in a dance down every night till I’ve been bested and one of these good-looking fellers has got the prize.” I give a little wink at one of the spotty-faced boys and he jerks his head back and claps his hand to his heart like he’s been shot.

The boss looks at me and nods, then hollers for the musicianers to get started. I take my place in the middle of the floor and those who’ve paid their fee come out too and circle round me and the fiddle lights into “Sally Goodin.”

The slap and thump of boots on the floor is so great you can hardly hear the music to keep in step. But soon I see that it don’t matter; us dancers are marking our own time and it is the driving sound of a great locomotive
CHUCK
-a-chucka,
CHUCK
-a-chucka,
CHUCK
-a-chucka and all of our feet are hitting the floor at the same time till I fear we will crash right through it. We raise a knee-high cloud of dust and the everyday smell of whisky and tobacco begins to be overtaken by the smell of sweating bodies.

At first it is hard to bear, there is so many of them—all facing me and all with the same crazy look on their faces—but directly one old drunk goes down and two fellers, what had looked like they couldn’t keep going much longer anyways, stop to haul their friend up and all three of them limp off to the bar.

That makes it easier, for no one wants to be the first to quit. But now one after another of them, seeing others going strong while they themselves are winded and like to drop, these ones give it up and commence to making bets amongst themselves.

After a quarter of an hour, it is down to me, one of the
spotty faces, and four of our regular customers, strong dancers who have won whisky prizes back of this. With only five still on the floor, I can hear the music again and the tune slides from “Old Joe Clark” to “Roasted Rabbit” and the crowd sends up a laugh and they all sing together, “If you want some roasted rabbit, You can go upstairs and have it …” and I feel my face go bright red and I dance for all I’m worth.

And the music grabs me and it seems that my legs ain’t my own, that the floor is rising and falling beneath my feet—that I am a limberjack, powered by something outside myself. And my legs rise and fall and rise and fall and I smile and smile and smile the painted smile of the limberjack.

I
danced them down that first night, and the second and the third and the nights after that … and now it has come round to Saturday again and I still ain’t gone upstairs with no one. The music has carried me along through the week though now my legs is sore and my feet are blistered. Last night there was blood in my slippers where some of the blisters had broke.

Every night I danced them down and every night there was fewer in the contest and more in the crowd, for the boss had raised the entry fee to half a dollar a head. But there was always some newcomers who, having heard about the contest and the prize, was eager to try their luck.

Business was awful good for midweek—plumb roaring, to tell the truth—and the boss sent for more whisky, so raw and new that he had to doctor it with all manner of things—juice from the green hulls of walnuts, tobacco, and I don’t know what all. Things has been lively upstairs too and the girls is ill at me, saying the customers has been
riding them extry hard, having gotten all worked up watching the dancing.

But tonight … I am fearful for what may happen. My feet is swole and raw and my legs have taken to cramping. I ask the boss, could we put off the dance down till Monday, but he just laughs.

“This was your idea, Redbird,” he says, “and I’ll not deny we’re doing a land office business. But I expect there’ll be more than ever here tonight, and if I try to tell them you want to cry off …”

He corks up another bottle he has just filled with his new-bought whisky and puts it in a crate under the bar with the others. “Was I foolish enough to do that,” he says, “there’s no telling what some of those fellers might get up to—the way you been teasing them.” The boss leans against the bar and points a finger at me. It is all stained black from the walnut hulls and I can’t take my eyes from it as he waggles it at me.

“Listen here, girl,” he says. “If your feet are hurting you so bad—well, quicker you lose the dance down, the quicker you can get off your feet and on your back … take a load off, as you might say.”

It ain’t no use talking to him, so I go up the stairs to my room. It’s late in the afternoon and all the girls is resting, stretched out reading romance magazines or napping. As I pass by their open doors, not one calls out to me. Sharleen is the worst; when I go by her door, she throws something my way. It falls on the floor with a soggy splat and I see that it is a used safe.

I am like to vomick but I don’t let on I even saw it.

In my room I sit on my bed and watch out the window. The train has just pulled in and there is a crowd of folks getting off at the depot. Like always, I strain my eyes to
see if one of them might be Young David, come back for me, but none of them is. Something in the shape of one man wearing a dark suit and toting two big old grips looks familiar but his hat hides his face from me. He is pushed aside by a gang of men from off the train. They are heading up the road towards the Stand, all laughing and talking loud. As they get nearer, I hear my name mixed in with a lot of ugly talk.

I draw back from the window and lay down on my bed. It is for certain sure that tonight I ain’t got a chance of winning and I dread what is to come.

“Hey, kiddo, the boss sent me to clue you in on a few things.”

Francine is standing there, leaning on the doorframe. For a minute I have a wild idea that she might help me, but even as I look at her, she reads my thoughts and shakes her head.

“Can’t do it, Redbird; me and Lo ain’t got our stake yet.”

She comes in and sets by me on the bed, then, after a minute, she puts out her hand and pats me on the shoulder. “Sorry, kiddo,” she says, sticking a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, “but remember I told you we don’t always get our druthers.” And she does look sorry but she strikes a match, takes a drag on the cigarette, and goes on with what she come for.

“Now,” she says, all business-like. “You and me know you ain’t a virgin, but whichever one of them fellers ends up with you will expect to be busting cherry. And it’s up to you to make him think that’s what’s happening.”

She reaches in her pocket and pulls out a Ponds Cold Cream jar. Only when she opens it, I see there is a little sponge all soaked with red.

“Fake blood,” Francine says, like it is the most natural thing in the world. “Me and Lola got some at a special shop in Chicago and we put it to good use, traveling here. I got to be a virgin three times but she beat me by one.

“All you do,” she says screwing the top back on, “is tell your feller you need to use the pot, and while you’re behind the curtain, just shove the sponge up in there. Then, after you get down to business, you do your best to carry on like he’s too big and he’s splitting you in two. When he’s done, you make a big noise about how wonderful it was and how it was worth the pain. At least, that’s what you say if you’re looking for any kind of tip. It’s what I always do.”

She stands up and goes over to the curtain that hangs across one corner of the room. “I’ll leave this jar here by the pot where it’ll be handy.”

I am staring out the window and watching the man with two grips. He is setting under a big tree, maybe waiting for a ride somewhere. Then he takes off his hat to wipe his forehead with a big red handkerchief and I see that it is Mr. Aaron.

Francine comes back and sets down again. “Bird, it ain’t nothing to worry about—it’s just fucking without the loving. Same tune, different words.” She throws her arm around me. “Cheer up, doll—want me to bring you a soda pop?”

“No, thank you kindly,” I say, picking up her hand and putting a kiss on it. “You’ve been a good friend to me, Francine, and I’ll not forget.”

I can tell by the sound that there is a mighty big crowd gathered in the room below. All the other girls have already
clattered down the stairs and there is music playing and loud talking and laughing. The dance down is set for ten and the alarm clock Francine lent me says that it is nine-thirty. I look out the window one more time and see that Mr. Aaron is still setting there.

The man’s clothes Francine wore for the tango were too big for me but I had hemmed up the trousers and turned the cuffs of the jacket inside the sleeve. I hated that I was stealing from her, but I left her four dollars in the box where I’d found the suit.

I take the brown shoe polish I hooked from Sharleen’s things and begin to brush it through my hair, watching in the mirror. It’s hard to be sure in the dim lamplight but it looks to me as if I have covered up the red. I had cut it short a little earlier, after Francine left, and now I part it to one side and comb it till I look like a real dude. I use a little of the shoe polish on my eyebrows too.

The room below is still loud with music and, judging that my moment is near, I blow out the oil lamp and head for the stairs.

It is easier than I’d thought it would be. There is a great knot of men at the foot of the steps but they are so busy pointing out to one another which fellers will be in the dance down and making their wagers that they don’t even turn to look as I shoulder past them, mumbling low that I need to take a piss.

There is a few more setting on the edge of the porch and one of them hollers at me to come have a sup of whisky.

“Thanks,” I say, remembering to pitch my voice deep, “but I got to get some air,” and I keep on moving down the steps and towards the big tree where the dark shape is waiting.

The smell of the big old boxwoods that line the path make me think of home and I go on walking, half expecting that there could be something inside them that will jump out and get me. But nothing stirs till I reach the big tree and speak to the man setting there.

“Mr. Aaron,” I say, not bothering to lower my voice, “I hoped you’d wait.”

The man in the dark clothes stands up and my heart sinks as his smell reaches me.

“And who might you be? The Jew’s fancy-boy? Traveling in ladies’ undergarments, if I don’t miss my guess.”

He laughs a fat satisfied laugh. “No point hanging around, Jewboy. I told Aaron what I’m telling you: Move on.”

And he lays back one side of his suit jacket to show the sheriff star, shining silver on his vest.

I
stand there frozen with fear for what seems like half a lifetime. High Sheriff Hudson is looking down at me and laughing. He don’t act as if he suspicions aught, so I mumble something and start to walk away—where to, I don’t know. Just then the headlights of a vehicle coming down the road sweep across my face.

“Hold up there,” the sheriff growls. “I want a closer look at you,” and his big old hand wraps around my arm and pulls me back.