The Last Dance

by Nan Ryan

  Lucy trembled with fear and rising nausea.

  She’d pushed the nagging uneasiness to the back of her mind each time it had surfaced, refusing even to consider such an improbable catastrophe. Now she could no longer fool herself. She’d had no monthly since the week before leaving for Atlantic City. Her cycle had always been as regular as clockwork.

  The missed period, the awful nausea. It could only mean one thing.

  Lucy was almost certain she was pregnant.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  There were no secrets in Colonias, so Lucy didn’t dare visit the trusted town physician who had tended her since birth. Not that dear old Doc Spencer would have revealed anything about one of his patients. But if a single woman who had neither a cold nor a fever visited the good doctor, people might wonder. Especially when the woman in question had been away on a two-week holiday.

  Lucy made the necessary arrangements and at the end of the week took the train up to Rochester to see a doctor. After the mortifying physical examination finally ended, she quickly dressed and waited in his private corner office for the physician’s verdict.

  The white-coated Doctor Abel Ferrer came in, smiled, circled his cluttered mahogany desk, and took a seat across from her. He leaned back in his swivel chair and began absently patting his breast pocket searching for something.

  Lucy inhaled with difficulty and squirmed in her own straight-backed chair.

  “Ahhh,” he said, spotting a pair of spectacles resting atop a stack of unfiled patient charts.

  He picked up his glasses, unfolded them, raised them to his ruddy face, carefully fitted the wire earpieces over his ears and adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. Then he frowned. So did Lucy.

  The doctor took off the glasses. He hunched up sideways onto his left hip and thigh, reached down into his right trouser pocket, drew out a clean white handkerchief, and carefully began wiping the spotted lens of his eyeglasses. First one. Then the other.

  Hours, years, centuries passed as Lucy sat there waiting, so tense she wanted to scream, while the doctor calmly cleaned his spectacles.

  Finally he put the glasses back on, looked over them at her, and said, “Well, congratulations, Mrs. Jones. You are going to have a baby.” He smiled then as if he’d just given her great news and said, “You and the lucky Mr. Jones can expect your child around the first of June.”

  “That’s…wonderful,” Lucy heard herself say and the only thing that went through her mind was whether her weak legs would support her if she attempted to stand. “Wonderful.”

  Dr. Abel Ferrer told her what to expect at each stage of her pregnancy, giving advice on how she should take care of herself, and offering suggestions as to what she should and should not do in her delicate condition. Lucy paid no attention to his instructions. She didn’t really hear him. She saw his mouth moving, but his words didn’t penetrate the loud roaring in her ears.

  All at once it was so stuffy in Dr. Ferrer’s office Lucy could think of nothing but getting outside and taking long gulps of fresh air. She was dizzy, terribly dizzy. She felt as if she were going to be sick. A hand at her temple, Lucy rose unsteadily to her feet. The room around her swam out of focus and darkness closed in.

  “Mrs. Jones, wake up, wake up.” An unfamiliar voice pierced the fog. “Mrs. Jones, are you alright?”

  Lucy’s eyes opened on the ruddy face of Doctor Ferrer directly above her own. Full consciousness gradually returned. She realized she was lying on the floor and the doctor was leaning over her, his plump nurse standing behind him with the smelling salts.

  Both were solicitous and caring. The thoughtful nurse asked if Lucy would like them to get in touch with her husband. Have him come down and pick her up.

  Lucy anxiously sat up. “No. No, I’m fine. Really I am.”

  “Are you sure? How far away is it to your home, Mrs. Jones?” the worried physician inquired, helping her to her feet.

  Lucy waved a dismissive hand and lied, “Not far. Thank you both, you’ve been most kind.” She gave them a weak smile. “Please don’t worry about me, I can manage.”

  Lucy did manage.

  In one of those strange interludes of calm, which sometimes come in even the worst despair, she left the doctor’s and serenely walked the six blocks to the depot.

  The weather was sunny and warm, a perfect fall day, Lucy noted. Yet by the time she reached the train station, a forbidding coldness had penetrated her very bones. She had to keep her jaws tightly clenched so her teeth wouldn’t chatter. Even then her chin quivered and Lucy knew it was from fear. Gripped by stark terror, she was at a complete loss. For the first time ever, she didn’t know what to do.

  Heartsick, Lucy had never felt so alone and afraid in her life. She had nowhere to turn. If she was to give birth to the baby, she would be an outcast, ostracized by everyone who knew her. Worse, by far, than her own shame would be that of the innocent child. Her baby would be labeled a bastard and carry the terrible stigma for life. If that was not enough she would lose her position at the post office and how could she possibly feed and clothe a child if she was unemployed?

  These frightening thoughts tortured Lucy as the train carried her homeward, but as worried and miserable as she was, she didn’t cry. Didn’t shed a tear. She had far too much pride to allow the other passengers to see her weep. Weeping was to be done in private.

  Worrying that night, walking the floor and wondering what was to become of her, Lucy did cry. She cried until her eyes were red and puffy, and her head ached violently. She sank to her knees on the parlor floor and sobbed uncontrollably. She fell over, put her head on her folded arms, and cried her heart out, her slender body jerking spasmodically. She cried so long and so hard she finally exhausted herself and cried no more.

  But she never once considered trying to contact Blackie. The blame was not Blackie’s, nor was the problem. Both were hers. It was she who must deal with the predicament, she who must pay the price.

  She and no other.

  Lucy kept her dilemma to herself. She told no one. Not even her good friend, Kitty Widner. Kitty and Annie were in and out of Lucy’s house at least once a day, but Lucy never let on that anything was wrong. At least she hoped she revealed nothing.

  The closest she came to giving anything away was one evening later that same week. The golden-curled Annie popped in unexpectedly. The little girl caught Lucy lying on her stomach before the fire, chin in her hands, a shimmer of tears blurring her vision.

  The treasured oyster shell music box was on the floor in front of Lucy, the lid open, the music playing, the tiny, golden couple dancing on their miniature mirrored dance floor.

  The four-year-old Annie never noticed Lucy’s tears. Her own wide blue eyes were riveted to the beautiful oyster shell box. “Pretty!” Annie said, pointing, and fell to her knees before the box as Lucy rose up to her own.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” said Lucy, anxiously blinking.

  A small, short-fingered hand reaching out to touch the magical box, Annie asked, “Who gived it to you?”

  Lucy swallowed hard. Her voice was soft but firm when she said, “Someone who means a great deal to me.”

  The little girl looked up, studied Lucy’s face with the frank curiosity only allowed children, and in her innocence sensed what adults overlooked. Wordlessly, Annie rose to her feet, carefully circled the playing music box, threw her short arms around Lucy’s neck, and squeezed with all her might. Lucy hugged Annie back while hot tears again stung her eyes and she fought to gain control of her emotions.

  “Don’t cry,” Annie said, a small hand patting Lucy.

  Lucy’s eyes filled. Her throat aching, she couldn’t answer. Could only nod and hug Annie tighter.

  Lucy put up a good front for her friends and acquaintances. When she was outside her home, she was very careful to appear cheerful and at ease, to act as if nothing whatever was bothering her.

  She continued to arrive, as she always had, at seven sharp each morning at th
e post office. And no one, save her sympathetic canine friend Post Office Champ, knew she suffered such terrible bouts of nausea that, at times, she barely made it to the small bathroom in back before retching.

  Just as little Annie had seemed to know she was sad, Champ seemed to know she was sick. The big silver Siberian stopped falling asleep the minute he’d finished his treats. He never even stretched out and dozed; he stayed wide-awake and alert, his baleful blue eyes following her as she moved about the small office. It was as if, without being asked, he had taken on a new duty, watching after her through the worst parts of her day.

  Lucy inwardly cringed when anyone pointed out that she was looking a little peaked of late. Was she alright? Wasn’t she feeling well? Perfect, she quickly assured them, hoping they would hurry up and get out the post office door before she had to regurgitate again.

  She would have to, she decided, keep up her regular activities as long as possible. She was determined to behave as if nothing was wrong. She would continue giving piano lessons to her pupils. And going to the weekly card game at the Harrisons. And she would never miss church or the big dinner at Kitty Widner’s after the Sunday services.

  Then came that sunny, Saturday morning in mid October.

  A listless Lucy moved about her house, cleaning and dusting as if by rote. It had been little more than a week since she’d learned she was pregnant; it seemed like a year. A year of agony in which she could think of no suitable solution to her problem.

  She could not stay in Colonias and give birth to this child. The shame would be too great to bear. Abruptly, Lucy smiled. She could see Blackie’s flashing dark eyes, could hear him saying, as he had repeatedly in Atlantic City, ‘Ah, come on, Lucy. Let the gossips sizzle in hell’.

  That’s what she would like to do. But she didn’t have the courage. Nor the means. The only possible resolution to her problem was one she couldn’t bear even to consider.

  She’d heard the unkind stories whispered by the town’s married gossips. She realized that throughout America there were other cases exactly like her own. Unfortunate, single women who became pregnant without hope of marrying the child’s father. Those women were left with no choice but to give their babies up.

  “No,” Lucy murmured a tortured denial, a protective hand going to her flat stomach. “Dear God, no, I can’t…I can’t let…”

  A loud knock caused Lucy to jump, startled. She was immediately puzzled. Who would be calling on a Saturday morning? Kitty and Annie never came to the front of the house. She had no piano lessons scheduled.

  Lucy opened the door to see Bobby Flatt, the telegrapher’s young son, standing on the porch, the collar of his colorful plaid jacket turned up around his ears.

  “Why, Bobby,” Lucy said, “Good morning to you. And you, too, Champ.” Champ barked loudly, wagged his tail.

  “Mornin’, Miss Lucy,” Bobby said, patting Champ’s head to quiet him.

  “Come in out of the cold. Both of you.”

  Boy and dog came into the spotless parlor. Lucy invited Bobby to take off his jacket and sit down but he shook his head.

  He said excitedly, “Miss Lucy, I came to tell you there’s a stranger up town asking about you.”

  “A stranger asking about me?”

  Bobby nodded and Champ shook his great silver head. “Yes, ma’am. He’s wanting to know where you live and…”

  “The stranger is a gentleman?”

  “Uh-huh and he wanted Papa to tell him where you live and all, but Papa said before he could be giving out any information like that he’d have to send me over here to find out if you wanted your whereabouts known. The gentleman said he understood and he’d be happy to wait. So me and Champ came straight on over here and…”

  Lucy’s heartbeat quickened. Anxiously she interrupted, “Bobby, describe the gentleman. What did he look like?”

  “Oh, I don’t know what he looked like. Just a man.”

  “Bobby, you do know. You saw him,” Lucy said almost sharply. “Now you think real hard and describe him as best you can.”

  “Well…” the boy said, shrugging his narrow shoulders and screwing up his face, “he’s…he’s tall and slim and…and he’s dressed real fancy for a Saturday morning.” Bobby scratched his head. “Oh, yeah, he’s got dark hair and his eyes are dark, too and he…”

  “Go!” Lucy said and anxiously shoved him toward the front door. “Go straight back and tell the dark stranger exactly how to get to my house. Hurry!”

  “Sure. Okay,” Bobby said, as Lucy closed the door on him and the barking, jumping Champ.

  Trembling with hope and excitement, Lucy rushed into her bedroom to get ready. She chose one of her prettiest dresses, a soft, merino wool the exact shade of her emerald green eyes. When she had the dress buttoned, she brushed her curly, chestnut hair down around her shoulders the way Blackie liked it best. She pulled one side back off her face and secured it with the hair clasp Lochlin MacDonald had given her. She pinched her pale, hollow cheeks, bit her lips, and dabbed some of her treasured Bal Versailles perfume behind her ears and inside her wrists.

  Lucy flew about the spotless house, plumping up cushions on the sofa and straightening family photographs atop the square rosewood piano. She picked up the poker and stabbed at the logs smoldering in the fireplace. Flames burst from the glowing sparks and shot up the chimney.

  Lucy replaced the poker and turned away from the fire. Her eyes made a quick, appraising sweep of the parlor. It was clean and cozy and cheerful.

  The doorbell rang.

  Lucy lost her breath. Her hand went to her fluttering heart. She hurried to the front door. Her green eyes aglow, a wide smile on her flushed face, Lucy, murmuring soundlessly, ‘Blackie, Blackie’ yanked the door open, and saw a stranger standing on the porch before her.

  The smile left her face. She shook her head as if to clear it and said, “Yes?”

  The tall, spare man said, “Lucy? Lucy Hart?”

  Speechless, she nodded.

  He smiled shyly. “Lucy, I’m Theodore Mooney from Cooperstown. May I come in?”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Theodore Mooney?” Lucy managed weakly, staring open-mouthed at the tall, slender man. Her disappointment was so acute she was sure it showed on her face. She had forgotten there was such a person as Theodore Mooney. “Yes, yes, of course,” she said finally, her innate good manners slowly emerging, “please do come in.”

  “Thank you,” Theodore Mooney said with relief, stepped inside, and timidly thrust out to Lucy a white box tied with pink ribbon.

  She automatically took the gift, and then gesturing with it, directed him into the parlor. “If you’d like to sit down, Mr. Mooney, I’ll fix some hot tea.”

  “That would be nice,” said Theodore, his pale face turning beet red, his nervousness apparent in his every awkward movement. Lucy laid the box on the low table before the sofa. She left him and, shaking her head in mild annoyance at the intrusion, went into the kitchen to put on the kettle. Theodore D. Mooney was the last person she had expected or wanted to see. She couldn’t imagine why he’d come to Colonias. Furthermore, she didn’t care; her only thought to get rid of him as quickly as possible.

  Theodore rose to his feet when Lucy returned with the hot tea and shortbread cookies. She placed the tray on the low table and motioned for him to sit back down. He took the cup of tea she poured for him, and Lucy noticed that his hand shook slightly. She poured a cup for herself and started to sit down in an armchair near the couch.

  “No, please, Lucy,” Theodore entreated, sounding anxious, yet determined. “Won’t you come sit here by me? I’ve traveled all this way just for the opportunity to speak with you in person.”

  Lucy sighed and took a seat on the sofa, leaving plenty of space between them. “Mr. Mooney, I don’t mean to sound impolite, but I…”

  “Theodore,” he gently corrected, tugging nervously at his too tight, white shirt collar. “Don’t you remember? You were to call me Theodo
re and I was to call you Lucy.” He attempted a disarming smile, managed only to look incredibly uncomfortable.

  “Yes, well, that was before…before…” She shrugged slender shoulders. “I’m sorry, but I really can’t see that we have anything to talk about.”

  “Please, don’t say that,” Theodore Mooney pleaded, his voice, so soft and strained, conveyed a deep timidity. “Surely after all our letters and…and…” He swallowed convulsively, “I was hoping you might be able to forgive me, Lucy. I realize I spoiled your holiday, but mine was spoiled as well. You shall never know how badly I hated having to cancel our plans, and I can well understand your disappointment. But I can’t understand your lingering anger.” He drew a labored breath as if he had been rehearsing just such a speech for a long time.

  Truthfully Lucy said, “Mr. Mooney, I’m not angry with you. Believe me I’m not.”

  “Then you’ll give me another chance? You’ll listen to what I have come here to say?” His soft brown eyes held such a hopeful expression Lucy’s heart went out to him.

  “I’ll listen,” she said, her tone more kindly. “You’ve come all this way. Let’s talk. Get acquainted.” She finally smiled at him.

  Theodore Mooney blushed and stammered that he would like nothing better; that he had come to Colonias solely for that purpose. Then he grinned like a bashful boy and looked down at his carefully buffed brown shoes.

  Lucy was immediately afraid she had offered him false encouragement. So she quickly spoke up, “I’ll listen to what you came to say, but I’m afraid you’ll have to be brief. I have an engagement within the hour.” She hoped the implication was there that she was expecting a gentleman caller.

  Theodore’s disappointment was immediate and evident. But he nodded and said, “I shan’t detain you, I promise.”

  He sat there at a proper distance from her, mild and gentle, and clearing his throat nervously, he began to talk. To clear up the mystery of why he hadn’t met her in Atlantic City.