by Amy Harmon
“She may not look like you, Moses. But she definitely has your sunny disposition,” Georgia sassed, but she leaned into me when I dropped a kiss on her lips. It didn’t hurt my feelings at all that my dimpled baby girl looked more like her mother.
I heard Henry thundering back down the stairs and pulled back from my wife’s soft mouth as he strode through the kitchen seconds later. He stopped beside me.
“See?” He clutched a picture in his hand, and he waved it in front of my face. “I don’t look like my dad either.”
I took the photo from his hand and studied it. It was worn on the edges and it had lost its sheen, like Henry had held it often. The man in the picture was familiar to me in the way sports figures are familiar to many. Andre Anderson was fairly well-known and admired. He stood smiling at the camera with a very small Henry, maybe three years old, clutched in his arms. He looked happy and relaxed, and he and Henry wore matching Giants jerseys and ball caps.
“You’re right. You and Millie look more like your mom,” I said, handing the picture back. I didn’t like pictures. Pictures rarely told the truth. They were like gold lacquer over Styrofoam, making things seem shiny and bright, disguising the fragility beneath. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but it still wasn’t worth a whole hell of a lot.
“That’s because we spent more time with her,” Henry said seriously, as if it were common knowledge, as if resemblances were based on nurture instead of nature. It was true, to a point. Mannerisms, quirks, style. All those things could be learned and copied.
“So if I spend a lot of time with Kathleen, do you think she’ll start to look like me?” I asked him, steering the focus away from his father.
Henry looked doubtfully from me to my grunting, banana-bearded child and back again.
“I hope so,” he said.
Georgia snickered, and I hooted and held my hand in the air so Henry could give me five.
“You hear that, Georgia? Henry hopes so,” I crowed. “I guess that means your baby daddy is a beautiful man.”
Henry obviously didn’t mean to be funny, and he totally left me hanging. Georgia reached up and slapped my hand and winked at me.
“If she looks like you, everyone will know you’re her dad,” Henry said, his voice perfectly level, his eyes solemn. “And that will make her happy.”
I nodded, no longer smiling.
“That’s why I go to the gym. I want to look like Tag,” he added to no one in particular. He set down the picture and proceeded to dish up four bowls of chili, handing one to me and placing Georgia’s beyond Kathleen’s reach. Before he ate, he took the fourth bowl into the family room, and we heard the tape pause and Millie thank her brother. Henry came back into the kitchen sans chili, and without a word, dug into his dinner. We were all silent as we heard Tag’s voice resume his tale.
PEOPLE WHO CAN see constantly move their heads. It wasn’t anything I had noticed before, not until I spent time with Millie. But movement was directly tied to sight, and where everyone else tossed and turned their heads, their bodies following where their eyes went, Millie moved cautiously, her spine straight, her chin level, her shoulders back, ready to soak in every available clue. She didn’t tip her head toward her feet when she tied her shoes or tilt her head up when the bell of a shop rang overhead. Moving her head didn’t give her any more information, and as a result, she was perfectly contained, and strangely impenetrable. It made her appear regal, like a Japanese Geisha. But it was intimidating too.
I was restless, always had been, and her stillness beckoned me while her concentration on the smallest things made me more aware of myself, of my size and my tendency to break things. I had always been physical, more inclined to hug than hold back, as inclined to touch as talk, although I did both. I wondered if Millie would have been as controlled if she could see, or if her poise and patience were a byproduct of the loss of her sight. The only time she moved with abandon was when she was dancing, hands glued to the pole, head moving with the music, body pulsing with the rhythm.
I watched her dance every chance I could get. It wasn’t her skimpy outfit or her graceful limbs, taut stomach, and shiny hair, though I was a man and I’d taken note of all those things immediately. But all the girls had beautiful, strong, slim bodies. All the girls danced well. But I watched Millie. I watched Millie because she fascinated me. She was a brand new species, an intoxicating mix of girl and enigma, familiar yet completely foreign. I’d never met anyone like her, yet I felt like I’d known her forever. And since the moment I’d looked down into her face and felt that jolt of ode-to-joy-and-holy-shit, I’d been falling, falling, falling, unable to stop myself, unable to look away, helpless to do the smart thing. And the smart thing, the kind thing would be to stay away. But no one had ever accused me of being particularly smart.
Now she stood perfectly still in the center of the crowded room, people swarming and slipping around her, her eyes open and unseeing. But open. Her stillness drew my gaze. Her straight dancer’s posture unyielding, chin high, hands loose at her side. She was waiting for something. Or just absorbing it all. I didn’t know, but I couldn’t look away. Everyone hurried around her and almost no one seemed to see her at all, except for the few who tossed an exasperated look at her unsmiling face as they squeezed past her and then realized she wasn’t “normal” and hurried away. Why was it that no one saw her, yet she was the first thing I saw? Her dress was blue. A pale, baby blue that made her eyes the same color. Her hair was gleaming, her lips red, and she held her walking stick like the stripper pole, swaying to the music as if she wanted to dance. She’d never come to the bar on club night before. I would have noticed her.
It’d been almost a week since the kiss. Millie had worked her shifts as usual and was her same smiling self, calm and collected, unassuming and independent. I thought for sure I was going to have some explaining to do. Some unruffling. But Millie seemed unaffected. Or maybe she just had me figured out. I didn’t know, but I was simultaneously grateful and offended that there hadn’t been any attempts to pin me down. Instead, I walked her home like I had a dozen times before, and we conversed like old friends, though I found myself looking longer, eyeing her mouth, and thinking of her when we weren’t together. Being with Millie spoiled me a bit. I never had to guard my feelings or school my expression. I could look at her like a man looked at a lover, and she had no idea.
She had no idea I watched her now, although I hoped like hell she’d come here for me. I excused myself from the palms I’d just greased and moved toward her. From the way her chin rose and her nostrils flared slightly, she heard me coming, even though she didn’t turn her head. I took her stick and set it aside. Then I laid my hand on her waist, and took her hand in mine. I was a rich kid, wasn’t I? My mama had made me learn all the rich kid things. Dancing, good manners, all the things that made me as slick as could be. All the things that made people trust me and made me slightly sick to my stomach. But Millie wanted to dance, that was plain to see, and no one was asking. Thank God. I didn’t know if I could handle watching her dance with someone else.
I pulled her in tight and felt her little intake of breath and couldn’t help but catch my own. She was so composed, but she felt something. She felt the ode. I wouldn’t lead her around the floor in a silly side to side shuffle. I knew how to dance and dance we would.
“You know how to waltz, sweetheart?”
She raised one eyebrow disdainfully. “Who’s the dancer here, David?”
“Just makin’ sure you can keep up with me, darlin’,” I cracked. I was laying it on thick and it was all I could do not to laugh when she snorted, setting her left hand gracefully on my shoulder, signaling she was ready.
“Are we going to dance or are you just going to hang onto me?” She wriggled impatiently.
“By all means, let’s dance.” With that, I began to move, pulling her so close she stood on her toes, her breasts pressed against me, her legs scissoring mine. She slid into the movement effort
lessly, matching my sway, my timing, my steps, and we flew around the room. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, we waltzed, and everyone watched. Nobody waltzed anymore. But we did. Millie’s eyes were closed, her lips parted, her cheeks lightly flushed.
Ray LaMontagne sang about being saved by a woman.
And I believed him.
“She won’t let me go,” he moaned. “She won’t let me go.”
I sang with him, my lips against Millie’s hair. She tipped her face up, listening as we moved together. Then one song became another—another song in three/four time—and then another. I made a note to tip my DJ. He knew what he was doing. And I knew every word of every song.
We’d drawn quite the audience, though Millie wouldn’t know that. A group of women huddled at the edge of the floor, their heads together, their eyes on us, and I realized I’d slept with all of them, and I’d never danced with any of them. Kara, Brittney, Emma and Lauren. Good lord. They were friends? I didn’t know they were all friends. They came into the bar and worked out at the gym. I winked when I caught Brittney’s eye. We’d ended on good terms, and I didn’t see any reason not to be friendly. In fact, I’d never been especially serious with any of them. Looking at their scowling faces, maybe I was remembering wrong.
Brittney broke away from the others and strolled across the floor like she was on a catwalk and I was a fashion photographer. I should have spun Millie away, but the floor was small, and Brittney looked determined.
“Tag! I want to cut in! Who knew you could dance, baby?” she cooed, all gooey syrup and vanilla perfume. She snuggled up to my side and hugged my bicep, as if I wasn’t already dancing with another woman.
Millie stiffened and stepped back. I grabbed her hand.
“I’m dancing with Millie now. Next song. Okay?”
Brittney pouted in that way some women do when they really want to get ugly and are trying to stay cute, and she didn’t release my arm.
“Come on, Tag. You’re embarrassing me. Don’t say no.”
Millie pulled out of my arms. “Point me toward my stick and tell me how far it is. Ten feet? Twenty? I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.” Her expression was blank, her shoulders thrown back.
“She’ll be fine, Tag,” Brittney crooned. She was obviously well aware that Millie was blind.
“I’m dancing with Millie right now, Britt,” I said firmly, and I could hear the frost in my voice. I shot a look at the edge of the dance floor, at the women huddled together, watching the little drama unfold. There were grinning at me like it was all a big joke.
“Whatever.” Brittney released my arm casually. She turned away slowly, her pout still in place and sauntered off.
The song ended and for the space of a heartbeat there was relative quiet. Then her voice rang out loud and clear.
“You’re such a manwhore, Tag. It’s almost embarrassing,” she called over her shoulder, and a few people laughed. “Who will you sleep with next?”
“I never pretended to be anything else,” I called after her, smiling widely at the women beyond her. The laughter grew and a guy next to me held up his hand for a high-five. But Millie wasn’t laughing. Shit.
Her hand was still in mine, but our bodies were no longer aligned for dancing. I didn’t want to leave the dance floor. I didn’t want to act like Brittney’s interruption meant anything. The DJ had done what he could, giving me three sultry songs in a row. Maybe he thought he was helping me again by putting Justin Timberlake on full tilt, Sexy Back making my teeth vibrate and urging a few more people to the floor, creating a bit of a visual buffer between Millie and me and our audience, although not much of one. I needed an excuse to pull Millie close again, and I wasn’t sure she would be willing to engage in the kind of bump and grind JT demanded.
I stepped into her so our bodies touched, and I put my lips to her ears so she could hear me above the music.
“You still interested in dancing with a manwhore?”
“It depends. Are people watching?” her mouth brushed my cheek as she spoke.
I looked around us at the curious and the pitying. “Yeah. They are.”
“Good. Let’s dance.” She looped her arms carefully around my neck and tipped her face up, smiling for me.
And I felt the ode again, so strong it made my legs weak.
I threw back my head and laughed, whooping a little. More people looked our way. Let ‘em look.
“I really like you, Millie.”
“That’s because you’re a manwhore!” she teased.
And then I forgot about talking as I tried to keep up with Millie on the dance floor. Holy hell, the girl could dance. She kept at least one hand on me at all times, keeping herself grounded, centered, anchored, and it was the hottest thing I’d seen in my whole life. The fact that she couldn’t see me dancing was liberating and I forgot about everyone else. I even forgot myself.
We didn’t stop dancing until we were both panting and strands of Millie’s dark hair clung to her damp forehead and smooth cheeks. Her skin glowed and her smile flashed, and I couldn’t catch my breath, though it had less to do with exertion than with Millie herself. Millie was insatiable, and I was captivated, and I suddenly wanted her all to myself.
I snagged two bottles of water from behind the bar, taking quick note that things were running smoothly and my new bartender seemed to have it all in hand.
Millie stood waiting for me, holding her stick, and I snagged her coat and we slipped out the back door, breathing in fresh, cold air, her hand tucked through my arm, the muted, thumping bass mimicking my pounding heart.
We guzzled in silence until Millie sighed, capping her bottle and setting it aside so she could lift her hair from her damp neck. She’d refused her coat, claiming the air felt good on her skin. She held her hair atop her head, her slim arms raised high, her head tilted forward, and I watched the lovely display, grateful once again that I didn’t have to hide my admiring gaze.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“For what?
“I am a bit of a manwhore.”
“I know.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“It doesn’t apply to me.”
I gulped.
“Oh yeah? What makes you think it doesn’t apply?”
“I seem to remember having to beg you to kiss me.” Millie let her hair fall back down around her shoulders and hugged her arms across her chest. In another girl I might think the action was designed to draw my eyes to the swell of her breasts, which it did, but she couldn’t know how perfectly they were framed or how the moon made her skin glow.
“And I remember happily accommodating you,” I drawled softly.
She didn’t answer, didn’t smile, didn’t argue with me, and I was at a loss.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
“For what?” she repeated.
“Brittney was rude. And she was rude because of who I am, not because of who you are. You understand that, right?”
“They all must be so confused.”
“Who?”
“All the girls in your life.”
I laughed at that. “Why?”
“Because you are spending time with me. You’re dancing with me. You left with me. You walk me home almost every night.”
I waited.
“I admit, I’m a little confused, David.” Her voice was soft, but it wasn’t timid. Millie wasn’t timid, and I loved that about her.
“You always call me David. Why?” I side-stepped the question. I was just as confused as she was and wasn’t ready to give her a response.
“Because David fits you so perfectly,” she said easily, letting me change the subject.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Names mean something. Too many parents get caught up in how a name sounds or how it’s spelled. I wonder how often they take the time to find out what a name means, or at the very least, what it means to them? Is it the name of a beloved family member? Is i
t the name of a place that brings back memories? What? Or is it just the name Ashley spelled A-S-C-H-L-E-I-G-H in an effort to be unique? Utahans, as religious as their population is, are great at giving out spirit-less, meaningless names with preposterous spellings.”
“So that’s why Moses and Georgia didn’t want to name Kathleen Taglee. I was so hurt.”
She giggled and groaned, which was what I intended.
“Okay. So you say David fits me perfectly. What does David mean?”
“Darling. Beloved.”
“Darling? Beloved? You’ve got to be kidding me!” My voice was wry, twisting the words so I mocked them even as I spoke.
“You are everyone’s darling. Everyone loves you.”
“Hmm. So why don’t you?” Damn. I had to stop doing that.
“Because my name means work,” she replied saucily.
“Work?”
“Yes. That’s what Amelie means. Work.”
“Oh, that’s rich,” I drawled.
“Yes. And Henry means ‘ruler of the home.’ Which he loves and takes very seriously.”
“He would,” I chuckled.
“Speaking of Henry, I need to go.” Amelie sighed.
“I’ll drive you.”
“Nah. You go inside. I want to walk.”
“Amelie—” I protested because I didn’t have time to walk with her and walk all the way back. I needed to get back inside, I needed to see and be seen. I had hands to shake and people to work, and I’d completely ignored my host duties for too long.
“It’s just not safe, Amelie,” I pressed.
“You are not responsible for me, David,” she said gently. “I want to walk. I like to walk. I walked home before I met you, and I’ll be walking after you’re gone.”
I bit back a curse.
“Will you call me or have Henry call me, and let me know you got home all right? Please?” I snapped.
“Sure.” She nodded agreeably. She slid her arms into her coat and freed her hair from the collar, and I watched, my gut churning. I didn’t like her walking home alone at eleven o’clock at night. She straightened her stick and held her empty water bottle out in front of her, obviously wanting me to take it. As I did, my hand brushed hers and we both jumped as if we hadn’t just spent the last hour dancing with our bodies pressed together.