by David Klass
“That’s the second time you’ve asked me that stupid question,” I snap at her angrily.
“Sorry,” she says. “I just don’t understand how a tuba can die.”
“I need to go home,” I tell her.
“Right now?”
“Yes. Now. Sorry.”
We walk down the hill. Soon we are on my block, nearing my house that is not a house. Violent Hayes stops walking. I continue on for two or three steps, but I cannot just leave her there, since she brought me a package of chocolate chip cookies, so I stop also, and turn back to look at her. “Sorry,” I say, “but I have to go in now. Thanks for coming by.”
“John?” Why are you looking at me that way, Violent Hayes? Your brown eyes have gotten as big as two butternut squashes. “Do you know what tomorrow is?”
“Saturday?” I guess.
“And what happens on Saturday?” she asks.
I shrug. I have no idea at all.
Violent Hayes, why do you look so nervous all of a sudden. I have never seen you nervous before. It does not suit you. A girl who can successfully wrestle with a monitor lizard on a regular basis should not be nervous, but I believe you are trembling. “The Holiday Dance,” she says.
Oh, yes. The Holiday Dance. I recall that I once entertained a rather vivid fantasy of squiring Glory Hallelujah to that fabled event. I believe we will, in fact, not be going this year. It does occur to me that Glory Hallelujah has sworn an oath never to speak to me again for the rest of her life, so if I did ask her to the Holiday Dance she could not actually say no to me, which she will never get a chance not to say, because I will not ask her. “Oh, yeah,” I mutter. “That stupid dance. Right.”
“Are you going?”
“No,” I say. “I hate dances. And I don’t know why they call it the Holiday Dance, since the holidays are still far away. But most things are not what they seem. You see my house over there? It is actually not a house at all. But I still better go into it.”
Violent Hayes is looking at me as if she has just discovered that I am not from Pluto but actually from another galaxy entirely. She is definitely trembling. Violent Hayes, it is a cold afternoon, and winter is coming on, but why oh why are you shivering and shaking so that even your big brown eyes seem to be trembling? “You could go with me,” she says.
“No,” I say. “I . . . I don’t know how to dance.”
“I don’t care,” she says. “I don’t know how either.”
I am looking back into those two brown eyes, as big and soft as two butternut squashes. “It’s semiformal, right?” I say. “I don’t have anything good to wear.” I do not add that I had some good clothes, but I left them in a basement and they were burned by a bulldozer.
“You’re about my brother’s size. You could borrow some of his clothes.”
“I’m broke. I couldn’t afford two tickets right now.”
“I’m asking you,” Violent Hayes says. “It’s my treat.”
“I cannot go. I’m suspended from school.”
“It’s not in school. It’s in the town hall this year.”
Oh, Violent Hayes, those eyes of yours are killing me. Turn them off. Pull the blinds down. Don’t you know that the man who is not my father has given strict orders that I must be home in the evenings to prepare his dinner and clean up afterward? Don’t you know that it is now against the law for me to have any fun? Do you have any idea of the consequences if I disobey? “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t go. I really can’t.”
She looks at me. There are tears welling in the corners of those big brown eyes. “But, John, you have to.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have anyone else to go with,” Violent Hayes admits, and I can see how hard it is for her to say this. “And I really want to go. I’ve never been to a dance before. Never.” She blinks and takes a few quick breaths. “And, John, I really want to go with you.”
23
No-view Alley
The Saturday of the Holiday Dance dawns gray and cold, and by noon it is snowing. The flakes drift in from the north, at first thin and dry as dust specks, and then increasingly thicker and wetter.
“Sky dandruff,” the man who is not my father grunts. He is apparently not a snow enthusiast. “Roads’ll be lousy. Last thing I need.” He drives off in his truck at four o’clock, which is a good thing. I thought I might have to sneak away, but he has saved me the trouble.
Left alone, I begin to wonder what I will wear to the evening’s festivities. Violent Hayes kindly offered to lend me some of her brother’s clothes, but I feel strange about showing up as her date and asking for handouts. I ransack my closet that is not a closet, looking for hidden clothes that might have fallen into cracks and corners over the years and been forgotten about.
Now, if my closet were a real closet, I’m sure there would be some stray clothes lying around that would be perfect for a Holiday Dance. Aren’t people always saying, “Look what I found at the bottom of my closet. A silk dinner jacket! I forgot it was even there. And it still looks so nice!”
But my closet is really a kitchen or a bathroom masquerading as a closet, and there is nothing at the bottom of it but an old sock with a hole in the toe, a boot that I believe Sprocket, my dog, has mistaken for a bone and gnawed on, and a tennis racket with broken strings. So I unfortunately do not have the wherewithal to even attempt to make myself presentable.
The shoes that I was forced to abandon near Glory Hallelujah’s couch have no good substitutes—I squeeze into a pair that I have had since I was twelve years old. They feel at least a size too small for me, and their heels have been worn down to tiny misshapen stumps, so that I have the strange sensation that I am heading downhill on one shoe and uphill on the other. I believe that even Fred Astaire, in his prime, could not dance in these shoes.
My gray corduroy pants were ripped in the knees during my escape through the pet door and my crawl down the passageway, and then further frayed during my long night of loading cartons. I consider trying to sew them or patch them, but in the end I just put them on. So what if my right kneecap is visible? It is a fairly attractive kneecap, after all. I have no good shirt, no good sweater, and no good jacket to wear, so I put on this, and I button up that, and when I look in the mirror I find that I resemble a scarecrow who has been standing out in a cornfield too long, so that even the crows pity his wardrobe options.
No matter. Violent Hayes wanted me and she is going to get me. I have decided that, suspension or no suspension, threats from the man who is not my father notwithstanding, I am going to go to this dance. I am feeling a strange kind of courage. It has been building all day, and now, in my own odd way, I am feeling quite brave. Of course, deep down I recognize this courage for what it is—pure foolishness. Essence of stupidity. But so what? When your life that is not a life keeps getting worse and worse, eventually you reach a point where you have very little left to lose. Wearing Essence of Stupidity like a cologne, I head out the door.
Who is this scarecrow walking down Main Street in shabby shoes and raggedy pants? Who is this young vagabond who shuffles slowly along Grandview Lane, checking his watch every time he passes under a streetlight? I do not recognize him. Is he a clown from the circus? Is he a beggar checking the curb for pennies and nickels that have fallen out of people’s pockets? He cannot be me. Even I would never try to pick up a girl for the Holiday Dance looking this pathetic and decrepit.
And there Violent Hayes’s house is, on a flat stretch of Grandview Lane, hunching so close between the houses on either side of it that the three of them appear to be leaning on each other for mutual support against the winter wind. I must confess that I do not know why they have named Violent Hayes’s block Grandview Lane, since there is not a grand view or even a petite view, and it is more of an alley than a lane. It should be called No-View Alley.
The clown trips on the nearly nonexistent heels of his shoes that are not shoes and falls in the gutter where he probably belongs.
Ah, so it is me, after all! I get up, knocking snow and clinging particles of mud from my hands and knees. My fall into the muddy gutter has not improved my appearance. I hurry the rest of the way down No-View Alley and turn up the walk to Violent Hayes’s house.
I draw back my fist to knock on Violent Hayes’s door, but she opens it before my knuckles connect with the wood. I cannot stop my fist from moving forward, and I believe I bop my date for the evening right in the nose. No matter. Violent Hayes has what I believe boxers call an iron chin. She takes my best shot, and actually smiles. “Wow. Hello to you, too,” she says. And then, “Don’t you look great.”
I check over my shoulder to see if there is some other guy standing on her stoop. Violent Hayes, I do not know who you are seeing standing on your doorstep, but if he looks great, he is clearly not me. You, on the other hand, have gone to some trouble to doll yourself up. I do not believe I have ever seen you in a dress before, Violent Hayes. Green may well be your color. And whatever you have done to your hair is rather fetching.
“Come in. John, this is my dad. Dad, this is John.”
I did not think it was possible, but Violent Hayes’s father is even more massive than the Bulldozer. On the Richter scale of fathers, he is a major earthquake. He must weigh nearly three hundred pounds, and very little of it appears to be fat. He has a shining, slightly reddish face, as if he has imbibed one too many drinks at some local bar, and his arms are so long they seem to almost graze his knees as he walks forward to meet me, giving him the friendly appearance of a slightly inebriated mountain gorilla.
Mr. Hayes, Your Gorillaship, let me say right off the bat that I do not have a very good record in establishing friendships with the fathers of my dates, but I hope to change this immediately. I would also like you to know, Your Apehood, that my feelings toward your daughter are more than chaste. To me, she is like the sister I never had, and did not want, but I do not mean that in a negative way. While I admit that I have started off badly, by showing up dressed like a scarecrow who has been banished from his cornfield for slovenliness, I intend to be the perfect chaperon. I will bring Violent Hayes back to you on time, well danced, and I promise there will be no hanky-panky. There will not even be any panky.
“So you’re the fellow Violet never shuts up about?” Mr. Hayes asks me. But he is wearing a grin.
“Daddy,” Violent Hayes says. But she is wearing a smile.
He pumps my hand. I have never shaken hands with a mountain gorilla before. It turns out they are remarkably gentle beasts, with great shaggy paws. Of course, I have never seen one when it is provoked, but I also have no intention of ever doing anything that may in any way irritate this gargantuan specimen of fatherhood.
“Come on upstairs, then, John, and let’s see if we can fix you up with a jacket,” Mr. Hayes says. “The old wife couldn’t be here to meet you, but she left out some of Donny’s clothes that should fit you okay.”
“Donny’s my brother,” Violent Hayes tells me as we climb the stairs. “He doesn’t live here anymore, but he keeps some clothes here for when he visits.”
Soon we are in a small upstairs bedroom where several jackets have been laid out on a bed. Ah, yes, this is indeed a fine selection of men’s clothing, Mr. Hayes. This navy blue blazer with the brass buttons looks quite sharp on me, if I do say so myself, except for one small problem. Your son, Donny, while almost my size in terms of height and girth, has apparently inherited the arms of a mountain gorilla. “Those sleeves are going to be a problem,” Violent Hayes says.
“He can just roll them up,” Mr. Hayes suggests helpfully.
“Daddy, that would look stupid.”
“It doesn’t matter how you look, or how people look at you—what’s important is how you look at yourself,” Mr. Hayes declares, and I notice that his own shirt is not completely tucked in.
I would like to copy down this pearl of wisdom for future generations, but unfortunately I did not bring a pen or paper.
“Daddy, don’t you have a game to watch?” Violent Hayes reminds him.
“Oh, yeah. Halftime is probably over.” Once again, I am offered a mountain gorilla paw. “Nice to meet you, John. Have fun, you two. Dance up a storm, and try to stay off each other’s feet.” And off he goes, lumbering down the stairs.
“I guess I could try a quick fix,” Violent Hayes muses. She disappears into her own room, and returns a moment later with a sewing kit. She pins here and stitches there, and in a matter of moments the navy blue blazer fits me as if it had been designed for me. Violent Hayes, you have some unexpected talents. “Let’s go,” she says. “The dance started half an hour ago. They’ve probably already crowned the Winter Queen, and things are probably heating up!”
24
The Holiday Dance
Who are this young couple who hurry along through the cold winter evening? The wind is whooshing, the moon appears to be wearing a muffler of gray clouds, and the snow is so heavy and wet it seems almost flocculent, whatever that means. But the two young people who hurry along toward the town hall do not seem to notice the bitter weather. They are not holding hands, nor are they fixing each other with lingering glances, but they appear happy enough. I believe I even detect occasional bursts of laughter from their direction.
They reach the town hall. The young woman opens her purse and purchases two tickets, while the young man checks out his reflection in a conveniently placed wall mirror. His shoes and his pants are shabby, but his snappy blue blazer more than makes up for them. His image in the mirror is suddenly joined by the reflection of a large girl in a bright green dress, who puts her hand in his own. “Well, John,” Violent Hayes says, “are we a pretty spiffy couple, or what?”
“Indeed,” I say. I do not mention that “spiffy” is an adjective I usually associate with very clean frying pans.
“Here’s your door prize,” Violent Hayes says, and hands me a candy cane. No, on second glance, I see that it is actually a commemorative pen cleverly disguised as a candy cane. Imprinted on the pen, in black letters that stand out against the red and white stripes, are the date and the location of this Holiday Dance. I stuff this valuable keepsake in some pocket or other, so that I will have proof to show my grandchildren that I attended this important social event.
Violent Hayes and I, our hands still linked, follow the sounds of loud music down a long corridor. We are approaching a set of double doors that lead to the party room when the doors burst open and a pair of enormous eyebrows walk out, stop suddenly, and arch angrily in my direction. No, these eyebrows are not entirely disembodied. Hidden somewhere beneath them, I spot the torso and legs of Dr. Whitefield, the principal of our anti-school, whose duties apparently include policing the Holiday Dance.
Now, Dr. Whitefield, before you throw me out of this hall, let me remind you that the theme of this party is the holidays. There is, if I am not mistaken, a Santa hat perched precariously on your head. Surely Santa would not take an action so contrary to the holiday spirit as booting me out of this dance into the bitter cold. Surely you will welcome me with good cheer, and not make a scene in front of my date, and in front of this short woman who has just followed you out the double doors, and who I assume is the woman you married when you gave up waiting for Mrs. Moonface.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Dr. Whitefield demands.
“I am here for the Holiday Dance, sir,” I say.
“You can’t. You’re suspended. Get out.”
Violent Hayes interposes herself between Dr. Whitefield and me. “He’s suspended from school,” she points out. “This isn’t school.” Violent Hayes, are you risking your neck for me with the principal of our anti-school? Do you think I can’t handle this myself?
“Who are you?” Dr. Whitefield asks her.
“I’m his date.”
“Well, then I pity you,” Dr. Whitefield says.
I consider saying that I pity Mrs. Whitefield, but I decide to keep that to myself for the time being.
&nbs
p; Our pleasant little encounter is suddenly given new energy when a man with two cameras bouncing around his neck runs up, out of breath. “Dr. Whitefield? Are you ready for your photograph?”
The two great eyebrows swivel in his direction. “What photograph?”
“The one for the front page of tomorrow’s Star Ledger,” the man gasps. “With you and your wife, and the mayor and his wife, standing in front of the town Christmas tree.”
“Oh, that photograph,” Dr. Whitefield says. “The mayor, huh?” I notice Dr. Whitefield’s fingers adjusting his tie. “Well, I hate to keep the mayor waiting, but as you can see, I’m attending to very important administrative matters here.”
At this point, the short woman who I believe is Mrs. Whitefield asks, “Did you say the front page, young man?”
“Yes, ma’am. It will run in color on the front page. The mayor and his wife are already in front of the tree.”
No doubt Dr. Whitefield would prefer to discharge his disciplinary duties first and pose for a picture afterward, but the short woman who I believe is his wife grabs him by the arm, hoists him over her head, and carries him off at the speed of light in the direction of the Christmas tree.
Violent Hayes smiles at me and in we go through the big double doors.
I do not know if you have ever been to a Holiday Dance in a town hall, so allow me to paint the scene for you. We find ourselves in a large and high-ceilinged meeting room, paneled in dark wood, that has been decorated with streamers and tinsel. Tables with platters of cookies and giant punch bowls have been set up in the corners and along the walls.
Bing Crosby is crooning “White Christmas,” while a few brave couples waltz in front of windows beyond which the thickly falling snow is visible. No, scratch that. It is not Bing Crosby, it is a rock song; and couples are not waltzing, they are dancing. No, scratch that. It is not a rock song—it is hip-hop and pounding rap and grinding, ear-splitting industrial rock, and couples are not just dancing, they are boogying and slam-dancing and moshing in what looks more like combat than dancing.