by Debra Dixon
But in fact, before opening my studio, I’d been a career ballerina. From age five, when I first entered Miss Louise’s Ballet School on Amsterdam Avenue in New York, ballet had been my life. I’d spent ten years in agreeable servitude to the New York City Ballet, where all my roles had been classical.
Without any free time, I had socialized very little, and my Aunt Flavia, who raised me after my mother died, was an elderly recluse. I never knew my father, or anything about his Cuban heritage, much less the heritage of other Hispanics.
So now I called Maria Echeverria, a friend who lived an hour’s drive southeast of Mossy Creek, in the small city of Gainesville. Gainesville calls itself the poultry capital of the south, and it makes a good run at the title. The majority of the poultry plants’ workers are Hispanic, and Maria, a coordinator for Catholic Services, helps them through the baffling world of government agencies, from driver’s licenses to registering for kindergarten.
She was amused by my request. “You want to find a tango dancer? In a chicken plant?”
“Don’t chicken processors dance on their days off?”
“The tango is from Argentina. Most of my clients are from Central America.”
“I’m desperate, Maria. Get the word out, okay?”
She laughed again. “Why don’t you just go to Atlanta? They teach classes there.”
“That’s a four-hour round-trip drive. I can’t get away from my studio that long.”
She clucked her tongue. My Tia Flavia used to do that, and it drove me crazy. She called the crackling sound friendo huevos. Frying eggs. “You are too impatient, Argelia. If you want to teach Latin dances, you need to learn from an expert.”
“Why can’t a local chicken plucker be an expert?”
A deep sigh was my answer. “I’ll look,” she said. “But don’t expect any miracles.”
She sounded as optimistic as I did.
Jayne showed up that evening with her toddler on one hip and a thermos of good coffee in her free hand. “Oh what a tangoed web we weave,” she intoned from my apartment steps.
“Pearl promised not to tell anyone,” I said, holding the screen door for her. “When my CD came in, she even hid it under the counter.”
“I’m not anyone. I’m your best friend, and Pearl knows that.” She looked at me kindly. “And I’m here to help.”
I sighed. “Thanks, but I’m afraid it’ll take more than good coffee.”
“Not coffee. Dancing.”
I stared at her. “What?”
“I know how to tango. My husband and I learned it in a dance class on our honeymoon cruise. We fell in love with Latin dances. We used to dress up and go to the Latin nightclubs in Atlanta. He was an incredible dancer.” Pain shadowed her eyes briefly, remembering the husband who’d died less than two years ago, while she was pregnant with Matthew. Despite our friendship, there were things I didn’t know about her. This topped the list. “You. . .tango? Really?”
“Yep. And I’m pretty good at it, if I do say so myself.” She put Matthew down on a blanket and shooed my curious cat, Rudy, away from his exuberant reach.
I finally recovered from shock. I grabbed her by the shoulders. “If you can help me, you will be my hero forever.”
Jayne grinned. “Let’s get to work.”
I picked up the stereo’s remote control and hit play.
The new CD probably had a groove in it from overuse, already. But after a moment, the rhythmic beat of its music filled the studio.
“Okay,” Jayne said. “First thing is, we face each other.”
We played the music softly — I didn’t want Zeke to hear wisps of tango music up at the funeral home — and glided barefoot across the polished wood of the dance floor, watching our reflections in the mirrors and the darkened glass of the large picture window. After a few jokes about who ought to lead, we settled down to business.
Jayne was no professional, but she knew the moves, and I was a quick learner. Three hours later I was a tango expert. After Jayne and Matthew left I reached for the phone.
“Mossy Creek Funeral Home,” Zeke answered.
“Whenever you’re ready to dance, Zeke Straley, I’m ready to teach you.”
There was a pause. I muffled a nervous sigh. Had he changed his mind?
“All right. Thank you,” he said, and hung up.
I stared at the phone in my hand. That was it? After all the work I’d done, I expected a little excitement on his part; but then, he didn’t know about my quest for lessons, and God willing, he never would.
Content, I went to bed feeling like Goldilocks in the three bears’ house — everything was just right. As I drifted to sleep, the thought that Goldilocks was an intruder who was chased away never crossed my mind.
* * * *
A pounding at my back door woke me up. I shoved off the covers and looked at my bedside clock. Three a.m. I struggled into my big black robe, an old opera costume piece abandoned at my New York apartment long ago by a friend.
Zeke stood outside, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. I pulled the door open. I had promised to teach him on his schedule, but it never occurred to me it would be before dawn.
“I apologize for the hour, Argie. Is this a bad time?”
I gaped at him, then finally managed to shake my head. I stepped aside to allow him room to enter. He smelled like lemon household cleaner and drugstore aftershave, a combination I could have gone my entire life without inhaling, especially when I thought of the scent it might be covering.
I slept with my long, dark hair in two sleek braids to keep it from tangling. Since I always wore my hair up during the day, Straley had never seen its length before. I caught him glancing at my hair repeatedly. Nervous, I schlepped over to the stereo in my faded bedroom slippers and pushed the green button on its front. The sexy rhythms of the tango filled the studio.
I glimpsed my reflection in the mirrored wall opposite the barre and almost cried out. I looked like a cross between Pippi Longstocking and the Wicked Witch of the West. Serves him right, I thought, and abandoned the idea of changing clothes.
At least I could see him in the mirror, too. I was starting to think that maybe he was a vampire. On second thought, that would have been great. He would sleep while I conducted my classes, and I could keep him away with garlic. Garlic was cheap.
I started on the basics and was dismayed to find that he was a good dancer. I needed extra Jayne classes, and quickly, or he would catch up with me. We spent the rest of the night practicing the basic but intricate footwork characteristic of the tango. It was like playing Twister to music.
“No, Zeke, I put my foot between yours as you step back, then you step back in and support me as I move my foot out and put the other one behind you.” We tried it in slow motion. Perfect. Zeke’s hand splayed out against the small of my back, surprisingly confident and strong. After three hours of dancing I trusted him to hold me when I leaned back.
We tried it again. My foot stepped between his, I leaned back, his foot slid forward, and mine started to move back. He held me all the way to the floor, where we landed in a heap.
He scrambled to his feet and pulled me up. “I’m sorry. I guess I shouldn’t have moved my foot.”
“That’s okay,” I said, rubbing a sore hip. “I’ll just have a little bruise.” Outside, the sky had lightened. “How about some coffee?”
He smiled. “How about tea? I brought some gourmet selections from The Naked Bean.”
Startled, I realized I’d never seen him smile before. I smiled back. Maybe this would work. It was worth getting up in the middle of the night, even getting tossed to the floor, if it would make him like me and not harass my classes anymore.
We sat on a bench on the porch with our steaming cups of tea and listened to the birds wake up as the sun rose. I told him about the tango’s history, and he listened attentively, then set his empty cup down and looked at me.
“You’re a good teacher, Argie,” he said solemnly. �
��I figured you were, since you’ve attracted so many students.”
I shrugged. “I’m the only game in town,” I said lightly. “Outside of Bigelow.”
He nodded, considering my words. His eyes slid over my dramatic black robe and his expression changed. “Say, do you always dress like that at night?”
I looked down at the billows of black pooling around the bench. “It’s my bathrobe.”
“My bathrobe is blue velour.”
Too much information. I curved my lips a little. “Give me some warning next time, and I’ll wear jeans.”
His brows rose. “My schedule is erratic.”
I shrugged again. “I’ll work with you, Zeke. I have a full day today, though.”
He nodded and after an awkward handshake, got into his car and drove back up the hill.
I rinsed out the cups and went to bed. I had four hours until my morning aerobics class, which the students had now nicknamed The Mossy Creek Estrogen Brigade, showed up.
When they did, I had circles under my eyes from the dance marathon the night before.
The class bulged, and I don’t mean their comfy posteriors. There were so many new people that it was difficult to maneuver. I felt like yesterday’s salad, wilted and limp, but mentally I felt great as I counted heads. If I could keep Zeke happy and my classes growing, I would have it made.
The ladies did fine, even the new ones who didn’t know the routines. I was too busy considering the logistics of splitting the class in two to pay them much attention as they left. They didn’t seem to mind. With few exceptions, they whispered and chuckled among themselves, Maybe I was paranoid, but I kept wondering if they suspected me and Zeke.
At six, Jayne showed up with Matthew again. Poor little guy must have had an earache or some such mystical ailment. He cried the whole time we danced. I gritted my teeth against the headache that formed between my eyes. It grew worse when we cranked the volume up to hear better, and pounded my temples when Zeke called, threatening to sic Chief Royden on us if we didn’t turn the music down.
“People are trying to grieve up here,” he said.
I was so mad I nearly threw my cell phone at a wall.
“Don’t let him get to you,” Jayne said.
“He already has.”
At midnight, Zeke had the nerve to show up. “I apologize for losing my temper earlier,” he said. I wanted to slam the door in his face, but one slammed door would lead to others, as my Aunt Flavia said, and I didn’t want more trouble. “Shut up and dance,” I ordered.
As it turned out, his pager went off only minutes after his arrival. He asked to use my phone, and in a polite tone, too, no doubt learned at mortician’s school. I thrust it at him. “Here.”
As he listened he pulled a little pad and a pencil from his pocket and started to write. “Sure, Chief. No problem.” He seemed to be the Boy Scout of the mortician’s world, always prepared. “Yes, Chief, I’m getting the details.” He wrote faster. “Two males? Do you know approximate weights of the bodies? Oh.” He licked the end of his pencil. “Pieces of bodies. Got it.” He thumbed off his phone and gazed at me, frowning.
“I’m sorry. That was Chief Royden. There’s been a bad wreck on the road to Bigelow. Bikers. Racing. Not local men. Can I come back before dawn? I can bring something for breakfast.”
I bit my lip, trying not to think about the grisly details of the bikers’ accident. It suddenly dawned on me that Zeke’s job required a doctor’s cool detachment but a minister’s compassion.
“I’ll be waiting,” I told him.
* * * *
It was two in the morning before he came back. I put the teapot on while we warmed up with familiar steps. He didn’t offer any gory details about the wreck, and I didn’t ask for any. He looked exhausted, though. I felt sorry for him. “You’re getting pretty good at the tango, Zeke.”
“It feels natural now.” He turned me sharply and danced me back a few steps before turning again.
The kettle whistled, and we retreated to the kitchen for tea.
“I’d get used to keeping vampire hours if I could sleep all day,” I said.
“I never get used to night work,” he said. “People seem to pass on mostly at night, but no matter how late I work, I can’t ignore my daytime duties.”
I nodded. “You’re passionate about the funeral business. Like I am with my classes. No matter how tired I am, I still have to teach, and I have paperwork to do. It’s worth it, though. I feel as if I’m keeping the art of ballet alive by sharing it with children.”
He got a strange look on his face.
I froze. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No. I just realized that you feel the same way about your work as I do about mine.”
“Pardon me if I don’t share your enthusiasm for funeral homes.”
“People die every day, Argie. It’s part of life, but an overwhelming part for the family. Even if it’s an expected death, after a long illness, there’s so much to do, and everyone expects the arrangements to be done quickly. My job is to take the burden away from the family, as much of it as they’ll let me. I give comfort, and the relatives are assured that their loved one’s remains are handled with dignity.”
That was more than he’d said to me the entire time I’d known him. “You’ve found a purpose for your life.”
“And so have you.”
“Yes, and that’s why I love it so much. Why did you go into the funeral business?”
“When I was little, my father died in Vietnam. I was only six and only vaguely remembered him, but when I was a teenager, and my grandfather died, I was at his bedside, holding his hand.
“Dying isn’t pretty, and I wondered for the first time what it was like for my dad, alone in a jungle on the other side of the world. I wanted him to be clean, with his hands folded on his chest, like my gramps. I wanted the family around him to say goodbye before we put him in the ground. Mom said they shipped what they found back, and there was a memorial service. The memorial service meant so much to her. I never forgot that.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I squeezed his hand.
He squeezed back. “Your turn, Argie. What made the ballerina into a teacher? Why aren’t you still dancing?”
He had touched on a wound that was barely scabbed over, but I wanted to match his candor. He deserved it. “When I was with the New York City Ballet, I knew that my career wouldn’t last as long as I’d hoped. It hurt when I realized that my leaps weren’t as high, my feet ached longer after rehearsals, and I started losing roles to fifteen-year-old girls. I knew that I was slowing down, so I quit before they fired me. I moved to Mossy Creek.” The pain must have shown on my face. He squeezed my hand again.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re home now.”
“Does this mean you’re going to stop harassing me?”
He shook his head. “I can’t let you ruin my business. You can move somewhere else in town — there’re lots of places. Nicer ones.”
“None like Wisteria Cottage.”
“Romantic nonsense. This was Moe Bradley’s Pure Oil station. It’s ancient.”
“Now it’s my Wisteria Cottage.” I pulled my hand out from under his and crossed my arms over my chest.
He laughed. “Let’s dance. We’ll figure out some compromise. Dance. It’s nearly breakfast time.”
Despite myself, I softened. “I’ve got cinnamon rolls in the fridge, ready to bake.”
The music started, and he pulled me into his arms again. “Move, Argie.” He was not talking about dancing.
“I’ll dance, but I won’t move.”
He dropped the subject, proving he could be smart.
Before he left, he shook my hand. “I’ve never talked like this with anyone,” he said.
“That’s what friends are for,” I answered, and darned if I didn’t mean it.
* * * *
The ballet moms were nervous at the next day’s class. Straley didn’t
come to bang on the window, so I thought maybe something had happened in town to concern them. But no one mentioned anything.
Straley knocked on my door as the class let out, and I nervously let him in, causing raised brows and arched looks among the moms.
“You’re the best,” he said. “I forgot to give this to you last night.” He put a wad of money in my hand and closed my fist over it. “I can’t stay now, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I was too exhausted to argue and too relieved that he hadn’t come to make a scene. I shoved the bills into a stoneware pot by the stereo and returned to my class.
I didn’t see him again until the next day, when he showed up in the middle of my three o’clock class, ready to dance. “Have you lost your mind?” I almost shouted.
“Time’s running out. I’ve got to practice.”
I tangoed with him in the kitchen, out of sight of the girls who pirouetted in the next room. Our dancing had improved. We performed the basic tango steps smoothly, allowing us to work on the complicated footwork and turns.
I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes had gone by. “Good grief.” I pushed the kitchen door open and skidded to a halt on the polished wood. “All right girls, let’s dip now. I mean, plié.”
I got through class, barely. I hadn’t just bitten off more than I could chew; I was choking on it. I collapsed on the sofa beside the moms, who gaped at me. Maybe I was losing my mind. I wondered if I could teach dance at a nice rest home, when they sent me there.
The ballet class was unusually subdued, which suited me fine. Something was definitely going on, though. Whenever I left the room, I could hear furious whispering from the studio. I wondered if I should ask Zeke to listen from his hilltop and tell me what the moms said. Apparently, he could hear the grass grow from up there.
* * * *
The cool afternoon sunlight slanted across the notepad in my lap, gilding my plan for adult ballet class. This moment alone in my tiny backyard garden was a guilty pleasure carved from my busy schedule. With a cup of tea at my side, stray breezes tickling my face, and Rudy pouncing on imaginary mice in the autumn leaves, it was absolutely therapeutic.
The past few days had been hectic and surreal.