by Toby Devens
“Glad to have our sophomore back.” I bobbed a bow to Edgar Whitman. Painfully shy at first, the pediatric dentist had turned out to be surprisingly nimble once we’d countered his inclination to take baby steps.
“And standing next to him is our only freshman. Freshwoman,” I corrected as I pointed out Lynn Brevard, nervously tapping a foot. “Say hello to Lynn, gang.” At the chorus of “Hi, Lynns,” she fanned a small, tentative wave. Emine, who’d done her intake interview, had reported that Lynn was worried about being the only newbie in a class of repeaters.
I gave a nod to Tom. “And what would class be without Tuckahoe’s own Fred Astaire.”
“Except Fred’s dead and I’m not,” Tom quipped. “Yet.”
“You all know Larissa from last year.” I flourished in the direction of my female assistant. “All you lucky men will get the chance to dance with her. But don’t get any ideas. She’s taken and her boyfriend is, by the way, a member of the Ukrainian men’s wrestling team.” True. And Yuri was in Rehoboth making a ton of money waiting tables at Sir Neptune’s Grill.
I turned the program over to Bobby.
“Okay, ladies and gents, here’s tonight’s menu. We’ll brush up on the swing, first. That should get everybody’s circulation going. We’ve been over the difference between East Coast classic, California, and the Lindy Hop. Handouts are on the side desk with links to YouTube samples of each. Nora and I will demonstrate the steps to refresh your memory. Then we’ll practice. Second half will be foxtrot. Find a partner for the first dance. After that, we’ll call out, ‘Switch,’ and you’ll need to move on to someone else.”
I saw the color drain from Lynn’s face.
With a final darting glance at the door—no action there—I placed my hand in Bobby’s and we launched into a demo. The group followed as we broke down the moves. With that over, I said, “Larissa, music please. Ladies and gentlemen, choose your partners.” Bobby trotted off to claim Lynn for a nerve-calming first dance.
Sinatra crooned and Ella swung and Count Basie played “The Sugar Hill Shuffle.” I heard Morty Felcher shout, “Go, Mama!” as his wife flew into a free spin, and I saw Yolanda Powell execute a perfect tuck turn. For the last song, the married couples reconciled, Lynn and Edgar found each other, and Bobby and I were a pair.
As Frankie Lymon sang, “Why do fools fall in love?” Bobby drawled, “Beats me.” Then, “You okay, Nora? You look a little ragged round the edges.”
“I’m fine. I always get a few butterflies first night.”
The Teenagers doo-wopped that love was a losing game, but their rockin’ upbeat didn’t convince me.
Right foot forward, left cross back.
Frankie was into falsetto with his why-ohs when Bobby spun me out and I saw the door crack open.
On the return, Scott Goddard was walking through it. Alone.
Heads turned and I knew I wasn’t the only one ready to interrupt a swing turn with a jump for joy.
He swept a panoramic scan of the room, found me, and mouthed, “Sorry,” followed by a sheepish grin.
I gave him a nod that was more an acknowledgment than a welcome. He’d been absent from last year’s class, and, dammit, he needed to see the demo to get him up to speed on the steps. He should have allowed for extra drive time to be here when we started. If he thought he could just waltz in here twenty minutes behind schedule and . . . Anger filled the space disappointment had just vacated. A part of me was aware that I was pushing back against the pure pleasure of seeing him. The other part was pissed at the first part.
Swing time over, Bobby and Larissa charted a new step, the outside swivel, in the foxtrot. The crowd moved close to watch. Scott was standing with Tom Hepburn and the Felchers, but his eyes, even during the demo, were trained on me.
“First foxtrot. Everyone take your places,” Bobby announced. “Remember, you’re moving around the room counterclockwise.” He leaned over to me. “Scott without Bunny. I’m good with that. Oh, look. Larissa just tagged Edgar, which leaves Lynn free. I guess I’m up.”
Policy called for a teacher to partner with a student at least once for each dance of the evening. It was the only way we could smooth out the rough spots and pick up bad moves that could become bad habits. But before Bobby could reach her, Lynn made a beeline for Scott, handsomely rumpled in a tieless white shirt, its sleeves rolled to the elbow, and what looked like suit trousers. I saw him brighten at the sight of the new girl in the attractive, figure-flattering red dress. Her eyes were sparkling.
“Nora,” Morty Felcher bellowed, and for the next four minutes while Scott and Lynn wheeled past us in the promenade, Morty propelled me around the floor as if he were steering a cruise ship.
“Switch,” Bobby called out, thank God, and I found myself with George Powell, a burly middle-aged man whose handsome features looked as if they had been carved from ebony. His ancestors had deep roots in the area and he was currently deputy police chief of the city of Tuckahoe. He led me through Ella’s version of “The Way You Look Tonight,” and as the last bars faded, I swirled to a stop to see Tom Hepburn heading our way, moving very briskly for a senior citizen.
“Nice style, George.” Then he fixed me with questioning eyes. “Nora, that foxtrot you promised?”
“I always make good on my promises. In this case, delighted to.”
“Oh, listen to that blarney. Irish through and through.”
“Actually, half Italian. My mother was a Bellangelo.”
“Beautiful angel,” he said. “Considering her daughter, I’m not surprised.”
We were in position, waiting for the downbeat, as Scott approached. He looked tired, not nearly as juicy as when I’d seen him at the farmers’ market Saturday.
Scott tapped Tom on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but with the lady’s permission, I’m cutting in.”
Tom turned to growl, but it was good-natured. “The hell you are. What about my permission? And you can’t cut in before we start dancing. That’s protocol. The rules, Colonel.”
“Yes, well, I’m pulling rank, Major.”
Tom let out a deflated sigh. Not quite believable. With exaggerated gallantry, he bowed off. “She’s all yours. Lucky man.”
“Damn right,” Scott said.
Was this his version of charming? I was unimpressed.
He placed his hand on my back, I rested my hand on his upper arm, and we were off.
“Amazing,” he said as we found our rhythm. “I thought I’d forget everything I learned. It’s good to be back, Nora.”
I was generating my own weather front. Cool with a chance of thunderstorms. He picked up on it, I decided, because he seemed to want to warm me up.
“Apologies again for not getting here on time,” he said. “I had two job interviews and the second took longer than expected, so I got a late start on the return trip. And here I circled the meters for fifteen minutes because there were no spots open in the garage.”
Sal Zito had spaces reserved for the gym in the garage attached to the Boardwalk Hilton. I’d seen Scott’s Honda parked there, and not in a handicap spot. In one of our infrequent conversations, Bunny had whined that he refused to apply for the tags. He wasn’t handicapped, he’d told her, and he wasn’t going to pretend he was. Besides, there were other people who needed those spaces more than he did.
“But say I’m wearing heels,” she’d said to me. “Really high ones, which I like. And it would be great to park closer. But no, because he’s sensitive about his leg. I mean, I understand, but still, that’s so inconsiderate.”
My Bunny memory detoured me into different territory. She might not have been the brightest rabbit in the hutch, or the fluffiest emotionally, but she’d lost her mother and I remembered too clearly what that was like.
“Well, I’m glad you made it,” I said, my attitude softened by the realiza
tion that Scott had also lost a loved one, a mother-in-law he’d been close to, cared for, cared about. “The gang was happy to see you.” Marsha Felcher had planted a smacking kiss on his forehead. Morty had given him a backslap that would have sent a lesser man flying. The Powells had hugged him.
“Sorry that Bunny”—at the mention of her name, Scott’s biceps tensed—“wasn’t able to join us,” I said, feeling my mouth dry up with the effort of spewing out that huge lie.
I wasn’t sorry. Not at all. And to be fair to myself, the lack of regret had less to do with my admiration or whatever for her husband than with the fact that she was an equal-opportunity pain in the ass, nasty to all. Bad for business.
The next sentiment was true. “Tom just told me that her mom passed away. Sad news. I know you were fond of your mother-in-law. My condolences.”
Professional dancers keep distance between them, which creates a lovely, almost balletic pattern as they move in synch. But at the studio, I taught folks who’d be dancing at weddings and bar mitzvahs and maybe, in the case of Edgar and Lynn, singles get-togethers. My students danced socially, not competitively, which meant I cut them a lot of slack. Couples could get snug if they wanted to, and there was always a buzz of talk to counterpoint the music.
The space between Scott and me was appropriate for teacher and student. Far enough apart so we kept the limits clear. Close enough so I could see the scruff of eight-o’clock shadow on his jaw and catch a whiff of something piney that could have been cologne or car deodorizer, the latter more likely after all those hours on the road. He reared back, though, when I said, “Please give Bunny my sympathies.”
He cocked his head, bit his lip, and narrowed his focus, as if he were trying to figure out the origin of the universe. “Yes, of course. Your sympathies. I’ll convey them.”
It was only after he’d moved back into position that he said, “Tom suggested you and I needed to get current. He’s right.” Scott inhaled a deep breath. Then: “How about we get a cup of coffee after class?”
I blurted, “Tonight?”
“On second thought, not coffee. The Powells and the Felchers go to the Turquoise Café after class, right? Then how about ice cream to celebrate the first class of summer?” When I hesitated, he added a bonus to tempt me: “Sarge will be with us.”
Oddly unsteady on my feet, I managed a nod.
“A friend has been watching him for me all day and I really should pick him up. It’s on the way. We could meet at Coneheads.”
“Uh, well . . .” That was my brilliant response, but I was trying to calculate the ethics here. Married man. Student. Butter pecan. Canine chaperone. Did that add up to Sister Loretta playing a drumroll as I got shoved into the fiery pits of hell? Nah.
“Sure,” I said. I mean, really, what was the harm?
chapter twelve
Coneheads, famous for its “out of this world” triple dips and rocket sundaes, started out as “Cohen’s Ice Cream—Best on the Beach” in 1957 in a clapboard shack on a two-lane road. When Nathan Cohen, son of the founder, took over in 1978, he renamed it for the Saturday Night Live skit. Now flanked by Lighthouse Miniature Golf and a municipal dog park, it occupied a sprawling white brick building, its flat roof topped by a forty-foot waffle cone that was a landmark for miles on the Coastal Highway.
There was inside seating for the faint of heart and sweet of blood, but most customers opted to battle the lines at the six ordering windows and the mosquitoes and humidity at one of twenty tables under the sun or stars. Coneheads had given generations of college students summer employment, and half an hour after class ended, I found myself walking the crushed-shell surround and checking out the staff for signs of Jack. He normally worked weekend shifts, but on nights when one of the counter help or cashiers was out, he had to be available to fill in on short notice. Not tonight, which was a relief, because the idea of juggling two situations in which I didn’t know what I was facing held all the appeal of a migraine.
Jack’s friend Stewie, back from Purdue, a kid who’d been in and out of my refrigerator for years, spotted me and said, “They’re leaving over there,” pointing to a table at the far end of the patio under a magnolia tree. “You solo?” he asked. Solos taking up space that could seat four provoked a fusillade of glares.
“Waiting for someone,” I said. I checked my watch. “Any minute.” Nervous.
It was a little more than that when Scott’s maroon Honda crunched up the driveway into the parking lot. By that time, I’d claimed the table, and he made an A-OK finger circle as he walked over, his gait stable on the gravel, then the crushed shells. Trotting beside him, tail wagging, was Sarge.
“Nice,” Scott said, as he slid into the seat across from me and tweaked the leash. The dog immediately sat. “Who’d you have to bribe for this table?”
“I have friends in high places,” I said, and winked. Winked! When was the last time I’d winked at a man? Probably at Lon over Jack’s head when our toddler son did something remarkably adorable. But here, the lowered eyelid and bantering tone could have added up to flirting. Unintended, and I felt my ever-ready redhead’s blush bloom. Oh, the hell with it. I wasn’t wearing my heart on my sleeve. I wasn’t even wearing sleeves. I’d changed in the locker room at Hot Bods into something more appropriate for dripping ice-cream cones and Jimmy Buffett music. Off with the dress designed with enough coverage so I kept my flesh to myself, and on with the lacy top and capri pants hanging in my locker. I’d traded my heels for sandals. Scott, I saw, had also switched to more casual: cargo chinos and golf shirt. Silhouetted against giant pictures of towering, creamy swirls of soft serve and crisp, glistening french fries, he looked like the most delectable item on the menu. A thought I hustled past my dozing censor.
Drawing the dog to him, he bent down to stroke its coat. “And I have friends in low places. This fellow’s a beauty, isn’t he?”
The animal did have a particular elegance about him. You could tell he wasn’t a slobberer, or a suck-up. He followed Scott’s moves on alert, but when he settled in, the eyes were calm and wise. “A real champ, aren’t you, boy?” Scott smiled at me. “We’d better put some ice cream in front of us or we’ll be evicted. Hot fudge sundae for me. With vanilla. I know I look rocky road, but I’m strictly vanilla. Freezy Paws for Sarge”—whose ears perked at the mention of the treat. “What can I get for you, Nora?”
“Kiddy cone, low-fat.”
“You’ve got to kidding.”
I gave him my best wry smile. “Same as your order. But with extra whipped cream.”
“Ah, a woman after my own heart.”
Oh, come on—it was just a phrase. All it meant was we shared a predilection for vanilla, but it made my idiot heart pick up the beat.
Tending to Sarge first, Scott stripped the lid off the cup of Freezy Paws and laid it on the pavement in front of him. With a nod from his master, the dog went at it tongue and snout.
“You like that? Oh yeah,” Scott said. Then he straightened up, unfolded a napkin, spread the square at my place, and centered my sundae on it. He positioned a folded napkin to its left and a cup of water to the right of the makeshift place mat, everything arranged with military precision.
He sat and took a long slug from his water cup, all the while keeping a careful eye on me as I scooped a spoonful of ice cream. You would have thought he’d churned it himself from the way he hunched forward, waiting for a critique.
“Oh God, I’d forgotten how good this is. My first Coneheads of the season.” I licked my lips and Scott laughed at my pleasure, then dipped a rosette of napkin into his water and leaned over to wipe off my chocolate fudge mustache. Which could have been an intimate gesture or just neighborly. I prodded myself toward the latter.
“Well, timing is everything. Here we are June twenty-first, first day of summer.” He cleared his throat. “Lots of firsts.” When I let that go by, he jabb
ed his spoon into his sundae and ate half of it in four bites, emitting a soft, appreciative hum between them.
The sun had gone down while we were having our dance back at the studio, but now a glimmering violet lingered, as if the light couldn’t quite let go of the longest day of the year. I’d forgotten it was the summer solstice until he mentioned it.
He leaned down to scratch Sarge’s ears. I had the feeling he was trying to figure out how to get started on the catch-up conversation. I gave him a push.
“Is Sarge a new member of the family? I don’t remember your mentioning him when you were with us last time.”
“Didn’t have him then. He was still in Iraq recovering from his own injury. He got hit by gunfire in an insurgent attack, the same one that killed his handler back in Mosul.”
“You weren’t his handler?”
“No, his handler was a corporal under my command. Wally Gibson. He and Sarge were our elite team. The day they got ambushed, they were out front leading a patrol to clear IEDs. Corporal Gibson got hit in the chest, a fatal wound.”
Scott’s expression tightened and he stopped for a moment. Ice cream is supposed to melt in your mouth, but a lump of vanilla got stuck in my throat. Scott and I swallowed, hard, simultaneously.
He resumed, “Sarge took a bullet in his flank. It tore through him. The army rated him not fit for combat, so he got retired. With honors. I have no doubt that if he’d been on active duty a couple of months later, he would have sniffed out the bomb that took part of my leg.”
I’d reviewed the colonel’s medical report during his intake interview for class two years before. His injuries had been described in detail. The circumstances that caused them were only sketched out. A convoy in which he was riding was hit by an IED.
“Corporal Gibson and Sarge were close as brothers. These hero dogs bond with their handlers and I know for certain that if the corporal had made it through there would have been no question about Sarge’s future. But we never leave a buddy behind, and I was his best chance for a good life, so when I got on my feet, I went full throttle into bringing him over here. It took a while but we got him home. That’s the way I think of it—home. And now he’s living the good life—aren’t you, fella?”