Dance, Gladys, Dance

by Cassie Stocks

  The ladies were very polite, murmured about pleasing tones, and departed en masse shortly after. I was putting the canvases away when Norman went to see them out. As I came into the hallway, I heard Norman ask the matriarch of the society in a low, worried voice, “Do you think she has any talent at all?”

  “Why,” I said as I came into the hall, “does it matter to you what this. . . woman. . . thinks of my talent? Perhaps they’re not qualified to judge, perhaps they should be asking me what I think of their paintings, or perhaps you should be sleeping with one of them.” I turned and made a grand exit up the main staircase marred only by a stumble on the third step and a muttered “oh fuck.”

  The society never came again and no invitation arrived for me to join their club.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  She Seems A Bit Lost

  Norman and Mr. H. were sitting at the kitchen table drinking Glornics together. The room was silent when I entered but I could feel a half-finished conversation lingering in the air like smoke.

  “Little early for drinks, isn’t it, gentlemen?” I asked.

  “No crime like the pleasant,” said Mr. H.

  Norman grinned sheepishly. “Join us?”

  “No, thanks. How’s Beethoven?”

  “Still weak,” said Mr. H. “I just brought Miss Kesstle back from the veterinarian’s. They’re giving him fluid shots. Once he’s stable, they’re going to operate. They think he swallowed something.”

  I moved around the kitchen, putting dishes away and opening and closing the fridge. I didn’t want to talk to Norman. He looked so comfortable sitting with Mr. H. I was afraid if I were nice to him I’d start to like him again and where could that lead? He watched me move around and sat there with that hesitant smile on his face, saying nothing. I started to get angry. I hated it when he got all weak and wienery on me like this. I mean, show some balls, say something. It pissed me off to be made to feel like a person that someone had to tiptoe around. I frowned at him. He looked around as if to see what he’d done. Right.

  I turned to Mr. H. “How’s Miss Kesstle holding up?”

  “Not so well; she seems a bit lost.”

  “I think I’ll run over and see her,” I said. Norman still hadn’t said a word to me.

  As I went down the hall to the front door, I heard Mr. H. say to Norman, “You could try the university; someone there might be interested.”

  Now what? I wondered if Whitman felt as out of sorts about this new friendship between Norman and Mr. H. as I did?

  I rang the bell at Miss Kesstle’s. After a minute, I could see her through the glass in the top half of the door, pushing buttons on the alarm panel. She pushed a few buttons then stopped and looked up at me, her face drooping like a wet dishtowel.

  “2-6-3-8-1!” I yelled. At this rate, the whole neighbourhood would know the code. She pushed the buttons and I opened the door.

  “Come in,” she said. “I’ve just made tea.” I followed her into the living room. She went into the kitchen and returned with a tray with two mugs and a teapot covered with a blue and yellow crocheted tea cozy with little tassels on top.

  She sat in her chair and I took a corner of the couch.

  “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “It’s so empty without him. I don’t know what I’ll do if he . . . doesn’t get well.”

  “I’m sure he will.”

  She looked down at her lap, then picked up a ball of cotton and a scrap of crocheting from the side of the chair and started to work.

  “What’re you making?”

  “A mess.”

  I took the cozy off the teapot and poured us each a cup. “This is interesting wool,” I said. It felt like coloured plastic straw.

  “It’s the old type of Phentex from the seventies. It’ll last forever. It’ll cut your hands to bits trying to work with it, though.” She paused. “I never could figure out where Beethoven came from. He just showed up in my wool basket one day. I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep him. I never had a pet before, but when the vet told me he was deaf, I knew I’d have to look after him. Poor old thing.”

  I didn’t tell her that Whitman had put Beethoven in her basket. Why ruin her memories? We sat in silence for awhile. A red binder lay on the coffee table, open to a lined loose-leaf page covered in tiny pencilled writing.

  Row 1: Ch 19, sc in 2nd ch from hk and in each rem ch. Ch 1, turn. (18 sc)

  Rnd 2: 2 Sc in each sc. Join with sl st in 1st sc of this row to form a ring. (36 sc)

  Rnd 3: Ch 2. Do Not Turn. Hdc in same st as joining. Ch 1.* Sk next st. 2 hdc in next st. Ch 1. Rep from * around to last ch. Sk last ch and join with a sl st in the fl only of the top of the beg ch 2. (36 hdc & 18 ch-1 sps)

  It looked like another language or some sort of secret code. Maybe Miss Kesstle had an alternate life as a Russian spy. I picked up the binder. “What is this?”

  “Those are my patterns for the things I make.”

  There were hundreds of projects, all written out in the same tiny letters. The pages at the front had yellowed with age. Asparagus Placemats — Mr. H. had a set of those — rectangular doilies with a pattern of asparagus spears on each corner, Tasselled Tea-Cozy, Blender Cover with Roses, Spiral Shoe Bag, anything and everything you could imagine.

  “You mean you designed all of these things?”

  She nodded.

  “But that’s amazing. What a pile of work.” There was real artistry in that humble binder. I was flummoxed by the idea of the cleverness of hundreds of thousands of women I’d previously ignored, or denigrated as substandard. Who did I think designed all the items of creativity that decorated houses all over the world? The needlework fairies? Give me a ball of yarn and ask me to make you a blanket and I’d likely end up as tangled as Beethoven in a basket of wool.

  “I enjoy it.”

  I sipped my tea while she worked. “There’s something I wanted to ask you, Frieda,” she said finally, putting down her knotted doily. She frowned and swallowed.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Well,” she said, “I don’t know who else to ask. . .”

  “Yes?” What could this be about? She was so serious and nervous.

  “What is this oral sex?”

  I sputtered tea all over the front of my shirt. “What?”

  “You should sponge that off before it sets.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I hear about it on the radio talk shows and the television all the time and I don’t know what it is.”

  Good lord. I took a deep breath. “Okay, there’s two types. . .”

  She leaned forward her eyebrows raised. Where was Dr. Ruth when you needed her? I blushed like mad.

  “The man can use his mouth on a woman down there,” I pointed quickly towards my crotch, “and a woman can use her mouth on a man — on his — you know, penis.”

  Miss Kesstle sat back and her eyebrows fell. “You mean she puts it in her mouth?”

  I nodded mutely.

  Miss Kesstle shook her head. “Thank you for telling me, Frieda.” She picked up her doily and continued to work.

  Well, what to talk about now?

  “Have you always lived in this house?” I asked.

  “It was my parents’ house. After they died, I stayed.”

  “Did you ever work?”

  “I was the best court stenographer in the city. Two hundred words per minute on a four voice and jury charge.”

  “You must have heard some fascinating things.” I could see a young Miss Kesstle sitting in front of a little keyboard thingy, fingers flying as challenges and denouncements about affairs and murders swirled around the courtroom.

  “It wasn’t my job to be fascinated. Besides, it had nothing to do with me.”

  “I suppose not. So how come you never got married?”

  “I was too busy. Father died when I was just a baby. Then mother got sick with cancer just after I turned nineteen and I had to take care of her and work.” She put her crocheting
down, leaned forward, and fussed with the things on the tea tray.

  “But everyone got married back then. Didn’t you want to?”

  “Perhaps no one asked me,” she said and then, to my horror, began to cry.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t mean to — I’ve been thinking about marriage — with Norman here and all, and oh, shit.”

  “If Beethoven dies, I’ll be all alone,” she sobbed. “I have no husband, no children. I’ll be all by myself.”

  I moved over, squatted by her chair, and awkwardly patted her arm. “You’re not all alone. You have Mr. H., and me, and all your friends. We’re your family.”

  “You’re right,” she said sniffing. “I’ve got no right to be so selfish; some people have no one.” She wiped her face with the mess she’d crocheted. “I need to go to sleep. I’m worn out.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” I stood.

  “I’m fine, it’s just been a long day.” She stood slowly and followed me to the door.

  “Sorry about the. . .”

  “He’s a nice man, that Norman.”

  “I know. Do you want to come for dinner at Mr. H.’s or do you want me to come back later and stay overnight, maybe?”

  “No thank you. I’ll be fine. You go home.” She closed the door behind me. I watched through the glass to make sure she got the alarm set all right and then I walked home.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Little Cardboard Pets

  Mr. H.’s muffled voice came from inside the freezer: “A roast by any other name would be something to eat.”

  Whitman came in the back door dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt, and with his hair standing only about a half a foot off his head. He’d just put his packages down on the kitchen counter when the phone rang. He answered it. “Hello. . . Yes, she’s right here. . . No, this is Whitman. . . Oh, hello. . . Tonight?”

  I shook my head, no, and waved my arms, crossing them back and forth. It had to be Ginny.

  Whitman looked at Norman. “Are you free tonight?”

  Norman glanced up from the paper and nodded.

  “Sure,” said Whitman, “that would be nice. . . Seven sounds good. . . Okay. . . Good-bye.” He hung up the phone and smiled at me. “That was your friend Ginny. We’re going to meet her for dinner tonight. Hope that’s all right.”

  “No, it’s not all right. You saw me waving my arms. What did you think I was doing? Directing traffic? Landing aircraft?”

  Whitman ignored this. “Would you like to go, Norman?”

  “Sure,” said Norman, “I’d like to meet Ginny and it would be nice to go out. Would you like to come, Mr. Hausselman?”

  “No, not me,” said Mr. H. He’d given up on the freezer and rummaged in the cupboard. “I’m tired out. I’ll have a bowl of mushroom soup and a quiet evening.” He sounded relieved.

  “Good, it’s settled then.” Whitman picked up his packages and started out of the room.

  “It is not settled. I’m not going.” I said. Like hell I wasn’t — as if I would leave the three of them alone to talk about me. I meant I wasn’t going without a fight. Someone was going to have to work for it.

  “Suit yourself,” said Whitman and continued out of the room.

  “I’d like you to come,” said Norman.

  “Well, I’m not going to.”

  “All right,” he said. “I’m going to get ready.” He folded the paper neatly and went upstairs.

  I called Ginny. “Listen, I don’t think I can make it tonight. Beethoven is sick.”

  “Good excuse, but — and I hate to break it to you — Beethoven is dead.”

  “Not yet he isn’t.”

  “Will you please make sense for two minutes in a row?”

  “It’s the neighbour lady’s cat. Besides, what happened to Dr. Jim?”

  “He was a doctor, all right. Last night he tells me his doctorate is in Comparative Literature. His thesis was on seventeenth-century Hebrew poetry or something. God, talk about starving in a garret. Are Whitman and Norman still coming?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Okay then. Sorry you can’t come. I have to get ready. Bye.” She hung up.

  What a bunch of assholes. Mr. H. opened his can of soup by the stove. I looked at him. He bit his lips and wiggled his jaw. “Do you have gas?” I asked.

  “Do you need some Pepto-Bismol?”

  “No, thanks.” He let a large smile escape. “So, I guess you’re going for dinner?”

  An hour later, Norman and I were sitting in the back seat of a taxi. Whitman was up front, talking to the driver. Ginny had chosen her recurrent restaurant, The Zone. In the evening it turned into a high-class place: dim lights, large plates, small bits of artistically arranged food, and prices that made me hope Norman would forget I wasn’t his girlfriend anymore.

  We sat down at a small table near the back. I had to rearrange myself twice to keep my knees from bumping against Whitman’s or Norman’s or maybe Ginny’s. I didn’t feel like knocking knees with any of them.

  Ginny was animated; after a few glasses of wine she forgot to keep her face beauty-model blank and even appeared human once or twice.

  “So Whitman,” Ginny said, “you’re in the movie business, I hear. What do you do?”

  “I’m working on a TV pilot right now, but for feature films it’s mainly producing. A bit of writing, script-doctoring and the like.” Whitman leaned in towards Ginny.

  I made a rude pffffttt noise.

  He smiled at me. “I also seek out the work of unknown writers and try to get them some exposure.”

  “That’s great,” cooed Ginny.

  Just who was she after here? Whitman or Norman? I looked at the two of them. Norman did look a little plain beside Whitman and they both had money. God, though, the woman had no taste.

  Whitman turned to me. “Dad told me you’re originally from Saskatchewan. I was wondering if you could clear up a mystery for me?”

  “What?”

  “Why does everyone from Saskatchewan have a box of Kleenex in the back window of their cars? Is it a status thing? Or just for show? I don’t get it. It’s not like they can fucking reach it.”

  I stared at him. I was about to deny it, but in my head I was thinking of all my parents’ cars and the boxes of Kleenex faithfully riding around in the back window like little cardboard pets. When I’d last been to visit my parents in Florida, there had been a box in the back window of my father’s new sedan. One of the first things I’d done after getting my first car was to place a box of tissue in the back window.

  Norman interjected, “That’s an interesting observation, Whitman, but I don’t think the foul language is necessary.”

  Whitman glared at him. “Will you please stop telling me to watch my language? Who’re you — the American Morality Police?”

  Ha, that’d teach Norman to be so self-righteous.

  Whitman continued, “You ever listen to the language in the porno films you sell, Mr. Decency?”

  Norman, instead of rising to his own defence, looked as though he might cry.

  “Shut up, Whitman,” I said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “So should we have appetizers?” said Ginny. “The cheese sticks are great.”

  “No. Point taken,” Norman said to Whitman. “I reluctantly withdraw my objection.”

  We ordered and dinner eventually arrived. As we ate, the conversation turned to singles ads. Ginny told them about Jim’s doctorate deception.

  “I tried to put an ad in once,” said Whitman. “I wanted it to read ‘Single white male seeks blah, blah, for ambiguous relationship.’ The woman taking the ad down over the phone said they couldn’t print it, that bigamy was against the law. I told her to look it up in the dictionary but she hung up on me.”

  “Ambiguous relationship? What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “Do you know what ambiguous means?”

  “Listen,” I said, “I don�
�t know what your problem is, but I can tell you there’s no problems with my vocabulary.”

  “Well, good for you. I’d hate for you to think I was a phlyarologist.”

  “No one knows what that means, you jerk. You probably just made it up.”

  “Actually, I do,” said Norman.

  “Well good for you,” I said.

  “Should we go to the lounge for a drink?” said Ginny. “Or does anyone want dessert?”

  I followed them into the noisy crowded lounge.

  Ginny and Whitman sat down beside each other at one of the small wooden tables. Ginny looked rather fetching in a sheer black blouse, a red print skirt, and high heels. Between Ginny’s tilted head and Whitman’s hand on her arm, it was obvious that sparks were flying between the two of them. Norman and I took the other side and chatted about the Art Centre and Lady March’s latest projects.

  A man came over to Whitman and shook his hand. Whitman introduced him to us as Bob Reilly, an old friend of his from school. The guy was capital B- beauteous. He pulled up a chair beside Ginny and took her hand. “And who is this absolutely stunning young woman?”

  “Pay no attention to her,” said Whitman. “She’s just a whore from my village.”

  “She hit my fucking face.”

  Norman and I were bent over Whitman. His chair had tipped over with the impact and he was lying on the ground. Ginny had walked out immediately after walloping him in the face with her Chanel handbag, which, thankfully or not, was relatively small and quilted. Beautiful Bob had immediately scuttled away.

  “What do you expect, Whitman? ‘A whore from my village’?” Norman helped him up.

  “Just be glad she wasn’t carrying her hard-shell Dolce & Gabbana bag,” I said. “You’d be dead.”

  Whitman stood and brushed himself off. “It’s a line from the movie about an Armenian drug smuggler I was working on in L.A. It just came to mind. Come to think of it, the guy who says it in the movie gets decked too. Shit.”

  As we sat down again I noticed the spoon that Norman had been using to stir his special coffee was missing. I looked under and around the table. Sometime between whacking Whitman and flouncing out the door, Ginny had stolen the spoon.