Slow Dancing

by Suzanne Jenkins

  The following week, he moved into her cramped apartment. Interspersing talk of their relationship with hints that he’d be going back to Galveston some day, he was trying to soften the blow for when he did take off again. “When I go back to Texas,” was a frequent phrase. But Noelle wasn’t listening, hearing only “I love you, I want you, I need you,” when they had sex, always with the lights off. She was in love with Alan and would do anything for him, anything at all.

  “I’d even kill for you,” she said one night in the throws of passion.

  “It’ll never come to that!” he replied. “Where’d you get a notion like that?” He rolled off her, frightened and disgusted.

  Getting up and adjusting her clothes, Noelle fidgeted with something on her nightstand. “Chill Alan, it’s just a figure of speech. Talk about a mood buster.”

  “I’ve got to admit it was a shocking thing to hear while in the middle of…well you know.”

  “You can say it out loud, Alan. Sex. It was the middle of sex.”

  Unable to contain his aversion, he got out of bed and went into the bathroom, locking the door. Something would have to happen soon because he didn’t know how much longer he could playact. Noelle was simply peculiar.

  Chapter 7

  On Monday of the week before the stranger spied on Ellen, an envelope with a New York return address was in the stack of mail Jessie passed over to Frank. “Looks like one of them TV producers heard about you and the girl and yer dancin’.” Frank looked at her, confused, rifling through the pile.

  “This is the dance hall in Beauregard,” he said, waving the envelope at her. “Must be the New York headquarters on the return address.”

  “Here, open up.” Jessie passed him a letter opener, wanting him to find out what it contained before he left the post office. He’d never share it with her otherwise.

  He used the opener and pulled out a photocopy of a newspaper article; the city paper downriver got wind of Ellen and Frank dancing at the ninth grade graduation when someone sent in a picture. No one in the village saw it yet or they’d have plastered the article all over the beauty shop and café, and someone would have surely brought a paper into the garage.

  “Bother,” he grumbled, frowning.

  “What is it?” Jessie asked, craning her neck to see. Frank unfolded it, reading the letter that accompanied the article out loud.

  “‘Dear Mr. McPherson. The Phillip Anderson Dance Academy is a nationally recognized school of dance.” Hardly a TV producer. “Our representative will be in your area soon and we would like to take the opportunity to speak with you about up-coming competitions.’ There’s a phone number to call.” He looked up at Jessie.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” he said. But she just laughed.

  “No worries, I got better things to do around here,” she said.

  “You go do ‘em then,” Frank replied, but laughed. “See you tomorrow.” He nodded his head and she laughed back.

  “Yep, tomorrow it is,” Jessie said and as soon as he was out the door, she picked up the phone to call Mary over at the café.

  The talk of the town was the first dance at the ninth grade graduation dance. The lucky witnesses passed tissues around as the lovely young girl and her devoted father floated across the floor, bringing observers to tears. “She was born to dance,” Miss Logan, the owner of the beauty parlor said, wiping her eyes.

  “And they’re not even related,” Margo Portland, the local nurse practitioner whispered. “Like two peas in a different pod.” Mary, also standing in the school gymnasium watching the dancers, frowned at the distorted expression.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? It doesn’t make any sense, Margo. It’s like sayin’ dance partners gotta be related to dance well together. Seems to me it would be just the opposite.”

  “Well, I don’t care,” Margo said wistfully. “He’s so handsome and she’s so cute. Some lucky woman will inherit that beautiful family… now that his wife is gone.”

  “That’s an awful thing to say, Margo,” Mary burst out. “Jesus, show some sensitivity.”

  “Why? You planning on moving in on him?” Miss Logan asked. “Little bird said you already did.”

  Looking at Mary with a critical eye, at her city haircut and dye job, Miss Logan’s Beauty Salon wasn’t good enough for her. The beginnings of crow’s feet and jowls displayed on an otherwise attractive face belied that time was marching on, even for the popular Mary Cook. Misdirected snobbery comin’ from a waitress, Miss Logan thought. Mary was aging and not well, at that.

  “This stupid conversation started because Margo called Frank and Ellen two peas in a different pod. What the hell does that have to do with dancing?”

  “So now you’re a dance expert,” Miss Logan said, sniffing. Margo leaned over to Mary standing on Miss Logan’s other side.

  “You’re jealousy is showing, Mary,” Margo said, grinning, egging her on. But she was serious.

  “What? Of you? That’s a load of crap,” Mary said. “Shut your mouth, Margo Portland.” Mary and Margo were two of the single women in town who’d vied for Frank McPherson’s attention before Margaret’s car broke down and she drifted into his life. Now that she was dead, Mary would start haunting him again.

  “Not of me, you idiot. Of Ellen,” Margo hissed. “It’s written all over your face, just so you know.”

  “Why would I be jealous of a fifteen year old child?”

  “You’re a story teller, Mary,” Miss Logan whispered. “I heard ‘em. You got a filthy mind.”

  “I never said anything,” Mary murmured. But it wasn’t the time nor the place to talk about gossip she’d started, so rather than stay there engaging the women, she walked away.

  While Frank and Ellen were gliding across the floor, they were whispering to each other about Mary, too. “Momma said she had cooties,” Ellen said. “I think she was right.”

  “As wrong as it might be to say such a thing, I’m thinkin’ I got to agree with you,” Frank said, frowning. “She’s looking over here right now.”

  “I see it,” Ellen said. “That’s my point. Watch yourself, Frank. She’s trouble.” The implication was clear; Ellen knew Mary was on the hunt.

  “I got no interest in her whatsoever,” Frank said. “None. Never.”

  “I’d be okay with it,” Ellen said softly. “As long as it weren’t Mary. I like Miss Portland, though. She might be someone. It’s not right that you’re alone.”

  “Remember, your momma’s only been gone a few months,” Frank replied. “It just seems like forever.” Ellen put her head on his chest.

  “It has been forever,” she said sadly. He held her a little tighter; the only time they touched was when they danced. What she said was the truth; Margaret hadn’t been there for her daughter once she’d lost her mind.

  “I don’t need no other,” Frank said tenderly. “At least not today.” He looked down at her and smiled, kissing her hair. He didn’t think about other women. Working, taking care of Ellen and enjoying each day; those things filled his life and made it satisfying.

  “What about Margo?” Ellen asked, pressing. “I like her a lot.”

  “Really sister, I don’t need any of ‘um right now.”

  The words were out of his mouth when Mary tapped on Ellen’s shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?” Not wanting to be rude, Ellen mumbled, “No” and moved away from Frank, but he pulled her closer to him.

  “I do mind. This is Ellen’s special day, Mary.” He swirled her away, leaving Mary in the middle of the dance floor alone, with the eyes of the town burning into her.

  Chapter 8

  Running a rooming house and working at the café kept Mary busy for part of the day. In the afternoon, she tried to relax or take a nap. But when the sun went down, Mary got restless. Wanting a husband and family before it was too late, the driving force behind her social life was facilitating the opportunity to meet a man. Mary hadn’t given up on Frank, his disinterest only increased her desire. S
he wasn’t going to wait around for him though, and sunset triggered her need for companionship. “What am I sitting around here for?” she asked the empty room. Her closet was full of alluring outfits, and she’d dress to the nines with one goal and that was not to sleep alone that night. None of the one-night stands ever amounted to anything though, so she decided to try to snag Frank yet one more time, the rebuff at the dance still fresh in her mind but not humiliating enough to stop her.

  Since he never went out at after work, holing up in that cottage with the girl, she’d make an excuse to stop the garage on her way out before he closed. She’d walk around the block so she didn’t have to pass Miss Logan’s Beauty Salon, it obvious to Miss Logan why Mary was visiting the garage. Frank saw her coming and moaned; the woman wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  “Since you don’t have one, I know you’re not here to get your car repaired,” he said, frowning. But Mary just laughed.

  “Frank, come out with me. We’ll have fun. I’ve seen you dance with Ellen; we can go to Beauregard to the dance hall. No one from Seymour will know you’re there. Come on, please?”

  When Margaret was still alive, it was the best excuse he had to reject her advances. “I’m a married man, Mary. I’m not going out with you, ever.” Once he started, he was often unable to stop. “I thought you were Margaret’s friend. She’d be crushed if she knew you were doin’ this.”

  He’d made excuses so as not to hurt her feelings when the fact that his wife was still alive wasn’t enough; Ellen’s sitter had to get home, he was tired, he had work to do around the house.

  Then, she used Ellen to get at him.

  “Your girl needs a momma, Frank. I’ve known her since the first day they arrived in Seymour. I can do for her what you can’t. What will you do when she becomes a woman? She’ll need a momma then.” But he wouldn’t budge.

  Incensed that he was still loyal to Margaret, Mary exploded. “How’d she know? Unless you told her, she’d be none the wiser. And my feeling is that she wouldn’t give a damn, Frank. Not a god-damn.” After Margaret died, he had to be brutal.

  “I’m not interested, Mary. Is that clear enough for ya? Now go on home and leave me alone. Have some self-respect for durn sake.”

  Livid, Mary stamped off, forgetting to cross the street, passing the salon with Miss Logan shaking her head in disgust and pity.

  In ten years, Mary visited Margaret once a week. She made the twenty mile round bus trip to Hallowsbrook. Being with Margaret was like old times, like the first time at the café when she and Ellen came into town.

  Bringing along coffee in cardboard cups for every visit, they’d sit in Margaret’s private room and whisper like conspirators, Mary sharing gossip from town and Margaret news she’d picked up eavesdropping on the nurses. When the coffee was gone, they’d walk the grounds together, reminiscing, talking about their fake futures. Margaret spoke of going back to work in the city in an insurance office, which clothes she’d buy, who’d she hire to watch little Ellen, and then bigger Ellen, and finally, teenaged Ellen. Mary talked about her wedding, who she’d ask to stand up for her.

  “Margaret, you would be the matron of honor.”

  “Oh, that’s a terrible sounding title,” she said, moaning. “I don’t want to be the matron of anything. Let me be the maid.” She watched Mary fiddling with something on her bedside table. “Who are you planning on marrying, anyway?”

  “No one, yet. I wish Frank had a brother, though.”

  “If you wait long enough, I’ll be dead and then you can have the real thing instead of wishin’ for a brother.”

  “Don’t say that! Frank’s just a friend. And you’ll live a long time.”

  Margaret looked at her out of the corner of her eye. She wondered if Mary was bothering Frank since she’d been locked away, the way Mary was bothering her. She didn’t try every visit, but Margaret could tell when an assault was coming.

  “No, I don’t want to,” she’d say pushing her away. “What if a nurse walks in?” or “What would Frank say? He’d be so hurt.”

  “Let’s be together, Margaret, I miss you,” she cried. “No one will ever know. Why do you care if Frank’s hurt or not? It’s his fault you’re in here.” Mary heard the gossip about Frank making the choice, deciding not to fight the courts for his wife’s freedom in return for keeping her child.

  “How’s it his fault?” she’d ask. But Mary didn’t tell her.

  Once the conversation rolled around to Frank, it would decelerate, and Margaret would withdrawal. She did not want to talk about Frank to Mary. Nothing had changed from the days she was free, living at home and Mary a voyeur.

  “I guess you probably need to head for Seymour,” she said when she wanted Mary to go, or straight out, “It’s time for you to leave, Mary. I’m getting tired.”

  Finally, Margaret stopped speaking to Mary, same as she had to her family.

  “If you aren’t going to talk to me, I guess there’s no point in my coming all this way,” Mary said. Margaret tossed her head, but she didn’t say a word, and Mary, unable to stay away from her would still come every week, or more often, stopping for carryout coffee on the way just like she always had.

  Slowly deteriorating, schizophrenic episodes of longer duration were replacing the short periods of normalcy, and visitors could never be sure what they’d be faced with; the lucid, sweet and talkative Margaret, or the suspicious, hostile, mumbling Margaret. Even the sweet Margaret was sneaky and if they didn’t watch carefully, stole knives off patient trays or hoarded her medication.

  “Be sure to watch your back,” the nurses warned one another. Margaret could be violent, too, lashing out at the nurses who resorted to restraining her. In time, the drug side effects took a toll on her, and she became lethargic and finally, somnolent. It was during these times that Frank felt most helpless. He and Ellen would sit at her bedside and wait for her to wake up. Aware they were in her room, she would ignore them or play possum.

  “Your family was here all afternoon,” the nurse said. “You missed seeing your husband and daughter. He is so handsome and she’s so cute.”

  “What do I care?” she drawled. “They mean nothing to me. He’s not even her father.” The nurses were appalled; the staff witnessed the love and tenderness between the father and daughter, and they told Margaret as often as they remembered to that she was a lucky woman to have such a caring man for a husband.

  “You really don’t know how lucky you are, Margaret. I’ve seen patients whose husband’s bring the girlfriend along. You might want to try a little harder to stay awake when Frank visits.” Margaret started laughing.

  “You are clueless,” Margaret retorted. “I wish the man would move on with his life. Do you think I enjoy the two of them coming here in their dress-up clothes, waiting for me to perform? It’s bad enough that I’m here and not seeing my daughter growing up.” She turned her back and lay back down. “I wish I was dead.”

  The nurse left the room, but she recorded her conversation with Margaret. It was the first time she’d mentioned death. And then, as though contemplating how selfish she’d been, as if she had any control over her behavior, Margaret’s mental state made a complete turn around. The nursing staff wrote it was as if the drugs she’d been getting for years suddenly started to work.

  Claiming she felt better, more aware and in touch than she had in years, Margaret told Margo, her nurse practitioner, that she wanted to get better so she could go home. She wanted to raise Ellen. “I feel like my friend, Mary is just chompin’ at the bit for me to give up the ghost so she can make a move on my family.” So if that was what was motivating Margaret, they would use it, reminding her how much her family loved her.

  Frank and Ellen were stunned. “You’ve become such a lovely young woman,” Margaret told Ellen. “I’m so proud you’re my daughter.”

  And to Frank, “I can never thank you enough for the father you’ve been to her.” They were thrilled with what was happening, agree
ing it was time to petition the county when word reached them she was dead. Margaret had made such a startling improvement that her death was completely unexpected. Reams of paper with facts were filed away, just in case the family decided to sue. But Frank and Ellen had those last words of praise from Margaret.

  The funeral planning was drudgery. Ellen and Frank went through Margaret’s clothes, trying to choose a dress for her to wear in the casket. Finally deciding on her wedding dress although it was much too small, it didn’t have to fasten down the back. Makeup applied skillfully and her hair just so, she looked like the young, beautiful, sane Margaret Frank first met.

  Chapter 9

  Medical records in Saint Augustine belonging to patient Margaret Ann Fisher were waiting for discovery. Already scanned onto microfilm, the canisters gathered dust on rows of metal shelving along with the records of thousands of other patients, none as sought after as Margaret and Ellen Fisher. Noelle worked quickly, worried that unless she produced evidence for Alan he’d be on his way back to Texas. Not meaning to, she’d fallen in love with him. His pompous hot-air-bag personality was just the opposite of her pathologically shy, hesitant timidity. Whatever she could do to get him to stick around, she’d do. After their discussion about Margaret, a friend in medical records gave her copies of microfiche of all the deliveries that took place the nine months after Alan left for Galveston. In the basement of the library, they divided the film manually scanning each roll. After four hours, Alan found it.

  “Here it is!” He yelled. Noelle got up from her chair and moved closer to him so she could peek in the eyepiece.

  “Margaret Fisher, aged thirty-four,” she read. Alan gasped.

  “Thirty-four? No way,” he announced. “She was younger than me. Keep reading. I don’t think I can, I’m so nervous.”