The Dance

by Gary Smalley

  The thought of this man holding his wife that way made him sick. He couldn’t get the image out of his head. How could she do this to him? Audrey kept insisting she had no evidence of anything “untoward” going on between them, and that Roberto had even said he wouldn’t dare make advances to someone like Marilyn, whom he agreed was in a “vulnerable state.”

  These words hardly helped.

  He remembered the advice he and Marilyn had told their kids as teenagers, before they’d go out with their friends at night. “Don’t forget who you are while you’re out having fun. A lot of fun things can lead to serious trouble.” Their kids would protest that their friends weren’t like that, and that Marilyn and Jim had nothing to worry about. And of course, the kids would inevitably say, “Don’t you trust us?” And Marilyn would come back with, “Part of your heart I trust, but there’s another part that I don’t . . . and you shouldn’t trust that part either.”

  Well, Marilyn, he thought. Looks like someone needs to say the same thing to you right now.

  He wondered if he should call Michele, see if she knew about this dance contest, and suggest that very thing to her. Michele would remember this advice. Of all their kids, she’d heard those warnings the most from her mother in high school. Jim didn’t even want to know the kind of trouble Michele had gotten into before she’d come back to the Lord that first year in college, before she’d met Allan.

  “Mr. Anderson?” The words pierced the quiet atmosphere in his office.

  He looked down at his desk phone. It was Lynn on his intercom. “I’m here, Lynn. You ready to head out?”

  “I am, but that’s not why I buzzed you. Michele’s on line two. She said she tried calling your cell phone, but you must have it turned off.”

  Jim pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He had turned it off during an appointment at three. “Thanks, Lynn. I’ll get it. You can go home if you’re ready. I’ll lock up as soon as I’m off the phone.”

  “Okay. Have a nice evening.”

  Lynn always said that. Every night. Even since Marilyn left four weeks ago. Jim pushed the button down for line two. “Hey, Michele, what’s up?” He couldn’t believe she’d called. Maybe it was a sign.

  “Hi, Dad. Nothing too big, just trying to check off some more items on my ever-growing to-do list for the wedding.”

  “That’s right,” Jim said, trying to sound pleasant. “It’s just a month away now, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “Really? I thought you’d be excited it was getting so close.”

  “I am. It’s just I’ve still got so many things left to do.”

  “Well, how can I help?” He was somewhat surprised by Michele’s tone of voice. It was soft and kind, no edge at all, almost like old times.

  “This is kind of an awkward thing to ask. I don’t mean to pressure you at all. And before I tell you what it is, I want you to know, I won’t be offended if you can’t do this. Mom already suggested I call Tom.”

  “Is it about walking you down the aisle?” Jim said. “You know, I already said I’d be happy to do that.”

  “No, this is about the reception. You know, one of the first things that happens after the bridal party arrives is they do all these special dances. The bride and groom, then the groom with his mom, and then . . . well, you know—”

  “The bride dances with her dad,” Jim said.

  “Right. But I’m okay if you say no. I know how you—”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll do it. I’ll dance with you, Michele.”

  “You will?”

  “It would be my honor.”

  “Really?”

  It sounded like she was getting choked up on the other end. “Don’t expect much,” he said. “I’m not known to be much of a dancer.”

  She laughed. “I can’t believe you said yes.”

  “I’ll put it in writing, if you want.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “But listen, Michele. Would you do me a favor? Can we keep this a secret? I . . . I don’t want anyone else to—”

  “Sure, Dad. I’ll just make a little check here on my list and won’t say another word. I’ll pick a real slow song, and a short one.”

  “That’ll help,” he said.

  “Before I let you go, there’s something I thought I should mention to you. Something about Mom.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s nothing, really,” Michele said. “I just found out about this earlier today when we talked. She said the yellow engine light came on in her car the other day. And it comes on now, every time she starts the car. You know, she knows nothing about cars, and she’s afraid to take it to the mechanic. It’s a few months past the warranty, and she’s worried they’ll start fixing all kinds of things it doesn’t need and charge her hundreds of dollars.”

  “I see.”

  “You always took care of the cars,” she said.

  That’s right, Jim thought. He did. She still needed him for some things. He was just about to say something he’d probably regret when he got an idea. This engine light thing gave him a legitimate reason to see Marilyn. “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

  “She asked me not to say anything,” Michele said, “but Allan said you can’t ignore a warning light like that.”

  “He’s right. Don’t worry. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Appreciate it, Dad. And thanks again for saying yes about the dance. I can’t believe you’re going to do it.”

  “You’re welcome.” He could tell she was just about to hang up. “Say, Michele, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you know anything about Mom entering into some dance contest with her instructor?”

  “Uh . . . yes. She told me about that. But how did you—”

  “It’s a small town,” Jim said. “Mind if I ask what you think about it?”

  “Well, kind of. You know I don’t want to get in the middle of this thing between you two. But honestly, Dad, when I talked to her about it, it was crystal clear to me, there’s nothing—and I mean nothing—going on with her and this guy.”

  “You really believe that?” he asked.

  “I really do,” she said.

  The finality in her tone shut down Jim’s idea of asking Michele to confront her mother about this.

  40

  Marilyn was loving this assignment. It was Thursday morning, a few minutes before noon. The truck that left Odds-n-Ends an hour ago had dropped off this adorable selection of Norman Rockwell collectibles. Harriet had walked Marilyn over to an aisle that she’d cleared four shelves from the night before. She’d handed Marilyn the price sheet and said, “I’m going to let you set up this whole collection right here. Price everything according to the sheet and arrange things any way you’d like. I’ve been watching you these past few weeks. You’ve got a real eye for décor.”

  Marilyn was thrilled.

  For the last thirty minutes, she’d been furiously attaching price tags and loading the items on the shelves, trying to get them all priced before it was time to quit for lunch. Harriet didn’t like them to leave boxes in the aisles when they went on break. Her cell phone vibrated. They were allowed to read texts on the clock, just in case a family emergency occurred, but otherwise they had to wait until they were off to reply.

  Marilyn looked at her phone and saw a text from Michele. She opened it and read: Call me ASAP. Dad knows about the dance contest.

  Her heart sunk. She instantly tensed up.

  How could he know? Was he still spying on her? He had reacted so badly when he’d found out about the group lessons. What would he do about something like this? He must be fuming right now. The old fear returned; her stomach started tying up in knots. Images of their last confrontation at the dance studio a few weeks ago began replaying in her mind. But as they did, she became aware of something else. The anger she’d felt at being intimidated and m
anipulated by him all these years. She remembered the strength that had come over her in the parking lot when she stood up to him, told him off, and drove away.

  She could do this. She could face him. He wasn’t in charge of her anymore.

  “Marilyn, you almost done unpacking the Rockwell merchandise?” Marilyn looked up at Harriet standing at the end of the aisle. “It’s almost time for your lunch break.”

  “Just two more small boxes,” she said. “I’ll have them priced in a few minutes. But Harriet, don’t look at what I’ve done here. I haven’t even started arranging everything yet. Is it okay if I do that when I come back? I just wanted to get everything on the shelf, so I could get rid of these boxes before I leave.”

  “That’s fine,” Harriet said. “Can’t wait to see what you come up with.” She smiled and walked away.

  Marilyn made quick work of the last few boxes, flattened them out, and walked them out to the recycle bin. She let Harriet know she was through and clocked out. Let’s get this over with, she thought. She took a deep breath, sat at the break table, and called Michele back.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Got your text,” she said. “You got a minute?”

  “You mean about Dad?” Michele said.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Before I say anything, I don’t want you to freak out or anything. My phone call with Dad was actually pretty pleasant. In fact, he actually agreed to—wait a minute. I’m sorry, I can’t get into that.”

  “Get into what?” Marilyn asked. It wasn’t like Michele to keep secrets from her.

  “It’s not a bad thing. Just something Dad agreed to do for the wedding, but he asked me not to say anything. The point is, Dad didn’t seem his normal angry self. It was actually an easy phone call.”

  “He didn’t seem angry about me and this dance contest?” Marilyn found that hard to believe.

  “Well, we didn’t really talk about that too much. It was just something he mentioned at the end of our conversation. Before he could get into it, I politely shut him down.”

  “Did he say how he found out?”

  “No. I asked but all he said was ‘It’s a small town.’ I could tell he was getting a little tense, and I didn’t want to ruin the conversation, so I let it drop. But I did tell him, Mom, that there’s absolutely nothing going on between you and Roberto. It’s just a dance contest.” She paused a moment. “That’s the truth, isn’t it? I mean, there isn’t anything going on between you and—”

  “Michele,” Marilyn snapped. “I can’t believe you’d even think such a thing.”

  “I’m sorry. Really, I—”

  “We’re just dancing. That’s all.”

  “Okay. Really, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you upset. I just wanted to warn you. I’m not sure if Dad’s going to make a big deal about it.”

  Of course, he will, Marilyn thought. “That’s okay,” she said and stood up, walking toward the hallway. She needed to walk and talk if she hoped to get something to eat before her break was over. As she entered the hallway, she glanced to her left, toward the front door. “Oh no,” she said.

  “What’s the matter, Mom?”

  It was Jim. “Your father, he just walked through the front door.”

  As Jim entered the store, his eyes instantly went to the counter. Marilyn wasn’t there. He knew she was working today; he had driven behind the store, saw her car in the employee parking lot. He was just about to start scanning the handful of aisles when he spotted her in the hallway at the far end. She was hanging up her cell phone, a panicked look on her face.

  He’d hardly slept at all last night, finally had to take two Benadryl. Even then he’d tossed and turned until the alarm bell rang. It had taken him three cups of strong coffee to overcome the hungover feeling from the meds. All night long, he’d wrestled with images of Marilyn dirty dancing with that Latin guy, followed by Audrey’s forceful appeals last Monday night, pleading with him not to say anything about it.

  “Don’t react. Don’t confront her. Don’t say anything at all about this. Pray and look for ways to show her that you’ve changed. Concrete, tangible ways to demonstrate that you really do love her.”

  Suddenly, Marilyn turned and faced the back door and all but ran toward it. Jim ran through the store after her. “Marilyn, wait.”

  “No, I won’t wait,” she said and disappeared behind the metal door.

  “Excuse me, sir,” a young woman with a store name tag said. “You’re not allowed back there.”

  Jim ignored her and ran down the hallway. He burst through the door to find Marilyn hurrying toward her car. “Stop, Marilyn. Don’t leave.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, not even looking back.

  “I’m not here to talk,” he said, as gently as he could. “Would you please stop?”

  She paused, standing next to the open car door. Finally, she looked at him. “What?” she said angrily.

  Jim was trembling inside. His heart raced as he slowed to a walk. When he got closer, he stopped. “Michele said—”

  “I know what Michele said.”

  Jim ignored her remark, tried not to react to her fierce stare. “Michele told me your engine light came on a few days ago.”

  “What?”

  “The yellow engine light. She said it came on in your car, and it stays on all the time now. Is that still happening?”

  “Yes,” she said in a gentler voice.

  “Well, I don’t want you—I mean, it’s not safe to drive the car like that. Not until we find out what’s causing it.” He reached in his pocket. “Here,” he said.

  Marilyn looked at what he held in his hands. The keys to his Audi. A confused look crossed her face. “You never let me drive your car.”

  “I know.” It sounded so stupid, hearing her say it. But it was true. “Well, I’d like you to drive it now. At least till I can get your car looked at, find out what’s going on with that light.”

  “Really?” she said. “That’s all you came here for.”

  Jim swallowed hard. “That’s all.”

  41

  Over the next two weeks, Jim followed this new strategy with Marilyn. Not reacting to things she did or said. Instead, he looked for tangible ways to care and serve her. Gaining control over his emotions and fears took a mammoth effort. And it was clear, even with all the changes he had begun to make, she still didn’t trust him and still wouldn’t talk with him.

  Things had improved a bit with Michele, however. She rarely spoke harshly to him anymore. And a few times, she actually confided in him, sharing observations about how his efforts to win her mother’s heart were being perceived. Just yesterday, she’d said, “I think Mom sees the effort, but right now she’s not buying it. But I noticed when you dropped her car back off, how nice it looked and that you’d filled the gas tank up.”

  “Besides the gas, I had it detailed at the car wash,” Jim had said.

  “It looked great. When I asked Mom what she thought about it, she said, ‘That was nice, but it doesn’t change anything. I think it’s just a new tactic your father’s working to try and manipulate me.’ But see,” Michele said, “she started off with, ‘That was nice.’ I see that as progress.”

  Jim had focused more on “it doesn’t change anything” and “it’s just a tactic,” so he didn’t quite share Michele’s enthusiasm about the so-called progress. But the fact that Michele had shared these things with him—in confidence—was itself progress, and he tried to be grateful for that.

  He was also grateful for the changes he was starting to see in his own heart. He’d been praying for God to change his heart every morning. The fury and boiling anger was gone. The chronic and dark imaginations he used to have about her almost every day had greatly diminished. He was sure he still had a long way to go, but even this much progress had produced in him a measure of hope.

  Jim had two more dance lessons with Audrey over the past two weeks, which meant there was only one l
eft. He was encouraged with the strides he was making there, and so was she. Except for an occasional misstep, Jim could now waltz Audrey around the room, spinning and swirling her at all the right places, keeping perfect time with the music and just the right space between them.

  At the end of the last lesson, she informed him of one significant problem he still must overcome. “When you dance, your face looks like it’s in pain. Or else, I see your lips moving, counting off the steps. It’s time for you to start learning how to listen with your heart, not your head.”

  When Jim had asked what that meant, she said, “You need to hear the music, down inside. Let it permeate your being until you feel the steps. Maybe it will help if you close your eyes. Let the music take hold and allow the joy of what you’re doing to take over.”

  It had all sounded like hogwash to Jim, but he tried to do what she’d said, and it worked. In no time at all, he was dancing with real feeling, and real joy was the result. It was as if his hands and legs now knew what to do and all he had to do was turn them loose and let them go.

  “Now you’re getting it,” she’d said when they were done. “And now I want to share with you the marriage life lesson that goes with this fifth dance step.” She spent the next fifteen minutes talking about Jim’s need to listen to Marilyn’s heart, not just the words she said.

  Jim had admitted he wasn’t good at this and admitted that when Marilyn said things he didn’t agree with, he typically reacted by trying to straighten her out. “As far as communication goes,” Audrey had said, “that’s the equivalent of you dancing with your face all scrunched up, mouthing the steps as you go.” She explained he needed to move beyond the words Marilyn spoke and learn to listen for the feelings and emotions behind her words. “Why did she really say that? What’s really eating at her? Those are the kinds of questions you need to ask yourself as you listen.” The fog was beginning to lift. “Instead of knee-jerk overreactions,” she said, “which is what you’re used to doing, do the very opposite. Don’t try to fix her. Just ask her more questions. All the while listening to her heart.”