The Dance

by Gary Smalley

  “No.”

  “Then it’s two against one. I say just relax and don’t worry about next week. A few trees might get knocked down, but remember the last time? Most of them were fine. The gazebo might get damaged, but it can be repaired.”

  “Not before the wedding,” she said. “They’ll probably cover it with a blue tarp and all the pictures will be ruined. What? Hold on, Allan’s saying something.” Marilyn waited. Michele laughed. “Allan says we can photoshop out the blue tarp if we have to.”

  “See? It’s all going to work out. And even if the park does flood, things will be back to normal in time for the wedding. Back in 2004, the flooding receded after three or four days. We’re going to have your wedding right where we’ve planned.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” But she wasn’t sure. Sounding sure at a time like this was part of a mom’s job. “Now where are the two of you staying?” she asked. “Are you both safe?”

  “Totally,” Michele said.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “We’re with a bunch of friends in an interior lobby of the dorm. It’s one of the approved shelter areas in the school.”

  “Do you have food and water, some batteries? What about blankets? Are you—”

  “Mom, we’re fine.”

  “Okay. Well, you call me if anything happens.”

  “I will. So . . . where are you staying? Are you safe?”

  Marilyn took a deep breath. She almost didn’t want to say. “I’m here at the house.”

  “With Dad?”

  Marilyn’s phone beeped. She looked at the screen; it was Roberto calling. She decided he could leave a message. “It’s a long story, but yes, I’m here with your father.”

  “How’s that working out?”

  “So far, we’re fine. It’s a little awkward, but . . . we’ll be fine.” Did she really believe that?

  “You guys really haven’t spent any time together since you left, have you?”

  “No, not really.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “Pray for us.” Marilyn wasn’t sure what to tell Michele if she asked what to pray for.

  “Oh, believe me, I will.”

  They hung up as Jim walked past her. “I’ll just get the windows on this side of the house. Was that Michele? Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine. She’s with Allan and a bunch of friends at a school shelter.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Excuse me, I’ve got to call someone back.” Now, why did she say that? She wasn’t going to call Roberto back. She’d already checked; he’d left a voice mail. Jim said okay and walked away. Then she realized that was why she’d said it, to get him to keep moving. She was avoiding him. Avoiding the awkward feelings that surfaced whenever he came near. But she couldn’t keep doing that, not for the next day or so. They’d be shut in this house together for at least that long.

  She went to her voice mail and listened to Roberto’s message: “Marilyn? This is Roberto. As you can imagine, this hurricane has totally ruined our plans. I’ve just been informed that the dance contest has been canceled, postponed indefinitely. I’m so disappointed. I’m sure they’ll reschedule it as soon as the weather clears up, if the damage is not too extensive. Well, so sorry. Stay safe.”

  Deleting the message felt so nice. She determined right then to also delete the contest from her life for good. She didn’t need the stress. She still loved dancing, more than ever. But she didn’t want to dance with Roberto anymore. Not alone anyway. Perhaps she could sign up for lessons in a few weeks with one of the other instructors.

  One of the women instructors.

  She found Tom’s cell number on her contact list and called him. Jean answered and said they were doing fine. Tom was outside putting up the last piece of plywood on the last bedroom window. “In this wind?” Marilyn said. “Tell him to be careful.” Then she told Jean about the limb that had crushed her car.

  “Tom’s almost done,” Jean said. “Just one more window. Were you in the car when it happened?”

  “No,” she said, which led to her having to admit she was stuck at home with Jim, at least for the next day or so. Which led to another strained piece of communication: Jean trying to gently probe for more details, and Marilyn trying to remain as vague as possible. At about that time, Jim walked up, so Marilyn made an excuse for getting off the phone. Michele and Allan were safe. Tom and Jean and the kids were safe. Doug was safe. Now she could relax. Then she looked at Jim standing there staring at her.

  There was no way she could relax.

  “Say,” he said. “I have an idea. You weren’t expecting me to be here. And I don’t want to make things worse by having to deal with me being here. So how about we share the house? You can have the whole downstairs. I’ll go upstairs in the loft. That way you can sleep in your own bed, hang out in the living room or great room. I’ll stay up there for the most part, except when I need to come down to get something to eat. The food and pantry are full, by the way. When I was out I bought some things I knew you liked.”

  He started to walk away. “I’ll close the rest of the shutters down here, get a few things from the bedroom, then the downstairs is all yours.”

  “Hey, Jim.” He turned around. “Thanks,” she said. She thought she should say something more but changed her mind.

  51

  Did the floor creak enough to hear it downstairs? No, Marilyn didn’t look up. She’d have looked up if she’d heard it creak. This house was solid, the best money could buy. Jim peeked down at her, getting as close to the wooden railing as he dared. She was sitting in her favorite corner of the couch, legs tucked up, like she always did, pretending to read a book.

  He knew she was pretending because she hadn’t turned a page in over ten minutes, and she was a fast reader. Jim knew why. She was terrified of the storm. Didn’t matter that the house had made it fine through the last set of hurricanes and that, since then, he’d added these top-of-the-line shutters. Every time a branch banged against the roof or the side of the house, Marilyn jumped. She’d close the book, look around the room, then slowly open the book up again.

  He wished he could go down and comfort her, at least provide some kind of distraction. What he really wanted was to talk to her. Not small talk—things that mattered. The kinds of things on his list. When he’d gone upstairs a few hours ago, he’d prayed about it. He got a strong impression he wasn’t supposed to initiate this conversation. It was too big a thing, and too delicate to force.

  He felt God wanted him to be patient, to wait for her to make the first move. If she asked him to come down there and be with her, he had a green light from God to have that talk. But not until then.

  It had been hours since that prayer, and she hadn’t glanced up at the loft. Not even once. He would have known.

  He hadn’t taken his eyes off her.

  How many times had he seen her reading a book in that very spot over the years? A hundred? A thousand? He’d walk right by, sometimes not even stopping to answer her when she’d ask him a question. Too preoccupied with whatever was on his mind to even show her common courtesy, let alone the desperate love he longed to pour out on her now.

  You stupid fool!

  No, don’t keep doing that. Self-loathing had become an almost constant companion since he’d started . . . practicing. Writing down how wrong he’d been, how sorry he was, and how much he longed to make things right was certainly necessary, and he saw the value in it. But, it was so painful. Reading the words, rereading them. Writing, rewriting them. Over and over until he’d gotten it just right.

  But was it just right? Would it do a thing to soften her bitterness toward him? He didn’t fault her for it. She had a right to all of her feelings. But still, no matter what happened, if he got that green light, he had to try. He looked down at her again. Please look up here. Please, Marilyn.

  She was so beautiful.

  He knew why that dance instru
ctor was pursuing her. The guy only saw what a lot of men did: an extremely attractive woman who looked at least a decade younger than her age. Jim had caught countless men at his business parties staring at her, some doing their best to flirt with her. She never seemed to notice. If she had, she never let on.

  In some sick way, he’d treated her beauty like a matter of pride, as though evidence of the kind of man he was—someone who could catch a beauty like this and keep her all to himself. Then show her off when it suited him, to enhance his own image.

  It was always about him. Always.

  He never told her how beautiful she was anymore, as though giving her compliments would somehow ruin her. Perhaps lessen her vulnerability, her complete dependence on him. He’d acted like she was his possession, not his cherished partner.

  But he hadn’t kept her, had he? There she was, not thirty steps away, but the distance might as well be thirty miles.

  You stupid fool!

  An incredibly strong gust hit. It felt for a moment as if the house would lift off its foundations. Marilyn gasped. Then a loud bang thumped against the side of the house, the loudest one so far. Marilyn screamed and jumped to her feet. “Jim!” she yelled.

  She looked up, terror on her face.

  “It’s okay, hon!” he yelled back, calling her hon from instinct. He leaned over the railing. “I’m right here. It was just another limb. A big one, but we’re okay.”

  “I hate this!”

  “I know. But we’ll be all right.”

  “How much longer is it going to be like this?”

  He had to tell her the truth. “Quite a while. The worst of it is still an hour away. After the eye passes, it’ll take just as long on its way out.”

  “I don’t think I can take it much longer. It feels like the house is falling apart. And we’ve got those huge oak trees all around us. Any one of them could come down right on top of us.”

  “That could happen,” he said gently. “But I don’t think so. It’s been downgraded to a Cat 1, and the more Harold stays over land, the weaker it gets. I paid those tree guys over twelve hundred dollars back in June, remember? To check the trees out and prune any branches they thought might cause trouble.”

  “I remember. But do you remember the huge limb that crushed my car?”

  “Well, yeah. I know. Let’s just keep praying. I think we’ll be okay.”

  She sat back in her spot on the couch. He backed away from the railing.

  “Jim,” she yelled.

  “Yeah?”

  “Could you come down here? I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

  52

  It was all Jim could do not to run down the stairs like the kids used to on Christmas morning. He grabbed his “practice” sheets, folded them, and put them in his pocket. He uttered a number of silent “Thank you, Lords” as he walked as calmly as he could down the stairs. He went into the kitchen, poured her a Diet Coke, and brought a bag of her favorite snack, Cheetos, to the living room.

  “Thank you,” she said, trying to restrain a smile. “This’ll help.”

  “How about I turn the TV on?” he said. “We can watch the weather, just for a few minutes. I’ve had it on upstairs. I think it will help you calm down.”

  “How can that help, seeing the storm climb its way across the state right at us?”

  “Because I think your imagination is making it worse.” He clicked the TV on. “After a few minutes of weather, we’ll watch an old movie. That’ll take your mind off things while the worst of the storm passes.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  “But you hate old—”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He wanted to say “It’s not all about me anymore,” but that would sound fake, even though he meant it. “It’ll probably do me some good too. Keep my mind off all the cleanup work I’m going to have to do tomorrow.” He sat in his spot, in the recliner closest to her corner of the couch.

  Over the next two hours, they watched the weather then almost all of Casablanca. Mostly in silence. A major gust smacked against the house. The lights went out, just as Bogey and Bergman were about to do their famous good-bye scene at the airport. It startled them, but Marilyn didn’t scream this time. Instead, she calmly lit the candles she had placed on the coffee table.

  Jim got up to turn on a few oil lanterns and grab the big flashlight on the kitchen counter. “They’ll probably only be off a little while,” he said, hoping that was true. As he picked up the flashlight, he got a strong impression the lights had gone out just now for a reason.

  It was time. Time for the talk.

  Instantly he tensed up, wrestling with the idea. What if it was a mistake? What if she shut him down before he finished? They’d sit around in an awkward—no, worse than awkward—silence till sunrise.

  But the impression wouldn’t leave. Another strong gust blew, making the house vibrate.

  “Jim, could you come back here?”

  He hurried back to his chair, pulled out his practice sheets as he walked. “It’s okay,” he said. The eye of the storm had passed sometime during the movie. The winds had now shifted and were blowing against the house in the opposite direction. That usually meant more tree damage, as limbs that had weakened during the first half of the hurricane would now snap off in round two.

  “How much longer, do you think?”

  “Not too much,” he said. “Maybe a couple of hours, then the winds will start to drop as the storm gets farther away.”

  “I hope the electricity comes back on soon,” she said. “Watching the movie helped.”

  “It helped me too.” He brought the papers out so he could see them but kept them out of the light. “Say, Marilyn. I was thinking, maybe with this interruption, you know, with the lights . . . maybe you and I could talk.”

  “I don’t know, Jim.”

  “Well, actually, you wouldn’t have to talk, just listen.” She made a face. He realized what he’d said. “No, wait, I didn’t mean that like it sounded. You can say anything you want.” He took a deep breath, then exhaled. “What I’m trying to say is . . .” He turned the flashlight on his practice sheets. “I’ve been wanting to do this for a while, to say some things to you. Things I need to say, to—”

  “Jim, I don’t want to get into an argument.”

  “No, it’s not anything we should argue over. Really. It’s mostly an apology. I wrote it down because . . . well, I’m no good at this. I just want you to know how sorry I am about some things. Some important things. You don’t have to apologize back, or say anything at all if you don’t want to. This is about me saying some things to you that I’ve already talked to God about. But that’s not enough. I need to say them to you.”

  She looked toward the kitchen. He heard her sigh.

  “Would that be okay?” he said. “After, if you feel like I’ve made things too awkward for us, I can go back upstairs.” She turned and looked back at him. He couldn’t read her face. “Is that okay?” He looked down at his sheets. “It’s not very long. I wrote it down so I wouldn’t ramble on, but mostly so I wouldn’t forget anything that mattered.” He looked back at her. “Can I say this? Can I read this to you?”

  She nodded. Her face seemed hard as a rock. He tried not to let that get to him. As he held the sheets of paper, he set his hands firmly against his lap so he wouldn’t tremble. “Here it is.”

  Marilyn,

  I think I get now why you left. I’m not upset anymore, and I want to apologize first for getting so upset. I acted as if you had no right to leave me or had any reason to be unhappy. Like you said, I didn’t have a clue. Obviously, you wouldn’t leave me or this house you love, or our life together, to move into a little apartment if I hadn’t made you profoundly unhappy for a long—

  He took a deep breath, fighting a wave of emotion.

  —long time. I have been so stubborn and selfish. Really, I think for our entire marriage. I tried but I couldn’t recall any clear examples of when I did th
ings around here or made decisions for us that weren’t—

  He started to choke up again. He had to get himself under control.

  —that weren’t mostly about me and what I wanted. Even the church I made us go to, and all those business parties. I never thought about you, your needs, or the kids.

  I didn’t pay near enough attention to you or things you cared about. Not just lately.

  He looked up, tears welling in his eyes. She was looking away but still listening.

  I’ve been demanding and legalistic. I hardly ever encouraged you or the kids. But I was always quick to point out someone’s mistakes or something I didn’t think was done right.

  I’ve been talking with our kids lately. Actually, listening to them.

  Tears poured down his face.

  I’ve got a long way to go to start trying to make it up to them, and to you, but I’m going to try if you’ll let me. I’m sure I’m only seeing a fraction of the pain I’ve caused you, but even the part I am seeing . . . well, it’s killing me inside.

  But that’s okay. The part it’s killing needs to die. It’s the part that’s made you so unhappy you felt you had to leave, to try and escape it.

  He wiped the tears off his face.

  But I want you to know . . . I do love you, Marilyn. You are the best thing that’s happened to me. Ever. I didn’t treat you like you were. I’ll regret that for the rest of my life. But now I know what I’ve lost. And I almost can’t bear it.

  The only hope I may ever have with you is to earn your respect again by proving my love for you. If it takes the rest of my life, I’ll do it.

  He could hardly continue; his body was shivering with regret.

  You are such a wonderful, beautiful person and I don’t deserve you. But I have the rest of my life to help you find happiness again, and whatever that takes, I’ll try to help you find it. I’m just asking that you don’t quit on us yet. Please give it some more time. See if God will change your heart back to where it was before I crushed it.

  He looked up and said the rest from memory. “I’ll be here, Marilyn, as long as it takes. Begging God to keep changing my heart to where it needs to be. Waiting for you to come home. Hoping I can become the man you’ve always wanted me to be. Please forgive me, Marilyn. For all of it. I love you and always will.”