Enjoy the Dance

by Heidi Cullinan

  Duon Skyped, too, with an endless stream of people. Spenser asked who they were, and he swore each time it was a different name. He wondered if he should police this, but when he listened at the door, all he heard was Duon laughing and goofing off with whoever was on the other end of the video chat, trash-talking celebrities or mutual friends. Sometimes he waxed on about his plans once he was eighteen. Apparently Duon was going to go to New York City. Or Los Angeles. Or Vegas. Or Chicago. At first Spenser worried Duon was about to run away. But then he noticed Duon made these plans with everyone he spoke to online. They were dreams and fantasies. The same kind Spenser had fabricated for himself as he lay in his bunk in the shelter.

  Someday I’m going to get out of here, and it’s going to be okay.

  This recognition, or at least his projection, made Spenser hesitant to rope in Duon’s Internet use. Part of him felt he should be monitoring it, but a greater swell of his soul suggested butting in would break Duon’s bubble of safety and dreams. Lurking over his shoulder seemed the quickest way to getting himself shut out entirely.

  He wanted to get Tomás’s opinion on the issue, but he barely saw the man after their election night kiss. According to Duon, Tomás had shortened his hours at the studio and added a temporary job through the holidays, which amazingly was his fourth job. When Tomás saw Spenser in the hallway he smiled, maybe even lingered. But then he was off again to another job or to catch a few hours sleep before he went to work once more.

  Spenser tried not to take Tomás’s absence personally, but it was difficult. He’d gone to bed election night scolding himself that the kiss meant nothing. It was simply high spirits during a miraculous moment, like that sailor kissing the nurse on V-J Day. Downplaying the incident had been an effort to guard his heart should the kiss not lead to something more, but when his pessimistic predictions began to look like accurate assessments, Spenser’s feelings were bruised nonetheless.

  Focusing on parenting Duon was a good distraction, and so Spenser threw himself into being the best substitute parent he could be. He read every book on parenting adoptive and foster children he could find, and listened to online webinars. He bookmarked several sites discussing trauma in foster children, learning quickly those lessons were best doled out in small batches as they tended to scrape too close to his own experience. It wasn’t comforting to see his and his sisters’ stories laid out so matter-of-factly, especially when he read things that said, essentially, the deck was stacked against them no matter what. The information on reactive attachment disorder left him sleepless for a whole night. Because by God if the two forms weren’t Spenser and his sister Kaylee, two halves of the same dark coin.

  Spenser didn’t mean to be unsociable. He wanted friends as much as anybody. It was hard for him, is all. He didn’t know how to trust people. They always said things but didn’t mean them. They told him they were so glad he’d come to live with them, then sent him away two months later. They’d tell him if he was a good boy, everything would be fine, and he’d literally do nothing, would be practically furniture, and he’d still come downstairs one morning to see his social worker at the table, his foster mother dabbing at tears, and he’d know he was going to be packing another garbage bag. People told you they loved you, but they lied. How was Spenser supposed to trust anyone when they acted like that?

  According to the article he read, it was his mother’s fault, and as usual, hearing her blamed roused complicated emotions in Spenser. She had loved him, he was fairly certain. His memories of her were blotchy and hazy, but he remembered hugs. Often she was crying, but she hugged him, a lot. She was always especially loving when she came back late and Spenser had been babysitting. He got so nervous, because he was still small at six, and the babies were heavy and difficult to manage, but when she came home, even if she was drunk or high, she’d always, always told him she was proud of him. Always hugged him and kissed him. Then they’d snuggled together on her bed, and in the warm darkness, all of them together, it had been worth every moment of his terror.

  Intellectually he knew now it had been horribly wrong of his mother, putting such a burden on him at his age. He wasn’t sure when he’d begun caring for his younger siblings, but he couldn’t remember a single babysitter, couldn’t remember not caring for his sisters. He understood her behavior was neglect and abuse. He also had enough sense to not diagnose himself by reading a single article on the Internet.

  Kaylee, though.

  If Spenser had RAD as a child, it was the inhibited form, meaning he couldn’t attach to his caregivers. Kaylee, in contrast, could have been the case study for the disinhibited form. She had always gone to anyone. When Spenser got too busy with the babies and couldn’t give her enough attention, she’d roam the halls of their apartment building, looking for someone to play with. They were the only kids in the building, and it wasn’t a great neighborhood. Who had she talked to? What had they said or done to her?

  Had Spenser’s failure to watch her been the reason she’d failed so many placements? He’d heard some of her story while he’d been at his aunt’s place in Wisconsin. He’d hidden on the stairs, listening to his aunt and uncle talk about Spenser’s mother and her children. They’d called Spenser creepy and robotic, but they’d called Kaylee a little tramp. Apparently she’d wandered in and out of neighborhood houses at every placement until she was ten, and then she’d run around with boys and been “inappropriate.” Spenser had been old enough to understand the gist of their insults but had not been worldly enough to process what they were saying. All he knew was he would be as appropriate as he could be, the best boy in the world, and he wouldn’t go back to the shelter.

  Of course, it hadn’t mattered. He’d gone to a shelter anyway. And Kaylee…Kaylee was long gone by the time he was old enough to look for her. She was lost, and Gina and Hannah had been absorbed by another family, one that didn’t want him around.

  Spenser wasn’t going to let Duon be shut out. Spenser had attached to caregivers: Clara and Betsy. True, he didn’t call Clara as much as he should. But he did love them, and he’d wept like a baby at Betsy’s funeral. They’d loved him too. Clara still regarded him as her son. Even if he got distracted and didn’t return her calls, eventually she’d appear on his doorstep and kidnap him for brunch on a random Sunday morning.

  Spenser could be Clara and Betsy both. He still knew a pang, though, whenever he heard the Jimenez family through their door, his heart pierced by Tomás’s low rumble in Spanish. It was foolish to let himself dream he wouldn’t have to be both, that someone like Tomás could be his other half, but unfortunately this self-scolding didn’t stop him from wishing for such a reality.

  Having a second parent would have made many things easier, and not simply the logistics of a second pair of hands. Sometimes Spenser straight up didn’t know what to do with Duon. When he picked Duon up from school, he witnessed garish, provocative displays with friends, full of swearing, big hand gestures, and bravado that didn’t fit at all with the gentle, playful young man who helped Spenser with the dishes. This was preferable, however, to when he collected a sullen, hunched Duon who refused to speak more than a handful of mumbled words between the school and the Dayton’s Bluff studio.

  Was there something Spenser was missing? Some article on parenting he hadn’t yet read?

  Should he get over his broken heart and ask Tomás for help, because a platonic second parent was better than none?

  Possibly, but he never did. He continued doing the best he could, worrying always he’d done the wrong thing or hadn’t been supportive enough.

  Two weeks before Christmas, on a miserable, sleeting afternoon, Spenser went to Halcyon to turn in a form. There was nowhere to park nearby, and he ended up trudging three blocks through slush. His only saving grace was that, as a native Minnesotan, he always carried a pair of boots in his car, so though he was wet and shivering when he arrived at the neighborhood center, his feet were fine. As he opened the door to the building, he caught
sight of an elderly Black woman coming up the sidewalk. Slightly stooped, she walked with a cane, but she moved with an elegance that caught Spenser’s attention. She was smartly dressed, in a red wool peacoat buttoned primly, white gloves, and a neat felt hat. She had boots on too, red to match her coat.

  Though damp with the same weather making Spenser shiver, she was stoic about it. As she moved toward the door Spenser held for her, she smiled at him. “Thank you.”

  “Not a problem.” Spenser waited patiently until she was through, then hurried around her to open the next set of doors on the other side of the vestibule.

  This time, as she walked past him, she chuckled. “Aren’t we a gentleman. Thank you again, young man.”

  They ended up walking down the same hallway, though Spenser moved faster. He was already seated in the chair outside Vicky’s office, waiting for her to finish with whoever was in the room with her, when the woman he’d held the door for made her way around the corner, heading toward him. When she stopped in front of Vicky’s office as well, however, he hopped up out of his chair and offered it to her.

  “Thank you very much.” She sighed in relief as she lowered herself into the chair, then leaned on her cane as she regarded Spenser. “Since we keep running into each other, we might as well introduce ourselves. I’m Sandra Stevenson.”

  Spenser straightened and held out his hand, then hesitated because she hadn’t extended hers. “Spenser Harris.”

  She accepted his hand with much more grace than he’d offered it. Her hands were thin and weathered, but her grip was strong. “What brings you to Halcyon on a night like this?”

  He waved the manila envelope in his other hand. “I need to turn in a form.” After a pause, he cleared his throat. “You?”

  Her voice was warm and bright, but slightly tremulous with age. “I’m volunteering to help organize the donations of Santa presents. Do it every year. Have done since 1982.”

  “Santa presents?”

  “Somebody’s got to help be an elf. Santa’s got a lot on his mind this time of year.” She shifted in her chair and leaned on her cane as she continued. “My church and a few others in the neighborhood gather gifts for children and families that can’t afford to spend money on presents, then we help wrap, sort, and distribute them. With my arthritis, I’m not much good at the wrapping anymore, but I’m pretty good at bossing people around.”

  A memory floated to the surface, reminding Spenser of the Christmas when he was a freshman in high school. He’d recently moved to a new shelter and was feeling pretty miserable. He’d blocked out thoughts of what would come on Christmas morning, because he knew the answer would be nothing. And yet when he’d woken up, there at the foot of his bed had been a package. A handmade hat, scarf, mittens, a leather-bound journal, and a fancy pen. He’d worn the winter gear until it fell apart, except for the scarf, which he still had at home, and he’d filled the journal with all his jumbled thoughts and feelings. “I think I might have been the recipient of one of your deliveries, once upon a time.”

  “Well that’s lovely. You should come by and help us get the presents ready this year. We meet Saturday morning at ten, right here at Halcyon.”

  Spenser’s first instinct was to say he was busy, but then he thought about the way Sandra had shuffled up the sidewalk in the sleet, because her task was more important than the inconvenience of the weather. He also thought about the article on reactive attachment disorder, telling him to be more social. “I think I can make it work. Can I bring…?” He hesitated, unsure of how to refer to Duon. “Can I bring the young man staying with me?”

  She laughed. “So long as he’s not so young you ruin Santa for him.”

  “I think we’re safe there.” Spenser glanced around the empty hallway, seeing through a window that the sleet was now full-blown snow. “Do you have a ride home? It’s looking nasty outside.”

  Sandra waved a hand at him. “I’ll be fine. I don’t live far, but Vicky will bully me into getting a ride from her if it’s too bad. Thank you kindly for the offer.”

  The door to Vicky’s office opened, and Vicky herself stuck her head out. “Oh, hi, Spenser.” Her smile became a beam as she saw Sandra. “Mrs. Stevenson. I’d give you a lecture for coming on a night like this, but I know you’d tan my hide, so I’ll hustle you inside so we can get things set up and get you home.”

  She rose, waving her cane as she winked. “You best behave, because I brought my stick with me. Don’t think I can’t whup you, just because I’m ninety.” She nodded at Spenser. “Besides, I got us two more volunteers while I sat here. I’m working, girl.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Vicky grinned at Spenser. “You and Duon are coming to the Santa present setup? I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

  Blushing, though he wasn’t sure why, Spenser handed her the envelope in his hand. “I’m going to let you two have your meeting. It was nice to see you, Vicky, and to meet you, Mrs. Stevenson.”

  “Likewise, Mr. Harris. I will see you and your boy Saturday.”

  Spenser worried Duon wouldn’t want to go, but in fact he got excited. “I got those presents when I was little. Do we get to go shopping for them too?”

  “I think we’re just wrapping them.” Spenser felt a swell of pride at Duon’s excitement over the activity. “But I could get us a couple Santa hats, if you want.”

  “Hell yes we’re wearing Santa hats.”

  They stopped by Walgreens to get some on their way to the center on Saturday, and they were the hit of the gift-wrapping event, Duon with his expansive gestures and comic antics, Spenser with his patience with volunteers who needed help figuring out where they were meant to go. True to her word, Sandra kept them all in line, telling them how to tag the gifts and criticizing them when they didn’t wrap properly. “Santa doesn’t have sloppy elves,” she said over and over. “These presents are going to be the bright spot of a child’s morning. Treat them with the respect they deserve.”

  It was clear Sandra did more than take this gift wrapping seriously. She knew where every present belonged, knew each child and what they wanted most on Christmas morning. There were two hundred and fifty gifts wrapped by the time they broke for lunch, and Sandra had supervised every single one. She knew where all the gifts were going, and why it was important each household got the bundle they were assigned. The level of knowledge of the community Sandra had to possess boggled Spenser’s mind and humbled him.

  When he was packing up to leave, Sandra approached Spenser. “Young man, I’m going to give you some advice about that boy of yours. You going to listen?”

  Spenser nodded earnestly. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I know Duon and his family. I know they’ve had some tough times, and I’m sure what he’s gone through has your heart aching. But don’t you go softening the ground too much for him. You’ve given him a home, and that’s more than most would do. It’s the base he needs, and that will take him a long way in life. But remember, the rest has to be his.”

  Spenser frowned. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “He has to walk his path the same way you walked yours. I see how you look at him, like you want to take away all the pain, but you can’t do that. You have to let him find his own way. If you try to live his life for him, you won’t do him any favors.” She patted his hand. “That’s the hardest lesson, sweetheart. Sometimes we have to love people enough to watch them fall.”

  She shuffled away from him then, leaving Spenser to stare after her, trying to digest what she’d said. He thought about it all the way home, as he lay in bed staring sleeplessly at the ceiling.

  Sometimes we have to love people enough to watch them fall.

  Spenser didn’t know how he was supposed to do that. He didn’t want Duon to fall, not even an inch. He wanted to wrap him in a blanket and keep him safe from the world. He didn’t want him to know any more pain. He wanted, more than anything else in the world, to give Duon the experiences he hadn’t had as a child.
A safe space. A loving parent. A permanent home. He didn’t want Duon to grow up and read articles on disorders and see himself in them. He didn’t want Duon to be afraid to date, to resort to hookups or fall for the first loser who looked his way.

  He didn’t want Duon to turn out like him. He’d fallen, and no one had cared. No one had so much as noticed. It hadn’t taught him anything but pain.

  Duon wasn’t going to fall, not while he lived with Spenser. It was going to be perfect.

  Perfect.

  Alisa didn’t come home for Christmas.

  It was what Tomás expected, but that didn’t stop it from upsetting him. It was all he could think about every time the family sat down to a meal or planned activities for the holiday. What drove him nuts, though, was that they bought presents for her, as if she’d arrive any minute. Tomás couldn’t decide what would be worse, the presents remaining unclaimed under the tree, or her showing up and everyone acting as if nothing was wrong.

  His mother noticed his foul mood and tried to talk him out of it one night as she fed him a late dinner. “It’s not a bad thing to hope for the best, Tomás.”

  “There’s no best of anything where she’s concerned anymore.” He stabbed his fork into his enchilada, cutting viciously. “She’s abandoned the kids. She’s left us all holding the bag. I’m not welcoming her anywhere.”

  “She’s your sister, mijo. She’s having a difficult time.”

  Oh, that did it. Tomás glared at her. “She’s having a difficult time. God, I didn’t realize that’s what we were supposed to do when times were tough, fuck over our families and run off with—”

  Her slap against his cheek wasn’t hard, but the surprise arrested him as she shook a finger in his face. “You will not use the name of our Lord in vain or such language in my house.” She gentled as she went on, but not much. “Alisa is my daughter. Your sister. The mother of the children asleep in that room. You will treat her with respect.”