Chapter 7
For many years it had been my habit on New Year’s Eve to curl up in my rocking chair by the wood stove and read over my journal for the past year. But this year, feeling my vitality, I thought, why not…?
There was always a big tango dance in Denver on New Year’s Eve. I could carpool with Tim and Sally. Before the Elirians had touched me, I had given up on dances in Denver, not feeling confident enough in my night driving skills to go alone, and never wanting to stay as late as those I might ride with. But now—
I called Tim. Yes, he and Sally were going and he’d be happy to give me a ride.
I was excited. It would be a big dance. When the day came, I washed my hair, shaved my legs, and searched through my closet. I chose flowing pants of silver satin (that I had made long ago to cover my knee braces), a sparkly, tight-fitting silver top, and long, blue lapis earrings with a matching necklace. When I was dressed, standing in front of the bathroom mirror to put the final touches on my makeup, I admired my reflection. I did love being beautiful. Especially for tango.
The Turnverein Ballroom in Denver was a beautiful example of early twentieth century elegance, with its high ceiling, tall, arched windows, and crystal chandeliers. The dance floor was filling rapidly when we arrived. I began the evening with Tim, and danced steadily for several hours with one partner after another.
When at last I had a break, I sat wrapped in my blue shawl, watching, drinking in the music, noting with interest who was there and who was dancing with whom. A young man, someone I hadn’t seen before, danced by. He was quite handsome, with dark curly hair, a small curly mustache, striking blue eyes, and a trim athletic build. He danced well, the movements of his feet clean and precise.
When we women want to know if a man is a good dancer we check out his feet, but even more important we observe the expression on his partner’s face. This man’s partner looked absolutely blissful, eyes closed, a half smile on her lips. Mmm, I thought. I’ll try and catch his eye at the end of this tanda.
The proper way for a man to invite a woman to dance in tango world is to make eye contact across the room. If she assents with a nod or smile, only then does he cross the room to stand before her and hold out his hand. That glance is called the cabecceo, and the custom evolved to protect the man’s fragile ego, so he would never have to face the humiliation of being seen asking a woman to dance and being refused. It didn’t always work so well for the women. Several times, before I learned better, I stood when a man approached me, thinking he had his eye on me, only to find he was inviting the woman next to me. Embarrassing.
At the end of each tanda, the men escort their partners to their seats and then look around for their next partner. I kept my eye on the man with the curly dark hair. He was scanning the room. When he met my gaze, he looked startled, stared a moment, then tilted his head slightly, giving me a clear cabecceo. I nodded and watched him approach. There was something about his eyes.
I rose to meet him, slipped off my shawl, placed my right hand in his left, and stepped into the curve of his arm. After a few steps I moved closer, draping my left arm lightly around his shoulders. He gathered me in and I rested my brow against his cheek. His embrace was luscious and he was indeed a good dancer, his lead subtle and sure, guiding me into delightfully unusual patterns. I let myself go into tango trance.
About halfway around the room, he whispered in my ear, “You have Elirian eyes.”
I stumbled. He caught me with his arm, lifted me, covered for me. We continued dancing. I tilted my head back to look at him. That’s what it was about his eyes! “You do, too,” I breathed.
“We’ll talk later,” he said softly, “Dance now. You’re terrific.”
We danced. At the end of the tanda, he did not take me to my seat, but asked, “Uno mas?”
“Con gusto,” I answered, and we danced again, our bodies one, living the music. I had never had such a skillful partner. At the end of the third tanda I felt tears of bliss spilling over when I looked up at him.
“Do you always cry when you dance tango?” he asked as he kissed a tear off my cheek.
“Never before.”
“Come.” He took my hand and led me to a table off to the side of the ballroom. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Yes, thank you. But no alcohol. I can’t drink and dance.”
He smiled, his amazing blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “They have sparkling cider.”
“Perfect.”
He left me, weaving between the dancers crowded around the refreshment table. I watched him, noting how gracefully he moved. He was soon back with two glasses of sparkling cider and a plate of cheese and crackers. He sat down opposite me at the small table, reached out and took my hand.
“My name is Zachary.”
“I’m Clara.”
We looked into each other’s Elirian eyes.
“How did you meet them?” he asked.
“I got caught in the high country by a thunderstorm, was struck by lightning and paralyzed, soaked by the rain, dying of cold in the night. They came and carried me to their ship and healed me. And you?”
“I was skiing. I always go off the groomed slopes because there are so many people. I hit a tree. Would have been done for. The same thing. They came for me and fixed me all up, then set me back down by the tree that should have killed me. My skis were there, totally shattered. I had a long hike out in the deep snow, but I was fine. It was like… like they made me better than I was before.”
So he was the one they had spoken of, on skis, hitting a tree.
“They did that for me, too, made me way better than I was before.” I didn’t want to tell him I was eighty, not yet, lost as I was in the magic of the evening. “I was off the trail, too. I know what you mean about too many people.”
We were silent again. His hand was warm around mine.
“That was the wildest, most awesome experience.” His eyes went vague with wonder. “You know”—he looked at me intently again—“I had just about decided it was a dream, that somehow I had gotten lucky, even though my skis were toast. That it couldn’t be real, until tonight when I saw you, your eyes. It brought it all back.”
“It wasn’t a dream. They’re real. I met them again just a few days ago and spent the night in their ship.”
“No kidding. Were you in trouble again?”
“No, not like before. I just needed to talk with them. I called them and they came, and we talked a long time about aging and dying on Earth. They don’t age or die; they wanted to understand. Did they tell you they had come to study us?”
He rubbed his brow with his free hand. “Yeah, now that you mention it, they did. They were real interested in male and female. Asked me a lot about what it was like to be male.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That it was cool. That I liked it. I do, especially tonight dancing with you.”
We laughed, not because there was anything funny really, but because we were falling in love. That kind of laughter.
“You remember everything about when you were with them?” he asked.
“Vividly.”
“Wow. It sure slipped away from me. ’Till I saw you. Did you say you called them?”
“Yes, they told me when they set me back down on the mountain that I could call them anytime. So I did.”
“They’re real, huh?”
“Definitely.”
“You talked about aging and dying?”
“Yes.”
“Deep.”
The music for the next tanda began. Zachary lifted his head. “It’s a milonga. Let’s go.” Still holding my hand, he led me out onto the floor and into the dance.
Milonga is the liveliest and most playful of the tango rhythms, and Zachary was the most exciting milonga partner I’d ever had. He held me close again
st him. Our feet flew, as he led me into unexpected combinations, sudden pauses, dashes around the floor, until I laughed with delight. By the end of the first song, we were both laughing, that same falling-in-love laughter.
We danced together the rest of the night. When midnight approached, the music stopped and champagne was passed. We all toasted the New Year, 2012, and healing the world through tango. I thought of the Elirians singing when you laugh and are happy, it matters. At midnight, someone rang a loud bell and we all cheered, and Zachary kissed me, a deep kiss on my mouth, such a kiss as I had not felt for more than a decade, maybe ever. Passion swept through me. I had forgotten those feelings, that intensity. Oh, my God! I thought and wrapped my arms around Zachary and returned the kiss.
We danced again, time lost in tango trance. Then, as we paused between tandas, Tim tapped me on the shoulder. “We’re heading home now.”
“Oh.” I looked up at Zachary. “I need to go. My ride is leaving.” I gave him a hug and turned toward Tim.
“Wait, Clara.” He caught my hand. “When will I see you again?”
“I’ll be at the Avalon on Sunday.” I hugged him one more time. “Thank you for the most delicious tango night ever.” Then I slipped out of his arms and fled. Separating from him felt like tearing Velcro apart.
“That guy sure monopolized you,” Tim complained as he helped me into the car. “I only got one tanda with my favorite partner.”
He and Sally sat up front. I sat in the back in a daze as we spun through the night city. I was moist between the legs and my eighty-year-old consciousness was topsy-turvy.
“Did you tell him how old you are?” Tim asked as he swung onto I-25.
“No!” Sally exclaimed, indignant. “She shouldn’t. She looks fabulous and young. She doesn’t need to tell him how old she is.”
“I didn’t,” I confessed. “Not yet.”
It was 2:30 when I let myself in my back door. I was tired, but had such a buzz overlaying the fatigue that I was dubious about the possibility of sleep. I took a warm bath, drank a cup of hot milk, and lay down. Tango music throbbed through my body. I kept seeing his blue eyes with the slight Elirian tilt at the corners, reliving his kiss and the feel of his body becoming one with mine as we danced. Liquid fire ran in my blood. I tossed from side to side. Finally I threw off the covers and got up.
I wrapped a blanket around myself, sat down on the pillow in front of my altar, and lit a candle.
All right, Clara Norwood, I admonished myself. What do you think you’re doing?
The candle flickered. I tried to quiet my breath. Never mind, I told myself as I breathed studiously in and out. Never mind that he has just the kind of looks you most love, dark curly hair and blue eyes like your father. Never mind that he has such a luscious, elegant body, and not too tall so you fit perfectly in his arms. Never mind that he is a divine dancer and danced with you all night. He could be your grandson.
Back to the breath. Slow. In. Out. Cool at the nostrils as you breathe in, warm as you breathe out.
“Deep,” he says. You’d better believe he’s not troubling his curly pate about aging and dying. He’s still on the upswing. Thinks he’s immortal. Skiing into trees.
Back to the breath.
You know perfectly well how tango creates a romantic illusion. There we all are, dressed up in our best, dancing this sensuous, seductive dance to beautiful music. What does that have to do with life? Nothing.
Breathe.
You also know perfectly well it is considered poor form, even though the dance is seductive, to let yourself get turned on.
I didn’t until he kissed me.
But then you kissed him back. Fool. Remember who you are.
Who am I?
Breathe.
Memories poured over me. All the years after Jon left that I’d searched for a new partner—desperately, that was the trouble. The nights I woke in anguish, longing for touch, for belonging with someone, for a life companion. All the tries and failures. The several years of fruitless online dating services. Finally, at age seventy-five, letting it go, accepting my singleness.
Fool, I told myself. Do not let one handsome young man, one kiss, upset that fragile peace.
Breathe. In. Out. Gradually I quieted.
My head jerking forward woke me. I opened my eyes and saw out my east window bare tree branches, black against the red of sunrise.
It was a week until the Sunday night dance at the Avalon, so I had plenty of time to think about my next meeting with Zachary.
If he came.
Oh, the insanity of romance, the uncertainty, the anticipation. Will he be there? Will he dance with me again? What if he becomes infatuated with a different partner? What shall I wear? My inner old woman shook her head at my fluster.
Careful, she cautioned. Remember Dan, how romantic he was at first. Then how he just walked out one day to live with a woman fifteen years younger than you, with bigger breasts and longer hair. Leaving you, the worn-out wife, to bring up the children alone.
I did remember. The anguish of his betrayal still seared me whenever it surfaced. I pushed it aside. It’s different now, I told my inner old woman. I know what I’m doing. She didn’t believe me.
On Sunday night Zachary was there. His face lit up when he saw me enter the ballroom. He hurried toward me without even the caution of a cabecceo. With even less caution I ran to meet him. He embraced me in the middle of the floor while the music of a waltz filled the hall and dancers swirled around us.
“Clara, I’m so glad you came. I couldn’t believe I let you go the other night without a phone number—some way I could reach you. I don’t even know your last name.”
“It’s Norwood,” I told him. “I don’t know yours either.”
“Conner. Let’s dance.”
Going into his embrace was like coming home, already so dear and familiar. We danced the whole evening together. Once I saw Tim frowning at us and knew I shouldn’t ignore an old friend, but the magic of dancing with Zachary overrode loyalty.
Partway through the evening we sat together at one of the tables, getting acquainted in the way one does with words. He was a software engineer with IBM, had just transferred from Seattle. I focused our conversation on him, not feeling ready yet to reveal myself. It wasn’t hard. He liked to talk about himself. When he got around to asking what I did, I told him I was a massage therapist.
He’d had massage and loved it. “I had this kinky back problem. When I was sixteen I took a pretty bad fall doing competitive ski jumping. The massage helped a lot. But you know… I just realized it still always bugged me until those furry aliens came along and fixed me up. I knew I felt better, but didn’t connect it until just now. I guess they must be real.”
“You live dangerously,” I noted. “Ski jumping.”
“Yes.” His eyes sparkled. His smile curved up under his curly mustache and my heart flipped, remembering the brush of that mustache when he kissed me. “And dancing with you is one of the more dangerous things I’ve done.”
Little do you know how dangerous, I thought. But I said nothing. Not yet.
A waltz tanda came on and we danced again, melting into each other until the last song of the night. He walked with me to the coatroom. “I’m not going to let you get away this time without a phone number.”
I searched in my dance bag for a card. It was an old one, but my number hadn’t changed. He took the card and put it in his wallet. “Will you have dinner with me? I want to get to know you better.”
“I’d love to.”
“I’ll call you.”
He walked me to my car, took me into his arms, and kissed me long and deep, until my knees went weak.
I lectured myself all the way home as I tried to calm my racing hormones. You can’t keep this up, I told myself. It’s insane. You have to tell him he’s kissin
g a woman old enough to be his grandma. As I turned into the garage, I resolved to tell him over dinner.
Two evenings later we met in the elegant dining room of the St Julian Hotel. I asked the host for a corner table, requesting the quietest possible place so the background noise of the restaurant wouldn’t overwhelm my fading hearing. Only after we were seated did I realize I didn’t need to do that anymore.
Zachary looked especially handsome in a blue silk shirt that enhanced his vivid blue eyes. He ordered wine, and we studied our menus. I held mine out at arm’s length.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Embarrassed, I put it back on the table. I could see it perfectly.
“Would you like an appetizer?” he asked.
I looked up at him and forgot about the menu, drawn in by his eyes. “I wonder if they give the shape of their eyes to everyone they touch.”
“What? Who?”
“The Elirians. We recognized each other because of our eyes.”
“Oh, right. But I was checking you out before I saw your eyes. You have a great bod and you were dazzling when Bob led you through all those turns.”
“I was checking you out, too.”
He chuckled and lifted his wine glass. “To us. Tango partners supreme.” His face grew serious. “And much more, I hope.” We touched glasses with a light musical clink, and each took a sip, looking into each other’s eyes.
I was shaking inside. Now. I told myself. Now. Don’t let this go on any longer. “Zachary, there’s something I need to tell you.”
He took another sip of wine and put down his glass. His cell phone rang. He had it handy, clipped onto his belt. “Excuse me a minute. Hey there, Meg… Yeah… Cool… I’m fine.” A long pause. “Sure, send it to me. I’d love to see it.” The conversation went on and on. I turned my attention to my menu but couldn’t focus, nervous and increasingly irritated.
“Okay,” Zachary said. “Hey, listen, I’m out to dinner with this gorgeous woman… Yeah, I will. Good to talk to you. Night, honey.”
He clicked off his phone and slipped it back onto his belt. “My sister. She’s sending me a picture of her kid with Santa Claus. She’s got the cutest little boy. You started to tell me something?”
Never Again Page 11