Moments before, I lived in a world where wisteria snaked across my son's grave as he rotted beneath a cement slab; where Vietnam Vets inhaled beer to help them forget the day they wiped Vicks salve in their noses so they wouldn't have to smell the bodies as they zipped up the bags; where a no-good farmer bathed in a cornfield but couldn't wash the blood clean; where snow fell on iced-over railroad tracks; where used-car salesmen robbed old women with inflated prices and double-digit interest rates; where little boys peed in the baptistry and pastors strutted like roosters; where evil men tied innocent girls to trees, stripped them, raped them, and left to them die; where students cheated and burnt-out professors scribbled useless information on sweat-stained chalkboards and couldn't care less; where not-so-innocent girls paid $265 for scar tissue; where the most precious thing I had ever known lay listless, scarred, childless, and dying in a nondescript hospital room in the armpit of South Carolina.
But then came Maggie's voice.
I looked around and found myself in a world where wisteria blooms in December; where a Scottish piper sings through his pipes; where used-car salesmen open car doors for little old ladies; where pastors dunk themselves with scared children who emerge clean and hungry; where students say, "He'd call it cheating"; where not-so-innocent girls carry receipts in their pockets and write books that will be read by Oprah; where a no-good professor bathes in the river, burns dead cornfields, and basks in moonlight and flames; and where my wife speaks.
I now lived in a world where the dead danced.
I walked into my wife's room, and there, under the window and glowing like the sun, lay Maggie-her big brown eyes meeting mine for the first time in so many months.
Breathing heavily and fumbling with my hands, I didn't know what to say. Where do I start? Am I the same Dylan that she fell in love with, and is she the same Maggie? How deep are the scars? Are we the same us? Standing there in my new boots and covered in pig smear, I didn't know who to be until I knew where she was. I needed Maggs to tell me who to be-because that would tell me where she was, and most importantly, who we were.
I closed the door, knelt down next to Maggs's bed, and watched her cracked lips quiver. I slid my hand beneath hers and searched her eyes, aching to know and be known. She blinked a lazy blink, tilted her head, and smiled.
IT WAS MIDNIGHT WHEN WE HEARD THE PIPES. WE crawled out of bed, slipped on some jeans, and walked hand in hand along the tree line. Standing under the overhang of oaks, next to my son's grave, was Bryce, decked out in full military regalia, ruddy-cheeked and blowing so hard the veins on his neck stood out like rose vines. He was somewhere in the middle of "It Is Well with My Soul" when we walked up. A gentle breeze skirted along the bank and fanned over us as we stood facing the river. Our long shadows ran down to the river and disappeared into the water.
Without a pause, Bryce slipped into "Amazing Grace." The music went through us like the morning sun, warm and glowing. As the last hollow note of his pipes echoed off the river and faded into the distance, Maggs walked over and kissed him on the cheek. Bryce stood rigid, heels together, at attention, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He was wearing a green beret, his military dress shirt, and a chest spangled and twinkling with medals. Everything, from his hat to shirt to kilt to socks, was clean, pressed, and worn for the first time in a long time. Without saying a word he turned, began blowing, and disappeared like an angel into the darkness. As we stood underneath the canopy of oaks, the pipes faded away downriver.
Maggie slid her hand under mine and tugged on my arm. The air was cool, but nothing compared to the previous year. I stood on the bank while she ran in front of me and climbed the sandy bluff. In the moonlight, she stripped off her jeans and stood silhouetted against the moon, which formed a halo around her body and threaded her hair with silver. I watched, waist deep in the water, mesmerized. Enchanted. The slender calves, the small curve of her lower back, the graceful shoulders. She skipped to the edge and took a swan dive off the bluff, splashing into the water a few feet away from me. The ripples lapped against my stomach and brought chill bumps to my skin. When she broke the surface, and that black water dripped off her nose and ears, a sweet and sneaky smile creased her face.
Half a dozen wood ducks soared overhead, brushing the tops of the cypress trees with their wing tips. An owl hooted low and hauntingly; farther north along the river, a lone bluetick hound sounded a single lonely ping somewhere in the Salk. A mile south of us, the sound of singing, pungent with joy and ripe with smiles, rose like a flume of steam from Pastor John's church steeple. Maggie and I swam close together, swaying with the slow rhythm of the river while the echoes of voices showered down on us like a warm summer rain. Beneath it all I had only one thought, one need.
Lord, I'm begging You. Please give me sixty-two more years with this woman.
SOMEWHERE IN DECEMBER OF 1995, 1 BEGAN THINKing about this story. I was driving through one of the bridge tunnels in Hampton Roads on my way to UPS, where I worked in the early morning preload. It being the Christmas season, I think we had to clock in before 3 AM. It may have been earlier, but I've tried to block that out. I had been in graduate school at Regent University, and in order to remain focused on school, I had suppressed my stories for so long that they had begun to rebel and bubble their way to the surface. Cream does that.
Let me interject one thing-my graduate school experience was phenomenal. One lightbulb after another clicked on and lit my path. I wouldn't trade it for the world. Three men in particular contributed to this, and I am greatly indebted to each-Doug Tarpley, Michael Graves, and Bob Schihl. Guys, thanks for a seat at the table. My hat's off to you.
At any rate, I remember driving through the tunnel and could hold it back no longer. Remember the grammar school project where the kid pours the vinegar over the baking soda in the papier-mache volcano? As I was nearing the bottom of the tunnel, one scene erupted and flashed across the screen on the back of my eyelids: a man standing in a ditch, screaming at God. I knew he was cold, alone, and at the end of himself. Much like Crusoe, he was shipwrecked, a castaway in need of Friday to rescue him off the island. The Dead Don't Dance grew from that early-morning flash, or hallucination, as the case may have been. In later drives, mostly through the back roads of South Carolina, I saw a beautiful girl and somehow knew her name was Maggie, a handsome black man who looked like Mr. Clean with a badge, and a farmhouse with a rusted tin roof-one I knew well.
The path from idea to trade paper has been, as with other first novels, a graveled road marred with washouts, blind corners, stop-and-go traffic, and U-turns. Yes, I've worked hard, early mornings, late nights, stoplights, but that is the least of it. Many writers work hard. I, and this book, are in large part a product of other people's unselfishness. People who gave me a chance. Who believed in me. Without them, I'd not be here, and you'd not be reading this book.
I won't backtrack to my youth, but I need to start by thanking one of the finest writers I've ever met: John Dyson. John worked for Reader's Digest, writing some 160-plus articles and more than twenty-three books over a three-decade career. He's a writer's writer, a true craftsman and wordsmith. Not to mention a pretty good sailor. I won't bore you with the story, but John was instrumental in my first work as a writer. You know that process of smelting, where the silversmith heats the silver and removes the dross? John did that to me. Painful too. Somewhere in that furnace, he taught me what good writing looks like, and maybe more importantly, sounds like. Somewhere early in our work together, he told me "Charles, an editor is one who walks back through the battlefield and shoots the wounded." He was right, and true to form, came with both barrels blazing-though, in my case, that's not always bad. As a dwarf running among giants, I stand with one foot squarely atop John's broad shoulder. John, thanks for allowing me the view, for letting me whisper in your ear and ask the same irritating questions over and over, and for not brushing me off your lapel.
While one foot is resting on John's shoulder, the other is balan
cing on the tall shoulders of Davis Bunn. About two years ago, I had come close to my wits' end. I had finished the book, bought the Writer's Guide like all writers are supposed to, and sent out a couple hundred dollars' worth of manuscripts and postage to as many agents and publishers as I could find. Soon my mailbox began filling up with some of the nicest letters of rejection I've ever received. Each one was so kind and so completely rejecting that for about eight months, I quit going to the mailbox. During that time, Christy would walk in, drop the letter on my desk, kiss me on the cheek, and say, "You're not a reject to me." It was little consolation.
At any rate, Davis-who's written some sixty-plus novels-attended a party in D.C. and got cornered by my wellmeaning but not-to-be-refused grandfather. Looking for an exit but hounded by my mercilessly pestering grandparents, Davis relented and broke his never-read-a-first-novel rule. A few days later, he invited me to lunch, where he fed me a sandwich, made two quick phone calls, and befriended me. Something I was in need of. When I got home, I had received two e-mails and one voice-mail asking to see this manuscript. A week later, I had an agent. And six weeks later, a publisher.
Granted, I'd not have had those if the work couldn't stand on its own, but Davis helped open the door. One I'd been bashing my head against. Maybe he recognized the flat spot on my forehead, and it reminded him of his own. Davis is a true professional who's taught me much about this business, how to navigate it, and what to do when the storms comebecause they will. Davis, thank you for the view, the conversation, the friendship, and for relenting.
Davis led me to the office of a true statesman, one of the real patriarchs in this business, Sealy Yates. Sealy introduced me to a young bulldog in his office named Chris Ferebee. Chris read my novel over the weekend and called me on Monday night. "Charles, I'd like to help you get this book published."
It took me a few minutes to recover from that phone call. I'm not sure my neighbors ever have. Chris made a few suggestions, I made a few corrections, and six weeks later, Thomas Nelson offered to publish my work. Chris, you're a true counselor, sounding board, ally, and friend.
Chris sent my work to an editor at Nelson named Jenny Baumgartner. Jenny read it and offered to buy me breakfast at this pancake restaurant in Nashville where they serve these fantastic buckwheat pancakes. We struck up a conversation, and not long after, Nelson bought this book, and Jenny became my editor, and maybe more importantly, my advocate at Nelson. Jenny has a great eye for fiction, a remarkable ability to take something good and make it better, and a unique talent to communicate all that into a form that even a writer can understand. I am also indebted to the team around her: Jonathan Merkh, Mike Hyatt, and Allen Arnold. To the rest of the team at Nelson and the many people that I've never met who have worked so selflessly, from designers to salespeople, please accept my sincere thanks.
Throughout this eight year roller-coaster ride, my family and friends at home have helped me maintain my perspective and keep me off medication, and out of a room with padded walls.
Without getting too sappy, I'd like to thank: Johnny and Dave. True brothers. When I scraped my knees, you guys-at different times and in differing ways-picked me up, brushed me off, and helped me strap my helmet back on. My in-laws, Alice and O'Neal. Thank you for your encouragement and for not disowning me when I said, "I'm working on a book." My sisters, Grace, Annie, and Berry. You all read my stuff and told me it was good even when it wasn't. Thanks for lying to me. Keep it up. My grandparents, T.C. and Granny. When you asked to read my work, I was a bit worried that you'd find it foolish. "All that education and he's doing what?" You didn't, and what's more, you became two of my best cheerleaders. Thanks for cornering Davis. Mom and Dad. Thanks for your sacrifices, for loving each other, and for teaching me to run with reckless abandon and then letting me do it.
Our boys-Charlie, John T., and Rives. Thanks for running in here and hugging my legs or asking me to play catch or go fishing or build Legos or wrestle at regular intervals. I needed it. Still do. Always will. Most importantly, thank you for praying for my books. This is proof the Lord really does answer us, and I think you three had a lot to do with it.
Christy. Phew! I'm worn out. How about you? Ready for a vacation? You've earned it. Anywhere you want to go, just as soon as we pay off the credit card. How you kept your sanity through ten years of marriage, graduate school, three boys, and my dreams is a mystery. You amaze me. People ask me how I created Maggie, but I didn't have to look very far. She was walking around my house, digging in the yard, tucking in my boys, whispering in my ear, holding my hand, and sticking her foot in my back. Thank you for believing in me and hoping with me, because I know there were many days in this process when I was less than lovable.
Lord. What can I say that You haven't already heard? Thank You for this, for the people I've listed, and for hanging in there with a guy like me. My cup runs over.
1. The river is a powerful image in this novel. Both literally and figuratively, Dylan must choose to fight against the river or allow it to carry him where it wishes. What does the river symbolize in this story? How does Dylan finally come to terms with it?
2. Blood also plays a symbolic role in this story. What does it represent? How is it different from or similar to the role of water?
3. One review refers to The Dead Don't Dance as "a classic example of God-haunted Southern literature." Very similarly, Flannery O'Connor's writing is often referenced as a "Christ-haunted landscape." How is the South portrayed in this novel? Why does Southern literature lend itself so easily to being "God-haunted"?
4. What is the meaning of the title? Discuss the theme of dancing and identify how "dancing" plays an integral part in the meaning of the story.
5. Discuss Dylan's attitudes toward education and teaching in the novel. How and why do they change? What affect does this have on Dylan's identity and his own selfimage?
6. Much like Jacob in the Bible, Dylan wrestles with God as he searches for answers to the questions that fill his soul. How did wrestling with God change Jacob? How does it change Dylan?
7. Every time Dylan returns from the cornfield, his arm is raw. It is soon covered in scabs and he continues to cover it up with long sleeves. What is he doing to his arm in the cornfield? Why is he doing it? Why the mystery surrounding it?
8. After eating breakfast with Amos at Ira's Cafe, Dylan realizes that he has not thought about Maggie for fortyfive minutes. Overwhelming guilt descends upon him. What does this story imply about nature of guilt and its relationship to tragedy?
9. What role does Bryce Kai MacGregor-the naked, bagpipe playing, movie-loving millionaire-play in this story?
10. What roles do Dylan's students play in his life? Why is it significant that Koy is such a poor communicator in person but such an articulate poet and letter-writer? How does the students' plagiarism mirror Dylan's inner conflict?
11. When Dylan tells Amos, "I see colors, not structure," how does this statement summarize the differences between the two men? How do their personalities complement each other?
12. Describe Dylan's faith. How do his interactions with Pastor John and the AME church affect him? How does Amanda impact Dylan's beliefs?
13. Dylan says, "I drive an old pickup because I understand it." How does this statement characterize Dylan? When he purchases a used truck from Jake's Jalopy Auto Center in Walterboro, why does he offer Jake more money than the truck is worth?
14. Dylan explains, "The Salkehatchie is mythical. Everybody knows the stories.... If you can think it, it's probably already been mythified." Why is it significant that the violent coon hunt takes place in "the Salk"? What impact does the hunt have on Dylan?
15. Though Maggie stays in a coma for most of the novel, how does her character generate a "presence of absence"? By the end of the novel, do you think the relationship between Dylan and Maggie has changed? If so, how?
FOR CHRISTY
- who stood beside me and believed.
SOMETIME BEFORE DAY
LIGHT, I HEARD IT. INCHES FROM my face, it sounded like a mouse sliding a saltine across a wooden floor. Seconds later, it sounded like the horn section of a symphony, tuning up. Then like cat purring lazily in the sun. And finally, like a woman who'd been in a coma for several months and was regaining the muscle tone she'd lost in her throat.
It was one of my favorite sounds-the sound of sweet dreams, the sound of contentedness, the sound of my wife next to methe sound of Maggie sleeping. At that moment, she was sacked out and snoring like a sailor. I lay with my eyes closed, playing possum, listening and smiling because she'd die if she knew. "I don't snore!" Unconsciously, I had paced my breathing with hers, making sure to inhale deeply enough and to exhale slowly enough.
Moonlight filled our bedroom with a hazy grayish-blue, telling me the moon was high, full, and shining like a Milky Way spotlight on Maggie. I watched her, lingered there, and milked the Milky Way. Most nights she flopped around like a fish tossed up on the beach; then, on into morning, she'd settle down a bit and start spreading out horizontally. Now she lay sprawled across the bed like a snow angel, hogging all corners as if she'd grown accustomed to having the bed to herself. My left cheek barely hung on the edge of the mattress, and not a single square inch of sheet covered me, but I could not have cared less. If I ever do, somebody ought to beat me into next week. Her feet told me she was wearing socks, her neck told me she was wearing Eternity, and her arms told me she was wearing me.
All the world was right.
Around four in the morning, Maggie flung herself sideways, stretched like Blue, and then reencircled me like an octopus. When she settled, her hair draped across my chest like tentacles, mingling into me. Maggie's hair had grown well past her shoulders. Long and shiny, it was made for shampoo commercials. Mine, because of the coming summer heat and what would be long hours atop the tractor, was cropped relatively close, exposing my neck to the sun, dust, and dirt. When Maggie cut it, she had nodded in approval, reminding me that my grandfather would have nodded too.
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