what my writers' group members said about this piece if you tell me what you think first. And no vague responses like "I liked it" "I hated it," or "I didn't get it." Be specific. Ask questions. Tell me where it makes you wonder, if a passage made you feel confused, and what's implied. Who are these people and what is the relationship? Remember, this is FICTION so there are no wrong answers.
Let's Dance
He is standing between two empty bar stools in crisply ironed slacks and a maroon button-down shirt, leaning on his elbows, both hands wrapped around a tall glass. I can see the honey brown skin of his forearms where the cuffs of his sleeves have been rolled back, revealing sinew and hard muscle, work-worn hands. I touch his shoulder lightly and slide onto a stool next to him, placing my black beaded bag on the bar in front of us. He turns to kiss my check but avoids eye contact, the chain from his silver dog tags hanging inside his shirt. He's ashamed to talk to me now, having been caught in yet another lie, but it doesn't matter anymore. A second broken heart would kill me.
El dolor me mataria, and anyway, I like it here, the anonymity of vague features, music that's too loud for talking, the darkness-smudged ambiance. While he orders me a Shirley Temple with extra cherry juice, I read the labels on the bottles standing in silent mockery on the open shelf behind the bar:
Jose Quervo, Sauza, Quita Penas: Stop Suffering. "Let's dance," I say, sliding off the stool and pulling on his arm. It's a popular place and the floor is filling up with people.
"No," he says, sittings down on a one of the empty stools, his back to the bar.
"Oh, come on! You know you want to!" I say, moving my hips to the music. I can't help it. I love the Latin rhythms.
"No!" he says again jerking his arm free. He's staring at me now but he doesn't see me. I know the look. I sigh and step toward the dance floor.
"That's why I leave my ol' man at home!" A middle aged woman says as she sashays past us flicking her long red nails once in his direction.
I dance alone,
bailo solo, one hand on my hip, the other on my belly. The music carries me somewhere else. I close my eyes and already I'm forgetting the reason I came here.
"Feel the music! Feel the music!" he'd screamed at me in order to be heard above the din. My first dance instructor. Sweet, passionate, and a perfectionist with a horrible comb-over, but he could dance like no other and he was an excellent teacher. Puerta Vallarta. A tiny beach-side cafe. After the place closed we walked for hours on the beach awash in moonlight and talked about President Bush, President Fox, the issues with illegals coming into the US, our mutual love of languages . We passed other couples holding hands, teenagers building sand sculptures, a young mother walking with her barefoot toddler in the warm water, even in the middle of the night. I smile at the memories. Maybe I'll head south again when this is all over.
When the song ends I return to my seat. The bartender fills another tall glass; neon lights from behind the bar shine through it, illuminating the dark, heavy beer the color of Brazilian coffee. The other stool is empty now and I search the crowd as a new song begins. It's a merengue and he is dancing with a beautiful young red-head almost as tall as he is. One, two, one two. He seems content to dance the entire night staring at his hands resting on her slender hips, his thumbs almost touching the diamond stud flashing from her navel. There was a time when I would have been jealous, but not anymore. He looks up to see me watching. I smile and he grins back--the first look of enjoyment I've seen on his face all night.
"Her name's Brenda, or, I don't know, maybe she said Brandy," he says after the song ends and she returns to her friends at another table.
"Brandy, huh? Did you get permission from her parents?"
"Ouch, Woman! That hurts--she's not that young!"
"Compared to what?"
"Compared to--compared--well--she does sort of remind me of this one chick I knew after I got back. Man, that was a crazy time. I was pretty messed up, you know? I guess I was about 26 then and this one night--"
"Let's dance," I say again. "You owe me one." This time he follows me onto the dance floor leaving the end of his story behind in the foam of his beer. The crowd opens and we swirl a wide space, his beige Dockers and my black silk. We don't talk. And we don't have to think. The movement is automatic, flowing, a perfect fit. We move effortlessly for a long time, one song melding into the next.
Stopping to catch our breaths, I feel the heat from my body against the cool of the white stucco wall as he presses against me gentle, but strong, his arms arms still tight around me. There's beer on his breath and urgency raging inside him, conflict I couldn't fix. I put my palms flat against his chest and look into his pliant face. Alcohol always does this to him and I welcome the honesty even while I resent it. His body feels good beneath my hands, solid and warm.
He looks down into my face. "
En que piensas?" he says softly. What are you thinking? Without waiting for a reply, he lowers his face toward mine, his lips parted, his breathing elevated, but not from dancing. Oh, how I want to, but I turn my head.
"About my husband" I reply. It's still a legal description.
He hesitates and I feel his arm twitch. He loosens his hold on me but doesn't let go. His eyes remain fixed on my face and I feel his heart pounding against his ribs beneath his shirt. The music stops and for a long minute, neither of us move.
"Do you hate him?" he asks quietly.
The energy from dancing has left a vacuum in the open space, filling quickly now with new dancers who ignore us and focus instead on their partners. I reach up and touch his smooth jaw line, warm against my fingertips. A drop of sweat rolls down the side of his face and wets the tip of my finger. I want to take him home, cover his body with a cool sheet, sit in the rocker and watch him sleep through the night like I used to watch over my babies when they were sick and moonlight shone through the lace curtains bathing the house in serenity.
"No." I answer. "I--" I stare into his brown eyes boring into mine now, serious and intense. A tear slips down my face and I quickly brush it away.
"I love you--I always will."
A shadow crosses his face momentarily. He steps back, releasing me, then reaches for my hand instead. This time it is he who says, "Let's dance." As I follow him quickly back into the crowd, he grips my hand hard, the ring on my third finger pinching my skin, but the pain feels good. A reminder. The crowd makes room for us again and for awhile, we forget.
Rolan in a chair that belonged to his mother when she was a little girl.
Grammy, Michele, Rolan, Brent, Clayton, Mike
Me with Rachel in her 'Brandon' sweatshirt
Rolan wouldn't give Rachel a kiss but he was happy to blow her one!
Rolan received "A Name and a Blessing" on Sunday, March 29 at the home of his parents. Brent Echols performed the ordinance with Bishop Sincich while Rolan sat on Mommy's lap. A chocolate chip cookie helped keep the reverence. My sister, Rachel, attended and Chantel's family was there in spirit. I believe Brandon, Grandpa Dayley, and my dad were probably there too, completing the circle of love around Rolan. I couldn't help shedding a tear as I felt the spirit and heard the words of the blessing. A wonderful end to my visit to California.
