Bono

Chapter Thirty-seven

MOVING TO THE GROOVE

Some cats would rather dance in the dark.

Our last night in New York was tinged with sadness. Michaela and Gene invited us to go dancing with them at Iguana on 240 West 54th Street, just a few doors down from where the legendary Studio 54 wowed the world back in the disco era. It’s a theater now, but in those days, if you were gorgeous enough to receive approval from the extremely picky doorman, you’d rub shoulders with everyone from Andy Warhol and Liza Minnelli to Elton John and Salvador Dali. For one New Year’s Eve party, four tons of glitter were famously dumped on the floor, which is excessive even by disco standards. People grumbled that it took months to shed the sparkles from their clothes. After our experience with the Indian paint throwers, I can sympathize.

Michaela assured me Iguana would be nothing like Studio 54. It would be a casual get-together featuring sixties music without the rigors of contra dancing—and no glitter. She was right. Brick walls and low lighting ensured a relaxed atmosphere.

The dancers were another matter. New York is brimming with people who take their dancing very seriously. They have ordinary jobs by day, but at night they morph into Gene Kelly, Patrick Swayze, or Michael Jackson. Though they’re wonderful to watch, I prayed none of them would approach me. It’s a myth that all a woman has to do is follow the man’s lead. Ginger Rogers would agree.

As a kid, I went to creative dance classes for eight years. Our teacher encouraged us to dance for ourselves. It’s a philosophy that can be applied to most things, and I’m grateful she was around when I was still a piece of human blotting paper.

Though I loved the way movement could make music surge through my body, I was never going to be a dancer worth watching.

I still dance from time to time, usually around 6 p.m. when the blinds are down, dinner is in the oven, and the house is empty except for the cat. One of my favorites is Lake Street Dive crooning “I Want You Back.” Some people don’t like the lyrics, but I think the song is an accurate portrayal of one of humanity’s great weaknesses—wanting what you can’t have. Lake Street Dive’s lead singer, Rachel Price, has such a sultry voice, she gets my hips gyrating—though at a pace so sedate it could be described as medicinal.

Dancing with Philip is fun, but rocking and rolling with him is like being thrown into a giant blender. I was happy when the music slowed down so I could run a hand through my hair and check that the armpits of my shirt had not darkened to shades of embarrassment.

Motown has the sensuality of caramel sauce dripping over ice cream. It takes me back to when I was a teenager driven insane by sex hormones. I don’t miss that feeling. Young people are beautiful, but I feel sorry they have to go through so many years in that condition. If I had the choice of being beautiful on the outside and messed up inside my head, or a walking wreck full of serene and grateful thoughts, I’d choose the latter. Getting older has countless compensations.

One of the best dancers was a stunning African American man. I watched in admiration as he rippled across the floor. To my horror, he approached and extended his hand. His sole motivation must have been pity for my clumsy, earthbound movements. When I explained that I couldn’t dance to anything like his standard, he said of course I could and guided me onto the floor. He was endlessly patient as I stumbled against him, trying to tune into his rhythm. Just when we were starting to get in the groove, I tripped over his foot.

If only I could move like Michaela. She swiveled from her hips, like a panther. As I watched her and Gene swing into a rock and roll number, I was reminded of our first night with Lydia at the ice dancing performance. The rink at Rockefeller Center would be melted by now. There’d be umbrellas and tables where, not so long ago, the Zamboni had toiled. I smiled at how determined I’d been to foster a cat with minimal personality or, better still, no cat at all. Now it was hard to imagine New York without Bono.

Later that night, kissing Michaela and Gene good-bye, I tried to pretend we were going away for just a few days. The thought of leaving New York for good was too much. I couldn’t thank her enough for introducing me to Bono. How she’d managed to wave her magic wand and find him an adoring home with Monique was beyond me.

“Don’t you worry,” Michaela said. “I’ll be sending you regular updates on Bono.”

Next morning, as the cab rumbled toward JFK, I drank in the city skyline. Somewhere in that mass of shimmering towers, Monique would be watching over Bono as he padded into a new day. Just off Times Square, I pictured Michaela and Vida sitting at their desks discussing another book by some other author. Over at the pet supply shop on Second Avenue, Bluebell would be preening herself on the counter while Doris rubbed her ears.

Meanwhile, the handbag salesmen would be setting up their stall on the corner, and the beggar with one leg would be turning his mind to the front steps of an unprepossessing building with a red door.

Along the river at Bideawee, Jon and his staff were no doubt welcoming a new batch of needy animals. With the warmer weather it would be kitten season by now.

Tears welled in my eyes. It had been a privilege to be part of New York’s animal-loving community. I was going to miss them all. Thanks to Vida’s and Michaela’s determination, I’d been able to share Bono’s story with the world.

“You’ll be back,” Philip said, leaning across the seat and stroking my hand.

It had been an easy decision to make in the end. New York and the people I’d met there were magical. I adored them, but nothing could surpass the promise of spending the rest of my life with a wonderful man who’d tolerated my quirks through two decades and yet still claimed to love me. There was no doubt I loved him back. Together we’d built a home and a family, who miraculously seemed to like us.

“Jonah will be pleased to see you,” Philip said, as we boarded the plane.

“I hope he doesn’t punish me for being away so long,” I said clicking the safety belt over my lap.

“I’m sure he won’t,” Philip said.

As the engines roared, I felt a surge of excitement. It wasn’t the thrill of leaving for the unknown this time, but the thought of returning to our family and a feline who were very much loved.

From my window seat, I gazed down at the forest of skyscrapers and imagined a small black lion cat somewhere down there.

Because of Bono, part of me would always be in New York.