Dancing with the Dead

4

Nose follows toes.

Her instructor, Mel Holt, had told Mary to think of that when she danced in promenade position. Mel was leading her through tango promenade turns now, gliding over the smooth wood floor. Her back was straight, pelvis thrust forward, knees slightly bent; she was tight up against Mel, and her body responded to his every move as he drove forward with long, stalking steps: slow, slow, quick, quick, and sloooow. She closed her frame, spinning neatly to face him on the second slow count and trailing a leg, her skirt swinging gracefully. She loved to dance, but she especially loved to tango.

Her left side had ached at first, where Jake hit her too hard, even though she’d stood for almost half an hour under a hot shower before coming to the studio. But after warming up with swing and fox-trot before the lesson, the pain went away and she was moving loosely and in time to the music. Dead on the beat.

At work, Victor the realist had noticed the darkness beneath her left eye this morning. He shook his head, causing his round, wire-rimmed glasses to slip down on the bridge of his nose and give him his nerdy Ben Franklin look. He knew Jake must have been at her again. Victor should mind his own business.

As Mel led her through a series of turns, she glanced in the mirrors lining the studio walls. In Mel’s arms was a medium-height, dark-haired woman with narrow, symmetrical features, delicate yet not without strength. She was still attractive though with a gauntness she feared might soon take on a pinched, hard quality. Her lean body moved elegantly (if she did say so herself), bending back gracefully now in a corte. Mel closed the step and swept her toward the center of the floor. If he’d noticed the bluish circle beneath her eye, caked now with disguising makeup, he hadn’t said anything.

But Mel wouldn’t. No one at Romance Dance Studio would. That sort of comment wasn’t meant to be part of this world. Among other things, what students bought here was a carefully controlled alternate reality.

Promenade turn again. She snapped her head around. The head was so important in tango.

For an instant she was again staring at herself in the mirror, but this time caught by surprise, as if she were a stranger noticed gazing through a window. Her mouth was set in a grim slash of concentration, her dark eyes burning. Then she composed her features, the way people do before mirrors. Mel-tall, loose-jointed Mel-was smiling absently as he drew her even closer and whirled her into another turn, then a flare.

When she was dancing she forgot about Jake, about everything but music and motion. And Mel. They’d been dancing together for almost two years, and she sensed his leads sometimes even before he began them. The world outside the studio was chaotic and threatening, but here, inside, were design and beauty and the ages-old marriage of pattern and grace.

The Latin music came to an abrupt stop. Something with a loud, simple four-four beat began to play. Kevin, another instructor, and his student June, began doing triple-time swing over by the stereo tape deck.

“Oh well, time’s up anyway,” Mel said, stepping away from Mary.

She knew he was right. The wall clock indicated her hour lesson actually should have ended five minutes ago.

As she walked off the dance floor with Mel she noticed Kevin leading June, who was a fifty-year-old widow, through a series of underarm turns. June had regained her figure with a liquid diet and looked like a slender teenager spinning out to the end of Kevin’s reach, then rock-stepping back into dance position. Mary figured June had signed up for lessons so she could meet men. Well, nothing wrong with that.

“We got a lesson booked for Thursday?” Mel asked, as they stepped onto soft carpet.

Mary nodded. “Seven o’clock.”

He grinned, handsome and easy and so at home in the world. “See you then.”

As he started to walk away, he turned; he even did that as if he were dancing. “By the way, you planning on competing in Miami next month? We could still pencil you in for extra lessons and get you ready.”

“No, not Miami,” Mary said. She had a well-paying job, but it was formidably costly to compete. “Maybe Ohio in November,” she told Mel, who was standing there looking as boyishly hopeful as if he’d just asked her to the prom.

He seemed so crushed. “Aw, I’m sorry you can’t make the Dancerama in Miami-” he suddenly brightened-“but we’ll start working to get ready for Ohio. Can I consider you committed to go?”

Mary shook her head no, a little flustered. She had to build her savings if she was going to the Ohio Star Ball in Columbus, the most prestigious of the competitions held around the country. “I’ll let you know, Mel. I’ve gotta look at my finances.”

“Hey, that I understand.” He grinned and squeezed her arm. “See you next time, Mary.”

Still smiling, he turned away from her.

As Mary sat down on the upholstered bench to remove her dance shoes, the door swished open and Helen James entered, carrying her plastic “Showtime” bag. Helen was a mildly overweight woman in her late thirties, with a flesh-padded, sweet face and an overdeveloped bust. She was beautiful in a way more dependent on attitude than appearance, like one of those full-figure fashion models flaunting their oversize clothes.

Nodding to Mary, she sat down next to her to change shoes. “Coming or going?” she asked.

“Going,” Mary said. “I just finished a private lesson.”

“Why don’t you stay for group?” Helen asked. “It’s gonna be merengue.”

“I’ve gotta get over to visit my mother, or I would stay. I could use work in the merengue.”

“Couldn’t we all.” Helen slipped into her black practice shoes, stood up, then stared down at Mary. She narrowed her eyes. Women who were close acquaintances somehow knew, if they paid attention. And Helen was the sort to pay attention. “You okay, Mary Mary?” It was her habit to make Mary’s name into an affectionate nickname.

“Sure, fine.”

“Looks like somebody took a poke at you.”

“No,” Mary said, “that’s not what happened.”

“My daughter, Ann,” Helen said, “her ex-hubby used to pound on her all the time.”

“Why?” Mary asked. “What’d she do?”

“Do? Why, she didn’t do a thing to deserve it. He’d beat on her just for the pure hell of it. Make up a reason, if she asked him. Finally he put her in the hospital and she got smart and left him. It took Ann three years in therapy before she realized none of it was her fault. Sounds odd, but that’s the way it seems to work. It’s a power play, really, something that’s just in some men, like it’s hormonal.”

“They should help themselves, get that kinda thing outa the way they think. Or get professional help.”

“They don’t change, Mary Mary. Not ever. They’ll lie their ass off to you, but they won’t change.”

“None of that’s got anything to do with me,” Mary said. And it didn’t. Not anymore. Finally and forever, she’d cut Jake out of her life.

“ ’Course not. Hey, you see this?” Helen picked up a folded newspaper that was lying on the table near the bench. “That girl got her throat cut in New Orleans was in a dance competition I went up to Chicago to see. I remember her ’cause of the hot pink dress she had on when she won first place in cha-cha.”

Mary glanced at the brief news item about a woman who’d been found murdered in a vacant lot. Her photograph appeared above the simple caption, “Victim.” She was a pretty, dark-haired woman, about thirty. Danielle Verlane was her name. The newspaper mentioned nothing about her being a dancer.

“You sure it’s the same woman?” Mary asked.

“Oh, yeah. I remember her name ’cause it’s kinda unusual. Her, all right. Did a helluva tango, too. You never know what’s gonna happen, huh? I mean, maybe her husband did that to her. Started out beating her, love taps or some such shit, then it led to that. It happens.”

“God, no!” Mary exclaimed. “That’s silly. And if that’s how it was, the police’ll find out.”

“Won’t do her much good now, though, will it?” Helen did a practice rumba step and grinned.

Air stirred around Mary’s ankles as three other students, two men and a woman, pushed through the door. The men were Curt and Willis. Curt was a two-hundred-pounder who’d been taking lessons about six months and was constantly apologizing for stepping on his partners’ toes or giving them the wrong lead. Willis was a wiry little gray-haired man who danced almost well enough to be an instructor. He was going to Miami with his instructor Brenda and would probably return with a trophy. The third student was Lisa Burrows, a twentyish woman who was tall and bony and reminded Mary of a beautiful thoroughbred racehorse. Lisa had been dancing for several years but had only been coming to this studio for about a month. Mary didn’t know her very well.

Hellos were exchanged, and Lisa and Willis sat down to change shoes. Curt danced in leather street shoes, which was part of his problem. Lisa began brushing the suede soles of her shoes vigorously with a wire brush, to raise the nap and decrease friction so her steps would glide. The muscles in her lean arms were corded like a man’s.

“Remember a girl named Danielle who competed in Chicago?” Helen asked Willis.

He shook his head no, watching Lisa brush her soles, or maybe studying her improbably long legs. Shoosh! Shoosh! went the brush, sending flecks of suede flying. She seemed genuinely unaware of his scrutiny, which appeared to intrigue him all the more.

“Well, she was murdered in New Orleans,” Helen said.

Lisa handed her brush to Willis to use on his shoes and said, “So what was she doing in New Orleans?”

“She lives-lived-there.”

“I was there once, for Mardi Gras.”

Shoosh! Shoosh! “Murdered how?” Willis asked.

“Helen thinks her husband did it,” Mary said.

Willis shrugged. “Well, that’s usually the guilty party, the victim’s spouse.” Shoosh! “That oughta do it.” He handed the brush back to Lisa.

“Or boyfriend,” Helen said, looking at Mary.

“Same thing.”

Lisa snorted, somehow making even that seem sensual.

Two more students, Jean and Marci, who took turns driving each other to the studio, came in from outside, talking and laughing. Suddenly silent, they nodded, then glanced around for a place to sit down and change shoes. Mary stood up and moved away, leaving space on the bench.

Larry, another instructor, bustled out of the office smiling. “Everybody ready for merengue?” he asked, clapping his hands. Enthusiasm was his long suit.

“Ready for anything,” Lisa said. Willis stared at her.

“All right, onto the floor, folks. Staying, Mary?”

“No, I gotta be somewhere.”

“Aw, nooo you don’t! Come on and stay!”

“Sorry, Larry, gotta run.”

“Awww!” Then he seemed to shake off his acute disappointment; life would go on for him after all. “Okay, whoever’s coming, let’s go!” Swaying his hips in Cuban motion, he merengued over to the far side of the dance floor. The students followed.

“Take care, Mary Mary,” Helen called over her shoulder, then got in line with the other students.

Carrying her dance shoes in their nylon bag, Mary walked to the door, subtly swaying to the rhythm of the Latin music now pulsating from the speakers. “Weight over the bent leg!” Larry was yelling. “Atta girl, Helen! Beauuutiful!”

Mary pushed the door open and stepped outside into a cool, light drizzle, the real and indifferent world greeting her with a slap in the face.

Before climbing into her yellow Honda Civic, she held the door open so the dome light stayed on and looked in the back of the little car. A woman alone had to take precautions. She’d heard on the news, or somewhere, about women being attacked by men who’d hidden crouched behind their cars’ seats and then made themselves known by an arm around the neck along some desolate stretch of road. A knife against the throat.

No knife-wielding maniac tonight. But then she hadn’t really expected one. Stories like that were mostly rumor grown to become urban legend.

As she drove away she glanced in the rearview mirror and thought she saw a shadowy form pass behind the car, very near. Though startled, she felt no fear. She simply stepped on the accelerator and instantly was away from any danger, real or imagined.

Imagined, she was sure, as she turned left from the parking lot onto the brightly lighted avenue.

Imagined.

Urban legend.

She switched on the radio and found music.