“I don’t know if we have anything like what you’re used to,” Frieda said, her look appraising Karen’s outfit.
“I don’t dance that fancy, I just like to dance,” Karen said. “With anyone,” she emphasized, putting her arms around an imaginary partner and taking a few steps. Frieda stared at Karen, her eyes growing larger. Karen waltzed closer, almost touching her.
Without moving her eyes from Karen’s, Frieda replied, “If that’s what you’re looking for, I know the place. The VFW hall. It’s about two miles down Main Street. Tonight — every Wednesday night — eight o’clock.”
“How do I get there? Do I go down this street?” Karen gestured, making a sweeping motion, her fingertips almost brushing Frieda’s curls.
Frieda shook her head. “The street on the opposite side of the square is Main Street. It’s a one-way. Just follow it past the county museum. The street’ll fork at Ed’s Chicken Shack. Take the left side. The hall’s on your right, just outside town, before the railway crossing. There’s a sign out front, but sometimes it isn’t lit. You’ll have to go by slow and listen for the music.”
“Thank you,” Karen said, and with another elaborate movement asked for her change.
Frieda placed the bills in her palm but held onto them for an extra moment and said, “If you’ll be there later, I might get Harry to close up early tonight. I haven’t gone dancing in a long while.” She waited expectantly, one eyebrow raised while the other half of her lips lifted in a smile.
Angie had always looked at her in that same quizzical, playful way. Angie, her best friend, who smelled of Lily-of-the-Valley powder, even when she sweated. Angie, the one she wasn’t supposed to love. Angie, who had cursed her.
Karen wanted to stop and touch that smile. She wanted to plant herself and be drenched in it daily. But her feet kept waltzing. She had to leave before she embarrassed herself completely.
She turned toward the door abruptly, accidentally jerking the money out of the other girl’s hand. Karen looked over her shoulder at Frieda and saw her slowly moisten her top lip with the tip of her tongue, like Angie always had. What gods were playing with her now? Or was she being given a second chance?
Her feet propelled her away, their need to move greater than her ability to stop them. But she still smiled at the other woman when she reached the door.
“See you later,” Karen said.
“See you later,” Frieda called out after her.
Karen rushed from the café, struggling to walk in a straight line while her feet insisted on moving from side to side. In the safety of her truck, she watched with dismay as her feet moved wildly in a heel and toe pattern across the pedals. Generally, driving, moving from place to place and never knowing a home, pacified her feet. But she couldn’t curb them enough to drive now. She had to dance.
She tried to distract herself by counting all her money. She was running so low. She didn’t know how much she’d have to dance, or who she’d have to outdance, before her boots gave her more money. Or if she’d get beaten up again. By the time she had counted every penny three times, her feet had slowed to the point that she could control them. A little. She checked her dashboard clock. Not quite seven-thirty. Maybe she could walk, maybe a stroll through the cool evening would dampen the fire banked inside her.
She slid out of the cab of her truck, touching the concrete cautiously, like a child testing the temperature of a lake with her toe. Her feet didn’t dance away under her, so Karen left her truck and started walking.
Just beyond the town square she passed a mansion that had been turned into the county museum. Fluted pillars lined the front, painted yellow with white tops and bottoms. Gabled windows poked out from the red roof. A carriage house stood connected to the side with a leafy arch. It was only a little more grand than the house the Old Lady had lived in. Karen walked by its soft green lawns quickly, hoping no one would see her, the shame of being turned out of a place like that still burning her face.
Next came a less expensive house, with white wooden sides and black window shutters. The lawn was brown, and the front yard sprouted an abandoned car as trimming. It was like Angie’s house.
Karen wondered what type of house Frieda lived in, what the kitchen looked like. She decided it would probably be poor, though not as poor as her mama’s shack had been. The stove would be tiny and there wouldn’t be enough counter space. But in between the permanent stains the sink would be scoured and smell like bleach. There would be room for standing and talking while Frieda cooked. Karen could see herself watching Frieda, leaning against the door to the kitchen, the buzzing, round fluorescent light in the center of the kitchen ceiling a comforting note underlying their conversations. She and Frieda would talk, and eat, and laugh, try new recipes on each other, steal bits of food off one another’s plate; closer than sisters, better than friends. Maybe their friendship could be accepted here. Even if her feelings weren’t normal, maybe she could fit in, here in Annaville.
The hall was much farther than two miles away — typical Texas directions. Just after the abandoned Ed’s Chicken Shack she heard the first few notes. Suddenly her arms lifted, her fingers snapped, syncopated with the cicadas, and her feet started a sideways pas de bas.
No one was on the road, so Karen indulged herself for a few happy steps. She brought her arms around an imaginary partner, closed her eyes and let her boots move across the road without a care. The air felt soft against her cheeks. She smelled wildflowers in the fields next to her. As she danced, a partner grew out of the shadows of her dreams. The image solidified into Frieda.
Shocked, Karen opened her eyes and tried to bring her arms to her sides and walk plainly, but her boots wanted to keep dancing. Angrily, she fought for control, focusing on her feet, trying to bring them back into line. Though she couldn’t restrain her arms, she could drive her nails into her palms. The shock broke her stride. Within the next few steps she suppressed her boots again. She forced her arms to her sides and wiped her sweating hands down her jeans, wincing. She had bruised her palms with her nails, but she knew they wouldn’t hurt for long because her body healed so quickly.
The VFW hall sat twenty feet from the railroad tracks, square and indistinct, the edges blurred by the evening sun. Karen didn’t see the poorly lit sign until she walked up to it. She paid her dollar at the door (running out so fast!) and stepped inside.
The hall looked like a thousand others she had danced in. Overhead fluorescent lights scorched the room: on a Wednesday night dancers wanted to see each other, not spoon. A few couples were already moving around the floor, dancing to “Let’s Sleep on It Tonight,” a medium-paced two-step. Mostly they wore plain clothes: jeans, boots, clean work shirts. A few of the women had flashy yokes on their blouses. A cursory glance told Karen none of them danced as well as she did.
In the far left corner of the hall a pair of elderly women sat behind a table. They sold pieces of cake trapped on paper plates with layers of cellophane, and lemonade sweating in waxy cups. A tall, skinny man in a green and white western shirt with a red kerchief tied around his neck stood in the far right corner. Next to him a black portable stereo system sang out dance music.
Karen scanned the hall for the right partner. Most of the people standing on the edge of the dance floor appeared too old or too taken, though a cluster of high school girls stood close to the door, giggling. Karen decided on a gray-haired yet vigorous-looking man who kept eyeing the door every time it opened. He stood apart from the other couples, yet clearly he wasn’t a stranger.
He watched as she came near, a puzzled look in his eye. Karen looked down and swallowed hard before she smiled at him. So he wouldn’t hear now nervous she was, she indicated with her hands that she wanted to dance with him. His eyes darted to the door again. Would it make the person he was waiting for jealous? Angry? It didn’t matter. To her relief, he nodded at her, then took her outstretched arms.