“Good luck out there,” Mary told him, with all her might willing him to leave.
“Thanks. I’ve got a couple of prospects from last time I was there. Gave them my card. Oh, by the way, I told Mr. Summers about your mother being sick.”
“What? Why’d you do that?”
“He asked why you didn’t answer the phone. Asked where you were. I mean, I’d of never brought up the subject at all if he hadn’t asked. Boss man asks, we gotta answer. You know that.”
“Yeah, I do know.” She also knew this was no time in her life to change jobs.
“You don’t mind if I said something about your mother, do you? I mean, worst can happen is Summers’ll send her flowers.”
“No, I don’t mind, Victor.” Leave! Leave!
“Was that your mother I saw you with at Uncle Bill’s Pancake House?”
My God, was he following her? “Probably,” Mary said.
“I go there sometimes after church. You a religious person, Mary?”
“No, but I’m a spiritual one.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I guess that I believe in something, but I’m not sure what it is.”
“Well, that’s better’n having no god at all.”
Mary bowed her head and pretended to study something on her desk. In the periphery of her vision she could see Victor’s stomach paunch and his gray suitpants. He hadn’t budged, and the front of his pants was twisted in a way that made her wonder if he had an erection.
He cleared his throat. “You need any kinda help with your mother, Mary, you know you can call on me.”
She stared harder at the papers on her desk, not even knowing or caring what they were. “Thanks, Victor, but everything’ll be fine, I’m sure.”
She said nothing more, letting the silence expand and fill the room with pressure that might force him out the door.
Victor deflated the silence. “Anytime.”
“Huh?”
“I said, you can call me anytime.”
“All right.” She still refused to look up at him.
Finally she heard him walk away.
A few minutes later his bland blue Chevrolet nosed from the parking lot onto Kingshighway. He glanced over and saw her watching him through the window. That seemed to please him. The Chevy’s tires eeped, and he waved to her as he drove away.
Are you a religious person?
What an asshole question. How many people stopped to think their religion gave them convenient parent substitutes? Our Father which art in heaven, and the Virgin Mother, provided the unconditional love and infinite capacity for forgiveness we all yearned for from infancy. It was all such an obvious sham that Mary couldn’t sustain faith. It was beyond her how anyone could.
After running up the closing figures on her adding machine to double-check them, she left for the title company. She didn’t return to her office until four o’clock, still seething from dealing with the purchaser’s unreasonable attorney, and worked until six. Before driving home to change clothes and pick up her dance shoes, she stopped at a Denny’s restaurant and had a club sandwich and glass of iced tea for supper. She’d had a cup of soup from the vending machine at work and wasn’t all that hungry, but she wanted time for her food to settle before she stepped onto the dance floor at the studio.
Helen and Nick were practicing tango, working on a routine. Ray Huggins spotted Mary from his office and smiled and waved to her, but she didn’t see Mel anywhere.
She sat down on the vinyl bench and started changing shoes, hoping he’d appear; he’d stood her up for lessons a few times, been sick or had car trouble, and she’d taken her instruction from Nick or Stan. Sometimes it was good to switch instructors briefly, to get accustomed to different styles at high levels of skill, but Mary preferred Mel. He was the one she’d be dancing with in Ohio, and right now that was what was important.
As soon as she’d fastened the strap on her right shoe, she looked up and there he was, padding across the floor toward her from the storage room in back where the instructors kept their competition costumes. He had on a totally black dance outfit with shoulder pads and a sash around his narrow waist; he looked like a cat burglar out to steal love.
“I was practicing a bolero routine with Maureen,” he explained, holding out his hand for Mary. “We’re gonna do it in Miami.”
“Bet it’s great,” Mary said. Maureen, who was the tallest female instructor, looked good dancing with Mel.
“So how do you like my Latin outfit?” Mel asked. He did a quick spin. “I bought it from a shop in Kansas City. There’s a kerchief and a red vest that goes with it.”
Mary told him he looked dashing, and wondered if the costume was what he’d wear when they danced tango in Ohio. She also wondered how it would look with the dress she was having made. A seamstress named Denise Jones, who specialized in dance competition dresses, had already taken her measurements and down payment on a dress to be worn during the rhythm dances. More than a few women danced competitively for little reason other than to wear the sometimes spectacular dresses, and the flashy and stylish all-important shoes.
Mel walked over and made sure the tango tape had a while to run, then returned and said, “Let’s work on head motion tonight. When I lead you into promenade position, you need to put a little more snap into it when you turn your head.”
“I’ll try.”
“I know you will, Mary. That’s why you’re one of the best students here.” He was grinning as he stepped into dance position, moving tight against her and flexing his knees.
“Did you teach Danielle Verlane to tango in New Orleans?” she asked.
He kept position. “How come you wanna know?”
“I’m just curious because she was your student, I guess.”
“I taught her some tango.”
“Ever teach a woman named Martha Roundner?”
“I dunno. Maybe. You ready?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t smile during tango,” Mel said. “Look sexy. Think candlelight and condoms. It’s a dance of male domination.”
The one beat arrived and they were dancing.
“Good, Mary! Great! You really are improving.”
She couldn’t answer, and she realized she was dancing holding her breath. Bad habit. She forced herself to breathe as she remembered to whip her head around in the direction of the promenade step.
Then she quit thinking altogether and simply danced, fell into a kind of trance where everything seemed to happen automatically. Even the music seemed to lose melody and only the sensual tango rhythm remained, beating through her heart and veins.
Time rushed like dark water, and Mel was stepping away from her.
The music had stopped.
“Wow! What happened, Mary? That was terrific!” She knew he often tried to lift her confidence with exaggerated praise, but this time there was something in his eyes, an enthusiasm and a genuine surprise.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Just catching on, I guess.”
“Eee-yow! Catching on is right! Hey, you’re breathing hard. You wanna take a break?”
“No, no, I’m okay. Let’s work on the cortes, tracing a smooth line.”
“You got it, Mary! Practice, practice, practice. That’s dancing-do it a hundred times and you know it.” He rewound the tape and moved back into dance position.
They waited for the one beat and began again.
Mary had wanted to talk to Helen, to ask her if she’d heard about the Seattle murder, but a mambo group lesson had begun during the lesson with Mel, so Mary changed shoes, caught Helen’s eye and waved to her, then left the studio.
She’d driven straight home and snacked on microwave popcorn and diet soda, but now she couldn’t relax. For about an hour she lay on the sofa with her eyes closed, going over in her mind the tango lesson with Mel. In this version he was wearing the kerchief around his neck, and the red vest. She was enthused over the way it had felt tonight, the oneness with the rhythm and the ease with which she’d followed his lead.