She took a dance class one night a week and once he peeked into the teacher’s dance studio to watch. It was dark, not even a moon, Brons was sleeping in the car, slight smell of falclass="underline" decomposing leaves, smoke from a nearby fireplace, crisp air. She was in a leotard and tights, hair pinned up, thin face radiant, lively eyes, forehead wet and sweat dripping down her neck, barefoot. She danced so well, terrific leaps, bounds, twirls, strides, whatever the steps and things dancers do are called, it seemed she had the perfect body for it, even the neck was right, hair, long thin fingers and arms, legs looking more solid in the tights, square shoulders with a little knob on top apiece, her hard rear, small waist, the chest. She should have been a dancer, he thought. In the car, for he’d come to pick her up, he said “You should’ve been a dancer,” and she said “Were you playing voyeur before? Themis hates when people look in,” and he said “No, just that you look and move like one, so graceful, athletic. And the way you’re still even breathing hard, which shows what you must have put into it, and you seem to love it so much,” and she said “You really think so, you’re not just saying? Because I’ve been thinking the same thing, but no ‘I should’ve.’ Even if I’m past twenty-five I thought there’s still time. Not to be a lead dancer or anything like that. I’d be happy simply to be in the corps or maybe a little past it — a small ensemble role, you know the kind: all six together doing the same steps — of a good company. If I got into the San Francisco Conservatory would you move with me there if it became too difficult to commute?” and he said “Sure, I like that city and always wanted to live in it,” but that was the last he heard of it from her and he never spoke of it again. But something about her looks and outfit, sweaty serious expression, yellow leotard and black tights, bare feet, hair up, hands on her hips and one leg sort of pointing out as she listened to the teacher, hand on one hip as she stretched on the barre in front of the long wall mirror, everyone applauding her, it seemed, after she did one piece of dancing where she raced across the room several times and made lots of big leaps, head bent down afterward modestly acknowledging the applause, that made him feel he was never so much in love with her as at that one time. Looking through the window, no light on him and hidden on both sides by bushes, he thought if he were a stranger looking in now he’d love to get to know that woman. She’s beautiful, serious, unpretentious, seemingly intelligent, talented and with one of the supplest most agile little bodies he’s ever seen. She said in the car “You’re a real dearie for saying things I occasionally need to hear, but meaning them, not just to please,” and pulled him into a dreamy kiss. “The kid,” he said, thumbing to the back and she said “Another real dearie, still fast asleep.” They drove home holding hands most of the way, he steering with his left and only when the car was lurching back and forth or about to stall, taking his other hand from hers to shift gears with the floor stick.
He was once very high, thought he was going crazy, was seeing and hearing eerie things he couldn’t make out, then he was a bug with his head clamped between another bug’s legs, next he was in a dark cell, his arms and legs chained to the wall, rats crawling through the ceiling grate and chewing his shoes off and then biting his toes, she talked to him, said what he thinks he’s experiencing really doesn’t exist, he was home, in the living room, on Euclid Avenue, right next to the Presbyterian church, the choir’s practicing right now but you don’t seem to hear, Brons is sleeping in his own room and please don’t wake him with your groans and yells, walked him around the house for an hour, fed him coffee and aspirins and a couple of tranquilizers and then called a friend who drove over with a combination of stronger pills that would bring him down and make him sleep, she got him into bed and held him, saying things like “It’s okay, nothing to worry about, only a bad trip that’s ending, last time for that, right? — we’re off that junk for good because it can happen to anybody no matter how stable and placid you’ve been till then. I’m here for you always, my baby, and tomorrow you’ll be up and at ‘em and bouncing around as usual. Now shut your eyes, it’s all going away from the medicine you took or will soon. Rest, rest,” and rubbed his forehead and stroked his eyelids and put her head on his chest and they slept like that till late morning, Brons awaking much earlier and looking in, he said, and seeing them asleep and knowing it was Sunday from the church bells tolling, got his own breakfast and then played outside with his Tonka steam shovel and trucks.