Page 27 of Fragile Wicked Things
"Do you know how to dance?"
"Sure. The Hand Jive. The Stroll. I know a little West Coast Swing. Got some Cha Cha in me too. Why?"
"I don't know how to dance. Will you teach me?"
He looked at his watch. "It's about that time. Come on."
I followed him through the back door, past the kitchen, and into the living room, where he threw open the drapes to let the sunlight in. After opening the armoire doors, he turned the television set on and fiddled with the dial and antennae until he found what he was looking for. He then set the channel to a program calledAmerican Bandstand.
"Take your coat off. This is going to make you sweat. See, where I'm from in Chicago, in my neighborhood, there are the true masters. We're too cool for Hollywood though and they have America watch these young people in Philadelphia instead. They took our moves. See kids nowadays don't want to dance like their parents did back in their day."
I stared at the black and white screen, at the young men in suits and young women in sweater sets and flat shoes. They moved together, boy with girl, sometimes girl with girl, their moves methodical.
"See those two there," Thomas said, pointing to a couple twisting back and forth on the dance floor. "Chubby Checker'sThe Twist. Great move. Cool song."
When the show ended, Thomas turned off the television and picked up a record. He blew on it, held it by its edge between his fingers, and placed it on the player. Static broke through the silence in the room and then came the music.
"Lesson the first, The Twist." Thomas stood with his feet apart, his right foot forward and shifted his weight from right leg to left as he twisted. I mimicked him, but not to his satisfaction and he sighed, grabbed my arms that were stiff to my side, bending them at the elbow. "Twist your waist, like you're unscrewing a bottle cap. Now lean forward." I must have looked foolish and Thomas corrected me often, but after a lot of practice, he finally said, "You got it."
We moved on, and he taught me a hipper rendition of the swing dance, in which we tap-stepped to the beat of the rock 'n' roll sound.
"Give me your hand."
I held it out and he took it into his, wrapping his large hands around mine. They were not soft but pleasant to touch.
"Push off with one hand, drift away from me and count one, two, three, four. Now walk towards me. Count five, six."
Whenever I returned to him, our bodies brushing, a sensation came over me. My heart raced and I wondered if he could hear it. The last person I danced with was Helen when we were both so young, but dancing back then at Lowood was never freeing. Thomas made me feel I could do anything.
We spent days learning one dance move after another. Auntie would stick her head in now and again, and call Thomas away, sending him into town to pick up groceries. The next day, she sent him out for a different reason. I practiced in the privacy of my room, dancing before a mirror, but without the record player belting out the beat, I looked foolish. Dancing, Thomas told me, had less to do with dance steps and more to do with passion. I only had dance steps to contend with.
On the eve of the ball, Thomas had me request some personal time, and I met him by the garage after dinner. We were going to dance. He sat in Rochester's rusted-out Ford, primping his hair and adjusting the rearview mirror to get a better angle. When he saw me, he leaned over to open the door, but he must have noticed the look on my face. He jumped out, ran around to the passenger side, and held the door for me. He flashed a grin.
Twenty minutes later, we were heading down a dark, isolated road. He pointed out the bayou, but when Thomas said it, he stretched out the "you" part, making it sound like slang rather than a real word. He enjoyed picking up a word here and there that were indigenous to "N'awlins."
The truck slowed. Thomas pumped the gas. It made a strange grinding noise and then jerked forward. We continued traveling outside the city limits on a road deep into the woods.
Around a bend, an old brick building came into view, and soon, music could be heard as we pulled up, stopping at the end of a long line of parked cars. I turned to Thomas and bit my lip, anxious about what I'd find inside.
"It looks like a busy night," he said. "I'll get the door." He hopped out from his side. "Now, don't be nervous, and remember what I taught you," he said as we walked along the dirt road to the dance hall.
"Hey, Chicago." A tall Black man leaned against a railing near the entrance, and smiled at Thomas, but when he saw me pull up alongside him, his smile disappeared. He stood straight, towering over me. "This ain't cool, Chicago."
"Don't worry about it. She works for the Rochesters. Besides, who's going tell she's here?"
The man looked from Thomas to me, stepped aside, and let me in. Candles on each table illuminated the dark, smokey, and cavernous club. My eyes watered from the cigarette smoke. A band played on stage, and in the corner beside stacks of vinyl stood a man Thomas referred to as the "selector."
The women wore pencil skirts, kitten heels and fitted sweaters, the men tucked their shirts into their belted pants, a thin tie around their necks. I wore my white shirt with old jeans that Thomas insisted I roll up above my ankles. It was the best I could do. He took my coat, tossed it on the back of a chair, and we sat down at an empty table.
"Now watch and learn while I get you a drink."
I watched. I learned. A couple did the Cha Cha, the woman moved to the Latin music with fierce rhythm, her body let go, oblivious to onlookers like myself.Shehad passion. I contemplated leaving before disappointing Thomas because I was certain I’d be an embarrassment.
A man stepped onto center stage. Wild applause followed. He brought a trumpet to his lips and played as a madman, barely stopping for breath, belting out great brassy sounds with an emotional intensity. His notes varied, first he played at breakneck speed, paused, then surprised us with long, high notes. He drove the audience wild, the beat entered me, the passion filled me, the complexity of the rhythm astounded me. The trumpet player wiped the sweat from his forehead, teased the audience with his comical nature and left the stage amid ferocious applause and pleas for more.
Thomas sat back down beside me, put cola and beer bottles on the table. He took a swig of his beer and pointed to the dancers that he thought were the best. He grabbed my hand and dragged me onto the floor. "Show time."
The men and women formed two lines, facing each other, and Thomas placed me opposite him.
