Bone Dance (18 page)

But she was blonde.

The girl took a drag on her cigarette and tried too hard to look sophisticated, coolly looking me up and down. A couple of girlfriends giggled behind her. My frustration and disappointment must have showed, because her composure started to crumble, and she took a step back.

“Sorry, doll-face. Not tonight,” I said. “Any other night, but not tonight.”

When I returned to the stage to collect my case, Sammy was waiting.

“Finley, you better get your act together. You want to chase girls, fine, but you do it on your own time.”

Considering what I had just turned down in the parking lot, I thought that funny. Chasing girls had been the last thing on my mind lately. I just wanted this one to stop chasing me.

In London and Port Stanley, she didn't put in an appearance, but still I didn't relax. I knew I'd see her again. My music was suffering. I couldn't concentrate, wondering each time I played if she'd be there watching me. The summer season was almost over, and for the first time in years I was glad to see it end. I wanted to get back to Toronto. I don't know why, but I felt that once I got there, this would all be
over. She wouldn't follow me there. I could concentrate on my music again. Well, we just had two dates to go—Crystal Beach and Port Dalhousie. I bet she'd wait until the last night, in Port Dalhousie to make one last show. I was wrong.

The Crystal Ballroom was one of my favourites, and like Dunn's, it attracted the biggest names. But it wasn't just that; the crowd was always fun. Could be because it shared the beach with an amusement park, or it could be because of all those Americans who ferried across the lake to dance and have a good time. They came from Rochester and Buffalo and little towns in upstate New York, and something about being in a foreign country seemed to really make them want to cut loose.

The ballroom itself was huge—1,500 couples could dance at one time—and crowded to capacity that evening. But I spotted her. Perched in one of the balconies like some divining angel, she stared down at me all through the Glenn Miller number and the Hoagy Carmichael song that followed. I had my eyes fastened on her and didn't let go, but when we slipped into “You'll Never Know,” she slipped back into the crowd and was lost to me. Twice, later in the evening, I glimpsed her on the main floor, but she didn't dance.

Tonight was the night. I knew it in my heart. My stomach knew it too—it fluttered and jerked through the second set and clenched tightly through the third. My nerves were shot, and it showed in my performance. Several bad notes and a butchering of “Stormy Weather” earned me glares not only from Sammy, but the rest of the band. Even our singer, mild-mannered Cliff, shot me a look of reproach between numbers. I didn't care. I just wanted it all to be over.

With the last note still hanging in the air, I chucked my horn into its case and jumped to my feet. She was still there, near the refreshment counter. Tonight I'd catch her.

“Can I have a word with you, Finley?”

It was Sammy blocking my path. “Can it wait?”

He shook his head, and my heart sank. Not at what I knew was coming, but because she was getting away.

Sammy pulled me towards the rear of the stage, where we wouldn't be overheard.

“I wanted to wait until the end of the season, but tonight's the last straw. When I took you on, I thought you were a pro, but you've been off most of the summer. It's not fair to the rest of the guys. I'm letting you go now.”

“But Sammy, I've just had a problem I've been working through.”

He eyed me with contempt. “That girl you've been dragging around? Do her parents know what you're doing?”

“It's not like that. I don't even know who she is—”

“Look, I've had enough. Come by in the morning, and I'll pay you off.”

There was no choice but for me to take my horn and go. I glanced at Bill, who was still packing up, but he wouldn't meet my eye. Great, not only was I out of a job, I was out of a ride back to Toronto. Actually, I was more worried about a ride than a job. A trumpet player with my experience shouldn't have any trouble picking up work. Maybe I'd try Bert Niosi at the Palais Royale. I'd heard one of his trumpet players, Ross Archer, was talking of retiring, heading back to Winnipeg.

I didn't spend too much time troubling about it. Not then. It could all wait, but my chance with that girl was fast disappearing. She'd probably be long gone by now, and if she planned on following me to Port Dalhousie, she'd be disappointed.

Wading through the diminishing crowds, I stumbled out into the parking lot, where many were trying to find their cars.
Gales of laughter reached me from the docked ferry as it loaded up to deliver exhilarated partygoers across the lake. Even without the music to accompany them, many were continuing their dancing onboard. At least they were having a good time.

I hunted through the rows of cars. And I found her.

She was sitting in the passenger seat of a shiny new Pontiac with the door open. Poised sideways, she had one high-heeled pump resting on the ground, her stockinged legs crossed and tempting.

“Would you like to drive me home?”

I almost didn't hear her. Her voice was low and sultry, like a summer breeze, and it was almost swallowed up by the firing of the engine in the old Packard beside me. But the keys she dangled from her fingers told me that I'd heard right.

I hesitated only a moment. Taking the keys, I watched appreciatively as she swung those luscious dancer's legs into the car. Closing the door, I walked around to the driver's side and climbed in. She didn't say anything, just looked at me with those smouldering eyes, the way she had been doing for the past two months. I could have got out then. Maybe I should have. I turned the key.

The engine purred to life. “Yours?”

“A friend's.”

Hmmm. Some friend. I put it in gear and eased it into the line exiting the lot.

“My motel's down this way,” she said. But I'm not in any hurry. We can go for a drive if you'd like. If you want to try out the car.”

The car was nice, but it wasn't really what was on my mind. We drove about for a while with the windows down, feeling the night air cool against our skin after the heat of the dance
hall. We didn't speak much—she didn't appear to want to. It was late when we pulled into her motel parking lot. She invited me in.

I trailed close behind her, opening the door to room eight when she handed me the key. She slipped past, and I followed her in. The uneasy feeling I always got whenever she was near flared worse than ever. Glancing around, I suddenly wondered if she shared that room with anyone, maybe her “friend”. I wasn't in the mood to fend off a jealous husband or boyfriend.

“You got the room to yourself, honey?”

“Sure,” she said, casually flinging her purse on the floor by the room's one dresser. Taking a seat on the bed, she crossed her legs and leaned back invitingly.

Seeing no obvious signs of male occupancy, I put my horn down by the door, and took up the offer, sliding in close beside her. But when I attempted to put my arm around her, she wiggled away.

“Not yet.”

“All right. You tell me when. In the meantime, why don't you tell me what this is all about.”

“Come now. I'm sure you've been in girls' motel rooms before?”

“Sure. Lots of times. But not with someone like you. Not with someone who's been following me. What gives?”

She appeared put out by my bluntness, those luscious lips that I had not yet tasted, pursing together. “I like music. I like to dance. Your band's good.”

“That doesn't cut it. We're not that good. And I know you can dance; I saw you once. But you don't dance; you watch. You watch me. Why?”

She stood up abruptly. “Would you like a drink?”

I sighed. “Sure, honey. Whatever you've got.”

Two glasses and a bottle of Canadian Club sat waiting on the nearby dresser, almost as if she'd been expecting company. Of course, for all I knew, she always brought someone home with her. With a face like that, there wouldn't need to be much arm twisting.

“Someone once told me about you,” she said, her back to me as she poured the drinks, “and I was curious.” I thought I heard her voice quiver a bit. But that wouldn't be so strange. She was just a kid.

“You could have got to know me a lot faster if you hadn't been so quick to leave each night.”

“I wasn't ready.” She turned to me, a drink in each hand.

She didn't strike me as the shy type, but I didn't comment. “And now you are?”

“It's time.”

“So what's this all about? Who told you about me and got you so interested?”

An answer didn't come right away. She made me wait before throwing me the first piece of the puzzle.

“It was a woman who used to sing in one of your bands.”

“Sammy's?”

“No. Another one you were in years ago.”

“What was her name?” I asked, but she sidestepped.

“She collected pictures of you.” The girl put her drink down on the nightstand beside the bed and picked up an envelope. “I have them here, if you'd like to see.”

I seized the envelope from her outstretched hand and dumped the contents on the bed beside me. There were about half a dozen newspaper clippings, most pretty faded and worn. I picked up the first one and sure enough, there I was with a few other members of a band I'd played in years before. I glanced through them all and noted that except for a couple
of more recent ones, they dated back more than fifteen years. Taking a closer look at the older ones, I saw they were all of the same band. I identified some of my cronies from that period—Ferde Scott, Arnie Wilts, Bill Harrington, Bob Mowry. It was funny seeing them there. Most I hadn't seen or thought of in years. Ferde Scott was the only one still in the business.

I looked at the girl for some kind of explanation. She handed me my drink.

“It was Irene Driscoll that collected those pictures. The earlier ones at least.”

Her expression was almost triumphant; as if she had just made some great revelation that explained everything. I nodded slowly, remembering. “Pretty blonde with a big voice?”

“She was.”

Irene had been more than pretty. She'd been a real knockout, and she'd had talent to go with the looks. The female singer with one of the first bands I'd played in, I'd known Irene for a couple of years before she quit and dropped out of music. I couldn't remember why. Some sort of accident or something, I thought.

“Something happened to her, in the late thirties, early forties?”

“She got cut up. Someone took a knife to her face.”

“Oh.” I glanced down at my drink, holding it with both hands. “Too bad.”

“But you knew her when she was beautiful, didn't you?”

“Sure. She was gorgeous. A real looker. All the guys in the band were crazy about her.”

The girl raised her glass to her lips and nodded meaningfully at mine. She sipped the pale amber liquid and then said softly, “But you were lucky enough to date her.”

“Me? I wish. She barely noticed me.”

“But it was you that she went with. You that she loved.”

“Are you kidding? She only had eyes for Arnie.”

Her hand shot out and clutched my arm. I had just been about to deliver my own drink to my mouth. Instead, rye splashed all over my hand and onto my jacket sleeve. “Are you crazy? What'd you do that for?” I was on my feet, trying to dry myself with my handkerchief.

“Who's Arnie?”

“Arnie Wilts.” I disentangled myself from her hold. “They went steady for a year or two. Arnie played trumpet as well.”

Her face had gone pale. I thought she might be ill.

“Look.” I pulled a photo from the pile and pointed him out. “He's here in these photos too.”

She stared blankly at the clipping a moment, then frantically started scrambling through the pile. When she found the one she was looking for, she thrust it in my face.

“This is you, right? The guy circled?”

“Nah, that's Arnie. I'm the guy next to him.”

“But it says it's you.”

I looked at the names listed below the photo. “Someone got it wrong. Story of my life.”

A look of panic and disbelief marred her face. She looked wildly around the room then made a dash for the purse she'd thrown on the floor. Rifling through it, she pulled out her chequebook. From inside it she took another photo. This one wasn't a clipping, but a glossy photo from someone's Brownie. There was Arnie's handsome face, mugging for the camera.

“Arnie again.”

She stared at the photo. “Oh, God,” I heard her say softly. She stood there immobile, lost in another world.

I put my wet handkerchief aside and raised my glass to my lips.

She screamed and struck me. The glass was smashed from my hand, its contents showering the floor.

“What the hell's going on?” I touched my fingers to my bruised lip, half-expecting to find blood.

Her eyes were big and round, terrified.

I raised my wet hand to my nose. It smelled strange. It smelled like rye, sure, but there was something else. “What was in that drink?”

“I thought you were him. I thought that was you in those pictures.”

She looked ready to tune out again. I grabbed her wrist. “So? What difference does it make? Who are you?”

She sank down on the bed. “Norma. Irene's daughter.”

I tried to put the pieces together as I watched her begin to sob. Irene's daughter. It took me a minute, but I got there.

“You're Arnie's girl, aren't you?”

“He left her once he found out about me,” she choked out. “He just left us to manage on our own. After I was born, she couldn't handle it. She had no money. And she was so ashamed. When another guy came along and was willing to marry her, she jumped at it. She'd never have looked at him twice otherwise.”