Dead Man Dancing (19 page)

‘What's wrong?'

‘They don't know.' She twisted her hands in her lap. ‘They're testing him for everything under the sun.'

‘So it's not flu?'

Kay looked away from me, and stared out the window. ‘No.'

After a long moment she said, ‘Isn't it amazing how life goes on?' She pointed. ‘Those people down there in the street; those cars. My world's tumbling down, and I feel like they should stop and share my pain. But, no. They go on and on as if nothing's happened.'

‘I know how you feel,' I said to Kay, confident that being familiar with my medical history because of Dance for the Cure, she'd realize that I wasn't mouthing empty platitudes. After my cancer diagnosis, I remember being surprised to see the flowers still blooming in the planters outside the doctor's office, people still driving along busy Bestgate Road, rushing to the mall on important errands. Later at the 7/11, someone had been arguing with the Vietnamese clerk because he'd had the bad judgment to run out of copies of the
New York Times
. ‘This is not a crisis,' I remember telling the loudmouth jerk as I waited in line behind him to pay for my half and half. ‘You could be diagnosed with cancer.
That
would be a crisis.' He'd given me a drop-dead look and stalked out, while the rest of the people in the line applauded. Maybe I'd given him something to think about.

Kay turned her attention from the activity on the streets of downtown Baltimore, blinking rapidly, saying nothing.

‘So, if it's not the flu, what? Food poisoning?' I prompted.

‘They're not sure. He's been complaining for weeks that his legs felt funny, like rubber, you know? But he danced through it, focusing on the routine. We almost made it, didn't we, Hannah?'

I laid my hand over hers. ‘Your paso doble was brilliant. You'll be back on the dance floor in no time.'

She arched a single darkly-penciled eyebrow. ‘Do you think they're going to put that on television?'

From Kay's expression, I couldn't determine whether she hoped they would televise a clip of their performance, or prayed that they wouldn't. I could picture it now, news at five, six and eleven – Kay's leap, Jay's catch and their fall – in slo-mo, over and over. I squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘Don't worry, Kay. There wasn't anything on the evening news last night.'

Cameras hadn't been allowed in the theater, but I wondered how many people had sneaked them in anyway, and how many views of Jay and Kay's routine had been posted to YouTube by day's end. I decided not to mention it.

Kay's brows drew together as if I'd asked her a particularly difficult question, then just as suddenly, the look of concentration vanished. ‘I'm expecting the doctor in a few minutes. Guess I better get back to the room.'

I'd been dismissed. ‘Perhaps he'll have good news for you, Kay.'

She rose from the chair and said, ‘It's not botulism, at least. And since he's not eaten any fish, they can pretty much eliminate ciguatera poisoning. But it could be lupus, Hannah, or porphyria,' she rattled on, her voice rising. ‘Or Guillaine-Barré syndrome? My friend Ellen's husband had Guillaine-Barré
years
ago and he still has to walk with a cane!'

I stared at Kay for a moment, taking it all in. I knew from sailing charter boats in the Virgin Islands that ciguatera was a nerve poison one got from eating large, tropical reef-feeding fish. Lupus was an autoimmune disorder. Porphyria rang a bell, too. ‘Porphyria? Isn't that what King George III was supposed to have had?'

‘Did you see the movie?' she asked, her eyes wide. ‘I'm scared, Hannah.'

She was referring to
The Madness of George III
, where Helen Mirren had to watch while her husband, Nigel Hawthorne, descended into madness. ‘Kay, that was in the eighteenth century! They have treatment for porphyria these days.'

‘I know, but it's just so scary, not knowing.'

I urged her along the hall gently. ‘Go back to the room and wait for the doctor. I'm sure he'll have good news for you soon. And don't worry about a thing.' I delivered the message from Chance.

‘I don't know what I'd do without Chance and Alicia,' she said, tearing up again. She gave me a hug, catching me slightly off guard. ‘And my friends.'

‘If there's anything I can do . . .' It was a cliché, but heartfelt. ‘I used to manage an office in Washington, DC. I can push papers with consummate skill.'

‘Thanks, Hannah, but Chance can handle the business end of things for me, at least for a while.' She slipped her arm through mine, and drew me down the hallway alongside her while continuing our conversation. ‘He's even expressed interest in buying into one of our franchise operations,' she said, smiling.

I thought about Chance as I'd last seen him, heading back to the office computer: erect, graceful, confident. ‘I'm sure that'd work out great for everyone,' I said, adding parenthetically (particularly for Chance).

Kay brightened. ‘And think of all the publicity we'll get from
Shall We Dance?
when Hutch and Melanie move on to New York City!' She froze in mid-step and turned to me. ‘When Hutch called yesterday afternoon with the good news, I thought Jay would hop off the gurney and do a happy dance right there in the Emergency Room.'

‘I wish you had seen their performance,' I said as we moved past the nurses' station. ‘Absolutely stunning.'

‘I know. I helped Jay with the choreography. I watched them practice.'

‘And Tom and Laurie will no doubt do you proud in DC this weekend.'

Kay froze. ‘Yikes! The Sweetheart Ball Championships!' She flushed. ‘With all that's happened since yesterday, I nearly forgot.' She touched my arm. ‘Don't tell Tom and Laurie.'

‘Tell them what?' I grinned.

I left Kay at the door to her husband's room with a promise to let her know the minute I heard the results from DC.

As it turned out, we'd have a whole lot to celebrate.

‘F
irst, first and first!' It was late Sunday night, and Laurie was calling me from inside an elevator at the J.W. Marriott Hotel. ‘Stop that, now! Not you, Hannah, Tommy. Naughty boy is nibbling on my ear, messin' with my chandeliers. Ooooh!' she squealed.

‘What are you laughing at, Hannah?' Paul closed his paperback novel and looked at me suspiciously.

‘Shhhh.' I flapped my hand to quiet him, then used the same hand to cover the receiver. ‘Apparently Tom and Laurie have done well at the championships. Hold on.'

‘Tell you all about it when we see you,' Laurie bubbled. ‘Oh, glory! We can show you the videos.'

‘Cause for celebration,' I said, making a snap decision. ‘No classes on Monday and Tuesday, so how about tomorrow night. Dinner?'

‘Let me consult with my social secretary here.' Much giggling and rustling of fabric followed before Laurie came back on the line. ‘He says we'll be delighted. You've got a big TV screen over there? This girl's so blazing no regular little twenty-four incher's gonna handle it.'

‘Count on it,' I laughed, and with a shriek of delight, Laurie broke the connection.

The following morning when I polled the usual suspects, so many said ‘yes' that I had to call everyone back and move the dinner to Daddy's.

I arrived at Daddy's sprawling home in the Providence neighborhood north of Annapolis more than an hour early to help set up. Neelie was already in the dining room putting out glasses, plates and cutlery. ‘How many do I need?' she asked, clutching a stack of my mother's best china plates.

Mentally, I ticked off the guests. Three already there, Paul to come straight from an extra instruction session at the Academy, Hutch and Ruth, Melanie, Chance and Alicia, Tom and Laurie, and my friend, Eva. ‘Twelve,' I told her, suddenly thankful that, much as I loved them, Emily and Dante had declined, citing Monday being a school night and too late for the children.

Neelie counted out the plates and set them in place on a white tablecloth decorated with baskets of flowers in delicate blue cross-stitch; my late mother's handiwork. The large watercolor over the buffet, the pillows on the living-room sofa, the pottery vase holding a bouquet of fresh flowers, Mom's work was all around me, never failing to remind me of how much I missed her.

‘Where's Daddy?'

‘In the kitchen,' Neelie grinned. ‘Says he's cooking.'

I pressed a hand to my chest. ‘Words to strike fear into my heart.'

In point of fact, my father was the world's worst cook. Not his fault, I suppose, because a succession of women – first his grandmother then his mother and finally his wife – had shooed little Georgie out of the kitchen.

Or, it could be genetic. Paul's sister, Connie, was a terrible cook, too. Eating at Connie's house was always a nostalgic stroll through the 1960s. Noodle casseroles featuring Campbell's cream of mushroom soup; salads thrown together out of boxes of Jello, fruit cocktail and miniature marshmallows.

Daddy's problem was that he refused to follow directions, winging it through meal preparation with no knowledge base. No wonder he stayed thin. One time, not long after my mother's death, I had arrived for a visit in the late afternoon to find my father in the kitchen, squinting at a faded and spotted recipe card, attempting to duplicate Mom's lasagne. He abandoned the card and stubbornly refused my help, so I poured a glass of wine and watched while he put the noodles on to boil. Daddy went on to collect an assortment of canned tomato products from the cupboard, which he opened and dumped into a pot for the sauce. ‘Needs spices,' he'd said (meaning herbs), and began rummaging through the spice rack.

After fifteen minutes, I'd said, ‘Daddy, I think the noodles might be done by now,' to which he'd replied, ‘Oh! Is the water gone already?'

Needless to say, when I entered the kitchen, it wasn't with any great sense of optimism.

I found my father leaning over the kitchen counter thumbing through a pile of carryout menus that he kept in a see-through plastic folder next to the telephone. A good omen. I walked up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. ‘How are the eyes?'

He turned and kissed my cheek. ‘A little sensitive to light, but otherwise, it's a verifiable miracle.' He held a Curbside to Go menu at arm's length and read, ‘Tomato bruschetta, mozzarella fritta, shrimp and artichoke dip . . .'

‘Sounds like a plan,' I told him, snatching the menu from his fingers. ‘You get the ice out of the freezer and set up the bar. I'll take care of ordering dinner.'

Daddy clucked my chin. ‘You just want to make sure I don't forget the eggplant Parmesan.'

I slapped his face lightly with the menu. ‘Busted!'

After Daddy left with the ice, I made a quick call to Paul's cell phone asking him to stop by the Macaroni's on Jennifer Road to pick up our dinner, although it was more than a bit out of his way to do so, then called Macaroni's and turned cooking our dinner over to them. In less than five minutes, I was back in the family room where I found Daddy presiding over the bar, as instructed. ‘A Bloody Mary for me, please, light on the vodka,' I said, and lobbed him a pair of limes, which he caught one at a time with his left hand, like a juggler. His bad eyesight was, quite obviously, history.

When the doorbell rang, Bloody Mary in hand, I sang out, ‘I'll get it!'

I found Hutch standing on the doorstep, carrying Ruth who was still encumbered by her ungainly cast. I had to laugh.

Hutch was beaming. Ruth, too. ‘Over the threshold,' Hutch said, entering the house, being careful not to bang Ruth's leg on the door frame.

Ruth giggled like a teenager and kissed him on the mouth. I hadn't seen her so bubbly since her engagement was announced. ‘Honestly, Hannah,' my sister said as Hutch swept past me, ‘I'm so proud of him I could just about burst.'

And I was proud of her, too. When Hutch entered the
Shall We Dance?
competition with Melanie, I'd expected jealousy from my sister, but there appeared to be none. Perhaps this was how a childless couple felt when they welcomed the birth of a child via a surrogate mother. Happy to have the child, and grateful to the person who made it all possible.

Hutch installed Ruth on Dad's favorite red leather BarcaLounger, waited until she got comfortable, then hustled off to fetch her a Martini.

‘Three olives!' Ruth reminded his departing back, and then turned to smile at me. ‘We're still pinching ourselves.'

I told her again how amazing I thought Hutch had been.

‘Hutch thinks there was a definite advantage to going on early. The judges didn't have a lot to compare them to, so they stood out.'

‘Ha-ha! Like the belly dancer who partnered with the guy wrapped around a plush boa constrictor?' I grinned. ‘Don't know about you, but I thought that act showed promise.'

‘They were supposed to be Adam and Eve,' Ruth informed me.

We were still dissecting the competition like bad-mannered judges when Melanie arrived with Chance and Alicia, followed almost immediately by Tom and Laurie, flushed with excitement, and by Eva, looking sophisticated in her brand new Judi-Dench-as-M-style hairdo.

As I was showing everyone to the bedroom where they could put their coats, Laurie pressed a DVD into my hands, introduced herself to Eva and said, ‘Girl, you're smokin'! Love the hair.'

Even in the darkened hallway, I could see Eva blush. ‘You look pretty hot yourself, Laurie.'

‘Oh, do you like the scarf?' Laurie fluffed up the bow. ‘It's Thai silk. Tom had business in Bangkok last year and brought it back for me.' Laurie ran her hands down her narrow hips, smoothing the peacock blue fabric. ‘And aren't we glad that Capri pants are back? Thank you, Mary Tyler Moore!'