The Silver Linings Playbook (22 page)

Explaining how I learned Tiffany’s routine and became an excellent dancer would be difficult—mostly because our rehearsals are long and grueling and extremely boring. We do the same little things over and over again endlessly. For example, if I had to lift a finger in the air for the routine, Tiffany would make me do it a thousand times every single day until I could do it to her liking on command. So I will spare you most of the boring details. To make things even more complicated, Tiffany has forbidden me to document our rehearsals in any thorough manner that would allow others to steal her training techniques. As she wants to open up a studio someday, she is very guarded about her methods—and her choreography too.

Luckily, as I am starting to write this part, I remember that in every one of his films, whenever Rocky needs to become a better boxer, they show clips of him doing one-arm push-ups, running on the beach, punching slabs of meat, running the stairs of the art museum, gazing at Adrian lovingly, or being yelled at by Mickey
or Apollo Creed or even Paulie—all while his theme song plays, which is perhaps the greatest song in the world, “Gonna Fly Now.” In the Rocky movies, it only takes a few minutes to cover weeks of training, and yet the audience still understands that a lot of preparation went into the actual development of Rocky’s boxing skills, even though we only get to see a few clips of the Italian Stallion working hard.

During a therapy session, I ask Cliff what this movie technique is called. He has to call his wife, Sonja, on his cell phone, but she knows the answer and tells us that what I am trying to describe is called a montage. So that is what I am now going to create below, my movie’s montage. Maybe you’ll want to play “Gonna Fly Now” on your CD player, if you have a copy handy—or you could put on any song you find inspiring—and read along to the music. Music is not required, however. Okay, here it is, my montage:

In anticipation of
our big performance, I’m running a little faster with Tiffany every day. We push ourselves, and when we get to the park, we sprint the last mile to her house and get really sweaty. I always beat Tiffany, because I am a man, yes, but also because I am an excellent runner.

See me pumping
iron: bench press, leg lifts, sit-ups on the Stomach Master 6000, bike riding, squats, knuckle push-ups, curls—the works.

“Crawl!” Tiffany yells.
So I crawl on the hardwood floor of her dance studio. “Crawl like you have no legs and you haven’t eaten for two weeks and there’s a single apple in the middle of the room and another man with no legs is also crawling toward
the apple. You want to crawl faster, but you cannot, because you are maimed. Desperation flows out of your face like sweat! You are so afraid you will not get to the apple before the other legless man! He will not share the apple with—no, no, no. Stop! You’re doing it all wrong! Jesus Christ, Pat! We only have four weeks left!”

“Jeanie,” I hear
my father say. He is in the kitchen eating his breakfast. I am on the basement stairs listening. “Why does Pat close his eyes and hum every time I mention the Eagles? Is he going crazy again? Should I be concerned?”

“What’s this I
hear about you missing the Saints game?” Jake says through the telephone when I call him back sometime after 11:00 p.m. He has called two nights in a row, and the note my mother left for me on my pillow read
Call your brother back no matter how late. IMPORTANT.
“Don’t you want to see what Baskett does this week? Why are you humming?”

“When you are
a dancer, you are allowed to put your hands anywhere on your partner’s body, Pat. It’s not sexual. So when you do this first lift, yes, your hands will be cradling my ass and crotch. Why are you pacing? Pat, it’s not sexual—it’s modern dance.”

See me pumping
iron: bench press, leg lifts, sit-ups on the Stomach Master 6000, bike riding, knuckle push-ups, curls—the works.

“I’m Okay, Pat.
I’m fucking fine. You’re going to drop me a few times while we’re learning the lifts, but it’s not because you’re not strong enough. You need to center your palm directly at the base
of my crotch. If you need me to get more specific, I will. Here. I’ll show you. Put out your hand.”

“Your mother tells
me you will not discuss Eagles football with your—why are you humming?” Cliff asks. “I did not mention that certain saxophonist’s name. What’s this all about?”

“I never thought
I would say this, but maybe you should consider taking a break from your dance training and watch the game with Jake and your dad,” my mother says. “You know I hate football, but you and your father seemed to be making a connection, and Jake and you are just getting back to being brotherly again. Pat, please stop humming.”

“For the second
lift you need to look up at me, Pat. Especially just before I go into the flip. You don’t have to look at my crotch, but you have to be ready to push up so I’ll get more height. If you don’t give me a push when I bend my knees, I won’t be able to complete the flip and will probably crack my head open on the floor.”

“I know you
can hear me through the humming, Pat. Look at you!” my father says. “Curled up in your bed, humming like a child. Birds lose by a field goal in New Orleans, and your boy Baskett had zero catches. Zilch. Don’t think your dancing through the game didn’t affect the outcome.”

“You look like
a retarded snake! You are supposed to crawl with your arms—not slither or wiggle or whatever the fuck you are doing down there. Here. Watch me.”

In anticipation of
our big performance, I’m running a little faster with Tiffany every day. We push ourselves, and when we get to the park, we sprint the last mile to her house and get really sweaty. I always beat Tiffany, because I am a man, yes, but also because I am an excellent runner.

“What’s Tiffany holding
over you?” Ronnie says. We are in my parents’ basement. I have already spotted him as he benched one wimpy sixty-pound rep, and now he is taking a break. This is a surprise visit disguised to look like a prework lifting session. “I told you to protect yourself. I’m telling you, Pat, you don’t know what that woman is capable of. My sister-in-law is capable of anything.
Anything!”

“You’re making the
sun with your arms. In the center of the stage, you represent the sun. And when you make the huge circle with your arms, it has to be slow and deliberate—just like the sun. The dance is one day’s worth of sun. You are going to rise and set all onstage—to the flow of our song. Understand?”

“I want you
to talk to Tiffany and tell her it’s important for you to watch the Eagles game with your father,” Mom says. “Please stop humming, Pat. Please, just stop humming!”

“The second lift
is the hardest by far, as it requires you to go from a squatting position to a standing position with me standing on your hands, which will be just above your shoulders. Do you think you’re strong enough to do this, because we can do something else if you are too weak, but let’s try it now and we’ll just see.”

“Why is this
dance competition so important to you?” Cliff asks me. I look up at the sun painted on the ceiling of his office and smile. “What?” he says.

“The dancing lets me be that,” I say, and point up.

Cliff’s eyes follow my finger. “It lets you be the sun?”

“Yes,” I say, and smile again at Cliff, because I really like being the sun, exactly what allows clouds to have a silver lining. Also, being the sun is what will provide me with the opportunity to write letters to Nikki.

“Please stop humming
into the phone, Pat. I’m on your side here. I understand wanting to learn an art for a woman. Don’t you remember my playing the piano for you? But the difference is that Caitlin would never ask me to miss an Eagles game, because she knows it’s more than just football to me. I can hear you fucking humming through the phone, Pat, but I’m just going to keep talking, all right? You’re acting crazy, you know. And if the Eagles lose tomorrow against the Buccaneers, Dad is going to think you cursed the Birds.”

“Okay, you know
your routine—roughly, anyway. So now I want you to watch mine. I’ll say ‘lift’ when it’s time for one of your lifts, just so you know when they’re coming. But don’t worry, because as long as you do your routine, I’ll make sure we link up with the lifts. Okay?”

Tiffany is in tights and a T-shirt like every other day, but she transforms her face just before she pushes
play
on the CD player. So solemn. Those sad piano notes and those two dueling voices fill the room, and Tiffany begins to dance beautifully but sadly. Her body moves so gracefully, and it is only now that I understand what she means by crying through movement. She jumps, she rolls, she spins, she runs, she slides. She yells “Lift!” and then
falls to the floor dead, only to explode upward in resurrection when the music picks up again. And her dancing is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. I could watch her dance for the rest of my life, and strangely, watching Tiffany soar around the dance floor makes me feel like I am floating over waves with baby Emily. Tiffany is
that
good.

“Your father has
stopped eating dinner with me, Pat. He’s not taking walks with me either. Ever since the Eagles lost to the Buccaneers, he’s back to his—Pat, please stop humming. Pat!”

In anticipation of
our big performance, I’m running a little faster with Tiffany every day. We push ourselves, and when we get to the park, we sprint the last mile to her house and get really sweaty. I always beat Tiffany, because I am a man, yes, but also because I am an excellent runner.

“I don’t think
you understand how much this means to my sister,” Veronica says, and I am shocked to see her and baby Emily in my basement gym. “Do you know that since Tommy passed, she has
never
asked her family to see her dance? In fact, for two years she’s banned us from attending any of her performances. But this year she thinks she is going to perform flawlessly enough to invite her family—she’s convinced, in fact—and while I am glad to see her so happy, I’m afraid to even think about what she might do if you guys screw up the performance. She’s not a stable person, Pat. You do understand that, right? You do understand that your performing poorly will result in months of serious depression? So I need to ask you how are the rehearsals
really
going? Do you
truly
think you can win?
Do you?”

Before I turn
off the lights, I stare into framed-picture Nikki’s eyes. I see her freckled nose, her strawberry blond hair, her full lips. I kiss her so many times. “Soon,” I say. “I’m doing everything I can. I won’t let you down. Remember—‘Forever’s gonna start tonight.’”

See me pumping
iron: bench press, leg lifts, sit-ups on the Stomach Master 6000, bike riding, knuckle push-ups, curls—the works.

“The Asian Invasion
will pick you up at—” Cliff nods at me and smiles. “Ah, the humming again. Your mother tells me you won’t talk to anyone about Eagles football, but you aren’t seriously going to miss a home game, are you?”