Marcia Talley - Dead Man Dancing

‘Are you free next Friday?’

Everyone nodded, including Ruth. I knew my sister, and could translate that lower lip quiver. She’d shown courage by agreeing to Jay’s plan, but she wasn’t going to sit on the sidelines like a wallflower. Ruth would attend every rehearsal, cheering her fiancé on, and since I was her de facto chauffeur, it appeared that I wouldn’t miss a single rehearsal either.

‘Well, OK, then.’ Jay exhaled noisily, as if he’d been holding his breath, waiting for the go-ahead. ‘Perhaps I can have some of that plum pudding now?’

Melanie smiled – apparently the arrangement suited her, too – but as I rose to get the cake, she surprised me by getting up from her chair. ‘Here, let me help. I’d also like some pudding, if you don’t mind.’

Melanie followed me down the hall. While I uncovered the steamer to remove a fresh hot pudding, she wandered around the kitchen, touching Hutch’s state-of-the-art appliances with reverence and awe. ‘This under the counter wine cooler is amazing!’

I had to agree. My wine cooler was a quick twenty minutes in the ice cube bin of my refrigerator’s freezer compartment, and Lord help me if I forgot and left the bottle in there to freeze, as often happened by bottle three, or maybe four.

When Melanie tilted her head for a closer look at Hutch’s ‘cellar’, her hair shifted, and I noticed that she wore one of those newfangled ear bud phones. If I had an ear bud phone, I would have taken it off to go visiting, but perhaps she was expecting a call from her husband in Iraq. IEDs to avoid, suicide bombers to steer clear of; who knew when a call would come in.

‘The forks are in the drawer next to the stove,’ I told her as I scrabbled in the cupboard, reaching way back for the last of the hand-painted plates that matched the ones I’d used earlier. Call me a perfectionist.

‘Please turn around,’ Melanie said. ‘I can’t see what you’re saying.’

I had the plates in hand by then, and nearly dropped them. I turned to face her. ‘You’re deaf?’

‘As a post,’ Melanie said. ‘I lost my hearing to meningitis when I was five. That’s why I talk funny.’

‘I never would have guessed,’ I laughed. ‘I thought you were from Boston.’

‘Cleveland, actually. They talk funny there, too.’

I realized then that what I had taken for a cell phone hooked around her ear, was actually an industrial-strength hearing aide. And she wore two of them.

While Melanie held the plates, I served up generous spoonfuls of the cake-like pudding, and topped each with a dollop of hard sauce. While the hard sauce melted and drizzled deliciously down the pudding mounds, I asked, ‘Do you sign, too?’

‘I know how,’ Melanie told me, ‘but I don’t use sign language very often since I lip-read so well.’

‘I studied ASL at AACC,’ I signed, finger-spelling the letters clumsily. It’d been several years since I’d taken the class, and I was a little rusty.

‘Good to know,’ she signed back.

‘But, how…?’ I began, then paused, searching for the right way to ask what might be an embarrassing question.

Melanie interrupted me. ‘How do I dance if I can’t hear the music?’

‘Exactly. Do you feel vibrations through the floor or something?’

‘I wish. No, you’re moving around too much for that.’ She pointed to one of the plates. ‘Forks?’

‘Oh, sorry. I intended to tell you. They’re in the drawer by the stove.’

Melanie picked out a couple of salad forks and arranged one on the side of each dessert plate. ‘My hearing aides help with the bass notes,’ she continued, ‘and I’ve been told that I have a good inner sense of timing.’ She smiled. ‘But do you want to know the real secret?’

I nodded.

‘A good partner. All I have to do is follow his lead.’

‘Well, you’ve certainly got that in Hutch.’

Melanie and I returned to the living room with the dessert, interrupting Jay in mid-sentence. From the startled looks on Ruth and Hutch’s faces, I suspected Jay had taken our absence in the kitchen as an opportunity to tell them about Melanie’s ‘handicap’.

Melanie served Jay his pudding with a smile, then settled down in her chair to sample her own. ‘Delicious’ she said after a moment.

‘Ditto,’ said Jay. Once he’d swallowed, he turned his back on Melanie (deliberately, I was sure), waved his fork in the air and continued. ‘As I was saying, handicapped contestants have a leg-up with the producers, if you know what I mean. Remember Heather Mills on Dancing with the Stars ?’

Hutch nodded.

‘She went a long way on that artificial leg. Big sympathy vote from the fans.’ He took another bite of pudding. ‘And So You Think You Can Dance had a gal with an artificial arm, and a pint-sized dancer with rheumatoid arthritis or spina bifida or something. Judges love ’em. Melanie’s deafness could be a real asset. Trust me on that.’

I was embarrassed for Melanie, who kept glancing in Jay’s direction, clearly suspecting that he was talking about her.

I was about to say something, when Jay turned to look at us. His face could have been flushed with embarrassment, I suppose, but it was hard to tell what might be going on under all that tan. ‘Sorry, Melanie,’ Jay said, tap dancing as fast as he could. ‘You’re so normal in every other way, I keep forgetting you can’t hear.’

Melanie managed a sugary smile. ‘If that’s a compliment, Jay, I’ll accept it.’

When Jay turned his attention back to Hutch, Melanie flapped a hand to get my attention, then began signing. ‘A-S-S-H-O…’

If anyone wondered why the two of us began laughing hysterically, they never asked.

The following Wednesday, while I was sorting laundry, Eva called. ‘I got your Christmas card today, and the delightful surprise that was inside.’

I’d sent my friend a gift certificate for Spa Paradiso. ‘I thought you could use some pampering, Eva.’

‘That was very thoughtful and generous.’

‘Special deal,’ I chuckled. ‘Seems I know the owners.’ I folded a washcloth and set it on top of a stack of towels. ‘Are you going to cash it in any time soon?’

‘I’d love it if you’d go with me, Hannah. Any chance of that?’

I frowned at the laundry basket, a sink full of dirty dishes, two loaves of bread rising in their pans on the countertop and said, ‘How about tomorrow?’

Eva and I arranged to meet at the reception desk of the spa at nine, but I pulled into the parking lot a bit late. I had taken my time getting there, enjoying the drive through Eastport and out Bay Ridge as the road narrowed, snaked through woods, topped a hill, until there it was, spread out before me in all its ice-blue winter beauty – the Chesapeake Bay. Built on the site of a former restaurant, Spa Paradiso had inherited its landscaping and spectacular view, including a generous front lawn sloping gently down to end at a sandy beach gently lapped by the water. I smiled as I drove through the spa gates, up a short drive and pulled into one of the two parking spaces reserved for ‘Family’.

Eva was waiting, dressed for the occasion in a gray U.S.N.A. tracksuit, her shaggy hair pulled back into a ponytail. She’d been reading one of the wellness brochures the staff had tucked into acrylic holders arranged along the countertop.

‘Did you bring a bathing suit?’ I asked.

Eva returned the brochure to its holder, then tugged up on the hem of her top, revealing an expanse of bright red Lycra.

‘That will do nicely,’ I said.

We signed in together, consulted briefly with Heather, our spa guide, and reached an easy agreement on the plan of the day: hot tub, full body massage, lunch by the pool, and haircuts, in that order. Heather escorted us to the luxurious dressing room – a far cry from the one used by the ladies at J & K – where we stripped off our clothes, hung them in a locker, and wrapped ourselves in the plush pink spa robes.