Marcia Talley - Dead Man Dancing

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.

‘First, 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…’