John Lutz - Dancing with the Dead

Helen was such a good friend. For a moment Mary considered telling her about Rene, but this wasn’t the time to talk or even think about Rene and the murders. Or about Angie. Important as they were, right now they represented distractions, and Mary had come too far to defeat herself by agonizing over what she was helpless to change. She was finished wandering into that sort of trap. She hoped.

The competition was scheduled to begin with American-style rhythm. Mary would dance in the first heat, a cha-cha. She struggled into tan panty hose, then got her black Latin dress down from its hanger and worked it over her head without mussing her hair. She adjusted it and extended her elbows awkwardly to zip it halfway up the back, causing a stitch of pain in her side that for a few seconds left her breathless and light-headed.

“Terrific!” Helen said, looking at her with approval. “With that dress, put on your glitzy earrings and barrette and nobody’d notice your face if you were Frankenstein’s bride.”

She zipped Mary’s dress the rest of the way and fastened the clasp. Then she wriggled into her own Latin outfit, a red dress with a ruffled skirt.

“With or without the gloves?” she asked, and worked her hands and arms into elbow-length red satin gloves. She did some arm styling, then peeled off the gloves and extended a bare arm gracefully in an identical gesture.

“Looks great either way,” Mary said, “really.” Seeing the dress on Helen instead of on the hanger was a startling improvement.

“Then I’ll go with the gloves,” Helen said decisively.

Mary arranged and sprayed her hair, then she fastened it in back with her curved silver-glitter barrette and put on her dangling silver earrings.

She stepped into her new Latin shoes and snapped the straps, then stood up straight and appraised herself in the full-length mirror.

She looked put together and professional, she really did. Helen, too, all of a sudden looked like a dancer. Maybe Howard the bellhop hadn’t simply been bucking for a bigger tip with his compliment. Maybe he’d actually seen something in 1011’s new occupants. Well, what the hell, they were dancers. Hadn’t they taken lessons for years?

“Satisfied with how you look?” Helen asked.

“With how we both look.”

“So, it’s finally crunch time.”

“I guess it is.”

“Ready to go after ’em?” Helen swiveled on a high heel before the mirror, jutting out a hip and sneaking a glance over her shoulder like a wary coquette.

“Right now, yeah. But I can’t swear how I’ll feel down in the ballroom.”

Helen said, “Let’s find out.” She started toward the door, skirt rustling. “Don’t forget your key. In these dresses, we might wanna dash back upstairs and use the bathroom.”

Mary said, “I’m sure I will.” She felt to make sure her perforated-card room key was in her purse, then followed.

As the door clicked shut behind her, her mouth went dry and her heart took flight like a bird.

The ballroom seemed even more vast and intimidating this morning. Towering arches of red, pink, and white balloons had been constructed to soar from each corner and intersect over the center of the dance floor. Mary felt small, clumsy, and out of place. Her body forgot how to dance and wanted only to bolt and run for miles. And it was possible. She didn’t have to stay here. There was no law.

Suddenly Mel was there, in his black slacks and baggy-sleeved white shirt for rhythm dances, not the all-black outfit he’d worn at the studio and in Mary’s dream dances.

“Romance Studio’s over at table number twelve,” he told her, pointing. “C’mon so we can talk, then we’ll get in a little practice.”

Mary nodded numbly.

She followed Mel to one of the many pink-clothed tables surrounding the dance floor. There was a square of white cloth fastened with safety pins to the back of his shirt, on which 799 was printed in black. On the other side of the floor was a raised platform on some sort of scissorslike jack mechanism with a professional-looking, bulky TV camera mounted on it. It was the sort of camera that might zoom in on David Letterman, but that Mary didn’t want aimed her way. Juliet Prowse would be here to hostess the Saturday night professional competition and showcase dances, for later viewing on television. Mary assured herself the TV camera was for Juliet, and for the ballroom dance world’s top performers, not for her. Anything to make the knot in her stomach less painful. She felt as if she’d gulped down a baseball.

Mel dropped into a chair and she sat down next to him, her body trembling. He peered at her face and smiled. “The bruises might just be okay,” he said. “And the dress is perfect, Mary.”

Was he sincere? Or simply trying to buoy her confidence? Mustn’t her fear show in her face? She passed her fingertips over the tablecloth; the rough texture of the material made them tingle.

“Now, remember how we get on and off the floor,” Mel told her. “Once the music starts, don’t get in a rush. And concentrate on the basics. Now and then, when I know the judges aren’t watching, I might say something to you or straighten something out in your dancing; don’t let that throw you.”

“Anything else?” Mary asked.

“Oh, yeah. We’re number one-ninety-nine. When you hear the announcer say it, listen close for instructions.”

“Anything else?” She knew she was repeating herself like an idiot.

“Yeah. Have fun.” He stood up and extended his hand for her to take. “Let’s do some tango to get you warmed up and accustomed to the floor.”

Despite the fact that there were at least a dozen couples practicing on the desert of a dance floor, Mary was sure everyone in the ballroom was watching her through binoculars.

Mel stepped close and raised her hands to dance position. As they began to dance, a measure of confidence took root in her. Mel’s right hand was almost on the bruise, causing occasional flashes of agony, but she said nothing and maintained her posture. They were moving well and must look good together. She drew comfort from his lithe body, absorbing his youth like a vampire. As they practiced pivots she arched her spine and tilted back her head to look up and to her left. Above her the glittering chandeliers and colorful arches of balloons whirled dizzyingly as she floated with Mel’s lead, leaning away from the pivot and using centrifugal force to gain velocity. She knew she was doing everything right; it was like flying. She and Mel were cutting through the air like a single aerodynamic creature, something out of mythology.

“Awright!” he said, stopping and twirling her with a flourish. “Dance like that during competition and we got it made!”

Hundreds of people had filtered into the ballroom while they’d been talking and practicing, and were milling around or sitting at the tables. The balcony was lined with spectators, and the platform with the rows of video cameras was being tended by a man and four women. Mary had used her extra money to pay to have her performances taped so she could study them later. Now, staring out at all the bright movement and pale faces in the ballroom, her confidence ebbed again and she regretted paying to have her embarrassment recorded.

“So how you feel?” Mel asked.

“Scared.”

“That’s okay. Convert that to energy when we dance. And try to relax. The crowd here doesn’t use live ammunition.”

Dance officials were seated on the judges’ dais now. An announcer with silver hair spoke into a microphone and asked that the floor be cleared for competition.

When the floor was vacant and the ballroom hushed, the announcer said, “American Rhythm will be first, Ladies’ A Newcomer. Dancers please line up at the far end, down by Mrs. Kellerman.” A woman in a blue dress raised her hand, smiling. Mrs. Kellerman, drawing scattered applause. Well, the audience was friendly; Mrs. Kellerman hadn’t even danced.