Gary Brandner: Walkers

At ten o'clock on the eleventh of June the party at the Marina Village was hitting its stride. Colored spotlights played over the dancers while a driving disco record boomed from four huge speakers placed around the tile recreation deck. In the clumps of shrubbery that were scattered throughout the courtyard of the apartment complex, young couples sat together away from the music and talked softly about sweet private things. The long table where the food had been was a ruin of bent paper plates, crumpled napkins, chicken bones, chewed ribs, bits of salads, Frito crumbs, toothpicks, and bowls with just traces of dip remaining in the bottoms. Tubs of crushed ice contained cans of Michelob and jugs of Carlo Rossi burgundy. Beyond the dancers an empty, oversized swimming pool glittered a bright-lighted turquoise.

Joana Raitt danced easily and naturally to the thumping music. Her soft brown hair bounced at the nape of her neck, her hazel eyes were bright and alive under the stars. She looked good tonight in her clinging T-shirt and tight white jeans, and in a completely unaffected way she knew it.

Joana smiled up at the loose-jointed young man dancing with her. Glen Early tried gamely to move in time with the beat, but disco was simply not his style. No matter, he was obviously enjoying himself, and he was making Joana happy by being with her. Glen would not win any dancing prizes, but he was smart and kind and fun to be with. Joana had almost decided she was in love with him.

Out in the middle of the dancers, maneuvering over to where he could get a better look at Joana, was Peter Landau. He was the most spectacular dancer there, and at the moment was thinking that the three hundred dollars he had sunk into disco lessons was money well spent. Peter wore a white linen jacket and pants with the trendy wrinkled look. His Western shirt was open to the belt buckle, displaying a profusion of curly brown hair. He did not live at the Marina Village, but was at the party as the guest of a girl whose name had slipped his mind. Kathy or Linda or something like that. She was intent on following his intricate steps, but Peter was busy watching Joana Raitt. There is class, he thought. Class, and a nice firm body.

He managed to boogie over close and pointed a finger at Joana with his thumb raised like a cocked pistol. "Hey, there, foxy lady,"

Joana gave him a quick, cool smile and returned her attention to Glen Early. For Peter it was as good as an invitation. He was pleased to see that the square-looking dude she was with could barely keep from falling over his own feet. He made up his mind that one way or another he would get that little brunette out and show her a few moves even John Travolta didn't have.

"Friend of yours?" Glen Early asked, grinning down at Joana.

"Never saw him before. Who is he, anyway?"

"He's with one of the girls who lives here. Claims to be a psychic or something. Whatever he is, the guy can sure dance."

Joana glanced over at the transported Peter Landau. "He obviously thinks so."

Glen frowned as he lost the beat for a moment, then grinned apologetically at Joana. "Some people got rhythm and some ain't."

"Want to take a break?" she said.

"Am I wearing you down?"

"It's hot work."

"I could use a beer," said Glen. "How about you?"

"Sounds good."

Keeping time more or less to the beat, they made their way through the gyrating bodies to the edge of the tile deck.

"I think I'll go for a dip to cool off while you get the beers," Joana said.

"Has it been long enough since you ate?"

Dear Glen, she thought, my protector. She said, "I don't know. How long are you supposed to wait, anyway?"

"I can never remember for sure," Glen said. "Thirty minutes, an hour, something like that."

"I think it's just a superstition," she said. "Folk medicine. Anyway, I didn't eat all that much."

"You went back for seconds on the potato salad."

"You noticed, you rat."

He patted her lean flank. "That's all right, you could use a little more padding."

"Like hell. Go on and get the beers."

Glen circled the dancers, heading for the ice-filled tubs. Joana looked after him fondly for a moment, then crossed the strip of grass between the tile deck and the swimming pool. The water looked supremely inviting, all cool and clean and blue under the stars of June.

She pulled off her shoes and saw the young man she privately thought of as the Disco King detach himself from the blonde girl he was dancing with and come toward her.

"Hi," he said, "I'm Peter Landau. How you doing?"

"Fine. I'm Joana."

"I know. Joana Raitt." Peter inclined his head back toward the beer tubs. "You're here with the engineer, right?"

"Glen Early. Right."

"You've got good moves. You ought to try dancing with a little faster company."

"Meaning, you?"

"Meaning me."

"No, thanks. Excuse me now, I'm going for a swim."

"Maybe later we could get together?"

"I'm old-fashioned, I dance with the guy that brung me."

"I get it, he's the jealous type. How about if I call you some time?"

"I don't think so."

"Liberated, eh? Good, I like that." He took a card from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. "You call me, then."

"Don't hold your breath."

Peter smiled, displaying beautifully even white teeth. "If you don't get me, leave a message with my service and I'll get back to you. Ciao."

Joana shook her head as she watched him boogie on back to the blonde, who was growing noticeably impatient. Did anybody really say ciao anymore? In spite of his overdone come-on, she found it hard to dislike Peter Landau. He had an aura of hip innocence about him, if that was possible. She read his card.

Peter Landau

Psychic Counseling

There was an address in Laurel Canyon and a telephone number. Joana smiled and tucked the card into her jeans. Psychic Counseling. Wow.

She peeled off the T-shirt with the Los Angeles Dodgers logo printed across the front. Underneath she wore a new blue maillot with cutouts on the sides. Maybe nobody else felt like swimming tonight, but Joana had no intention of leaving the party without showing off the new suit.

She skinned down the tight French jeans and looked over to see Peter Landau and a number of other young men watching her with frank admiration. She smiled and waved to them and dived into the water.

Joana glided along beneath the surface, her arms stretched out in front of her, her legs straight out behind, toes pointed. The water was like a caress, just enough cooler than the warm night air to be refreshing. As the momentum of her dive faded she kicked her feet rhythmically. She watched the tiled bottom of the pool drop away as the water deepened. The beat of the recorded music was still audible under the water, but it was muffled and distant, as though filtering through many layers of heavy cotton.

Joana planed her hands upward and kicked to the surface. She hung there for a moment treading water, breathing in the night air sweet with bougainvilleas. Over the rim of the pool she could see the bobbing heads and shoulders of the dancers. Somewhere a latecomer called a greeting to friends. A girl laughed. A bell buoy clanked out in the channel. It was a good party. Joana was glad she had come. The warm air, the cool water, the music, the other young people enjoying themselves, all made her feel good about her life. She rolled over into a crawl and started for the deepest part of the pool.

Something grabbed her by the leg.

The sudden pain was so intense Joana thought she was going to faint. She reached down for the back of her knee and felt the gracilis muscle bunched like a fist under the skin. Only when she opened her mouth to cry out did she realize she had sunk under the water.