Kristopher Jansma - The Unchangeable Spots of Leopards

He acknowledged my existence but once, when Mrs. Littleford asked me to tell everyone about Billy’s early acting career and addressed me as Walter. Suzanne firmly squeezed Mark’s hand as he began to correct her, and he winced in confusion. Before dessert was even served, Mark had vanished to the men’s room three times, returning slightly clumsier after each visit. I didn’t blame him — the conversation kept spiraling back to Billy, no matter how much Mrs. Littleford and the others tried to avoid the subject.

“Early decision notices will come in soon,” Suzanne’s mother said. “Walter, where have you applied?”

“Princeton,” I answered quickly. Everyone smiled, except Betsy, who un-smiled.

Walter’s bright future at Princeton grew to involve a position on the golf team and an old friend who’d promised to take me sailing on the Delaware. And then, of course, there’d be writing classes with prizewinning authors. The mothers all approved. I was so engrossed in it all that it wasn’t until my water glass was being refilled for the third time that I recognized Rodrigo holding the Waterford pitcher, wearing a staff uniform.

“Mr. Hartright?” he asked, smirking somewhat. “May I refresh your glass?”

I shifted down in my seat as he poured. Suddenly I felt sure that everyone knew I was full of it — that clearly, none of these rich people believed that I was really some well-to-do son of a paper manufacturer. Just as they didn’t believe that Mark was in any way sober, or that Betsy Littleford’s father was really away on business, or that her brother was sure to recover in a few weeks.

“Time for the waltz,” Betsy said, suddenly removing her napkin from her lap.

“Waltz? Like, the waltz waltz?” I mumbled, struggling to stand on my suddenly shaky legs. Rodrigo was trying to help Suzanne get Mark to his feet, and no one was looking at us. I leaned in as close as I dared. “I don’t know how .”

“The boys are all disasters. Just try to look like you’re leading.”

So we stepped out onto the dance floor with the others, and the girls prodded their partners so as to form a wide circle. The stiff-looking Mr. Isherwood made some sort of announcement regarding the sponsored charity, and then there was a crash of music and Betsy beckoned with her right hand for me to extend my left. I did so, shifting all my weight onto my right foot as she took it. She then drew herself in against me, slightly to my right, so that just half of her pressed up against just half of me. I half passed out.

Betsy guided my right hand to the smooth skin below her shoulder blade, and placed her right hand into my left and held it out high, opposite my neck. Then, through what I can only assume was girl sorcery, she began to move her feet in such a way that my feet knew just where to go.

“One, two, three,” she whispered into my ear. “Forward, side, together.” And we began to revolve around the floor, like a clock’s hands in reverse, spinning around our own axis like two sides of one moon.

“I had no idea you were an actor,” she said. “How unexpected.”

“Oh, no. I just made all that up,” I said quickly. “About me and Billy.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Very funny.”

But her amusement was silent. Just between us.

“It’s very hard to tell with you,” I said.

I smiled. She didn’t. We waltzed.

“Did you know,” she said drily, “that the waltz was originally a peasant dance? And that Viennese nobles initially were shocked by the indecency of dancing so closely?”

“I did not know that.”

“You should try taking debutante classes. For a year . And I’ll peek out of a kitchen window and watch you every Sunday.”

Before I could decide if she was joking or upset, the song came to its end and she began to pull away from me. “Thanks for filling in. Walter .”

The mothers were all on their feet as we came back to the table. Mark White, somewhat dizzier from all the waltzing, was vomiting semi-raw tuna and well-massaged cow meat all over the table, along with about a quart of Jack Daniel’s.

“He’s hardly slept since Billy’s accident,” Mrs. White apologized before the flow had even ceased. “It wasn’t your fault , dear… ”

Suzanne was anxiously trying to get Mark to the bathroom, but the large boy had gone limp, and she could barely lift him. Before I knew it, Rodrigo was on the scene.

“Please,” he said sweetly, “allow me to assist you, ma’am.” Suzanne looked at him — possibly for the first time realizing that he was the same boy whom she’d seen leering at her out of the kitchen window — and then without a word slid aside so that Rodrigo could get Mark to his feet and then to the bathroom.

Understandably, the whole incident had put everybody off, and Mrs. Littleford, sensing that the evening would go only downhill from here, tapped Betsy on the hand and said, “Come, dear. Visiting hours will be over at ten. We’re expected back.”

“Walter and I need to say good-bye to the Von Porters,” Betsy said, her face showing nothing — no resignation, no urgency.

“So,” I said, thinking, So that was it then , as we walked away, in the direction of the Von Porters. But as soon as she had escaped her mother’s sight, Betsy began to move quickly toward a set of double doors that led to the sculpture garden. Before I knew it, we were outside. Thick clouds had moved in from the south, covering the full moon like a wash of ink.

“We spent the whole morning at the hospital,” she complained.

“How’s he doing?”

“Not too good,” she said. “He’s got this big hole in the side of his head.”

“Oh,” I said, a little surprised by her even tone. Was she mad at me? Did she know that I had been, at least indirectly, responsible for Billy’s current state?

“That was a joke,” she explained, her blue eyes dancing like fireflies in the dark.

“Sure,” I said. Mystified, I continued to follow her down the gravel paths of the sculpture garden.

“Want to hear something else funny?” We stepped gingerly over little artificial streams, jumping from rock to rock with our shoes in our hands like children. “Well, something that I think is very funny?”

“All right.”

“He woke up while I was there this morning. He had this breathing tube in, so he couldn’t speak until they pulled it out. And then his mouth was real dry, but he kept trying to say something. He pulled me in real close, because he can hardly even whisper, and, you’ll never guess what he said.”

“What?” I asked.

“He goes, ‘Who are you?’ He didn’t know who I was . So I say, ‘I’m Betsy. Your sister.’ And he goes, ‘Betsy, I’m gay . I’m gay, Betsy. I’m gay.’”

I nearly slipped off the rocks and into the water.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I said, ‘Yeah, I know, Billy. I know.’ Like I didn’t see him making out with our neighbor Roger when we were in the eighth grade? But he couldn’t remember.”

“Jesus,” I mumbled. I couldn’t quite believe it. And yet, while I couldn’t quite tell how Betsy felt about it, I sort of admired Billy all the more.

Betsy went on. “He didn’t remember who I was. But he remembered that. And my mother is standing there bawling — pretending she didn’t hear what he said — and I’m standing there thinking, Huh. He finally comes out on the day of my coming out. ”

And there it was — another distinct un-laugh — and then, still barefoot, Betsy began to run across a long green field, empty except for us. I was surprised at how fast she was able to run in her gown. I could not see the museum at all anymore, just neat curves of trees along the sloping grass. Betsy kept on running. Not until we came to the top of the hill and I saw a little oasis of sand in the distance did I realize we’d come onto the Briar Creek Golf Course. She slowed down at last, as we crossed onto the eighth hole and sat down on the edge of the bunker.