Chapter 29

The stars shimmied and winked over the Little Miami. Uncle Cy had booked a band from Cincinnati to play the final Friday night of July, and even though he wasn’t there, the band kept the date. Orson Albright and his musicians had played the island before, and they knew Uncle Cy was good for the money.

At a little after nine o’clock, their buoyant music enticed me from the lodge and drew me down to the pavilion. I stood in the shadows off to the side of the dance floor, watching, listening, drinking in the joy of couples dancing to “Happy Days Are Here Again.” The song was popular just then because our country needed it; while it played, whenever it played, for those three minutes people could pretend that the days really were happy, in spite of everything. How I would miss that about the island, the live music rising up in the open air, spreading delight, reaching so far as to leave even the stars dancing overhead, their jubilance mirrored on the water.

I stood tapping my foot, my hands behind my back. I didn’t want to leave the island to go back to St. Paul, but neither did I want to stay. All I knew for sure was there wasn’t a place in the world that matched my dreams. For as long as I lived I would never stop pining for Paradise, but the gates had been shut and bolted long before I was born. I knew that now. The heartsickness of life outside of Eden was everyone’s lot, including mine.

But it will be all right, I told myself. We’ll go back to St. Paul, and I’ll make the best of it. Ariel, at least, would be glad I was there. I’d return to school in another month as though I’d never been gone, and I would graduate next spring with the classmates I’d known since grade school. Yes, everything would be all right.

As I stood there consoling myself, someone tapped my shoulder and spoke quietly in my ear. “Want to dance?”

Marcus! I thought. But it wasn’t Marcus; it was Link. Link towering over me, his smile vaguely apparent in the dim light.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Same as you. Enjoying the music. So do you care to dance or not?”

The band was playing a swinging rendition of “Nobody’s Sweetheart,” which seemed somehow appropriate. I looked over the bobbing hands of the dancers to where Orson Albright waved his wand at his men, pulling the music out of them as though by magic. I turned back to Link. He stood expectantly, his thumbs hanging idly from his suspenders.

Don’t do it, I told myself. Lie. Tell him you’re needed back at the lodge. Anything. Just don’t spend the evening dancing with Link.

And then I smiled at Link and said, “Sure. Why not?”

He let go of the suspenders and grabbed my hand. He pulled me out of the shadows and, with his usual vitality, began to spirit me around the dance floor. I couldn’t help but laugh. For an hour we forgot the world, though somehow the joy of the music and the dancing and of each other seemed more real than anything the world had to offer. When the band took a break, I was sorry for the interruption, but I invited Link to follow me to the Eatery. My cousin Earl, Uncle Luther’s oldest son, was working the stand, and with a nod and a wink, he gave us a couple of tall cold glasses of lemonade free of charge.

We chose a table in the breezeway where we could sit and enjoy our drinks. The welcome iciness of the lemonade moistened my throat and sent shivers down my spine and out my arms.

“So when’s your sister coming?” Link asked. He pushed his unruly curls out of his eyes. He remained sorely in need of a haircut.

“Tomorrow. They should arrive sometime toward evening.”

“Well, I hope you all have a nice visit together.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Don’t bother getting your hopes up too high. My sister and I aren’t exactly the best of friends. On top of that, we have a funeral right in the middle of their visit.”

“A funeral?”

“Yeah. Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“My Aunt Cora died. Uncle Cy’s wife. He’s in New York right now, bringing her back so she can be buried here.”

Link shook his head. His expression became serious. “I hadn’t heard. I’m sorry for your loss.”

I shrugged. “I didn’t know Cora, really. I met her only once, at the wedding about five years ago.”

“Well, it’s a terrible loss for your uncle.”

“Yes, I guess it is. It’s the second wife he’s buried. The first one died of the Spanish flu and now Cora’s died of tuberculosis.”

Link gave out a low whistle. “Some people have it rough, don’t they?”

I nodded but didn’t say anything.

Link asked, “So when is the funeral?”

“Daddy and Uncle Luther have been making plans. Last I heard it’s supposed to be held on Thursday.”

“Will it be at a church here in town?”

I shook my head. “Aunt Cora was Catholic. It’ll be up in Lebanon at the Basilica of St. Matthew.”

Link nodded, dropped his eyes, became intent on his lemonade. No one wants to interrupt laughter to acknowledge death. Certainly I didn’t. I finished my drink, feigning interest in the people milling about us, wishing I hadn’t mentioned Aunt Cora’s funeral.

At last the band returned from break. When we heard the opening notes of “On the Sunny Side of the Street,” Link looked at me expectantly. Visions of Aunt Cora and the funeral drifted off and disappeared. Link and I were animated again, living in the buffer zone of youth, eager simply to be alive.

“Ready for another go-round?” he asked.

“Ready.” I smiled.

For another hour, maybe more, we danced ourselves into a sweat, danced until our feet hurt, danced until our lungs ached for air and our hearts burst with happiness. And then . . . then the band eased into “After You’ve Gone,” a slower song that called for dancing cheek to cheek. I couldn’t reach Link’s cheek, he was so tall, but he held me closer than before—a gesture that broke the spell I’d been under all evening. I didn’t belong here—not in Mercy, not on the island, not in Link’s arms. I’d be gone soon and it wasn’t likely I’d ever come back.

I struggled in Link’s grip, just slightly, just as though I were seeking cooler air, but he held on tight.

“Say, Eve?”

“Yeah?”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Oh.” He seemed to think about that a moment. Then he said, “When will you be eighteen?”

“September.”

“September what?”

“Twenty-first. Why?”

“I’m just thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

“Thinking about when it might be appropriate to ask your father if I can call on you.”

I gasped. My feet were suddenly rooted to the floor. Link stumbled, righted himself. “What’s the matter, Eve?” he asked. At last, he loosened his grip. He frowned at me. The band began to play “Let Me Sing and I’m Happy.”

“Link, I can’t—”

“I know I’m not working a steady job right now, Eve, but—”

“You don’t understand. I . . .”

I never should have accepted the first dance. I should have known better, did know better and hadn’t heeded my own warning.

“Listen, Eve, I just want the chance to spend some time with you, get to know you.”

“I can’t. It won’t work. It won’t—”

“But why not? Whatever you’re afraid of—”

I wiggled out of his arms, bumping into the couple dancing behind us. The man glared at me a moment before whisking his partner away. I started to cry.

Link reached for me. “Eve!”

“I’m sorry, Link. I’m just . . . I’m sorry.”

I fled the dance floor and stumbled back to the lodge. To my relief, Link didn’t try to follow.