“So are you coming or not?” Billy wanted to know. He was at the front door, wearing his best striped shirt buttoned to the top, hair slicked back and glossy with God knows what.
“I said I’m coming,” Nick grumbled, although he wished he’d said no. There was baseball on TV and beer in the fridge. He couldn’t fathom why the kid was so riled up. It was the Sweethearts Dance for a bunch of old ladies, not prom with a shiny-lipped girl. “What time is this thing over?”
“Eight o’clock.”
Nick laughed. At least there was that. And Sarah would be there. There was that too.
“That’s what you’re gonna wear?” Billy demanded.
Nick looked down and shrugged. He had on jeans and a T-shirt. Same as every other day.
Billy sighed, exasperated. “The invitation says semi-formal.” He sounded like a disgruntled old man. “We’re gonna be late.”
“All right. All right. Give me a minute.” He rummaged through his closet and came back wearing a musty-smelling suit jacket over the T-shirt.
Billy rolled his eyes and marched out the door, the screen banging behind him. Nick winced. He stood, staring at the empty space, wondering if he’d ever be more to his son than the deadbeat dad in the rundown shack. They’d had their good moments, a few shared laughs, but there was a whole lot of blankness in between. Sometimes he could feel Billy’s stare boring into the back of him. He couldn’t stand to see his failings through Billy’s eyes; on a clear day, he could spot the worst in himself on his own.
The drive took seven silent minutes. Once inside Prairie View, Nick followed Billy down the stairs to where that grim family meeting had been held. They stood in the doorway, the room packed with partiers, mostly old-timers, but family members too, even a few kids dressed in their Sunday best. The transformation was remarkable. The whole building must have been invited, not just the dementia group, as old lady pairs strode past having perfectly lucid conversations. The lights had been dimmed, and foil stars fell from the ceiling on ribbons; helium balloons bobbed from strings on chair backs. A table had two giant red hearts attached to the front of the tablecloth, plates of squares and cookies, a punch bowl and tiny cups with handles. A dance tune blasted from the speakers while old ladies swayed in front of the chairs that had been arranged in a large circle around the perimeter. No sign of Sarah.
Nick turned to Billy, but he’d disappeared. Nick surveyed the wrinkled bodies and silver heads to find him on the far side of the room beside Evie, who sat next to the piano in a sunflower dress. Billy whispered in her ear, then pulled her up. Nick watched in disbelief. There was his awkward teenage boy, leading his grandma onto the dance floor, holding her steady in his skinny arms, two-stepping with ease.
Nick had to sit. He found an empty chair near the door, not taking his eyes off his boy. Billy’s face was as bright as the hanging stars. He babbled to Evie, and she tilted her head back and laughed, neither missing a step, sunflowers whirling.
Nick sucked in the party air. He felt an overwhelming need to cry. It came on suddenly, like a fierce bout of nausea, an alien feeling that made him defenceless. He had no idea what was wrong with him. Happiness or hope or a crippling humility in witnessing Billy and Evie and their belonging to one another. He felt dizzy, the music distorted and far off, his chest expanding until his ribs ached. There was something more too, a strange déjà vu, like he’d seen this same dance before.
He was shaken out of his stupor to find Sarah beside him, her hand lightly touching his arm. She glowed, her cheeks rosy, eyes bright. She wore a mauve sundress with tiny straps, one falling onto her freckled shoulder. “You okay?” she said. “Penny for your thoughts.”
He tried to smile, slowly coming back into himself. “That’ll be a nickel. Inflation and all.”
“Thoughts are supposed to be cheap,” she admonished, a mischievous look in her eyes.
Nick stared out at the dance floor. A polka had started. Billy knew those steps too. “Just watching my boy.”
Sarah looked on with him, her feet tapping to the music. “Isn’t he something.”
Nick didn’t have words.
Sarah said, “He can paint. He can dance. He can sing.”
“He can sing too?”
Sarah laughed. “Just guessing. But he has saved our lives. Carter and I will be eternally grateful.”
Nick had no idea what she was talking about.
“He didn’t tell you? Of course, he didn’t. Parents are always the last to know.”
She leaned in close, and he breathed her in deeply.
“Billy and Carter made friends at the skate park. Best day of Carter’s life by the way. Leo’s mom, Amanda—Leo is one of Billy’s new friends—she runs a daycare and had one extra space. Carter started today. She’s got three other kindergarteners and a couple of four-year-olds. When I picked him up, he was covered in grunge and exhausted and deliriously happy. She’s got a trampoline and swings and a huge backyard, and she can bark orders like a drill sergeant. I love her.”
Nick thought of Billy at the skate park. Billy making a friend. Billy building a life in this town.
Sarah blinked, looking worried. “Too much information?”
He held up his hand. “No. No. Sorry. It’s great that you’ve got things set up for Carter. He should have the best. It’s just, it’s all news to me.” He’d grilled Billy about his day with Carter but got nothing.
“You haven’t honed your interrogation techniques yet. It’s a learned skill. Speaking of skills, a rescue is required.” Sarah pointed to the snack table, which Carter was glued to, a cookie in each hand, cheeks stuffed.
“I better go.” She stood and pressed her skirt creases with her palms. Then she turned and smiled as she wagged her finger at him. “You know you can’t just sit here. The girls outnumber the boys ten to one. You have a duty to grab some ladies and spin them around. It’s in the bylaws.”
Nick watched her sashay away, mauve dress swishing against her beautiful bare legs. Watched as she bent down to Carter’s height and gave him a long squeeze.
The music ended to scattered clapping. Billy led Evie towards him, and Nick jumped up so that she could have his seat. Billy plunked himself down in the chair Sarah had just left. Nick took in their shining faces. Evie had on pink lipstick and gold flowered earrings.
“Where’d you learn to dance like that, Billy?”
Billy shrugged. “From Grandma. We’ve been dancing in the living room since I was a kid.”
“You’re still a kid.” His slicked hair was holding up remarkably well. What had he used? Motor oil? “Well, you’re really good. You too, Evie. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.”
“Huh?” Billy said.
“Fred Astaire,” Evie said wistfully. “That boy could dance on air.”
Nick patted her arm. “It’s a great party. They’ve gone all out. The stars and the lights and balloons.”
Billy nodded. “Yeah. It’s cool. Sarah said it’s damage control because of the things gone missing.”
A good tactic, families milling and smiling. “Do you want me to get you kids a party drink? A cookie or two?”
The music started again. Another old waltz.
“I would like you to dance with me,” Evie said firmly.
“Me?” He was taken aback, unsure how to say no.
But she’d started to stand, leaning into the chair’s arms to pull herself up. “Billy, can you hold my seat.”
Billy said, smirking. “Sure, Grandma. Go, Nick, go.”
Nick kicked Billy’s foot before taking Evie’s hand and leading her to the floor. He found an empty space, away from the wheelchairs and walkers and Billy’s stare.
He looked down at the small woman. “Shall we?” He raised his arm out to the side. Evie placed her palm in his, her fingers cradled between his thumb and forefingers. She rested her other hand on his shoulder, like a small bird perched on a branch. His dizziness was coming back. He stepped out with his left foot, and she followed, the music carrying them away.
“Beautiful, beautiful brown eyes,” Evie whispered close to his ear.
Nick felt heat rise in his neck, then more heat still. She was merely repeating the words that were crooning from the speakers.
His dizziness was overpowering, his palms damp, mouth dry. With it came a sudden dawning from deep down, from cellular memory more than consciousness. He’d held this same woman in his arms before. He could feel it in his bones, the pressure of her hand in his, the way she moved.
He tried not to step on Evie’s foot or knock her off balance. But it was like he’d left his body and travelled back in time, and if he could only close his eyes, the pieces would fit. He could be right back there, at the Campground Reunion Dance. This same small and fierce woman, clearer-eyed and in charge, pretending to follow his lead. She’d changed so much in ten short years. Everything about her seemed different: her long hair cut short, the way she walked and talked, her looks of confusion.
He held her more closely. “Evie, do you remember that dance? Do you remember finding me?”
“You’re such a good boy.” She squeezed his sweaty palm.
He wanted to shake her. “Evie, this is important. We danced before. You came and found me. Can you try and remember? Please.”
“Here you are,” she said dreamily.
But the music stopped. The moment was over. A new tune started up, some staticky jig that Evie wanted nothing to do with. He led her back to Billy, who was beside the snack table, roughhousing with Carter and the crowd of kids circling him.
He dropped Evie there, where Billy would watch over her, and backed out of the room, disoriented. He staggered down the hallway and sat in the empty stairwell, leaning forward, hands on knees, breathing fast as if he’d been chased by his past.
An Ackerman Campground Reunion Dance, five years after the fire, a celebration of the rocking good times had by all during those long, hot summers. He’d wanted nothing to do with it, but his mother had begged. Please, Nick, we haven’t asked much of you since, since . . . She couldn’t even say it.
The dance had been orchestrated by the campers, his parents delighted by the thoughtful surprise. It was held at the Lincoln Hall, a creaking wooden structure not built to code. One large room, plus a few ancient appliances and a sink in the corner beside the cramped bathroom. People showed up in droves—the Whites, the Suggetts, the Ponds, the Robsons, and the others. Even the twins made the trip, Randy with a bride on his arm and a baby in a stroller. They came with tents and motor homes, folding picnic tables and trunk-loads of firewood, setting up their temporary camping sites in a circle on the scrub grass beside the parking lot.
By the time Nick showed up, the party was in full swing, people spilling out the front doors, music booming into the night sky, a child’s night light of a moon, rosy and round. He’d driven with a bottle between his knees, and he took another long swig for courage before he opened the truck door.
He entered the fray doggedly, like a man going into battle, playing his part as campers swarmed him with wrapped arms and planted kisses and high-fives, Zak grabbing and lifting him off the ground in a bear hug. They were genuinely happy to see him, enshrined as he was in their memory. The carefree boy with the easy smile. The boy who wrestled with their kids and MacGyvered their propane tanks to connect their barbecues to their lanterns. They believed that’s who they’d found.
Once inside, he waved at his parents, who were deep in conversation with a group of old-timers. He manoeuvred his way to the coolers table and pulled a beer from the ice. He found a spot on the wall and studied the twirling couples and clumps of campers with their arms around shoulders, relieved to find none of his summer girls, not that they had ever been part of this crowd. Most of the kids his age had moved on, started their careers, embraced their lives. Those who had come clung tightly to the partners they’d brought.
Zak sauntered up and pretended to punch him in the gut. He hadn’t changed in five years, still loud and obnoxious and full of trouble. “See that lady over there? She’s been checking you out for the past half hour. Hasn’t taken her eyes off you. Who is she?”
Nick looked to where Zak pointed. A small and serious-looking woman, standing alone in the crowd, her long braid of silver hair falling nearly to her waist.
“No idea,” Nick mumbled. She was in her fifties maybe, a hippie flower child. He’d never seen her before.
She stared back unapologetically.
“Well, she’s heading your way.” Zak laughed, bending down to grab another beer from the cooler. “Good luck,” he said with a wink.
Nick chugged as she made her way over.
“I would like you to dance with me,” she said firmly. Just that. No small talk, no nice-to-meet-you.
“My name’s Nick. I don’t think we’ve met.”
“No, we haven’t.” She took his hand and he followed.
She was a remarkably good dancer, making him feel more sure-footed than he was. He was relieved to be given this job, saving him from the lies he’d have to tell the others when grilled about his post-campground life. But she had questions of her own. Plenty. Not the usual time-wasters, like where do you work and what are your hobbies. She wanted to know who he admired, if he thought beauty was related to morality, what gave life meaning, could fear be channelled into growth. At the time, it seemed he’d never met anyone like her. But here in the basement stairwell, he knew that wasn’t true. Her daughter, Miranda, had that same frankness, that same penetrating gaze. Billy too.
He’d let his guard down while dancing with Evie that night. It might have been the liquor or her reassuring hand in his. He told her his fear of losing his way. Of all his hard stumbling. He told her he’d made mistakes and had no way to fix them.
They stayed together through one dance after another. When the music stopped for a cake intermission that brought whoops and cheers, she patted his arm and whispered, “You’re a good boy.”
He offered to bring her a piece of cake, but by the time he’d worked through the line, she was gone. He never saw her again.
She was a part of his life now. Evelyn Peat, the harmless old grandma, unrecognizable and most certainly underestimated, ravaged by the throes of Alzheimer’s. She must have had a premonition of the disordered attic her mind would become, a diagnosis even, planning the future like a master chess player. She had tracked him down when she still had her wits, her hapless opponent, and made him audition for the role without knowing it.
Up until now, his questions had been unanswered. He’d gone over and over the specifics. How had Evie known where to find him? How long had she been watching him? Why had she named him her power of attorney? How did she know he would say yes?
It filled him with anger the way she’d played him; the way she’d kept him in the dark all those lost years, not once trying to involve him in his son’s life. But underneath the heat, a clanking ring of gratitude too. By dancing with Evie, he had been given Billy, if not then, now. He had passed a test that night—shame-filled and slightly drunk—by confessing to who he was.
Nick could hear the click-click of heels from down the hallway. He stood quickly, not wanting to be caught moping in the stairwell.
Sarah came towards him, a lace shawl draped over her bare shoulders. “There you are. Party’s almost over.” The muted music echoed through the wall.
Nick shrugged. “I needed some air.”
“I wanted to thank you again for lending me Billy. This summer would have been a disaster without him. Mrs. Brandon and her stolen cigarette breaks. The craziness with everybody’s treasures going missing. Billy has brought the colour back. And I don’t just mean the walls.”
Nick kept quiet as they walked slowly back towards the party room.
“Carter has been dancing with the little girls,” Sarah added. “It’s so sweet.”
When he still didn’t say anything, she stopped and placed her hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”
He must have looked unhinged. He was unhinged.
“No. No. I’m fine,” he said, trying to turn it around. “Sorry. It’s just that it’s been nice. This dance. Evie. Feeling like a part of the family.”
Sarah smiled and wrapped her arms around him. He held her tightly, the soft fabric of her shawl bunching under his hands as they swayed to the faint thump of the drumbeat, her warmth seeping into him. They locked eyes, their lips dangerously close.
But the music stopped before they could close the gap. A muffled announcement over the microphone. People filing out the doorway at the end of the hall.
He untangled from Sarah, disoriented. Her cheeks crimsoned as she held his gaze.
The night was ending, but this might be a beginning too. He did not have to be a bad human; he could damp down his feelings of failure and try for goodness instead. If Evie had been willing to take a chance on him, he could step up and meet her halfway.
Nick waited until Billy had gone to bed before heading to the Ploughman. He chose a quiet table near the back, far from his usual window spot and away from the rowdies clustered around the pool tables. Candace had her head down, filling the popcorn tray, and hadn’t noticed him come in.
The room was packed for a Thursday. Men mostly, rough looking. A burly guy he’d never seen before sat at the bar, tapping the side of his sweaty glass. One half of his face looked as though it had been badly burned, the skin over his cheek puckered with silver-white lumps, swallowing his eye. Nick had to look away.
Billy Joel blared from the jukebox. Nick watched Candace shimmy around, doling out change for the old men on the VLT chairs, pouring rounds from pitchers, slapping away reaching hands. She was competent, remarkably so, thoroughly in charge of her place in the world. She deserved her name in neon above the door one day. She deserved more.
He was losing his nerve, about to back out, but she caught his eye, squinting in surprise, and strode towards him.
“Hi there, stranger. About time you showed up.” She leaned close, her breasts spilling from her tight tank top. “What are you doing hiding back here?”
Nick swallowed. “We need to talk.”
Candace laughed, her eyes opened wide, and Nick couldn’t be sure what she thought.
“So serious,” she said, tsk-tsking. “Got a break coming up. Bring you a Johnny?’
“No. Just a ginger ale. Thanks.”
She raised her eyebrows before turning away.
He waited rigid in his dark corner, sliding his sweaty palms down his thighs. She took her sweet time before sidling into the chair across from him, plunking down a pitcher and two chunky stemmed glasses.
“Margaritas.” She poured them both a glass and leaned in for a toast, her just-smoked cigarette smell filling his throat. “For old time’s sake.” She clinked her glass with his, took a long swig, then puckered her lips.
He put his untouched glass down. “I want to apologize for the other day,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow, took another drink. “You already did.”
“No, I mean after. Back at your place.”
She dipped a finger in her drink, swished it around and sucked on it slowly, in and out. “Apologize for what,” she said.
It occurred to him they weren’t on the same page. “I took advantage of you.”
She laughed throatily. “Jesus, you can be daft. Don’t get your panties in a twist. I’m a big girl.”
He pictured her glassy Sunday eyes, her dead weight as he dragged her to her bed. “I’m sorry anyway,” he said.
She relaxed, a grin on her face. “Have a drink. Chill.”
He couldn’t keep stalling. “I can’t see you anymore, Candace.”
She stared at her drink, lips tight. He rested his hand on her arm, but she yanked it away.
“Things have changed. I’ve got Billy now.”
She took a long, slow drink.
“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say. She might not care one way or another, all his worry for nothing. “Say something, Candace.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“That I’m a dick, and you deserve better.”
She snorted. “That make you feel better? You’re too good now, is that right? You’re a daddy all of a sudden, can’t be fucking a girl like me?”
He felt a deep wave of shame for the pair of them, but he had to finish what he started. “You can’t show up at the house anymore. And I’ll stay out of your hair too. I won’t come back here. You’ll never have to see me again.”
“Well, aren’t you Mister Generous. What did you think we had going? A love story? You expect me to be all shook up, crying in my beer.” She was raising her voice, making a scene. “You want to keep your tiny pecker in your pants, go right ahead.”
She stood, knocking her glass to the floor.
Nick stood too, slipping in the sticky liquid. “I’m really sorry. I’m an asshole. It’s not you.”
It was the wrong thing to say. She hurled the pitcher at him. He sucked in air, shocked by the icy cold hitting his face, stinging his eyes, dripping sticky down his neck and in his ears.
The guy with the caved-in face lumbered to their table. He reeked of booze and old sweat.
“This guy bothering you,” he asked Candace.
“He’s bothering me greatly.” Candace hugged her chest.
The room quieted as Nick dripped and blinked. He could feel a dozen pairs of eyes hoping for a brawl. He widened his legs, planted his feet, and waited.
It came as a one-two punch, a left hook to his stomach followed by a blow to his cheek. The back of his head slammed hard against the floor, his teeth piercing his lip. It took him a few minutes to get air back in his lungs. He raised himself on an elbow, head spinning, ears ringing. He cupped his hand under his chin and worked his jaw, his cheek fiery hot and shredded, a line of red mixed with margarita syrup dripping down his shirt.
A drunken group had circled. He looked up, recognizing some. No one extended a hand. Candace stared, arms crossed, eyes fiery. What had he expected?
He shakily got to his feet. “I don’t want trouble. I’m going to go.”
Sunken-face kneaded his knuckles. “Yeah, I’d say that’s the right idea.” He looked pleased in a grotesque, lopsided way.
“You forgetting something?” Candace said.
What more did she want?
She spat the words, “Your tab.”
His whole body shook as he awkwardly pulled two twenties from his pocket. He extended his hand, but she kept her arms locked under her breasts, so he dropped the money on the table. Fight over, the group of disappointed onlookers parted to make room.
He felt better and worse by the time he pulled into the driveway. He was done with the Ploughman crowd. Done with Candace’s kind of comfort. Since Billy, his wasted years had become painfully clear, now stamped all over his battered face.
It was after midnight. He tried to be quiet as he stumbled around the kitchen. He leaned heavily into the sink, sopping the blood off his face and neck with wetted paper towels, dumping ice cubes from their tray onto a tea towel.
He turned to see Billy in his underwear, hair dishevelled, eyes wide.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” Nick said sheepishly.
“Are you drunk?” Billy asked, refusing to come near.
Nick shook his head.
“You smell like you’re drunk,” Billy said.
“I wish.” Nick smiled, which hurt the side of his mouth. “I had a pitcher of booze dumped on my head.”
Billy stood there another moment, taking him in, then hopped on the kitchen counter and stared him up and down. “Why?”
“Candace did the pouring. I went to where she worked tonight and told her I didn’t want to see her anymore.”
Billy’s eyes widened. “She did this to you?”
“A guy at the bar helped her a little.”
“You were in a fight?”
“Nope.” Nick wrapped the sides of the tea towel and held the ice gingerly to his face. He’d been a willing target, a man craving that kind of sweet release. “It was a one-way thing. I took a couple punches. The end.”
Billy scrunched his eyes. “Does it hurt?”
“Like a son of a bitch.”
“So how come you don’t want to see Candace anymore?”
What could he tell his son? That Candace was a distraction? That he gave nothing away when he was with her?
He chose his words carefully. “Candace and I don’t have a lot in common. We weren’t a couple, we just hung out sometimes. It seemed like a good time to part ways.”
Billy nodded, his skinny legs dangling over the cupboards. “You really stink.”
Nick laughed, then flinched. “Margarita special.”
“Maybe you should get stitches. I could go with you to the hospital.”
“Nah, I’m okay.” The ice had numbed the sting, and there was no fresh blood on the towel. “We better call it a night. I gotta work tomorrow.”
Billy grabbed an apple from the bowl and jumped off the counter. “Yeah, I gotta work too,” he said, as if they were a couple of stubble-faced grunts on the clock.
Nick watched him traipse to his room, taking comfort in his boy, feeling one step closer to deserving him.