Chapter 70

I see the world as an organized place. People stop at stop signs. They drive the speed limit. All in all, things move in an orderly fashion. It feels good up here under the eaves. It’s nice knowing I’m with the bees, not down with the bottom feeders. We’re making good progress with the painting these days. Three houses are done, the contract on the fourth has been signed. Margot asks for twenty percent up front. She sends Ruby out with proper paper work, our official letterhead on top. It looks professional, anyway. People like the way we present ourselves. It also helps that we have the garb, the painter paints, and the bandanas. I’ve become weathered and paint-splotched, going home with more dirt under my nails than a gravedigger. When I shower and change, Mary calls me Crocodile Dundee. It’s her way of bucking me up before we go to the dance studio. We’re starting the intermediate dance classes tonight. Mary wants me ready to voleo.

The intermediate level—according to Silvio—takes us back over the original dances, practicing now the subtleties of each step. “You will now learn to be graceful,” he says, and I’m sure he’s looking at me.

We start out doing some simple moves, and I still step on Mary’s toes, but we cut reasonable figures. Then Silvio takes Carmen out on the floor. “We will show you once again the promenade hold.” To the sound of the bandoneon, they dance from one end of the room to the other, gliding away with Carmen smiling the whole time. Above, the disco ball glitters, throwing swarms of light squares across the floor and up Carmen’s legs. The woman’s a treat. “I wish we moved like that, Sam,” Mary says.

“We’d need a gallon of Latin blood,” I say

As they finish, everyone applauds, Silvio bows, and Carmen raises her hand. They walk off the floor and into the dressing room.

“I could dance every day of my life,” Mary says.

“You’ll have to settle for twice a week.”

“We did wonderfully tonight, Sam.”

“We shouldn’t press our luck.”

Coming up the driveway later, I see an elderly neighbor using her car remote. Beep, beep, beep. She’s an ancient old thing, always hobbling about in her garden, trying to pick up the garden hose with her cane. She bought a new car last month. She’s still trying to figure out the keyless entry system. “Having trouble?” I ask.

“I can’t tell if it’s locked or unlocked,” she says.

I go over and check. “It’s locked,” I say. She goes inside. Five minutes later, Beep, beep, beep. Probably using it to turn on the television.