36

Dancing

Did you ever see your parents dance, did you? I ask Odessa in the morning. She says, My parents danced all the time when they weren’t hoeing, chopping, plowing, picking, making money anyway they knew how. Dancing, we had plenty of dancing with ten kids to raise and feed and clothe. Dancing? Let me tell you about dancing.

Odessa tells me a story about how she and her husband met at a dance club on the South Side. Odessa wore yellow heels and a grape purple dress and a yellow turban. She looked so beautiful. She met a man who loved to dance with her to show up all the other couples there. They danced all night and did that every Saturday night for three months before he asked her out on a real date. He was a fine dancer, she says, a handsome man next to a woman. Hah! Odessa says, You saw your parents dancing? When? she asks. I say, Last night. Ah, Odessa says, That living room smelled like perfume and champagne. They cleaned up everything. What do you know about that?

They danced in the living room to records. They thought I was sleeping but I heard them in my sleep, they woke me up and I could smell them and when I peeked at them I saw they were all dressed up but only went to the living room.

Mama wore this beautiful dress that danced as good as her and Pops wore a black suit with a white shirt and a red bow tie. There were candles everywhere and they had a bottle of champagne and some food out and they were like a bride and groom.

When Pops took Mama in his arms she smiled at him so nice, so pretty, with her white teeth and dimples and the funny way she lifts her head to the side when something nice happens. I watched for only a little while. Actually, a long time because they were so graceful and they danced so perfectly around the room, never bumping into anything or stepping on each other’s toes. Mama wore such high high heels that she was almost as tall as Pops. They got romantic with each other, mushy. I liked the music. Mama’s dress shimmered in the candlelight and Pops’ black hair looked lighter. They didn’t look like parents. I went back to bed.

Hush little one, Odessa says, and down the stairs come Mama and Pops. They look dreamy and happy and Odessa and I watch them.

I stare at Pops first. He is trying not to giggle, to laugh out loud at how happy he is. I can see in his eyes, well, I guess I shouldn’t look him in the eyes because they are a little scary. I look at his mouth where I see his berry-red lips. I look at his hands. Are they shaking? No. He isn’t dancing but he did dance all last night. And Mama? She looks sleepy. Her hair is going in so many directions that she could scare an octopus.

Pops says, Scags we’re going to have to get a steak for that eye. A raw slab of a side of cow and cover up that shiner that isn’t even worth crying about. I stare at my hands. I walk over to Odessa standing by the counter, putting cereal in a bowl for Pops. I wrap my arms around her, and she whispers, It’s okay. Once he eats, he’ll be fine.

Why are we all standing around as if someone died, Pops asks. He pulls a cigarette from behind his ear, lights it and walks to his spot. Odessa, Odessa, he says, I need…I need…She says, A bowl of cereal? She unwraps me and walks to the table with his cereal and a cup of coffee oh so white. She sets them down in front of him and Pops says, No, not that. Then he says no more but stares at his cigarette. The ash gets longer and longer. I know I should get him an ashtray. I know I should move toward him and catch that ash, but it’s too late and it falls onto the blue linen placemat. Mama goes toward Pops and sits down in my place, and drinks my milk.

Nate, Mama says, looking at him. I look too. He seems frozen in place. Mama reaches for his left hand, the hand holding the cigarette. It is still burning and could burn his fingers because he’s not paying any attention to it. Mama pries Pops’ fingers open and takes the cigarette from him. Odessa brings an ashtray that is wet and Mama drops the butt into it where the flame makes a hissing sound like kisses as it goes out.

Pops jumps up from his chair so suddenly that it falls backwards behind him. He takes a step and stops. He takes another step and stops. The three of us watch him. I don’t know what to do so I run out of the kitchen, up the stairs to my bedroom and slam the door behind me.

What is happening to my Pops? Why doesn’t someone do something, I say. Do something to make him stop being so scary and put him back the way he was when he would come home from work and pick me up and let me walk in the air and twirl me around saying my name over and over, Scags, Scaaags, my Scags, and I would say, Yes, you are my Pops.