Dancing Machine

by Shauna Checkley

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

Propped up on many pillows, Ruth was in bed, watching TV. Beautiful Simone was cuddled in with her. As the evening news was set to start, Ruth refused to watch it, having given up years earlier on the biased media. She pointed the remote control like a gun at the TV, Elvis style, and happily watched it disappear in a poof.

She tried to sleep but began to fret instead. Please, Terry, come home safe. How can I help him, God? What do I do? She wracked her mind to think of anything she could say or do to heal his wounds. And she marveled at how mothers never cease worrying over their children, even grown ones like Terry.

Eventually, though, Beautiful Simone’s warmth seemingly spread like some invisible current throughout the bed. Ruth felt her eyes go heavy and shut.

When Terry climbed into bed that night, he should have instantly dropped into a deep and mysterious sleep like he usually did. But his excitable, high-strung nature wouldn’t let him easily exit the night’s grand excesses. He shifted about in bed. He still saw the faces of KISS in his mind’s eye. The Bat. The Cat. The Spaceman. The Lover.

Staring deep into the darkness, Terry yearned for sleep. Even though tomorrow was Friday, and one could always flounder through one botched day at work, he still hoped for a decent night’s sleep. Shouldn’t all that dancing have knocked me out? You’d think as much.

But his mind had returned to its central dilemma. It was where he was stuck, spinning his wheels. Terry had been overwhelmed by the gap between his weaknesses and his desires. He was a vulnerable soul who only wanted his wife and his life back. Specifically, he wanted that invincible sense of purpose and belonging to return as it was before or in some acceptable facsimile thereof. That’s all. But he also knew that that wasn’t likely to happen.

I can dance for all eternity and she’s never coming back. Goddamn that Earl guy who took her from me, who took my whole life, in fact. It shouldn’t have happened, though he knew it was happening in droves these days as online cheating had become the thing of things. Hmmpf. Earl was her old high school sweetheart that she had reunited with on Facebook. It figures! And soon the song “Goodbye, Earl” began playing non-stop in his frazzled mind. The Dixie Chicks — now called The Chicks — those perky chanteuses, cooed, “Earl had to die.”

Terry chuckled in the growing dark.

But then another realization struck. That’s why I moved Mom in here, rushed her out of her own place when perhaps she wasn’t even quite ready to go. He winced at the thought. How selfish of me! That wasn’t exactly right. He felt his flaws as certain as if they were prickles or thorns.

Still, he assured himself that his mom was happy here. All things considered, of course. Besides, she was older now, and he could watch over her better if she lived right with him.

* * *

The next day at work was an uneventful one. Customers came and went. Ross and the rest of the crew were out on calls. Terry found himself alone and waiting, drinking his Rock Star, anticipating as ever. But what exactly was he waiting for? He didn’t know. Though his life had not ended, it had certainly stalled, faltered, like a dance miscue.

He was reminded of Ross from his work crew. Ross, the inveterate jogger, who continuously set new and higher running goals for himself. But for what? It was an intangible that could never be reached like the snake chasing and swallowing its tail. Am I like that, too? Just maybe...

He balked at the thought. He knew that he wouldn’t let go of his dancing. He enjoyed it too much. Besides, he believed dance, like laughter, heals the wounds inflicted by reason and life. It was the necessary and perfect antidote to misery in fact. Eventually, he hoped it would heal the Jenny wounds, the open sores of living that fester below the surface until breaking out and bringing an untimely malaise over everything.

He took an extra big gulp of his energy drink and felt his system suddenly kick in. Probably getting buzzed from drinking too much of this stuff. Maybe I should cut back?

But then Bob walked in. “Hey, my man,” Bob said.

“Heya,” Terry said.

“So how did you like the show the other night?” Bob asked.

“It was fun.”

“Yeah, from what I can remember of it,” Bob joked.

Both men laughed.

Then Terry asked, “So how can I help you today?”

“I need a motor for a water pump. Standard size should about do it.”

Terry nodded. Then he disappeared into the back room.

Several minutes later, Terry returned and handed Bob a box with the motor inside. He had folded the cardboard flaps in to make it appear new, though it was a used unit that he was passing off as new. Hate to rip a buddy off, Terry thought sadly, but what can I do? Business was sluggish. Terry had to remortgage the house when Jenny left, just when house prices were at an all-time high. It’s been so hard to recoup all that I’ve lost.

He faltered at the cash register. In a flash of conscience, he considered returning the used motor to the back room. No, it’ll look odd if I suddenly do otherwise. I’ll try and do better next time. It was something that he had been telling himself often of late.

He proceeded with the sale. After ringing up the purchase, they chatted.

“These days I’m restoring a classic car I found abandoned in a field,” Bob said.

“Oh, what kind?”

“A ‘67 Beaumont. It’s not even in that bad a shape, really,” Bob said.

Terry listened with rapt attention as Bob recounted his mechanical misadventures. He soon forgot the moral qualms he had felt moments ago.

When Bob finished his story and turned sideways like he was ready to go, an idea occurred to Terry.

He grinned broadly. “Hey, buddy, I wanna show you something.”

Bob followed Terry downstairs. They went into an empty room that had a disco ball light overhead and was set up with speakers and a sound system.

“This is my dance studio. Sometimes when things are slow, I practice down here.”

Bob stared.

They went back upstairs.

“Yeah, I really got my dance on these days. But, hell, everybody needs a hobby. And who knows someday I could even run for office. Become the dancing Mayor or some crazy thing.”

Bob stared deep into Terry’s face. His lips twitched like he was holding back saying something. Then finally he said, “I gotta go now. See ya.”

“See ya, Bobby,” Terry called as the man strode out the front door.

* * *

After supper that evening, a thrown-together sort of hash, as if his mother had scraped out the contents of the fridge into the frying pan, they went their separate ways.

Terry thought about going to the mall to play Dance Dance Revolution. But he remembered it was a Tuesday night and bound to be extra busy there, so he decided against it. Instead, he retired to the basement, as ever.

* * *

Ruth intended to read her Bible before her favorite program started at 8:00 p.m. As she heard Terry crank the music, she felt a flutter of fear tickle down the back of her neck. What is all of that about anyhow? She set her Bible aside. She considered praying for her son.

But then it came to her! Eureka! Epiphany-like. Thank you, Jesus, holy one. Through the misty recall of memory, she remembered a far-away time when Terry was twelve, a happier, easier era, for certain, when they all lived in the old Cavendish Street home, the original family residence and she taught her thin, wiry son with the huge feet how to waltz. It was a fun time, one they laughed about for years afterwards.

Not even exactly certain what she was going to do, Ruth hustled down the stairs into the basement. Beautiful Simone weaved in and out of her legs as she took each step, aggravating Ruth to no end and making her curse lightly under her breath. Damn!

Terry looked up and smiled, but he kept dancing.

Ruth turned the music down to a more tolerable level. “Son, let’s waltz like back in the old days.”

Terry ground to a halt. His face lit up like a thousand shining disco balls. Then, with outstretched arms, he received her, and they two-stepped happily along. Foxtrot. Everything.