‘I was a terrible dancer,’ he said.
‘I know.’
The ballroom image wouldn’t go away now. ‘I don’t know how you stood me, dancing with you.’
‘Well! We didn’t do it very often, did we?’
‘No.’
‘Come here right now, Mister Jacko MacAlister.’
‘You’re so bossy! All right then, Miss Billie Mae Molinelli. For one minute.’
She let go of her walker, he took her weight, and miracle of miracles – what was going on today at Classic FM? – the next song was ‘In the Mood’, Glenn Miller.
Who’s the loving daddy with the beautiful eyes? What a pair of lips, I’d like to try ’em for size…
It occurred to Jack that Classic FM would never make a mistake like this; never play old jazz. Was it the radio’s fault, or their own? Then it occurred to him that marriage might be a bit like dancing to radio music. You didn’t know what song you’d get next. First you’d be with your partner, happily dancing and thinking – Yes, I get it, and it’s good to be here. I know this kind of music. Look at us – just like everyone else! Then a song might start up that you didn’t expect, and didn’t much like. Maybe the sax player squeaked, the pianist sounded flat, and someone was singing the same three jarring lines over and over – so irritating! You’d keep dancing, but now you’d be thinking: Actually, this isn’t much fun anymore. Five minutes later, you’d think: This is hell. When will this song end? I can’t stand much more of this. Then suddenly, there’d be an old much-loved song, like this one playing right now.
And I said: Hey baby, it’s a quarter to three,
There’s a mess of moonlight, won’t-cha share it with me?
Such a relief to be on familiar ground again, it reminded you why you married in the first place.
They danced without moving their feet. At first he let her lead, and followed the swaying of her torso, let her hug him tight, rest her head under his chin. Hey, what the hell? She’d shrunk! That would explain her skin being so loose.
First I held him lightly, and we started to dance. Then I held him tightly, what a dreamy romance.
‘So,’ said Milly softly. ‘What will we do now?’
‘What do you mean?’
She had to think a moment, how to explain herself. ‘I mean, what happens next? What do we do now?’
It was still an oblique query, but he understood. What was there left to do, in the face of imminent death? It was so in tune with his own thinking today, tears welled up again. It was heaven, now and then, to be understood by his wife.
‘Well?’
‘I’m thinking, sweetie.’
‘Well?’
‘As long as we can keep dancing, Milly, I think that’s what we should do. Dance.’
‘But I can’t dance, silly man.’
‘Shush,’ he whispered. ‘Just dance.’ Pause.
‘If that’s all there is my friend, then let’s keep dancing,’ she sang into his chest. ‘Remember that song, Jack?’
‘Yeah. Shush, now.’
‘It’s such a corny song.’
‘I know, I hated it.’
‘Me too.’
When the chorus began, Jack took her left hand and held it to his chest, and led her in his own rhythm. In the mood for all his kissing, in the mood for his crazy loving. And for a minute it worked. Then he missed a beat, and another, and she began to snort with giggles, which brought tears to her eyes. In his entire life, he’d never met a woman whose laughter could literally leak out of her eyes.
‘Oh, forget it,’ she said. ‘I’ve got things to do.’
‘Aw, come on, Milly. Give me another chance.’
‘You’re going to make me fall.’
‘I love you, Milly.’
‘I know.’
‘No, I mean I really love you.’
‘Okay. We’re almost out of dishwasher tablets.’
She moved away from him, gripped her walker. He noticed the pee smell again, but this time it was not repulsive. All he wanted was to hold her again, but she was fussing with the butter dish now, trying to close the lid.
Jack suddenly remembered taking her to the Sutro Baths, that first summer. Her red bathing suit, the way her skin looked milky against it. It was the pool’s last season, though no one knew that. Six salt water pools fed by the nearby Pacific Ocean, over five hundred changing rooms, and little refreshment bars scattered everywhere with names like Dive Inn. The high curved glass ceiling beamed down sunlight and bounced voices and splashes: a constant racket of delight. There were rings to swing from into the water, but what he remembered most was showing off his dives from the only diving board. He’d learned to dive by jumping off a rock into Sonoma Creek the summer he was fifteen, and he was proud. The way he used to cut cleanly into the water and surface like a seal. But at the Sutro Baths, with the bracing green Pacific below him, he remembered feeling awkward because she was watching in her red bathing suit. He worried he’d be clumsy, and then he worried that being worried would make him clumsier, because grace (he’d learned) had to be instinctive. But it was all right, and when he surfaced and looked for her face, there it was, smiling at him as if he’d just won an Olympic gold medal. Something so naked about her admiration. It was better than getting drunk.
