Come Dancing (5 page)

“D’you know Gatemouth?” Jack asked, going over to the turntable. “I bet you’d like him. Or I could play some Charlie Patton.”

“Sure, if it’s not too much trouble. I love this stuff, but my friends are more into The Voidoids. Or Throbbing Gristle.”

“No trouble at all,” he replied with a hint of a smile. He put the music on, then grabbed an empty paper cup and went to the window, where a moth was frantically fluttering. He deftly clapped the cup over it and slid his hand between the pane and lip. “We’ll let him go later,” he said, covering it loosely with a lid.

Jack sprawled back in his chair. I risked a peek at him; hair splayed around his shoulders, eyelashes dark above sculpted cheekbones.
He’s even better-looking in person than in photographs
, I thought. Halfway through the record, he turned the volume down.

“How did you get into the blues?” he asked. “Most girls your age would be just weaning themselves off of disco.”

I laughed. “I admit I got down to ‘Last Dance’ a few times in college. But my dad played blues and country for me from the time I was small. The blues make every other kind of music seem a little … tepid, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. Definitely tepid.” He took a swig of whiskey.

“How did you first get into it?” I ventured to ask. The Floor had done their bluesiest album a number of years ago; it was my favorite, but I wasn’t going to mention that. I didn’t want to come across like those slobbering groupies at the bar.

“I hung out with some older kids in secondary school, and they collected American records. The first time I heard Robert Johnson, I was gobsmacked. That’s what got me started down this long, twisted road. You know the saying, ‘The blues are the easiest music to learn, but the hardest to play.’”

Jack got a distracted look on his face and went silent for a minute. The phone rang; a hang-up, but then it rang again. He went to have a long mumbled conversation in the other part of the loft. Already I was developing a colossal crush on him—probably the emotional equivalent of having a “Kick Me” sign taped to my back.

“I forgot about this thing I was supposed be at an hour ago,” Jack said when he returned.

I jumped up, hoping I hadn’t overstayed my welcome. “I was just heading out.”

“I think we’re going to stay here a few more minutes, and then maybe go somewhere else.” Vicky gave me a wide grin to let me know she was taking Sammy to her place.

“I’ll catch up with you tomorrow,” I said.

Jack grabbed the cup with the moth, pressed the elevator button and got in with me. He reached over and fingered a button at the base of my neck. “I like this shirt of yours with the pearl buttons. Where did you get it?” His hand just whispered on my bare skin before he moved it away.

I swallowed. “I get a lot of my stuff from Alice Underground. It’s this below-street-level shop on the Upper West Side. They have second-hand and nicer vintage things too.”

“I could use some new threads. You’ll have to take me there sometime.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering if he really meant it. The elevator opened and we went across the lobby. The doorman held the door as we stepped out into the street. “Thanks for playing those records.”

“Anytime.” Jack took the lid off the cup. “Go on back to your old lady,” he said as the moth spiraled up into the night sky. “I was really into insects when I was a kid. I’d catch a jar of fireflies and bring them to my room at night. I liked to watch them flickering on and off while I fell asleep.”

He ran his hand through his hair and gazed down the block. “What are you up to Sunday night?” he finally said. “I’ll be in the studio all day; we’re finishing the tracks for a new album. You can come over here and listen to some more music.”

I suppressed the urge to shout “Yes!” and took a breath. “Sunday’s great.”

Jack smiled, the breeze ruffling his hair. “Vicky can come, too. I love turning people on to these old blues. I’ll pick you up around seven since you have to work Monday.”

“Don’t remind me. I need to be there by 8:30 to take notes in a meeting for my boss, Harvey. He’s the publisher.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “I can’t remember the last time I was up that early. Unless I’d just never gone to bed.”

“We working stiffs have to rise and shine.”

“My motto is, ‘All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.’” He raised his eyebrow at me, and I almost dissolved into the litter-strewn sidewalk. “How about giving me your number?”

“Sure.” I got a scrap of paper from my backpack, so flustered I had to think for a minute before writing it down. He took the pen from my hand, scribbled on the bottom and tore it off. “Here’s mine.”

I poked it deep into my jeans pocket. “Well … thanks again! Goodnight.”

I crossed Houston in a blissed-out fog.
So here’s what happened today: I typed letters. I answered phones. I came home to find Jack Kipling sitting on my stoop
. And now his number was in my pocket. I felt for the curl of paper to make sure it was really there.

It was impossible to get to sleep. I wondered if Vicky was already rolling around in bed with Sammy. I pictured Jack’s face as he listened to the music, eyes closed, his lithe body stretched out in the chair. I couldn’t wait to see him again Sunday night. My breakup with Art was starting to seem light years away.

Lively Up Yourself

The next morning as I sat on my futon having coffee, my eyes fell on the notebook resting on my bedside table. I put down the mug and opened the marbled cover. Written in block letters were the titles of the first books I’d ever read:
The Cat in the Hat, Harold and the Purple Crayon
. I flipped through more pages, coming to fifth grade when my mother still had the night job:
Little Women
, Anne Frank. Ninth:
To the Lighthouse, Madame Bovary
. The emptiness of the house without my dad.

After he left, Dot struggled to make ends meet. We moved several times, each rental smaller than the one before. She began going to Buck’s every night and lost a string of jobs because of calling in sick—i.e., hung over.

Sometimes she brought a man home with her from the bar. Scuffed work boots on the doormat; muffled noises behind her bedroom walls. A stranger in the bathroom when I was trying to get ready for school. She got a reputation for being loose, which was a shocking thing in our little town where everybody knew everyone’s business.

Just as I was heading out to the bus stop one morning, I heard a man leaving her room. Quickly I ducked into the kitchen. Dot followed him down the hall to the front door, asking him not once but twice,
Don’t you want me to fix you some breakfast?
The guy didn’t even answer in his rush to get out to his pickup. The motor gunned and the truck screeched away. I stayed put until Dot returned to her room. On my way out, I heard sobbing behind her closed door. Her rejection clouded my thoughts as I bagged an endless line of groceries after school. Why couldn’t she see what was so obvious to me; that hopping into bed with those men wasn’t going to make any of them fall in love with her? In fact, just the opposite.

I turned to another page. After Dad left, my notebook became one of the few ties I had to my past. I didn’t keep a diary because I knew Dot would pry—and I didn’t need one. I could recall what I was doing at any point in time, just by what I’d been reading.

I was deep into editing that night when the phone rang. I could hear music and people talking in the background. “What page are you on?” came an accented voice.

“Two hundred forty-eight, no thanks to you.” I was smiling so hard my face hurt.

“What d’you mean, no thanks to me? You got home before eleven,” Jack said. “What did you do today?”

I tried to slow my hammering heart. “You might need to sit down. I got up at six and went for a run on the West Side Highway, then I started marking up Mr. Collins. I’ve been at it ever since, except for an intermission to hear some Billie Holiday.”

“I played several good records after you left. Do you know Leadbelly? He laid down some nice stuff back in the twenties. Hang on—”

A woman’s voice asked something, and he mumbled a reply.

“I’ll put that on for you tomorrow.” He came back on the line. I heard the woman laughing.

“That would be great.”

“All right then, I’ll let you get back to work.”

I heard a click, and hung up.
Jack Kipling just called me. On the phone
. I went to get their latest record and put it on, staring at his picture on the cover. Suddenly I was really anxious.
What will we talk about tomorrow? Maybe I can ask about their new album—then again, maybe he can’t discuss it yet. I wonder if anything will happen at his place. But maybe he just wants to play some more blues for me, like he said.

Vicky hadn’t gotten in touch on Saturday, and I wanted to give her some breathing room. The next morning I called her.

“Boy, my limbs feel like jello,” she said.

“You’re just trying to make me jealous. Had fun, hmm?”

“It’s true about those Southern guys; they really do aim to please. Guess what, Sammy said Jack likes that you’re smart. His last few ladies were total airheads. And he was amazed that you’re into the blues.”

I told myself to take this with a grain of salt; “last few ladies” indicated his short attention span.

“So be nice to him tonight, okay?” Vicky continued. “You resisted him once, but now you should go for it.”

“I don’t know. I’d feel awful if we slept together and then he never called me again.” I went over to the window and gazed down at Broome Street. “I’d feel like I was following in Dot’s footsteps.”

“This has nothing to do with Dot. It sounds like she didn’t have a shred of self-respect. You’re the one in control—you can sleep with whoever you want. Although you may have the right idea about not seeming too easy, since he wants to see you again.”

“Maybe he’s tired of women fawning over him. He looked bored out of his mind at that party.” A man shook out a blanket on the sidewalk and began spreading his wares.

“Then again, you don’t want to put him off. Why don’t you gussy up a bit? I’ll bet he stops by your place first, so you can be alone in the car before he picks up me and Sammy.”

“I almost wondered if Sammy lived there, he seemed so comfortable.”

“I think they’re best friends, or whatever that is for men. Sammy said he spends a lot of time at Jack’s place.”

“What was up with that glass coffee table?” I asked.

“The better to chop up the coke, my dear.”

“Ohh… I didn’t get that.”

“Yeah, you’d better watch out. Jack’s a Big Bad Wolf.”

I didn’t gussy up; I didn’t want to seem like I was trying too hard. I put on jeans and a sleeveless top that I’d scored for three bucks at Trash and Vaudeville. I was so twitchy, I had to redo my eyeliner twice. Gazing at my reflection, I wished I looked more sophisticated. It would help if I could afford better clothes. But there was nothing to be done about that, unless I wanted to start freelancing on Tenth Avenue.

At eight I heard someone banging on the downstairs door. I peered out my window and saw Jack gazing up at me.

“This building needs a buzzer,” he called. “How do people come up to see you?”

“I throw down my key if someone’s coming up. I’ll be right there.” If he saw my scruffy apartment he might feel sorry for me, as opposed to feeling attracted.

I grabbed my backpack and went downstairs. Jack was leaning against the brick wall, looking sultry in a rose-colored shirt with the top four buttons undone and low-slung suede hip-huggers. He looked so handsome smiling at me that it made me even more on-edge.

“How do you get your supplies up three flights?” he asked as we went to the car. His British accent gave everything he said a polite air.

“Sometimes I make two trips,” I replied. “Builds character. And calf muscles.”

“I noticed you had a set of those.” Rick opened the back door for us, and Jack’s gaze lingered on my legs as I climbed in. “How many miles a day you running?”

“About five. I go for an hour.”

“Sounds disgustingly healthy.” He slid over toward the middle, next to me.

“It’s stress relief. I got into the habit in college; I used to take a study break at night and go for a jog with friends from my dorm.”

“Hmm. So you girls would come back in all sweaty and what, shower together?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“We’d shower, but not together. Sorry to ruin your visual there.” I smiled at his expression.

“That’s all right, I’ve been told I have an overactive imagination. How long have you had your place here?”

“A year in May. I rented it when I got out of NYU.”

Our shoulders bumped as Rick swerved to avoid a scarecrow draped in tattered garbage bags, waving on traffic.

“I thought you went to college in Pennsylvania.”

“NYU was grad school.”

Jack considered me. “So you really are brainy.”

“I only went for a year, to get my Master’s. The ivory tower didn’t prepare me for much in terms of real life. Like knowing how many quarters to run a cycle at the laundromat. Or which express to take so you don’t wind up in Flatbush.”

Jack laughed. “Yeah, I guess only the real deal can prepare you for that. How’d your day go?”

“I did more editing and ran a few errands. What about you?” I had no idea how someone like him spent his time.

“This and that. I got up about noon—I know, I’m a lazy bugger—and messed around with a few riffs. Then I put some things on tape at the studio, overdubs and such for the new album.”

Rick caught a stoplight. “Vicky’s over on Mott,” I said.

“Yeah, I remember. The night of ‘No, I don’t want you to walk me home,’” Jack said wryly.

I gave a little shrug. Vicky was waiting outside, wearing a short denim skirt that made her legs look miles long. Her blonde hair was spiked up pertly, silver hoops in her ears. “Hello,” she said to Jack. “Sammy said to pick him up at his place.”

“I hope he didn’t drink up all your liquor.”