Dance With Me (19 page)

Ed started to help her look, but she waved him onto a stool as she bustled around his kitchen. She shoved the garbage higher on the counter and fussed in the cupboards, looking for the filters and the coffee tin.

Ed rubbed at a stiff spot in his neck. “Where's Dad?”

Annette waved the filters she'd found in the back of the spice cupboard and used them to dismiss her husband. “Bill called and dragged him out to poke at some engine.” She caught Ed still rubbing at his neck, and her expression shifted from irritated to concerned. “Is your neck acting up again? Have you taken your pills? Should we call the doctor?”

Ed pulled his mom toward him and kissed the top of her head. “I don't want to talk about my neck.” He turned back to the coffee and pulled out the filter tray. “Who came in to the salon this week? Anybody I know?”

She considered this a moment while Ed tried to make room in the garbage can for the dead filter and grounds. When this didn't happen, he emptied it into a pizza box.

“Monica Graber,” Annette said at last.

Ed paused with the clean filter halfway in the tray and frowned, trying to place the name. “Do I know her from church or school?”

“Both. She was a lunch lady at Farnsworth Elementary and your catechism teacher at St. Casimir.”

“Ah.” Ed recalled, vaguely, a severe, slightly stooped woman with gray upswept hair and a permanent frown. He scooped coffee into the filter and pulled out the pot to give it a rinse and a refill. “How is she?”

“Oh, her arthritis is acting up something terrible. But her great-grandchildren are coming in this weekend, so that will help take her mind off things. I gave her a shampoo and a set.” She eased back against a pile of magazines Ed had been meaning to put away. “Oh, and Ellen Rudawski was in. Lord bless her, but she tans too much. Face like old shoe leather, but she thinks she's beautiful. I did talk her into fewer highlights this time, so at least she doesn't look like the bride of Frankenstein. She, of course, asked why she hadn't seen you in church.”

“She mention what Aaron is up to lately?” Ed kept the question casual, but he needn't have bothered. This was one of his mother's favorite outrages.

“No, and I wouldn't ask!” Annette made several disapproving clucks before she could bring herself to go on. “And it isn't funny, so stop smiling! I don't mind who you sleep with, of course, but Ellen is a fussy thing, and no, she didn't take kindly to finding you in bed with her son! And I didn't like being the scandal of the neighborhood, thank you!”

In bed and with Aaron's lovely cock halfway down his throat, Ed amended to himself, smiling at the memory. To his mother, he said, “It was twelve years ago, Mom.”

Annette fussed for a few seconds more, then gave up and sighed. “It hardly matters, Ed. He's married now, God save that poor woman. Anyway, you're too good for Aaron Rudawski.”

Ed turned the coffee on before leaning against the counter in front of it. “So what are we doing today?”

Annette gave the apartment a distasteful glance. “We
should
clean this pigsty you call home. Honestly, Ed, how do you live in this?”

“Do you want to go shopping?” Ed asked, ignoring the commentary on his apartment. “We haven't been to the Mall of America or IKEA in forever. It'll be busy, but they'll have good sales. And I wouldn't mind stopping by REI.” He glanced at the time on the microwave and frowned. “Though I need to be back by five or so.”

“Oh?” Annette brightened. “Do you have a date?”

Ed opened his mouth, then realized he didn't know how to answer that question. He shut his mouth again and turned back toward the coffeepot, willing it to brew faster.

Too late he realized this was bait his mother could never ignore. She slid off the stool and hurried over to Ed. “What's his name? What's he like? When do I get to meet him?”

“It's not—We're not—” Ed swung the coffeepot back and forth on the hot plate to bleed off some of his agitation. The coffeepot handle jiggled under his nervous hold, and he let it go. “Laurie,” he confessed. “His name is Laurie Parker. He's a dancer.”

Annette drew back, a sour look on her face. “One of those tarts in the dirty bars?”

“No!” Ed glowered at her. “No, Mom. Like, a dancer. Ballet and stuff. He teaches over in Eden Prairie. He used to be really big-time too. They have posters of him, Mom. Now he has a studio, and he does the aerobics class at the center. That's where I met him.” He jiggled the coffeepot again. “But we're—I don't know. Just, you know, if you do meet him, play it cool.”

But all Ed's attempts to downplay Laurie were somehow only making his mother more excited. “Is he handsome? Is he nice?”

“Yes, he's handsome.” Ed considered the second question. “He's a little wry. He definitely does not take my shit.”

Annette was getting more excited all the time. “Is he Catholic?”

Ed gave her a withering look. “Mom!” When she just continued to look at him expectantly—hopefully—he sighed. “I don't know. I doubt it.”

Some of the rosy glow in Annette's cheeks faded, but when Ed shook his head, she bristled. “What? It's wrong to want a good Catholic boy for my boy?”

The coffee wasn't done, but it was close enough that Ed could steal a cup. He rattled through the cupboard, searching for a clean mug. There was one. He pulled it out, filled it, and handed it to his mother.

She accepted it, glancing dubiously at the fridge. “How old is your milk?” When Ed just looked at her blankly, she put down the mug and took Ed's arm. “Honey. I don't mean to nag. Honestly, I don't. But your apartment? To be honest, I'm standing here trying not to gag. I'm
afraid
to open that refrigerator. You were never clean, but since you had to leave the team, you've gone from bad to qualifying for the watch list of Public Health.”

Ed shook free of her grip and busied himself with washing a mug in the sink. Which was a trick not just because the sink was full, but because he'd apparently run out of dish soap. He wanted to deflect her or to tell her to leave him alone, but he thought how he'd probably have to turn Laurie down after the show, because he knew better than to bring a guy like Laurie to his dump. It all stewed inside him, and he found he couldn't say anything in his own defense, not this time. So he said nothing, just dried his mug on his T-shirt and poured himself a cup of joe.

Which to Annette was nothing more than an invitation to carry on. “You're just not happy, honey. You tell me you are, but I can tell that you aren't. You're trying, I know. Teaching that class was a good idea, and maybe it will help, but you need
something
. You've always been that way. You need a focus. A passion. You can put up a good front for other people, but I know you're dying inside, one little piece at a time. Your apartment used to be messy because you were busy and untidy, but now it's a disaster because you don't care. And you should care about your life, Ed. It's the only one you get. If you could get a job that paid decent and had good insurance and gave you your passion, that'd be one thing, but you don't love your job, and without football—” She bit her lip and shook her head. “I just worry about you, sweetheart. I worry so much.”

Ed had listened to this whole speech with his back to his mother as he stared into the depths of his coffee, and he continued to do so for a few heavy seconds after she'd finished. He didn't know what to say. He
wanted
to say that he didn't feel like what she'd said he did, but then he remembered that morning in the sculpture gardens with Laurie and the despair that had driven him there, and how funky he'd been after that, how he kept forgetting to call him, the guy he really did want. He supposed that he did feel down.

Then he thought of Laurie and the way he'd felt whenever he kissed him.

Passion.

Then he looked out his apartment again. And he admitted, finally, that no passion with Laurie was ever going to happen here. Not with it looking like this. Which meant not tonight.

Which depressed the hell out of him.

Clearing his throat, Ed nodded and lifted his cup to his lips. “Fine,” he said and took a fortifying sip. “I'll clean my apartment. I'll clean it all up and make it a gleaming palace. Happy?”

He waited for the explosion of joy, but his mother didn't say anything, so he glanced at her. She looked stunned. Her eyes were wide, and looked like she might drop her coffee cup.

Ed frowned. “Mom?”

“What did you say?” Annette asked. “Did you—did you just say you'd clean your apartment?”

“Yes,” Ed said, wary now. “Is that a problem?”

“Never,” she whispered. Her hand was shaking now. “Not when you were little, not when you were grown. Never.
Never
.”

“Mom?” Ed asked again, very worried now. “Are you okay?”

“You never cleaned your room for me. Not when I asked you. Not when I told you. Not one time. You did it when you felt like it and never very well.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she took Ed's face in her hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. “I don't care that this Lars isn't a Catholic. I love him already.”

“Laurie,” Ed corrected, but gruffly because he was really embarrassed about the room thing. He hadn't done that. Had he? He'd cleaned up when she'd said. Hadn't he?

From the look on his mom's face, clearly not.

“I just want to be able to bring him over,” he mumbled.

“And you will.” Annette kissed him again, then let him go. “Tonight, if you want, after your date. Because we're cleaning right now.”

“What?” Ed said, appalled. “Mom—”

She held up a hand to still his objections as she punched in numbers on her cell phone and held it up to her ear. “Dick? Honey? Come over to Ed's place right away, and bring the truck and all the garbage bags we have. Oh—bring Bill too. Ed's cleaning his place up for a boy.”

“
Mom
!” Ed tried to take the phone from her, but his mother turned away, gave a few more instructions of his father, and hung up.

“You can be mad all you want, sweetheart,” she said, picking up the bag of garbage sitting beside the full can without a liner in it, “but this is happening.”

“I didn't mean
now
!” Ed shot back, but then he thought of bringing Laurie here tonight and making love to him in his own bed—with clean sheets—and reached for the trashcan. He was out of trash bags, he remembered now. And dish soap. And laundry detergent. And milk. And everything. He swore under his breath and tossed the can back down.

His mother took his face in her hands again, looking him dead in the eye. “We'll get it done, honey. We'll have this place gleaming by five o'clock.” She winked and patted his cheek. “If Aaron Rudawski didn't live in Rochester, I'd drag his sorry butt in here to help too.”

Ed smiled despite himself. “Thought he wasn't good enough for me?”

Annette shrugged. “He's good enough to take out your garbage.”

Ed laughed and hugged his mom close, loving every soft, round inch of her. “Thanks, Mom.”

She hugged him back, then swatted his backside. “Get to work,” she scolded, and then she hauled her bag of garbage off toward the door.

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Chapter Nine

fall: a movement where the dancer falls to the ground in a controlled, graceful movement that still appears natural

The Saturday classes were Laurie's least favorites. He didn't mind working on Saturday itself so much. For a long time now, in fact, he'd enjoyed having more time off during the week to run errands or rehearse or be at home. The classes themselves were what annoyed him. They were all classes for younger children and as such were overpopulated by students who had no real interest in being in dance but whose parents still wished to believe they did. If Laurie had taught the very young dancers, it might have been more bearable, but Maggie handled all the “little cherubs,” as she liked to call them. In addition to all the teenagers, Laurie also ended up with the third through sixth graders who largely fell into two camps: the whiners and the frightening miniature adults.

Some of them had real talent, yes. But almost none of them had personality. He knew on some level that assessment was cruel, but God help him, he couldn't stand them. They all had cell phones, to start. Why? Why did a ten-year-old need a cell phone? Who were they calling? Of course, they weren't calling, were they. They were texting each other, sometimes from across the room. When they weren't punching on keypads, they were chattering about Taylor Swift or a new game or movie. He never heard them speaking about toys unless it was to catalog how many of a hot item they had. One girl had seventeen American Girl dolls, and she liked to hold court discussing the new outfits she'd purchased that week and what she thought of them. Even the boys weren't the same as he remembered. There were never many in dance, but there were certainly no little Lauries here. The male dancer conversations were all about Xboxes and their prowess in their local soccer league.

Laurie was sure it hadn't been that bad when he'd been ten. On some level he knew it had to have been. The eighties weren't exactly known for their openness of spirit and sharing, especially in the suburbs. Laurie hadn't participated the way his peers had; for him it had been about having the best dance gear and the most state-of-the-art everything in his rehearsal room. It just seemed different somehow, watching his students now. Maybe it wasn't different at all and this was just what it looked like from the other side. Maybe his teachers had stood in front of his classes and wrinkled their noses in the same sort of disgust.

Or maybe, he acknowledged as he dismissed the giggling masses of Advanced Junior Tap, he was just getting old.

By the time Laurie finished at noon, he felt listless. He didn't need to be at the theater until four. He could go early, certainly, and Maggie would put him to work. But he didn't want to go there at all. Not to work, not to perform. He fantasized, even, about simply driving west, away from downtown, and not stopping until he hit the ocean.

He drove to a deli instead, grabbed some lunch, and wandered back through town toward his apartment. But he didn't get off at his exit. He kept going toward St. Paul. He wished he knew where Ed's house was so he could stop by. But he didn't know, and he wasn't going to call and ask.