Finding Tom (10 page)
CHAPTER 12
Lord of the Dance
THE EVENING OF THE SECRET
dance was upon us. Of course, news had quickly spread across campus, and no doubt the vast majority of the student population knew about the event, courtesy of a few well-placed notes and the innate human instinct to gossip. With juicy news like this, everybody wanted to know what was going on. They loved the fact that the dance smacked of rebellion against the intolerable dean, but even more than that was the women. For one sweet night, the forbidden feminine fruit would be within our reach to touch and perhaps taste. The thought of soft skin and rosy lips and twinkling eyes made my head spin. We would dance with the forbidden fruit until we could take no more. Everyone knew that it was a Secret Sevens event, and rumor had it that this was going to be the event of the year. Nothing like a little hype! The previous night, we had been up into the wee hours of the morning, moving shelves and decorating. We covered the whole place with 7s of all different shapes and colors. We hooked up long ropes of power cord to encircle the room with lights looping and hanging all over the place. Finally, droopy-eyed and covered in dust, we let ourselves out of the library just as daylight was beginning to break.
The event started at 11:00 p.m. At 10:30, I unlocked the back door, returned directly to my post, and carried on with my nightly routine as usual. I heard the clock strike eleven o’clock as I walked out the front doors. Let the fun begin. After stopping by my room to shower and change, I approached the library again. I smiled at the unusually high number of people out for this time of evening, dressed in the most fashionable attire. Lights still on in a few professors’ windows made me nervous; hopefully, they would carry on with their boring research and not notice the activity going on right outside their windows. It was nearly midnight as I slipped in the back door and down the spiraling staircase. Everything was pitch black, save for a few appointed people with flashlights to show the way. The basement was a different story. Below ground and with no windows, it was the perfect location. The room was lit up like a carnival. Big band music filled the air, originating from a large Victrola that trumpeted at full volume in the corner. But not a sound or shred of light could be detected from outside.
Strange how, just a few weeks ago, this sort of party would have been exactly the sort of thing that I would have avoided at all costs. I saw Charles standing beside the large bowl of punch looking rather sly, and upon careful attention, I watched him slip a little something extra into the concoction, the little devil. I made my way around the large group of people swinging wildly on the open floor … well, carpet, to be more precise. Girls were flipping and flying every which way like trapeze artists, flung by boys with rolled up sleeves and loose ties whipping all about. There was an electric energy in the building that was quite out of place for a gloomy library basement.
Wooden chairs lined the outside wall, and I watched as hungry men waited for girls to take a seat before pouncing on them for the next dance like ferocious lions. The women were greatly outnumbered, and the men were on the prowl, each looking to break away from the pack of potential suitors. It was as if somehow the wild commotion of the circus had been transported to the African planes, and we were caught up in the savagery and comedy of it all. Not being much of a dancer, to put it nicely, I stayed away from the rumpus, ruckus, and hullabaloo. I made eye contact with the other Secret Sevens around the room. Some were dancing, others were getting food, but all had a girl in tow. From the looks on their faces, I could tell the party was a raging success.
Just then, Charles seemed to come out of nowhere and thump me soundly on the back. “Well, old boy, I wouldn’t have thought to find you here.”
“Hmm … you seem to have forgotten that I work here,” I reminded him. “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see what all the fuss was about.”
“Ah, yes, well, as you can see, the fuss has lived up to its hype. I’m just waiting for the right moment to slide in and snatch up one of these beautiful dames for a dance. The competition is fierce, though. No chance of success for the faint of heart and the—”
Suddenly, he brushed by me, holding out his hand to a luscious brunette making her way off the dance floor. He twirled her back into the moving mass of bodies before the poor thing had a chance to say no. Charles was in his element. Nobody could keep up with him. With his legs flying every which way, he was an unstoppable ball of energy—the ringmaster. Powerful and humorous at the same time, he spun and pivoted perfectly to the beat, grinning the entire time like a clown. With his shirttails pulled out and his bright green suspenders on full display, he was indeed a sight to behold, dancing without a care in the world in what must have been the ugliest polka-dotted tie ever made. Somewhere in the middle, we made eye contact, and he winked at me before spinning away. Finally, the song ended, and Charles escorted his partner, who still looked a little dazed from all her spinning and flipping, to grab a glass of punch together. All the while, I stayed rooted in place; I was a wallflower.
I watched the scene before me unfold as if in slow motion. I could see the mob of people pulse with the beat. I felt them surge as the cascading notes drove them forward, pushing and prodding them. I watched flashy feet flitting about and sweaty hands slipping briefly only to be reunited after a quick rub on pleated pants. I saw ponytails whip around like helicopters and giant poodle skirts billow out like colored cupcakes. Hands clapped, clasped, reached, and caressed. Couples disappeared into the dark corners, and the music moved from one song to the next, like one jumbled endless song with Louie and Sarah and Ella and all the others leading us into the world of soul and swing and jazz. There were moments when I swore I could feel the music pumping through my veins, making my feet tap against their better judgment. As the night rolled on, more and more people poured in until the place was flooded with hot steamy bodies rebelling against authority and dancing as if there were no tomorrow. There in that place, the rich and wealthy future leaders of America forgot their dignity. We were all pagan worshippers in the temple of lust and music and dance. We were overcome in a frightening frenzy like the ancient prophets. In our ecstatic state, we offered ourselves as living sacrifices, and in our dying, we were resurrected to fullness of life.
There was just so much life, so much energy that night—I thought the building might burst. I feared we might bring the place down upon ourselves like Samson, or that the library itself might grow legs and shimmy and shake across the campus and knock on Dr. Grove’s door. There was an explosion of brass, and the room seemed to jump. A solo sax dripped hot wax and ran up the scale so high it disappeared, only to come crashing down with a wail. A trumpet hopped and skipped and ripped and roared, tearing up the night as the dancers tore apart the floor, digging in for more with each step. Digging. Digging. Digging.
And through it all, I stood and watched, a wilting wallflower staring into a ferocious jungle to which I so desperately ached to belong. But there was a fence that had been erected between us long ago, a tall, wide fence that I knew not how to overcome.
Finally, the music began to slow, feet began to drag, and tired legs ceased kicking. The dust settled beneath us, and bodies slumped into chairs that had long sat empty. The punch had long been drunk dry, and cups of water were passed around to parched lips and dry mouths. Sweaty shirts stuck to skin, and once perfect hair now hung about in disorderly fashion, rebelling against bobby pins and hair spray. A courageous couple clung to one another on the dance floor as the few remaining notes faded away. There we sat, silently acknowledging the passing of the music unto death. Slowly, people began to whisper, laugh, and vanish up the winding black stairs, slipping into the night. Just a few of us remained, a few stragglers holding on to a moment now over. We grasped at it with sweaty hands but were unable to catch hold of that elusive partner. The music was gone. Charles sat on the floor. Hat in hand, he was the ringmaster, and the show was over.
At last, I too turned and trudged with tired eyes toward bed and blankets and a soft pillow. I fell into bed and dreamed of dancing and spinning with the most beautiful girl in the world with her soft skin, ruby lips, and sparkling eyes. I dreamed of living.
Morning came, and I awoke with remnants of my dream firmly embedded in my mind, and I could not tell what was real and what was not. I lay there reliving and again I drank of the music and the dancing, but it was not quite so sweet as before. It was mixed with the bitterness of my own pathetic fearfulness and failure. I felt the height and width of the fence between the jungle and me. I recognized my isolation, which seemed only to heighten the beauty of that which I could not obtain. I was a fearful observer afraid to live for fear that, in my living, I would dishonor the death of my mother—yes, the very woman who loved and laughed until tears spilled down her rosy cheeks, the stunning beauty who lived each day as if it might be her last. And yet somehow I felt that if I embraced life as she had taught me, I would forget her. Above all else, I feared losing her memory, so in a strange way I honored her with my solemn sadness. I remembered her death and saw it everywhere I looked. I felt her absence and the darkness that her death had wrought. This never-ending vigilance was my curse and my course.
CHAPTER 13
The Aftermath
IT WAS NEARLY NOON WHEN
I decided to get out of bed and face the day. Charles obviously had no such notion, as he lay sprawled out in nothing but his underwear. His soggy dancing clothes were crumpled on the floor—tie, suspenders, and all. I dared not wake him. If I was tired, I can only imagine how he, the lord of the dance, must feel.
I remembered that I was supposed to have lunch with Dr. Emory and was assuredly going to be late. Famished and tardy, I arrived at the Emory house. As usual, Mr. Calhoun answered the door and ushered me in with knees and elbows jutting out in all directions, an accident waiting to happen. Dr. Emory was out on the back porch, taking in the beautiful fall day. The leaves were just beginning to turn colors, and the yard was littered with acorns. A black walnut tree stood near the side of the house, and Dr. Emory was cracking shriveled shells to get at the innards.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Emory,” I said meekly. “I apologize for being late.”
“Think nothing of it, Tom,” he replied, putting me at ease. “Being on time is not all it’s cracked up to be. In fact, I try to make a habit of being late. The more people seem to get all wound up about being impeccably punctual, the more I want to be impeccably late. I’ve always been that way. You tell me what to do, and you can be darn sure I’ll do the opposite. Plenty of folks rant and rave about such behavior, but I think it’s because most of them are jealous they don’t have the guts to step out of line and live a little.”
He offered me a walnut, so I popped it into my mouth and plopped down in the worn rocking chair beside him. “Yes, well, it’s not that easy for everyone to just do whatever they want to do.”
“Why not?” he retorted.
“Well … I mean, people might talk, and you might lose your job and so forth.”
“Let me give you a bit of advice, Tom. People are going to talk no matter what you do. If you choose to do nothing at all, then people will talk about that and try to analyze you. Don’t let people stop you from living. Sometimes you just have to get out there and play the fool. Make mistakes. Fall on your face. Get back up and try it again with even more gusto. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fallen down and failed. That’s just part of the deal.”
“I don’t care so much about what people say,” I explained. “I’m just afraid to get out there. It’s me holding myself back, not anyone else.”
“Yes, I can understand that. You are afraid to fail, but why? What’s so scary about messing up?”
“I don’t know. Most of the time, I don’t care. I look at all the things people around me are doing, and I see just how stupid and fleeting they are, but there are moments when I wish I could join them. There are times when I wish I could stop making everything so complex and just live.”
“Oh, I completely understand,” he assured me. “Tom, you are a thinker. You’ve experienced pain and hardship at a young age. We haven’t talked about it much, but I know that your mother’s death has impacted the way you view the world, as it rightfully should. It comes through very clearly in your writing. The struggle is recognizing that just because things are simple or seemingly superficial to us does not mean that they are unimportant. We must allow ourselves to engage in the everyday and the ordinary and not feel guilty. There is nothing wrong with enjoying a fall day while cracking nuts. We have to let ourselves enjoy these moments because that is where real life happens. We have to appreciate the present with all its flaws rather than ignore its beauty because we see only its imperfections.”
There was a long silence. I did not know what to say in response. Dr. Emory looked at me with compassion in his eyes and reached out and lightly touched my arm. “Tom, when I first read your writing, it was obvious that there was something different about you from other boys your age. There was a separateness, an unusual maturity. It is this maturity that allows us to sit and enjoy one another’s company while we try to solve the world’s problems, but at the same time makes you feel so unwelcome among your peers. You have an old soul in a young man’s body, but you mustn’t let the old man win out and become a miserable old coot, or you will end up like Dr. Groves. The world doesn’t need more people like him. The world needs more people like your mother. From the few things you have said about her, I am sad that we never had the opportunity to meet. She sounds like a remarkable woman.”
Again, words dried up, and all that could be heard were the two rockers going back and forth and back and forth. I thought about my mother. I envisioned her, stringing my different memories together like pearls on a chain. I missed her so much. I felt tears well up in my eyes, but I pushed them back. Not here. Not now.