As promised, some very-semi-autobiographical flash fiction which I hope you enjoy with your Friday morning! And I do mean "I hope you enjoy it" because I am late to work for its sake. Hurray and all that. P.S. If you ever get the chance, PLEASE learn East Coast Swing. It's the bee's knees. That's all.
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"Swing It"
By Rachel Heffington
In response to its infernal ringing, Willoughby lifted the
receiver of his desk-telephone and grunted into it: H’lo? Willoughby Colbert’s
office.”
“Take me dancing and make me forget there was ever a man
named Christopher Markham.” The person on the other end of the phone-line drew
a few reedy breaths, then laughed a little off-center.
Willoughby rocked back in his chair and peered at the
yellowing calendar on the wall. Yep, still 1944. “Sal, that you?”
“And who the deuce else would it be?”
Then it was Salamanca
Deathridge, calling him up at nine PM on a Tuesday night after two and a half
years of friendly silence. Already, Willoughby felt the buzzing warmth speed
into his blood. Sal’s voice, homelike, smoothed glossy paint over all the
cracks worn into his soul by the last thirty-two months.
“Rizzio’s?” he drawled.
“9:25. I’m taking a taxi. And I won’t pray before I get in.”
The sharp click on the other end of the line told Willoughby
that Sal considered the appointment made: he’d show up, because he always
did. This eternal availability might’ve
been because he was one of the only single men not kicking Hitler’s butt in France right now, but Willoughby
preferred to think she favored his friendship over those tributaries which ran dry. He knew exactly
which troublesome grey umbrella Sal walked under tonight: the daring, wild,
implacable mood of a woman who’d been spurned by someone or another. And he knew
exactly how to sooth her, as he had so many times. Sal might go two years
without speaking to him, might not even
remember there was such a guy as Willoughby Colbert in New York City, but get
her in a pinch and she’d remember soon enough. Adorably predictable in that
way. Kinda kid-like. She knew where to come for the real stuff.
Willoughby took his feet off the desk, spun his hat in an
uncharacteristically flamboyant gesture, and walked, whistling, out the door,
taking care to lock it behind him.
I don’t know why I
care. Why do I care? I don’t. I don’t care.
“You got troubles, lady?”
Sal, too depressed to bother with activity, answered the
cabby’s question with a non-committal “Mmmfh.”
“It’s just, you’re not looking quite yourself.”
This comment coming from a cab-driver she’d never met in her
life caused Sal a momentary flicker of interest. She took her chin out of her
hand and moved glazy eyes to the cabby’s potato-shaped face. “What’s that?”
He jerked his head over one shoulder, switched lanes, and jutted
his chin. “Your lipstick’s coming off.”
Sal whipped out a compact mirror and saw, to her concern,
the man had made an accurate observation. A vibrant red ring around her lips, a
non-committal pink between.
“You know, I don’t know why I care.”
“About the lipstick?”
“People.”
“So don’t,” the cabby advised helpfully.
Sal fished deeper in the little net clutch and extracted a
tube of lipstick which she proceeded to apply. “Drama!” She flourished the
tube. “ Everyone has to have their little pouch of drama, which wouldn’t be so
bad if it could be rationed out or something. They ration everything else, you
know. Why not drama?”
“Hear, hear!” the cabby pounded the edge of his steering
wheel and pulled alongside the curb in front of a small dance-club. “Hey, lady.”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know what you’re trying not to care about, but get
this: it probably won’t matter tomorrow morning.”
Actually, it probably would matter tomorrow morning.
Especially because he’d said that just now, in that absurdly cheerful manner of
his. Sal manipulated a sulky smile onto her newly-rouged lips and handed in a
fifty-cent coin. “Keep the change.”
“It won’t matter!” the cabby yowled after her as Sal slipped
past a group of businessmen headed uptown. “Tomorrow, it won’t matter.”
Sal waved her net bag without turning around and barged
through the door into Rizzio’s. A well-groomed attendant took her light wrap
and asked if she waited for a companion.
“Seen a long-legged loser come in recently?”
The waiter answered that, if she referred, perhaps, to the
gentleman sitting at the bar just there, then perhaps miss would like him to go
apprise him of her arrival?
“Thanks.”
The attendant glistened off and Sal watched the old play of
familiar figures: the immaculate waiter clearing his throat at Willoughby’s
side, Willoughby, thoroughly absorbed in a cup of coffee, not hearing him. The
waiter trying again, Willoughby coming-to with a jolt, the soft lights of the
bar gleaming on his head of unabashedly good hair. The crinkle-eyed smile was
followed up, as always, by the whole six foot-five of Willoughby Colbert
extending itself to full running-trim as he found her and came forward.
“Salamanca Deathridge. Two years have done you no harm.”
“And if I’m allowed to hope that you’ve done no harm to
anyone in two years, I think we must render ourselves satisfied.”
Willoughby’s eyes ran over her face again and again and she
knew he saw straight through the confident lipstick. That was why she came.
“Let’s dance.”
Sal proffered her small, manicured hand and let it rest in
Willoughby’s big, empty one. He put his other hand firmly in the small of her
back and steered her to the floor where a black jazz band played one of her
favorite songs. She couldn’t remember the name of it right now, or any of the
words, but let her body sway to the rhythm. She’d missed this. Why had it been
two and a half years? No wonder she felt thin and frail and half-starved.
“So who’s Christopher Markham and when can I do the honor of
punching him for you?”
They’d gone away for a few minutes, and now all of Sal’s
troubles came galloping back to stampede across her mind and leave her
exhausted again. She wilted a little against Willoughby’s supporting arm and
shook her head. “He’s Dorcas’ sweetheart.”
“Dorcas Bowman?”
“Yep.”
“I thought she was with Donny.”
“She broke that off eighteen months ago.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have known.”
Was it just her, or did Willoughby sound a little defensive
right there? She thought she’d better wake him up a bit. “I was thinking, I
ought to throw a little party for all of the old set: Dorcas, Annie, Ben,
Frankie, Martin, Priscilla. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“If any of the old set is still this side of the Atlantic.”
Definitely defensive this time. Sal wilted a little further
as she realized, barring she and Dorcas and Priscilla, who were nurses in a
hospital here, all the old set had signed up for the war in their different
capacities. All except Willoughby, who’d been excluded on the ridiculous
grounds of asthma or something and now worked in the ad business.
“It’s okay, Sal,” Willoughby was saying now. “Somebody’s
gotta stick around to paint Uncle Sam’s picture. ‘We Want You.’ It’s only those
he doesn’t want who get the honor of
making him look welcoming. I know his best angle. He says I’m his favorite
portrait-painter.”
“I didn’t mean to pinch a sore spot, Wills.”
“Aw, I know, kiddo.”
He spun her gently out and brought her back, but it was an
empty gesture, she felt. No pizazz in it. And this music was too slow. How was
a girl supposed to cheer up if the band kept playing sentimental ballads?
“So what has Dorcas’s boyfriend done to peeve you?”
Christopher Markham of the excellent nose and devastating
profile stalked into Sal’s mind. She
gave him a mental kick in the pants as the band wrapped up one piece and started
into “Swinging on a Star.” Willoughby’s hands gripped hers a little tighter and
she leaned back into his tension.
“Christopher Markham,” she said, “Is a great big bad egg.
He’s ridiculously handsome and Dorcas is absolutely ga-ga over him. She’s never
home. We make all these plans to meet for dinner and she always forgets.” Maybe
it was childish of her to feel cut out, but it wasn’t like Dorcas ever made any
effort to keep things up. And they were roommates for heaven’s sake. “Chris is
eternally taking her to the theatre, or the USO show, or out dancing. And when
she is home, it’s nothing but, ‘Christopher this,’ or ‘Christopher that.’ I
swear, Wills, I could tear that man’s eyes out with my fingernails.”
Willoughby cut off Sal’s bad humor by snapping her into a
spin and dip. She came up laughing and not half as angry at Dorcas as she ought
to be.
“A mule is an animal with long funny ears, kicks up at
anything he hears.” Willoughby sang in his shameless way, a little oblivious as
to tempo, but thoroughly good-natured. “His back is brawny but his brain is
weak, he’s just plain stupid with a stubborn streak.” He wiggled his eyebrows
at her to make her laugh, and tossed her to one side, then the other, gripping
her close and flinging her away.
The joy of dancing – of being dragged through a musical
kaleidoscope and making trails in the notes with their feet –began to
intoxicate Sal. The new-fangled Latin dances were all dandy if you wanted
something romantic, but for forgetting your woes, for forgetting everything but
the easy presence of a good friend, there was nothing like swing. Willoughby
was an excellent dancer – one of the best, in fact. Besides, she could always
wear high-heels around him – the highest she wanted – without ever being taller
than him. And this was a useful thing when you’re over-the-average tall for a
girl.
“Still stewing over this Christopher Markham fiend?”
“Who’s Christopher Markham?”
“Atta girl. Any other men bothering you?”
“Men? A bother?”
“It’s been over two years. Can’t imagine a pretty, spunky
thing like you’s been spending her time alone. You’re a nurse in a big
hospital. Bet every soldier comes through your ward and leaves lovesick.”
“You’re a big tease.”
“I’m being one-hundred-percent honest, kiddo.”
Sal shrugged. “Maybe there’ve been a couple disturbances.”
“Major infractions?” Willoughby wrinkled his nose and
laughed. “Anyone need a fist in the face?”
“That’s a little cruel when most of them have Kraut metal in there already. No, no one
needs your charming fist, but thanks.”
Willoughby quieted a little and shook his head seriously.
“God knows I wish I had a chance.”
“To fight?”
“All these other fellas.” He spun her again. “And I don’t
have even a fraction of a chance.”
She thought he meant a chance to fight. He probably did. Of
course he could have meant something tenderer, but Sal was a sensible girl. She
knew better than to ruin a perfect friendship by asking it if it wanted more.
They danced closer to the band and, Sal imagined, made all the other couples
jealous with their unaffected happiness.
“And you, Wills?”
He tilted his head down to look her in the eye. “What about
me?”
“Girls?”
The gaze lifted. “Nah. Too busy.”
Sal could translate: “I
can’t fight so I’m not worthy of any woman.” That’s what that meant. She
backed them off the dance floor as the song finished and rested her hand with
purpose on Willoughby’s arm. He flinched a little as if even that was too good
for him but Sal stayed with him and felt his pulse under her touch.
“Wills, you are
valuable.” She gave him one of her best, most encouraging smiles.
He laughed, as he always had, like it couldn’t be true but
that he was glad she’d said something. “Hey, Sal?”
Another whole-hearted smile. “Yeah?”
“I think you’ve got some lipstick on your tooth.”
It didn’t bother Sal how she looked in Willoughby’s
presence. He was too familiar for that.
All the same, blood shot to her face and shame – though she was unsure why – flooded to her fingertips. She
growled savagely and swiped at her teeth.
“It’s probably because,” she protested, “I put it on in a
dark cab with an impertinent driver looking on.”
Willoughby tossed his head, laughing the old laugh that
forgot itself. “C’mon, goober. Let’s dance.”
He tugged her out to the floor and she followed, slipping
past a young woman in evening dress who had stepped to the front of the band to
sing. Willoughby looked back to smile at the girl appreciatively. Sal laughed
in his face.
“What about her,
Wills?”
His eyebrows shot up. “You’re not suggesting I pick up a
chorus girl?”
“She’s an entertainer, and a looker to boot.”
“You’re horrible, Sal.”
She shrugged, pleased with herself. “I know.”
The band played a slow, bluesy tune and Willoughby’s arm fit
easily around her waist. She was pleased for a slower pace and glad it wasn’t a
waltz – her left arm always ached from reaching up over his Alpine shoulder.
The room darkened and what lights there were focused on the singer, who smiled
a little sadly and slipped into the first lines of a bittersweet, familiar
tune.
“I can see no matter how near you’ll be you’ll never belong
to me,” the girl sang. “But I can dream, can’t I?”
Her voice was devastating. Tears pinched the bridge of Sal’s
nose, unreasonably she felt. Why the heck was she crying? What about? Nothing.
Besides, Willoughby always hated that sort of thing.
He continued to lead well. Hadn’t seemed to notice her
sudden depression. Bless the man’s obliviousness. Sal sorted through a stack of
conversation-starters she might use to distract from this unwanted emotion. She
could tease Willoughby again about the entertainer, or suggest he cut his hair
differently, or admit to being as tired as she suddenly felt. If she employed
the latter excuse, he’d take her gently to one of the cocktail tables lining
the walls. He was that sort. A good sort.
“Can’t I pretend that I’m locked in the bend of your
embrace?” the woman sang. “For dreams are just like wine and I am drunk with
mine.”
Sal’s breath caught like a half-sob in her throat. Good heavens, woman. Collect yourself.
Willoughby was humming along now. She felt his deep voice thrum against her
palm which rested on his back, and at the next line he broke softly into song,
keeping company with the entertainer:
His smile reached deep into his eyes, deprecating even the
moment, apologizing for things that could not have been his fault. “I’m aware my heart is a sad affair. There’s
much delusion there but I can dream, can’t I?”
Smile. Say something
flippant, but Willoughby spun three times and the opportunity dropped
someplace on the floor between them. The bridge of Sal’s nose hurt worse than
ever and now her throat was tangled up in the trouble, asking to air-drop an
embarrassing cargo of tears.
“Can’t I adore you although we are oceans apart?” Willoughby
would sing. “I can’t make you open
your heart but I can dream, can’t I? Dream on, dream on…”
The song finished on a sorrowful note. People were
applauding for the songstress and Sal joined blindly in. She wasn’t so far gone
as to forget what a beautiful moment the silk-clad, sparkling girl had given
her. Then, before she’d had a chance to
shirk the memory and let it fade, the band-leader grinned and jerked into “Boogie
Woogie Bugle Boy.”
It jarred against her emotions like fingernails on old stone.
Great. The Moment was now cemented in her heart forever by an incongruous
set-list. No laughing it off now. As suddenly as Willoughby’s rich mood had
dropped upon him it wisped away and he was his old, half-contrary self: a boy’s
face and a man’s loyalty draped over six and a half feet of clumsy, good
intentions.
“He’s in the army now blowin’ reveille, he’s the boogie-woogie
bugle boy of Company B,” they sang together.
Willoughby bobbed his shoulders up and down like a
simpleton. “They made him blow a bugle for his Uncle Sam. It really brought him
down because he couldn’t jam…and now the company jumps when he plays reveille,
he’s the boogie-woogie bugle boy of Company B.”
They finished with a deep dip and Willoughby half-dropped
Sal. She squeaked and clung to his arms.
“Don’t drop me!”
Cackling, he lifted her back on her feet. “Just trying to
shake that glum look off you. Shoot straight with me now, little Sal.” He
tucked his chin and looked stern. “There’s a fella overseas, isn’t there?”
“Now what makes you think –”
They sauntered toward the bar. Willoughby motioned for two
glasses of water. “Your face a minute ago. I can read faces.”
“Mmm.” She leaned against the counter. “You’d be a lot
smarter if you learned to read books.”
“Ouch. What’s his name?”
“Whose?”
“The fellow.”
“Which fellow?”
“The one overseas.”
She sighed heavily. “Would it surprise you very much if I
told you there isn’t one?”
“I’d be confused about your pouty-face.”
“Confusion is yours.”
Willoughby downed his water and viewed her a moment through
the bottom of the glass. He set it down on the counter with a careless clack.
“Tell Dorcas I said hello.”
Sal jumped a little, then laughed. Dorcas with her sudden
inability to remember any commitment, her protests when teased, her piled-on
apologies, assurances of how sorry she was she’d left Sal – again – to her own
company. Dorcas with her hideously perfect boyfriend.
“I hate this,” Sal admitted.
Willoughby flung an eyebrow upward. “What?”
“This annoying realization.”
“Which one?”
“That the cabby was right. It already doesn’t matter.”
And because Willoughby understood her so well, he didn’t
immediately inquire what cabby. The
twenty-piece band, the soundtrack of their incongruent lives, struck up another
tune.
“You know what, Sal?” The wry brother-smile.
“What?”
“I say swing it.”
And really, put that way, his was the best logic in the
world.
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