Dance
By Mary Dezember
His daddy had him dance. Being as it was the Depression, and being that they didn’t have much of anything except children, for money his daddy had him dance.
Always it went like this: Saturdays before the sun set, his daddy collected him doing chores for old man Wright. His daddy, not saying a word, would take him to the corner drugstore. Inside, as usual, were the regulars—puffing and jawing, smacking and spitting—each having a hand crammed to the bottom of a trouser pocket, thumbing his just-got pay. From its hard case, his daddy would lift the fiddle with a tenderness the boy had never seen his daddy show for any other. Clearing his throat and tapping the bow against a chair back, his daddy would say, “My boy, he's gonna dance.” And the boy would dance, dance, dance, jigging like Jazz-Man Joe, his neighbor next door, had taught him. On the whine of the last note, the boy would go split down and bow his head to the knee of his outstretched leg, and his daddy would say, would always have to say, because the boy didn’t want to, never did want to, prayed he wouldn’t have to, real soft his daddy would say, “Fetch the coins, boy.”
As his daddy friendly swatted the backs of the regulars, laughed and swapped jokes with them, the boy, with his jacket spread over his hands so no one could exactly see what he was doing, would pick up the coins from the floor and, his daddy’s shadow, slip them into his daddy’s pockets with no more noise than that of his tightened breath.
Then the boy and his daddy would be out the door and down the street. Roughing the boy’s hair, his daddy would say, “Fine dancing in there today, Jim.” But the boy’s name was not Jim, was nothing even near Jim. His name would have been Jim, though, had his daddy been there to name him when he was born. As it happened, two months his mama had waited. When she couldn’t stand it waiting one minute more, she named the boy after a gem, a precious symbol hallmarking his birth. The others—all of them—his daddy had named. But the boy knew he was the only one of the lot who could dance.
Now as was the usual way, his daddy took him to a drugstore one block down where the boy didn’t have to dance. Here it was he’d treat the boy to a pop, paying the soda jerk with a coin from his pocket, as the case on the stool between them, upright, stood. Drinking from that golden glass, tasting that mysterious flavor, and watching the world dim around the glow of his daddy’s cigarette, the boy had no need. His daddy smoked is all, but to the boy, talk would be too much glory, like Heaven for one not ready to die. This is how it always was. When the dark came, his daddy would lift the case and leave as the boy remained, motionless and aching. The boy thought this was how it would always be. Though often he wished, on the stars at night and on the stones at old man Wright’s, that he could see just once what it was for his daddy to come for him without the violin.
It was not quite dark. In walked a man. Quick—the boy caught his daddy’s smile, the kind of smile that hides a frown—no—something deeper than a frown. Something frightening inched up inside the boy’s spine. He clutched his daddy’s sleeve, then drew back, for touching was not something you did with Daddy. His daddy hadn’t noticed the boy’s offense, for he was doing urgent talk with the man. Then his daddy lifted the case and gave it to the man. The man left. Just like that, the fiddle was gone. Terrified, the boy breathed in and coughed—the air was too dark to rely on. With a lazy stretch of his legs, his daddy leaned against the counter. The jerk asked if they wanted another pop. His daddy laughed.
His daddy faced the boy and lit another cigarette. It was the finger of God, and the heat of it burned into the boy. Tears-turned-to-spittle shot out with the words, “That man had no right. That was yours, Daddy. Always has been. Since I was crawling on this earth, Daddy, it’s been you and that fiddle.”
“No more,” his daddy said, stamping out the cigarette and leaving the boy. As his daddy melted out the door and into the brick walk, the boy leapt from his place and ran after him.
“Daddy! Daddy!”
His daddy walked a bit, finally stopped, then slowly turned to the boy.
“Daddy, I can dance. I can still dance. You’ll come next Saturday, Daddy?”
His daddy smiled. “No need to now. No need.”
“But, Daddy, I can dance. I can dance real fine. We don’t need music, Daddy. They’ll throw coins, Daddy, when I dance. Please, Daddy.”
Looking down and staring the boy straight in the eyes, his daddy said, “Well, Jim, you don’t dance that good.”
His daddy sauntered into the dark. The boy called out, “Daddy, look at this! Daddy, look!” And the boy began dancing, right there on the curb. The boy danced, danced, danced, calling out, “Daddy, watch this. For you, Daddy, for you!”
At first, his daddy just kept moving. When the boy kept calling and calling, his daddy stopped, and he turned. The boy kept calling, “For you, Daddy, for you!” as he did cartwheels and splits and tapped and kicked. Then the boy started clapping. Then he started singing. He sang “Camptown Races,” but most of the words were “do-dah, do-dah,” then the words became “for you, do-dah, Dad-dy, do-dah.”
His daddy stood, watching the boy whom was no longer a boy but a frenzy of motion and emotion. The boy saw nothing but his daddy, nothing but his daddy. Soon he saw a cop standing next to his daddy. He saw his daddy slowly walking near him, then turning away, then the cop walking near his daddy, baring a stare down on his daddy. Then his daddy again coming near, slowly coming near. The boy hopped and kicked and sang and spun. His daddy said, “Boy.” The boy danced, danced, danced. His daddy looked back at the cop, then at the boy. His daddy said, “Son.” The boy danced. The cop continued across the street and stood next to his daddy.
His daddy looked at the cop, then back at the boy, then his daddy came near, and he bent slightly forward to put his hands on the boy’s arms. He said, “Paz.” The boy’s legs and arms and mouth kept moving. He said, “Topaz.” The boy danced. His daddy looked at the cop. The cop stepped forward towards his daddy. His daddy gripped tightly onto the boy’s arms. The boy felt the pain, but he didn’t wince, and he didn’t stop dancing. Across the street, outside the drugstore, two men began fighting. The cop, hand on baton, left the dancing boy and his daddy to attend to the rowdies.
Looking at the boy, then at the vanishing cop, then back at the boy, suddenly his daddy knew what to do. He stood tall. Turning his back on his son, his daddy left to find a drink, flipping a hard-earned coin.
Empty Dancing Shoes, Photo by Mary Dezember.
NOTE: “Dance” is work of fiction, created from the author’s imagination. Though inspired by discussions with my parents about life in general during the Great Depression, names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, organizations, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and are not to be construed as real. References to historical events and historical organizations are used fictitiously and intended only to provide authenticity.
Copyright © 2022 Mary Dezember
Dezember, LLC