| By Diane Simmons,
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Favoured : 133 |
Published in : , Fiction |
On the twelfth floor, Viv lay in a darkened room, her bed propped up to face a window that looked south over the nighttime city, over what appeared to be thousands of jeweled boxes thrown together in a heap.
She was little more than the skeleton; the purple splotched legs that extended from the short white hospital gown were so thin you could have—except for the ugly knot of knee—encircled them with your thumb and forefinger. She was motionless except for the labored breathing; a white plastic tube ran from her nose to a tall green, torpedo-shaped tank beside her bed.
Still, the motionless face was surprisingly well-known: the wide brow and handsome nose; the hair, once golden-red, now white, was still thick, elegantly waving, somehow still glamorous and young.
In the dark room, silhouetted against the lights of the city, a small, dark, wiry man in jeans and a tight black sweater was dancing, holding an imaginary partner at arm's length, his small hands high and delicate.
Viv was propped up watching.
"Hey, Viv," he was saying. "You stepped on my foot, man. You got to follow me now, baby. OK, we're dancing, hello. Now, I'm dancing, well, what's your name? You say, well, my name is Viv and I bet you're Eddie. I heard of you Eddie, you're just about the coolest guy around they say, best dancer in NYC. Oh yeah, that's me. No point trying to deny it when the truth's the truth, right? Now let's dance."
With his hands held high to lead the imaginary Viv, he took three steps, swiveling his hips with each one, then throwing out his hip on the fourth, eyes serious and straight ahead. Hands up, he spun her, arms out.
The music was loud, but did not blare—guitar; flute, maybe; a bit of horn.
The song ended and Eddie punched the button on his tape player, took out the tape, and put in another one.
"OK, OK, I know Tango's your dance, really. OK, here we go now."
He held his arms out in front of him and looked ferociously straight ahead.
"Slow slow quick quick slow," Eddie counted. "Slow I said! Don't tell me that's how they teach you down in Florida. These Cubans and whatnot? These rich guys can't dance for nothin' man. Eddie got you just in time. Dominicans only ones can dance. Aw, too soon!"
The song was over and he pushed the button on the box.
"OK, whew, now, we got to get a drink . No, got to drink. Here, drink."
He came around to the bedside stand and picked up a small plastic cup with something darkish in it, and Viv sipped.
"Nope, all of it or Eddie's gonna be mad. But, naw. Naw, see how she drinks that old stuff for Eddie. Aw, she does like me a little bit after all, I got to stick by her. Got me a lady can dance the Tango I better stick with it. Guys be so jealous of me. Little O-2 now, here we go."
He held a different cup while she sipped…
"OK, breathe real nice and rest for me now. Rest now. Let me just sit beside you for a minute, ‘til maybe you catch a nap. Whew, got to catch my breath, too. Eddie'll see you tomorrow about this time, OK? I know tomorrow's not my day, but you act nice, you try a little harder to eat, I might pass by anyhow. They tell me you not eating. You gonna eat a little more or what?"
Viv nodded.
"OK then."
Eddie sat a moment longer, his own eyes closed, head back. Viv closed her eyes and her breaths seemed to come easier.
After a moment Eddie snapped himself to, packed his stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff into a blue shoulder bag, picked up the tape player and came out into the living room. He took a reddish leather jacket from the table, put on a matching leather cap and motioned me with his head to come out into the hallway.
"I'm not sure what this doctor told you," he said. "Viv's not doing so good. She has a large mass in the lung. It's too widespread to operate."
"You mean she's not going to live?"
"I'm only the nurse. But what I can tell you is that she has a large inoperable mass in her lung and that she's getting weaker every day."
"Does she know."
"Yeah I think she does now. At first she was saying it was just the same old emphysema. But I think she's making the switch now. You see a lot of people, you get so you can tell when they more or less get it. You see them start thinking more of their good things. She told me about her going dancing with some Cuban dude in Florida is why I bring in the box for a minute. Bring back some good times maybe."
"How long does she have?"
"She can probably live a little longer if she'll take more nourishment. She could go fairly soon if she doesn't. So she has a little control that way. Also, I think she's been waiting for you to get here."
"Why? What can I do?"
"Like I said. She's trying to get hold of her good things. Memories and shit. Probably that's where you come in. You knew her when she was young. Help her think back to when she was hot."
He gave me a quick up-and-down look.
"Ever been to the Bronx?"
"No."
"Well, we got to go up and look around one time."
A beeper on his belt went off. He took it and glanced at it.
"OK baby, gotta go. I'll catch you next time."
"Dominicans Only Can Dance," set on the Upper West Side, is an excerpt from a novel in progress. Diane Simmons has published short fiction in Northwest Review, Fiction, Green Mountains Review, Local Knowledge, College Hill Review and Hamilton Stone Review. Her novel, Dreams Like Thunder (Story Line Press), won the Oregon Book Award for Fiction. She heads the Writing and Literature Degree Program at the Borough of Manhattan Community College on Chambers Street.
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