The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers (14 page)

Jason clambered over the bleachers and sat in the back row. He considered the
flask of bourbon in his pocket but decided to hold off. Then he weighed the
scene that would be created by wandering onto the floor and pulling Whit aside.
The way that drunken promoter had described it, these operations were tightly
controlled, and there were probably some security toughs scattered about. Jason
didn’t want to attract attention, so, for now, he sat and watched.
More people were filing through the entrance. Jason had forgotten it was Friday
night, which likely meant that an array of especially outlandish events were in
store. As if on cue, the emcee announced that wrist attachments, leg irons, and
other contraptions must be removed for the next twelve hours.
Jason glanced at the program. Apparently there had been one hundred couples at
the beginning. He felt a glimmer of something that wasn’t quite pride
that Whit was among the final eleven. A pop vendor started climbing his way,
but Jason shook the kid off. Other teenagers were hawking hot dogs and chips as
if this were a ball game. Baseball had always bored Jason—all those fat
men standing around in pajamas, moving once every three minutes—but this
was even worse.
“It’s been more than eleven days, ladies
and gentlemen!” the emcee hollered. “Two hundred and seventy-one
hours these crazy folks have been keeping in motion for you! Two hundred
seventy-one hours of right foot, left foot! I’ve been checking up on them
during the backstage breaks, folks, and I’ve seen blisters big as
half-dollars! I’ve seen bunions that could split a metal-tipped boot!
I’ve seen blood, sweat, and tears! And that’s just one couple
I’m talking about!”
Now the band launched into a shag, choosing to start the proceedings with the
most frenetic number possible. The couples whirled into insane variations on
the Charleston. They clutched each other violently and their moves were jerky.
They were wrestling, with each other and with gravity and whatever unnamed
forces had conspired to put them there. They didn’t seem fully cognizant
of where they were or why; they were dancing merely because it was all they
could remember to do, like men on assembly lines.
Next was a black bottom and then a couple of fox-trots at a faster tempo than
normal. The pianist might as well have been firing a pistol at the
dancers’ feet.
“Barbara and Glen met in the first grade at this very school,” the
emcee announced. “So wouldn’t it be sweet for them to win on their
home floor? Danny and Donna will be celebrating their second anniversary
tomorrow—but will they still be dancing? Otis and Lindsey have five
pretty daughters at home and need that prize money for food and school clothes!
Lou-Lou’s hubby, Francis, has three medals for fighting in France, but
our trophy is the only prize he cares about now!”
Jason couldn’t fathom the combination of willpower, self-delusion, and
masochism necessary to compete in such an event, and after sixty minutes of
sitting there he’d reached his own limit. He made his way down the
bleachers, winding through the thickening ranks of jovial spectators. Skirting
the periphery of the floor, he approached a man whose blue shirtsleeves
advertised triceps that couldn’t possibly have been earned by standing
around dance floors.
“Say, buddy,” Jason said. The man had to lean close to hear Jason
above the racket from the band, which was only twenty yards away. “How
many horses you guys got out there?”
“Excuse me?” But he’d heard Jason just fine.
“What would you say are the odds couple number thirty-seven is
going to finish as high as the top three?” The
program had promised two hundred and fifty dollars to the winning couple,
seventy-five for second place, thirty for third.
“I don’t care for your line of questioning.”
“No offense to you or your associates meant, but I have business with the
taller half of number thirty-seven.”
“He owe you money?”
“He owes me time, and I’m tired of spending it watching him dance.
He’s a lousy dancer.”
“They all are after twelve days.”
“What I’m saying is, I wonder if you might be able to get them
disqualified so I can conduct my business with him and get out of here. But
I’d feel kind of bad if doing that would keep him from winning.”
The gorilla folded his arms. People seemed to be doing that to Jason today.
“Why would I want to get him disqualified?”
Jason reached into his pocket and discreetly took out the billfold, slipping
out two singles. “My time is worth money to me.”
“Nuts to you.”
“Christ, pal, we both know you’re going to disqualify them
eventually. If you want to get something extra for it, great. If not,
I’ll go take my seat and grab a nap.”
He made to return the bills to his pocket, but the gorilla extended his hand.
They shook, and the money was in the man’s pocket. “Dangle a
minute,” he said.
Jason walked back to the bleachers, sitting in the front row this time. From
here he could smell the dancers’ perfume and cologne, as it had likely
been slathered on during breaks to cover up body odor. He leaned forward,
elbows on knees, and watched as the gorilla wandered through the careening
dancers, finally tapping the judge on the shoulder. The two retreated to a
corner and exchanged words, then the gorilla returned to his station. He
briefly made eye contact with Jason, looking away without a nod.
And then it happened, just as whirling Charlestons were devolving into what
might have been Lindy hops as a new song began: the judge tore the number from
Alice’s back. It was the first disqualification Jason had witnessed, and
even though he was the only spectator who had known it
was
coming, it was still shocking. He was willing to bet the judge always tore off
the woman’s number; the thin sheet of paper was all that came off, but
the suddenness and the violence of the act must have felt tantamount to having
her dress ripped off. The girl froze in place, even as Whit, oblivious Whit,
continued to move. The connection between the two was severed. Whit had finally
begun to show some recognition of their new reality when she collapsed.
Spectators were laughing and cheering. Jason heard someone say, “I
knew
she’d faint when it happened. She had that look.”
Jason turned back to the crowd for a moment and saw people exchanging coins.
Whit was arguing with the judge; Jason could make out only a few words. But the
judge moved on to assess the other dancers now, and Whit’s burst of panic
and fury fled instantly, as if he were waking from a dream. He slowly turned
back to his fallen companion and reached for her. She was conscious after all,
clasping his hands as she staggered to her feet.
“Let’s hear it for couple number thirty-seven, William and
Alice!” The emcee was downright ebullient. “They did a great job
these two hundred and seventy-two hours! We’ll especially miss
Alice’s performances in the wind sprints, won’t we, folks?”
Cheering, jeering—it was hard to tell the difference, and Jason had been
there for only an hour. He couldn’t imagine how it must sound to Whit and
Alice. The other dancers continued their spastic movements, opening a wide
circle around the newest losers. But they betrayed little awareness of the fact
that their odds had just improved. They barely blinked.
Couple No. 37 had made it a few paces toward the backstage curtain when she
started hitting him. Her hands weren’t closed into fists, but it clearly
didn’t take much to harm a man who’d been dancing for twelve days.
Whit raised his arms into a protective position. The cheering intensified.
For a moment Jason worried that Whit would fight back, take a swing at her. It
wasn’t like his brother to just take a beating like this, and it broke
Jason’s heart to see Whit meekly endure the assault. Then Alice collapsed
again. Whit caught her and whispered something into her ear.
Jason moved before they could disappear backstage. A
young man, thin as a hiccup, was parting the curtain for doomed couple No. 37
as Jason approached.
“Whit,” Jason said. The sound made Whit jump.
“Oh. Hello.” He sounded very, very tired.
“Tough break. I was just starting to think you might pull it off,
too.”
“How—”Whit took a breath. The two of them smelled even worse
up close. “How long have you been here?”
Alice gazed in Jason’s direction with what he first thought was hostility
but was probably just exhaustion, and now she shifted her gaze to Whit, whom
she was still leaning against. “Who’s he?”
“I’m his old pal Sonny. And you must be The Other Woman.”
She had the type of pale skin that probably yielded freckles in the summer but
was now waxy from her days indoors. And surely her hair wasn’t supposed
to look like that.
“What?”
Whit eyed him. “Can this wait, Jason?”
The use of his real name galled him. “No, it can’t.” He
reached into his pocket and slipped something from the billfold. He reached out
to Alice. “Here, sweetness, buy yourself some new feet.”
Her lips curled for the better hurling of insults until she noticed the
denomination. She swallowed her curse and took the money.
“Now grab hold of something solid, miss. I need to borrow your partner
for a bit.” Jason took his brother by the arm and pulled. Whit looked
displeased yet came along so freely that it was clear there was no longer any
connection between his mind and his body. Let alone any connection between him
and Alice, who had collapsed into a metal chair, her head slumped.
It was dark outside and small packs of young people were scattered in the
parking lot, smoking and telling jokes. Jason spied a flask being passed
around, which reminded him that he wanted a sip from his own, but not while he
was dragging Whit across the now crowded lot. Someone had even parked a sedan
on a narrow strip of grass between Jason’s car and the exit, but it
wasn’t quite blocking his way out.
“Lovely girl,” Jason remarked. “She
always smell like that?”
Whit shook off Jason’s hand and stopped a few paces in front of the
latest in Jason’s long line of automobiles, a black Plymouth. “What
do you want?”
“Call me crazy, but I think Veronica’s more of a looker than that
one.”
“Alice isn’t my girl.” Whit exhaled deeply with each phrase,
like a panting dog trying to master speech. “We just thought … the
dance thing might work. But we’re not that way.”
“Still, you removed your wedding band, I see. Or did you ever have
one?”
“Hocked it weeks ago.” He had no doubt bought the thing with money
Jason had given him. “Ronny knew about it. You can’t eat
gold.”
“Speaking of which, how do you eat if you’re dancing all day?
I’ve been wondering.”
“They feed you. Eight times a day. Eggs, oatmeal. Oranges. Set up little
tables next to you. So you can keep your feet moving. Haven’t eaten that
well in months.” He looked down at himself, then back at Jason.
“Now.” Pant. “What do you want?”
“This isn’t about wanting, Whit. I did not want to spend my time
looking for a deadbeat that left his family high and dry.”
“Don’t lecture me about leaving town, Jason. I haven’t seen
you around much lately.”
Jason poked a finger in Whit’s chest. Any harder and Whit would have
fallen on his back. “You’re talking to the guy who just paid for
the roof over your kid’s head for the next three months.”
“So I’m supposed to thank you, that it? Or just admire you from a
distance, like everyone else?”
Jason didn’t reply.
“You have your way of helping family,” Whit said, “and I have
mine.”
“Explain to me how this is helping.”
“I was going to send them money.” Pant. “Once I made
some.”
“That’s not how it looks to Veronica.”
Whit stared at him for a moment, then let his eyes wander over to the packs of
parking-lot hooligans. “You don’t get it, do you? That’s some
world you live in. But you can’t even see.”
“What can’t I see?”
“They’re better off without me.”
“They didn’t look so well off this morning.”
Whit opened his arms. “Do you know what I made in the last three months
before I left?
Nothing
. At least without me around they have a better
shot at getting on the government rolls.”
“So hide in the closet if the government people come by to check.”
“Old buddy of Uncle Joe’s said I could get a job here. But it
didn’t work out. Think I’ll try Detroit next.”
“Why do you even need to bum around for work after I gave you that
money?”
“Your money doesn’t stretch forever.”
“Well, it should have stretched enough for you to put your family
someplace better than that rathole of an apartment. What did you do, drink the
money away? Gamble it?”
Whit scowled. “I don’t do that stuff.”
“Then help me with the math.”
“Times are tough, Jason. I had some buddies in worse shape than me, some
guys I used to work with—”
Jason shook his head and took a moment to contain his rage. “That dough
was for
you
, Whit, you and your family. Not for some other stiff or a
friend of a friend or some fellow traveler.”
“We’re all in this together.”
“Jesus Christ, I’m not here to support all of Ohio. Give your red
slogans a rest.”
“I had no right to hold on to that money and not help folks who were
hungry. My obligation is to my fellow man, Jason, even if you don’t like
to—”
“Your obligation is to your own family. You’re a father and a
husband now. Things change.”
“Yeah. Everything’s changed, all right.”
They stood silently for a moment.
“You
really
want to help me?” Whit asked. “And my
baby, and Ronny? Let me join your gang. I’m a good shot, and I can drive
as well as—”
Jason slapped him. He had held back, but even that slap was enough to knock a
dance marathoner to the ground. Conversations around the lot stopped.
Though Jason was more powerfully built than his
brother, Whit had always let sheer desire make up for any physical shortcoming
when the time came to fight. But the litany of his lost months, let alone the
past twelve days, had softened his muscles and stripped him of his will.
Whoever said what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, Jason thought, was
a very wishful thinker indeed.
“Sorry,” he said as he helped his brother up. “But I told you
about that.”
“You don’t understand.” Whit wasn’t bleeding, but only
because all his blood was in his feet. “You have no idea.”