Ballroom: A Novel (12 page)

“You wouldn’t have a glass of wine, would you?”

“Sorry. I can make you a cup of tea,” he calls out from the kitchen.

“I’ll have a cup of tea. I expected you’d have more books.”

“I used to read more, go to the library. I . . . I just about have enough time for dinner and the paper before I go to sleep. Except, of course, when I go to the Ballroom,” he says, handing her a glass of water.

“I really did enjoy the evening with you at Roseland.” Sarah picks up the metronome. “Nothing like live music. Hope we can do it again, soon. Do you play an instrument?”

Grabbing it from her, he presses it to his chest. “Please, this was my father’s. It’s an 1816 Mälzel. I’m sorry, I mean . . . It’s all I have.”

“Oops! Excuse me. I didn’t realize it was special.”

She walks across the room to sit on the sofa. He doesn’t want her to see the stains and tears.

“Please—don’t sit there. I’m sorry. It’s . . . very old. Sit in my chair. I’m sorry. I’m not used to company. I need to fix things up. I keep planning to—”

“It’s all right. Relax.” When she pats him on the shoulder, he can’t help flinching. This is definitely a mistake.

“May I use your powder room?”

H
e’s having difficulty breathing. She probably expects him to make love to her. How should he begin? Where would they do it? Certainly not on the old sofa, with the worn-out sheets, and definitely not in the bed his mother slept on in his bedroom. He still can’t sleep in there.

By the time Sarah returns, he’s sweating profusely, but he doesn’t want to take his wool jacket off. The armpits of his shirt are wet, and he worries that the odor will offend her.

He puts his arms around her and kisses her on the mouth, which he’s not used to doing. He never kisses his sisters anywhere but on the cheek. He does it as gently as possible, but Sarah pushes him away and pulls out of his embrace.

“No, no. I think you misunderstood.” Two rosy patches have appeared at either side of her throat. One is shaped like Florida. Flustered, she walks around the room, searching for her bag and coat. “I only wanted to see your place. I need to go home. It’s late.”

“I’ll walk you to the subway,” he offers.

“That’s not necessary. I’ll take a cab. I really shouldn’t have come.”

“I’m really sorry,” he says. He was certain she expected him to kiss her.

“It’s okay. Really it is. No need to apologize.” She won’t look at him.

The endless ride down the five floors is a silent one, and he keeps his eyes focused on the floor. He’s so ashamed. Hailing a taxi for her, he pushes a hundred-dollar bill into her hand as she pecks him on the cheek.

“I’m really sorry,” he repeats as she gets into the cab. “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

He can’t say her name.

Excessive gaiety, extravagant joy, anger and jealousy are to be avoided as much as possible.

                
—W. P. Hazard,
The Ball-Room Companion
, 1849

W
ith his arms in dance position, Joseph can almost feel her, almost hear “My Funny Valentine.” He tries to recall her perfume, capture it, and breathe it into his chest. Feel her heartbeat again. He has been sitting on his blue Barcalounger since dinner, trying to concentrate on the newspaper, but his eyes are growing bleary. Roseland had gone so well Saturday night.

“You should count in your head while you dance,” he’d said when she lost the rhythm.

“Yes, but it spoils the romance.”
Romance
. When she had said that, he had decided to ask her out again for the next Saturday night—for dinner too.

The way she looked at him. He’d felt her relax. The rosy patch disappeared, but her cheeks were flushed. He wanted to smooth the copper wildness of her hair, to touch the graceful curve of her neck, the pale skin; feel the in and out of her breathing. He remembers seeing the shape of her nipples through her silk blouse at the Ballroom. He yearns to telephone her, hang up right away; hear her voice whisper his name. “Joseph.” What a terrible mess he made of things last night.

He turns on the television. Surfing channel to channel, nothing satisfies him. His collar and tie feel like a noose; he loosens a button, removes his tie. His feet throb. He slips off his shoes, looks at the phone, at his watch. It’s beginning, that inescapable feeling. If he could only get himself out of the apartment, take a walk to Hudson Street. Have an espresso. Relax. But it is too late. Eleven o’clock. Taking his shoes and tie, he heads down the hall to the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pauses before removing his clothes, hopes the feeling will pass. His skin is beginning to feel warm, that excitingly familiar sensation of anticipation. Just this one last time, he tells himself, then never again.

He reaches into the back corner of the cupboard under the bathroom sink for the golden bottle of Intimate Evening Oil, and places it into a glass of hot water. In the living room, he puts the bottle on a coaster by the side of his Barcalounger, while he finds a white washcloth and sheet. Immaculately clean. He folds and fits the sheet around the seat pillow, smoothing it with the palm of his hand; folds the washcloth, attentively matching edges, placing the perfect square on the right arm of the chair. Sitting upright, he repeatedly checks that everything is perfectly in place before setting the metronome in motion. His heart is pounding as he covers the receiver with the washcloth and dials.
One-two-three-four
.

“Crisis line. Who’s calling?”

“My name is Phil,” he answers through the layers of cloth, deepening his voice.
One-two-three-four
.

“I’m Joan. How can I help you, Phil?” He feels a rush of pleasure that Joanie is there.
Five-six-seven-eight
. He will take it very slow, be very careful this time.

“Joan, I’m feeling very lonely.” He cradles the phone on his shoulder. Pouring a pool of hot oil onto his palm, he moves its silkiness in slow circular motions on his bare chest. The strong, voluptuous odor sears his nostrils.

“Do you have family, Phil?” Ben told him that Joanie worked as a volunteer at the Forest Hills Crisis Center on Mondays from nine until midnight. She is the easiest to call, because it is part of her work to listen and comfort. But it’s Sarah he really wants to hear. “Hello. Hello?” Sarah said when he first called her. “I can’t hear you. We must have a bad connection. Can you call back?” Over the years, with each consecutive call, she’d become more suspicious, her words fewer and fewer. Now she answers with a friendly yet somewhat tentative, “Hello,” and when there is no response, she hangs up. He has called Andrea several times, but her machine always picks up. Once he called Maria Rodriguez, but a man answered.

“No, I’m all alone,” he tells Joanie, careful to disguise his voice. He pictures her holding the dainty black brassiere. Putting it on; each breast seen through lace; a pink nipple hiding within a black rose. As she bends over, they swell, up and out as she adjusts the straps. Rubbing the oil on his own nipples, he imagines pushing his mouth into that soft place, thrusting his tongue into the secret cleft. His mouth feels slack and open, and he can hear each breath, as if he’s filling and emptying a giant beach ball. He wants to slow down, but it is too late.

“Phil, may I ask you a few questions?” she says. “Any difficulty sleeping? Eating?”

“Sometimes . . . I feel so terrible . . . so terribly . . . sad.” He is breathless.
One-two-three-four
. “I . . . I don’t know what I’ll do.” He releases the chair’s lever; the leg rest rises from its base. Spreading his legs, he pours a tepid puddle of oil on his belly, filling his navel, watching the rise and fall of his chest. His head reels from the overpowering odor of the perfume. He sees her, sitting on an unmade king-size bed; first one leg, then the other, through her blackbird bikini. Around and around, rubbing the oil in more vigorously, his skin responsive to his own touch.

“Any suicidal thoughts?” Joanie’s voice is calm, soothing, while his breathing is growing increasingly more difficult to contain. He rubs oil into his groin, and when he can bear it no longer, eyes closed tight, he begins rubbing his penis with the velvety oil, remembering the musky sea smell of her underwear.

“Oh, God. Please help me, please,” he moans. “Sarah,” he gasps, then quickly hangs up the telephone, before he can say more, do more. Sarah . . . Naked . . . A wild copper flame between her legs . . . Arms spread . . . Pale skin painted with pink smudges . . . “It’s you, Joseph. I want you,” Sarah begs.

Moments later, holding the walls for stability as if he’s passing though a moving train, he staggers down the darkened hallway, sinks into the bathtub, turns on the tap, and feels the rush of hot water rising. His white feet with their blue veins look like those of Jesus on the crucifix that hung over his mother’s bed.

Water rises over his thighs, surrounds and covers his flaccid floating penis, his pubic hair, then on to his belly, reaching his chin before he turns the faucet off. An iridescent residue of oil floats on top of the water, a reminder of his sin and his need to be punished. With his toes, he pushes open the drain and listens to the sucking sound of the water running out of the tub. Languishing in the receding water and lamenting his weakness, he begins the obligatory promising. Never again. This sin, his sin, has a life of its own, a beginning and an end. Trembling, holding his penis in one hand, he begins to beat himself with the other, slapping harder and harder. “Forgive me, Father. I have sinned.” Over and over he strikes the part of himself that he can’t control. With each pulse of agony, he feels closer to forgiveness.

At midnight, showered, cleansed, and exhausted, Joseph steps out of the tub. Falling into bed, he knows that in God’s forgiveness there will be glorious sleep. Sleep without the nightmares that pursue him. Through absolution, he is given respite for one night.

Usually a married couple do not dance together in society, but it is a sign of unusual attention for a husband to dance with his wife, and he may do so if he wishes.

                
—Walter R. Houghton,
Rules of Etiquette and Home Culture
, 1886

T
he next Sunday he waits in vain for Sarah. It is the start of February, and he can’t forget what a terrible mistake he’s made. Seated on the banquette, he stares at the dancers inside until after eight. From the Ballroom’s dance floor comes the sound of Ella Fitzgerald singing “You Go to My Head.”

How could he have believed the money he gave her would make up for the disaster? He wanted her to see him as generous. Particularly since he’s never taken her to dinner or the theater. It was a terrible mistake to let her come up to his apartment before he’d fixed it up: painted and bought new things, carpeting, drapes, and a sofa.

Besides, he doesn’t even have a proper bed. How could he ever make love to her on his mother’s bed? Or the old sofa? He’d hoped to see her pale skin. Hold her. Instead he had made a fool of himself. He hadn’t known what to do. She had looked angry.

She might have slept in his arms while he watched over her, touching the smoothness of her cheek. He would have placed his fingertip into the triangular crevice above her lips and whispered her name. Placing a finger on his own thin lips, he feels stirrings like hunger in his belly.

Does he love her? What does love feel like? Dancing the perfect dance, a dance with no mistakes, no missteps, no loss of rhythm? Life is passing too quickly.

H
e remembers his father’s easy laughter with his mother’s sisters, his charm when his mother’s friends visited, while she was neglected in private, treated like a domestic, her life lived primarily in the kitchen. When she came to live with Joseph, he permitted her to take that same role. She cleaned, cooked, and cared for his clothes, once again a servant taking her quiet place. He had neither his father’s ease nor his charm, nor could he ever betray his mother. Yet he resented her presence, and wondered if his father had felt the same. And always, that photo in his father’s desk drawer of a secret life lived with a woman with cupid lips.

H
e loves the Ballroom like an old bathrobe, shabby yet comfortable. It needs a good painting, and the floors are sticky. They put cloths on the tables and painted the ceiling cobalt blue in the hope of attracting events other than the Sunday dances: private parties and weddings. He would marry Sarah at the Ballroom, on a Sunday night. Maria and Angel, Andrea, Gabriel Katz and Rebecca Douglas—even old Harry Korn and the others—would be there. He’d invite his sisters and their families. Ben and Joanie Thorp, too.

Could he be happy dancing only with Sarah? Even if they were married, there was no reason that he couldn’t dance with other women. She might prefer to stay at home occasionally. Would she question him, ask him who he’d danced with? What if she was too talkative? Pestered him to move to a bigger apartment, or wanted them to live at her place in Brooklyn. There would be no place for his things. No privacy. No quiet nights on Perry Street, knowing where his things were. He could never live in Brooklyn.

He will always be alone.

If only she hadn’t invited herself to his place. If only she hadn’t pressured him. She spoiled things. Rushed him.

Ella’s singing makes him feel young again, and he counts out the dependable fox-trot rhythm. The lush words and the tempo call him to dance. He steps into the darkened ballroom.

In his class he would teach his pupils the laws of good behavior; he would warn them of concerning the evils of bad association; he would instruct them in the importance of regular habits and of keeping proper hours with which instruction he would reform many abuses that now exist at public entertainments.

                
—Thomas E. Hill,
Evils of the Ball
, 1883

A
fter the incident at Joseph’s apartment, Sarah can’t face Joseph. She stays home the next Sunday night. She isn’t certain if she will ever go back to the Ballroom, and decides instead to look into private lessons. On Thursday, after her class, “Aging in the Twenty-First Century,” she walks from the subway to the Hungarian Ballroom, an eighteenth-century brick townhouse. She makes sure to arrive on time.