Dancing Naked at the Edge of Dawn (22 page)

“Are you ever lonely, Elizabeth?”

“Sometimes. But I relish even those feelings because they take me to places that can often be astounding. I am a grown woman, sweetheart, a woman in full, a woman who has almost always known who she is, and yet there are times—always when I am alone and embracing my loneliness—when I discover something new about myself. And then I marvel at how I could have missed it.”

“Do you ever regret not being with someone all the time?”

“Oh,” she says, laughing very hard and slapping my face in a playful manner. “I am always with several people all of the time.”

And then, without thinking, I ask her if she will save a dance for me at the dog and pony show.

“Why wait?” she says, and grabs me by the waist so that we can move together across the entrance to our hut.

And so we dance, dipping and swaying and laughing, neither of us wondering what will happen in the next three hours or on the plane ride home but simply dancing in the moment, which is as sweet as it could ever get.

We can hear the dogs even before we get to Tomas's restaurant. Elizabeth has asked to drive the Jeep and we have bounced sideways the few miles to the restaurant, laughing as she tries to recall how to drive a stick shift. I can already see her banging down the freeway in Chicago with the top down, wearing her pink jogging bra and not much else. What have we done? I ask this question to Linda and Jane about every three or four minutes and Elizabeth is absolutely no help at all. My Elizabeth has decided that this is going to be the night she drinks lots of tequila and never goes home. Jane keeps laughing and then says that maybe she'll be getting the pink bra. What have I done?

And me? I am excited about the doggies but more excited to see Tomas and find out what he knows and remembers about my aunt and his father. Excited to be in whatever moments happen to arise, just as Elizabeth has commanded, and just a bit uncomfortable about the possibilities that may arise from anything and everything. Hopeful also that there is no oncoming traffic between our hacienda and the restaurant and that no one hands the Jeep keys to Jane.

Just a block or so before the entrance to the restaurant we begin to see candles inside of small pottery vases lighting the way to the doggie party. The candles look like tiny hands waving us into a party we have always dreamed of attending. There are more than a few cars parked along the side of the highway, and the unmistakable yelping of dogs. Lots of dogs.

Tomas, dressed not in his waiter's uniform but in a soft dark peasant shirt and loose cotton pants tied up with a black cord, greets us as we jump out of the Jeep. He embraces me first and then I introduce him to his other three dates.

“Before we go in, let me explain this or you will think that the entire village has gone crazy,” he tells us.

“Tell us, Tomas,” we beg. “Please.” Jane is jumping up and down with anticipation. She is ready for whatever the night brings to her.

In many parts of Mexico, Tomas tells us, dogs are wild and it is more likely that a family would have a pet pig or chicken than a tame dog. But in this village, a long time ago a barking dog saved a family.

“It is a long story that has lost its power and most of its truth, but what I know is that there was a fire and the family got out of their burning hut in time because of the dog,” Tomas tells us and I am wondering how many times he has had to tell this exact story. “After that, people looked at dogs differently and they started to keep track of what they call ‘the Dog Miracles.' Lost children being found by a dog. The old man who fell and was rescued by a dog. A dog recovering a lost ring. Well, it goes on and on, and so the villagers began to celebrate once a year, kind of a Day of the Dog, and because you are here and because of your aunt, we are having a special Day of the Dog tonight. It's really an encore performance for you, our special guests, and to honor the memory of Marcia Sinclair.”

I ask if this is because of her work with the women and the foundation, and Tomas begins to laugh. It is a deep and bold laugh that I can actually see rise up from his chest. “Oh, that is part of it, but what she did was to put clothes on the dogs.”

“What?” all of us say at once.

Tomas cannot stop laughing.

We press in against him.

“Your aunt felt that the dogs had ancient souls. She thought that there was a good chance that the dogs had been sent back to earth to watch over humans in special ways with special powers and that a tribute to them would be to consider them equals. That is why we dress up our dogs and dance with them. Before she came, we danced with them just as dogs without any clothes. Now . . . well, you are about to see.”

It is impossible not to laugh as we imagine the scene we are about to witness, but when we walk around the side of the building and into an adobe-lined walkway that leads to a huge outdoor patio, we see what no human could really imagine. Ten, fifteen, maybe twenty dogs dressed up in coats and hats and dresses and young boys and girls and grown men and women tossing back drinks and dancing with the dogs in their arms and on their hind feet and the dogs, every single one of them, looking as if this is a perfectly normal occurrence.

“My God,” says Elizabeth, who I know for a fact does not believe in God. “This is brilliant.”

Linda has already moved away from us, and as far as I can see is searching for the perfect dance mate. Jane has been struck dumb. I can only stare. It is an amazing sight. A swirl of fur and lights. Men tossing dogs as big as themselves from arm to arm. Women kissing shiny black dogs who look like young kings. Little girls combing the fur of yellow labs with brushes the color of a beautiful sunset. One little boy lying at the edge of the floor and trying with all his might to get a dog the size of a cooler onto his back.

“It's for fun,” Tomas tells me, understanding my incredulous gaze. “It is a wonderful break from the realities of the day and a great excuse to have a party. See, in many ways Mexicans are no different than Americans.”

“I know of some people who have tried to marry their pets. This seems perfectly normal to me,” I shout at him as we find a table and I try to sit.

“Oh, no,” Tomas insists. “You cannot sit until you dance first with me and then with a dog. At least one dog.”

Which is exactly what we do, and within the first five minutes I realize that I have never had this much fun in my entire life.

My friends become lost in the evening and we drink tequila and beer and my first dance with a dog proves to be very successful. I assume my dog is female because she has on a dress, which is terribly sexist of me, and I take her front paws, which she willingly gives to me, and we move very slowly and very carefully about three inches at a time. I feel just a bit absurd, but it looks as if my doggie partner is having a good time and I see that the other dogs are being fed tiny pieces of meat and that the children are petting them and that the dogs bark only when they are excited, and they look happy. I would do the exact same thing.

Jane waltzes past me with a tiny Chihuahua in her arms and then comes back to tap me on the shoulder.

“Switch partners?” she asks as she gently places her dog, which has a tiny sombrero on its head and a little cape, into my arms. I am laughing so hard, I almost drop both of the dogs. Jane steadies me and we both put our faces together and laugh like we are the first two women in the world who have discovered such a sound. The dogs—mine's a cross between a small black dog and a large brown dog—lick our faces.

“I cannot believe we are doing this,” Jane tells me. “Will anyone believe we danced with dogs? I read lots of books and I've never heard of this.”

“There's probably a good reason for that,” I shout into her ear. “People would think you are nuts if you told them. Who the hell is going to believe this?”

“From what I hear of your auntie, this gig has her name written all over it.”

“She never had a dog.”

“They were probably terrified. You know, dogs communicate. The Mexican dogs probably sent the Chicago dogs a telegram and warned them. ‘Hey, watch out for the crazy woman who likes to put clothes on dogs.'”

The dancing seems endless. I dance with at least six dogs, five women, three men and more children than I can count. Finally, Tomas comes to find me and asks if I would like to walk to the tables by the beach. I say, “Yes, I'm dog tired,” laughing like the wildest dog on the block, and we hold hands and walk to the very same table where we shared our morning coffee.

There is a light mist blowing across the ocean. I can only see it because of the bouncing lights from the party and it makes me wonder what else I miss because I don't have the perfect light. The ocean is a gentle whisper, waves rolling in, the wind at rest, night standing guard over its allotted hours. Everything is lovely.

Tomas, it seems, remembers very little of my aunt. He was away for many years when his father met my aunt and it was not until after his mother died and because of the respect his father had for that relationship that his father told him the true nature of his relationship with Marcia.

“I knew,” Tomas admits to me. “I did not know when I was a young man and consumed with just myself, but as I grew older and understood the powers of love, I realized that this was more than a mere friendship.”

I want to know what he remembers and if he spent time alone with her and what she was like in this country.

Tomas remembers having a crush on Auntie Marcia when he was a teenager. She would sometimes be in Mexico when he had school breaks and although she was quite appropriate, she was also very much fun.

“She would sneak beer out of her little house for me and we would sit by the water, I will show you where, and we would drink and talk about everything from the stars to what my life would be like when I was a man.”

Her laugh. He remembers her laugh and pauses to tell me that there are many things about me that remind him of her.

“Me?”

“Oh, yes. You are fun and beautiful.”

It has been a very long time since anyone has said anything about me that didn't have something to do with work or my children. No man has ever called me beautiful that I can recall, and besides my small pack of female friends I cannot remember anyone focusing in on anything about me—mostly because there has never seemed to be anything remarkable about me.

I can only think to say, “That is lovely,” and ask him when he can take me to see her house—my house—the house.

Not tomorrow, but the next day. He imagines that I will need tomorrow to recover from the dancing dog evening and he has business. We finalize the plan, he rises, kisses my hand, and then we walk back up for the last round of dog dances and enough tequila to get us all barking. Tomas insists that we dance with a doggie to celebrate the event—which has never before happened twice in one year and to honor the very woman who is my reason for being in his arms.

He is sweet and kind and holds his cheek against mine, and I focus hard to let my mind stay there, just there, and to not wander to any other place or time or person. This is not as easy as it sounds for someone whose life has been ruled by a Palm Pilot and who has tried her whole life to stay on this side of the line. But I do it. I think of this simple moment and how fine Tomas's hands feel against mine and how wonderful it is to come this close to a man's beating heart and to know that the heart finds you beautiful.

I think of nothing then but the color of the dark sky with the
lumeneros
dancing against it and how my aunt must have done this exact same thing with Pancho and how I hope that I can come back again and again to this place and dance with the doggies. My feet move like middle-sized bricks against the sandy floor, I can surely feel the tequila and once when I close my eyes very tightly I can see myself and for just a second I think I just may be beautiful. I may be beautiful.

When we leave, I am the one who has to drive. Tomas walks us to the Jeep and offers to bring us home, but I know I can manage the Jeep and the girls, who are already a pile of giggles in the backseat, and when Tomas makes certain I am pointed in the proper direction he tells me he will pick me up the day after tomorrow at ten
A.M.
to see Aunt Marcia's Mexican home.

I put my hand on his face just before we leave and say one simple thank you. He smiles, with those damned white teeth blazing under the Mexican moon, and I drive home slowly—my passengers do not even notice we are moving—so that I can feel the night air brush against my face, memorize the color of the sky and smell the first blush of morning as it rushes up from behind the dark arms of night to claim its place in the divine rotation of life.

Tomas is a mixture of meditation and gladness when he comes to get me. I know enough of him already to realize that something must be roaming through his head, that he is hesitant, anxious, excited.

“Tomas,” I say as we head south, and not north, in the direction of his father's home and where I expected we would travel. “You are sad.”

His eyes are as big as the hound's that I could not lift off the ground a day ago at the dance. I suspect he has been crying. The sadness balancing on the edge of his heart is a weight that drifts over toward me.

“My father,” he tells me. “I think the time is coming fast. He will not go to the hospital. He wants to sit in the place he loves. We have brought in a nurse.”