Nancy held her yearbook photo so it stood side-by-side with her face, the frame resting on her shoulder as if her younger, prettier head had sprouted from her flesh to form time-warp Siamese twins, identical faces separated by forty years and a pair of double chins.
“That man at the agency told me I’d be famous,” she said, turning her head so she could see her younger self. “He was a liar.”
She put down the frame and moved back toward the television, picking up the remote and rewinding back to the start of the dance, the foxtrot, Black Pants and Silk Dress once again set in each other’s arms, the orchestra playing in 4/4 time. I held my baby photo, touching my baby nose with the tip of my pinkie.
“Slow, slow, quick-quick,” Nancy whispered, two steps forward, two to the side. Her breath soon grew heavy from the stress of her weight, dark sweat patches spotting her housecoat, but she kept at it, her steps surprisingly graceful, her concentration unwavering as she counted out the rhythm, slow, slow, quick-quick.
Slow, slow, quick-quick.
“I’ve never done this with a partner,” she said.
And there it was, my exit-cue, hit the road, Jack—the only dance I knew by heart, a two-step out the door. No way; no way, I thought, even as my body did exactly the opposite, putting down my baby photo and moving toward her so that we stood face to face, inches apart.
“Like this,” she said, her arm reaching out, her open hand waiting for me to take it. Her hip nudged my side, bumping me in place as I took her hand. The loose empty sleeve hung awkwardly until I threw it over my shoulder, as if her arm had never left, my own arm wrapped around her back, at least as far as it could reach, and we held the position, our frames upright and lifted, her arm folded over mine—not exactly Black Pants and Silk Dress, yet still, momentary partners.
Nancy’s foot began tapping. Her breath was bacon-sour and I could feel the dampness beneath her housecoat, a rank scent wafting from her body, yet I didn’t back away. My feet started moving—forward, forward, side-side, slow, slow, quick-quick—and suddenly my mother and I were dancing the foxtrot.
My mother and I.
We bounded across the room, collided with the dresser, backed into the closet door and stubbed our shins against the nightstand, Nancy huffing, out of breath but unwilling to let go. Slow, slow, quick-quick—we pivoted, turned, completed a box step; my god, I even dipped her, and even when the music ended, when Black Pants and Silk Dress slipped apart blowing kisses to the loving crowd, a Toyota commercial grabbing the screen, we continued moving through our bumbling waltz; forward, forward, side-side; slow, slow, quick, quick, her one good arm folded over mine, my childhood bedroom as worthy a locale as the dance-floor as the Ritz, both of us grateful for the music, the movement; the surprising comfort of 4/4 time.
Forward, forward, side-side; slow, slow, quick-quick.
-17-
Imaginary Interview – Donatello Marcino, September 22, 20XX – NPR Morning Edition
Q: Was it always your intention to confront him?
A: No. But I began thinking about those Truth and Reconciliation commissions they held in Rwanda after the genocide, how it was healing to look your abuser in the eye and talk about what had happened. Kelly gave me a book about it once; she liked to read about the “resilient human spirit.” So I thought maybe if Amy confronted him, it might help. And maybe I’d seen too many movies over the years with “revenge” as the motivating factor.
Q: You wanted to avenge what he did to her?
A: On some level, yes. Everyone’s seen those films where Liam Neeson or The Rock hunts down the bad guys who hurt his wife or daughter, and then goes on an utter ass-kicking barrage. I always hated those movies, but there’s a reason they’re so popular, right?
Q: So you wanted to kick Ronan’s ass.
A: Well, I’m not Liam Neeson or the Rock, but…yes, I wanted to kick his ass.
. . . . .
I had no clue what to do but action seemed required. In my head the scene played out in dark, twisted scenarios, from the sour recriminations of a Swedish art film to the full-on bloodbath of a Tarantino flick. I didn’t think I could actually hurt Mr. Ronan, but if I confronted him and forced a confession, an acknowledgement of guilt and a gesture of penance, perhaps it would help Amy release all that sticky trauma. Was it possible that I could make things, if not right, then at least better?
Yes, find him, confront him, truth and reconciliation.
If nothing else, I could at least find out why. He knew how much I loved Amy, yet he had still raped her. Was it possible that he’d raped her because of me, or was that just my hard-to-shake tendency to wander down the rabbit hole of making everything about me?
After three hours of madman brooding, driving around in the rental car, Nine Inch Nails and the air conditioner blasting, drinking Diet Dr. Pepper and ruminating over Ronan and Amy, I’d worked myself into a froth, ready to burst into his house bare-chested, ammo clips strung across my chest as I flung newly-sharpened Ninja stars at his ugly rapist face. Outwardly I might have seemed even keeled, but the inside of my brain was pure Grand Guignol. To
