“I’ll be praying you find them,” Mary said. Well, why not a little schmaltz?
She watched silently as he limped over to a jumble of large cardboard cartons, each of them apparently containing shoe boxes.
Spangle crouched down clumsily and rummaged through the boxes for such a long time Mary began feeling guilty. He really did want to help her now, and she was taking advantage of his kind nature. After all, there was no reason she had to have shoes identical to the ruined ones.
She was about to tell him she’d come back later when he said, “Bingo!” and straightened up holding a pair of black shoes. “Only difference is, these here are leather,” he told her, limping back toward the display table. He handed them to her with the toes pointed down, as if they were weapons that might discharge.
Mary studied the shoes and decided she liked them even better in leather. She worked her right shoe off her foot. Standing on her left leg and leaning on the table for balance, she bent over and tried on one of the dance shoes.
It seemed to fit. She put on the other and shifted her weight, swiveled her feet. The shoes were definitely more comfortable than the pair Jake had ruined. What luck! Was fate finally swinging over to her side?
Mary reached into her purse and closed her hand around Helen’s MasterCard. “How much are they?”
“Eighty dollars,” Spangle said. “But since you had bad luck with the last pair, for you they’re sixty.” He was beaming at her, his blue eyes alive with light. “Fair enough?”
“More than fair. Really. Thank you.” She removed the shoes from her feet and slipped back into her street shoes. Spangle took the new shoes from her and inserted them noisily back among crinkled white tissue in their box. “You take credit cards?” Mary asked.
He laughed. “Who don’t?”
She handed him Helen’s card, then realized Spangle knew her name and might notice it wasn’t on the card. “This actually belongs to my friend over there. If you want, I can go get her and she’ll sign for the shoes.”
“Naw, that’s okay. You can sign for her. I already dealt with you and know you’re really who you say.”
Mary wondered how he could know, since she hadn’t shown him any identification, but she didn’t argue.
“I mean,” Spangle said, “unless you’re making up a pretty good story, you gotta be the Mary that bought the white Latins. You’re from Detroit, right?”
“St. Louis!” Mary said, surprised.
“See.” Spangle seemed unfazed. “That’s how I run an instant credit check. If you’d have said Detroit, no shoes. Anyway, in this business you gotta have a certain amount of faith. And the years have taught me that ballroom dancers are by and large honest folks.” He chuckled. “Well, maybe not some of the instructors.”
He bent down and got a credit-card machine from beneath the table and ran Helen’s MasterCard through it, then filled out the charge form and handed it to Mary to sign. “Tell your friend if she needs a pair of shoes, this here’s the place. No special deals for her, though, unless she buys two pairs like you did.”
Mary signed Helen’s name. “I’ll tell her. I’ll tell lots of people this is the table if they need shoes.”
Spangle laughed, gave her the customer’s copy and carbons, then limped back toward the stepladder. “No substitute for good will, no matter what you’re selling,” he said. “Thanks for the business, Mary, and I hope you knock ’em dead in the competition.”
As she walked away carrying the shoes, he was again lurching up the ladder, his box of Velcro stars tucked beneath his arm. He seemed unaware that he’d salvaged her dreams.
She waved the shoe box above her head when she caught sight of Helen. Oh-oh! Helen was wearing a green gown with a feathered bodice and hem. It made her look twenty pounds heavier.
“Great!” Helen said. “You got your shoes!”
“Not only that, the man over there remembered my name and gave me a discount.”
Helen hoisted the bodice of the green dress, but it still showed an alarming amount of cleavage. Helen, Helen. “Hey, this is used, but how’s it look?” She raised her arms in dance position and did a few tight waltz steps. The flab on her upper arms jiggled, but the dress was gauzy and stiff. “It’s marked down,” Helen said, not seeing in the mirror the image that Mary saw. She had her own dreams.
Mary said, “It looks terrific,” and handed her the MasterCard.
39
He watched her walk up to a heavyset woman in a green dress and hand her a credit card. They talked for a while, but he wasn’t close enough to know what they were saying. The vending area was crowded and voices he didn’t know clashed and merged and ran over each other.
One voice, however, was familiar and clear, and though he was sure no one else could be aware of it, he heard it with his entire body.
“She’s the one,” it pronounced with the calm certainty he knew so well. His expression didn’t change, but he closed his eyes for a moment as the warm anticipation spiraled through his center. “She’s the one.”
Mary was awake at five o’clock, lying rigidly in bed and staring at the ceiling. Eventually morning sun filtered through the drapes and washed the darkness from the pale white plaster. Her eyes focused on a sprinkler system head that seemed to cling like a huge spider near a corner. She lay motionless until the alarm sounded at seven o’clock, then she immediately climbed out of bed.
In the opposite bed, Helen stirred.
“You awake?” Mary asked.
“Halfway,” Helen moaned sleepily.
“I gotta turn on the light and start getting dressed. Mel wants me down in the ballroom two hours before the competition so we can go through our steps.”
Sheets rustled as Helen propped herself up on one elbow and stared at the luminous numerals of the clock on the table between the beds. “You got lotsa time, Mary.”
“Well, I’ll shower first, so I can be outa your way when you get up. Afterwards I’ll turn on the light out here. It’s almost full daylight anyway.”
“Sure, fine,” Helen groaned, and settled back down in bed. Her breathing got louder and evened out. Now and then a hint of a snore. Mary wished she could sleep so soundly.
She rubbed a hand over her eyes and winced from the pain, suddenly remembering how her face looked. Then she saw again the overwhelming vastness of the glittering ballroom. Oh, God! She hurried into the bathroom, switched on the light, and stood before the mirror with her eyes closed.
Gradually she opened them, like a newborn testing a strange world.
No, no! Horrible bruises, and bags beneath her eyes from lack of sleep. She staggered back to the bed and slumped on the edge of the mattress, sobbing quietly.
But not so quietly she didn’t wake Helen, who sat up in bed and switched on the lamp. “Wha, Mary? Whazza matter?”
“My bruises are worse.”
Helen scooted around and sat facing her. “Couldn’t be.” She stood up and stretched, then bent over with her hands on her knees and unblinkingly studied Mary’s face. “Naw, you don’t look any worse to me. Look better. C’mon in where there’s more light.” She gripped Mary’s elbow and led her back into the bathroom. The tiles were cold on Mary’s bare feet; she’d been too upset to notice before.
She and Helen stood side by side before the mirror. Two middle-aged women, never beauties, in a strange city to dance against people who really knew how to dance, who were almost professionals. What in heaven’s name had they been thinking? What was a tango and how was it done?
And those glaring Technicolor bruises!
“We got fluorescent lighting in here that’d make anybody look a hundred and ten,” Helen said. “Notice I look like I been dead five days.”
Mary had to admit the pale light glaring harshly down from above the mirror cruelly exposed every flaw. Fine veins just beneath the surface of the skin on her forehead had a greenish tint, like the bruises around her eyes and on the bridge of her nose.
“Bruises are definitely fainter,” Helen said. “Believe me, the right makeup job and you’ll be better’n just
