The Dance

“Why you here?  This isn’t kindergarten.” Her elder barked silver hair thinning with ribbons of black swept back into a tight ball.  Clearly frustrated, eyes piercing, she reared, coiled like a cobra poised to strike. Startled, the freshman fumbled her marker onto the floor.  Buying time, avoiding contact, Corina searched the forest colored carpet for retreat.  She feared Mrs. Mason’s intolerance to holiday crafts.  The woman had complained earlier about the teen “crafting garbage to fill her trash.”

            Desperate Corina plead.  “I thought we might create decorations for your room?”

            “Child, I don’t need decorations.  Room’s fine.” She cut the teen short. 

            Dorothy withdrew from the table.  Cheeks as fine as black silk supported creases below years of solitary struggle.  She fought age from spoiling her elegance.  A stubborn chin of resolve claimed the visitor’s surrender.  The Hispanic youth dumped the marker and swept her construction paper into the tray.

            Corina had been warned; entertain none of Mrs. Mason’s conversations with the dead; primarily with her dead husband or close friends.  The staff psychologist, Ms. Snow, a cranky academic, rattled, “do not foster the old lady’s dementia.  You’ll only make it worse.” Corina mumbled Spanish insults under her breath wagering the psychologist didn’t speak her language. “Why should she care?” The youth reasoned she could not make things worse.  Corina considered documenting fictitious service hours for her school’s honor society.  This was to be Corina’s third and final visit with Mrs. Mason.  Perhaps, Mrs. Mason operated split personalities; hostile while creating decorations, … delighted when talking to dead people. 

Despite the resident’s right to live in a barren, sterile-smelling room, Corina did find Dorothy’s storied conversations with her dead husband, Cyprian, to be intriguing.  Dorothy’s temperament morphed to a grandmother reciting narrative to be passed forward through generations.  The freshman tossed her remaining markers into the shoebox and sealed the lid to transition. 

Her eighty-six-year old host closed her eyes collecting thoughts while inhaling enough oxygen to drain the room.

Her frown vanished to enlarged eyes lifting her lips to smile. “Girl, Santa came to me, last night!  Dressed in his red suit, white beard trimmed tight, my man looked mighty fine.  I glimpsed my reflection in his polished black boots.  I looked good.  Cyprian wrapped me in his arms and whispered, ‘you’re one fine lookin’ Mrs. Claus.’ And I think I was.”  Dorothy’s giddiness invited the teen to relax. 

“Your husband, Mr. Mason was a Santa Claus?” Corina’s inflection teased Mrs. Mason to tell more.

“He wasn’t ‘a’ Santa Claus.  He was ‘the’ Santa Claus.  Every child dreamed of my Cyprian making a dedicated visit to their house.”

“Do you have any pictures of your husband as Santa?” Corina wished to see him.

Dorothy shook her head disappointed.  “Somewhere, but I cannot find them.  No matter,” she perked, “He visited last night, his face forever in my memory.”

A glimmer in her eye recreated moments from her twenties.  “I’ve never told you about the best dance I never had?” Her fingers orchestrated anticipation.   

“The best dance you never had?”  The afternoon sun cast a glow of expectation upon the teen’s bronzed skin.  

“Nope!” Dorothy laughed.  “And my Cyprian offered to make it up, but I refused to steal his moment from history.”

“After graduating in ‘51 from Soldan High, I drew topographical surveys for the United States Mapping Agency shortly after World War II.  My family lived in a second story flat on Newstead in St. Louis City.  One night while I was grooving it, barefoot on the roof, I heard brass like I’d never heard it before coming from the Club Riviera two blocks away on Delmar Boulevard.  4460’s a vacant lot now, but in ’51 all the big names, Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, Chuck Berry, Dinah Washington played the Riviera along with a very green Cyprian Mason.”

Her tongue tried to spit a gleeful story.  The elder wisped moisture from her lips.  She imagined running barefoot along the sidewalk carrying her sandals.

“I weaved between an audience of oaks waving to a trumpeter’s rhythm.  I chased his jazzed notes to the Club.  Visiting from Southern Illinois University, a boy barely twenty dressed in stylin’ blacks and a white shirt commanded the stage with three of his buddies playing the charts.  Kids danced near the stage, on their seats, in the aisles, everywhere.  Our eyes locked.”

Enthralled with the story, her young guest assumed, interrupting.  “But he didn’t ask you to dance?”

“Oh yeah, he asked this girl to dance!  I jumped onto that stage.” Dorothy emphatically thumbed her chest once the queen of spring.  “Honey, Cyprian had moves.  They were so smooth I married him!”

“That quick?”  Panic seized a captivated fifteen-year-old.

“About a year later, but that’s for another time.”  Her nod promised a revelation.  The reminiscent lover waved that story into the future.

“We moved into a brick flat behind Club Riviera.  The club was convenient for Cyprian to perform, pick up outside jobs, dances, private parties.  A flat roof was a must!  Often, we slept among the stars at night and welcomed the sunshine to a new day.  On my twenty-first birthday, opportunity knocked in ’54.

Newport, Rhode Island, advertised hosting their first Jazz Festival.  On the rise, a fresh Miles Davis became the festival’s headliner.  He and Cyprian performed the Riviera and Preservation Hall.  Miles invited my husband to join him in Newport.”

“Who is Miles Davis?” Corina inquired to fully appreciate Mrs. Mason’s passion.

“My gawd child, you’ve never heard of Miles Davis?   What in God’s world do you listen to?”  Her tenor expressed disappointment tempered with an accusation of cultural ignorance.  “Miles Davis, a quintessential trumpeter and composer of our time grew up just across the river in Alton.  I can’t believe you don’t know who he is.”

Corina shrugged her shoulders eager to hear more.

“Though struggling in his career, Miles stormed to success.  He’d been invited to perform in the two-day event.  Cyprian accepted his friend, Miles’ invitation.”

“We couldn’t afford travel, but we were kids.” The revealed risk to discovery flushed an affectionate glow erasing decades from Dorothy’s face.  “We scraped money together and hopped Greyhound buses across the east to the historic Bellevue Avenue District.  Bayside ocean air sifted through the humid August heat.  Rain washed brackish odors from the atmosphere and soaked me as I bathed in the music of Ella Fitzgerald, Dizzy, the Count, and Billie Holiday.”

Corina latched onto a performer she thought to be a western gunslinger. “Billie Holiday?  Who’s he?”

“Girl, don’t tell me you don’t know who Billie Holiday is?”

“Obviously not a marshall in Dodge City?”  Her reckless dimples teased her host.

“Billie’s voice tore heartache apart.  Billie was not her real name.  I don’t remember what it was.”

Dorothy began to ponder.  “Cyprian used to joke he had a crush on Billie.  But I squashed that crush.”  Once a child of that Newport summer, Dorothy laughed as Corina smiled with her clever play on words.  “Cyprian’s eyes locked onto me that night, soaked in my cotton dress, yellow buttercups in my hair. I’s radiant!  No room for Billie.  I did feel for the girl.   She was beautiful, popular, living a tortured life.  She was one wicked girl … got all messed up with drugs and shit.  Died four years later, young and harsh.  The world lost a great talent.”

The resident read her young guest’s expression to move forward.  “Don’t bother telling me you don’t know who Armstrong was.  Child, I can only take so much absence of culture.”  Corina grinned indifferent to the old woman’s criticism.

“Though Cyprian accepted Miles’ invitation to Newport, Cyprian was more excited to see Louis Armstrong perform even though Armstrong was more than 30 years older than Cyprian.”

“Miles owned the stage.  He introduced a tune, ‘Round Midnight,’ two years before he’d actually impressed it on a plastic record album, something you kids today know nothin’.”  Dorothy intercepted the teen’s question.  “John Coltrane accompanied him on sax.  They played intense bebop, jazz with attitude, something my husband desired to learn.  The crowd went crazy in the rain.  Cyprian played more of Ragtime styled like that of Armstrong.  However, bebop was pushing Dixie off the stage and forcing Armstrong aside.”

“But in Newport, Satchmo would have his day!” She proclaimed him an icon.  “Europeans nicknamed Louie, ‘Satchmo’ for his broad infectious smile.  He could pucker those lips and blow you away!”

“The rain poured.  Not an empty seat on the lawn.  Thirteen thousand ducked beneath mounds of umbrellas.  Cheers erupted.  Louis Armstrong, carried his golden trumpet in one hand.  In the other, he escorted Velma Middleton to center stage.  Armstrong’s band the Hot Five circled the couple.  Satchmo made that trumpet talk as Velma belted Baby, It’s Cold Outside.  She appeased the rain to cease.”  Dorothy spoke with conviction.  “They forced the heavens open that evening!”

“In that moment, unknown to me, Louis Armstrong,” as if spelling his name, she accented his influence, “invited Cyprian Mason to the stage to play with his Hot Five.” 

Dorothy dropped sixty-five years clutching Corina as if they were giddy teens.  “I chopped my legs churning mud to butter, yelling ‘you play it boy!  You’re my man!’”

“Louie keyed Cyprian with a trumpet salute.  I danced as Cyprian played What a Wonderful Life.  Thick mud massaged my toes.”  Life filled to the brim, the woman graced the child with elegance.  “My dress clung to my form squeezing my ribs.  I inhaled nature’s clean Atlantic air, tasting her salt on my lips.  I closed my eyes as his notes massaged all of me, kissed me deeply, stealing my mind, cradling my heart.  I owned the lawn and for a moment thirteen thousand vanished.  With his trumpet, with his music, Cyprian made my soul dance, want to sing.  I longed to feel his hands, soak in his warmth, shiver under his breath, brush my lips upon his …”  Mrs. Mason drifted back to the present.  Corina stared pondering what she’d just witnessed.   

Dorothy stood still, alone.  “That is the one dance I missed Cyprian.  The one I wished I’d had, but I knew how crazy, insanely important it was to him to own that stage and play.”  Tears stirred infinite joy with desire.  She resigned to the recliner adjacent to the window.  The wind swept her memories into darkening skies forcing barren branches to tremble.

Almost a whisper from another dimension, Mrs. Mason requested.  “I think it’s time for you to go, Corina.  I need rest.”

The teen imagined the older woman alone, her bed, her desk, her sofa … all absent.  Sliding into her coat, Corina, light on her toes, entered the hallway respectfully easing Dorothy’s door closed. 

Fired ebony, Santa bellowed, “Ho! Ho! Ho!”  A guttural laugh erupted as Santa handed a startled toddler into the outstretched arms of an anxious mother.  Sharing her infant’s first Christmas, mom spun gratitude into her embrace.  Santa waved to eyes anticipating their adventurous summit into the big red guy’s lap.  “Santa must take a break.  Give me fifteen.”  Impatient groans swirled in the wake of his steps as he disappeared into the winter wonderland breakroom in a hallway tucked away from the mainstream.

            From behind the door, an Hispanic girl older than the norm to visit Santa, startled him as he removed his red hat trimmed in white.  Sweat glistened upon his black dome.  “Ho! Ho! Ho!” seemed the instinctive response to his intruder.   

            “Cut it Santa!” Corina assumed control of time.  “I outgrew you years ago.”

            “We’ll see about that!” His confident bass breathed expectation.   “Nobody interrupts Santa’s break unless they have an urgent request, … Ho! Ho!” he prepared to deliver. 

            Corina requested without doubt.  “I need you to go to the home and dance with a demented woman to the trumpet of What a Wonderful Life.”

            Santa in oversized pants and coat chuckled, suspicious.  “How you know she’s demented?”

            “I’m telling you, Santa …” Corina’s confidence wavered.  Feeling ridiculous, she diverted Mr. Claus.  “What’s your real name?”

The jolly old soul combed his bushy white beard with his fingers.  He freely appeased his intruder, “Elves call me Alphonso.”  His broad smile curled his cheeks into enormous black pearls.  His shadow buried her.   

“Alphonso, I want to believe Dorothy is not crazy.”  Confessing, desperation lifted the girl’s plea.  “Mrs. Mason tells me how she talks to dead people, especially her husband, at night.  I like her stories, but the home’s nasty psychologist says I make Mrs. Mason’s mental disorder worse.  I’m told to compromise her with arts and crafts, but Mrs. Mason gets in a bad way when I do that.”

“I’d be in a bad way, too, if you want to color while I want to share a conversation I’d had with my dead wife.” Alphonso frowned while inquiring.  “Do you talk to dead people?  You know, loved ones you’ve lost?”

Uncertain as to where Santa might lead her, Corina submerged, too many living folks talking to dead folks.

Mr. Claus winced.  “Aliens bring you into this world?”

“You know that’s loco.  This whole thing’s loco!  I’s born into this world like anyone else.”

“How do you know?” The big guy slugged a bottle of water while devouring frosted ginger snaps. 

“I’m here aren’t I?”

“Yes, but at birth you broke from the comfort of your momma’s tummy into a world you did not know existed, a dimension totally unknown to your experience or survival.  Life as you came to understand it started on an entirely new journey.”

Eyes of integrity begged for trust.  “Dorothy is aging.  Her body is gradually weakening in strength to that of a child and perhaps one day to that of a helpless toddler, but …” he paused to gather the teen’s full attention.  “It’s not exactly like the metamorphosis of a butterfly.  But her spirit is preparing to take flight and take her into a new life where others she has loved before her have already gone.  What Dorothy loses in physical strength, she gains in spiritual strength to enter life’s next dimension.  Dorothy’s open to new life and she’s going to have it!”  St. Nick restored the teen’s confidence in her request on behalf of Mrs. Mason.

“Why don’t I have those experiences?”

“Your energy, your ego is all about you.  Youthful invincibility stifles your spirit.  It’s there, you’re just not that aware.  In life, love to its fullest and she’ll reveal mysteries you’ll come to appreciate.  Prepare to move forward like Dorothy to a new birth into a whole new dimension of life.”

Corina paused to ponder Alphonso’s vision.  He seated himself patiently aware his young Hispanic guest needed to share more details.  He prompted her.

“So, Mrs. Mason wishes to dance with Santa to What a Wonderful Life?”

“Yes,” Corina suppressed a rising bubble smiling from within.  Alphonso affirmed her.  “Her husband’s name is Cyprian.  As a little boy, he met the great trumpeter, Louis Armstrong.  Out of college, Cyprian played the trumpet with a much older Armstrong at a jazz festival in Newport.” Corina recounted additional details. “Cyprian was a Santa like yourself.” Corina flexed dark brows of consternation. “Dorothy visits with Santa Cyprian in her dreams.  That’s when she talks to him.”

“Ho! Ho! Ho!”  The grand ambassador of Christmas stood overshadowing the girl. “I will arrange what you have asked.”

She felt comfortable being a child nestled in his tenderness.  “You promise?”

“I am Santa.  My word is a promise.” She felt the warmth from his finger brush her cheek.

Elated, Corina jumped to the door.  Pausing before opening, she swept her arms into a wide array.  A grand smile squeezed eyes of expectation. “One more thing.  I want to give Dorothy a gift, but I don’t have a clue as to what she might like.  Just don’t make it crafty.”

“No crafts.  Let me take care of that.”  His voice assured goodness to his word.  “You prepare Mrs. Mason for a dance with Santa.” He stepped into the hallway as she emerged from his shadow. 

Winter Wonderland filled the dining hall decorated in snowflakes, reindeer, and ornaments.  Spectral lights extended from the center like spokes in a wheel.  Territorial in nature residents migrated to their specific tables.  Staff served miniature cookies, candies, and pastries.  Corina escorted Mrs. Mason to her table as directed.  She quietly surveyed unfamiliar faces clustered under the reduced light.  Several residents welcomed family members to their party.  Corina envisaged a boldly-painted piñata swinging from the ceiling a centerpiece in her cultural celebrations.  Twisted ribbons wrapped sparkling spirals around fresh smelling pines anchoring each corner.  While arranging music, an aide shuffled between residents checking with those poor of hearing so they might enjoy the voices of children and grandchildren. 

“Ho! Ho! Ho!”  Santa roared into the center packing his bag bulging with toys.  Children collapsed upon him.  Little ones watched cautiously from the margins eyes wide in awe.  Older siblings coaxed them closer to the red-suited imposter.  Corina recognized a man about to keep his promise to her. 

“Look, Dorothy, Santa’s in the house!” The teen corralled as much attention as any child.  As if tethered to her elder, Corina eased closer to glimpse Santa.  Her heart rolled eager to verify and welcome Alphonso. 

Jolly old St. Nick knelt to a knee beneath the prismatic hub of lights.  He plunged his bag for treasures.  A child just tall enough to reach his beard gave a slight tug.  Santa’s grimace dissolved to a smile revealing he was the real deal.  He embraced each as he offered them a gift.  Some danced, some jumped, some twirled, some simply stared in wonder.  Each child carried enchantment to grandma or grandpa as they ran to open arms ready to receive.

The aide responsible for music buried her face in her hands as Santa offered a simple gift for her.  He applauded her briefly.  He tucked his depleted bag under his arm.  Alphonso approached Corina.  The woman the teen described remained seated, eyes locked upon St. Nick.  He dropped the bag on the table and removed his white gloves.

He presented his open hand.  “Dorothy Mason, I’d be honored to dance with you.”  Hesitant, she rested her delicate hand on his.  She saw a much younger woman reflected in his tender gaze.  Dimples accented cheeks of a man eager to meet her.  Once a Santa’s wife, Dorothy entered a mystical moment.  Corina watched Alphonso transform Dorothy’s world. 

Thrilled, children tugged grandparents and parents filling the dance floor circling Santa.  A jazzed Wonderful World energized guests.     

Though Dorothy wore a green sweater over an embroidered blouse, a rather plain skirt, and flats, hair pulled into a tight weave, Corina saw a beautiful, graceful young wife, barefoot, mud squeezed between her toes, hair soaked in rain, flowered cotton dress clinging to her youthful form, far from dancing alone, she danced in the arms of a man she passionately loved, a man who passionately loved her.  Engrossed, Corina prayed, hoped for Dorothy’s moment to endure throughout time.  (Play What a Wonderful Life) https://soundcloud.com/smcongregation/what-a-wonderful-world

Light as an angel, Dorothy graced every motion. The trumpet enticed her freedom, seducing her movement.  Laughing, embracing, twirling, she complemented Santa’s lead.  Flushed, gasping for air, Dorothy fell into Alphonso’s arms exhausted, elated, overjoyed!

“You are a fine man, Mr. Claus.” 

“Dorothy, you are an exquisite dancer.”  The couple’s exchange burst with joy. 

Tears welled in her eyes.  “It is late.  I fear I may lose this moment to all these people.”  She smiled graciously, “I am going to my room to forever savor this dance.”  

“I understand.”  He bowed respectfully.  He recognized her desire to preserve her vision. 

Corina watched her dignified mentor shuffle away, vanishing as a spirit through the celebration.  Suddenly, conflict surged.   Psychologist Snow ambushed the two.

“You high school kids think you know it all.  Selfishly interested in chalking service hours.  No respect for your elders.”  Snow smothered good cheer to chastise. “I don’t know what you’re up to.  I even warned you!”  Her fingers flared aggressively.  “You’ve made a huge mistake leading that old demented woman astray with your charade.  Mrs. Mason’s sure to believe she danced with her husband, tonight.  She’ll be disagreeable and moody for weeks.”  Ms. Snow turned to arrest an unimpressed Santa.  “You ought to know better than to play into this juvenile’s scheme.  I’ll have your whiskers.  Hang up the suit!”

A resident in urgent need pulled the psychologist away.  The Snow storm blew out as fast as it descended.

“Who invited scrooge?”  Corina bit her tongue to avoid a blizzard. 

“Ignore her,” Alphonso recommended.  “She’ll blow over.” 

With the teen’s back to him, Alphonso dug into what appeared to be his empty bag.  He retrieved two small flat boxes.  To Corina, he extended both. 

“For me?”  Her eyes swelled with innocent exuberance.  She pressed them against her heart. 

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Santa laughed softly for only the teen to hear. 

Corina settled one box on the table and slid the lid off the next.  She revealed a picture.  “Is that Louis Armstrong sitting on the left?”

“Yes.  And who do you think the captivated little musician is on the right holding the trumpet?”

“Cyprian!”

“You got it.”  Santa proclaimed fastening his fists to his hips.

“Where’d you get this?  I scoured the internet and found nothing.”

Sliding into his white gloves, he tapped the tip of her nose.  “Hey, Santa’s gotta keep a little mystery.”

As Corina reached to open the second box, Alphonso intercepted pressing the box to the table with his forefinger.  “Save this one for Dorothy to open.” 

Corina attended to straightening the boxes fearing as Dorothy did that Alphonso’s time had come.  Her eyes avoided his.  He kept his promise, yet she wanted to give so much more, but had no idea what to ask.

She glanced into eyes hoping Santa might freeze time.  Her heart raced as Alphonso delicately lifted her chin. “For a most precious evening, gracias.” His lips brushed her forehead.  “Vaya con Dios.”  

Santa gently touched each child as he wished them a Merry Christmas.  Soon, he faded into the night. 

Corina eased into her Mrs. Mason’s room.  Avoiding landmines with potential to set off a temperamental, exhausted woman, Corina eased into the glow extending from a solitary nightstand. 

“Bout time ya got here.”  Her face softened with the afterglow of black coral.   Dressed in flannel pajamas, she sat upright against pillows.  Hand-stitched quilts soothed her tired body.  She tucked a trumpet against her side.

“I’ve been hopin’, been waitin’ to thank you for the dance.  Santa surprised me in a very good way!”  

Corina, feared she may have deceived Dorothy with a false Santa. “The psychologist …”  Corina’s voice waned with nothing to add.

“I bet Snow got in your business.”  Dorothy grinned placing an abiding hand upon the teen’s forearm.  She imparted wisdom.  “Don’t worry.  You see and hear what she don’t see and hear.”

The teen placed two small boxes stacked upon the quilt covering her elder’s lap.  Dorothy paused.  Her glance catalyzed the teen’s satisfaction.  She tore into the first.

“My God, child, where did you ever find this?”  She pointed to a trumpeter on the 1955 Newport Jazz Festival Stage.  He performed to the left of a bass and sax.  “That’s my Cyprian making the fifth of the Hot Five.” Prohibiting questions, she tore into the second box.  “My Baby as a baby!” She recognized an elementary boy.  “Cyprian told me of his encounter with the great Louis Armstrong,” she confessed, “but I’d never seen a picture.  Look at those scrawny arms and little trumpet.  What is he?  A fifth grader?  He’s certainly lookin’ to learn magic.  He grew up.  Played magic!”

Shrugging her shoulders, giddy as a child, joy softened her tears.  “Where did you get these?”

“Santa.”  Corina apprehensively surrendered.

“Oh … St. Nick …  He was a fine Santa!  Good dancer too …”  Corina feared Mrs. Mason might have been deceived by her unintentional illusion.  Deafening tension weighted the moment.  Eyes of love entangled Corina’s.  “But he wasn’t that good.  He was not my Cyprian!”

“No.” Corina whispered.

“That was not my Cyprian in that recording tonight, either.  Child,” she squeezed her forearm, “Cyprian was ragtime, bebop … not stylin’ like what you heard.”

“Maybe,” Corina smiled.

Dorothy pressed her forefinger to the teen’s lips and pulled her close.  Corina felt the warmth of the woman’s cheek.  “You blessed me most, girl, simply by being here.” 

Clutching the trumpet nestled to her side, Dorothy handed the polished brass to the youth.  “Will you hold this for me tonight?”

Corina did not ask.  She knew Cyprian breathed life through that trumpet.

Dorothy embraced the pictures as if an infant to her chest and reclined into the pillows.  Drawing a deep breath, she sighed with expectation.  “There’ll be jazz, tonight.  I’ll be dancing with my love.  When I look into his eyes, he will see me.  Cyprian always sees deeply into me.”  Content, Dorothy closed her eyes and inhaled peace.

Corina cut the bedside lamp.  She settled into the moonlight.  A brilliant ice crystal halo orchestrated the upper atmosphere among an array of stars shimmering across the midnight sky.  Cosmic light illuminated the steps, both past and present of an old woman, a child, and a Santa. The universe opened to two separated by dimensions, invisible to most, but not to those of vision.  Love connected them beyond space and time.  Dorothy was not to be denied her dance.   

Corina bent and graced Dorothy with a kiss.  She whispered, “Feliz Navidad.”

“Y tu, mija.” Dorothy blessed.

    

ã Tim Morrison   December 2017