Mother would have written me long, gossipy letters, full of movies and news of society friends. If she’d seen an Audrey, her words might have flown. Mother survived on sentiment. She used to say, “One day, I’m taking you to New York where we’ll do ‘breakfast’ at Tiffany’s. We’ll buy the diamonds for your wedding there.” When it all got too much, I’d shout, “Mother, don’t be silly! Who’d marry me?” And she would hold me tight, tears rolling down her cheeks, promising, “Trust me, my darling, someone will. Someone will.”
I never wasted time crying.
Fantasy home. That’s what this club is. Guys come in for escape or relief because they can’t make it. A-Ba wasn’t like them. He had Mother because he was successful. Problem was, she needed someone classier. Wasn’t his fault. Other than his temper, he wasn’t all bad. It’s just that you can’t manufacture class the way you can soy sauce.
Maybe I came along too late and caught a dismal closing act. They must have had a better life once.
I didn’t talk about family to anyone.
Summer after graduation, I finally was allowed home. In Connecticut, it was possible not to think about her or her miserable life with A-Ba. But home, without Mother, was worse than being kept away at school.
In late August, Wait Until Dark made it to Hong Kong’s cinemas. It was petrifying, watching a blind Audrey stumble around, stalked and terrorized like prey. I’m glad Mother didn’t have to watch. Fear isn’t romantic.
Listen, kid, you want to tell this story? I’m getting to the Ron part. Didn’t you learn in your writing school that stories need history, plot, suspense? Character flaws? Otherwise the beginning muddles to the middle and you thank god it’s The End.
Southern Connecticut State was a bore, but it was better than high school.
The boys were less frantic. I majored in something. All I cared about was dance. My feet, though! They felt way too big, having ballooned to a seven and a half.
Fall of sophomore year, Ron Andrews danced into my life.
His troupe was performing “Dance Nostalgia.” Astaire routines. Porter, Kern, Gershwin. Ron did this solo soft-shoe number. The grand finale was him leaping onto a straight-back chair, tipping it over, and sliding toward the apron’s edge on his knees. I jumped up, shouted, “Bravo,” not caring what anyone thought. Maybe I started something, or maybe he was just that good, because the whole audience rose in a swell, cheering.
Later, backstage, Ron stood there, a towel round his neck. In his T-shirt and tights, one leg cocked on a stool, he looked like a blond William Holden. People congratulated; voices rose in a frenzy. He wasn’t very tall, but there in the center of all that adulation, he was a giant.
When we were introduced, I couldn’t help gushing, “You were incredible. Absolutely, amazingly marvelous!” He smiled, nodded in acknowledgement, and that was that.
Back at the dorm that night, I cried myself silly. It was such a weird sensation. I mean, I didn’t know the guy to save my life, and crying wasn’t my thing.
The next day, I went along to audition for their troupe’s summer stock.
I was a good, but not brilliant, dancer. The point was, it didn’t matter a whole lot whether or not I performed. Other students had rehearsed for weeks, desperate to make the cut.
My friend Sara co-opted me as her “male” partner. I’d agreed, but that was before Ron. Of course, I couldn’t very well back out now, not when the show had to go on.
“Smile, will you?” Sara hissed, just before we made our entrance. “Don’t be such a dog face. Think Astaire.”
We did “Dancing in the Dark.” Sara was this tiny brunette, graceful as sin. In her white ball gown, fitted to her gorgeous figure, she was stunning. I was in tux tails, my hair pinned tightly in a net, a mustache pasted on for effect, feeling absurd. Sara was a strong dancer, but she hammed things up too much. Every dip swooped a bit too low, every turn was overdone. Friends applauded, but I knew we weren’t much above passable.
Later, while removing makeup, I looked up in the mirror and saw him. He wasn’t as young as he appeared onstage. He pressed both hands down on my shoulders and studied my face. “Do you ever dance the lady’s part?” His voice resonated. Baritone.
Nodding and shaking my head simultaneously, I stammered, “Sometimes.”
“Come on, then.” Taking my hand, he led me onstage. In my tux shirt and tights, I looked ridiculous, but Ron didn’t seem to care as we stood side by side, arms outstretched, my hand in his. I was the taller, and nervous.
“Dancing in the Dark” came on.
“Follow me,” he commanded.
My feet flowed. It was better than magic, because all of me danced, guided by heaven and his lead. When the music faded, it segued to “In the Mood.” His hands gripped my waist and he swung me in the air. A perfect partner, confident without being bossy, leading without stifling my movements. When we finished, the applause went on for a long, long time.
Onstage, I smiled at him, exhilarated, my heart pounding from exhaustion. Ron had barely broken a sweat. He pulled me toward him in a final twirl. “What’s your name?” he asked. His eyes were a deep blue-green, as deep as the ocean, only deeper.
I quit school and followed him to New York. He was thirty, the senior member in the troupe.
“A dancer?!” my father screamed over intercontinental telephone wires. “You’re living with a baahk gwai dancer?
What are you, crazy?”
“But you married one. Or at least, a half-baahk gwai. I just wanted you to know.”
“You’ll get no more money from me.”
“I don’t need your money. I can work.”
“Doing what? Shining his shoes? What do you expect to make without a college degree?”
I hung up. Ron never got to speak to him.
That was the last time I communicated with my family.
What do you suppose Mother would have said?
I remind you of your sister? Another funny face, huh? Everything comes back to family, kid. We all start there, even if we end up someplace remote. Like Ron. Despite his step-dad, who beat him up and hadn’t a clue, calling him a fag and all, he still thought about his mom. Oh, he’d never admit it, but I knew. Every Mother’s Day, he used to cry in his sleep, like clockwork.
Ron and I got married six months later.
Life was great. He scored tickets to Broadway shows because he knew people in the business. Ron had tons of friends.
He was like this solar system, burning bright, in whose orbit everyone sparkled and spun. He found places to perform, way off-Broadway, all across the country, even in Alaska, while other dancers waited tables or collected welfare. “I’ve got to dance,” he said. “Doesn’t matter how or where.”
We did dance contests and exhibitions for money whenever he was between real gigs. Other than that, we didn’t work together much. His act, the dance of his heart, was solo. Money was tight, but that never mattered because I loved him and we were rent-controlled. He used to work a lot then, going to every audition, trying for the big break. Such energy! “Disco won’t last,” he predicted. “It’ll bore itself to death. You wait and see.”
We talked. I told him all about my mother, about my Tiffany’s “wedding,” about her crying with Audrey Hepburn. Sometimes, talking made me weepy. He’d hold me until I calmed. Blood talk, he called it. Healing that scabs the pain.
After two years in New York, I took a job as a typist and filing clerk. It was way more lucrative than dancing and had health insurance. Ron didn’t want me to do it. “What about your career? You’re a good dancer when you try.”