I put on my sweat suit, tap shoes, went downstairs to dance. I had to do something to relax. I'd danced through two Earl Hines' records, was in the midst of a corny soft shoe dance to Me and My Shadow, when I noticed her sitting on the steps, watching me with great interest. She had my bedroom slippers half on her wide feet.
I asked if she wanted to dance and she said, “I know Pistol-Packing Mama and song—Deep in the Heart of Texas,” and she began to sing in a horrible monotone and clap her heavy hands.
I said, “Good God,” and burst out laughing. She smiled and I took her in my arms and started dancing. She was very awkward and after stumbling around for a moment, I left her and danced solo. The record changed to one of Charlie Barnet's loud and fast-numbers, and as I whirled around the room, the rhythm suddenly got her. She kicked off my slippers and started to dance.
Her movements were clumsy, and lacking in any grace or smoothness, yet there was something fierce and savage and original about them. Mostly she seemed to fling herself around the room, dancing with her arms and shoulders, and bumping a good deal—like an inept burlesque dancer. But there was no doubt she felt the movements, and there was a certain charm to their very simplicity. I danced around her, doing whatever I felt like.
On the slow record, a waltz, she merely walked around the room with slow, even strides, while I glided around and around her. On the fast, hot jazz numbers we both danced like mad—and I mean mad. Except for a break when I put on a new stack of records, we danced for nearly an hour, and I was the exhausted one. I was impressed with her stamina, and mad or not, it was delightful to dance with some one. I never had the nerve to show any girl—or male—my dancing. Not even Flo. I suppose this was partly modesty, plus the fact that I hate to make a spectacle of myself and my dancing was my own, meant to please only myself. And now I had a dance partner, a silent one, whose dance interpretations were also strictly her own. Lee danced with no special expression on her face, and I could never tell if she was enjoying it or considered it all a form of exercise. I suppose the fact that I danced before her was an acceptance on my part that she was backward—her opinions didn't matter. Whatever the reasoning, I was happy to have her dance with me.
When we went upstairs she headed directly for bed—wet with sweat. Like taking a kid's hand, I had to lead her to the bathroom, put her under the shower. When I turned on the sun-lamp, motioned for her to lie under it as we dried off, she shook her head violently, ran to the bedroom. I turned off the lamp and found her cowering under the sheets. “What's the matter?” I asked.
She merely turned her back to me, fear on her face.
When I got into bed, she turned so she was facing me. She lay there for a while, to see if I wanted her then, like an animal, turned over and fell sound asleep.
I was pleasantly tired and as I went into the luxurious state of contentment we call “dozing off,” I lazily wondered what Lee's mental age was, where in God's name Hank had found her, and why he had ever married her. I knew I was letting myself in for something, that I should get out from under now, fast... but I could only think how clever I was, getting Lee as a bed and dancing partner, and all on the cuff—her cuff.
I awoke at seven, feeling very rested. Lee had a sheet carelessly over her, was staring at the ceiling again. I showered and shaved. As I dressed I told her to clean up the house, that there was sufficient food in the refrigerator for supper and she might make an attempt at cooking... and while I was talking she closed her eyes and went to sleep!
As I walked to the newsstand for my paper, I met Mr. Henderson coming back with his papers. I asked him what he was doing up so early and he said, “Too muggy to sleep. George, you know I'm not a busybody, but this is really troubling me. Is there a woman in your place?”
“I don't see what business....”
He put a wrinkled hand on my arm. “Come George, you know I don't mean it that way. It's merely... well, like the man downstairs, in the old joke, who's waiting for the other shoe to drop... you know how I like watching the street from my window. I saw you come in with her, but I'll be damned if she's left.”
I laughed. “To ease your mind, she's still there. Keeps to the house, shy type.”
“A remarkable girl, strapping... eh... piece. This will be in the nature of a great surprise to Flo.”
“I imagine it will. Truth is I haven't thought much about Flo's reactions. Well, have to be on my way to the office.”
“Poker this Saturday? Haven't had a game in some time—I miss Joe's money.”
“Maybe. I'll see what Joe says,” I said, waving and walking on.
There was a horse in the seventh race called Hill Gal, and since I was convinced Lee was from some wide-spot in the road, I played the nag across the board. It was a wrong hunch—the horse ran out of the money. I skipped my pre-supper cocktail and when I came home at about six, I found Lee sitting in a chair—in the nude-r-staring at the rug as if in deep thought—or in a trance. The bed was unmade and judging from the kitchen, she had eaten some milk and cake during the day. Slob was back in the house, sitting on the rug not far from Lee, watching her.
At lunch-time I'd drawn some money from “her” account. I'd meant to take out only the fifty dollars I'd promised her, but took out a hundred. I decided then and there that I'd dip into the money whenever I felt like it. Of course I rationalized things by calling it “our” money. I gave her five tens and counted the money slowly, didn't say a word. I told her, “Why don't you get dressed? It doesn't look right... sitting around like this.”
She didn't answer me and I got her dress and threw it at her, then went into the kitchen and made a simple supper. When it was ready, I called her, and she came in, the dress on. She didn't have the money in her hands, and since the dress had no pockets and she hadn't moved from the chair, I wondered what she had done with the five tens, but I didn't ask her. We ate in silence, smoked several cigarettes, and the only interest she showed was when I got out my pipe and my blending bowl, mixed some tobacco. She ran her fingers through the tobacco in the open cans, said, “Plenty tabek.”
Cigarettes, tobacco, seemed to be a big deal in her life. Lighting my pipe, I washed the dishes, gave her a towel, and she dried. She moved very slowly, mechanically, and I took another towel and we finished the few dishes.
I turned on the radio and she sat on the couch, lost in thought or whatever strange world she was lost in. I read my Times, then finished the evening paper, thought about my horses for the morning, and finally—at eleven—we went to bed.
A quiet and peaceful evening in the new life of George Jackson.
I was becoming tired of my own cooking and the next afternoon I stopped at the cleaners, took out her dresses and things. When I came home she was in bed, but smiled when I hung up her clothes in my closet. I ran her bath, practically guided her into the tub, made her comb her hair. I actually rouged her lips, then picked out a dress and underthings, and watched as she dressed. I said, “You ought to go to a beauty parlor. There's one around the corner on Lexington Avenue. Shall I make an appointment for you?”
She didn't answer.
Dressed, she looked passable enough to get by in a restaurant. I went to the Campfire Inn on the corner, and we both had a heavy Hungarian meal... in silence. I ordered for both of us, and Lee seemed to enjoy the meal, although she enjoyed anything she could eat. We walked up Lexington Avenue and when we passed a beauty parlor I asked, “Would you like to go in and make an appointment for your hair and nails?”