The Devil's Dance Read online

  For now.

  Tigre fumbled as he scratched away the little gray blocks with the slow, deliberate moves. Once he’d scratched them all away he frowned. “Did I win?” He handed the ticket to me, a loopy grin stretched across his face.

  I checked. “Good news and bad news. You did win.”

  “Yes!” He fist-pumped and nearly fell over his plastic Payless sneakers.

  “Twenty dollars. Not the jackpot.” I handed the ticket back to him and he stumbled away and cheered. My heart hitched a little. I really needed that twenty bucks but it was a small investment for goodwill.

  “Maybe next time, Rubia,” he called over his shoulder. Rubia. Blondie. That had been my name for the past year no matter where I moved. I was glad I was leaving this hellhole for a more familiar one. Any day now, I expected Tigre’s homies to start greeting me expecting free scratch-offs or more. This place grew scarier by the week, but my next step was living with the village of homeless people who camped on the banks of the Trinity River. By night they got wasted and by day they wandered the hospital district and begged for cash.

  I’d tried getting government assistance, but the second anyone found out I had a college degree, they referred me back to Unemployment and insinuated I needed to get a job and leave the food stamps and government housing to the truly needy. After enough of the shame treatment I vowed I wouldn’t return. What I didn’t understand is how Cunningham’s blackballing could even extend to cash and off the books work. I was pretty handy with computers and not too proud to push a mower. I’d been hired more than a few times for all kinds of odd jobs, but never lasted more than a day before I was told I was no longer needed. Never an explanation for why.

  If Heather hadn’t agreed for me to come home, I don’t know what I’d have done since I did have a moral line that excluded drug dealing, prostitution or ever again dancing on a corner wearing a gorilla suit in August to advertise a sub shop.

  Tigre had melded with his group of friends saying something in Spanish about buying a dime bag. Funny how living here had improved my appreciation for Reggaeton and Mexican rap, as well as my language skills. Most of the time I played dumb. Best for them to think I was some gringa stupida.

  The air outside was scorching and muggy, like trying to breathe through a wet gym sock. Casa Linda smelled of asphalt and cheap cigarettes mixed with the heady aroma of homegrown marijuana and homemade tamales. I locked my car, even though the local hoods had stolen anything they could pry free, including my factory radio. I was at least grateful my car still had wheels, so I tried not to complain too much. Bags in hand, I headed toward my neighbor Ida’s apartment. Though I had my own unit, there was safety in numbers and I enjoyed company. As I walked, I made it a point to check the balconies and landings overhead. Small filthy kids in ill-fitted clothing hung off the railings of an above unit, likely locked on the patio to play while their mom and some deadbeat boyfriend smoked crack and watched porn. Looking up was important. Situational awareness was key when you lived in a place like Casa Linda, which was why I was more than a little ticked with myself that I’d allowed Tigre to sneak up on me.

  And then there was that strange apartment. Something about that window.

  I’d never seen anyone coming or going and, had the blinds not moved, I might have even assumed the place was vacant. Those blinds always seemed to move when I came or left. Not much, but enough. In fact, they moved so little it could be written off as a trick of shadow or one’s imagination. Or was it just me being paranoid? Of course, that posited the eternal question. Was I paranoid if people really were out to get me?

  I passed my apartment and continued toward Ida Metzger’s. Yet, as I neared unit 105, I noted a funny smell, like burning cotton candy. Fumbling to unlock the door while still holding the groceries, I pushed inside. My eighty-year-old neighbor sat on the pink floral sofa watching some televangelist, oblivious to the thin veil of smoke fogging the apartment.

  “Oh, hello. Are you with the church?” she asked and offered a denture-filled smile. Her eyes had that emptiness that heralded the onset of dementia.

  “No, Ida, it’s me, Romi,” I said, setting the bags on the floor.

  She slapped her hands on her lap. “Of course. Romi.” She cocked her head. “Why are you here?” She wore a fancy blue dressing gown and her hair was a bleach blonde, poufy helmet. The church ladies must have taken her to the beauty parlor for a wash and set. Ida reminded me of a miniature Betty White. I half expected her to tell me a story of St. Olaf.

  “Making dinner,” I said as I half-ran to the kitchen. “Though seems you already started.” I stared in disbelief at the blackened square in a cast iron frying pan. Swooping the pan off the burner, I doused it in water. Sickly sweet smoke bloomed in a cloud around me, making the smoke alarms scream. I rushed to open the sliding glass door and used a kitchen towel to fan the smoke outside before my ears began to bleed from the wail of the alarms.

  Ida fetched another towel and shuffled over to help and yelled over the alarms. “Oh, I’m sorry. I put on a bite to eat and then started watching Pastor Bob. I so love Pastor Bob, don’t you?” She wrung her knotted hands in the towel, her eyes downcast as if waiting for a scolding. “I only sat down for a minute,” she apologized over the electronic blare.

  I pecked a kiss on the top of her head, noting the familiar smell of Glycerin Rosewater and Chantilly Lace. “I do it all the time. No worries,” I shouted over the wail of the smoke alarms. After a few minutes, they finally shut off, leaving my ears ringing and my head splitting. I was able to close the sliding door before I let out all of her AC. When I squeezed into the tiny kitchen, I realized she’d been pan-frying a Pop Tart. “When’s your son coming by?” I asked.

  “My son? Oh, I don’t have a son.” She shuffled back to the sofa, changed the channel then began flipping through an issue of The Star. “I love Kate Middleton. She’s such a lady, unlike that hussy Camilla. Of course, Charles was ugly as homemade sin.” She licked the tip of her finger and flipped the page. “Always felt sorry for Diana for having to have sex with that man.”

  “She sure had pretty boys, though,” I added. “Like your boy, Ed.”

  She shook her head, her eyes empty. “No, no sons for me. Never had any children.”

  I found it funny that Ida could remember all the gossip about the royal family from a half a lifetime ago, but she never could remember her own son.

  “Sure, you do. Ed,” I pressed. “Little Ed. Named after your husband?” I unloaded the groceries. We were having spaghetti for dinner, because pasta was cheap and so simple I could cook it. How was I going to tell Ida I was moving? I needed to talk to her son, get Ida proper care before I left.

  “Oh, yes, Ed.” She grinned. “I was kidding. I knew who you meant. He did always look so much like his father.” She flipped through pages of celebrities with cellulite and bad boob jobs as I scrubbed the scorched pan. Though Ida was older than water, her house was always neat as a pin, a sanctuary in this place. Her furniture was antique, and still in pristine condition. The Queen Anne chairs were decorated with needlepointed pillows Ida made herself, the end tables dotted with intricate doilies she’d crocheted back before the arthritis stole her favorite hobbies. Gilded-framed oil paintings probably purchased at one of those ‘Starving Artist Sales’ hung on all the age-faded walls. Though the paintings were cheap and mass-produced, it made this place feel like a home, which was a lot of why I loved being here.

  Casa Linda had been a high-end apartment in the seventies when Ida and her family moved in. Then drugs, pain and sadness had closed in around her and she was stuck, living off Social Security and generosity from a nearby church. Her son helped as well, but according to gossip, Ed was as shady as the other characters that ran Casa Linda. Ed was a member of a motorcycle gang and a bouncer at some rough biker bar in the North Side. Though I liked Ed a lot, if the scuttle was true, I didn’t blame Ida for wanting to forget she was a mother. But then again, I never took much stock
in idle talk from busybodies with enough free time to toss strangers under the bus.

  I placed a large pot of salted water on to boil the pasta as I sliced some chicken. A nice going-away meal, though I doubted Ida would miss me. Would she even remember me? I supposed it didn’t matter. The point was we didn’t have to be alone. We’d watch our favorite movie, Breakfast at Tiffany’s every night after dinner. Every evening almost the same. I’d wait until she was asleep, tuck her in, lock up, and then slip back to my apartment and my sleeping bag.

  I washed some lemons and used Ida’s lemon zester to shave off enough citrus peel to give the sauce some kick, and then pan-fried the chicken. We ate together at her tiny table and I had to make myself slow down I was so hungry. There wasn’t always enough for both of us, so I’d claim I was on a diet then, when she wasn’t looking, chew on pieces of paper napkins to keep the hunger pains away.

  A relentless pounding of hip-hop music in the parking lot made all the framed pictures on Ida’s wall quiver. Ida was too deaf to notice it, but I missed the days of living in Turtle Creek, the insulated silence only the very wealthy could afford. This place was never quiet, ever. I wondered if the unrelenting noise was part of what made people here angry or crazy.

  I tried not to think of my former life, my gorgeous high-rise apartment with a view that stretched on forever. On clear nights, I could see Fort Worth sparkling on the horizon from my sprawling patio with custom furniture. I’d sit with a bottle of fine wine and my laptop, oh so proud of myself that I’d finally escaped.

  Pride comes before the fall.

  “How did your job search go today?” Ida asked, her palsied hand trembling as she scooped a fork of pasta into her mouth unsuccessfully. The clouds had parted from her mind and she was back. A few noodles dropped onto her blue gown. She dabbed at them with a napkin and clucked her tongue.

  “Won’t know,” I replied through a mouthful of pasta, buoyed by her moment of clarity. “You know the drill. Apply, wait, then wait some more.” I handed her a fresh napkin.

  She laughed and wiped her lips. “No, in my day, women didn’t work. Women stayed home and tended the children. Though I never had any babies. Life could be very boring.” She sighed, wistful.

  Okay. So much for full lucidity.

  She pecked at her food like a tiny bird. “I always wanted to be a scientist. I loved Chemistry, but that wasn’t proper for ladies.”

  “Proper?” I knew times had changed over the decades, but often didn’t appreciate how much.

  She scowled. “My husband would’ve never stood for it. Oh well. Dick was a wonderful husband, and then I had Princess, my poodle. I miss her. But I have you,” she said and patted my hand.

  “Thanks. You make my world a lot better,” I said.

  “I love you, Romi. And Jesus loves you, too.” She smiled in that dreamy way that made me adore her more.

  I rubbed the tense muscles at the back of my head to get some relief from the headache that felt like someone was trying to split my head with the blunt side of an ax. “After all the bad stuff that’s happened, I’m beginning to think I’ve done something to get on The Big Guy’s Bad List.” I pushed my noodles around my plate.

  “Oh, no, honey. Jesus isn’t some celestial Santa Claus.” She dabbed her lips again with her napkin, her gestures all proper and dainty. “You’re not on some Naughty List. You’re in the wilderness.”

  “The what?”

  “God trains all his best soldiers in the wilderness—David, Moses, Joshua, even Jesus. Makes you strong for the battle ahead.”

  “Ahead? Kinda feel like I’m in it now.” I continued to focus on my pasta instead of Ida.

  She clasped my hand and stared at me. Her eyes were different. Sharp. As if she could peer deep inside me. “No, Romi. The storm’s brewing, but it’s not here. Soon.” Her expression turned grim, and the ghost of an ice cube trickled down my spine.

  “Are you going to start speaking in tongues?” I asked. Her odd behavior was beginning to freak me out. I made a mental note to tell Ed he might want to limit how much Daystar she watched.

  She clutched my hand with frightening strength. “God uses the weak and the foolish to confound the wise. This wilderness is for a purpose. Trust that.”

  “Not like I have a lot of choice,” I muttered and extracted my hand. What was all this storm talk? Too many tabloids and televangelists was all I could figure. And on top of that, I was a little uncertain how I felt about being labeled weak and foolish. Granted, it fit, but no need to give me a paper cut then pour salt in it.

  Ida’s gaze drifted to the TV. Some celebrity gossip show chattered in the background. Her eyes softened. “I love that Kate Middleton, don’t you? She’s very classy, like Diana was. I always felt sorry for her that she had to have sex with Charles. Homely and a cheater.”

  Normal Ida was back and Creepy Ida was gone. I wondered what all the effects her medications were having on her and why she seemed fixated on the love life of Diana and Charles.

  She rose from her seat and rinsed her dish. “That was delicious. I need to make sure to save some for Dick. He’s always hungry when he gets home.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said and came up behind her. “Go enjoy some TV. I can tend this.”

  “Oh, all right.” She stared at me, clouds drifting across her eyes once more. “Are you from the church?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.” She grinned. “I so love company. My husband is gone so much. It gets lonely around here.”

  That it does. I wondered why she never mentioned Ed and she kept saying her husband’s name was Dick. Had she been married multiple times and the years were just muddled together? There were old photos of a young boy on the wall, but no pictures of men unless one counted Jesus.

  Her strange prophesy at the table had weirded the hell out of me, but what else could one expect when she spent the entire day listening to pastors screaming about End Times and demonic principalities? After Cunningham quoting scripture and Ida’s spooky speech, I’d had enough Bible talk to last me for good. I needed a job, but was pretty sure spiritual warfare was beyond the scope of my résumé.

  Ida returned to her magazine on the sofa, some article about mutated spiders carrying Ebola into the subways of New York City. I slipped in the VCR tape of Breakfast at Tiffany’s then snuck off to Ida’s cramped hallway for the black rotary phone perched on a special wall nook, an olive-green velveteen chair nearby. I dialed Ed’s number, but his cell went straight to voicemail.

  “Hey, it’s Romi,” I said. “Your mom’s not doing too great and, I hate to tell you this, but…” I twirled the thick cord around my fingers and bit my lip. Finally, I managed, “I have to leave. Moving out in the morning. I hope you get this message. Please tell the church ladies. Maybe see if some volunteers can come watch her. Walked in on her nearly burning down the place. Call me. Please.”

  When I hung up, I noted the rumble of hip-hop seemed to have drifted farther away. I guessed the party was no longer in the parking lot. Instead, I heard the symphonic opening to the Turner Classic Movie, the soothing lull of Moon River, the only song with the power to calm me in the mouth of the madness. I paused for a moment, watched Audrey Hepburn sip her coffee and stare in the window at all the beautiful things locked behind a wall of glass and out of reach.

  Though she looked like a million bucks, she was just a pretender, a fake trying to be real.

  I’d never seen this movie before Ida, but now I could recite every line by heart. It was our thing, our special routine. Though I needed to pack, I figured it could wait until Ida was asleep. To me, it seemed a better use of time to spend one more evening with my only two friends, Ida Metzger and Holly Golightly. I knew I’d miss Ida, and after what Cunningham said, I had no idea if I’d ever be able to return. Would we ever sit together and sing Moon River again? The thought I might not see Ida again made my chest hurt, which was strange since she probably wouldn’t even know I was gone. />
  Ida settled down into the soft nest of crocheted blankets. Even though it was summer, Ida was perpetually cold. Of course, if she weighed eighty pounds I’d be surprised. When I came around the corner, Ida smiled. “Hello. Are you from the church?”

  “Yes, Ms. Ida,” I said and fluffed her pillows to make her comfortable. I was tired and didn’t have the energy to remind her who I was. In the end, what did it matter?

  “Do you like Breakfast at Tiffany’s ?” she asked and I nodded.

  “My husband looked just like Paul Varjack when we met. How he loved to go dancing, but I always had two left feet. Dick will be home soon. Have you met him?” she asked.

  “No, not yet.”

  “Oh, so typical. Gearhart always keeps him late, but that’s how you get the promotions. Work hard and it pays off.” She winked.

  I stifled a bitter reply. I’d worked hard, harder than anyone, and yet here I was. I prayed there was some bigger plan, some reason for all of this, that God wasn’t sitting up there enjoying me wriggle, punishing me for sins I’d forgotten.

  Ida propped her feet on a small ottoman and turned the TV up louder, unaware that Gearhart Industries was as dead as her husband and for about as long.

  “Let me finish the kitchen,” I said and looped on an apron as I headed to clean up the mess and put away the uneaten pasta. I made sure to search Ida’s refrigerator for anything spoiled and toss it. Her taste buds weren’t the most reliable. One time she’d fixed me a sandwich with spoiled roast beef. Last week, I stopped her from making dinner with rotten shrimp she’d bought off some guy selling ‘fresh’ seafood out of the back of a van. Ida needed to be in a nursing home, and I hated that. Hated her warehoused away waiting to die, not understanding why she couldn’t go home, why Princess’s bed was missing. There were worse things than death.