Page 73 of Good Days Bad Days
“I’d like to talk to you,” I say, raising my finger and swaying enough to show I’ve been drinking.
“I’d love to hear your thoughts.” Hollinger steps up, clearly sensing my aggression. Mark moves in defensively to keep us from getting too close. “Outside?” He raises his eyebrows in a challenge, like we’re going to meet with pistols at dawn in the OK Corral.
Damn, it’d be fantastic to slam a fist against his smug face. Will I get fired? It’s likely. But so what? Why should I stay here and watch a woman I love sign on for a life with a man I’ve come to abhor?
“I don’t think that’s a great idea—” Mark interjects, but Hollinger cuts him off.
“This is between me and Greg, isn’t that right, Tin Man?” His eyes lock on mine, and I read the truth in the steadiness of his stare. He knows I know. Maybe she told him or maybe he just guessed, but he knows. He’s probably wanted to get me under control for a while now. He’s setting me up to make a fool of myself. I should calm down, listen to Mark’s advice, but I don’t know how to stop now. I don’t want to stop.
“Don’t call me that,” I answer, the room spinning when I take my first step. My feet are burdensome, as if my shoes are filled with gravel or lead. Mark tosses his hands up and leans against the back of oneof the gold-leaf ballroom chairs with an unlit cigarette between his lips, giving up on an intervention. I follow Hollinger toward the exit, every step demanding intense concentration to keep me walking in a straight line.
Just short of the broad set of double doors that lead to the lobby, a soft, familiar hand takes mine and yanks me back.
“Ask me to dance,” Betty demands as I stop and stare down at her. Her brow is slick with sweat, and the thick foundation on her face accentuates its lines. The blue eyeshadow on her eyelids is creased and fading, and the cord-like vein in her neck pulses rapidly. “Ask me. Right now.”
“I ... I can’t,” I say, watching Hollinger disappear out of the room. She crushes my hand and speaks through gritted teeth.
“Ask me to dance, Greg.” Her eyebrows crunch together, and the corners of her wide blue eyes pinch.
It’s not a request or even an order—it’s a plea.
Hollinger is gone. I’m sure he’ll come looking for me once he realizes I’m not following him. But with Betty in front of me, the haze of hatred begins to lift. I clear my throat and focus on the dreamlike sensation of her hand on mine. The sound of “Groove Me” rolls through the banquet hall from the ballroom like it’s carried on a crisp, clean breeze.
“Would you like to dance?” I ask.
“I would love to,” she says as relief smooths the lines on her face.
It’s much easier to follow Betty to the ballroom than to follow her fiancé to the exit. We make it to the wooden dance floor just as the playful rhythm of King Floyd shifts to a slower tempo, accompanied by the rich baritone of Elvis. I expect Betty to change her mind now that couples have begun to sway. Instead, she positions herself in front of me, placing my right hand on her waist and my left hand in hers, while her other hand rests on my bicep since she can’t reach my shoulder. Even with her heels on, her head barely reaches my chest. To speak, she would need to crane her neck, and I’d have to hunch over to hear her.
So, we don’t speak.
We dance to the King singing “The Wonder of You.” With Betty in my arms, my feet suddenly know what to do. We step and turn in slow unison without words. I cherish having her safely against me, and the scent of her perfume acts as smelling salts, bringing me to near sobriety. Barry Montague stands to the side of the crowd and raises a glass in a sort of hello, and I nod back.
Mark isn’t dancing. He isn’t even talking to Nicole Davenport or any of the pretty women here. He’s watching me and Betty with a look of bafflement, sucking on his cigarette and blowing large clouds of smoke into the upper atmosphere of the room. I can’t guess what he’s thinking, but I’m sure he’ll have a few words for me later, or more than a few based on his stormy demeanor.
As the song repeats its chorus for one final time, I’m nearly dizzy from our turns about the room, the greens, golds, oranges, silks, polyesters, and brocades melding into a surreal tapestry. Betty finally speaks.
“You promised you wouldn’t say anything,” she whispers, leaning in so her entire body is pressed against me. I take her in and spread my palm against the small of her back where her skin peeks over the zippered closure, holding her tightly.
“I know, but he’s a sadist. And just so ...” I search for the right term, the one that represents how brazen Hollinger comes off. “Unrepentant.” My molars clench together as I imagine him handing her the keys of a new car when the only reason she needed one was because of him.
She sighs and nods without attempting to defend her fiancé. “I know you must judge me, and I don’t blame you.”
“I’m not judging.” It’s not the time to spill my feelings for her. It’s likely I’ll never speak those words out loud—they’re a private, bittersweet secret that only a fool like me would understand. I find the next best explanation. “I’m worried about you.”
“I know, but I’m all right. I’m ...” She looks up at me as the song fades to an end and a new one begins. “I’m happy.”
She smiles, that big, beautiful smile she shines into the camera every day as she talks to her viewers. It’s a shield so well fortified that I’m certain most who see it believe it. I don’t. I haven’t for some time now, but does the truth matter at this point?
“Well then, I’m happy for you,” I say, releasing her and sliding backward. A rush of air flows in like a river, dividing us. My palm still tingles, and I’m chilled without her warmth. But it’s time. It’s been time. “And I’ll keep my mouth shut. I promise.”
“Thank you,” she says, her voice thin and unsteady. She starts to say something else, but the music has changed to a disco song and the floor is now filled with gyrating bodies and flailing arms that encroach on our quiet conversation. She fades into the crowd, and I think she says goodbye, but I don’t really want to hear it.
“You still up for a burger?” I ask Mark when I free myself from the dancing mob. He’s leaning against the side wall watching the dancers, sipping on a cup of coffee. I can’t stay here, but I’m not ready to go home, not ready to be alone with my drunken thoughts, my ridiculous, aching heart.
He gives me a searing look like he’d like to take me in the alley himself. I hold up my hands in surrender. “And a beer. On me.”
“You’re an idiot,” he says, placing the mug on a nearby decorative table and straightening his suit coat.
