Taos, Chapter 3 -- PG-13
Posted: Wed May 13, 2015 5:00 pm
Returning again to the early 1950's, and a memorable summer vacation...
Taos
Chapter 3
The Dance
Rob pulled up in front of the building, braking just hard enough to send a light spray of gravel flying out behind the big convertible. As he came around the car to open Sarah’s door, he remarked, “It’s not much, but perhaps it will do for one night.”
Sarah slipped off the scarf that had been protecting her hairdo, tucking it inside the small beaded evening clutch she carried. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I think it’s charming.”
From the back seat, Betty laughed. “Yes, we’re very quaint here,” she said. “On the other hand, it’s home.”
“Pipe down, Buster,” Rob growled. Betty stuck her tongue out at him, and made her own way unassisted out of the backseat.
Someone had made an effort to make the Taos Community Hall festive for the occasion. The walkway leading to the entrance had been lined with glowing luminarias. As Rob explained to Sarah, the paper bags, weighted with sand and containing a small, lighted candle, were usually used as Christmas decorations, but could be employed any time there was a fiesta—or a dance.
As they made their way between the rows of luminarias to the door, Sarah slipped a little on the loose pebbles, though Rob managed to catch her by her elbow before the mishap turned into a twisted ankle.
“Thanks,” Sarah said, shakily. “I guess these heels aren’t meant for gravel.” Thinking about it, she wondered if perhaps her entire ensemble was a little out of place. New York chic and Southwest Adobe weren’t really meant to go together. Take the little beaded clutch, for example. It contained exactly what her mother had always told her to carry. The compact, the lipstick, and in a little unobtrusive zippered pocket, the minimum acceptable amount of “mad” money mandated by her parents: a 20, a 10, 5 ones, three quarters, and five nickels. Not to mention a copy of her father’s business card, with phone numbers on the back for his lawyer’s office, his lawyer’s home, and three reliable New York cab companies—none of which would do her much good here.
As they entered the hall, Sarah looked around, curious. Inside as well as outside, someone had made an effort to decorate, although clearly with limited resources. Crêpe paper streamers in bright, cheerful colors festooned the high ceiling, caught up here and there with bunches of balloons, and disguised the folded bleachers and basketball goals. The edges of the floor were dotted with folding chairs and tables made more elegant with the addition of dark red paper tablecloths. A candle in a glass holder on each table added to the ambience, although Sarah wondered a little about the possibility of fire breaking out. In one corner, three older women in calico print dresses sat knitting, keeping an eye on the throng. On a low stage at one end of the room, a volunteer disc jockey was busy setting up his record player, checking the wires that led out to a pair of speakers that had seen better days. The table that held the record player groaned under the weight of three stacks of record albums. Not the new 33 1/3 LPs, she noticed, but the older 78s, that came in those books that resembled photo albums. Sarah was guessing the music was not going to be the latest thing off the hit parade.
They were not, by any means, the first to arrive. Little knots of people clustered here and there. Men, mostly in starched and pressed jeans, their shirts crisp and colorful, gathered, casting glances at the young women who giggled and flirted in return. While most of the crowd was young, there were a good many older couples, obviously enjoying the prospect of a night out. A few couples had taken seats at tables, and men sat with proprietary arms over the shoulders of their dates.
At the opposite end of the big room, a long table held a punch bowl and a wide variety of snacks and desserts. The table, and particularly the punch bowl, were guarded by a trio of dragonish matrons. Even as Sarah watched, four young men made a valiant attempt to distract the guardians, and Sarah caught the flash of a bottle in one boy’s hand.
Rob looked at her, then followed the direction of her gaze, laughing. “It’s a game,” he said. “Sooner or later that punch will get spiked, but it will take some doing.”
“So I see.”
“If they’d have bribed the old ladies with a swig, they’d probably do a lot better.”
“That would take all the fun out of it, though, wouldn’t it?”
Rob laughed again. “I guess you could look at it that way.”
Rob waved to a group at one of the tables, calling out to greet his friends. He urged Sarah and Betty in that direction, pulling out the chair for Sarah before seating his sister. The two couples at the table, Sarah noticed, were a little better dressed, a little more prosperous-looking, than some of those standing around the edges of the dance floor.
“Sarah, my friends Nick and Christina Andreadis,” Rob said, indicating a handsome, dark haired man who flashed her a blindingly white smile, and the bored blonde sitting next to him. “And Frank and Leslie Hope.” The Hopes looked a little more, well, weathered, Sarah thought. A little more casually dressed. Leslie was wearing local silver and turquoise jewelry, and her tan shirtwaist dress looked appropriate for a summer barbeque.
“You must be Betty’s college friend,” Leslie commented. “How are you finding Taos?”
“It’s very beautiful here,” Sarah answered. “New Mexico is quite a revelation for a New York City girl.”
“Oh, yes,” Christina chimed in, a bored sneer in her voice. “Vast emptiness in all directions.” She cast a quick look at her husband. “Fortunately, there are means of escape.”
Sarah was sure she hadn’t imagined the tightening of Nick’s lips at that remark, or the flash of anger in his eyes.
“Some people,” he said, “find the desert more enjoyable than others.” He laid his hand on top of Christina’s, casually, but Sarah could see he’d tightened his fingers over his wife’s.
Christina opened her mouth, as though to comment further, then suddenly changed her mind and laughed, instead. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’m at least two drinks behind.” And she reached for her glass, taking a long sip before giving her handsome husband a sweetly venomous look.
About that time, the DJ started playing a new record, and Rob held out a hand to invite Sarah to dance. The music was a little dated, possibly in deference to the scattering of older couples, but Sarah had always enjoyed some of the slower, more decorous dances. As they swung around the floor, she saw Mr. and Mrs. Wells come in. They were obviously popular in the community, and stopped to greet many friends and acquaintances along the way. Sarah sighed, wistful. Back in New York, dances were either only for the young—and she’d been to precious few of those, as her father didn’t approve—or else what she’d come to regard as backdrops for games of power and prestige. She particularly hated the debutante cotillions she’d been forced to attend, each white ball gown a little more elaborate, a little more uncomfortable. And the boys all in their formal wear, looking as though their bowties were about to choke them. She realized she had very little experience with dances that were supposed to be fun.
“Your friends seem nice,” Sarah said, as Rob guided her expertly through the dance.
“I’ve known Nick and Leslie and Frank since we were kids,” he replied. “They’re all from around here.”
“And Christina?”
“She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?” he replied. “Nick met her when we were in Cambridge. She thought a Harvard man whose father owned a ranch would be a good catch for a Boston debutante. Apparently, the idea that they’d be living on the ranch never really occurred to her.”
Sarah nodded. “I know the type.”
The evening passed pleasantly, one dance following another with occasional breaks for punch and cake. The bowl on the refreshment table reserved for contributions was slowly filling with quarters, and even a few dollar bills. Sarah danced with Rob, and with several of his friends, all sons of local ranchers and businessmen. She even took a turn around the floor with Mr. Wells, who surprised her with a lively foxtrot.
As the night wore on, Sarah’s initial impression of the event as some sort of bucolic utopia was overcome by a more troubling observation. There seemed to be two separate dances going on. On one side of the dance floor, the Wellses and their peers were enjoying a delightful evening among friends, everything very calm and refined. But there was a whole other group, a little less nicely dressed, a little less sedate, dancing a little faster to the same music. Sarah found herself stealing glances across the way, to where that other group laughed so loudly and talked with such animation. She wished she had the gumption to walk over and just say hello. She wished one of those young men would ask her to dance.
&&&
Bing Crosby was crooning a slow song, one Sarah vaguely remembered hearing during the War. It made for a good dance. The evening was drawing on, and couples were ready to be closer. She sighed inwardly, and floated into a turn at the pressure of Rob’s hands.
She was reminded of the words of her dancing teacher, Mme. Deluzy. “Ballroom dance is the art of graceful submission to the lead. A woman dances the way she makes love – following the lead of the man, responding to his hands, to his movements.” She could still hear the outrageous French accent, and see the graceful gestures of the dancing teacher’s hands. Sarah had always thought it was nonsense, or, to use one of her father’s favorite terms, horseshit. But she’d learned, nonetheless. Learned to shut off thought and react only with muscle and bone. Mme. Deluzy had approved, although Sarah had often wondered if her father would approve of the dance mistress’s risqué comparisons.
A near miss with another couple brought her back to the present, and she looked up into the eyes of a darkly handsome young man wearing a starched plaid Western shirt with pearl snaps. He flashed a quick smile at her, his white teeth dazzling, and she couldn’t help but smile back before Rob turned her away into the crowd. If Rob glanced down and caught the edge of that smile lingering, he attributed it to his own skill at dancing.
The music died away, and Rob led Sarah back to the table. The others had vanished, and he excused himself to go out for a smoke, promising to return soon. She was alone when she sensed someone standing nearby, waiting for her attention.
“May I have this dance?” It was the young man who had smiled at her, holding out his hand in invitation.
Sarah put her hand in the proffered one, and rose. “Yes,” she said, “I believe you may.”
He was as good a dancer as Rob, perhaps better, she thought. Or maybe they were simply more attuned to one another, somehow.
“You know,” Sarah commented, on their third circuit of the dance floor, “we really should be introduced.”
“Well, my name is Jim. What’s yours?”
Sarah laughed. “Sarah. Somehow, I thought you’d be named, I don’t know, Ramon, or Raul, or – Esteban.”
Jim’s lips curved into an attractive smile. “Ah. You should meet my older brothers, Hernando and Luis, then. I think my parents ran out of exotic names before I came along,” he said, and then his smile widened. “Ready?”
She nodded, and he sent her into an expert twirl, as she laughed with delight.
But when Jim pulled her close again, they were confronted by a grim-faced Rob. He tapped Jim on the shoulder. “Cutting in, beaner,” he growled through clenched teeth.
“I knew it was too good to last,” Jim said to Sarah. “I enjoyed it, and I apologize.”
Before she could ask, “For what?” he had released her and shifted in one smooth move to swing a roundhouse punch at Rob’s face.
Rob reeled from the unexpected blow, but came roaring back, ready to brawl, only to be stopped short by Sarah.
She was standing firm between the two men, eyes blazing. She shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said.
“Get out of the way!” Rob snarled, raising his doubled fists.
“I don’t think so,” Sarah repeated.
He glared at her with impotent fury for a long moment, but his fists gradually lowered. Looking past her shoulder at Jim, who stood poised in wary readiness, he said, “Fine. It’s time we headed home anyway. It’s getting a little…ripe, in here.”
“I’ll get Betty,” said Sarah.
“She can ride back with Mom and Dad.”
Sarah set her mouth in a firm line. She didn’t fancy being alone with Rob on the long drive back to the ranch. “Betty can decide that.” Turning to Jim, she said very clearly, “Thank you so much for the dance.”
Taos
Chapter 3
The Dance
Rob pulled up in front of the building, braking just hard enough to send a light spray of gravel flying out behind the big convertible. As he came around the car to open Sarah’s door, he remarked, “It’s not much, but perhaps it will do for one night.”
Sarah slipped off the scarf that had been protecting her hairdo, tucking it inside the small beaded evening clutch she carried. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I think it’s charming.”
From the back seat, Betty laughed. “Yes, we’re very quaint here,” she said. “On the other hand, it’s home.”
“Pipe down, Buster,” Rob growled. Betty stuck her tongue out at him, and made her own way unassisted out of the backseat.
Someone had made an effort to make the Taos Community Hall festive for the occasion. The walkway leading to the entrance had been lined with glowing luminarias. As Rob explained to Sarah, the paper bags, weighted with sand and containing a small, lighted candle, were usually used as Christmas decorations, but could be employed any time there was a fiesta—or a dance.
As they made their way between the rows of luminarias to the door, Sarah slipped a little on the loose pebbles, though Rob managed to catch her by her elbow before the mishap turned into a twisted ankle.
“Thanks,” Sarah said, shakily. “I guess these heels aren’t meant for gravel.” Thinking about it, she wondered if perhaps her entire ensemble was a little out of place. New York chic and Southwest Adobe weren’t really meant to go together. Take the little beaded clutch, for example. It contained exactly what her mother had always told her to carry. The compact, the lipstick, and in a little unobtrusive zippered pocket, the minimum acceptable amount of “mad” money mandated by her parents: a 20, a 10, 5 ones, three quarters, and five nickels. Not to mention a copy of her father’s business card, with phone numbers on the back for his lawyer’s office, his lawyer’s home, and three reliable New York cab companies—none of which would do her much good here.
As they entered the hall, Sarah looked around, curious. Inside as well as outside, someone had made an effort to decorate, although clearly with limited resources. Crêpe paper streamers in bright, cheerful colors festooned the high ceiling, caught up here and there with bunches of balloons, and disguised the folded bleachers and basketball goals. The edges of the floor were dotted with folding chairs and tables made more elegant with the addition of dark red paper tablecloths. A candle in a glass holder on each table added to the ambience, although Sarah wondered a little about the possibility of fire breaking out. In one corner, three older women in calico print dresses sat knitting, keeping an eye on the throng. On a low stage at one end of the room, a volunteer disc jockey was busy setting up his record player, checking the wires that led out to a pair of speakers that had seen better days. The table that held the record player groaned under the weight of three stacks of record albums. Not the new 33 1/3 LPs, she noticed, but the older 78s, that came in those books that resembled photo albums. Sarah was guessing the music was not going to be the latest thing off the hit parade.
They were not, by any means, the first to arrive. Little knots of people clustered here and there. Men, mostly in starched and pressed jeans, their shirts crisp and colorful, gathered, casting glances at the young women who giggled and flirted in return. While most of the crowd was young, there were a good many older couples, obviously enjoying the prospect of a night out. A few couples had taken seats at tables, and men sat with proprietary arms over the shoulders of their dates.
At the opposite end of the big room, a long table held a punch bowl and a wide variety of snacks and desserts. The table, and particularly the punch bowl, were guarded by a trio of dragonish matrons. Even as Sarah watched, four young men made a valiant attempt to distract the guardians, and Sarah caught the flash of a bottle in one boy’s hand.
Rob looked at her, then followed the direction of her gaze, laughing. “It’s a game,” he said. “Sooner or later that punch will get spiked, but it will take some doing.”
“So I see.”
“If they’d have bribed the old ladies with a swig, they’d probably do a lot better.”
“That would take all the fun out of it, though, wouldn’t it?”
Rob laughed again. “I guess you could look at it that way.”
Rob waved to a group at one of the tables, calling out to greet his friends. He urged Sarah and Betty in that direction, pulling out the chair for Sarah before seating his sister. The two couples at the table, Sarah noticed, were a little better dressed, a little more prosperous-looking, than some of those standing around the edges of the dance floor.
“Sarah, my friends Nick and Christina Andreadis,” Rob said, indicating a handsome, dark haired man who flashed her a blindingly white smile, and the bored blonde sitting next to him. “And Frank and Leslie Hope.” The Hopes looked a little more, well, weathered, Sarah thought. A little more casually dressed. Leslie was wearing local silver and turquoise jewelry, and her tan shirtwaist dress looked appropriate for a summer barbeque.
“You must be Betty’s college friend,” Leslie commented. “How are you finding Taos?”
“It’s very beautiful here,” Sarah answered. “New Mexico is quite a revelation for a New York City girl.”
“Oh, yes,” Christina chimed in, a bored sneer in her voice. “Vast emptiness in all directions.” She cast a quick look at her husband. “Fortunately, there are means of escape.”
Sarah was sure she hadn’t imagined the tightening of Nick’s lips at that remark, or the flash of anger in his eyes.
“Some people,” he said, “find the desert more enjoyable than others.” He laid his hand on top of Christina’s, casually, but Sarah could see he’d tightened his fingers over his wife’s.
Christina opened her mouth, as though to comment further, then suddenly changed her mind and laughed, instead. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’m at least two drinks behind.” And she reached for her glass, taking a long sip before giving her handsome husband a sweetly venomous look.
About that time, the DJ started playing a new record, and Rob held out a hand to invite Sarah to dance. The music was a little dated, possibly in deference to the scattering of older couples, but Sarah had always enjoyed some of the slower, more decorous dances. As they swung around the floor, she saw Mr. and Mrs. Wells come in. They were obviously popular in the community, and stopped to greet many friends and acquaintances along the way. Sarah sighed, wistful. Back in New York, dances were either only for the young—and she’d been to precious few of those, as her father didn’t approve—or else what she’d come to regard as backdrops for games of power and prestige. She particularly hated the debutante cotillions she’d been forced to attend, each white ball gown a little more elaborate, a little more uncomfortable. And the boys all in their formal wear, looking as though their bowties were about to choke them. She realized she had very little experience with dances that were supposed to be fun.
“Your friends seem nice,” Sarah said, as Rob guided her expertly through the dance.
“I’ve known Nick and Leslie and Frank since we were kids,” he replied. “They’re all from around here.”
“And Christina?”
“She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?” he replied. “Nick met her when we were in Cambridge. She thought a Harvard man whose father owned a ranch would be a good catch for a Boston debutante. Apparently, the idea that they’d be living on the ranch never really occurred to her.”
Sarah nodded. “I know the type.”
The evening passed pleasantly, one dance following another with occasional breaks for punch and cake. The bowl on the refreshment table reserved for contributions was slowly filling with quarters, and even a few dollar bills. Sarah danced with Rob, and with several of his friends, all sons of local ranchers and businessmen. She even took a turn around the floor with Mr. Wells, who surprised her with a lively foxtrot.
As the night wore on, Sarah’s initial impression of the event as some sort of bucolic utopia was overcome by a more troubling observation. There seemed to be two separate dances going on. On one side of the dance floor, the Wellses and their peers were enjoying a delightful evening among friends, everything very calm and refined. But there was a whole other group, a little less nicely dressed, a little less sedate, dancing a little faster to the same music. Sarah found herself stealing glances across the way, to where that other group laughed so loudly and talked with such animation. She wished she had the gumption to walk over and just say hello. She wished one of those young men would ask her to dance.
&&&
Bing Crosby was crooning a slow song, one Sarah vaguely remembered hearing during the War. It made for a good dance. The evening was drawing on, and couples were ready to be closer. She sighed inwardly, and floated into a turn at the pressure of Rob’s hands.
She was reminded of the words of her dancing teacher, Mme. Deluzy. “Ballroom dance is the art of graceful submission to the lead. A woman dances the way she makes love – following the lead of the man, responding to his hands, to his movements.” She could still hear the outrageous French accent, and see the graceful gestures of the dancing teacher’s hands. Sarah had always thought it was nonsense, or, to use one of her father’s favorite terms, horseshit. But she’d learned, nonetheless. Learned to shut off thought and react only with muscle and bone. Mme. Deluzy had approved, although Sarah had often wondered if her father would approve of the dance mistress’s risqué comparisons.
A near miss with another couple brought her back to the present, and she looked up into the eyes of a darkly handsome young man wearing a starched plaid Western shirt with pearl snaps. He flashed a quick smile at her, his white teeth dazzling, and she couldn’t help but smile back before Rob turned her away into the crowd. If Rob glanced down and caught the edge of that smile lingering, he attributed it to his own skill at dancing.
The music died away, and Rob led Sarah back to the table. The others had vanished, and he excused himself to go out for a smoke, promising to return soon. She was alone when she sensed someone standing nearby, waiting for her attention.
“May I have this dance?” It was the young man who had smiled at her, holding out his hand in invitation.
Sarah put her hand in the proffered one, and rose. “Yes,” she said, “I believe you may.”
He was as good a dancer as Rob, perhaps better, she thought. Or maybe they were simply more attuned to one another, somehow.
“You know,” Sarah commented, on their third circuit of the dance floor, “we really should be introduced.”
“Well, my name is Jim. What’s yours?”
Sarah laughed. “Sarah. Somehow, I thought you’d be named, I don’t know, Ramon, or Raul, or – Esteban.”
Jim’s lips curved into an attractive smile. “Ah. You should meet my older brothers, Hernando and Luis, then. I think my parents ran out of exotic names before I came along,” he said, and then his smile widened. “Ready?”
She nodded, and he sent her into an expert twirl, as she laughed with delight.
But when Jim pulled her close again, they were confronted by a grim-faced Rob. He tapped Jim on the shoulder. “Cutting in, beaner,” he growled through clenched teeth.
“I knew it was too good to last,” Jim said to Sarah. “I enjoyed it, and I apologize.”
Before she could ask, “For what?” he had released her and shifted in one smooth move to swing a roundhouse punch at Rob’s face.
Rob reeled from the unexpected blow, but came roaring back, ready to brawl, only to be stopped short by Sarah.
She was standing firm between the two men, eyes blazing. She shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said.
“Get out of the way!” Rob snarled, raising his doubled fists.
“I don’t think so,” Sarah repeated.
He glared at her with impotent fury for a long moment, but his fists gradually lowered. Looking past her shoulder at Jim, who stood poised in wary readiness, he said, “Fine. It’s time we headed home anyway. It’s getting a little…ripe, in here.”
“I’ll get Betty,” said Sarah.
“She can ride back with Mom and Dad.”
Sarah set her mouth in a firm line. She didn’t fancy being alone with Rob on the long drive back to the ranch. “Betty can decide that.” Turning to Jim, she said very clearly, “Thank you so much for the dance.”