students came in twos and ones. Most of the twos were what Marissa called the wedding couples. “How is our wedding couple?” she would greet them. “How manyweeks is it now till the matrimony?” When one of the brides-to-be brought not a bag but a box, Marissa came from behind her desk to see. “Perfect,” she said, taking the box of wedding shoes in her hands and peeling back the tissue paper. “Oh. Perfect.” Then to the almost groom: “You like?” He was short and stout with a grizzly beard. He nodded and shrugged at the same time.
The singles were women, mostly, and mostly older than my mom. There was one Marissa greeted as Eleanor, who wore a see-through blouse and a short stretch skirt and a pair of red lace leggings. Eleanor talked a million miles a minute—to Marissa, when Marissa was listening, to me when the phone rang—and she answered her own questions too. “Is this your first time? It must be your first time. Do you have a favorite dance? How could you? It’s your first time. You’ve come to the right place, then, let me tell you, because Max, the owner, you know Max with theblack hair? He won the U.S. National Professional American Nine Dance championship, and not only that, once he took the mambo at Florida. You ever see Max on TV? On one of those public television stations? You ever see him in the newspapers? Max, I’m telling you, is famous.” I nodded, as if I expected nothing less. Eleanor wouldn’t take her eyes off my shoes.
“What size do you wear?” she finally asked.
“Seven,” I said.
“You young girls with your tiny feet—oh, what I wouldn’t give.”
I was rescued by another woman whom Eleanor called Annette, who was only slightly out of breath by the time Marissa buzzed her in. She had perfect legs, arctic hair. Her hazel eyes had dark, deep cores. She carried a notebook with her, where, I’d learn, she copied down her lesson steps. She carried, in addition, a pair of silver satin shoes.
“Annette!” Eleanor said.
“Hello, Eleanor.”
“Are you working the mambo with Max today?”
“I believe we’re working on the tango.”
“This girl wears a size seven shoe,” Eleanor said, by way of introduction, I guess.
“Rosie,” Marissa said now from behind the desk. “The girl is Rosie.”
“You’ll love the dancing,” Annette said, and she was one of those white-haired women who seem more young than old: the way she talked, the look in her eyes, the pure whiteness of her hair. I wanted to ask her something, anything. I thought: She might have been Aideen if Aideen hadn’t died, if Aideen were still with Granddad today. But then Max was coming down the hall and calling out her name. He was saying good-bye to Teenie, blowing her a kiss, smiling. He had little beads of sweat on his forehead, but he didn’t seem the least bit tired.
“Annette,” he said, kissing her on thecheek. He leaned down toward Annette’s side of the couch and held out his arm. She stood and opened one elbow like a wing. They turned and, loop-armed, walked down the hall.
“I’m taking with Peter today,” Eleanor explained as the two went off.
“Oh,” I said. “Peter.”
“Canadian,” she said. “And superb. And boy, does he know the smooths.”
I nodded again, having nothing to say. I didn’t know what a smooth was.
Marissa had disappeared; she had vanished from the desk somehow. Eleanor had had enough of me. Sighing loudly, she crossed her legs and reached for something on a nearby table. I did as she did, sorted through the printed stuff until I found a book titled Dance. It was heavy and thick, a book of photographs and captions, and when I pulled it down onto my lap, it opened to a page titled “Rumba,” to a map of Cuba, to pictures ofdancers in skintight sparkle. “Rumba is a bridge to the past,” I read. “To African desire and Cuban courtship. The rumba is primal.” I stopped reading and looked again at the pictures. Skin and glitter. Hips. I turned
The singles were women, mostly, and mostly older than my mom. There was one Marissa greeted as Eleanor, who wore a see-through blouse and a short stretch skirt and a pair of red lace leggings. Eleanor talked a million miles a minute—to Marissa, when Marissa was listening, to me when the phone rang—and she answered her own questions too. “Is this your first time? It must be your first time. Do you have a favorite dance? How could you? It’s your first time. You’ve come to the right place, then, let me tell you, because Max, the owner, you know Max with theblack hair? He won the U.S. National Professional American Nine Dance championship, and not only that, once he took the mambo at Florida. You ever see Max on TV? On one of those public television stations? You ever see him in the newspapers? Max, I’m telling you, is famous.” I nodded, as if I expected nothing less. Eleanor wouldn’t take her eyes off my shoes.
“What size do you wear?” she finally asked.
“Seven,” I said.
“You young girls with your tiny feet—oh, what I wouldn’t give.”
I was rescued by another woman whom Eleanor called Annette, who was only slightly out of breath by the time Marissa buzzed her in. She had perfect legs, arctic hair. Her hazel eyes had dark, deep cores. She carried a notebook with her, where, I’d learn, she copied down her lesson steps. She carried, in addition, a pair of silver satin shoes.
“Annette!” Eleanor said.
“Hello, Eleanor.”
“Are you working the mambo with Max today?”
“I believe we’re working on the tango.”
“This girl wears a size seven shoe,” Eleanor said, by way of introduction, I guess.
“Rosie,” Marissa said now from behind the desk. “The girl is Rosie.”
“You’ll love the dancing,” Annette said, and she was one of those white-haired women who seem more young than old: the way she talked, the look in her eyes, the pure whiteness of her hair. I wanted to ask her something, anything. I thought: She might have been Aideen if Aideen hadn’t died, if Aideen were still with Granddad today. But then Max was coming down the hall and calling out her name. He was saying good-bye to Teenie, blowing her a kiss, smiling. He had little beads of sweat on his forehead, but he didn’t seem the least bit tired.
“Annette,” he said, kissing her on thecheek. He leaned down toward Annette’s side of the couch and held out his arm. She stood and opened one elbow like a wing. They turned and, loop-armed, walked down the hall.
“I’m taking with Peter today,” Eleanor explained as the two went off.
“Oh,” I said. “Peter.”
“Canadian,” she said. “And superb. And boy, does he know the smooths.”
I nodded again, having nothing to say. I didn’t know what a smooth was.
Marissa had disappeared; she had vanished from the desk somehow. Eleanor had had enough of me. Sighing loudly, she crossed her legs and reached for something on a nearby table. I did as she did, sorted through the printed stuff until I found a book titled Dance. It was heavy and thick, a book of photographs and captions, and when I pulled it down onto my lap, it opened to a page titled “Rumba,” to a map of Cuba, to pictures ofdancers in skintight sparkle. “Rumba is a bridge to the past,” I read. “To African desire and Cuban courtship. The rumba is primal.” I stopped reading and looked again at the pictures. Skin and glitter. Hips. I turned
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