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Hilary Senior Center he was mobbed as he had been at Western Sun. The man could not be too much younger than George’s mother but he seemed hale and hearty. And then George learned that Austin Rooney was the brother-in-law of the newcomer.
    â€œThis place will be too tame for him,” Austin said.
    â€œWestern Sun is tamer.”

5
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    The former gymnasium that had been transformed into a recreation room for the seniors was now transformed into a ballroom. The lighting was subdued, the tables ringing the dance floor had candles or floral arrangements in their centers and four to six senior citizens breathing heavily between dances. The rest were on the dance floor, moving to the slow rhythms of the songs that had fueled the imaginations of their youth. The improvised bandstand, with Desmond at the piano, old Oliver Deutsch at drums, and Pinkie Kunert on bass, provided accompaniment for the crooning Jack Gallagher. The onetime radio host was an expert mimic, able to sing in the manner of Sinatra, Vic Damone, Dick Haymes, and even Crosby, so that the dancers concentrated on him rather than their unsure feet. Desmond proved to be a virtuoso of the keyboard, stitching the numbers together with riffs and changes of tempo so that one song smoothly followed another until it seemed that another decade was being reenacted in the makeshift ballroom.
    A punch had been provided, mild enough but sufficient to bring nostalgic tears to the shuffling couples on the floor. Maud had to be taken from the floor for an interval, overcome by a number that had been the favorite of her late husband’s. Except for that sentimental interlude, she was in the arms of Austin Rooney, an expert dancer
whose lead made up for Maud’s hesitation. On the dance floor, at least, she followed rather than led.
    Father Dowling had come over to smile a brief benediction on the dance, puffing on an unlit pipe, with Marie Murkin half frowning, half smiling on one side of him, and Edna Hospers on the other.
    â€œThis could become a tradition,” Edna said enthusiastically.
    She was still surprised at how little all this was costing the center. It was as if the only contribution the parish had made was the locale. The piano had been brought down from the first floor where it had once provided march music for students when they filed in from recess and returned, but the other instruments were provided by the musicians who played them. The punch was also donated by the dance committee, plus the candles and other items of festive color. Maud was wearing a corsage provided by Austin Rooney. Her loyalty was divided between her partner and the crooning Jack Gallagher, who directed his tremulous lyrics at her as she passed beneath his microphone. Austin’s efforts to keep as far from the bandstand and singer as possible were not always successful, and if Maud looked up with glistening cow-eyes at Gallagher, Austin stared into space at some distant star where the likes of Jack Gallagher were absent.
    And then Desmond took over, playing and singing at once, his style his own but the words the words of Jacob. Jack Gallagher stepped onto the dance floor and tapped Austin imperiously on the shoulder, but his regard was for Maud alone. The transfer was made smoothly, in the approved manner, but for a moment Austin looked bereft of a purpose in life. He drifted toward Father Dowling.
    â€œA great success, Austin.”
    â€œIt brings back the past.”
    Desmond was now giving a particularly maudlin rendition of “Sentimental Journey.” A sigh had gone up when he began the lyrics, and many couples swayed in place to listen. He went on to “Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow,” perhaps in deference to the light snow that had fallen earlier in the day. Now they were singing along with
Desmond, and Jack Gallagher was crooning the lyrics into the receptive ear of Maud, who had closed her eyes as if she might just drift heavenward on the