…And Mrs. Harris Stopped Dancing

Elizabeth Towles


The old codger, so full of himself! Judy had known him for years, his place only two houses away and he certainly had no trouble accepting the chicken casserole and chocolate cake she’d baked for him a few months ago when he’d broken a leg falling from a ladder. And now, today…he’d never glanced her way the whole time he bagged her groceries. But he knew her, alright! Retired was what he’d said; why was he working at Food Mart?
Judy crammed Comet cleanser and ammonia in the cabinet under the sink, giving the panel a swift kick to close it. Her brown eyes turned cold black. The jackass—just last week, she’d asked to borrow a cup of sugar and when thanking him, she’d practiced her come-hither look of shuttering her eyelids and then sweeping them wide open. He’d simply told her she should get home and flush out whatever was irritating her eyes. She should have known better than to believe in articles about flirting in Cosmopolitan magazine. Then this afternoon, though she’d stood so close she could have spit on him, he’d kept his face turned away.
Who did he think he was? Oh yes, way too full of himself! Her lips spread into a tight thin line. Like all her male customers who shoved their soiled clothes her way at Superior Cleaners, always in a rush, no time for small talk, hands raised, pointing to cars idling outside. Well, none of them knew what they were missing. A grin began slowly around the edges of her lips; and grew, dimpling up the corners of her mouth.
Why let the old coot upset her? There was tonight, and it belonged only to her, Judy Mae. As she put away the last of her purchases, giggles filled the silence around her.

She pulled on a long, white cotton gown; the high ruffle collared her slender throat, softening the contours of her face. The smocked front lent an illusion of fullness to her figure. Lacy insets, low on her thin hands, covered the liver spots, newly mottling up her skin. She remembered the last time she’d worn this nightgown—and for the same reason. From the mirror above the dresser, her reflection looked out at her; she fingered the springy, fine hair, coaxing it toward her cheeks. When released, the strands bounced back. She wet the tips of her fingers with her tongue and pulled the unruly curls straight, laying damp hair along her graying hairline. Easing her feet into a pair of white strapped slides, she looked at the small clock on the low drum table by the doorway.
“Eleven o’clock. It’s time,” she whispered. Her hands crossed her chest; breathing became a dueling match—in, out, in….
She hurried through the house, clicking off lights as she went. A small lamp, sitting on a heart-shaped curio table, was the only remaining light.
She turned the television on, crossed to the sofa and plumped up one corner with extra pillows. The softness cradled her body as she settled.
Across the television screen, title frames and introduction lead-ins flashed. She held herself ready.
She blinked; her mind stepped into the next scene—her reserved spot.
The movie began: round tables, covered in long, white tablecloths took up most of the room. Scattered along the walls, lanterns provided a look of subdued lighting, fitting in with the mix of indistinct voices, the whirr of overhead fans, and the clink of costly crystal glasses touched in celebration.
She sat by a wall awash in scenes of Morocco’s coastline. In the center of the table, a lamp glowed through a beaded shade and flushed her cheeks a becoming pink. Over to one side of the room, Sam lazed at the piano, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. She nodded to him; he returned her greeting. Her gaze lifted and wandered, to the chandelier, to the large colorful vases atop tall stands at the back of the room, and farther on, to the archway directly across the room. She lit the cigarette held between her restless fingers. She took a deep draw; and waited.
Then, he stepped into sight. Rick!
Dome lights illuminated the glossy sheen of his jet black hair. The white dinner jacket dressed him in grand style. His hands cupped around his mouth; and with the lighting of a cigarette, puffs of smoke shot out, misting into a gray haze. His eyes scanned the room.
Every part of her went still.
He looked her way.
Her breath caught in her throat. Music suddenly filled the air. Haunting notes of As Time Goes By vibrated from the piano. Her pulse quickened. Rick moved toward her. Her heartbeats knocked loudly against her ribs. His eyes stayed on her. Nearing, he smiled. His hands reached out....
A crashing noise brought Judy bolting from the sofa…. “Hell’s bells!” She dashed to the back door, opened it, and looked out over the yard.
Under the yellow-white glare of a streetlight, a body lay sprawled beside her mailbox, now leaning precariously low to the ground. Judy jerked a sweater from the door hook and rushed out, flinging her cigarette to the pavement as she ran.
Her hands flew to her cheeks. “If this don’t beat all!” She kneeled down. “Oh, no!”
The toppled figure was her ninety-four-year-old neighbor, Mrs. Harris. The aged woman’s chest rose and fell with each short gulp of air. She moaned softly; red-streaked eyes looked out from her ashen face.
“Are you hurt? Just what the Hell are you doing out here, Mrs. Harris?” Judy asked, her eyes darting up and down the shadowed street for anything—or anyone—out of place.
“I don’t know what the Hell I’m doing out here,” the curt tone of the old woman’s voice was nothing new. She brushed hair from her face. Her sparse eyebrows knitted close, “I was trying...” Her words quit.
Judy squared her face in line to Mrs. Harris. “Do you know who I am?”
“Why? Don’t you know?” Her tone rose ever sharper. “Of course I know who you are, you’re…you’re Judy. Seems to me you don’t know.”
Yep, she’s okay, Judy told herself, and still able to flap that crusty tongue of hers, the thought so strong that she darted a glance at her neighbor, and wondered for a moment if she’d spoken out loud.
In a tug of arms and bracing her feet to the mailbox’s thick post, Judy managed to get the elderly lady propped against the wooden pole. Again, she asked, “Mrs. Harris, are you sure you’re not hurt?”
The woman cut her a look, “Why do you keep asking that? If I was hurt, I’d say so.” She backhanded bits of dirt and leaves from her hefty legs and ankles, overlapping the top rims of her bedroom slippers.
Judy’s lips crimped tightly. Her eyes turned upward...that’s Mrs. Harris, alright; even now, still an ornery old soul; her temperament as prickly as a burr.
Grunts and deep sighs burst from both women in the struggle to get Mrs. Harris on her feet. Judy clutched the tottering woman firmly as they made their way across the street and down the darkened driveway.
Between labored breaths, disconnected sentences gushed from the old lady: “Flooding the bathroom, jumping on my good sofa, Coca-Colas wasted, why’d the Family ask for them? And my beds....”
“What are you talking about, Mrs. Harris? Are these the same people you called the police about, last week? As I remember, they found you alone.” Judy was thrown into her neighbor’s side as the old woman abruptly stopped.
“That’s because the Family hid in the closet,” her high-pitched voice shouted. “After everyone left, they aggravated me again...changing the television channels, slamming the refrigerator door; and turning on all the lights, anything to upset me.”
At her backdoor, the elderly lady gripped the door knob, gave it a twist and pushed the door open. With one hand clutched to an outside handrail, she heaved herself up and stepped into the brightly-lit kitchen.
“Uh-huh, Mrs. Harris is hallucinating again.” Judy murmured to herself. She followed her neighbor into the house.
Judy’s own thoughts drifted: maybe, she needed to get on that train—and be entertained by all the people Mrs. Harris had mentioned seeing: The Family, the Man with the Bowler hat and his impersonation of old ‘Charlie.’ Perhaps the little Victorian-dressed Lady with the butt bustle and upswept hairdo would be interesting. Then, there was Mrs. Harris’s admitted fascination with the movie-star-handsome Tuxedoed Man, always hovering in a corner. Judy’s grin peaked high on her cheekbones. Now, with him, she’d like to while away her time urging him down from the ceiling. Hmm…wonder if he’d be as nervy as Burt, or match Burt’s flirty line to the little waitress in that war movie: “The reason I order so many drinks is because I like to watch your wiggle as you walk away.” Her eyes rounded out…. She’d have to ask Mrs. Harris if...?
Thunderous clock chimes pulled her look to the moon-faced grandfather clock sitting between two windows. A final peal: 12 o’clock. Mid-night!
The old lady was nowhere in sight. With a glimpse toward the open doorways, Judy called out, “Mrs. Harris?”
Only the clock’s rhythmic ticking answered.
Judy stared down the narrow hall that mirrored the inside of her own house. A frown set in, deepening the lines between her brows.
She called a second time, her voice circling out, “Mrs. Harris? I have to go home now. I want to know if you’re okay before I leave…”
Her head pounded with a sudden piercing throb. A perverseness urged her to leave; but her conscientious nature stayed her.
Gentle giggling came, the sound muffled, as though slipping between splayed fingers.
“Hell’s bells...what now?” Her shoes flapped noisily against the bare hardwood floor as she marched toward Mrs. Harris’s back bedroom. She rapped softly on the partially opened door. No response. She nudged the door wider.
The chortling lowered to a soft snicker.
The elderly woman lay stretched out on her bed, her face to the wall.
“Mrs. Harris?” Judy stepped closer, her knees pressing into the bedcovers as she leaned over the bed.
The old lady was still. And quiet.
Judy jerked back, her thoughts flashing like a short-circuited neon sign. Where was the noise coming from? What was happening? And what should she do about Mrs. Harris?
The noise suddenly burst into the room, bringing the Father, Mother, the little girl and boy, the Man in the Bowler hat, the Victorian-dressed Lady; and filling out a corner of the ceiling, the movie-star-handsome Tuxedoed Man.
Don’t worry about Mrs. Harris; she’ll be fine, the Father said. Only...she’ll have no memory of this. Nothing at all! Her mind and body is quite worn out; it’s time for her to rest. Lately, the Mother added, the children were getting on the old woman’s nerves. The little boy and girl giggled, wrapping themselves around their mother’s legs. The old lady began crying at my every visit, saying I reminded her of her mother, the little Victorian-dressed Lady said; her lips pursed in a pout. It rattled me, and when I’m nervous, I fiddle with my hair…messing up my Gibson Girl look….
She stopped laughing at my act, Mrs. Harris did, the Man in the Bowler hat quipped, told me I was getting sloppy in my routine and that I needed to study ‘Charlie’s’ moves again.
And we’ve all watched you from your windows, the handsome Tuxedoed Man took over, stepping from the ceiling...watched your movies, and your getting into the act, so to speak. He flashed a pearly smile. As for me, I’m always wearing my dancing shoes…and Mrs. Harris stopped dancing.
The movie-star-handsome Tuxedoed Man bowed low and opened his arms to Judy.
Besides, he whispered, slipping the sweater from her shoulders. You’re already dressed for the occasion.

Judy awoke early the next morning, and as was her way, within moments, headed straight to the kitchen. She moved about the room, her footsteps following a routine mapped indelibly in her head; one cup of cereal, milk, barely covering the deep golden cornflakes, coffee, with one teaspoon of sugar; and cream, to the shade of light brown. She ate with the same kind of detachment; her mind on the ankle-length, purple skirt, new, and hanging at the back of her closet, along with a ruffled front, bright yellow blouse that had been ordered—on a rare impulsive whim—from a Sears catalog. Shoes…what shoes? Yes, of course; she remembered the shoes given her by one of her customers. A pair of golden, high-heeled, strap sandals from a daughter, the lady had said, but they wouldn’t go with anything she would ever consider wearing…. She remembered the lady plopping them down on the counter and then walking out. Today, those sandals would be coddling her feet! She smiled for the first time since waking; a smile unlike any before, a smile that shifted her very being!

The smile was still on her face as she parked the car in her designated spot at Superior Cleaners. When touching her sandal-clad feet to concrete, she eyed her slender ankles as though newly found; and from her toes, bright red nail polish sparkled like rubies. She rose from the driver’s seat, a hand sweeping the full skirt to flow around her body. She fluffed her hair and lifted her chin. A nearby noise drew her to look—into the grinning face of a male customer who always shot out of the Cleaners like he was already late for wherever he was going.
“So there you are.” He made no attempt to get in his car.
“Good morning, Mr. Willis.”
“Ed.”
“Pardon me?” She twirled to face him.
“Ed, that’s my name.” He propped on his car door. “It would have been my loss this morning,” he added.
“How’s that…Ed?
“If I’d missed you,” he said, climbing into the car. He waved as he pulled away.
She stood for a moment longer, watching his car disappear into traffic. She walked to the front door, a new sway to her hips; and a smile that spoke of hidden secrets.
Inside the cleaners, a customer waited at the counter, a regular, a very busy man…. Even now, he stood tapping his fingers on the counter.
Judy crossed the room, not bothering to give the man the slightest look as she headed toward a storage closet. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr. Adams,” she said, her manner unruffled even though she felt his gaze. Moving about, and still not bothering to glimpse around, she opened the closet and placed her bag in its regular spot, checking it twice, making sure the handles were pushed to one side and would clear the door’s closing.
“Take your time,” he said, watching her. He took a long look; he’d seen her somewhere. Of course, she worked here. Yet, there was something very different about her today.... “No hurry,” he added, wondering how he’d failed to notice the looks of this intriguing woman paying him no mind. Settling his body against the counter, he spoke again, and this time, his voice matched his words, slow, and soft…“In fact, I’m in no hurry at all.”

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Publication Date: 12-08-2009

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