Another Perfect Catastrophe by Brad Barkley Read Free Book Online

Robert says.
    â€œIt is, Robert,” I say. “It’s very difficult. I’m sorry. You should ignore me.” My voice is shaking, and I jam my hands into my pockets. Rhonda is crying. Robert blushes, his eyes cutting around the room while he nods at me. I suddenly feel sorry for him, which feels a hell of a lot better than the other way around. This was something I wish I could have told Joseph Turlow: Feel sorry for us , Joe. Make us uncomfortable, make us question God because of your existence. Rub our faces in you.
    â€œYou’re in our prayers, Curt,” Robert says. He shrugs. I shake his hand and apologize again, let him make his escape from me.
    â€œLet’s go,” I say to Rhonda.
    For a few moments she doesn’t say anything. She wipes her eyes, squares her chin. “You go if you want, I’m dancing.”
    I nod. “Okay. I’ll wait.” I sit for a while by the door, in one of the folding chairs that a little while later the old ladies in their dresses will fill. The dance lines begin to form as the caller steps up on a chair at the front of the room, a microphone in her hand. They begin a walk-through of the dance, and my eyes search out Rhonda, who is partnered with Phil, near the front of the fine. I see him point to her feet, giving her further instruction in the fast twirling of the balance and swing, which still gives her problems. All week she has made us practice this basic step, in the kitchen while the pasta was boiling, in the den during commercials.
    The caller makes jokes and everyone laughs. The windows are already covered with moisture; against one flutters a large white moth, tangled in spiderweb. The music kicks in and the dance begins in full, a couple dozen pairs of feet shuffling and stomping in unison. It’s a good noise; I go outside to escape it.
    Outside is frigid, a bright, icy moon in the trees. I sit on the cold steps and watch the cars zoom past on the road, some with headlights missing, some stereos thumping. From one car a cigarette gets tossed, and it bounces behind in the dark, throwing up sparks like little fireworks. Dancers are still arriving, shrugging their shoulders against the cold as they move across the lot. A German shepherd barks at them from the bed of a red pickup truck. People nod hello as they arrive, step around me into the building. One man moves across the parking lot with an exaggerated limp while a younger couple, who seem to be with him, moves patiently behind him, holding hands. His progress is slow; though he is hard to make out in the dark, each step seems to involve a complex series of mechanized movements. Like the others, he nods hello as he makes his slow, incremental progress up the stairs. I smile at him, exaggerate my pretense of not noticing his difficulties, relieved when finally he makes it past me. It is quiet now outside; I sit there until my butt feels numb, my hands stiff.
    Inside, Rhonda is flush-faced and damp, like all the other dancers. The heat hits me all at once, like stepping into a greenhouse. When they finish drinking their water, the dancers take the floor again, the caller shuffling her note cards. Rhonda smiles at the man beside her; he leans next to her, pointing at the band, making some small-talk joke. I sit next to one of the old ladies, who has come in without my noticing. When Rhonda starts for the floor with the man, I realize that he is the man from outside, with the limp. His left leg seems twisted beneath the long pants he wears, and the shoe on his left foot has a sole at least four inches thick. Even from where I sit I can hear the creak of braces on his legs, something I hadn’t heard before, in the cold. With each step he has to lean far out to his left and bring his leg around in a circle, dragged by nothing more than his momentum. Again I think of Joseph Turlow, and it occurs to me that once you have decided to notice it, ruin is everywhere.
    They make it okay