Black Dance by Nancy Huston Read Free Book Online Page A

nods. Okay, that’s high enough . . .
    He feels safe, surrounded on all sides by the hard warm ring of black rubber, watching the trees swing back and forth above his head, his whole self given up to sheer, pleasurable sensation.
    Sara Manders is rolling out dough for a piecrust. A radio is playing in the background (what year are we? ‘57—yeah, okay, Ella Fitzgerald, Sara could be humming along with Ella) . . . Milo comes over to watch her and she hoists him onto a chair and helps him help her, tying an apron on him, dusting the rolling pin with flour, then gently guiding his hands on the pin to flatten out the ball of dough.
    At bath time she splashes warm water on his back and neck and rubs him gently everywhere with a sudsy washcloth.
    At bedtime she reads to the two older children on the living room couch and he creeps up in his pajamas, presses his back to the back of the couch, sticks his thumb in his mouth, closes his eyes and listens. At first, because there are so many words he doesn’t know, it’s just the lilting, the rhythm and melody of her voice that hypnotize him, but after a while the images of the stories start to crystallize and he looks forward to the moment when, picking up where she left off the night before, Sara will thrill them again with her imitations of the sulky donkey and the Queen of Hearts and the parrot that squawks Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!
    “What does that mean, Mama?” Ana asks, and Sara admits she doesn’t know, her English isn’t good enough . . . but her imitation of the squawking parrot has them in stitches.
    (Was it your grandfather, Milo, who finally told you about pieces of eight? Helping you think it through. Why do we call a quarter two bits, my boy? Because British pounds were divided into eight pieces or bits . . . )
    When she comes to kiss him good night, Sara runs her fingers through Milo’s hair. Her own children’s hair, like the little that remains of Jan’s, is thin and blond; hers is light brown but Milo’s is thick wavy brown with auburn glints in it. What beautiful hair you have, Milo!
    It had never occurred to the boy that something about him could be beautiful.
    SWING SWIFTLY THROUGH the cycle of a year.
    Autumn: little Ana teaching him the rudiments of reading as she learns them at school.
    Winter: the skating rink. Milo inherits Ana’s pink-and-white skates from the year before and is relieved when no one teases him for wearing pink. By afternoon’s end, cheeks red, eyes flashing in silent pride, he skates around the rink all by himself and the Manders family applauds him. At the drink stand where Jan buys them hot chocolate afterward, they get jostled by a noisy group of preteens yelling at one another in French. Though he can’t quite understand the language, it stirs memories in his brain (transient images of neon lights and white-clad arms) that make him want to die.
    Spring: Norbert shows him that if you cut an earthworm in two, both halves of it will wiggle on miserably for a while. On the front porch, Jan takes Milo in his arms and points up to the sky—hugely white and alive, vibrating, screaming, with the return of the Canadian geese.
    Summer: a barbecue in the backyard. The five of them gobble down spareribs, fingers and lips scarlet with sauce. Point at one another and laugh. Tell jokes. Play pranks. Ana pours a glass of water down her father’s back, provoking a roar. When night falls, they go out hunting for fireflies in the grass.
    And then . . . at some point during the second fall . . . a strange young woman in the kitchen, making dinner. Jan standing by the closed door to his and Sara’s bedroom, talking to a doctor. Another day, a glimpse into that room—Jan emerging from it in tears—reveals a motionless mound barely visible among the bedclothes.
    A hearse parked in front of the house. Taking his little sister in his arms to comfort her, Norbert himself bursts into sobs. Jan helps Milo pack. Hugs him long and hard.