House of Dance by Beth Kephart Read Free Book Online Page A

blue ribbon of a tune running through. “How old is this stuff?” I wanted to know.
    “Dark Ages,” he said. “Born and bred in the year nineteen hundred and sixty-two. Same year as your mother was born. Music like this kept her from crying. Instant cure.”
    I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to bring to mind my mother, small. Tiniest thing in a white wicker basket. Blanket wrapped around her tight. Little squints for eyes. Whole life ahead of her for real. No lousy celebrity husband in sight. No me. “Who was this guy?” I asked Granddad.
    “A Rat Packer. One of Sinatra’s good friends. What are they teaching in school these days?”
    “Not learning this,” I said. “For sure.”
    “The world’s on a downhill slide.”
    By now Sammy Davis Jr. was singing about something called the beguine. Whatever that was, it made Granddad happy. He stayed quiet, but it was a different kind of quiet. I stood up, so that I could see his face. “Why don’t you sit right here beside me, Rosie?” he asked, smoothing his hand over the empty part of the corduroy couch. But I was worried about sitting down so close. Worried I could hurt him.
    “You want something to drink?” I asked.
    “Not now,” he said. “Not thirsty.”
    “Not even cranberry juice?”
    “Not even.”
    “You mind if I get something?
    “What’s mine is still and always yours.”
    He smiled a funny, crooked smile andpulled on one of his very large ears as I went off to the kitchen. By the time I came back, his eyes were closed again, and a song he said was called “Someone Nice Like You” was playing. I stood where I was and closed my eyes too, trying to picture Mom in Granddad’s arms, listening to this music, trying to picture the house before it got so crampy with things whose meanings were hidden. Tried to imagine where the music took my granddad in his mind.
    “Listen to the words,” Granddad said, and I did, listened to Sammy Davis Jr. of 1962 singing about if :
    “Aideen knew every word,” he said when the song was over. “She was always singing.”
    “Must have been nice,” I said.
    “She was something,” he said.
    “Pretty, I bet.”
    “Oh, yes. She was. And always, always, in motion. Would walk around and around when she was cooking. Would sway side toside when hanging clothes. Was always a couple of steps ahead when we’d walk down to Pastrami’s.”
    “Mr. D. says hi, by the way,” I interjected.
    “In the beginning was Pastrami’s.” Granddad smiled his funny smile. Then he went on with his story. “You know what Aideen would do?” he asked.
    “No,” I said, “I don’t.”
    “She’d roll back the carpet right about where you are and jitterbug the shine off the floor. She’d fox-trot in circles, with the moon as her man. She’d dial up her music loud.”
    “Sounds like something,” I said.
    “She could make the porcelains and the paintings tremble. She could dance. Oh, Aideen could dance.”
    “Red was her color,” I said.
    He nodded. “You get an A plus, Rosie.”
    “And you were her very best man.”
    “I was privileged, Rosie. Despite everything, she liked me. She’d had her other chances,don’t you think she didn’t. But she stuck around for me.”
    “You’re a likable guy,” I said.
    “I’m an ordinary guy.”
    “You’re better than fireworks.”
    “You’re a top-drawer liar.” His voice was weary.
    “I’m putting all the albums In Trust,” I told him after he didn’t say much more.
    “I always took you for a smart one,” he answered.
    “I’m putting the albums In Trust, even if they all sound like Sammy Davis Jr., even if not one of them, not even one, is nearly as good as Usher.”
    “Faster or slower. More or less. They’ve got the Sammy Davis style. Besides,” he said, “ usher is a verb.”
    “It’s also a noun.”
    “Let’s call it versatile.”
    He had used up most of his voice. There were dots of sweat in the creases on his brow.
    “I think you could use a