Stars Over Clear Lake Page 5

  He continues his exam. I let my gaze wander to the window, where billowy clouds are passing by, reminding me of the clouds that move across the Surf’s ceiling. The ones at the Surf aren’t real clouds, of course; just an illusion, like the ghosts I saw. Except they didn’t look like ghosts. They looked as real as the people standing next to them, laughing and talking. But they weren’t real. They couldn’t be.

  I’ve always hated needles and shots. I tense up just at the thought of feeling that sting when the needle pricks my skin. But today I’m glad to feel the poke when the nurse comes to draw blood. At least that feels real, when everything else around me doesn’t. Yes, the pain is definitely not an illusion.

  *

  Afterward, Daisy insists on pushing me out in a wheelchair.

  “Honestly, Daisy! As if I can’t walk because I had one little fainting spell.”

  My daughter ignores me.

  Daisy maneuvers the wheelchair into the elevator. On the way down, the elevator stops at the floor below us and another wheelchair is pushed inside, creating a tight fit. I look at the man next to me, his head hung low against his chest. I take in a breath at the sight of him. He’s a shell of his former self. His skin sags like loose clothing, and his face is sunken and pale. A plaid blanket covers his legs and lap. He shows little reaction to his surroundings.

  But he happens to look my way. I freeze, wondering if he’ll remember me.

  His eyes flare with recognition.

  “Hello, Lance,” I say. “It’s good to see you.”

  He leans forward and squints. It’s been years since we last saw each other, longer than that since we’ve spoken. He looks so old. A faded scar traces the side of his face, down his neck.

  “The Surf,” he says, nodding at me. “That’s where I know you from.” His voice is weak and hoarse, as though it takes great effort to speak. A sharp contrast to the cold, intimidating sound I remember from my youth.

  “Yes,” I admit.

  “I used to go there all the time,” he says.

  “I remember.”

  He turns toward the young man pushing him. “I may not look it now, but I used to be quite a dancer in my day.”

  “I’ll bet you were, Mr. Dugan.”

  “And I’ll bet you didn’t know that the Surf used to be on the lake.”

  “No, I didn’t know that. I guess that was before my time.”

  “Everything was before your time,” Lance snarls. “You’re just a snot-nosed kid.”

  The young man rolls his eyes. “You got that right, Mr. Dugan.”

  Lance gives me a sideways glance. “The old Surf burned down, you know.”

  My heart races at his words. Besides me, he’s the only one who knows what happened that night.

  Lance reaches up and runs a finger along his scar, a puzzled look in his eyes.

  The elevator stops and the door opens.

  “Take care, Lance,” I say, as the young man unlocks the wheelchair’s wheels to move him away.

  Lance nods at me. “Good to see you again.”

  Daisy waits until the door closes. “That frail-looking man is Chad’s uncle? Chad said he moved back to be close to the Mayo Clinic for his cancer treatment, but I didn’t realize how sick he was.”

  “It looks as though Lance is losing his battle.”

  Daisy is unusually quiet on the drive back. I stare out the window. What an odd coincidence to see Lance again, especially when I’ve just come from the Surf.

  Finally, I feel the need to fill the silence. “You should have let Harry bring me over here,” I say.

  “What kind of daughter would I be if I let my husband drive my mother to the hospital after she was unconscious while I stayed and partied? Really, Mother.”

  I pick at a piece of lint on the car seat. “Then you should have let me take a cab back.”

  “Now you’re just being ridiculous,” Daisy says, glancing my way. “So, what did you want to tell me at the hospital?”

  I wave my hand. “Oh, nothing.”

  “Where did you actually meet Dad?”

  “Um.” My mind races. “The parking lot. Outside the Surf.”

  “Well, that’s nitpicking. It’s still the Surf.”

  “I guess so.”

  “That’s a relief. I thought you were going to tell me some dark family secret.”

  “And would that be so bad?”

  “Chad said that his uncle left town suddenly after some accident that happened years ago. It makes him nervous whenever he’s up for office that there might be some old family scandal he doesn’t know about.”

  “I heard Lance moved because he married a woman from out east. There’s nothing scandalous about that,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “And I didn’t think you were interested in politics.”

  “Well, just the same, I’m glad we don’t have any skeletons in our closet.” She looks over at me. “We don’t, do we?”

  I force a small laugh. “I’m sure if you dig deep enough, every family has skeletons.”

  “In that case, Mother,” Daisy says, her voice deadpan, “I’m hiding all the shovels.”

  Ten

  2007

  I squint into the fading sun and turn my car into the Surf’s parking lot for the second time in two days.

  I lied to Daisy. I told her I was exhausted from yesterday, that I was going to bed early and would call her in the morning. Now, as the blue letters of the Surf Ballroom stare out at me, I realize how anxious I am to be here again.

  When Sid and I moved to the farm, we started a new life and put the past behind us. Sid insisted, and I went along with it. The ballroom held powerful memories, ones that I reasoned were better kept at bay. But coming here last night, I felt such a strong connection to the Surf; a place that has survived changes in music over the years, tough times, leaky roofs, closings and reopenings, changing owners and extensive renovations. Like me.

  This morning’s paper was the real culprit. In big block letters on the second page of the Clear Lake Mirror Reporter, right under the obituaries, was an announcement.

  THE BIG BAND BEAT IS BACK!

  A GREAT TRADITION CONTINUES!

  Sunday nights from June-Sept. Big Band Concert Series.

  Dance the night away to memorable orchestrations of the swing era.

  Doors open at 5:30 P.M. with dancing from 6–10 P.M. nightly.

  I haven’t been dancing in years. I doubt my old body could manage many dance moves. And yet, when I saw that advertisement, I had a sudden desire to go to the Surf, if just to prove to myself that what I saw yesterday was a fluke.

  Dark clouds roll across the lake, blinking out the setting sun, and I tuck my umbrella under my arm. The marquee out front advertises a Rock and Roll Revue for the coming week. Just yesterday I saw Buddy Holly. Or thought I saw him. Am I just a grieving widow whose memories of the past are so strong that I’m hallucinating? My aunt Nelly saw nonexistent butterflies on the wall of her hospital room the last few days before she died, but we all thought that was due to the strong drugs.

  I stop at the table inside the lobby and pay for a ticket, spending extra money to reserve a booth, one on the side not far from the stage. I place my umbrella on the seat next to me and settle in my spot. The band is onstage warming up. They’re a younger group of men in their fifties and sixties. I’ve never heard of them. But I haven’t kept up with music for years.

  There’s a small crowd present, not the mobs I remember from my youth. It’s refreshing to see people dressed to the nines in suits and dresses, instead of golf shirts and Capri pants. I’m so glad I wore a dress.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” A waitress who’s much too young to be familiar with the big-band era stands next to my booth.

  “How about a root beer? I haven’t had one of those in ages.”

  “Sure enough. Are you expecting anyone else?”

  “No. It’s just me.”

  “A pretty woman like you? You won’t be sitt
ing here alone for long, I guarantee it.”

  Such a nice young girl, I think as she leaves. But she probably just said that to get a bigger tip. I’ve long since given up any pretense that I’m attractive, not at seventy-eight years of age. Even though I’ve always been thin, my shoulders have become rounded and I move more slowly. I stopped dyeing my hair its natural red color and let it grow out to a grayish-white tint. And I don’t wear makeup. The wrinkles and spots that have taken over my skin are like the unwanted mosquitoes that swarm the lakeside. Both are expected, yet impossible to get rid of. But at least they’re well-earned wrinkles.

  I check out the crowd. Almost all of the people here are senior citizens, a few even older than I. Some I recognize: the former pastor of the Lutheran church and his wife, a couple from my own church, the man who used to run the cruise ship off the city seawall years ago. Most I don’t know, though. I imagine the dance draws people from all across North Iowa.

  I look up to see Eddie Johnson standing in front of me. He’s not a ghost, but he’s as close to being one as you can get without actually dying. Eddie is younger than me by five years but he hasn’t aged well.

  “Lorraine! First time I’ve seen you here. How the hell you doin’?”

  “I’m fine, Eddie. How about yourself?”

  “You know how it is. Gettin’ by.” He’s a short, heavy man, bent over and mostly bald except for a rim of white that runs from ear to ear. His breathing is loud, as though it takes great effort. He adjusts the hearing aid in his right ear, then taps it once.

  “I’m sorry to hear about Sid’s passing. A good man and a fine farmer.” His voice is loud.

  I nod. “Thank you.”

  The waitress returns with the root beer. “See?” she says, her eyebrows raised.

  I give a slight shake of my head. The last person I want sitting with me is Eddie Johnson. Although I feel sorry for him and all his health issues and financial woes, which I’m sure I’ll soon hear about, Eddie is one of those people who you have a hard time sympathizing with. Years ago Sid hired him for the harvest, but Eddie quickly tired of the hard work and stopped showing up less than a week into it. Eddie now makes a habit of living with widows who can support him financially until they get sick of him and throw him out. I wonder if he reads the obit page regularly to keep up on who’s available.

  “I’ll have a beer,” Eddie says, handing the waitress a ten-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  I was never good at getting rid of unwanted guests, but I’m not interested in subsidizing Eddie’s lifestyle.

  “Actually, I’m expecting someone,” I say as Eddie tries to fit his enormous belly into the space across from me in the booth. “But thanks for stopping by. It was good to see you again.”

  He looks wounded, and I almost have a change of heart. He nods and stands up. “I’m meeting someone, too. She’s a well-off widow who wants to marry me. I don’t know, though. Been there a few too many times, if you know what I mean. But you never know; I might be tying that knot again.”

  I can’t imagine any woman who’d be that desperate. But I wish him luck as he shuffles off. I take a sip of my root beer, thinking of those rich widows who go through their entire inheritance on sleazeballs like Eddie after their husbands pass away, all because they’re lonely. Or maybe they realize how fleeting life is and are trying to squeeze every bit out of their remaining years. I’ll never understand it. But I was lucky. I had Sid.

  The band is playing now, a tune I recall but can’t name. I close my eyes and let the music take me away, back to another time and place. I think of all the people I wish were here tonight, but mostly I think of Sid. What I’d give for a few moments with him again. That would be worth all the money in the world.

  When I open my eyes, everything is the same, except couples fill the dance area now, shuffling across the maple hardwood floor.

  Why am I here? I’m not interested in dancing or meeting a man. I’m going nuts, thinking I’d see my husband again. It was silly of me to come here tonight. Tomorrow I’ll say a novena and ask the intercession of Saint Dymphna, patron saint of crazy people.

  The band starts another tune, “Embraceable You.” Sid loved that song.

  How much I’ve missed this music, the deep sounds that come from the saxophone, the way the notes fill the air and make everything more exciting.

  “May I have this dance, miss?”

  A man stands next to my booth, his arm outstretched, a slight twinkle in his eye. He looks to be in his forties, wearing a suit he must have borrowed from his grandfather because it’s definitely from another time: white, single-breasted, with wide trousers. A neatly folded black kerchief sticks out the front pocket, and his black bow tie matches the small corsage on his lapel. His dark hair is combed back in a way that reminds me of Daddy’s hair when he was younger.

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Oh, you can,” he replies, and the twinkle becomes more pronounced.

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep up,” I say in protest. “I haven’t danced in years.”

  “I promise I won’t fling you across the dance floor. I’m too much of a gentleman to do that. And we’ll stop if you get tired out.”

  I hesitate. I’d feel foolish dancing with a man half my age. But he doesn’t withdraw his hand, and there’s something about him that seems familiar.

  “I won’t take no for an answer,” he says, smiling.

  I sigh and take his hand. He sweeps me onto the dance floor. His movements are smooth and flowing. He’s obviously had lessons to dance so well. He has a way about him that’s charismatic, like a movie star of a long-ago era.

  “This isn’t so bad now, is it?” he says.

  “This is one of my favorite songs,” I confess as we glide almost magically across the floor. He makes it seem so easy, almost like second nature. I’d forgotten how fun it was to dance. And he’s so good at it.

  “A wonderful song, but my band played it better and I’ll bet you could sing it better,” he says. “At least you could, back in the day.”

  Back in the day? I doubt he’d been born yet, back in the day.

  “How did you know that I sang? What was the name of your band?” I ask.

  He takes my hand as we foxtrot and presses it against his chest. “I’m offended. Truly, I am. You don’t even recognize me?”

  “I’m sorry. I haven’t been to a dance at the Surf for many years. I doubt you’re old enough to have played in one of the bands I sang with.”

  He spins me around once, slowly, and brings me in close. He has a natural flair and people are beginning to watch us. He smells like cigarette smoke, although smoking is banned at the Surf.

  “Well, I remember you,” he says. “You were just a wisp of a girl back then. You had long red hair and those sultry turquoise eyes. I called you the Tangerine Girl, and we played that song for you.”

  My skin tingles. I remember that, but it was so long ago, when I was just eighteen.

  He smiles. “The night I heard you sing.”

  He must be joking. “You couldn’t be talking about the original Surf Ballroom? That place burned down years ago.”

  He nods. “Sixty years ago. My band played there the night it burned. We should have been the first to open this new place, too. But instead Ray Pearl and His Orchestra played here. Go figure!”

  Suddenly, I remember him. But he can’t be who I think he is! How can I possibly be dancing with the famous Jimmy Dorsey? A man who made so much memorable music and who died fifty years ago?

  “You’re.…” I try to choke out the name, but it won’t come.

  “Shh, we don’t want any unwanted attention. Let’s just enjoy this dance, this song, this music.”

  He pulls me close and I feel weak. I lean my head on his shoulder. I try to quell the trembling of my hands. The saxophone player on stage is performing a solo in the middle of the song.

 
; “You know, I used to play the saxophone,” Jimmy says. “I was damn good at it, too, pardon the expression.”

  “I remember,” I say, still in shock.

  “We saxophone players appreciate good singers. You were one of them.”

  “Thank you.” Jimmy Dorsey only heard me sing that one time. I can’t help but feel honored by the compliment.

  “Yes, you did a good job. You could have become famous like me. Bad timing, is all. Never expected the place to burn down.”

  “No. Of course not.” I feel warm and a bit breathless. I should sit down before I faint again. But something keeps me here. I need to hear what he has to say. After all, it isn’t every day you get to dance with Jimmy Dorsey, even if he is a figment of my imagination.

  “They never did figure out what started the fire,” he says. “’Course, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? Water under the bridge, you might say. It wouldn’t change anything if people did know.”

  “I suppose.” I frown and stop dancing. “Is that why you’re here? To keep me from telling?”

  He shrugs. “You have nothing to be afraid of. The past is past. You can tell whoever you want. But maybe some things are best left secret.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You remember my brother, right? He was hot-headed and stubborn. But he played a decent trombone.”

  I nod. Tommy Dorsey was more than decent. He was a legend. Jimmy and Tommy had started out together in a band, then had parted and formed their own bands. After World War II they’d joined up again. People joked that they were like opposite ends of a magnet.

  Jimmy winks at a woman dancing past. The woman giggles. Jimmy was always the laid-back one, the charmer. He looks at me with those big brown eyes. “Well, Mac and I, I called him Mac, we didn’t always get along. Everybody knows that. But we were still brothers, even though he was a short-tempered son of a gun. So we settled our differences after the war and got back together again. That’s what you have to keep in mind. The past is like sibling rivalry, and believe me, I know a thing or two about that. Sometimes it drives you apart before it brings you back together again.”

  The music ends and people are clapping. Jimmy bows then walks me back to my booth. I sit down and he glides his fingers across the side of my face. “Thank you for the dance. Take care, my Tangerine.”