As Gutter Books (in conjunction with Zelmer Pulp) readies to release our Trouble in the Heartland: Crimes Stories Inspired by the Songs of Bruce Springsteen anthology, we are going to run a few Boss-related pieces over here at the FFO.
This story by Brian Panowich (whose "Wreck on the Highway" will be in the collection) testifies that when you can't get the moves right, you better hold on tight.
This story by Brian Panowich (whose "Wreck on the Highway" will be in the collection) testifies that when you can't get the moves right, you better hold on tight.
Dancing in the Dark by Brian Panowich
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Jesus
Christ.
I couldn’t
believe she was still asleep by the time I made it to our bedroom. I damn near
knocked the front door down trying to get in the house. I banged my knee on
that stupid antique credenza running past it in the hall, but it didn’t slow me
down a bit. My heart was beating so fast and hard, I thought I might go down of
a heart attack right there in the hallway.
I laid my gun on
the dining room table. It was still warm. If it were human, I’d have spit on
it.
My hands were
still shaking.
I had to hold the
doorknob to our bedroom tightly with both hands to keep it from rattling like a
dinner bell. I flung the door open and there she was, wearing one of my old T-shirts,
with one leg hiked over the body pillow I bought her for nights like this when
I didn’t make it home. I paused just for a moment to take her in, lying there
half naked. She always left the bathroom light on when I was gone. Forty years
old, and she still needed a night light. I sat down on the edge of the bed and
pushed her hair back behind her ear. She was something to look at. She was just
as beautiful now, as the day I met her. No. Wait, that’s not true. She was
light years beyond that skinny little nineteen-year-old with the fake ID I met
all those years ago at the Pony. She just got better and better, each
imperfection, scar, or extra pound made her more unique and incredible. What
she considered to be flaws, I considered to be secrets just between us. She was
custom made just for me.
And I was the dumb-fuck
who didn’t deserve her.
She was
everything to me. The reason I had to get out of bed in the morning. The reason
I stayed out ’til all hours of the night handling business. At least that’s
what I told myself. Goddamn, I’m so stupid.
“Baby, wake up.”
She stretched a
little and rolled toward me.
“You’re home
early,” she said without opening her eyes. I cupped the side of her warm cheek,
but it wasn’t my trembling hand on her skin, and tone of voice that scared her.
It was the look on my face when she finally opened her eyes.
“Baby, what’s
wrong,” she said, and sat up with a start. I pushed the comforter back, and
grabbed her hand.
“Come with me,
we don’t have much time.”
She said
something else. Something about our daughter Bobby calling, but I don’t
remember. I led her into the living room and frantically scoured the darkness
for the stereo remote.
“Let me turn on
a light,” she said.
“No, no don’t.
And stay away from the windows.”
“What’s going
on, you’re scaring me,” she said, twisting her hands in the length of the long
oversized T-shirt.
“Don’t be
scared, just give me a second.” I found the remote and clicked on the receiver.
Saxophone bled
out of the speakers.
“… And I … would drive all night again,
just to buy you some shoes … and to …”
I dropped the
remote to the floor, pulled her to me, and held my wife against me like my life
depended on it.
It did.
She could smell
the whiskey and cigarette stink on me, and normally she’d let me have it, but
the smell of fear coming off me must have been more powerful.
“What’s going
on?” she asked again, her head on my shoulder, her voice hushed now. The tears
were starting to come for both of us.
“It all went
wrong,” I told her.
“How wrong?”
“The kinda wrong
you don’t get to walk away from.”
She squeezed her
arms around me tighter and we danced. We danced like kids on the beach under a
canopy of stars. We danced like the last night of summer before life forced its
burdens and responsibilities on us. We danced slow and close like we were the
last two people on earth. I buried my face in her long chestnut hair and
breathed in the cinnamon and burnt sugar. She always smelled like that. She
smelled like home. I hoped I’d never forget that smell, but I knew I would.
“Tell Bobby her
old man loves her. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her …”
“Shhhh,” she
said, and kissed me quiet. Finally my hands stopped shaking. I drank up every
bit of her. Every detail.
We both jumped
with the first bang on the front door, but not the second time when they kicked
it in.
“Let go of the
woman and get down on the floor!”
We danced.
“Last warning!
Let the girl go, and get down on the fucking ground now!”
No. I don’t
think I will.
The last night
of summer.
Cinnamon and
burnt sugar.
I’ll never let
go of the girl.
