Dancing Her Way to Normal

by Victoria Kelly

“Shut the window!” Florence yelped, rubbing her bare arms. “It’s freezing in here.”

            “Just trying to get some ventilation,” Vesta huffed, struggling with the recalcitrant wooden sash.

            “You ninnie! I’ll catch my death of cold.” Florence cinched the bodice of her fancy new Step-In undergarment, flattening her already fashionably boyish figure further. “Anyway, it’s over. Remember?”

            Vesta plopped down on her narrow bed; one of the three iron framed ones crowded into this corner room of Miss Brody’s Boarding House for Young Ladies. Fingering the nubby chenille spread, she wondered if it was over. Really over. A year had passed since the last wave of infection had swept through the devastated country. Still, every night she prayed no fifth wave would come crashing down on them just when they might finally dare let down their guard. Memories of quarantines, empty classrooms, faces shrouded in masks, sickness, and all the deaths still haunted her. For more than three years the invisible killer, Spanish Influenza, had stalked them, bringing normal routines of life to an eerie quiet and mercilessly robbing families of their loved ones. Images of the field next to the church at home flashed in her mind. The lines of white wooden crosses stood as a testament of defeat. Carvers of headstones hadn’t been able to keep up.

            “Come on, it’s 1921.” Florence tossed her head; her shiny dark hair swung in its newly bobbed shape. Dabbing on red lipstick, she blew a coy kiss. “We survived and life goes on.” She slipped on her dancing dress, twirling around. The strands of crystal beads shimmered even under the dim overhead bulb.

Watching her cousin transform from secretary into flapper, Vesta’s lips gathered into a tight line as her mouth filled with the bitter taste of jealousy. She picked at the hem of the cotton dress her mama had made her, embarrassingly plain by comparison, wondering how in the world Florence could afford such a luxury. She pressed a fist to her mouth, preventing the mean-spirited words gathering in her throat from escaping. Florence didn’t seem to care any more about the promises they’d made.

The three cousins had agreed to stick together. Only in solidarity had they been able to convince their parents to let them escape their farm community in North Louisiana. The years after World War I were still tough for dirt farmers there, eking out a living in the forgotten land sandwiched between the rich alluvial plains of southern Louisiana and the piney forests of Arkansas. But even in an isolated place like Claiborne Parish, whispers of the women’s suffrage movement, the end of wartime restrictions, and the first glimpses of a modern life had caught the imagination of girls hoping for something more. The cousins had begged their parents for a chance to train and work as teachers in the big city. Shreveport, a small port city on the Red River an hour away, hardly counted as one compared to a real city like Dallas much farther west. And yet, it still dangled the hope of opportunities beyond their wildest dreams.

But here they were on a Saturday night, each going their separate ways, their pledge of fealty to stick together as valuable as last year’s Sears and Roebuck Wish Book. Dutiful Ruth had gone home to the country with Cousin Ben for the weekend as she always did. In her high-necked dress with the lace collar, her back would be straight, and her unpolished hands folded in her lap, when she sat in the 3rd pew of the Methodist Church next to her mama and daddy tomorrow morning. The only rebelliousness she dared muster were limited to a demure smile she’d aim right at shy Henry Wilson or the dramatic slowness she adopted dropping her $1.00 into the church collection plate sure to make those around her gawk.

Vesta watched as Florence transformed into her alter persona, Flossie, the girl who slipped away into the dark, smoke-filled jazz joint down on the riverfront. How stupid she was to pin any hope on Florence, who had already disappointed her when she’d bolted from the teachers’ school to take the first secretarial job she’d found. Vesta knew if she’d done something like that her daddy would have come straightaway and fetched her home. However, Uncle Warren, Florence’s daddy, was sickly and Aunt Dorothy, her mama, had her hands full with youngins.

“That pouty look’s gonna ruin your pretty face.” Florence winked, pulling her throw around her delicate shoulders.

Vesta shrugged off the irritation that had settled around her like a scratchy blanket. “Well, aren’t you just the bees’ knees.”

Florence checked her image in the mirror before turning to Vesta. “Y’all have fun, but don’t wait up for me.”

“But you know curfew is 11:00 on Saturdays.” Vesta frowned. “Doors will be locked.”

“There’s more than one way to skin the cat,” Florence whispered, pulling a key from her beaded clutch.

“Wha?” Vesta gasped.

Florence put the tip of her red polished finger to her lips, winking. “If you’re good, maybe one day I’ll share it with you.” She smiled and swept out of the room leaving a trail of rose scent in her wake. Vesta hurried to the window in spite of herself. A shiny roadster was parked below, its white rimmed tires bright in the dusk of twilight. A broad-shouldered man in a fancy suit held Florence’s elbow, guiding her into the car. Vesta watched until the taillights disappeared down the street, her breath clouding the windowpane. Unsettled by her lack of conviction, she couldn’t stop ruminating. Was Florence brave or a fool?

Vesta set her jaw and lifted her chin, determined to shake off her soured mood. She’d had her own reasons for staying here instead of going to the country. The weekly dances sponsored by the American Legion were the talk of the town and she’d missed dancing for too long. She was tired of being careful, avoiding crowds, letting life pass her by. She paused, glancing at herself in the mirror. A patch of freckles dotted her fair complexion. Tilting her head, she wondered how her strawberry blonde hair might look in a bob. Her dress with its empire waistline was old-fashioned compared to Florence’s loose frock. But then, so was the curve of her bosom and hips. At least her mama finally had relented and agreed to raise the hemline. Vesta smiled at her new Mary Janes with their double straps, clicking the low heels of the perfect dance shoes. She grabbed her sweater and went to find her friends.

They were waiting in the small parlor downstairs. Tapping her toes, Faye fingered the locket hanging on the thin chain just below her throat. Mable thumbed a copy of the newspaper. They looked up as Vesta entered. “Well, it’s about time.” Mable raised her brows.

“Did you see Florence?” Faye gushed. “My goodness, she looked like a movie star.”

Mable folded her paper, shooting Vesta a knowing look.

“And that gentleman in the fancy clothes with that fine new Model T.” Faye’s eyes lit up as she pressed her hands to her chest.

“Quite the dandy.” Vesta sighed, shaking her head.

Mable scrunched her nose. “More like huckster.”

“Huh?” asked Faye. “What was he selling?”

Mable and Vesta looked at each other and giggled.

“Hopefully nothing Florence wants to buy.” Mable picked up her shawl. “We should be going.” She paused, giving them the once-over.

“What?” asked Vesta.

“Just checking,” mumbled Mable.

“For what?” asked Faye.

Mable frowned. “Don’t be naïve. There will be spies at the dance hall watching to be sure we uphold our proper patriotic duty.”

“Duty?” Faye asked.

“As new teachers we’re constantly under inspection,” Mable grumbled. “We must dress properly and conduct ourselves as ladies above reproach.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Come on, it’s Saturday,” Vesta scoffed.

“Don’t be fooled.” Mable’s voice hardened. “It’s not enough that those high and mighty administrators control the textbooks, filling them with their warped patriotic fever. They aim to become self-appointed dictators over our private lives too!”

“What in the world are you talking about?” Faye asked.

“Didn’t you see those new policies? They’ll be checking on whether we go to church, vote, even what kind of hairstyles are allowed.” Mable’s voice raised, as her hands settled on her hips. “And don’t even think of getting married or they’ll sack you immediately.”

“You’ve been reading all those stories about the fights the teachers’ unions are having. That’s happening far away from here.” Vesta rested a hand on Mable’s arm. “Please, can’t we just go and have some fun?” Mable’s words still troubled her, especially compared to what Florence was allowed to get away with.

“You’re right,” Mable sighed. “We deserve some fun.”

Faye opened the front door. “Let’s go!”

They pulled their wraps close against the cooling March breeze, as they walked the several blocks toward the dance hall. Cars trundled past them, laughter spilling from couples squeezed into the seats. Vesta picked her way along the rutted street, worrying her new shoes might get dirty. Floating on the night air, music greeted them before they even reached their destination. They paused across the street on the dark corner, watching as men streamed into the dance hall ablaze with lights. From the opened doors and windows, the clattering of feet could be heard amidst the vibrant chords of ragtime music.

Faye froze. “Are you sure we can go? I don’t see any girls.”

“Don’t be silly,” Mable said. “Who will all those gents dance with?”

Vesta clutched at her sweater, her stomach churning. So many people, but not a mask in sight. A shiver ran down her spine. The crowd looked both frightening and shockingly normal. Part of her wanted to run back to the boarding house, but the beat of the music beckoned her.

Mable cocked her head, waiting. Vesta smiled then nodded. They linked arms and crossed the street. The line of men parted allowing them to join the flow toward the entrance. The raucous music grew louder with each step they took. Inside, a humid heat radiated off bodies packed closely together. A yeasty smell of sweat mingled in a cloud of cigarette smoke and perfume. Enveloped in all this, her body tingled as her senses were assaulted. Mable tugged her arm, leading them to an open space along the side wall. Hypnotized by the crescendo of ragged rhythms pounded by the band, Vesta swooned. Her body was pulled in too many directions. It was only moments before eager young men invited them into the frenzied dancing.

All around her, the crowd wobbled as if intoxicated, trying to master the new dance called the Shimmy. Vesta’s shoulders trembled as she dared join in. Emboldened by the eager smile of the red-faced guy dancing with her, she closed her eyes, allowing the music to course through her. Her right shoulder wiggled, then her left. Opening her eyes, she saw others raising their hands. Joining in, she raised both of hers as the mob shuddered in unison until the punctuating note of the saxophone ended the song.

Just then, a hand tapped the shoulder of her partner. He exhaled loudly, hanging his head as he stepped away. Another man with penetrating brown eyes took his place. Vesta blushed at his warm smile. Uninterrupted for several songs, their bodies found an easy rhythm mirroring each other. Each time his strong hands cradled her close at the waist or spun her around, her breath caught. Then, as a new song began, several couples in the center of the room drew everyone’s attention. Their fast-paced swirling was a hallmark of the Texas Tommy dance. Her partner winked, extending his hand. Before she knew it, she was spinning faster than she could have imagined possible. Those on the sidelines began to stomp and chant, louder and louder, until the building shook like the earthquakes she’d read about in faraway places. Just when she feared she might launch through the window and soar into the night sky, his strong hands brought her close. He dipped her so deeply her hair almost touched the floor. When he lifted her back to standing, they were both panting. Retightening the pins in her hair, she stared at him, stunned, her mouth open.

“I could use some air. You?” He wiped his glistening brow with his handkerchief.

She nodded, following him. He handed the attendant a dime and grabbed two bottles from the box on the way out. The cool night air was refreshing as he guided her to a bench near the front entrance, far enough from the music to talk. They sipped their Coca-Colas in silence.

“I’m Charles.” He extended his hand. “Cook.”

“Vesta Robinson,” she said shaking his.

“I haven’t seen you here before.”

“It’s my first time.” She was glad she’d come. She stole a glance at him as he sipped his drink. He was about her height, yet his strong hands and arms had made him seem bigger on the dance floor.

“Are you new in town?”

“Oh, no. Been here about two years.” She shrugged. “Just go home to the country most weekends.”

“Why not this week?”

“I’ve been hearing about these dances.” She crossed her ankles, smoothing her dress with her hand. “Thought it was time.”

“Time for?”

Her finger traced the fancy bottle lettering of Coca-Cola. “For things to get back to normal, I guess.” She stole a look at him.

“Normal?” He leaned forward with his arms resting on his thighs, watching her. “And what exactly might that mean to a pretty young lady such as yourself?”

She took a sip, hoping in the dark he couldn’t see the flush of heat spreading from neck to her cheeks. As a car cruised by, the distinctive sound of its aoogha horn pierced the night. She chewed her lip, trying to figure out what to say. Florence called her a scaredy-cat for her caution, but the world had been turned upside down for so long, it was hard to trust the bad times were over. Masks and rules about proper distancing had left people feeling awkward and alone. Her generation, eager young adults, too often acted instead like foolish children on the grammar school playground. “I don’t rightly know,” she mumbled, hating how unsure of herself she felt.

“Well, now, I beg to differ.” He smiled, his voice kind. “Expect you do.”

“But you don’t know me.” She lifted her head, staring at him. “We’ve only just met.”

“Pardon me for being so forward, but there seems to be a lot of thinking going on behind those blue eyes.” He stared at her, his eyes were serious, not mocking.

“It’s all so confusing.” She drew a long breath and exhaled. “The world seems to be changing so fast.”

He nodded, listening instead of correcting her or lecturing her like the principal at the school or her brothers and her father did. His kind eyes encouraged her to continue.

“Growing up on a farm in the middle of nowhere, I dreamed of coming to a city.” She looked away, savoring the cool night air. “And now I have fancy electric lights, a flushing toilet down the hall, even a paying job as a teacher. There’s a library downtown full of more books than I could ever read. The war restrictions are ending. Everyone seems so excited.” She shrugged, her hands splaying open in her lap.

He looked at her expectantly.

“But it’s so confusing.” She shook her head.

“How so?”

“All the fever over patriotism. We’re not just celebrating the war being over, but making all these rules about how we’re supposed to judge others, shut them out, punish them, if they’re different, have ideas we don’t see eye to eye on. Yet, at the same time, it seems folks want to rush on, just having fun, thinking only about themselves. Pretending everything is peachy keen.”

“There’s a lot that’s not right. Unfortunately, that’s the way things seem to be going.”

“But didn’t we learn anything from this awful war and pandemic?” Her chest tightened as she spoke. “Throughout history haven’t we always survived by sticking together? For the last few years, we’ve been hidden behind masks, afraid of getting too close, missed all those times together in church, at the movies, dances like this. Shouldn’t all that loneliness teach us we need each other?”

He nodded, holding her gaze.

“It’s just that the world seems all topsy turvy. We used to find comfort and protection by coming together. Then the pandemic made us believe we were only safe apart.”

“Ah, I’m starting to see. Does normal mean returning to feeling safe around others?”

“Sure.” She remembered the mix of excitement and trepidation she’d felt tonight. “But not just safe, something we desire.” She released the breath she’d been holding. “That instead of fighting each other, we build bonds with each other. Make our community better.”

He chuckled.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“No ma’am.” He grinned. “Just recollecting on how this ladies’ suffrage movement is a good and timely thing.”

“And why is that?” She narrowed her eyes.

“Because smart ladies such as yourself might just change the world.”

“I’m just a teacher.” She shrugged, bowing her head.

“And teachers open minds.”

She thought about all the contradictions. Women like Florence were cutting their hair, tossing their corsets, daring to break the rules. Yet teachers were under stricter scrutiny and control. “Only if they’re brave,” she whispered.

“Let’s see.” He closed his eyes, holding his finger to his temple. “The best protection any woman can have is—”

“Courage.” A slow smile softened her face. “How do you know that?”

“Read that quote by Miss Cady Stanton in the paper myself.” His eyes twinkled. “And you, Miss Robinson, are not only beautiful, but smart and brave.