Coming of Age - A Universal Dance
By Sally Armour Wotton
First published in We The Storytellers bys Wipf and Stock, 2013
This story is also available on the Story Soup Enterprises Podcast
First published in We The Storytellers bys Wipf and Stock, 2013
This story is also available on the Story Soup Enterprises Podcast
“We are the Cadillac of the dance industry", our manager, Mr. Hendricks, was fond of saying. I glanced around the studio with its worn floors and dingy wallpaper thinking we looked more like an old bike with a flat tire.
It was 1960 in Tulsa Oklahoma and jobs were scarce, particularly for me, a 20-year-old university drop out, away from home with absolutely no work experience. The newspaper ad stated, “No experience necessary, training provided”. I thought, why not, I can dance, how hard can it be to teach it? They gave me six weeks of training, unpaid of course, and a starter roster of three students. I was required to see that those students renewed their contracts and to somehow acquire more students – from the inactive files, friends of the present students, the streets, wherever. But at least I was employed, albeit broke.
My first payday was two weeks away and salary advances were out of the question, but I headed up the stairs to Mr. Hendricks's office hoping he would make an exception.
Mr. Hendricks, or Bob as we were supposed to call him when students weren't around, was in. I tapped with my fingertips on the partially open door.
"Ahh . . . come in Sally, come in. My door is always open. You were miles away in the meeting today; we notice those things you know. It was a particularly important meeting too."
I eyed his enormous “Cadillac of the industry” oak desk and inhaled the fumes of his new broadloom.
“Well, I had sort of a headache this morning and ___”
"You're not quite coming along with the sales as we had hoped. Thought you wanted to be an actress. Well, selling contracts is your chance to practice. If you want to hear how it’s done, listen in on James's renewal sessions, he's a pro, or better yet, Corrine's. I flipped on the intercom the other day during her interview with old Benson. It's her timing, you know. She came on to him, of course, not too much, just enough. Told him she couldn't get him out of her mind, mentioned her money problems and her insensitive husband, said the only thing that keeps her going is the thought of seeing him every Wednesday. I could hear he was eating it up."
"Yes but, well, the thing is Mr. Hendricks … Bob ___"
"A while back she told a guy, who was determined not to renew, that if she didn't get another contract from him he could watch her jump out the third floor window right there and then. She had the tears, the whole bit. This is only her second year in the business and she's really raking it in. We give you the opportunity; it's up to you to get the commissions. Like I said in today's meeting, timing is all-important, when to put the screws in. It doesn't look like you're making enough to cover your dry cleaning. Your sales are gonna have to improve, you know, and soon."
I shrugged, nodded and backed out. I could feel my face burning as I thought of my earlier attempt at sales. Poor Mr. Romney. I sat him down in the little sales office and said, “The tango will change your life, Mr. Romney. The steps are a little tricky but once you master them your wife will be so thrilled she’ll want a second honeymoon in Brazil”. He burst into tears. How was I to know that his wife had just run off with a Spanish waiter taking his money, his car and his Cocker Spaniel? I felt so sorry for him I gave him my last twenty dollars. I’d never sell a contract; it just wasn’t in me and I wondered why I had even considered approaching Mr. Hendricks for help.
However, I was a dreamer and had great hopes for my future. From the age of ten I'd known that I wanted to be an actress - not just a "performer" in California, but a real actress in New York. I felt destined for a higher purpose than “merely” housewife or businesswoman. I knew I was headed for New York City and a career in the theatre . . . eventually. But the more timid side of me whispered, " I've never even visited New York City; I don't feel ready for such a big step just yet." So, this first job would give me some experience coping on my own.
As I began to imagine decorating my own New York City apartment, an image of my mother came into my mind. Despite our more than usual age difference, she was in her forty’s when I was born; I couldn’t remember when she and I had not been each other's best friends. I could picture her now opening my most recent letter, her face lighting up when she read I'd found a job at last. Then I saw that right eyebrow of hers beginning to arch as she read what job I'd found. I could almost feel her thinking; "We had one of those dance studios in Peoria. The papers said it closed after the manager made off with the funds."
I wondered what she was telling my aunt and the neighbors when they asked about me. Probably something like, "She's . . . teaching dance" and then leave them with the impression I was giving tap lessons to underprivileged children. Mother's fertile imagination came to her aid in times of need. She had such confidence and went after her goals with little hesitation. She no doubt wondered why I thought I needed this Tulsa side trip on my way to Broadway. Mother would, of course, find some money for me if I asked, but she didn't have it to spare and though I couldn’t imagine her saying it, I felt she would be disappointed in me if I asked for help. I sighed. “If I can't manage my life in Tulsa, how will I ever cope in New York City?"
The other dance instructors were all accomplished performers, almost acrobatic, but James stood out among them. He had the facial bone structure of a model, was slender and compact and could do four rotations on a spin. One and a half was my limit. My 6’2” frame, though shapely, could never get itself together to go in one direction longer than that. James's students were in awe of him, so grateful for the bit of glamour dancing with him gave to their lives, that they presented him with elaborate gifts – designer shirts, fine leather gloves, real gold cufflinks - all of which he accepted as his due. He and his student, Mrs. Dunkirk, twirled over to where I was standing and James introduced us.
“You both look wonderful in motion together”, I said.
“Wait til you see young James in motion in the little two seater convertible I’m giving him. We can dance all over town in that.”
James looked genuinely surprised. His face took on a kind of Christmas morning glow as he waltzed Mrs. D. back into the ballroom to the refrains of number 17 on the sound system. Mrs. Dunkirk’s floral patterned dress swung out as her step quickened and her nearly three hundred pounds actually seemed to float.
As the weeks went by, my dance skills improved but my sales technique did not. I tried calling the inactive files but they all gave me excuses for not renewing. I thought I’d convinced Mr. Bamberry to rejoin but then he began to talk about his asthma so I suggested he take up golf to add fresh air to his exercise … and he did. He thanked me profusely for the advice and asked me to remove his name from our files.
We were paid a base salary plus commission on our contract sales. The base salary would just about cover food and bus fare but not rent and clothing. Clothing is an important factor in the dance world, especially for the women. We were expected to wear a new, glamorous outfit every Friday to impress the students at the weekly afternoon party, or cotillion as it was called. I had borrowed money from James to pay the rent and had stretched my imagination to its limits to come up with ways to acquire fancy clothes.
It was Friday, the end of my third week, and Cotillion Day. I was free until second period so I stood and watched the others while the music eased me into my dream world. Daydreams had always played an important role in my life. They provided a world where I was the object of admiration and respect - where I could live up to being my mother's daughter. As waltz turned to tango my imagination swept the studio away and the faded ballroom became a Broadway theatre. In my fantasy I moved gracefully forward to deliver the impassioned speech that would end the act to thunderous applause.
As I took my imaginary bow, gold and green shoes glided into view and burst the bubble of my daydream.
It was break time and I made my way back to the lounge where the other instructors were getting coffee. I looked at the four of us women; a quarter to two in the afternoon and there we were in this scruffy little lounge, with its beat-up over stuffed furniture and ancient linoleum floor, drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups and wearing low cut satin dresses and high heeled shoes. I sipped my coffee carefully. Those cups had a tendency to leak. I envied Babette, a size two, her chiffon dress accentuating her delicacy. I considered myself slender at size 10 but felt like an overweight giraffe standing near her. And there was cherub faced Diane with her “naturally flat tummy” – I could tell she wore a girdle. Too bad James was not there. He was comfortable to be with and seemed genuinely interested in my, as yet, uneventful life. The others were fascinating to listen to - their lives filled with exotic travel and promiscuous sex, compared with my none-of-either. I was embarrassed to show my inexperience so I always joined the others in laughter or with a sage expression wondering all the while what they were talking about.
The break ended and like a school bell Corrine called out, "It's bird act time." Apparently, she had been a stripper years ago and her gimmick was a costume of feathers.
The slow, slow, quick, quick, slow of the fox trot greeted us as we opened the staff room door. We all followed Corrine into the ballroom, smiling and looking about for our students. Corrine's puffy, over-made-up eyes spotted her new student. She quickstepped up behind him, wrapped her arms around his middle and murmured, "This is our song, honey." The music changed from fox trot to jazz and Corrine broke into a solo. She was at least fifty, but boy could she dance.
I was booked with Mr. Humphries and the sucking sound of rubber galoshes being pulled from oxfords told me he had arrived. As usual, on Cotillion day the studio staff had filled the punch bowl, dimmed the lights and "formally" (over the loud speaker) invited the students to a ball. The male teachers all wore dark suits, white shirts and ties and each of us women were in four-inch heels, a glued-together hairstyle and yet another cocktail dress.
The wardrobe requirements were becoming a serious problem for me so; on this occasion I had carefully avoided the punch, smokers and anything that looked sticky. But I dropped my guard for just a moment. I should have seen it coming. Poor Mr. Humphries, a short man with a large head and thick graying hair couldn't walk (never mind dance) across the room without stumbling. He was headed my way with a cup of punch in each hand. He gestured for me to sit down and I felt the sudden sensation of icy cold wetness splash onto my cheek and for an instant numb my right shoulder. I watched in horror while the pale yellow satin of my dress turned burnt orange. The liquid ran down my right thigh and dripped off the hem onto my cream linen shoe.
Mr. Humphries stammered, "Oh dear, I'm so sorry. That was typically clumsy of me. Let me get you another glass of punch or would you prefer a cookie or maybe a sit-down?"
"It’s all right Mr. Humphries”, I said. “I'll just nip into the staff room and dab these stains with soda water. You get yourself another glass of punch and I'll be back in a flash."
The stains were paler from the soda water wash, but were now stiff and definitely permanent. I had planned to take this dress back within the "I've changed my mind" time limit for a refund… but not now.
I returned to the ballroom to find Mr. Humphries chugging around in little circles with one of the new female students. With everyone dressed up and the dusty chandelier lights dimmed the ballroom was at its best. The old red velvet drapes pulled closed against the sunlight looked almost elegant. I watched the determination on the student’s faces break into pure joy as a graceful move was accomplished.
The more experienced students were like extras on a movie set, swirling around in sound and motion. Even little Miss Collier seemed to come out of her shyness on the dance floor, holding her head high and smiling directly at her partner and those she passed. When she waltzed her undulating movement was like a conductor’s baton come to life and she seemed to know it. I had the feeling that the effort and expense were worth it to all of them because the weekly cotillions were their daydreams come true.
On the Monday morning of my fourth week as a dance instructor, I arrived at the studio to find a phone message in my box. A new student, I hoped, and blithely called the number. A young woman answered,
"Bandolf Finance, how can we help you?"
"Um, this is Sally Armour . . . you were calling?
"Just a moment." I heard a rustle of files. "We are representing The Ms Susannah Dress Shoppe and it appears you have insufficiently funded them with a check, number 38, in the amount of one hundred and twenty three dollars and thirty seven cents. Bad checks of over fifty dollars are a federal offense, you know. But not to worry. We'll give you twenty four hours to make it good."
"Well you see the reason this happened ___"
I heard the click as she hung up the phone. I could hear, see, and feel my heart beating. Great. When I finally get to New York I'll have a record. If only I had learned to type or gained office clerk experience or something. Anything!
Thinking of my impending arrest, I reflected on how my mother handled difficult situations. When she was interviewed for a job she would answer, "Yes, I can do that" about any skills that were required. Then she would stay up for nights in a row reading manuals and teaching herself to type, crochet, drive a tractor - whatever. She believed that if anyone else could do a thing, that was proof that she could do it too. I wanted to be just like her, but I had had none of her brilliance when I was in school, and, as yet, none of her confidence, cleverness or wisdom. The only thing I was really good at was daydreaming and now, I thought, I'd probably end up going to jail. I guessed there would be plenty of time for my specialty there!
I arrived at the studio the next morning after a sleepless night. It was Tuesday, a Mr. Humphries’ day, and he appeared punctually with a big smile as always. We began with the Magic Step (again) and I thought it would indeed be magic if he could execute it just once without stepping on my foot. We attempted a little spin - this man would never dance. From the corner of my eye I kept imagining a burly figure in an overcoat coming to hustle me down to the police station. I needed time for uninterrupted thought, so when the sound system developed hic-ups I nipped into the staff room. It was empty and quiet and I sank into the vinyl sofa. Again, a vision of my mother floated into my mind.
I could picture her sitting at the kitchen table, black coffee in hand. I knew she worried about how I was coping away from home. I breathed deeply and settled back into the sofa cushions, lulled by the hum of the little refrigerator. I began to imagine myself about six months hence on a plane flying to New York City. I smiled as I thought; others have had threatening financial difficulties and found a way to surmount them so I can too.
I went back out to the ballroom, moving in step with the rumba now playing. I sat down next to Mr. Humphries and listened to him as he told me how he was breaking in new shoes for this week's cotillion.
“I love this place,” he said. “I never have been very good at meeting people but here it’s so easy and everyone’s so nice. I would never miss the Friday afternoon parties. I feel …I don’t know… taller and well, really happy afterward. Even the punch is good!”
"Another six months of lessons would improve your dancing enormously," I lied. Then arching my right eyebrow slightly, I asked,
"Did you notice the way Miss Collier was watching you at the last cotillion?"
I held a contract in my hand and he reached into his breast pocket for a pen.
It was 1960 in Tulsa Oklahoma and jobs were scarce, particularly for me, a 20-year-old university drop out, away from home with absolutely no work experience. The newspaper ad stated, “No experience necessary, training provided”. I thought, why not, I can dance, how hard can it be to teach it? They gave me six weeks of training, unpaid of course, and a starter roster of three students. I was required to see that those students renewed their contracts and to somehow acquire more students – from the inactive files, friends of the present students, the streets, wherever. But at least I was employed, albeit broke.
My first payday was two weeks away and salary advances were out of the question, but I headed up the stairs to Mr. Hendricks's office hoping he would make an exception.
Mr. Hendricks, or Bob as we were supposed to call him when students weren't around, was in. I tapped with my fingertips on the partially open door.
"Ahh . . . come in Sally, come in. My door is always open. You were miles away in the meeting today; we notice those things you know. It was a particularly important meeting too."
I eyed his enormous “Cadillac of the industry” oak desk and inhaled the fumes of his new broadloom.
“Well, I had sort of a headache this morning and ___”
"You're not quite coming along with the sales as we had hoped. Thought you wanted to be an actress. Well, selling contracts is your chance to practice. If you want to hear how it’s done, listen in on James's renewal sessions, he's a pro, or better yet, Corrine's. I flipped on the intercom the other day during her interview with old Benson. It's her timing, you know. She came on to him, of course, not too much, just enough. Told him she couldn't get him out of her mind, mentioned her money problems and her insensitive husband, said the only thing that keeps her going is the thought of seeing him every Wednesday. I could hear he was eating it up."
"Yes but, well, the thing is Mr. Hendricks … Bob ___"
"A while back she told a guy, who was determined not to renew, that if she didn't get another contract from him he could watch her jump out the third floor window right there and then. She had the tears, the whole bit. This is only her second year in the business and she's really raking it in. We give you the opportunity; it's up to you to get the commissions. Like I said in today's meeting, timing is all-important, when to put the screws in. It doesn't look like you're making enough to cover your dry cleaning. Your sales are gonna have to improve, you know, and soon."
I shrugged, nodded and backed out. I could feel my face burning as I thought of my earlier attempt at sales. Poor Mr. Romney. I sat him down in the little sales office and said, “The tango will change your life, Mr. Romney. The steps are a little tricky but once you master them your wife will be so thrilled she’ll want a second honeymoon in Brazil”. He burst into tears. How was I to know that his wife had just run off with a Spanish waiter taking his money, his car and his Cocker Spaniel? I felt so sorry for him I gave him my last twenty dollars. I’d never sell a contract; it just wasn’t in me and I wondered why I had even considered approaching Mr. Hendricks for help.
However, I was a dreamer and had great hopes for my future. From the age of ten I'd known that I wanted to be an actress - not just a "performer" in California, but a real actress in New York. I felt destined for a higher purpose than “merely” housewife or businesswoman. I knew I was headed for New York City and a career in the theatre . . . eventually. But the more timid side of me whispered, " I've never even visited New York City; I don't feel ready for such a big step just yet." So, this first job would give me some experience coping on my own.
As I began to imagine decorating my own New York City apartment, an image of my mother came into my mind. Despite our more than usual age difference, she was in her forty’s when I was born; I couldn’t remember when she and I had not been each other's best friends. I could picture her now opening my most recent letter, her face lighting up when she read I'd found a job at last. Then I saw that right eyebrow of hers beginning to arch as she read what job I'd found. I could almost feel her thinking; "We had one of those dance studios in Peoria. The papers said it closed after the manager made off with the funds."
I wondered what she was telling my aunt and the neighbors when they asked about me. Probably something like, "She's . . . teaching dance" and then leave them with the impression I was giving tap lessons to underprivileged children. Mother's fertile imagination came to her aid in times of need. She had such confidence and went after her goals with little hesitation. She no doubt wondered why I thought I needed this Tulsa side trip on my way to Broadway. Mother would, of course, find some money for me if I asked, but she didn't have it to spare and though I couldn’t imagine her saying it, I felt she would be disappointed in me if I asked for help. I sighed. “If I can't manage my life in Tulsa, how will I ever cope in New York City?"
The other dance instructors were all accomplished performers, almost acrobatic, but James stood out among them. He had the facial bone structure of a model, was slender and compact and could do four rotations on a spin. One and a half was my limit. My 6’2” frame, though shapely, could never get itself together to go in one direction longer than that. James's students were in awe of him, so grateful for the bit of glamour dancing with him gave to their lives, that they presented him with elaborate gifts – designer shirts, fine leather gloves, real gold cufflinks - all of which he accepted as his due. He and his student, Mrs. Dunkirk, twirled over to where I was standing and James introduced us.
“You both look wonderful in motion together”, I said.
“Wait til you see young James in motion in the little two seater convertible I’m giving him. We can dance all over town in that.”
James looked genuinely surprised. His face took on a kind of Christmas morning glow as he waltzed Mrs. D. back into the ballroom to the refrains of number 17 on the sound system. Mrs. Dunkirk’s floral patterned dress swung out as her step quickened and her nearly three hundred pounds actually seemed to float.
As the weeks went by, my dance skills improved but my sales technique did not. I tried calling the inactive files but they all gave me excuses for not renewing. I thought I’d convinced Mr. Bamberry to rejoin but then he began to talk about his asthma so I suggested he take up golf to add fresh air to his exercise … and he did. He thanked me profusely for the advice and asked me to remove his name from our files.
We were paid a base salary plus commission on our contract sales. The base salary would just about cover food and bus fare but not rent and clothing. Clothing is an important factor in the dance world, especially for the women. We were expected to wear a new, glamorous outfit every Friday to impress the students at the weekly afternoon party, or cotillion as it was called. I had borrowed money from James to pay the rent and had stretched my imagination to its limits to come up with ways to acquire fancy clothes.
It was Friday, the end of my third week, and Cotillion Day. I was free until second period so I stood and watched the others while the music eased me into my dream world. Daydreams had always played an important role in my life. They provided a world where I was the object of admiration and respect - where I could live up to being my mother's daughter. As waltz turned to tango my imagination swept the studio away and the faded ballroom became a Broadway theatre. In my fantasy I moved gracefully forward to deliver the impassioned speech that would end the act to thunderous applause.
As I took my imaginary bow, gold and green shoes glided into view and burst the bubble of my daydream.
It was break time and I made my way back to the lounge where the other instructors were getting coffee. I looked at the four of us women; a quarter to two in the afternoon and there we were in this scruffy little lounge, with its beat-up over stuffed furniture and ancient linoleum floor, drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups and wearing low cut satin dresses and high heeled shoes. I sipped my coffee carefully. Those cups had a tendency to leak. I envied Babette, a size two, her chiffon dress accentuating her delicacy. I considered myself slender at size 10 but felt like an overweight giraffe standing near her. And there was cherub faced Diane with her “naturally flat tummy” – I could tell she wore a girdle. Too bad James was not there. He was comfortable to be with and seemed genuinely interested in my, as yet, uneventful life. The others were fascinating to listen to - their lives filled with exotic travel and promiscuous sex, compared with my none-of-either. I was embarrassed to show my inexperience so I always joined the others in laughter or with a sage expression wondering all the while what they were talking about.
The break ended and like a school bell Corrine called out, "It's bird act time." Apparently, she had been a stripper years ago and her gimmick was a costume of feathers.
The slow, slow, quick, quick, slow of the fox trot greeted us as we opened the staff room door. We all followed Corrine into the ballroom, smiling and looking about for our students. Corrine's puffy, over-made-up eyes spotted her new student. She quickstepped up behind him, wrapped her arms around his middle and murmured, "This is our song, honey." The music changed from fox trot to jazz and Corrine broke into a solo. She was at least fifty, but boy could she dance.
I was booked with Mr. Humphries and the sucking sound of rubber galoshes being pulled from oxfords told me he had arrived. As usual, on Cotillion day the studio staff had filled the punch bowl, dimmed the lights and "formally" (over the loud speaker) invited the students to a ball. The male teachers all wore dark suits, white shirts and ties and each of us women were in four-inch heels, a glued-together hairstyle and yet another cocktail dress.
The wardrobe requirements were becoming a serious problem for me so; on this occasion I had carefully avoided the punch, smokers and anything that looked sticky. But I dropped my guard for just a moment. I should have seen it coming. Poor Mr. Humphries, a short man with a large head and thick graying hair couldn't walk (never mind dance) across the room without stumbling. He was headed my way with a cup of punch in each hand. He gestured for me to sit down and I felt the sudden sensation of icy cold wetness splash onto my cheek and for an instant numb my right shoulder. I watched in horror while the pale yellow satin of my dress turned burnt orange. The liquid ran down my right thigh and dripped off the hem onto my cream linen shoe.
Mr. Humphries stammered, "Oh dear, I'm so sorry. That was typically clumsy of me. Let me get you another glass of punch or would you prefer a cookie or maybe a sit-down?"
"It’s all right Mr. Humphries”, I said. “I'll just nip into the staff room and dab these stains with soda water. You get yourself another glass of punch and I'll be back in a flash."
The stains were paler from the soda water wash, but were now stiff and definitely permanent. I had planned to take this dress back within the "I've changed my mind" time limit for a refund… but not now.
I returned to the ballroom to find Mr. Humphries chugging around in little circles with one of the new female students. With everyone dressed up and the dusty chandelier lights dimmed the ballroom was at its best. The old red velvet drapes pulled closed against the sunlight looked almost elegant. I watched the determination on the student’s faces break into pure joy as a graceful move was accomplished.
The more experienced students were like extras on a movie set, swirling around in sound and motion. Even little Miss Collier seemed to come out of her shyness on the dance floor, holding her head high and smiling directly at her partner and those she passed. When she waltzed her undulating movement was like a conductor’s baton come to life and she seemed to know it. I had the feeling that the effort and expense were worth it to all of them because the weekly cotillions were their daydreams come true.
On the Monday morning of my fourth week as a dance instructor, I arrived at the studio to find a phone message in my box. A new student, I hoped, and blithely called the number. A young woman answered,
"Bandolf Finance, how can we help you?"
"Um, this is Sally Armour . . . you were calling?
"Just a moment." I heard a rustle of files. "We are representing The Ms Susannah Dress Shoppe and it appears you have insufficiently funded them with a check, number 38, in the amount of one hundred and twenty three dollars and thirty seven cents. Bad checks of over fifty dollars are a federal offense, you know. But not to worry. We'll give you twenty four hours to make it good."
"Well you see the reason this happened ___"
I heard the click as she hung up the phone. I could hear, see, and feel my heart beating. Great. When I finally get to New York I'll have a record. If only I had learned to type or gained office clerk experience or something. Anything!
Thinking of my impending arrest, I reflected on how my mother handled difficult situations. When she was interviewed for a job she would answer, "Yes, I can do that" about any skills that were required. Then she would stay up for nights in a row reading manuals and teaching herself to type, crochet, drive a tractor - whatever. She believed that if anyone else could do a thing, that was proof that she could do it too. I wanted to be just like her, but I had had none of her brilliance when I was in school, and, as yet, none of her confidence, cleverness or wisdom. The only thing I was really good at was daydreaming and now, I thought, I'd probably end up going to jail. I guessed there would be plenty of time for my specialty there!
I arrived at the studio the next morning after a sleepless night. It was Tuesday, a Mr. Humphries’ day, and he appeared punctually with a big smile as always. We began with the Magic Step (again) and I thought it would indeed be magic if he could execute it just once without stepping on my foot. We attempted a little spin - this man would never dance. From the corner of my eye I kept imagining a burly figure in an overcoat coming to hustle me down to the police station. I needed time for uninterrupted thought, so when the sound system developed hic-ups I nipped into the staff room. It was empty and quiet and I sank into the vinyl sofa. Again, a vision of my mother floated into my mind.
I could picture her sitting at the kitchen table, black coffee in hand. I knew she worried about how I was coping away from home. I breathed deeply and settled back into the sofa cushions, lulled by the hum of the little refrigerator. I began to imagine myself about six months hence on a plane flying to New York City. I smiled as I thought; others have had threatening financial difficulties and found a way to surmount them so I can too.
I went back out to the ballroom, moving in step with the rumba now playing. I sat down next to Mr. Humphries and listened to him as he told me how he was breaking in new shoes for this week's cotillion.
“I love this place,” he said. “I never have been very good at meeting people but here it’s so easy and everyone’s so nice. I would never miss the Friday afternoon parties. I feel …I don’t know… taller and well, really happy afterward. Even the punch is good!”
"Another six months of lessons would improve your dancing enormously," I lied. Then arching my right eyebrow slightly, I asked,
"Did you notice the way Miss Collier was watching you at the last cotillion?"
I held a contract in my hand and he reached into his breast pocket for a pen.
