Martin pats worrisomely at his forehead, shining with sweat in the bright dancing hall lights. His handkerchief comes away greasy and moist, and he tucks it back into its pocket, mortified despite the fact that this is not at all unusual for him anymore. In the privacy of his own home he dries his bald head without a second thought to propriety. In the dance hall, however, he is one of many, many, uncomfortable bachelors trying to appeal to a lady—any lady.
He isn’t exactly a catch, and he knows it. He doesn’t need to look at his reflection in the large gilt-framed mirrors scattered about the room to know that his face is round and red, his jowls puffing out of his collar. The suit is informal but it is choking him anyway. The gray wool is too heavy for a room full of excited adults; the sweat is running down his back. He does not dare take off the jacket that is both his torment and his shield.
“Hello, Martin. Ready to sweep some lucky lady off her feet?”
Martin turns and nearly misses the speaker—George McArthur is a diminutive five foot three. It is only out of habit that Martin drops his gaze to find him; when they first began working together he had spent entire conversations searching for the source of the voice.
“I suppose so. If she’ll have me,” Martin says slowly.
“Nonsense. She’d be a fool not to,” says George pleasantly, lightly, giving Martin a friendly pat on the arm.
Martin promptly resents it.
There’s no reason to be jealous. George is hardly attractive himself, even compared to Martin. Besides his height, he began graying in his twenties, and now long white threads dull his hair to a muddy sort of mess. To Martin’s grotesque fascination, he sees that George is still trying to grow a beard. ‘He becomes more and more like David the Gnome each day,’ thinks Martin, picturing a tall red cone upon the little man’s head. ‘David the Gnome was also bald,’ reminds his mutinous conscience. Martin chooses to ignore it.
George is rising to his toes, teetering in his good shoes, trying to peer through the crowd. “They ought to be starting soon. Do you see her?”
Martin looks anxiously toward the microphone at the front of the hall before he can pretend nonchalance. “Not yet.”
George drops back to his heels with a little huff, like an annoyed hedgehog. “It’s almost seven.”
“Perhaps she’s had an emergency,” says Martin, giving voice to the worry that has taken up residence in his belly. “Perhaps she won’t be coming.”
“Do you think so?” George is again trying to see the front of the hall, his own upset obvious. “I hope not. She can’t not come.”
To their great relief, a smattering of applause begins and spreads throughout the hell. She is here.
Eliza Quinn ascends the stage, blushing and smiling shyly at the applause. Martin’s hands drive together like drums, striving to be the loudest, the proudest. Her cheeks still pink, Eliza motions for silence and both Martin and George immediately stop their applause, long before the rest of the room dies down.
“Thank you, everyone, for coming to the town of Fenimore Flats’ Annual Tomato Harvest Ho-Down!” she begins with genuine enthusiasm and gratitude. In the room of 150 people, only she looks the part of a small farm town ho-down attendee. The Quinns are a family of dirty blonds, and Eliza is no different, her ashy hair pulled away from her face by bobby pins. She wears a red gingham dress cut from a modern pattern, but the white lace collar gives her the distinct look of a young girl who has not yet realized that she has become a young woman. She stands out even more against the backdrop of women looking to impress: high heels, low-cut blouses, and short, stylish skirts abound. Yet she could never dress as they do; she hasn’t the temperament for it, nor the form.
Martin is, as always, enchanted.
“Tonight we have some very special bands here to play for us,” Eliza continues somewhat nervously, voice growing stronger as she goes forward. “Several local bands from across the county are here to play for us later, including the Flat Hats, Mona and the Daisies, and, er, The Fury of Madame Bovary. Also, the high school orchestra is here to play the Stars and Stripes for us to begin the night. Mr. Underhill?” Another burst of applause, and the hall directs its attention to the cluster of students taking up a corner of the hall. Their conductor, Mr. Underhill, raises his arm, waits, and then begins.
George’s hand is on his heart, tears coming quickly to pool in his eyes. He never fails to find meaning in these little ceremonies. He snuffles through Sousa’s opus and doesn’t seem to notice as the partyers in the hall begin to slowly drift away toward the newly unveiled buffet covered in fresh tomatoes. He squeezes Martin’s arm with his free hand, truly moved—and truly preventing any escape. Martin is searching the crowd for Eliza’s pale head, but his opportunity to reach her before George can insert himself has been lost.
Resigned, Martin waits through the rest of the piece, forcing an untroubled expression, even when the brass go in and out of tune. George is puffing into a handkerchief when Martin sees a flash of red gingham. With a brief excuse about being thirsty, he pulls away from the tiny man and makes for Eliza Quinn.
It is not Eliza; another woman thought to be ironic in a long plaid skirt. Martin sights blond hair—everywhere. Some are obviously from a bottle, though the town is full of fair-skinned, light-haired men and women. Her faintly darker coloring is lost among them. He finds himself despairing of ever finding her such a crowd.
Then George’s keening chuckle reaches his ears from beneath the sway of the orchestra’s rendition of ‘Take the “A” Train.’ Martin’s vision narrows, spiraling inward to the exclusion of all else: between the dancers, beyond the buffet. Eliza’s elbow is caught by George’s stubby little hand, bringing her around to face him. He is introducing himself, reminding her of the last time they met, ever so briefly. She is nodding, in a way that could just be politeness, or cool recognition. George barrels ahead—complimenting, cajoling, ingratiating himself.
Martin believes at first that his vision is zooming in on them supernaturally; it is only as he clears the last knot of people in his way that he realizes he has crossed the room. His forehead has gone chilly with a fresh sheen of sweat; even his swaddled torso feels cooler. His limbs do not feel like they are his own.
It is Eliza who glances up first, in her nervous way. She looks as though she would like to acknowledge him, but she cannot decide how best to greet him. George has not stopped talking.
It is up to Martin to break in. “Good evening, Ms. Quinn. George.” He tinges the final name with disapproval.
She smiles awkwardly, “Good evening to you as well.”
“Oh, Martin. Hello. Nice to see you again. I thought you’d gone to speak to Theresa,” George interrupts, the slightest hint of suggestion in his tone.
“No,” Martin replies coolly. “I was trying to find our hostess to congratulate her on coordinating such a fine event.” He turns his full attention on Eliza, even bobbing a slight bow in her direction. Her cheeks light from within, as she stammers a thank you.
“Well, of course. Eliza is a marvel,” George says coyly, using the familiar. It nettles.
“The Harvest Dance is no small feat,” insists Martin.
“Nothing she cannot handle.”
Ms. Quinn is rosy-cheeked and embarrassed, perhaps more so than when she was on stage. She says nothing.
Martin is keenly aware of their bodies, of where they stand. They are a small, triangular island in the ocean of the hall. Martin himself is bolt upright, every muscled tightened and waiting. No doubt his thinning scalp is blazing, no doubt there will be talk as there is always talk. He does not think of that, only of the rigidity of his spine; the tense balls of his fists. George is a supplicant, his face upturned—even she is taller than him—to her beautiful face. He is dutifully ignoring Martin as best he can, clutching Eliza’s thin, pale hand in his meaty one. Her poor, frail body is angled between them, her eyes darting from one to the other like a startled doe. She cannot tell who is friend and who is foe. She has been cornered in the midst of the largest public space in Fenimore Flats.
George sees Eliza’s distressed eyes darting to meet Martin’s again and again. With a leering mouth, he leans toward her and she is forced to duck her face toward him to hear the words he whispers in her ear.
A red filter comes across Martin’s vision. Too far. George has gone too far. Martin’s muscles twitch and flex, writhing for permission to rend and to tear. The little man has overstepped his boundaries, has violated Eliza’s space and become far too intimate with a woman he barely knows. Any moment he will cross the distance between them and—
“Marty?” Eliza looks up at him in shock, her eyes wide and watery. “Is this true?”
“Is what true?” he asks testily, barely maintaining his control.
“George says… George says…”
“I believe I must take my leave now, Ms. Quinn. Mr. Quinn.” George says all too pleasantly, squeezing Eliza’s hand one last time and then stepping away. “See you at work, old chap,” he offers Martin, and disappears below the shoulders of the dancers.
Eliza is looking at Martin in absolute horror now, her lips curling apart—wide enough to engulf his throbbing heart. The eerie strains of “Why Don’t You Do Right” cast the room in sickening, copper hues. “George says you are in love with me.”
How can he possibly reply to this?
“Yes, sister, dearest. I am.”