Fiction: One More Dance by Bryan Fox Jr.

Photo Source: Unsplash

Harold shuffled into the living room with old Marine Corps cadences marching through his mind. The pads of his slippers brushed on the hardwood floor; scrapes echoed through his cold tomb of a home. He inhaled the stalwart scent of his steamy Columbian coffee—black. No sugar or cream like the youngsters use.

He hefted open the tired, sun-baked windows. Harold’s muscles strained, but he wasn’t losing that battle, not after the adversity he had been through in days gone by. The nippy, spring morning air kissed his weathered skin as his reward. An invasion of pleasant scents bombarded from outside—His wife, Mildred’s garden in full bloom. His other hand held together his bathrobe knot, making sure it wouldn’t come undone and subject the neighbors to a torture that made the Hanoi March feel like a Sunday stroll.

            He finished the last sip and set down his Veterans of Foreign Wars post mug. Be it age, caffeine, or anxiety, Harold’s hand trembled as he picked up a shadowbox display. His Purple Heart among other medals and “chest candy” gleamed in the morning sun. Harold didn’t want to fight in ‘Nam, but when his birthdate came up, he did his bit and kicked ass, anyway. While he saw things no one should ever have to see, and did things that no one should ever have to do, memories of the war didn’t bug him today.

            Behind all the war memorabilia, sat another battle Harold fought, one he couldn’t hide from in any foxhole. A stack of vinyl records on the shelf begged to pirouette on the turntable once again.

            I’ve got all the best tunes, and I’ve had them a long time. No internet or subscriptions necessary.

            He thumbed through the albums, each image excavating different memories, until he reached the single for Etta James’ “At Last!” Lips quivering, Harold held back the tears as he slid the dark vinyl out of the sleeve. Gingerly, he set it on the spindle of the turntable and spun it up. He took a deep breath and exhaled before he dropped the needle onto the spiral grooves.

            A clomping of high heels interrupted the opening string notes of the song. As if ordered by his drill instructor, Harold about-faced to be greeted by Mildred, in her wedding dress, looking every bit as pretty as she did the day they said their vows. She wore his favorite shade of lipstick. Oh, the things they did on their wedding night, not even the Vietcong would get that out of him.

“Millie?”

            “Hey, handsome.” She waved with her laced glove. “Care to take this gal for another twirl on the dance floor?”

            Harold adjusted the collar of his bathrobe. “Well, I’m not sure my attire is up to par for such an occasion. You think my old dress blues would still fit? I could go—”

            Mildred stepped up to him and pressed a finger to his lips. That glove felt so soft, just as she had done when she cut off his tipsy, overlong groom’s speech and took him to the floor for their first dance.

            I always had a way of ruining a good moment with too much talk!

            She turned and pulled him to the center of the living room. “Sorry, Harry. No time for that. You wanna dance with the girl of your dreams, you’ve gotta do it now.”

“At Last!” was a newer song back then, and was used again, and again, and again at many subsequent weddings they attended. Each time they heard Etta’s voice, it renewed their own commitment for one another, despite the hardships over the years and loved ones lost.

More footsteps brought life into Harold’s home. As they rotated about, each newcomer came into view at the perimeter of the living room.

David, who jumped on that grenade in ‘Nam, wore his Marine dress blues, such a sharp-dressed man. He gave a salute which Harold promptly returned with a tear.

William, who lost a leg at the factory, now stood tall and proud without his cane. His United Auto Workers pin gleamed on one the lapel of his suit, an American flag pin on the other.

Harold’s parents wore their Sunday best. They held baby Harry Junior—Harold and Mildred’s firstborn, who would forever be perfect and innocent.

More and more faces from his past came to adore the enamored couple. They broke into applause as the final notes of the song finished.

Mildred locked her glassy eyes with Harold, a beaming smile on her face. “I missed you, Harry.”

“Happy anniversary, Millie.” He closed his eyes and leaned in for a kiss, locking lips with his beautiful bride. The applause halted. With eyes open, the house stood empty again.

Harold cradled the ceramic urn of Mildred’s ashes, tears streaming from his eyes. “I miss you too, Millie.” He kissed the photo of her in her wedding dress which had been printed onto the urn. Harold shuffled over and set his true love’s earthly remains back on the mantel. “I miss you so much.” He paused between sobs. “But I’ve still got time. Thanks for looking after me, hon.”

Harold closed his eyes and kissed the urn once more. The familiar touch of soft lips caressed his neck. He brushed his neck with his fingers and picked up something slick—the red smear of Mildred’s lipstick.

“Hmm.”

Bryan lives in the outskirts of Las Vegas near the Mt. Charleston area with his wife and two dogs. The two are known to be seen in the wild on writing dates at various coffee shops and bookstores around town. Bryan also hosts an online writer’s group.