Free Dead Man Dancing by Marcia Talley

it will be a priceless advertisement for J & K. That is our payback. That is our hope.’
    Hutch stood up, took Ruth’s hand, and pulled her to her feet. ‘This is all very flattering, of course, and exciting. But, it’s been a long day, and I think we’ll need to sleep on it.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ Ruth tossed over her shoulder as Hutch put his arm around her and led her out the door.
    Paul and I said our goodbyes, and followed them out to the coat rack.
    As Paul held my coat and I eased my arms into the sleeves, I heard Ruth say, ‘Somebody had better tell me what to do.’

Eight
    A s I thought about the weeks afterward, I found that I tended to identify them by the dances we studied.
    The first, Waltz Week, was all about Ruth, waltzing as we were to her tune.
    Cha-cha Week, the fourth one after Thanksgiving, found me multitasking – Christmas shopping, decorating, cooking, cleaning and babysitting for my grandkids while Emily and Dante managed pre-Christmas promotionals designed to lure new members into Spa Paradiso.
    A year’s membership? The perfect gift.
    Gained weight during the holidays? Get rid of it, fast. New Year’s resolution to get back into shape? Our trainers can help.
    Rumba Week began normally enough until the
Shall We Dance?
bombshell exploded at our feet. The next day, Tuesday, not long before Christmas, I telephoned Ruth several times to find out what she’d decided, but her assistant at Mother Earth told me Ruth was out.
    At four fifty, I dropped Chloe off at J & K for her ballet lesson and got the answer to my question. When Chloe and I walked in, Ruth was totally wrapped up in a private lesson with Jay who was wearing his trademark black pants and a maroon shirt like a second skin. I hung Chloe’s coat on a hook near the door, and the two of us stood on the sidelines watching.
    Chloe tugged on the hem of my sweater. ‘That’s Aunt Ruth.’
    â€˜Indeed, it is.’
    â€˜She’s doing the rumba,’ Chloe informed me sagely.
    â€˜That’s true, too.’ If the steps hadn’t been a dead give-away, Ruth was the complete rumba picture, down to green tights under a kicky miniskirt with a beaded hem that flicked around her thighs as she moved.
    We watched for a while as Chloe’s classmates began to arrive for ballet.
    â€˜I want to learn ballroom,’ Chloe said. ‘I want to be on TV.’
    My god, I thought, does everyone want to be on TV?
    â€˜Can’t you be on TV dancing ballet?’ I asked my granddaughter.
    Chloe turned her wide, bright eyes on me. ‘Nooooh,’ she said. Rough translation:
Duh
,
Grandma
. ‘My teacher says ballet is excellent preparation for ballroom dancing.’
    â€˜It is?’
    â€˜Uh huh. You learn to do lifts and things, like on TV.’
    â€˜But don’t you need a partner for ballroom, Chloe?’
    â€˜Uh huh.’
    â€˜Do you know any boys who like to dance?’
    Chloe’s chin nearly touched her chest. ‘Nuh uh. Boys think dancing is gross. They have to, like, touch hands!’
    While I was trying to come up with some words of wisdom to reassure my granddaughter that as hard as it was to believe, someday boys wouldn’t mind touching hands with her, Chloe turned to me and announced, ‘Tessa is taking ballroom dancing lessons.’ She rose on tiptoe, whispered in my ear. ‘They’re private.’
    Chloe’s hand shot out, index finger extended. She was pointing to the women’s dressing room from which a munchkin of a girl was just emerging. She had cascades of ebony curls drawn up into a high ponytail and fastened at the crown of her head with a pink carnation. She wore a pink leotard and matching tights, and pink ballet slippers. I squinted, not quite believing my eyes. And lipstick?
    â€˜Tessa has pink leotards, and blue ones, and yellow ones, too. I want purple leotards for Christmas,