Free Here at the End of the World We Learn to Dance by Lloyd Jones Page B

their rags and soak them.
    They went swimming, Billy Pohl and Henry Graham several times a day, Schmidt not so often. He was just as happy with his rock where he could sit alone and think.
    To get a moment by herself, or to bathe, Louise would walk all the way to the end of the beach where a finger of rock pushed out to sea like a breakwater. Inside it were a number of rocks and rock pools to choose from. Billy Pohl and Henry Graham entered the sea in their long johns. But she could not bear the way her dress stiffened with the saltwater once it dried, so she went in naked.
    There were days when the wind blew up and flung spit across the beach. Summer squalls that sent them running for the cave. Then the wind would stop dead and the head of a dandelion would come to a complete rest on the beach. It was as though the weather had stopped to pause and think, ‘What now?’ before deciding it might as well rain. And rain it did. Inside the cave they looked out at the tiny waterfalls cascading over the entrance. Out to sea heavy grey lines like guy ropes held the sky in place. And when the rain stopped and the sun came out they left the cave to find jets of fresh water spurting out of the limestone bluffs above the beach. Some of these fell thirty feet and they ran to stand under them, squealing with pleasure and gasping at the cold.
    After three days the waterfalls slowed to a trickle. They made wet streaks against the rock face. Then just a line of mist as the last of the waterfall evaporated. Finally, nothing. Or at least it returned to bare rock face. And at dusk they could lean against the limestone and feel the warmth of the day where, just a few days earlier, it had spurted with water.
    For a spell it was stifling hot and none of them had the energy to climb up to the hill creek for water or to wash. The fatigue Louise felt had nothing to do with the dancing at night. It was dehydration. The light headacheyness. The sandbagged weariness. The effort it took just to drag herself up the beach. They weren’t drinking enough water. She knew that. But immersion in the sea momentarily revived her; then she felt her body solidify and gather its old self. Now she slid up on to a rock, found a place to sit.With her fingers she brushed her wet hair back from her face. The salt cleared from her eyes and when she looked to the beach there was the piano tuner. Something inside her gave a start. On the surface though she was perfectly calm. He nodded to her. She did the same. Then he turned and walked back down the beach.
    They danced again that night. She danced with Henry first, then Billy. The piano tuner got the song going. In the light of the fire Schmidt approached her with a smile. ‘Louise.’ When he spoke her name she had an idea he was thinking of her as he had seen her that morning, naked, and drying herself on the rock.
    One night they failed to notice the ‘music’ stop, and continued to rock back and forth in each other’s arms, a slow, rhythmic motion. It was as though she was floating—a liquid kind of contentment. Then all too suddenly she was aware of a change. She felt Schmidt’s hand leave her back. She lifted her face off his chest, and the two of them looked over at the fire. The pair of boiling eyes belonged to Billy Pohl. The slack face was Henry’s, injury and perhaps awe combined there.
    She felt Schmidt move to distance himself. A shift in his attention. And in a bid to focus on Billy and Henry he cleared his throat. ‘Do you see what I mean now. You only need minimal movement to make it interesting. Minimal movement.’
    Henry found a twig to divert himself. Billy dropped his gaze.
    â€˜Billy, you want to try?’
    Billy looked up; his eyes burned a trail through the shadows to Louise. ‘Nope,’ he said.
    Now Louise joined in. She said, ‘Come on, Billy. Please. Pretty please.’
    â€˜Henry,’ asked Schmidt. ‘How about