Black House

Rebecca asks, "Where’d you learn to dance like this?"

"My brother and I, we were town boys. Learned how to dance in front of the jukebox at Alouette’s, over by Arden." Rebecca knows Alouette’s, on Arden’s Main Street, but what was once a soda fountain is now a lunch counter, and the jukebox disappeared around the time Johnny Mathis dropped off the charts. "You want a good dancer, you find yourself a town boy. Tom Tom, now he was always the slickest dancer around, and you can plunk him in that chair, but you can’t take away his rhythm."

"Mr. Stan, yoo-hoo, Mr. Stan?" Alice Weathers has tilted her head and cupped her hands around her mouth. "Do you take requests?"

A voice as flat and hard as the sound of two stones grinding together says, "I was here first, old woman."

This implacable rudeness brings Rebecca to a halt. Hermie’s right foot comes gently down atop her left, then swiftly moves off, doing her no more injury than a kiss. Towering over Alice, Charles Burnside glares at Thorvald Thorvaldson. Thorvaldson steps back and tugs at Alice’s hand.

"Certainly, my dear," says Stan, bending down. "Tell me your name and what you’d like to hear."

"I am Alice Weathers, and — "

"I was here first," Burny loudly repeats.

Rebecca glances at Hermie, who shakes his head and makes a sour face. Town boy or not, he is as intimidated as Mr. Thorvaldson.

" ‘Moonglow,’ please. By Benny Goodman."

"It’s my turn, you jackass. I want that Woody Herman number called ‘Lady Magowan’s Nightmare.’ That one’s good."

Hermie leans toward Rebecca’s ear. "Nobody likes that fella, but he gets his own way."

"Not this time," Rebecca says. "Mr. Burnside, I want you to — "

Symphonic Stan silences her with a wave of his hand. He turns to face the owner of the remarkably unpleasant voice. "No can do, mister. The song is called ‘Lady Magowan’s Dream,’ and I didn’t bring that snappy little item with me this afternoon, sorry."

"Okay, bud, how about ‘I Can’t Get Started,’ the one Bunny Berigan did?"

"Oh, I love that," Alice says. "Yes, play ‘I Can’t Get Started.’ "

"Happy to oblige," Stan says in Henry Leyden’s normal voice. Without bothering to jive around or spin the records on his hands, he simply exchanges the LP on the turntable for one from the first box. He seems oddly wilted as he steps to the mike and says, "I’ve flown around the world on a plane, I settled revolutions in Spain. Can’t get started. Dedicated to the lovely Alice Blue Gown and the One Who Walks by Night."

"You’re no better’n a monkey on a stick," says Burny.

The music begins. Rebecca taps Hermie on the arm and moves up alongside Charles Burnside, for whom she has never felt anything but mild revulsion. Now that she has him in focus, her outrage and disgust cause her to say, "Mr. Burnside, you are going to apologize to Alice and to our guest here. You’re a crude, obnoxious bully, and after you apologize, I want you to get back into your room, where you belong."

Her words have no effect. Burnside’s shoulders have slumped. He has a wide, sloppy grin on his face, and he is staring empty-eyed at nothing in particular. He looks too far gone to remember his own name, much less Bunny Berigan’s. In any case, Alice Weathers has danced away, and Symphonic Stan, back at the far end of the platform and out of the pink spot, appears to be deep in thought. The elderly couples sway back and forth on the dance floor. Off to the side, Hermie Boettcher pantomimes dancing and quizzes her with a look.

"I’m sorry about that," she says to Stan/Henry.

"No need to apologize. ‘I Can’t Get Started’ was my wife’s favorite record. I’ve been thinking about her a lot, the past few days. Sort of took me by surprise." He runs a hand over his sleek hair and shakes out his arms, visibly getting back into his role.

Rebecca decides to leave him alone. In fact, she wants to leave everyone alone for a little while. Signaling regret and the press of duty to Hermie, she makes her way through the crowd and exits the common room. Somehow, old Burny has beaten her to the corridor. He shuffles absently toward Daisy wing, head drooping, feet scuffing the floor.

"Mr. Burnside," she says, "your act may fool everyone else, but I want you to know that it doesn’t fool me."

Moving by increments, the old man turns around. First one foot shifts, then a knee, the spavined waist, the second foot, finally the cadaverous trunk. The ugly bloom of Burny’s head droops on its thin stalk, offering Rebecca a view of his mottled scalp. His long nose protrudes like a warped rudder. With the same dreadful slowness, his head lifts to reveal muddy eyes and a slack mouth. A flash of sheer vindictiveness rises into the dull eyes, and the dead lips writhe.

Frightened, Rebecca takes an instinctive step backward. Burny’s mouth has moved all the way into a horrible grin. Rebecca wants to escape, but anger at having been humiliated by this miserable jerk lets her hold her ground.

"Lady Magowan had a bad, bad nightmare," Burny informs her. He sounds drugged, or half asleep. "And Lady Sophie had a nightmare. Only hers was worse." He giggles. "The king was in his countinghouse, counting out his honeys. That’s what Sophie saw when she fell asleep." His giggling rises in pitch, and he says something that might be "Mr. Munching." His lips flap, revealing yellow, irregular teeth, and his sunken face undergoes a subtle change. A new kind of intelligence seems to sharpen his features. "Does you know Mr. Munshun? Mr. Munshun and his li’l friend Gorg? Does you know what happened in Chicago?"

"Stop this right now, Mr. Burnside."