L.B. Masterdance

Kathleen M. St.Claire                                                                        

Word Count: 2,982

L.B. MASTERDANCE

by

K.M. St.Claire

Too many voices in the house… L.B. didn’t want to think about what those voices were saying. He rubbed the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin, glanced down the hall toward Mama’s room, then squeezed his eyes shut. Back, he thought, back, and then he was, back 40 years ago, sitting in Mama’s big flower-print chair, his stocking feet dangling over the edge. Music wafted from the Victrola. He listened to the shush-shush of feet gliding on dance sand, as Mama and Papa tangoed across the living room floor…

“Something special for our little boy?” Mama asked Papa.

Papa reached into his pocket; drew out a pinch of sand, swirling it in his palm. “Dance Magic!” He tossed the grains into the air. They shimmered rainbow colors in the candlelight. L.B. tingled from head to toe, especially his toes, as the tiny flecks fell around him. Then all L.B. wanted to do in the whole wide world was dance. So he did, round and round…

Pesky Mrs. Prattle jarred L.B. from his reverie. She fluttered out of Mama’s room and down the hall. Dr. Corky followed, patting L.B. on the shoulder. L.B. sat like stone at the kitchen table, watching the men from Hounder’s Funeral Home take Mama away.

The next day L.B. still sat there when Mrs. Prattle, wearing a big feather hat, came to take him to Mama’s funeral. She tugged at his shirtsleeve. L.B. shook her away. “C’mon, L.B.,” she said, her voice rich with Southern Comfort. “Your Mama would’ve wanted you to say a proper goodbye.” That’s when L.B. started to cry. “Poor boy, what’ll become of you?” Mrs. Prattle flew around the kitchen, fixing him broth and biscuits, then let him be, while she left for Pyncheon Chapel to say goodbye for both of them.

Later Mrs. Prattle came chattering through the back door again, her voice a woodpecker hammering on L.B.’s head. He turned away from the casserole she proffered, so she stuck it in the fridge, then flew away again.

One drizzly morning L.B. got up from the table. How long had he been sitting there? How many times had Mrs. Prattle come and gone? He paced the kitchen, the narrow hallway, avoiding Mama’s room. Everything reminded L.B. of Mama—the old Victrola, Mama’s chair covered in faded flowers, and her prized avocado tree. Three feet tall now, the little tree stood by the living room window. “Tend to the avocado, son,” Mama had told him. She’d also told him not to worry. “Your mama won’t leave her little boy alone.” But she had left. And now he was alone.

“Mama,” he whispered, half fearing she might reply. The kitchen phone rattled. L.B. froze. Then, resolved to courage, he answered it.

“L.B.? Lawyer Perks.”

“Out to lunch!” L.B. shouted into the receiver.

“Now, boy, don’t hang up on me. We got to talk, you hear?”

L.B. listened.

“Your mama didn’t make a will, and your daddy’s car repair business—”

“Restoration.” That’s the word Mama used.

Lawyer Perks cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, your daddy’d be proud of how your mama and you kept things going, but, fact is, we got to settle with your creditors. Bank’s talking about a lien on the house and—”

“Out to lunch!” L.B. slammed down the receiver, bolted out the back door, almost tripping over Mrs. Prattle’s latest casserole waiting on the damp steps. He scuttled down the driveway to the old barn of a garage. Reaching for the light, he hit the switch for the neon sign, Mama’s one extravagant business investment. Rainbow Auto. Its multicolored arc reflected on the damp yard, making L.B. think about what was at the end of every rainbow: a pot of gold. That’s what Mama said. Not what Lawyer Perks or the bank would listen to, L.B. figured, as he glided his hand above the sleek, black fender of his papa’s long and elegant old Duesenberg. All the days he and Mama had spent taking apart Papa’s pride and joy to see how it worked, then, nut by bolt, putting it back together again… “Knowledge is tools,” Mama always said.

“Mama taught me everything.” Not that schoolteacher who’d said he had to say something, so she’d know what he was thinking. Mama always knew what was on his mind. She helped L.B. know too. Parables, platitudes, riddles… That’s how Mama taught him. From ABCs to Sophocles and the Bible, Mama knew it all. That was good, because after L.B.’s first week of school, he wouldn’t go back. Those jabbering children laughed at his gravelly voice. Made him nervous; his left eyelid twitched and drooped. Droopy, they called him, like one of Snow White’s dwarfs. L.B. had wanted to hide.

He wanted to hide now. He climbed behind the wheel, glanced into the rearview mirror. “Mama—” Sitting in the very last seat with the sunroof open, like a queen riding in a parade. His knuckles turn white on the wheel. His left eyelid began to twitch. “Imagination,” he told himself, afraid it might be otherwise. Averting his gaze from the mirror, he said the word again. Mama had explained about imagination, how you could see things in your mind even though they might not be there. But he wanted Mama to be there. He wanted to drive Mama around town again in Papa’s big car.

 “Good for business,” Mama used to say. “Your papa, rest his soul, knew all there is to know about fixing these special automobiles but never taught us a bit of it. How’s a widow and son supposed to survive with no tools of the trade?”

After Papa left for Heaven, L.B. had spent his days under the Duesenberg’s belly, guided by Mama as she sat on a stool next to the car, reading aloud charts and manuals. Together they’d learned how to treat the ailments of those majestic roadsters that arrived at the garage from far and near. But L.B. never got around to talking much. Some said he didn’t know how. That wasn’t true. He could’ve told them. Mama could’ve told them. But people hear what they want to hear. Mama taught him that. L.B. had decided long ago that most people didn’t say much worth listening to. Besides, he got tongue-tied when pressed to talk. He wasn’t good with numbers either. Mama handled the bookkeeping and customers.

For a long time, maybe too long, business had been slow. Mama had talked about diversifying, but at her age, she’d been reluctant to change. L.B. had never made decisions without Mama. Now, he jumped whenever the phone rang, fearing it was his call for decision-making. “How’ll I run the business without you, Mama?” He started to climb out of the car. That’s when L.B. heard, at least he thought he heard—

Sit, a familiar voice said. We got some talking to do.

L.B. squeezed his eyes shut, afraid to look into the rearview mirror again. “Mama?”

Sit.

L.B. sat. “Can’t be you, Mama…can it?”

With God, all things are possible.

That was Mama, alright. “Mama, I’ve been so sad since you left.”

A man’s as happy as he makes up his mind to be.

“Yes, ma’am.” L.B. waited for Mama to say more. When she didn’t, he spoke up. “Lawyer Perks says we owe money, Mama. What should I do?”

Do what you love, and the money will follow.

Do what he loved? “What you mean, Mama?” Silence. Afraid to look around, L.B. sat very still. Finally, he climbed out of the Duesenberg, checked every row of seats and underneath, then all over the garage. No Mama.

Puzzling over this, he rubbed a spot on the Duesenberg’s left front fender. How long since he’d polished it? Since before they took Mama away. But Mama just talked to him. Confused, he wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve, smelled his stale sweat. “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” he said. But Mama didn’t respond with her usual “Amen.” Of course not, that always came after his bath.

L.B. hurried back to the house, ran water into the clawfoot tub, filling it to the two-inch mark Mama had painted there when he was a little boy. “Waste not, want not.” Then, clean-shaven and dressed in his Sunday best, L.B. stood in the doorway of Mama’s room. He tiptoed toward Mama’s bureau; touched the silver hairbrush Papa had brought her from Chicago. “You here, Mama?” He picked up each colored glass perfume bottle Mama had liked to look at, yet never used. But Mama had always smelled nice. Like almonds and vanilla.

The house was so quiet, L.B. could hear his own breathing. He wandered into the living room, repeating what Mama had told him in the garage. “Do what you love.” A riddle to solve? If so, Mama wouldn’t talk to him until he’d given it some thought. L.B. sighed, glanced around the room. What he loved… To dance? That didn’t make sense now. A lot of what Mama said hadn’t made sense to him at first. So, he cranked up the old Victrola, put on Mama’s favorite Guy Lombardo record, then two-stepped across the living room, pretending he was dancing with Mama. He didn’t see how dancing would keep Lawyer Perks and the bank from bothering him, but it made him feel better, and remember things he hadn’t thought about in a long time.

L.B. twirled in the middle of the floor, feeling both happy and sad with the memories. He sat in Mama’s chair to catch his breath, remembered how it was after Papa died. “All the sparkle’s gone out of me,” Mama had said. But on his thirteenth birthday, Mama announced it was time for L.B. to become a proper dance partner. “None of Papa’s ‘Dance Magic,’ but we’ll make do.” She pretended to sprinkle sand on the floor; tossed imaginary grains into the air the way Papa would, back when they had real dance sand and Papa, with his special touch, made it magic.

In this very room, Mama had taught L.B. the two-step, fox-trot, polka, and waltz. When he’d mastered those, the mambo, tango, and cha-cha. Saturday nights, after Mama came from Miss Maple’s Salon de Beaute, her snow-white hair puffed like a cloud, they’d danced in the living room, dressed in their Sunday best.

But beyond these four walls, L.B. had two left feet. When he was older and Mama dragged him to church socials, L.B. tripped over himself and reluctant young ladies Mama’s friends introduced to him. “Late bloomer,” Mama called him. “You’ll see,” she’d told Mrs. Prattle, “L.B. will surprise us all someday.”

The record finished playing. “Late bloomer,” L.B. said, his words echoing in the room.

“Life’s a dance,” Mama used to say, “and everyone deserves a partner.” Tears welled in L.B.’s eyes when he remembered those words. His watery gaze fell on Mama’s avocado tree. L.B. picked it up, danced it around the room, almost tripping on a throw rug.

Two left feet’ll take you far from center. Mama’s voice. Loud and clear. It was coming from the avocado tree.

“Mama!” L.B. hugged the tree, almost bruising its pliant leaves that released a familiar scent: almonds…vanilla…

Three big city phone books: the distance between you and your partner, the tree reminded him.

L.B. held the avocado at arm’s length. “Yes, ma’am,” he said with downcast eyes.

And always meet your partner’s gaze, the tree insisted.

L.B. smiled, looking the avocado tree straight in the middle of its topmost branch. He waltzed the tree around the chair, across the room, and back again. He danced faster and faster, the tree’s leaves flapping.

L.B., please! Dancing’s like driving, son. Easy on the accelerator.

“Sorry, Mama.” L.B. slowed to a stop, set his Mama tree down near the window, and got her a drink of water, pouring it into the pot. Mama Tree hummed a note of pleasure. But the phone rattled again. L.B. answered it, his worst fears realized: a parts vendor with an account problem. “Out to lunch!” L.B. hung up, then plopped into the flower-print chair. “What’ll I do, Mama?” he asked the avocado tree.

Money’s the root of all evil, said the Mama Tree.

“Yes, ma’am, but the bills…”

Your true treasures lie within.

L.B. furrowed his brow. “Yes, ma’am, you taught me that. But nobody else knows that about me. Nobody’ll give me credit.”

Go to the root of the problem, said his Mama Tree.

L.B. scratched his head. “What, Mama?”

Mama Tree’s leaves shook. L.B.’s nervous eyelid twitched. “Sorry, Mama, I don’t understand.”

A sigh echoed through Mama Tree’s branches; its leaves drooped.

One droopy eye fixed on the tree, L.B. sat until sundown, trying to decode Mama’s message. Suddenly, Mama Tree’s leaves stuck straight out in frustration. The Easter Bunny delivers!

Startled, L.B. almost fell off the chair. “Easter Bunny?” Easter had passed and summer was almost over. L.B.’s stomach growled. He couldn’t think anymore. L.B. went to the refrigerator. No Easter eggs, but he pulled out one of Mrs. Prattle’s casseroles, eating it cold with Mama’s big serving spoon, while he ruminated on Mama’s words. The Easter Bunny delivered colored eggs. He knew that. The Easter Bunny hid the eggs. Really, Mama hid them. He’d figured that out as a boy. And every Easter he’d had to find them. Mama wanted him to find something she’d hidden!

L.B. abandoned the casserole, rummaged through kitchen cabinets, then checked Mama’s closet and carefully pulled out dresser drawers but found nothing that looked like hidden treasure. Exhausted, L.B. stood in the living room doorway. It was dark outside. The light from the neon sign shined through the window, making a rainbow around the little Mama Tree. A thought stirred in the back of L.B.’s tired mind. Rainbows…pots of gold… “Oh, Mama!” He picked up the tree, danced it around the room, then out back to behind the garage, where Mrs. Prattle wouldn’t chance to see. Under the moonlight, he spread a tarpaulin on the ground so he wouldn’t make a mess. Then he turned the pot upside down; eased out the Mama Tree.

There they were—Easter eggs—tangled in a nest of roots, beads of moisture glistening on their colored plastic shells. L.B. chuckled. His clever Mama. He laid the tree on its side, took a deep breath. “Easy now, Mama.” Untangling matted roots, L.B. dislodged ten yellow, blue, pink, and multicolored spheres.

L.B. carried the tarpful of eggs and his repotted Mama Tree into the house. He set the eggs on the table and Mama Tree on a chair. Excited as a little boy on Easter morning, he twisted open a blue egg. “Oh, Mama! I thought it was all gone,” he cried as dance sand spilled out. Sifting sand through his tingling fingers, he grabbed a yellow egg, held it to his ear, shook it: shush-shush. His heart danced; he tingled from head to toe, hearing the shifting sand sound from each egg. L.B. gathered his inheritance into a pile in front of him and grinned. Mama’s leaves tinkled like wind chimes. L.B. heard his mama humming a song they’d sung while working on Papa’s elegant automobile. Feeling happier than he had in a long time, L.B. sang the words: “Take me for a ride…take me for a ride…take me for a ride in the car-car…”

Early next morning L.B. started up Papa’s Duesenberg. Engine roaring, the metal beast rolled out of the garage, rumbled down the driveway, just as Mrs. Prattle came fluttering from her house with another casserole. Jumping out of the way, she nearly took flight.

“Out to lunch!” L.B. shouted from behind the wheel. The mighty roadster cruised past Mrs. Prattle, its leafy backseat passenger waving in the breeze.

***

The last strains of dance music drifted from the ballroom and filled the warm autumn night. L.B. Masterdance brushed off the seats of the Duesenberg with a sweep of his hand. He reached into his tuxedo pocket, drew out a pinch of dance sand. He threw a few grains over his shoulder, sprinkled the rest at his feet. His toes twinkled as he slid his shoes across the sand. Pacing out a one-two-three, he held one of the passenger doors open wide.

Dancing ladies emerged from the ballroom. “Ladies,” he called in a hazy voice reminiscent of the Old South. The lovely ladies twittered, their coifed heads like fluffy white clouds bobbing as they stepped lightly toward the limousine.

“Who is this man?” one asked.

“No one really knows,” another replied. “He shows up wherever dance music plays.”

“And if you’re fortunate to win a dance with him…” began another, her ribbon of raffle tickets trailing behind her. “Well…”

They giggled, giving one another sidelong glances. L.B. Masterdance graced them with a long wink and an enigmatic smile, his steel-silver hair brilliant in moonlight.

“Oh-h-h,” they sighed.

With a bow, L.B. Masterdance gestured for the ladies to enter. The lovely ladies tumbled in.

“Careful of my Ma—”

“What a charming little tree,” one lady interrupted, pointing to the avocado growing up through the sunroof at the back.

L.B. Masterdance closed the doors, slid behind the wheel. “Coffee, ladies?”

“Yes,” they said, “and marzipan pirouettes…chocolate-almond swirls…”

He tossed a few grains of sparkling sand into the air. Blue, silver, crimson, gold, the tiny flecks danced above the lovely ladies. Then the twinkling bits descended, alighting on their cloud-coifed heads.

“Oh-h-h!” The collective sigh sounded from within the elegant vehicle as it rolled around the courtyard, passing aging men sweaty from belabored efforts on the dance floor.

“Who does he think he is?” one man grumbled.

“And what does he have that we don't?” another muttered.

In a swirl of sparkling dust and with a one-two-three, one-two-three, the Duesenberg sped down the road and into the night, toward sustenance and the next dance.

THE END