Chapter 52

“Those who dance are considered insane by those who can’t hear the music.”
—George Carlin, Brain Droppings

4 AUGUST 2019

I’ve just had a morning run with Nanette, something we don’t often do on Sunday. She drove me out into the country near Ossian again and we ran the trails behind that old church. When we got back to her car after a good hour or more run, we could hear music from a wheezing organ and people singing.

I don’t know what possessed me, exactly, but before we got to the car, I took her hand and pulled her with me across the road to the cemetery. Once we were wandering around looking at old gravestones, I sort of failed to let go of her hand. She didn’t try to extract it. I’d been thinking a lot about Nanette since she fell on me Thursday morning. And although my girlfriends had been active in keeping me drained the three nights since, some of those thoughts have been one-handed.

We’d wandered through the old section of the cemetery, commenting on the lives of people who died two hundred years ago. This part of Indiana had scarcely been settled and already there were people being buried on this hillside. I’d decided to test and see if there was a genuine attraction between Nanette and me. The cemetery dropped behind a hillside as we reached the newest section and was out of sight from the church. I stopped abruptly and pulled Nanette to me in a hug. She caught her breath sharply but let her arms encircle me. I was about to lift her chin so I could kiss her and I think she was willing.

But right in front of where we stopped, there was a recent gravestone. Reading it nearly stopped my heart. ‘Joseph Hennessey, 17 October 1937 – 29 August 2018’. I had no idea who Joseph Hennessey was, but those dates ... My birth and death. My initials.

I froze in place and Nanette became restless in my embrace and I released her as I sat heavily on the ground. “Do you believe in reincarnation?” I asked.

I figured I’d pretty much blown my chance with Nanette when I plopped on the ground to contemplate a gravestone and talk about reincarnation. Eventually, we got back to her car and she drove me home. She stopped me from getting out of the car with her hand on my shoulder and I turned to look into her midnight blue eyes. After a moment, she spoke.

“The age of consent in Indiana is sixteen.” She released my shoulder and I got out of the car. I watched as she drove away.

By the time I was showered, shaved, and had clean clothes on, the family was home from church.

“Okay, Mister. Get the car started. We’re going shopping,” Mom said. She tossed me the car keys as she gave Pey and Dad instructions on what to eat for lunch. There was no getting out of back-to-school shopping. And, of course, that meant a trip to JC Penney. V1 had once quipped that his mother and sisters wore the latest ‘in’ fashions—meaning they were in the JC Penney catalog. Some things didn’t change.

And I needed new clothes. I’d put on a couple of inches in both height and girth over the summer. Running was keeping me thin, but my chest was broader and I was now six-one. That was where V1 topped out, so I wasn’t worried about buying jeans that fit and then having them too short by Christmas. Mom wasn’t convinced, but we compromised on a length that I didn’t need to cuff. I got a pair of chinos, too. Mostly, I wore golf or polo shirts, but I did like having a couple of nice oxfords. Mom was surprised when I insisted I needed a thirty-five-inch sleeve and had me try it on to check. I’d been measured a lot lately, starting with the tailor at the Men’s Wearhouse, then Louie’s Formal Wear, then Riko Whitcomb, and finally, Desi—who took some measurements that weren’t given to her mother. Six-and-a-half inches. I got a nice plaid flannel shirt and a bomber jacket, too.

Mom approved the sleeve length and then looked critically at my selections before approving their purchase, along with several new pair of underwear and socks.

Then we headed for the Men’s Wearhouse again.

“You need a more formal suit for Brittany’s quinceañera. You know the Adams Family is investing quite a lot in you as their daughter’s official first date.” I almost broke up at the way Mom referred to them. She had a bit of a smirk, so I thought she might have said ‘Adams Family’ intentionally. “So, I have high expectations of my son. I know you like your long hair but I think a bit of a trim is in order, just to even it up. We’ll see if a stylist at Shear Energy can get you a style you like that isn’t too difficult to maintain. Plan on a Friday morning appointment, right after your practice.” I pulled into the parking lot and figured this time I’d just let Mom do the shopping. I’d take whatever she chose as long as it wasn’t too outrageous.

I needn’t have worried. Mom was almost as conservative about how I dressed as I was and I realized V1 was picking a lot of my clothing. The clerk directed us to a rack of gray suits and selected slacks, vest, and jacket in sizes I gave him. I changed clothes and stood as he and Mom assessed what I had. He was sent for a slightly different style and I changed clothes. I liked this one better. It had a subtle pinstripe and pleated slacks. The vest fit like a glove.

“Now try it with this vest,” the salesman suggested, handing me a houndstooth vest with lapels. It changed the whole look of the suit to something less formal but still sharp looking.

“How about a holiday vest while we’re at it?” Mom suggested. “And a contrasting pair of slacks.” He came back with a low-cut red vest and a lighter pair of gray slacks. Mixing up the six pieces we’d chosen would provide me with something different to wear for nearly any occasion. We decided to go have food since neither of us had eaten lunch and on the way out of the store, I spotted a display of hats. I grabbed a trilby and set it on my head.

“Hey, Mom. How about this?” I asked. She turned to look at me and smiled.

“I pictured you as more of a Hemingway than a Faulkner,” she said. “It will go nicely with the suit. Put it on the counter to package with the rest when the hemming is finished.”

“Mom, you spent a lot of money on me today. Lots of it on things that wouldn’t normally be considered necessary for teen boys. I really appreciate it ... but why?” I asked as we sat to eat salads at the Nordstrom Café. I couldn’t imagine V1 spending this kind of money on my son. What sort of father was I?

“I was a bit extravagant. Between buying you clothes today and Peyton on Friday, I’ve probably exceeded the family budget,” she sighed. “But your father and I sat down last week as we were planning back to school clothes. It was not unusual to spend this amount on clothing for your sister. Everything for a girl costs more. If I’d suggested it, you could have gotten by this year on a single pair of new jeans and a couple of shirts. You’d wear the same jeans to school every day and wash them on weekends. Total cost for school, less than a hundred dollars. But why should we consider that you only need one outfit when each of your sisters needed ten? And why balk at buying a suit that could last you the rest of your high school career—as long as you take care of it—when we bought church and party dresses for Emily over and above what her school clothes cost? When it came down to it, it was because your father bought clothes for your sisters. He loves to dress them up. And now that I’ve spent a day shopping with my son, I have to agree. I like dressing you up. We still need a few accessories after lunch.”

“Accessories, too?”

“Like your hat. Nice choice.”

“But it seems like it costs so much. Can we afford that?”

“When each of you were born, we started immediately saving for college. Your father never went to college. He started working on the assembly line while he was still in high school. I went to college for a year and decided I couldn’t afford it. Over my working career, though, my employer has paid for me to continue schooling as appropriate for my job. But when the National Service came into being, so did free education. You work in National Service for two years and have two years of college or other continuing education paid for. It freed up a lot of money that we’d been saving for regular maintenance. I know Emily is unhappy about going into Service and that you are not looking forward to it. But it does much more than simply press teens into work gangs.”

“I guess so.” I hoped she was right and the trade-offs were worth it.

Wednesday evening, we all went over to Brittany’s house for dinner and dancing again. All of us were doing so well at the dancing, it felt more like a party than a practice session. I did obligatory dances with Brittany’s Mom and Grandma, but Brittany stepped between her aunt and me before I could take Sophie into my arms.

“You are my date,” Brittany declared. “You are supposed to dance with me at my party.” Hmm. I wonder if there’s a little jealousy going on here.

I danced with Brittany. Grandma, directing Lisa about what songs to play on her iPhone, started us with the waltzes and then moved toward more active dances. I just kept Brittany in my arms and changed to whatever dance was called for next. Brittany started out a little stiff but soon relaxed into the rhythm and flow of the music. By the time we reached the first salsa dance, she was smiling. I decided if she was upset at her aunt’s rather obvious sexuality during her dances with me, perhaps I needed to turn up the heat a little with Brittany. I took a firmer grip on my youngest girlfriend and guided her through the basic and unique Cuban steps, flowing from one to another and keeping my eyes fixed on hers. Brittany had been dancing these steps since she was a little girl but I made sure there was a little more contact in our dance than she was likely to get from dancing with her father.