The Last Dance

Last Dance: A short story by David Hughes

A short story by David Hughes

“Cancer.” It bounced off the walls, swept across the room like a line squall, echoed in the steel bedpan and then sat emotionless, halfway between Dr. Jete and Jim. No one else heard. No one else was there. Not that it mattered. No one else cared. Jim had been alone before he’d heard it, he was alone now and he’d be alone after. He doubted that Dr. Jete cared much. After all, he did this for a living. What a way to make a living, announcing death as part of your daily routine. Making the rounds, reading the charts, breaking the news, announcing the sentence. Jim thought, I wouldn’t want to have Jete’s job. Of course, he didn’t have a job, hadn’t had one for six months. Probably wouldn’t get one now. Not many companies want a washed up supermarket manager … who’s dying.

Jim asked the big question, “How long do I have?”

Dr. Jete’s answer drifted around the antiseptic room like a grazing herd of cows with no particular place to go, no purpose, no relevance. It was a non-answer, just a whole bunch of what ifs, maybes and medical spin-doctoring. The only concrete thing he said was, “You can start treatment as soon as you like.” To Jim it sounded like the guy at the health club he’d joined the other day, who said, “You can start working out any time you like.”

Jim said, “Thanks.” It sounded like it was for a pleasant visit and an engaging bit of chit-chat. The doctor even smiled. Jim didn’t remember leaving the hospital.

• • • • • •

“It’s malignant.” Jill heard it. Felt it in her breast. Watched the words race from the doctor’s mouth to her mind, to her heart, to her breast and back to her mind. She heard her thoughts scrambling. Damn breasts, never liked them anyway. Always were too small. Dr. Chu snapped off her latex gloves and placed her hand on Jill’s. It was cold. So was the room. So why did she feel so damn hot? Sweating––across the forehead, in the crease next to her nose, under her arms. She’d always had soakers under there, never did find an anti-perspirant that worked. She thought, I wonder if they’ll find a chemo that works? If they didn’t find one, she would. No way this was gonna get her. She would beat it with will power. Mind over matter. Healthy mind, healthy body. Why her? Why now? Why her breasts? They were nothing––at least hers weren’t much, according to her ex-husband and every guy she ‘d ever undressed for. Like the old saying, “Useless as tits on a bull.”

Dr. Chu said. “Breast cancer is one of the most curable types…. Blah, blah, blah percentage of women over the age of blah, blah, experience blah, blah years of normal life without ever….”

Jill had no idea what “normal” was nor gave a shit about numbers. She was one number, not some percentage. She was a simple, whole number––one. At least she used to be whole. Now she had been invaded, fractured. Death had entered her body, dividing her in two, one part living, one part dying. And regardless of all the blah, blah statistics, the dying part usually won. She heard the voice inside say, No way, not this time. No siree Bob––she wondered what her brother Bob would think. He’d be no help. But this was her fight, her war, and by god she’d be the one––the one percent––that won. Jill walked out of the doctor’s office into the sunshine with grit in her teeth and a tumor in her breast.

• • • • • •

Jim reminded himself that there were only six sessions to attend and even though the first one had been a complete waste of time, there had been that cute little woman from California sitting across from him––Jill somebody or other. Nice legs. Looking at her helped ease the boredom of the two-hour, horror show. They called it therapy. For what? How to die as a group? It had been forty-two months since Dr. Jete had come bearing gifts of death and drugs. So far, the drugs were winning and he had responded so well that he’d been selected to attend a series of therapy sessions for others like him––dying of cancer. People brought together to share their stories, their grief and pain, their discoveries and revelations and in the end, hopefully add hope to the hopeless process of dying. He still hadn’t figured out why the hell he had decided to come to Chicago––for a week? With a bunch of strangers with whom the only thing he had in common was that they were all riding the same bus to Deadman’s Junction. Maybe the cute little lady from Pasedena––maybe forty something––would make the week––and the bus ride––more pleasant.

• • • • • •

Jill was really looking forward to the next session. This was good stuff. Positive energy fields were everywhere. Except for that guy, Jim, from Florida. He was a downer. Not much to say, kind of grumpy and negative. Looked good. Cancer hadn’t sucked too much out of him yet. Full head of hair, thin for his height, early fifties. She would ignore his negativity and develop synergistic relationships with some of the other high-energy people. There was much to be done and only a week in which to do it. This was a chance to take her journey of healing to a new level, to finally conquer the insidious cancer. She’d been clear of it since ending her radiation and chemo and this was the best she’d felt since that ominous day three and a half years ago in Dr. Chu’s office. She was determined to go back to California and leave any remnants of the life-sucking cancer in Chicago.

• • • • • •

Her earrings jiggled, her bracelets jangled, her hair bounced and her face shone, but Jim was not distracted, not even by the over capacity, gussied-up, angst-driven people packed into the bar. He never let go of her eyes, no matter how much they moved or where they wandered or how much they flashed. He was mesmerized. This California chick had more energy, more life and more verve than a room full of bridesmaids fighting for the bouquet. And yet, she was dying, as surely as she was going to get on a plane and go back to California at the end of the week. The only time he looked away was to catch the waiter’s eye and order another frozen margarita for her. He thought, she’s full of life, what a fucking shame she’s dying before my eyes. Life sucks––I wonder if she does. Jill’s dissertation danced on.

“You know what I found in this book called, The Secret Energy Among Us? Our energy fields can be connected. Combined. Build a synergistic power that we can use for whatever we want. Whatever we focus it on. It’s amazing––“

“You’re amazing,” said Jim.

She affectionately slapped him on the hand. “Get out, you sweet talkin’ meat man. Bet you say that to all the girls lookin’ for the best piece of meat ya’ got.” She laughed a beautiful, flat-belly laugh at her sexual innuendo. It wasn’t her first of the evening and they were now coming quicker than the Margaritas. Ever since he’d told her he’d been the manager of a supermarket and a butcher for thirty years, she had been making puns about his profession––“Meet my meat man.” “Where’s the beef?” “I’ll take it boned and rolled.” “I’d like something succulent?” He loved the way she laughed more at her own jokes than he did. She was full of fun, full of life. He’d like to fill her full of love––boned and rolled.

• • • • • •

Jill realized that his guy was okay once she’d got him away from the therapy group. He was completely oblivious to the crowded hotel bar they were in; he was just watching her. She hadn’t had so much attention in months––years. Not since college days and frat parties. But it had been down hill since then. Too many sleepovers––not that there’s anything wrong with plenty of sex––but not enough love. In fact, no love. Even her ex hadn’t loved her. But she had to admit she’d loved the trappings, especially the Mercedes, the cards, the memberships, the clothes––yes, the clothes. She could walk Rodeo Drive with her eyes closed and never miss a shop. But she had somehow missed out on the love part. But not from this Jim guy, he was liking her. And he was okay looking. Seemed kind. Confident. And intelligent––for a butcher. But he was sad. Hell, why wouldn’t he be, he was alone and dying. She could see it just behind his face, a sort of gray underlay beneath the skin. She wanted to hug him, pass some energy onto him, make him feel good, blow away the gray with some sunshine. Maybe some sex? Bet he’d like that. Some sunshine and sex.

• • • • • •

Jim knew he was dying, but couldn’t figure how California Jill, with so much energy, could be dying? Maybe because she didn’t believe it. She was so positive, so up, so on, so hot––he couldn’t possibly keep up with her. But he’d love to try––drag around shopping centers with her, traipse after her at parties, do the dishes every night and do her every night. For that he’d have energy––until the day he died. How many nights could he squeeze into life so that he could make love to this energized bunny? How many one-night stands could he have with this woman? Would he even have one?

• • • • • •

Jill had to consciously make a decision based on the carnal one she’d already made. First, stop with the Margaritas because they dulled the senses and her senses where dancing. She was alive; her breasts were alive. She wondered if he preferred big breasts? Why did having sex have to be such a convoluted dance? That’s it; she’d get him to dance.

• • • • • •

Jim didn’t like to dance anymore. He used to––before. Before he knew life’s dance card would never be filled. But when she asked him to dance he felt like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever––except it was a slow dance. Jill’s body was one with him. Two bodies, one movement. One wish.

• • • • • •

 Life flowed, pulsated, through Jill’s body. She felt herself slipping under his skin, burning off the dead-gray underlay that had covered his being. Her heat was like sunshine, drawing him in. She was alive, giving him life.

• • • • • •

For that dance, for that moment, Jim knew life again.

• • • • • •

It wasn’t love at first sight, it was sex at first sight­­––right after the last dance. The love came later, maybe too late. That night, Jill and Jim got together and both the night and the sex were indelible. The night because a week later they got married and the sex because it was incredible. The love was incessant, insatiable, in panic. But it was too little, too late. Jim died sixty-three days later. Jill followed him by ninety-one days.