He seized it mechanically, dropped in a few lumps of ice, a flash of rum, then he handed it back. I stabbed a quarter into his palm and went back to the doorway. Yeamon was staring at the dancers, looking very morose.
I stopped beside him and he nodded toward the floor. Look at that bitch, he said.
I looked and saw Chenault, dancing with the small, spade-bearded man we had met earlier. He was a good dancer, and whatever step he was doing was pretty involved. Chenault was holding her arms out like a hula charmer, a look of tense concentration on her face. Now and then she would spin, swirling her madras skirt around her like a fan.
Yeah, I said. She’s hell on this dancing.
She’s part nigger, he replied, in a tone that was not soft.
Careful, I said quickly. Watch what you say in this place.
Balls, he said loudly.
Great Jesus, I thought. Here we go. Take it easy, I said. Why don’t we head back to town?
Fine with me, he replied. Try talking to her. He nodded at Chenault, dancing feverishly just a few feet away.
Hell, I said. Just grab her. Let’s go.
He shook his head. I did. She screamed like I was killing her.
There was something in his voice that I’d never heard before, an odd wavering that suddenly made me nervous. Jesus, I muttered, looking around at the crowd.
I’ll just have to bat her in the head, he said.
Just then I felt a hand on my arm. It was my pig, my squatty date. Let’s go, big boy! she whooped, dragging me onto the floor. Let’s do it! She squealed and began to stomp her feet
Good God, I thought. What now? I watched her, holding my drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Come on! she shouted. Give me some business! She hunched toward me, pulling her skirt up around her thighs as she wiggled back and forth. I began to stomp and weave; my dancing was shaky at first, then I leveled out to a sort of distracted abandon. Somebody bumped me and I dropped my drink on the floor. It made no difference to the frenzied couples that hemmed us in.
Suddenly I was next to Chenault. I shrugged helplessly and kept up the stomp. She laughed and bumped me with her hips. Then she danced back to her partner, leaving me with my pig.
Finally I shook my head and quit, making gestures to indicate I was too tired to go on. I went back to the bar for a fresh drink. Yeamon was nowhere in sight and I presumed he’d been sucked into the dance. I made my way through the bodies and out to the terrace, hoping for a place to sit down. Yeamon was sitting on the railing, talking to a teenage girl. He looked up with a smile. This is Ginny, he said. She’s going to teach me the dance.
I nodded and said hello. Behind us the music was growing wilder, and at times it was almost drowned out by the screaming of the crowd. I tried to ignore it, looking out over the town, seeing the peace below us and wanting to be down there.
But the music from the house was getting crazier. There was a new urgency about it, and the shouts of the mob took on a different tone. Yeamon and Ginny went in to see what was happening. The crowd was moving back to make room for something, and I walked over to see what it was.
They had made a big circle, and in the middle of it. Chenault and the small, spade-bearded man were doing the dance. Chenault had dropped her skirt and was dancing in her panties and her white sleeveless blouse. Her partner had taken off his shirt exposing his glistening black chest. He wore nothing but a pair of tight, red toreador pants. Both of them were barefoot.
I looked at Yeamon. His face was tense as he stood on tiptoe to watch. Suddenly he called her name. Chenault! But the crowd was making so much noise that I could barely hear him three feet away. She seemed oblivious to everything but the music and the freak who led her around the floor. Yeamon called again, but nobody heard.