I’m afraid dear old
Harelson won’t be able to dance out of this one!
For You There Will be
Dancing
By
Karen Clark
Donald Elerton was the first to arrive, keeping the
bulk of his weight on his good leg as he shambled up the overgrown path, and
gripping tall gravestones and low-hanging tree branches occasionally to help
himself along.
Donald had been Monrovia’s sheriff until a shark took
his foot off in the shallows at Conway Beach. There hadn’t been much crime back
then, so Donald had spent most of his time taking care of the little complaints
like dogs terrorizing trash cans and a few locals getting drunk and rowdy on
Saturday night. Mostly Donald’s business was people: soothing bruised egos to
keep the peace in his slice of the county.
A few minutes later, coming up from the rear of the
plots, was Elly Sullivan, mother of four, grandmother of two, and former owner
of Sullivan Hardware. She had run the store full-time all by herself after
Paddy, her children’s father, ran off with a hairdresser from the beauty
parlor. In her arms Elly held darling Betsy Sue, whom she had given birth to
just before the store had sold. Betsy Sue was born with long, slender feet
which may have come from Elly’s side of the family, and a head full of blond
curls which were unfamiliar to both sides.
“Well don’t
that baby of yours just get prettier ‘n prettier every time I see her!” Donald
said to Elly, tickling Betsy Sue’s bare feet.
“She’s looking a mite more colorful today, don’t you
think, Donald?” Elly asked, and he nodded dutifully.
Next came Elmer Fox, a quiet gentleman who had run the
cemetery until his son Ebert took over, which seemed, as Ebert would tell
anyone who would listen, to be a century ago. The Monrovia Cemetery was the
town’s second oldest after Pioneers of Monrovia Burial Cemetery, which was
something of a historical spot and nothing else since no one had been buried
there since 1807. Elmer had inherited the business from his own father and
transformed the grounds into a respectable and peaceful place to bury the dead.
Elmer nodded to Donald and Elly as he came up beside
them and regarded the plot they were gathered around solemnly. It was wide
enough for five graves, six if the diggers squeezed ‘em in tight. Only the
first had a stone. On it read: Harelson Albert Tucker: Beloved husband and
father, faithful Catholic, January 12, 1897- August 26, 1963. The diggers had
already come and gone and below the marker they’d left a neat scar in the
earth, a six by eight by three-foot dark mouth gaping up from the flat green
ground.
“Looks like they dug her nice and straight this time,”
the woman walking towards them said. “Ebert and his boys done a real nice job.”
It was Ameroy Daxter with the nervous tick, and her
little boy Jeffie zigzagged behind her, picking flowers, chasing flying
beetles, and hopping over grave markers. Ameroy and her husband had had
difficulty conceiving and Jeffie wasn’t born until Ameroy was in her late
thirties. Like most people who conceive late in life, Ameroy called him their
miracle baby. He was always at least ten feet behind her and looking for all
the trouble he could find.
“Jeffie!” Ameroy tittered nervously. “Jeffie, you get
back to your mama’s side right now.”
The boy remained on the other side of the plot, where
a particularly large beetle had caught and kept his attention.
“Silly boy,” she murmured. “Jeffie!”
But still the boy did not look up, so Ameroy ran to
him and snatched him up, holding him close against her.
Following Ameroy and Jeffie was Sue Clapper, who had
counted the pills at the pharmacy and separated them into plastic bottles, staring
each day at dozens of tiny labels with instructions like “take with plenty of
water” and “take before meals” and the cardinal rule, “do not exceed this
certain amount of pills in this certain amount of time,” which she had chosen
to discard.
“Donald,” Sue said, “how’s that foot of yours doing?”
Barely holding up Donald’s weight, what was left after
the shark got through with it was an unhealthy green.
“Got a bad infection, Sue. Doc told me ‘Infection like
that, Don, all I can do is put you on the ant’biotics and hope for things to
turn out right.’.” He chuckled sadly. “The pain don’t take too long to get used
to.”
The last to come up the hill was George Duncan,
followed by three of his seven daughters in single file. George had been Monrovia’s
barber til the sickness came in ’39. He had cut everybody’s hair except that of
those who cut their own, and since the barbershop was the natural place for
gossip, he knew just about everyone in the small town and their goings-on. For
a man who was well informed on all matters from who did what to who did who,
George was a particularly quiet man who seldom offered gossip of his own but
chose to listen most of the time instead.
“Look, there’s Reverend Booker, and hey Elmer, ain’t
that your boy Ebert?” George said, pointing to the line of people coming up the
hill from Monrovia Cemetery’s small parking lot.
“That’s him all right,” Elmer nodded.
The first to reach the site was the reverend, followed
by Harelson’s three sons and strongest nephew sharing the weight of his casket,
then Ebert, Harelson’s wife and daughter, a handful of people from the home, a
couple of orderlies to help the aged, and, bringing up the rear, a barefooted
Harelson Tucker himself.
The sons and nephew set their burden down next to the
grave and the funeral attendees settled themselves down on the folding chairs
Ebert had arranged there a couple of hours earlier. Reverend Booker took his
place by the headstone and began the service.
“Harelson,” Donald whispered and the old man turned
and caught sight of the silent witnesses to his funeral. A smile flashed across
his face.
“Why, Donald. I ain’t seen you in- what’s it been?-
over twenty years now, ain’t it? Who you got with you over here? If it ain’t
George Duncan! And these pretty girls of yours, I can’t rightly remember your
names right now, but you’ll have to forgive me for that. It comes and goes. But
I do remember those faces. You look just like you did the last time I saw you,”
his face grew sad. “All four in one day. You know George, they shipped the
medicine in only a week after you were gone.”
“Is that a fact?”
“True that, true that. And Ameroy! Gosh darn woman, I
see that kid of yours is still a bundle of energy, am I right? You never
should’ve run back after him with that car a comin’, that’s what I say. I was
there that day on the street, you know. Yep, you never should’ve run back to
him, it was too late already, that’s what I told them.
“Elly, Elly, come here and let me see that girl of
yours. I called my wife up in Arkerville when it happened and she told me:
‘Harelson,’ she said. ‘Elly is the best friend I got in this whole wide world
and I’ll be damned if you ain’t gonna go visit her in the hospital if I can’t!’
And I did, too, I came to see you Elly, but you was sleepin’, and a day later
you was gone. I never did get to see Betsy Sue. Now, there is something I just
got to see--” he bent down and peered intently at the infant’s face. “Yep!” He
said, straightening back up. “I had a little bet going with myself. Beautiful
blue eyes, just like yours, Elly. But gosh does she look pretty!”
Reverend Booker was warmed up now and nearly shouting
as he issued promises that Harelson was “in the Kingdom of Heaven now, with all
his sins washed away.”
“I inherited this place from my pop after the heart
attack,” Ebert was whispering to one of the orderlies. “Must’ve been damn near
a century ago now.”
“Your boy seems to be doin’ a fine job with this
place, Elmer.” Harelson said. “Ebert! Yes, that’s his name, ain’t it? My mind
seems to be workin’ near top notch today, I tell you that much. And you,” his
eye caught Sue. “I remember you. Your name’s Sue Clapper, right? I was plum
sure you’d be by the Devil’s side by now.”
“Don’t believe everything you read,” Sue said simply.
Harelson had come full circle now and was back to
Donald. He nodded at nothing in particular, then blurted out: “How’s that foot
of yours, Donald?”
“Well Harelson, it got infected real bad.”
Harelson smiled blankly and nodded again. A wrinkle
furled his brow. He scanned the group quickly, desperately trying to find
someone safe to lock his attention on, saw Betsy Sue, and waggled his fingers
at her.
“Harelson,” Donald said.
Harelson looked at him with frightened eyes. Donald nodded
at the grave and Harelson turned to see four of Ebert’s strongest men lowering
his casket into the earth. Most of the guests were walking back down the hill
now; only Harelson’s wife remained, watching them begin to shovel dirt into the
hole. She was crying.
“Everyone said you look wonderful in that suit, Harl,”
she said. Harelson took a step toward her and then hesitated. “We put you in
the blue one you like so much, with that red bow tie you used to wear on
special occasions, you know the one. Mr. Greensley from the mortuary did a
proper job making you look . . . presentable. Ebert dimmed the lights a bit and
closed just the bottom half of the- well, it looked real nice.”
She was quiet for a moment and looked up into the
trees, their networks of leaves and branches rustling in the breeze, then shut
her eyes and let their shadows move across her face. When she looked back at
the grave again they had nearly filled it to the top, and Harelson could see
the lines the tears had left in his wife’s makeup.
“I’m taking myself to Wednesday’s Dance Night at the
nursing home tomorrow. I know you’d want me to. A couple of your buddies even
said they’d dance with me. We know you won’t mind. But gosh, how you loved to
dance, Harl! It’s the one thing you’d never forget how to do, even when you
looked at me and couldn’t remember your wife of forty-three years’ name you
never could forget a single dance step. Remember that contest we were in on our
honeymoon? First place we got, remember that? I wasn’t bad, no, just pretty
good. But you, Harl, you flew across that dance floor! Made everyone sitting
down want to jump to their feet and do a good jig all night long.” She laughed,
the good shine of a happy memory in her eyes. “I’ll come visit you again soon
Harl,” she said, leaning over to put something on the top of his headstone.
Harelson watched her walk down the hill and drive
away. He turned to Donald. “What was it?” He asked.
“It was a train, Harelson,” Donald said. “You wandered
away from the home at suppertime and walked yourself right onto those tracks
just in time for the six oh five heading north to Charleston and-”
“Kablowie!” Jeffie said, bringing his hands together,
then he turned his head and buried his face in his mama’s dress.
“That’s right, son. Kablowie. Knocked you plum outta
your shoes.”
Harelson looked down at his bare feet and wiggled his
toes in the grass. Then he walked over to his grave marker where his own name
was chiseled into the stone, and looked at what his wife had left there for
him. It was a ribbon made of imitation blue satin. On it read “First Place
Monrovia Dance Competition of 1920.”
“Betty,” he said. “I do remember. Betty.
“What now?” He asked, turning back to Donald.
“Now we take a walk.” Elly said. She put an arm around
his shoulders and they all began walking back in the direction they’d come.
“What will there be?”
“For you, Harelson, for you I do believe there will be
dancing.”