Chapter 9 - The Band Called for Mothers and Sons
The bandleader tapped his microphone twice and smiled out at the ballroom like nothing had happened at the head table. The chandeliers threw light straight down on my scalp now, and I felt every bit of it. The heat, the exposure. I had left the gray wig folded on the white cloth beside that note because I wouldn't put it back on for appearances.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "time for the mother-son dance."
A soft ripple went through the guests. Someone near the cake started clapping before they realized no one was moving. Michael stayed in his chair. His hands were flat on the table on either side of his plate. He looked at Sabrina first. I hated that I noticed it, but I did. It was quick, a check, like a boy asking permission.
Sabrina had her champagne flute halfway to her mouth. She lowered it an inch and gave him a little nod, tight at the corners. Go on.
Michael pushed his chair back. The legs scraped the wood floor. He stood and smoothed the front of his tuxedo jacket with both hands, then finally looked at me. He hesitated. I counted three breaths before he came around the table and offered his hand, palm up, elbow stiff.
"Mom?" he said.
I looked at his hand. The ballroom was quiet enough I could hear the ice shifting in a water glass two tables over. I set my napkin down and put my hand in his. His fingers closed too quickly, too tight, then loosened.
We walked to the center of the dance floor together. The parquet shone under the lights. White petals from an arrangement had scattered at the edge and nobody had swept them. My heels clicked once, then his shoes answered. The band started something slow with strings and a piano. I recognized it. I'd played it in the car when he was sixteen and learning to drive on county roads.
He put one hand lightly at my back, just above my waist, like he was afraid to touch the blue fabric. I rested my left hand on his shoulder. We started to move.
We didn't find the beat at first. He stepped left when I stepped right. His shoulder was rigid under my hand. I could feel the bow tie at his throat when he swallowed. We settled into a small box step, barely moving at all, turning a quarter inch at a time under that light. Around us the guests watched with their faces arranged into polite smiles. No one talked.
I smelled his cologne and the starch in his shirt. Up close his eyes were red at the edges. He kept his gaze just past my ear, not on me. His jaw worked. The piano kept playing.
"You okay?" he whispered.
I didn't answer. The dance was the answer. I was here.
Another turn. His hand shifted at my back. He leaned in a fraction, so his mouth was closer to my ear and the microphone wouldn't catch it. The strings swelled to cover us.
"Please," he said, very low. "Can we just fix the money thing after the honeymoon? Please."
His voice cracked on the second please. His steps faltered. I steadied him without thinking, the way I had when he was little and stumbled on the sidewalk outside church. My hand pressed a little firmer on his shoulder.
I waited for the next bar so my voice would come out even. "I need the truth first," I said quietly. "Before any gift."
He closed his eyes for a second. Just a second. When he opened them he finally looked at me, really looked at the bare head and the earrings and everything I hadn't covered up. Something crossed his face I couldn't name. Shame, maybe. Or fear.
"I know," he said.
But he didn't say what he knew. The song was supposed to run three minutes. We made it through maybe half. The bandleader glanced at us, then at the band, and gave a small cut motion with his hand. The strings faded early. The piano played two soft closing notes and stopped.
There was a beat of silence. Then applause, thin and scattered, from the tables nearest the dance floor. A few people stood, then sat again when no one else did.
May you like
Michael let go of me like he'd been holding his breath. He stepped back. "Thank you," he said, too loud for the space between us.
I nodded once. Across the floor, at the head table, Sabrina was standing now. She wasn't drinking. Her champagne flute was lowered to her side, held by the stem, and she was watching us without smiling at all.
