The Weird Fiction MEGAPACK ®. Darrell Schweitzer
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pants legs at the back of his knees.
He could feel something, not quite bone and not quite flesh, pressing into the backs of his thighs, then the small hands reaching around his knees for an embrace.
TAP DANCING, by John Gregory Betancourt
Martha Peckinpah sat alone in the back of the theater, watching a dress rehearsal for Stardust Whammy. Floodlights bathed the stage in silvers and blues, glittering on the sparkle-sewn tuxedos on both dancers. Computer-synthesized Brahms swelled to dizzying peaks as the men rat-tat-tatted to a stop.
Brilliant. That’s what the critics would say, Martha thought. Only she knew better. There hadn’t been anything new or fresh in the choreography, and the kid on the left had been a half-beat slow on at least a dozen of his repartées. But nobody else had noticed. Standards had fallen, and tap had died a lingering death. This revival was the best she’d seen in the last five years, though, and it might run all of a week before closing. She felt a hollowness inside as she thought of how television and movies and vapid theatrics like Cats had replaced dance and theater as the American performing arts.
But the house lights would be coming on in a minute and the dancers might see her. She had to hurry. If the manager caught her again—
It would be: Miss Peckinpah, you know you can’t come in here and bother people. You’ll make the dancers nervous. Or: Don’t you ever learn? If you don’t leave, I’ll have to call the police. Again. Or, if he was in a kind mood: Miss Peckinpah, sneaking in during rehearsals isn’t proper. I know you used to dance here—but that was forty years ago, for crying out loud. Things have changed. You’re no longer a star.
Pity. That was the worst. If it hadn’t been for the car crash—
Shuddering, she seized her silver-handled cane and levered herself from the seat, cursing under her breath. Her left knee buckled. The dress she wore, with its faded cherry-blossom print, tangled around her like some monstrous python.
She grabbed for the chair in front of her—and missed. Teetering, arms flailing, she fell. Sharp, fiery pain shot through her left leg. She pressed hands to mouth and managed to stifle her cry…thankfully, what noise trickled out sounded more like the whimper of some distant, wounded animal than the shriek of a woman in agony.
Carefully she eased up and forward. Grabbing her purse, she searched for her pain pills. She found the bottle and ripped off its cap, only to have her shaking hand scatter the contents across the floor. Pills tap-tap-tapped downhill toward the stage.
The lights began to brighten. Her leg throbbed. No time. Bending, she ducked down and prayed nobody would see her.
The dancers walked up the aisle, laughing and joking, the little steel taps on their shoes muffled by the worn red carpet. The manager and two stagehands followed, muttering gloomily about potential box office. She pressed her eyes shut and held her breath. At last the doors squeaked and she was alone.
Why me, oh God why me? It struck her how pathetic she must seem, a crazy old woman nobody remembered, sneaking into theaters just to criticize the young, just to say to herself, Oh, how much greater we were back then. Better she had never come back to this theater. Better she had died in that car crash forty years before.
Better she had never been born.
“Not so.” It was a soft voice, a man’s voice, and the words held a strange inflection—a trace of a southern accent, and something else, something more.
“Who said that?” she called.
“I did.”
She became aware of light—a soft blue-gray glow that seemed to surround her. A man dressed all in black leather sat beside her. He had shoulder-length brown hair and wore dark glasses, an old-fashioned pair with round lenses and wire rims. A silver cross dangled from his left ear. He smiled and there was an aliveness about him that surprised her.
“You’re not Mr. Lipshitz, the manager,” Martha said. “You can’t throw me out—”
“Did I say I wanted to?”
“No.” There was something naggingly familiar about him, she thought. She’d seen him before, somewhere. Perhaps on television?
“I’m just a visitor. If you need a name, Johnny will do.”
“Can you help me up?”
“If that’s what you want, yes.” He took her hand—his touch was cool, his grip strong—and he pulled her to her feet with little effort. The pain in Martha’s leg seemed gone. She stood with no trouble for the first time since her accident.
“Who—what?”
“Did you like their dance?” he asked softly.
“It could have been better.”
He shook his head slowly. “And what are you going to do to fix it?”
“Me?”
“Why not you?”
“Son, I’m old, and I’m sick, and I don’t have time for this nonsense. They don’t have the talent. They’re not as good as we were, that’s all there is to it.”
“You’re right, of course. A big star like you—I should just let you go on about your life. Whatever it is. Whatever it’s worth.”
Martha winced. “You’re cruel,” she whispered.
“I used to watch your movies,” he continued. “You and Fred, you were the best. It’s a shame to let all that go to waste. I know. It’s too late for me—I never shared my gifts, I hoarded them—and now I’ve got to work to make up for it. There’s a balance. You get some, you share some. Don’t hide it all away. There’s so much you know, so much you can still do—”
“Don’t lecture me!” she said. “I don’t need your pity!” She couldn’t make herself look at him. Guilt? Did she feel…guilt? “That was such a long time ago.”
“Have you forgotten?”
Had she forgotten? She could have laughed. Had she forgotten? Of course not. She couldn’t forget, not ever. Tap had been her whole life. Nothing else had mattered. Until those screaming brakes, that tree rushing at her—
“Please,” he said, taking her hand, squeezing it gently and reassuringly. “Dance with me?”
“What do you mean?” She finally met his gaze. There was hope there, and faith. He knew she could dance—he remembered!
“Come,” he said. He took her elbow gently and led her down to the stage. She was halfway there before she noticed she wasn’t using her cane.
“I left my—” she began.
“Do you need it?” he asked.
“No. No!” She said it with conviction, then laughed. “No!” She stepped ahead of him, courage and confidence welling up inside her. Her stride was jaunty. The years seemed to be melting away. She could see the theater as it had once been: the red velvet seats, the plush carpeting, the crowds—
Then somehow she was on the stage. The footlights shone bright and hot, like always, like she’d never been away. She felt a heady rush of elation. Then she looked down and saw her scarred, treelike legs jutting out, those old woman’s legs with their sagging muscles—
“Oh no!” she cried.
“It doesn’t matter,” Johnny said.
And he was right, it didn’t. Martha took a deep breath. Suddenly she was no longer old Martha Peckinpah but Desirée Diamond again—star of stage and screen. She’d danced with the best of them, Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly, Ray Bolger—
Tap-tap-tap. Rat-ta-ta-tap-ta-tap. Her feet moved on their own. They remembered. The opening number from Broadway Bound—
Johnny now wore a black tux with tails. He took her hand, spun her slowly, and they