...And Mrs. Harris Stopped Dancing by Elizabeth Towles (good book recommendations txt) 📖

…And Mrs. Harris Stopped Dancing

Elizabeth Towles


The old codger, so full of himself! Judy had known him for years, his place only two houses away and he certainly had no trouble accepting the chicken casserole and chocolate cake she’d baked for him a few months ago when he’d broken a leg falling from a ladder. And now, today…he’d never glanced her way the whole time he bagged her groceries. But he knew her, alright! Retired was what he’d said; why was he working at Food Mart?
Judy crammed Comet cleanser and ammonia in the cabinet under the sink, giving the panel a swift kick to close it. Her brown eyes turned cold black. The jackass—just last week, she’d asked to borrow a cup of sugar and when thanking him, she’d practiced her come-hither look of shuttering her eyelids and then sweeping them wide open. He’d simply told her she should get home and flush out whatever was irritating her eyes. She should have known better than to believe in articles about flirting in Cosmopolitan magazine. Then this afternoon, though she’d stood so close she could have spit on him, he’d kept his face turned away.
Who did he think he was? Oh yes, way too full of himself! Her lips spread into a tight thin line. Like all her male customers who shoved their soiled clothes her way at Superior Cleaners, always in a rush, no time for small talk, hands raised, pointing to cars idling outside. Well, none of them knew what they were missing. A grin began slowly around the edges of her lips; and grew, dimpling up the corners of her mouth.
Why let the old coot upset her? There was tonight, and it belonged only to her, Judy Mae. As she put away the last of her purchases, giggles filled the silence around her.

She pulled on a long, white cotton gown; the high ruffle collared her slender throat, softening the contours of her face. The smocked front lent an illusion of fullness to her figure. Lacy insets, low on her thin hands, covered the liver spots, newly mottling up her skin. She remembered the last time she’d worn this nightgown—and for the same reason. From the mirror above the dresser, her reflection looked out at her; she fingered the springy, fine hair, coaxing it toward her cheeks. When released, the strands bounced back. She wet the tips of her fingers with her tongue and pulled the unruly curls straight, laying damp hair along her graying hairline. Easing her feet into a pair of white strapped slides, she looked at the small clock on the low drum table by the doorway.
“Eleven o’clock. It’s time,” she whispered. Her hands crossed her chest; breathing became a dueling match—in, out, in….
She hurried through the house, clicking off lights as she went. A small lamp, sitting on a heart-shaped curio table, was the only remaining light.
She turned the television on, crossed to the sofa and plumped up one corner with extra pillows. The softness cradled her body as she settled.
Across the television screen, title frames and introduction lead-ins flashed. She held herself ready.
She blinked; her mind stepped into the next scene—her reserved spot.
The movie began: round tables, covered in long, white tablecloths took up most of the room. Scattered along the walls, lanterns provided a look of subdued lighting, fitting in with the mix of indistinct voices, the whirr of overhead fans, and the clink of costly crystal glasses touched in celebration.
She sat by a wall awash in scenes of Morocco’s coastline. In the center of the table, a lamp glowed through a beaded shade and flushed her cheeks a becoming pink. Over to one side of the room, Sam lazed at the piano, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. She nodded to him; he returned her greeting. Her gaze lifted and wandered, to the chandelier, to the large colorful vases atop tall stands at the back of the room, and farther on, to the archway directly across the room. She lit the cigarette held between her restless fingers. She took a deep draw; and waited.
Then, he stepped into sight. Rick!
Dome lights illuminated the glossy sheen of his jet black hair. The white dinner jacket dressed him in grand style. His hands cupped around his mouth; and with the lighting of a cigarette, puffs of smoke shot out, misting into a gray haze. His eyes scanned the room.
Every part of her went still.
He looked her way.
Her breath caught in her throat. Music suddenly filled the air. Haunting notes of As Time Goes By vibrated from the piano. Her pulse quickened. Rick moved toward her. Her heartbeats knocked loudly against her ribs. His eyes stayed on her. Nearing, he smiled. His hands reached out....
A crashing noise brought Judy bolting from the sofa…. “Hell’s bells!” She dashed to the back door, opened it, and looked out over the yard.
Under the yellow-white glare of a streetlight, a body lay sprawled beside her mailbox, now leaning precariously low to the ground. Judy jerked a sweater from the door hook and rushed out, flinging her cigarette to the pavement as she ran.
Her hands flew to her cheeks. “If this don’t beat all!” She kneeled down. “Oh, no!”
The toppled figure was her ninety-four-year-old neighbor, Mrs. Harris. The aged woman’s chest rose and fell with each short gulp of air. She moaned softly; red-streaked eyes looked out from her ashen face.
“Are you hurt? Just what the Hell are you doing out here, Mrs. Harris?” Judy asked, her eyes darting up and down the shadowed street for anything—or anyone—out of place.
“I don’t know what the Hell I’m doing out here,” the curt tone of the old woman’s voice was nothing new. She brushed hair from her face. Her sparse eyebrows knitted close, “I was trying...” Her words quit.
Judy squared her face in line to Mrs. Harris. “Do you know who I am?”
“Why? Don’t you know?” Her tone rose ever sharper. “Of course I know who you are, you’re…you’re Judy. Seems to me you don’t know.”
Yep, she’s okay, Judy told herself, and still able to flap that crusty tongue of hers, the thought so strong that she darted a glance at her neighbor, and wondered for a moment if she’d spoken out loud.
In a tug of arms and bracing her feet to the mailbox’s thick post, Judy managed to get the elderly lady propped against the wooden pole. Again, she asked, “Mrs. Harris, are you sure you’re not hurt?”
The woman cut her a look, “Why do you keep asking that? If I was hurt, I’d say so.” She backhanded bits of dirt and leaves from her hefty legs and ankles, overlapping the top rims of her bedroom slippers.
Judy’s lips crimped tightly. Her eyes turned upward...that’s Mrs. Harris, alright; even now, still an ornery