Dance Partner
Ava glides over the polished floorboards of her sixth-floor Flatbush apartment to the music of the New York Philharmonic performing a Strauss waltz. Her satin-and-suede dance shoes hardly make a sound. With eyes closed, her hands grasp an imaginary partner that she changes every few days depending on who she sees in real life – always a handsome man that she mentally dresses in 19th-century evening attire.
A loud knock on her door brings her back from her dream of whirling couples in a Viennese ballroom. She squints through the door’s peephole. A stout middle-aged woman, barely tall enough to be seen, stands in the hallway. Ava slides two bolts back, twists the deadbolt, and opens the door on the chain.
“Yes, Mrs. Lanchart?”
“I’m sorry, Ava, but you’re playing that music too loud again. Would you please turn it down?”
“I’m Sorry, Mrs. Lanchart, I keep forgetting where I am.”
“Why do you play that old music, anyway? With the boys back from Vietnam, the bands are playing hot stuff in the clubs. You should come with Harold and me . . . get out of that damn apartment for a change.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m too tired after work.”
“You’re not working Saturdays.”
“Thanks again for the offer. I’ll turn the music down.”
Ava smiles through the narrow opening, knowing Mrs. Lanchart means well. Her neighbor just shakes her head and retreats. Ava shudders at the thought of visiting a smoke-filled nightclub where the music’s so loud you can’t hold a conversation, not that she has much to say. She moves to the stereo that has quieted on its own. Turning the LP over, Ava queues the needle and lowers the volume. Everyone has a different tolerance for sound, and Mrs. Lanchart is her most sensitive neighbor so far.
The Blue Danube flows from the stereo’s speakers. Ava continues to waltz – one-two-three, one-two-three – her willowy body barely disturbing the moist winter air. The heat radiators cough, ostensibly in time with the music. After an hour of dancing she returns from Vienna to her walkup apartment in Flatbush, to 1973 and her job as a junior accountant with one of New York City’s largest law firms. She dabs at her glistening face with a towel, sips a glass of Riesling, and remembers back a decade.
“So what are you gonna do after we graduate?” Emily, Ava’s only high-school friend, asked.
“Haven’t you heard? I’ve been accepted at Columbia.”
“How the hell can your parents afford that? Your Pop must be doin’ a whole bunch of engine rebuilds.”
“I received a scholarship and I’ve saved money from working at my uncle’s bodega.”
“Lucky damn you. Meanwhile, I’ll be waitressing for the rest of my life.”
“Don’t say that Em. Something will come your way.”
“Yeah, I just hope he’s handsome and rich . . . well, at least rich.”
The girls had laughed.
Emily asked, “So what are you gonna take for sixth period elective?”
“I don’t know. I might take ballroom dancing from Mrs. Flanalle.”
“What for?”
“There may be boys there. I might actually get to . . . you know, touch one.”
Emily giggled. “Oh you’ll touch one all right. I took that class at the end of sophomore year. I had enough boys stomp on my feet to last a lifetime. And all they really wanted to do was crunch my boobs.”
“I won’t have that problem,” Ava said and frowned.
“Hey, hey. It’ll be fun. Enjoy it. It’ll probably be the only time you’ll do ballroom dancing, until you’re gray-haired and they pair you with some old geezer at the rest home.”
“I’m already feeling old.”
“Not hardly.”
Ava reported to the gymnasium for the first dance class. Fourteen other kids had also signed up. With eleven girls and four boys, Ava did most of her dancing with girls, each struggling to decide who should lead and who should follow. The dance music in four-four time seemed jarring to Ava. Only the waltz rhythms seemed to fit, let her glide with the music and whirl and whirl around the gym until her partners complained about getting dizzy. Ava thought, Maybe that’s why those Viennese liked it so much, it was a type of drug for them. It would become one for Ava.
In her senior year at Columbia, with a job already lined up, she moved into her Flatbush apartment, over the objections of her mother.
“You don’t have to live alone and pay rent,” her mother reasoned. “You can stay with us.”
“Mom, I’m twenty-two. Aren’t you sick of me being around? You and Pop deserve your own space.”
Her mother grinned. “Yes, you can be a pain sometimes . . . but not all the time.”
“Well, now’s your chance to do all those fun things and get the heck out of Brooklyn. I’ll be paying my own way from here on out.”
“You’ll probably make more than your father . . . but don’t ever tell him that.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
Ava was glad that her mom had not bugged her about meeting men and getting married. She would not miss those embarrassing moments. Long ago she’d realized that her mother’s compliments about her grace and beauty had no relationship to the angular face and skeletal body that she stared at every morning in the mirror.
Her father helped her move in. But she stopped him after the second time he climbed six flights of stairs and looked ready to pass out. Her cousin from Jersey hauled most of the stuff upstairs on the promise that she’d buy him a case of Ballantine when they finished. Ava brought her own bed and dressers that she commandeered from her parents’ place. The apartment included some usable furniture and an old ratty rug that covered the living room floor. The rug had to go.
With much effort she pried open the window that overlooked the narrow light well. Far below, cardboard boxes, broken furniture, and even a mattress or two littered the snowy ground. Ava rolled up the rug, hauled it to the window and shoved it foot-by-foot through the opening. It unraveled on the way down, looking like some pirate’s sail, folding and flapping in the frigid wind. That first dusk she stared wide-eyed as a homeless woman staggered into the jumble of junk from the alley and covered herself with the rug. In the morning deep snow hid everything, as if the trash and the woman didn’t exist. Ava shuddered to think what the building’s Super might find come spring.
Ava found a small-time contractor to refinish the living room’s hardwood floor to a smooth glistening surface. When complete, she began her ritual of waltzing, three or four nights a week. As the country struggled to find its way out of Vietnam, as young men disappeared from the neighborhoods, as college hippies and yippies railed against The Establishment, as teargas became a known stench, as the military-industrial complex spun out of control, Ava danced.
She’d wear a simple flared skirt, drink a glass or two of wine after supper, watch the outside world’s turmoil on TV, then turn off all of the lights except for one, and waltz. Afterward, excited, her nerves buzzing, she’d shower and go to bed, touching herself, but not too much, not wanting to degrade herself or lose the mental images of dancers in huge ballrooms, of gallant men in dark evening dress, the women in long full gowns, all whirling, whirling. The dance got her there.
Every weekday morning, Ava takes the subway from Flatbush to Midtown Manhattan and her 12th floor office. She’s been with the law firm now for thirty years, a competent accountant, having mastered the new computer technologies, and being promoted to section manager, in charge of budgeting. Her work relationships are all business, and although Ava gets lost in the numbers, she finds her co-workers colorless and uninteresting. She suspects they feel the same about her.
In 1996 Ava’s father dies of a massive stroke and her mother prepares to move upstate to live with her younger sister in Utica . . . but not before criticizing Ava one last time.
“Jesus, Ava, you make good money and you’re still living in that dump. You could afford a Fifth Avenue apartment if you wanted.”
“Why would I move? You’ve lived in the same house with Pop even longer. Why didn’t you move?”
“We liked our neighbors and people knew us there, looked after your father and me when we needed help. You don’t know anybody, including your neighbors. And you never have anybody over, never—”
“Don’t start, Mother. I have what I need.”
“You mean that dance floor for one?”
“I like it like that. It’s uncomplicated and I can think whatever I want while dancing. Besides, it’s good exercise.”
Her mother grins. “I’ll give you that. You’re as skinny as ever, could pass for a twelve-year-old boy.”
“Thanks, Mom, for supporting my femininity.”
“For Christ sake, Ava, you live in a city with more than seven million people and you can’t find a single friend? What about the lady next door, Mrs. Lanchart?”
“Mom, she moved out over ten years ago. Besides, she always complained about the music.”
“I just don’t want you to give up, honey. You’re a nice person that should be with someone nice.”
“Yes, well, enjoy your train ride to Utica. Call me when you get there. I’d love to come up and visit you and Aunt Rose once you get settled.”
Ava never gets the chance. Within three weeks her mother suffers heart failure and dies within hours. Ava arranges for her to be shipped to NYC and buried in Green-Wood Cemetery, the same plot as her father and close to the grave of her Jersey cousin – killed in a car crash while driving drunk. Her parents had paid for their plot years before. It can hold one more casket.
Her office mates express their sympathy, but it all feels like empty words. She’s been alone most of her life and is satisfied with that – at least she thinks she is.
Years pass. Ava’s auburn hair turns gray, then white. She buys a CD player then a laptop computer to play MP3 files through her speaker system that now includes quadrophonic sound. In her mid-sixties, she wraps her knees in ace bandages before dancing and downs a Vicodin with her first glass of Riesling. The pain is bearable but it interrupts her daydreaming. She fears the time when she may have to stop and figures that’s when she’ll follow that old ratty rug out the window and add herself to the trash heap below. There were rumors that Mrs. Lanchart’s husband, Harold, did that before she moved away.
At work, Ava slows down and her bosses notice. She’s forced to take the place of a more recent hire and is tasked again with basic accounting, under a younger person’s supervision. Because of the demotion, they expect her to quit. But to their surprise, she settles in and does excellent work, giving them no reason for termination.
One night, after listening to TV news, she sips wine and prepares to dance. There’s a knock on the door, the first in a long while. Through the peephole she sees a thick-bodied man wearing glasses, with thinning dark hair and large earlobes.
“What do you want?” she calls through the door.
“Sorry to bother you, miss. You don’t know me but can I talk with you for a minute?”
“What about?”
“Your dancing.”
Ava steps back from the door. “How . . . how do you know about that?”
“I live across the light well from you. My apartment is also on the sixth floor and . . . and I can see you spin and whirl.”
“What are you, some kind of creep? A Peeping Tom?”
“No, no. Please, I mean you no disrespect. But you must know that you are a wonderful dancer, so graceful, so full of life. I’ve been watching you on Tuesdays when I’m not working the night shift at the furniture factory.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I’m not sure. I . . . I guess I need something beautiful in my life. I’ve been alone for years . . . just like you . . . have lived in this complex since ’75.”
The silence builds between them. “So . . . so what do you want?” Ava asks.
“I thought maybe we could talk and . . . and if you wouldn’t mind, let me watch you dance.”
“Look bud, I’m not some kind of freak show for you to ogle.”
“On . . . on my word . . . I want nothing like that.”
“What’s your name?”
“Aaron Moskowitz. And yours?”
“Ava.”
“I’m glad to finally meet you, Ava. I’m kind of . . . shy.”
“Wait just a moment.”
Ava bows her head and thinks about risks and benefits. She remembers why she took that dance class the last term in high school. She wonders if she’s still looking for physical and emotional connections, so many years later? Has all desire dried up and turned as white as her hair?
Ava unlocks the door, opens it on the chain and stares at Aaron. He smiles at her, showing off gold crowns in a broad thick-lipped mouth.
“Come back next Tuesday at eight, Aaron. And bring a bottle of chilled Riesling.”
“Any . . . any particular brand or year?”
“No, but choose wisely.”
“I have . . . and have fun checking me out online.”
“I will. Us spinsters must be extra careful.”
“Well . . . you sure can spin.”
Aaron turns and disappears from view. Ava locks the door and sits on her sofa, heart racing. She wonders why. The guy is anything but handsome and probably as graceful as a rhino. She stares around the room, sniffs the air, moves to the hall mirror and studies her gaunt reflection, her mind in scramble mode, trying to decide what to wear, how to clean the front room and bathroom, what wine glasses to set out, what music to play. Is she really going to meet this stranger? Why the hell not, she knows where he lives and his name. Not much risk. But still . . . maybe I should buy a gun?
Ava hurries to her window and looks across the courtyard to his dark apartment. As she watches, a light switches on and a hulking form moves behind see-through curtains. Her own window shade has been gone for years. Was that an unconscious act? Or was it an invitation? She smiles to herself, feeling the tingle of adventure touch her for the first time in a very long while.
Aaron Moskowitz freaks out. He wonders who that brave man was who crept along the hallways, knocked on that woman’s door, and asked if he could watch her dance. Who does that? Thinking about it now, he rushes to his apartment’s medicine cabinet and downs three antacids. But his mind continues to spin. He’ll ask Emilio at the market what Riesling is best. He’ll have his dark suit dry-cleaned and his Florsheims polished. The rest he can’t do much about; he hasn’t tried for years.
Aaron remembers summer nights when he would watch the lights in the apartment across the light well blink on. He’d open his window to hear the faint strains of music flowing from the woman’s apartment. He knew, even at first, that she listened and danced to waltzes.
The day after they met, Aaron goes online and reads up on any subject related to the waltz. He even tries to follow a simple dance lesson video that someone posted on Facebook. He doesn’t want Ava to think he’s stupid or ignorant. He scrubs hard at his stained and paint-encrusted hands, trying to remove the grunge from under his nails. He feels like a post-bar mitzvah teen waking up to the electric energy of sex and adulthood.
At precisely eight PM on Tuesday, Aaron stands outside Ava’s door and knocks – not a hammering knock, or a timid one, but something he hopes shows confidence, even though he has none. Bolts slide, chains rattle and her door opens.
“Come in . . . Aaron.”
“Thank you. I . . . I hope this is okay.” He hands her the bottle of chilled Riesling.
“I’m sure it will be fine.”
Ava wears a simple flared skirt, no jewelry or makeup, hair put up in a bun that’s pulled so tight that it looks painful to endure. Her knees are wrapped in skin-colored bandages and she wears a well-worn pair of shoes.
“You . . . you look nice, Ava,” he murmurs.
She colors slightly and nods.
“Can I pour the wine for us?” he asks.
Again, just a nod. She motions to the sofa and coffee table where two long-stemmed wine glasses and a corkscrew rest. Aaron de-corks the bottle with a flare and pours the Riesling. Ava’s first sip almost empties the glass.
She laughs. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, I haven’t had a drink with anyone since college. And never here in this apartment.”
“I’ve been drinking alone for a long time too. Not something I’m proud of.”
“So tell me the truth, Aaron, why are you here?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out. Don’t . . . don’t take this the wrong way, but if I passed you on the street I probably wouldn’t look twice. But when you dance, you can stop birds in flight . . . and I guess I’m one of ’em.”
Ava bows her head and chuckles. “I suppose that was a compliment. Thank you.”
“Sorry, I’m really nervous.” Aaron retrieves a handkerchief from an inside coat pocket and mops his expansive forehead.
“Why should you be nervous? You’re not the one dancing.”
“You’re right, you’re right.” The silence builds to an agonizing level. “So . . . so maybe you should start.”
Ava nods and moves to her laptop and queues the audio file. A sweet melody pours from the speakers. She closes her eyes and dances – nothing fancy at first, but as the music progresses, her movements become more fluid. Aaron notices that she doesn’t open her eyes at all, as if seeing the reality of her apartment and him will destroy the art. And the way she holds her imaginary partner makes him wonder what it would feel like to be with her, gliding across the polished floor.
She waltzes for almost an hour, never flagging or taking an awkward step, then sits abruptly on the sofa next to him, not speaking. They finish the bottle of wine, still silent, still wrapped up in the magic of the dance.
The silence again becomes awkward, painful. Finally, Aaron stands and struggles to find his voice. “Can . . . can I come again next Tuesday? I promise just to sit and be quiet.”
She glances sideways at him and frowns. “Well, yes, you may. But I expect you to be more social. You know, talk with me!”
“I’m sorry, I’m out of practice. Where I work, I’m in the paint booth most days and wear a mask. Not much talking going on.”
“See, that’s what I mean. Tell me something about yourself and . . . and I’ll do the same.”
Aaron grins. “I can do that. It’s a deal.”
Every Tuesday night Ava stares out her window at Aaron’s apartment, waiting for the lights to go off, a sure signal that he’s on his way. This Tuesday she is not disappointed. He arrives with the wine. They drink and talk, disclosing each week some tantalizing piece of their lives – he’s a Vietnam War veteran having served with the Airborne, she’s an expert at setting up off-shore accounts for her firm’s somewhat-shady clients. Beyond biographical facts, Ava’s and Aaron’s strong emotions slowly color their conversations, exposing their disappointments, months of depression, of anger and resentment, of feeling lost, of feeling found and of happiness with their growing friendship.
This night, Ava notices that Aaron is more nervous than normal.
“Can I ask you something?” he says after taking a huge gulp of wine.
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Will you teach me to waltz . . . with you?”
She had sensed that he wanted to dance with her but has waited for him to ask, the man’s prerogative, so she’s been told.
“Yes.”
“But look, I’ve been watching you all this time and I’ve looked at online demonstration videos. I’ve practiced a little by myself.”
Ava grinned. “I don’t know much about dancing with a partner. So I’ll be a bit clumsy . . . too.”
They both empty their wine glasses. Ava queues the music and they tentatively grasp each other, his hands already wet and shaking. His whole body trembles or maybe part of it is from her. They move slowly. He stares down at his feet. She waits tensely for the first crunch of his heavy shoes on an arthritic foot, vowing not to make a sound. She’s surprised when it doesn’t happen. She keeps her eyes open and stares at his glistening face as he concentrates.
At first, dancing with Aaron feels like being moved around the room by a refrigerator. But as the weeks and months pass, she relaxes and ever so slowly Aaron becomes one of those adroit 19th-century gentlemen in evening garb, spinning her around a Vienna dance floor to a Strauss waltz. She hardly notices the pain in her knees and now her hips. But she does notice that it’s more thrilling when she keeps her eyes and heart wide open and focused on Aaron.
The touch of his right hand at the center of her back, his warm left hand grasping hers, gently now with tenderness, the spicy fragrance of his bay rum aftershave tickling her nose, the sound of his deep breathing as if in a waking dream, and the soft thud of his shoes on the hardwood floor, all excite her, makes her feel, fill her life with the joy of touch, of movement, of music, of dare she admit, love.
Seasons and years pass. They both retire from their jobs yet still see each other only on Tuesday nights, the highpoint of Ava’s week. One Tuesday night in 2023, Ava sits at her window and stares at the rectangle of golden light that is Aaron’s apartment. Ghostly figures move behind the curtains. She glances at her watch. It’s past the time when Aaron should arrive; he’s never late. She wonders if he’s sick or maybe just sick of dancing with her and doesn’t want to do it anymore. She turns out the lights in her apartment and weeps. She knows it’s something worse.
The next day Ava talks with the Super. Aaron’s relatives have already taken the body away to someplace in White Plains. By the time she finds a phone number and contacts his younger sister, he’s already in the ground. His sister is surprised that her brother had a shiksa girlfriend and knew nothing of their Tuesday nights together.
Ava continues to dance, but only once or twice a week. Her hips are in bad shape, painful, and she uses a cane. The sound of its soft thud on the hardwood floor reminds her of Aaron and his Florsheims, plodding along. She dances now with her eyes wide open and all the lights turned on, but with the memory of a real dance partner to carry her forward.