Dancing in the Dark by Caryl Phillips Page A

was clearly big with Mr. Washington’s child this did not deter wet-lipped men from sidling up to her and offering to make her and her children comfortable. And then it struck her: Teddy Washington must be either dead or in prison for nobody would dare talk to Teddy Washington’s girl in this manner if there was even the slightest possibility of his returning. A desperate Florence needed money to put food on the table to feed her two children, plus the one in her belly, but she could not bring herself to write to Lottie, who she heard had just married some swanky colored businessman in Chicago. And so Florence went back to Willie’s Foxtrap and asked a balding, thickset nigger sport named Duke the same question that she had asked him the week before, but the man had still not seen or heard from Teddy Washington. This time Florence sighed and looked Duke up and down for she understood that whether she liked it or not she would need the protection of a man, good or bad, if she was going to get through this life. And so, after the birth of Teddy Washington’s third child, Duke started to pay her manly attention, running his fingers through her long black hair, and whispering in her ear, and then he too walked clear out of her life, for high-pitched wailing from another man’s offspring was not something that he had bargained for. But other men did not seem to mind. They left crumpled bills on the side table before they hit the door and disappeared back onto the streets leaving Flo to endure the resentful eyes of herchildren, who by now were becoming familiar with the uncomfortable weight of the word “company.”
    Mr. Sam Thompson broke the news to her late one weekday afternoon. Lottie was sitting in the drawing room readying herself to leave for the theater when Mr. Thompson returned home early from work and sat down opposite her. For the longest while he said nothing, and he simply stared at his wife as though unable to release whatever it was that was dammed up inside of himself. And then he spoke quietly, but with a gravity that was meant to assure his wife that everything was under control. But everything was not under control. Florence was dead. The police had found her in a tenement yard behind the city’s most notorious juke joint, with her throat neatly cut and her skirt hoisted up over her shoulders. However, Mr. Thompson spared his wife the more intimate details of her sister’s death and remained loyal to the plain facts of the situation. Florence with her good hair was gone, and the three children were being looked after by the city. Mr. Thompson continued, and he made it clear to his wife that should she wish to take in her three nieces, then he would find it in his heart to tolerate the clamor of growing children in his world. But the single word “tolerate” was like a slap in her face, and Lottie immediately smiled and shook her head. Thank you, but she was sure that the children were being properly cared for, and then the tears began to race down her cheeks. Mr. Thompson leaned forward and eased himself out of the chair. He had to return to work.
    She hears her new husband walking slowly up the stairs. His footsteps are heavy so she knows that he has drunk a little more than is good for him, but unlike George, he always stops short of getting tongue-drunk. In the case of her husband, drink simply causes him to stumble somewhat, and melancholy to descend. Hepushes the key into the door and eases it open before pausing, as though worried that he might be rousing her from sleep. But she is never asleep, for she likes to wait up and make sure that he returns safely, and so she lies perfectly still with her eyes tightly shut. He closes the door carefully so that it does not whine or shriek, and then he turns the key. He can see in the dark—a skill she imagines he has perfected from years of waiting backstage in the wings—and then she feels the weight of his body on the end of the bed, and she listens