Wilder Dancing

By Molly MacRae

Lewis Wilder lifted the last rolled textile from the top shelf and peered into the dim corners of the cabinet. Something small was still back there. Stretching up on his toes, he was just able to reach it. He palmed it and brought it out into the uncertain yellow light of the attic. It was a clear plastic box. He laid the textile next to the others on the worktable then studied the box more closely, wiping dust from the lid to better see what was inside. A hank of hair?

“What . . .”

He turned the box over, found a label. ‘Piece of Neanderthal's Skull.'

“Jesus.” He dropped it and was glad no one was around to see him neurotically wiping his hands on his pants legs. “Idiot.”

He picked the box up again and looked more carefully at the lank, black hair nestled in its pillow of cotton wool. Was that really bone under the hair? Well, the Neanderthal part of it was unlikely, he decided, but the thing gave a good impression of being a piece of someone's skull. How long did skin and hair adhere to bone, he wondered?

Wilder had been hired the previous month as the first ever, and only, professional at the museum of local history in Nolichucky , Tennessee . The museum was celebrating its tenth anniversary by taking this step up in the world. Wilder, for his part, felt like celebrating every morning when he unlocked the front door to his new domain.

Nolichucky , itself, was taking a little getting used to. Wilder, as curator of exhibits, hadn't quite gotten used to being one himself. He'd grown up in a small city of 30,000, but that experience hadn't prepared him for the magnifying lens that a town of 3,000 can be.

“What ho, Lewis.”

Wilder looked over his shoulder to see Susan, one of the volunteers he'd inherited, standing at the top of the stairs.

“What ho?”

Susan came the rest of the way up and joined him at the worktable. “Sorry, I've been watching too much British T.V. What've you got there?”

“Part of a coverlet. Oh, but hey, take a look at this.” He handed the plastic box to Susan. “You ever seen that before?”

She squinted at the hair then looked at Wilder over a wrinkled nose.

“It doesn't smell bad, Susan.”

“What, you opened it and took a whiff? What is it?”

“Turn the box over.”

She did. “Huh,” she said, handing it back. “Probably some moron's idea of a joke.”

“Are you sure there's no age-old mystery in town involving a corpse with an unexplained hole in its head?”

“The only unsolved mystery in town these days, besides what kind of meat Edith Daniels puts in those sandwiches she sells, is who's behind the burglaries that cropped up around the county just about the time you hit town.” She smiled at him. “You hear about those?”

“Is there anybody who hasn't? But, so, what do you think? Should I show this to Paul?”

“Sheriff Gasbag Glaser? Suit yourself. For my money, I'd go with the moron theory.”

Wilder looked at the box again and couldn't help feeling disappointed now. Because Susan hadn't dropped it, too, he wondered? Or maybe just at her easy dismissal of the gruesome gristle. That thought made him smile and he absentmindedly slipped the box in his pocket.

“Nice bit of coverlet, though,” Susan was saying. “Tennessee Trouble, isn't that the name of the pattern? Too bad it's so worn. So, will we see you at the street dance tonight?”

“Who's we?”

“I was using the municipal we, the public we, the we of the citizenry. Will we, the good people of Nolichucky , be seeing you at the street dance tonight?” She tucked stray gray hair behind her ear and waited.

“I don't quite picture you as the Cha-Cha in the street type, Susan.”

“Buster, I Bossa Nova with the best of them. But there tend not to be enough men at these things and, although you're on the young side for me, and the tall got left out of your dark and handsome, believe me, it'll be a great introduction to a side of Nolichucky you probably haven't seen yet. Anyway, new town, new job, Friday night, I figure you might be lonely. You should go just to get out and meet more people.”

“What time's it start?”

“Music starts at 7:00.”

The idea of trailing down to Main Street and mixing with a happy crowd of hoofers didn't exactly make his feet itch to be on their way. On the other hand, there wasn't much worth eating in his own kitchen. He'd have to go somewhere for supper, anyway, and unless he headed up to the four lane and settled for fast and greasy, he might as well shuffle on down to the café on Main.

“So, Lewis, what do you think?”

Wilder shrugged. “How can it hurt?”

***

“Hey. Wilder, isn't it? Got a real party going on, don't they?”

Wilder smiled and hitched further along the wall he was leaning against to give the man room to join him. Something he liked about Main Street , no one was a stranger.

“Boyd Warren,” the man said, offering his hand to Wilder. “I've got the antique shop over next to the bank.”

“Cherry corner cupboard in the window?”

“And a mortgage like a mill stone around my neck. How come you're not out there dancing?”

“I just had a bowl of chili at the café.”

“No need to say more. Someone should've warned you about that stuff before you ever agreed to take the job and move to town.” He stifled a belch. “Had a bowl myself for lunch. Swallowed a June bug this morning and thought that might lay it on its back.”

“Did it?”

“Too soon to tell.” He put a fist to his stomach and brought up another belch.

Where they stood, they were at the edge of the toe-tapping crowd. Wilder guessed two or three hundred people were swaying and dancing to the bluegrass group picking and fiddling on the courthouse steps. More were sitting on the fringes in lawn chairs and along the curbs. Some, like Wilder and his new friend, lounged against the storefronts, melting into the evening's growing shadows.

Warren patted his pockets until he came up with a pack of cigarettes. He shook one out and offered the pack to Wilder who refused. Warren lit up, blew smoke, and hummed along with the band, nodding his head in time.

Wilder realized he'd seen Warren a few times around town. It would have been hard to miss him, given his height and his plague of red hair and freckles.

“‘Milk 'em in the Morning.' Great tune,” Warren said. “Don't look much like an antique dealer, do I?” He hadn't taken his eyes off two teenage girls doing a bouncy version of the two step and didn't look at Wilder now. “Occupational secret weapon.”

“Pardon?”

Warren grinned. “Knowing what's going on around and behind me, that's my secret weapon. Like you standing there studying me out of the corner of your eye. Developed a few extra eyes myself a few years back. Keeps down on the shoplifting. Not what I started doing, dealing in antiques. I inherited the store and its running debt from my parents. Now there is a pretty sight.” He sighed, eyes still on the girls. “Whyn't you go join them?”

“Aside from the fact they're a little too young?”

“Wouldn't stop me.”

“So what does?”

“Wife.”

Wilder laughed and shifted until his back was more comfortable against the brick wall.

“Seriously, man, you ought to step out there. Here, I'll pick out a good one for you.” He turned and looked Wilder up and down. “Least I can do is use my God given view to help the vertically challenged.”

Warren set about scanning the crowd before them, providing a running commentary on the various advantages and disadvantages of potential dance partners. The fiddle and a mandolin on stage were weaving and old pattern of harmony and melody. The dancers gliding to and fro wove their own patterns. Wilder leaned back and let himself be entertained.

“. . . and I swear, there's Shorty on the corner over there.”

Wilder shook himself and refocused on what Warren was saying. “You want me to go dance with someone named Shorty?”

“You haven't been listening, Bud. Shorty's with the Sheriff's Department. He's out of uniform but definitely on duty. Looks like the local constabulary is out in force. They must be taking offense to the generally held opinion that they aren't worth a rat's ass in the crime prevention department these days.”

“Are they expecting a crime wave at the street dance?”

“Bunch of cars got broken into last time they had one of these shindigs.”

“So, why are they watching the dancing and not the cars?”

“Pickpockets were out last time, too.”

“You're kidding. In Nolichucky ?”

“The town time left unchanged, where life has always been perfect,” Warren smiled and spread his arms to embrace all of Main Street .

“That sounds like it ought to be the town motto.”

“Why, thank you. It's my entry in the Chamber of Commerce Slogan Contest. You want a joint?”

“What?” Wilder couldn't help darting glances left and right to see who might have overheard.

“Relax. My keen powers of observation have pinpointed all the deputies on dance duty. They are distant and we are alone.” He fumbled again in his pockets.

“Why, Lewis, fancy meeting you here, practically joining in the fun. Evening, Boyd.”

Warren left off his preparations, picked a flake of tobacco off his tongue. “Hey, Susan.” He slid further along the wall, took the few loping steps needed to reach the corner, and disappeared around it.

“Interesting company you're keeping, Lewis,” Susan said.

“I thought he might be one of those sides of Nolichucky I hadn't seen yet that you were so keen to introduce to me.”

“Huh. So, have you got your feet wet out there, yet?” Susan nodded at the swish and sway in front of them.

“Boyd was just giving me a few pointers. He steered me clear of the Hanford sisters. Something about a problem with their husbands, but he seemed keen on me asking someone named Marilyn to dance.” Wilder looked past Susan, trying to pick out the woman Warren described. He couldn't in the shifting crowd.

“She's dancing with Shorty.”

“I thought he was on duty.”

“He is. But Marilyn is cute.”

“Oh.” He realized she was looking at him expectantly. “Would you like to dance, Susan?”

“Why, thank you, Lewis, I'd love to. But maybe next time, because I hate to admit it, but my feet are killing me. It was a pleasure being asked, though. You get on out there and you'll find someone.” She gave him a shove toward the street, then grabbed his arm. “Oh, but wait. I mentioned your skull fragment to the sheriff while I was doing a turn with him.”

“You danced with Paul?”

“Like I said, there tends to be a shortage of men at these things, and whatever else he is, the man's got rhythm. And he actually seemed interested in your whatever-it-is and said he might like to take a look. Or maybe he was just interested in you, considering the coincidence of your arrival and the arrival of the new county burglar. Hm. Anyway, I thought I ought to give you fair warning.”

“About what?”

“You've met old Gasbag. Need I say more? Bye.”

Wilder flapped a hand after her. He leaned back against the wall, dug his hands in his pockets, and realized he still had the box. The band was playing ‘ Whisky River ' and now his fingertips kept time, drumming gently on the edge of the box. He'd just about made up his mind to approach the woman he thought was Marilyn, when Boyd Warren sidled back around the corner.

“You got business with the sheriff?” Warren 's eyes were a little redder and his clothes whiffed of more than cigarettes.

“Not really.” He tapped a final soft note on the box and left it safe in his pocket.

“Now, there's one for you,” Warren said, pointing out a brunette in a form-fitting t-shirt and jeans. “Sweet little thing. Her name is Laurie.”

Wilder looked to where Warren was pointing, then caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Not just a flutter of movement, he realized as he turned that way, but an entire tidal wave was making her way toward them.

“And who is this,” he asked, nudging Warren .

“Oh, shit, man, you're on your own with her,” Warren croaked.

Wilder was amazed to see the man shrink several inches before his eyes, and was pretty sure he'd never seen freckles fade that way before. He turned back to the Amazon bearing down on them and it became clear she only had eyes for him. She rolled to a stop in front of him, reached out and tucked his arm in hers. He thought he heard a whisper and a scuff behind him. He glanced back as the woman bore him fiddle and dance-ward. Warren had disappeared completely.

Wilder had no idea what dance he was being swept into, but also found he wasn't having any trouble keeping up. His partner led beautifully. She seemed disinclined to talk, so he concentrated on his footwork and the novelty of this swirling, twirling view of Main Street . He caught a flash of the woman who might be Marilyn. The Hanford sisters went by in a blur, making a trio with the sheriff, who must be oblivious to whatever danger their husbands posed.

That tune ended and a slow number started. Wilder's view of the street was abruptly cut off when his partner decided to dance this one in a clutch. She was well over six feet tall and he was now eye to eye with her considerable cleavage. It was an intriguing view, and he would have happily stayed with his nose where it was, if she hadn't doused herself so liberally with such a cloying perfume. The scent alone would have been just about bearable, but it was doing a dance of its own with the fumes from whatever she'd been drinking, and he pulled away before he smothered.

“Sorry, Sweetie,” she said, smiling down at him with all her teeth, “sometimes I get carried away. By the way, I don't know you, do I?”

“Not as far as I know. I'm the new guy at the history museum.”

“You got a name, new guy?”

“Lewis Wilder.”

“Hey, Lewis, nice to meet you. You can call me Barb. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I am. You dance very well.”

“That surprise you, Sweetie?” She'd maneuvered them to the edge of the crowd again. “You don't have to answer that.” She grinned, leaned over, and took his breath away with a kiss he wished he'd been prepared for. “I'm a cliché, Sweetie. Big woman, light on her feet. Works for me. See you around, Sugar.” She pinched him and washed back into the sea of bluegrass dancers.

“You do a great fish imitation, there, Bud.” Warren was beside him again. “Yeah, you need to watch your ass around that one. What you need to do is get out there and find yourself one more your size.”

“I don't know, after that, anything else might be a let down. I think what I'll do, instead, is just take my ass on home.”

“Oh. Well, yeah, see you around. Hey, stop by the shop sometime, why don't you?”

“Sometime. See you.”

Wilder took one last look around, shook his head to clear it, of what he wasn't quite sure, and stepped around the corner into the alley. The bulk of the building now buffered the sounds of Main Street in full swing. He turned the next corner and the transition was complete. The gaiety of the street party fell behind and he made his way toward home in the embracing dark.

Nolichucky was laced with alleyways. They ran behind the businesses on either side of Main Street and sprouted between others. As much as Wilder liked Main Street , with its photo-op storefronts and reproduction gas lamps, he loved the alleys for their hints of an older Nolichucky that still existed. He breathed in the smell of damp rising from basements and listened to the soft echo of his feet on paving bricks. He could almost imagine himself transported back in time.

“Ooph.” A shape flew out of the shadows and Wilder felt himself transported through the air. He landed hard and whatever, whoever, had run into him was on top of him and tangled in his legs. But not for long. There was a scuffle, a muffled curse, and the shape scrambled off down the alley, disappearing into the dark.

Wilder was getting to his feet, when he heard the bleat of a car alarm go off down the alley in the opposite direction from the fleeing apparition. He turned and saw another person running toward him. A wild and wide-eyed teenager streaked past him. Wilder hesitated.

“Damn it, stop him!” someone near the blaring car shouted.

Without thinking further, Wilder took off after the runner. And immediately understood why the person still yelling wasn't also in pursuit. Running down the dark alley was like running an obstacle course blindfolded. He dodged a pod of garbage cans, careened off a delivery van, and leapt what was either a small cat or a very large rat. He could just make out the kid skimming in front of him and thought he might catch up, might catch hold of the baggy shirt or pants.

“Stop, you mother!” Another pursuer.

Wilder chanced a glance over his shoulder to see how close reinforcement was.

“Oooph.” Closer than he thought.

On the ground again. Breath knocked out of him. Nose inches from a slimy puddle he was just as glad he couldn't take a great gasping breath of. Wilder was beginning to re-think his love for these alleys.

“Hands behind you!”

“What?” Wilder started to push up from the ground.

“Do it. Now!”

A boot in the small of his back helped him.

“Wait a second, you don't understand . . .”

Apparently the voice and the boot didn't trust Wilder to understand, either. In several deft moves, his arms were pulled behind him and he was handcuffed. He tried to roll over, see who this was, at least get his face away from the puddle. The boot found a home near the spot ‘Call me Barb' had pinched him earlier. It stayed there while the voice made a call on his radio.

“Got one of the kids.”

Static

“Alley behind the bank. Roger. I'll wait. Out.” The boot shifted. “You're screwed, kid.”

“I'm not a kid.”

“Save it.”

“For Christ's sake. I was chasing the kid.”

“Good line. Right up there with, ‘It wasn't me, officer. I swear, I'm innocent.' On your feet, now, and let's see what we've got.” A hand hauled Wilder up and shoved him against the back wall of the bank building. A flashlight blinked on, blinding him. “Well, hell.”

“Do you mind taking these off, now?”

“Shut up.” He touched the radio on again. “Yeah, you got a report of an adult working with these kids? S'what I thought. Ring me up a jackpot. I got the sucker.”

“I don't believe this.”

“Yeah, well, you can believe this. You have the right to remain silent and you'd better use it. Turn around and face the wall.”

Wilder didn't move.

“I said, turn around and spread 'em.” It turned out this guy could lead as well as Barb and Wilder ended up with his face as close to the wall as it had been earlier to her breasts. On the whole, he decided he preferred Barb's hands all over him.

“What's this?” He'd found the box with the skull fragment. “Jesus Christ. What is this?”

Wilder exercised his right to remain silent.

“You a psycho murderer or something? You're carrying around a part of your victim's skull? With his hair? And his name on it? How many guys you do, you got to label them?”

Given that he was bruised and handcuffed, with his face pressed into a brick wall in a dark alley, Wilder was surprised to find himself laughing. And on further thought, that made him laugh harder. He was still laughing when the sheriff and a deputy arrived.

* * *

“You hurt his feelings, laughing like that, Lewis.”

“Yeah, well, he hurt more than that when he body slammed me into the ground, Paul.”

Sheriff Glaser leaned closer to Wilder, flicked on his flashlight, and made a show of inspecting him for damage. “You'll live.” He flicked the light off again. “Now, why don't you go ahead and tell us what you were doing running around back here in the dark.”

Wilder's hands itched to take a run through his hair, make it stand on end in frustration, massage his aching temples, punch someone's nose. But he was still cuffed. “I was walking home, Paul.”

“He was running like a son of a bitch jack rabbit,” said his captor, who turned out to be another deputy.

“Paul, can you take these things off?”

“Well, now, I don't know. Psycho serial killer like you. You read him his rights, Hanford ?”

“ Hanford ?” Wilder asked. “Are you married to one of the sisters or both of them?”

“Son, you can't be asking for favors one minute and insulting the help the next. And don't go expecting special treatment just because we're on a first name basis. Are you going to pull another jack rabbit on us?

“Jesus, Paul.”

“Hell, son, I don't know what you get up to in your spare time, aside from getting picked up by strange, large women. Matter of fact, we've had a rash of burglaries out in the county I'd like to take a little time to discuss with you. Very neatly done, they are. Very classy fella involved. Started up about the time you arrived in town. Got anything to say about that?”

“I hope you're joking.”

“And what if I'm not?” There was silence while they stared at each other. “Hah,” Glaser finally said, slapping his thigh. “You should see your face about now. God, I love it. Lewis, you've got yourself a goat that's real get-at-able. I love it. Turn around and let me get those off.”

Wilder noticed that the two deputies weren't so reassured by this move that they relaxed any. They stood to either side of Glaser and looked ready to pounce should he make the wrong move.

“You get any kind of a look at the kid knocked you down?”

“No.”

“The one you claim you were chasing?”

Wilder narrowed his eyes at Glaser who smiled back. Wilder looked away, shook his head. “Baggy shirt, baggy jeans. You know, there was a witness, Paul, by the car. When the alarm went off. He shouted and that's why I went after the kid.”

“Well, actually he was yelling at Hanford , here, who was supposed to be alert and on stakeout.”

“Oh.”

“Not that we don't appreciate your help. Of course, look where that got you.”

“And you're not going to go after the kids now?”

“Nah, kids like that, slippery as eels. Long gone.”

“Which is exactly what I'd like to be.” Wilder felt exhausted. “Got any problems with me going home now?” He took a step, but stopped when the deputies shifted their weight in his direction. “Paul?”

Glaser looked around with exaggerated surprise. “You two still here? Why don't you head on up around Washington Street ? I think I can handle this desperado. Oh, and Hanford , good work.” He turned back around to Wilder, grinning. “Good boy, that. Little over zealous, but good. Lucky he didn't shoot first, tackle you and ask questions later.”

“Good night, Paul.” Wilder started past him. “Oh.” He stopped. “What about the fragment?”

“Oh, yeah, Mr. Neander Thal. What about him?”

“Can I have him back? Jesus, listen to me. Can I have it back?”

“Let me ask you something, first. Where were you the night of March 21 st ?”

“What?”

“Hah! Got you again. I love it. But I'll tell you, the thing looks a lot like a hank of greasy hair glued to a chip from something like a cow skull to me. Maybe I ought to turn it back over to Hanford , though, and let him run with it. What do you think?”

Wilder held his hand out for the box. “Good night, Paul.”

Smiling, Glaser pocketed the box. “Think I'll hold onto it for awhile. Great ice breaker at parties. Hah! Nah, maybe I'll send it to the lab boys down in Knoxville , see what they say.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “You know, just in case.”

A noise down the alley caught their attention. Wilder thought if whoever was coming would only run into Glaser, and send him flying, it would make for a change and a pleasant end to the evening. As he savored that vision, Boyd Warren sauntered into dim view.

“Evening, Sheriff. Got something for you.” Warren had a boy by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his drooping pants. “I happened to be down the other end of the alley and heard something going on up this end. Stuck my foot out at an opportune moment and tripped up this fine example of Nolichucky youth. If you ask him nice, I think he'll be happy to tell you all about what he's been getting up to behind the scenes of tonight's street dance. Ain't that right?” This last he directed to his reluctant companion, who gave a startled yip following a swift movement from Warren 's foot.

“I always said you shouldn't have left the department, Boyd. Your many talents are wasted in that money pit you call an antique shop.”

“Well, now, Paul, you just never know.” Smiling, he gave Glaser a mock salute. “Think I'll walk a ways with Wilder, here, make sure he gets home without further mishap. Be seeing you.”

The two left Glaser taking the boy into custody, and made their way up the alley. Warren lit a cigarette, offering Wilder the pack, again. Wilder brushed it aside.

“You handled yourself real well back there,” Warren said.

Wilder was wondering what kind of compliment that was, when something else occurred to him.

“Say, Boyd, is there a time warp at the other end of the alley?”

“Say what?”

“It took you a while to show up with that kid. So just how long were you standing back there watching me ‘handle' myself?”

“Oh, that.” Warren took a deep drag. “Had to let old Gasbag have his fun. Besides, it gave me time for a smoke.” He looked at the glowing end of his cigarette, then took another drag. “Need to quit these things sometime. You know, though, I think Paul likes you.”

“I could tell.”

“Seriously. Not too many people he lets in on that joke of his.”

“Joke?”

“Bit of hair glued to a hunk of bone. What'd he do this time? Pull it on that idiot, Hanford ? Why, I recall a time he pulled that thing out . . .”

Wilder remembered his earlier thwarted desire to punch someone in the nose, rub his pounding temples, run his hands through his hair and maybe pull it out. Now that he could, he merely rubbed the back of his neck hard, jammed his hands in his pockets, and shook his head. Some moron's idea of a joke, Susan had said. He started to laugh.

“. . . and then . . . Well, now, wait, Bud,” Warren complained. “I haven't even got to the funny part yet. She hands that hunk of bone and hair back to Paul, and she says, this kills me every time, she says, ‘Well, I'll tell you this much. I sure as hell will never eat another hamburger!'” Warren roared, and pounded Wilder on the back, and ended up coughing with his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath.

They'd reached the end of the alley and stood under a streetlight. Wilder only had to turn the corner and go another block to reach his place. Warren was still overcome with wheezing and laughing. Wilder returned the favor of a few pounds on the back, but they didn't help in the recovery.

“You going to be all right?” he asked.

Warren waved a hand and wiped tears from his eyes.

“Well, it was a great street dance, Boyd. See you around.” And he turned the corner for home.