The Moffats (12 page)

Of the three Moffats, Sylvie, Joe, and Jane, who did go to Miss Chichester's dancing school, Sylvie was the only one who loved it wholeheartedly. She was very quick and graceful. Dancing came as naturally to her as breathing. It was no wonder Miss Chichester made her do half the teaching.

As for Jane, she loved the thought of dancing school, but when she got there how different it always was from what she had imagined! Before going to sleep at night, Jane pictured herself dancing as beautifully and gracefully as Sylvie. Now she would have the center of the floor at dancing school, spinning lightly as a leaf, while all the others held their breath. Or she would be leading the Virginia reel with the greatest of ease and assurance. Her arms and legs would behave perfectly. But, in real life, her arms and legs acted as though they were stuffed with lead. And her hands and feet seemed to swell to extraordinary proportions.

Moreover, on dancing-school days, Mama always did her hair up in curlers. Instead of her two familiar pigtails, strange long curls bobbed behind her, distracting her attention. They looked absolutely ridiculous, she was sure. "Corkscrews!" Peter Frost called them.

As far as she was concerned, the only really nice thing about dancing school was the slippers with the pom-poms on their toes and the ribbon lacings that wound halfway up her white-stockinged legs. Even though she never could dance at dancing school the way she could in her dreams, the slippers alone made it worthwhile.

But Joe now! Joe hated dancing school and didn't have even the consolation of pom-poms on his slippers. He hated dancing school and he was no good at it. He was good at lots of other things. He was good at spinning tops. He could fly kites better than anybody else on the block. He always had a good pencil with a fine sharp point in his pocket. He could whistle and he could whittle. Yes, all these things he was good at, but he was not good at dancing school and he did not like it. Not at all. He begged Mama not to make him go.

"I'll rake the leaves, shovel the snow, mow the lawn, sift the ashes, without your ever even askin' me to," he said to Mama.

But Mama said he should go. If he didn't go, Miss Chichester would feel very badly. She would feel as though she were not keeping her part of the bargain. "But I think I feel worse going to dancing school than Miss Chichester would if I didn't go," Joe said miserably. He knew though that remonstrance was useless. Mama knew he didn't like parties, dancing school, speaking pieces. Still she thought he should do these things. "You must learn to be graceful and to have nice manners even though you are a boy," she said. To Mama this business exchange of dancing for sewing seemed a heaven-sent opportunity. How otherwise could she possibly afford to give her children the advantages of dancing school? Under the circumstances, she thought Joe should go. "Try to like it," she pleaded with him.

Well, since it seemed so important to Mama, Joe went. But he often hid behind the piano at dancing school, particularly during the Tom Joneses and the Virginia reels, which he never could do without getting mixed up.

Sometimes if luck were with him, he was able to pass nearly the whole hour behind the piano very pleasantly indeed, with an apple or a book. And he would not have to listen to Miss Chichester call to Miss Nippon and tell her to repeat "Shine, little glowworm, glimmer, glimmer," because he, Joe, had gotten himself and his partner and most of his immediate neighbors hopelessly out of step.

Joe always woke up in the morning of these dancing-school days with a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. What was it? He'd lie there in bed for a minute or two, wondering. He'd done his geography and his spelling and he'd even gone ahead a chapter in history. Then he'd remember. "0' course," he'd sigh, "it's dancin' school today."

And the worst day of all for him was the one when Miss Chichester gave her recital. He hadn't expected the day to be bad at all. In fact, he had expected this day to be easier to endure than the ordinary dancing-school days because Miss Chichester had said to him, "All you will have to do, Joe, is to usher the guests into their seats. I'll help you see that the important people have the best seats in the front row. After that you can turn pages for Miss Nippon."

So that was the plan. Joe must stand by the piano, hair brushed neatly aside, toes out, and in his best Sunday suit of dark brown corduroy. Whenever Miss Nippon whispered, "Turn," he was to turn the page of her music. This seemed rather silly to Joe. Miss Nippon appeared perfectly capable of turning her music for herself every other day. In fact, the entire class had learned to pause, sometimes with one foot suspended in the air, while Miss Nippon fumbled with the page. Why put on these lugs?

However, all this was far more to his taste than to dance the sailor's hornpipe. Phew! That is what he was first scheduled to do. Dance the sailor's hornpipe! But he had such difficulty learning the steps, Miss Chichester finally said that Chet Pudge would have to do it, instead. Even though Chet was very fat and grew very red in the face and puffy, he would have to dance the sailor's hornpipe. And, instead, Joe could do the ushering and the turning of the pages and get ten cents besides if all turned out well.

So is it any wonder that Joe looked forward to the day of the recital as one dancing-school day, anyway, when he would be free of all care and worry? And he watched Jane and Sylvie practice their dances around the house with an air of compassion.

Joe may have been carefree about the recital. But Jane wasn't. She had to dance "To a Wild Rose" with Letitia Murdock. How would they carry it off, she wondered? She, Jane, did it pretty well all by herself in the lilac bush. But when she and Letitia stood up there in Moose Hall before all those people, how would it go then? So far, in all the rehearsals, she and Letitia finished the dance long before Miss Nippon finished the music. That was not right. Dance and music were supposed to end at the same moment.

And she worried about her hair, too. There was no chance of Mama letting her wear her everyday braids. No, a recital was a special occasion and would require curls. If it rained, the curls would come out. Jane prayed for a clear sunny day for the recital. She said all the charms she knew to avert rain and prayed to God to send a clear day. Rufus generously did the same as a favor to her, though it made no difference to him. In spite of all this, it did rain. This was a miserable start for the day. It meant that Jane's hair, which had been done up in curlers during the night, turned into long damp strings.

She arrived at Moose Hall in a very low frame of mind. Better pigtails than these slinky things, she reflected bitterly as she examined herself critically in the dressing-room mirror.

Sylvie tried to comfort her. "I'll brush them around my finger just before you go in." But they both knew it was really a hopeless undertaking.

Sylvie helped Jane into her costume. It was a white cheesecloth dress with wreaths of large red roses around its neck and waist. While she was dressing, Letitia arrived with her hair still in curlers.

"Imagine comin' through the streets with wiggles in your hair!" marveled Jane.

Letitia put on her white cheesecloth dress. Then she sat down before the mirror and Jane watched her unwind the curlers with expert fingers. The curls came out in long yellow pipes. Jane wondered if Letitia felt jumpy inside, the way she did when she thought about "To a Wild Rose."

As if in answer to her thoughts, Letitia announced calmly, "I may be sick."

"Now?" asked Jane, aghast.

"Might. Any time."

"Even when we're doin' the grand parade?"

"Might."

"Even when we're doin' 'To a Wild Rose'?"

"Might."

Jane swallowed hard and wound one of her straggling locks around her fingers in pensive silence. Letitia added nothing to this thunderbolt, merely sniffing now and again, touching her nose delicately with her scented pocket handkerchief.

At this moment Miss Chichester rushed in. In a very flurried manner she said, "Ready now for the grand parade."

Jane swiftly glanced at Letitia, in a sudden panic lest she should have to do "To a Wild Rose" all by herself. But Letitia looked calm and resigned.

Sylvie ran the hairbrush hastily and belligerently over Jane's hair for the last time. She set the wreath of large red roses on top of Jane's head. "There," she said. "You look lovely. Where's your partner? Hurry for the grand parade." Sylvie wasn't dancing this afternoon. Her class of older pupils was performing in the evening. "A very elegant affair," said Jane loftily to Letitia, as they joined the procession that marched around the hall.

There was Joe by the piano looking carefree and happy. He had seated the audience and so far as he knew he had made no serious mistakes. To be sure, when Mrs. Mulligan, the wife of the Chief of Police, arrived with her little dog, Sugar, he had placed them in the front row with the important guests. Miss Chichester had not liked this arrangement at all. "Supposing that Sugar causes a commotion! Mrs. Mulligan should be sitting near the door. Well, it's too late now. Let her stay where she is."

Joe was thinking if he did as well turning pages as he had ushering, that ten cents was clinched. So there he was now turning the pages of Miss Nippon's music as she pounded out the Grand Parade March with verve and vigor. That is, he was turning every time Miss Nippon remembered to say "Turn." She wasn't used to having a turner and often tried to flip the pages over, herself.

We'd oughter had a rehearsal
, thought Joe gloomily.
But maybe she'll get used t' havin' me here after a while.