THE STAGE BECAME an octagon on Tuesday for fight night, and on Wednesday Amelie wasn’t on the schedule to dance, which Morgan informed me as soon as I walked in, smirking like he’d really pulled one over on me.
“What’s with you, Morgan?” I asked, dumbfounded and just a little pissed. “You act like it’s a big damn joke. What? You hire the blind girl as a prank? That’s an asshole thing to do.”
Morgan threw up his hands and protested, all the while laughing like that was exactly what he’d done. “She came in here with her stick, looking more like Helen Keller than Heidi Klum. No makeup, hair in a messy ponytail wearing a big coat and snow boots. Kinda frumpy, you know? She said she wanted to apply for the job. Vince was tending the bar that day, and he and I thought maybe you had put her up to it. Like you were punking us or something. So we said, sure. You know me. I’m always up for a good laugh. She waited for her audition with all the other girls, and amazingly enough, everyone was really nice to her. The girls kind of took her aside. Next thing we know, she’s in the cage, wearing a little tiny pair of shorts and a skin-tight top, hair loose, working that pole like a pro.”
Hearing Morgan describe Amelie’s audition make me feel slightly sick to my stomach. It shouldn’t have. If he’d been talking about Justine or Lori, or any of the other girls, I wouldn’t have thought twice. But I didn’t like thinking about Vince and Morg looking at Amelie, laughing and leering when she couldn’t even see them doing it. Morgan continued, completely unaware of my discomfort.
“She was good enough that we knew you weren’t messing with us. And she seemed pretty damn determined. Excited even. And, I admit, I thought it was funny.”
“Hilarious.”
“You gonna fire her, Boss?”
“Now, why would I do that?” Morgan was really getting on my nerves.
“She’s not as popular as some of the girls. Couple of the guys complain that she doesn’t look at them when she’s dancing.”
“Isn’t it enough that they get to look at her?” I shot back, irritated.
“Hey!” Morg raised his hands in surrender again. “Don’t shoot the messenger, Boss. She can’t carry a round card on fight nights, so we’re a little short there.”
“We’re not short there, Morg. We have four other girls totally capable of working fight nights,” I replied. The girls who danced at Tag’s also got to prance around the octagon, announcing the rounds.
“Okay. If you want to keep her, that’s cool. She’ll be back in on Thursday, just in case you wanted to have a talk with her about sexing it up a little. You know, maybe dancing with her eyes open.” Morgan was laughing again.
“Morg?”
“Yeah, Boss?”
“Go home.”
“Wh-what?” Morgan’s chuckle skittered to a halt.
“I’ll help Vince finish out the night. Go home.”
Morgan pulled on the hand towel he always kept over one shoulder and rubbed his hands nervously.
“But—” Morg attempted to argue.
“You think it’s funny to laugh at a blind girl. That kind of worries me, Morg. Makes me wonder about what kind of man I have managing my bar. See, there are two things I hate.” I held up my thumb and my pointer finger and counted them off. “Bullies and bitches. I never knew you were a bully, Morg. Now, don’t bitch, or I’ll have two reasons to fire you. Go home. And if you want to come back, you will rethink your sense of humor. You got me?” My voice was mild, my posture relaxed, but I didn’t break eye contact with my bartender, and I watched as Morgan dropped his eyes and shifted uncomfortably, as if waiting for me to change my mind. When I was silent, he threw down his towel and reached for his wallet and keys that he kept stashed beneath the bar.
“I’m old enough to be your father, Tag. Your dad was one of my best friends. You need to show me a little more respect,” Morgan huffed, all joking clearly aside.
“You’ll have to earn it, Morg. Bottom line, you’re not my father, you’re not my best friend, and I don’t owe you shit. You can come back tomorrow if you’re man enough to make some adjustments. If I don’t see you tomorrow, I’ll understand, and I’ll be looking for your replacement.”
Morgan started to argue once more, thought better of it, and shut his mouth. With his lips clamped into a hard line, his jaw clenched, and his fists tight, he walked out from behind the counter and through the bar, shoving his way out the front door, practically mowing down Amelie, who had just entered the establishment. Morg cursed and shot a look over his shoulder at me before disappearing into the darkness.
“Excuse me,” Amelie gasped, her stick clattering to the floor as curious patrons turned to stare. She hesitated briefly and then squatted down, feeling for her stick before her fingers found it and she rose gracefully. Her cheeks were slightly pink, and I wondered if she could feel the stares of those watching. She moved forward slowly allowing the stick she held to guide her to the bar. I realized belatedly that I was on duty and hurried around the counter, pulling off my jacket and rolling up my sleeves. Amelie had climbed up on a stool and was waiting patiently to be greeted. I wondered what she did when people ignored her.
“Amelie, what can I do for ya?”
“David?” she asked, her head tilting in surprise.
“Impressive. You’ve got a good ear for voices.”
“Thank you. Uh, where’s Morgan? Are you working?” She kept herself very still on her stool, not slouching or rotating in her seat like most people did. She didn’t even lean on the bar, as if she were fearful of upending something or invading someone’s space. She couldn’t know that the only other people at the bar sat at the far end, nursing beers and staring at the Spurs game above them.
“Yep. I’m filling in tonight.” I didn’t elaborate. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Amelie bit her lip and shook her head. “No. I don’t drink. I’m already blind and drinking dulls my senses, the senses I have left. Instead of relaxing me, it scares me to death.” She shrugged. “I probably sound like a little kid.”
“Nah. I understand. I don’t drink either.”
Her brows rose doubtfully. “But you work in a bar.”
“I don’t drink because I’ve never been able to figure out how to do things in moderation. See, I don’t drink. I get drunk. I’m all or nothing, all the time. Can’t do all, so I gotta do nothing,” I said conversationally, wondering at my need to reassure her. “You want something else? A soda, water, something non-alcoholic?” I changed the subject smoothly.
“I’d love a Diet Coke.”
I hopped to it and within seconds set the drink on a coaster in front of her. “Diet coke at twelve o’clock.”
She smiled at my instructions and thanked me, then eased her hand forward carefully, letting her fingers brush the cool glass, tiptoeing around it until she could grasp it and pull it toward her. She leaned over it, almost like she was smelling it, and I watched as she held her face, oddly suspended, over her drink, her nose so close to the fizzy liquid it would be submerged if she moved another inch.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
She sat up and rubbed her nose with her right hand, still grasping the drink with her left. “No! I, um, I like the way it sounds and the way the bubbles feel against my face. I didn’t realize you were still watching me.” There was a little steel in her voice, letting me know that staring wasn’t appreciated.
“I’ll just be moving along then.” I grinned, liking the bit of sass she threw back at me.
“Um, David,” her voice rose, “I actually just came to get my check. Could you get that for me?”
“Absolutely. Give me a minute, and I’ll be right with you. I won’t be watching if you want to enjoy the bubbles a little longer.”
The checks were in a lockbox beneath the bar, and it took me a few minutes to locate the spare key from Morg’s office. Morgan had taken his set of keys when he walked out. I swore, thinking of the complications—like re-keying the whole damn place—that would arise if Morg decided his pride was more important than his job. I really hoped the man came back contrite in the morning. I really didn’t want to find a new manager, and Morg did a good job when he wasn’t being an ass.
When I slid the check labeled with her name across the counter, brushing the hand not gripping her drink so she knew it was there, she grabbed at it and then handed it back.
“Could you open it please and read me the total? I’ll be able to deposit it at the ATM on the corner if I know the amount.”
When I tore it open and looked at the amount I was stunned. I read the numbers back to her almost sheepishly, and she sighed.
“Morgan told me I would be making minimum wage until my probation period was over. Do you know when that ends?”
I felt the heat of outrage roil in my gut, but squelched it for her sake. I had to play along, not to protect Morg, but to protect her feelings. There was no probation period. Morgan had been playing games. Amelie had been hired as a joke, and a cheap joke, at that. But I couldn’t tell her that.
“It’s up. You’ll be making the same as all the other dancers, and you’ll receive the full amount you would have made in the first two weeks, minus the amount of this check.”
“Really? That’s great! Morgan didn’t tell me that part.”
I grimaced. Morgan was the one who was going to be on probation.
She repeated the total of the check, a slight question in her voice, and I read the numbers back once more.
“Got it. I’m going to go deposit it. What do I owe you for the drink?”
“Employee perk. No charge for Diet Cokes. Or bubbles.” She smiled widely and I smiled back, her pleasure making it impossible not to, whether or not she could see my response.
She slid carefully from the stool and snapped her stick out, heading for the door, her check tucked in her broad coat pocket.
“Do you need any help? You want me to send someone with you?”
She shook her head without looking back. “Touch screens are obnoxious. I can’t feel a touch screen. But the ATM on the corner has braille on the keypad, thank God! If the world is too flat, people like me will slide right off.” She said this cheerfully, with humor, and I shook my head in amazement as she pushed out the front door into the darkness, the door swinging closed behind her, the night swallowing her up.
I fought the urge to follow her, to make sure she wasn’t mugged at the ATM, her paltry check stolen, her stick used against her. The world was a scary place for most people. For Amelie, it was downright lethal. She was completely vulnerable. If the world is too flat, people like me will slide right off.
And yet she didn’t hesitate at all.
I respected that, admired it, so I stayed behind the bar for several long seconds, a silent show of support, even though my heart was pounding and my palms grew slick. My sister’s face flashed in my mind. She’d disappeared into the night once too. And I never saw her again.
“Vince?” I called out to the young bartender swapping stories with a couple of regulars down at the far end of the bar, completely unaware of the drama that had unfolded in the last ten minutes.
“Hey, Tag.”
“You’re going to be alone here for about a half hour. I’ll be back to finish out the shift and help you close. Morgan had to leave. Will you be okay?”
“Yeah, boss. No big deal. It’s been kinda slow all night.”
I grabbed my jacket and was out the front door without another word, running down the street toward the ATM on the corner, catching up to Amelie before she’d made it half a block. She was surprised when I reached her, but shrugged easily when I referred back to the rules.
“But I didn’t even work tonight,” she protested.
“Humor me, okay?”
She shrugged again, and I stood back patiently, giving her privacy to make her deposit, which she did easily, her fingers gliding over the key pad with confidence.
When she was finished, I moved to her side and she linked our arms the way she’d done the night before. We walked in easy companionship, me humming softly, Amelie matching my stride like she trusted where I was taking her.
We were almost to her door when she stopped, her hand pulling against my arm with urgency.
“Listen!”
I searched the darkness with my narrowed eyes, suddenly nervous that we weren’t as alone as it seemed.
“There it is,” she said.
And then I caught the hollow whistle of a distant train and the clattering of wheels on a track.
“Ten pm. Right on time,” Amelie breathed.
The sound thickened and deepened and the whistle came again, louder, bugling through the night with a warning that felt more like a song. I had always loved the sound of a train, but it had been a while since I’d stopped just to listen.
“Trains are like time machines. If you close your eyes—not that I have to—it’s easy to imagine the world hasn’t changed much in a hundred years. You hear that sound, and it could be 1914 instead of 2014.”
“Or we could be getting ready to head to Hogwarts for the new school year,” I teased.
She laughed again, and I liked the way she didn’t hold back. “You aren’t a Harry Potter fan. No way.” She poked me in the side.
“Not really. But I know the basics.”
“I love Harry Potter. And I love the sound of a train,” she sighed. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“You have favorite sounds?”
“Yes. Lots of them. You?”
“I guess I never thought about it,” I confessed.
“I collect them,” she said breezily.
“How do you collect sounds?”
“The same way you collect memories.” She tapped a finger to her temple.
I had no response to that, but she didn’t seem to need one.
“Speaking of collections, would you mind saying hello to my little brother? He is a huge sports fan. He would love to meet an actual fighter. He’s a little awkward, but he would be thrilled.”
“Sure.” I shrugged. I was curious to see the inside of the house, curious to see how she lived, curious about parents who let their blind daughter wander around the city and dance half-naked in a bar.
She fished a key from her coat pocket and felt her way to the lock. It didn’t take her long and she didn’t ask for help, so I was silent at her side.
The door groaned as she pushed it open into a foyer that was dark. The house smelled slightly of mildew and furniture polish, which was probably due to its age more than anything.
“Henry?” Amelie called, setting her stick aside and pulling off her coat, hanging it on an old-fashioned hat and coat-tree to the left of the door with only a hint of fumbling.
“Henry?” she called a little louder.
I heard a door open overhead, the sound of sports commentary spilling out and then cutting off again as the door was closed. Footsteps sounded above and a chandelier came to life, showering light from the top of the ornate staircase that the house had been built around.
A boy in his early teens appeared from around the corner, his hair an unruly mass of red curls. He’d either been asleep or combing his hair wasn’t a priority. He wore a black, Chicago Bulls Jersey with a pair of flannel pajama pants, and he folded his thin arms across his chest when his eyes met mine, shifting from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the unexpected company.
“Henry?” Amelie had obviously heard his approach and subsequent halt. “Henry, this is David . . . um David, I forgot to ask your last name.” She didn’t wait for me to supply it before she added enthusiastically, the way a mother does with a child. “He’s a real live fighter, Henry! I thought you might like to say hello.”
Henry stayed frozen at the top of the stairs. I waved.
“Hi Henry. I’m David Taggert. But you can call me Tag,” I offered. The boy seemed more nervous than impressed.
“Tag?” Amelie squeaked in alarm, turning toward me slightly. “Oh, my gosh. I didn’t realize . . . I mean, you’re Tag Taggert. You said your name was David! I just thought you were a bouncer at the bar who fought in his spare time! Like Lou! Oh, my gosh. You’re my boss!” Amelie put her hands up to her cheeks and I tried not to laugh as she breathed in and out, clearly a little embarrassed by her earlier informality.
“Boxing became a legal sport in 1901!” Henry blurted.
“He’s not a boxer, Henry,” Amelie recovered quickly. “He’s an MMA fighter, right Mr. Taggert?”
So now I was Mr. Taggert. I started to laugh. I couldn’t help myself.
“It’s kickboxing, wrestling, judo, grappling. It’s a little of everything,” I agreed, still chuckling.
“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” Henry said, and folded his arms even tighter.
“You like Mohammed Ali, huh?” I asked.
“The Greatest, The People’s Champion, The Louisville Lip,” Henry rattled out before turning and fleeing down the hall. A door banged closed, muting the radio, and leaving me and Amelie alone in the foyer once again.
“The next time he sees you, he’ll know everything about you, your record, and everything about mixed martial arts. Henry has a phenomenal brain, but he’s not great at small talk,” Amelie said softly. She bit at her lower lip like she wanted to say more and then stiffened her back as if deciding against it.
I guessed it went a little deeper than not being great at small talk, but I said nothing.
“I didn’t know who you were. I feel stupid now,” she offered timidly.
“Why?”
“I treated you the way I treat Lou.”
“What? Like a friend?”
“I flirted with you.”
“Well, that’s happened to me before. I think I can deal.”
Her nose wrinkled and her brows curled. “Are you smiling?”
“Yes. I am.”
“Okay. Well, that’s good. I will try to be more professional in the future.” With that she held her hand out in my general direction, obviously wanting to shake hands in a “professional” manner.
I clasped it briefly, fighting the urge to laugh again. She was funny, especially because she wasn’t trying to be.
“If you think Henry would like it, bring him by the gym. It’s two doors south of the bar, same side of the street. I have a whole team of fighters. Lou works out with us sometimes too. We spar and train from about ten to four most days. I can show him a few things, introduce him to the guys.”
“Really?” she squeaked, and she squeezed my hand tightly, bringing her other hand up to envelope it between her two smaller ones. “I’ll ask him. I actually think he might like that. He’s really shy, and he doesn’t like it when people touch him, but maybe he could just watch.”
“I wasn’t going to ask him to get in the octagon,” I said wryly.
“Are you smiling again?” It was a strange sensation to think I could wear whatever expression I wished, and she would be totally unaware. I could make fun of her, roll my eyes, grimace, stick out my tongue. And she would never know.
“Yes. I guess I am.”
“I thought so.” Amelie smiled too, but her face was tilted away from me, her eyes fixed on nothing, almost excluding me. Her teeth were white and straight behind smiling pink lips, scrubbed free of the red lipstick she’d worn in the cage the night before. In fact, her face was completely devoid of make-up, and here under the bright lights of the chandelier, where I could really see her, she was young and lovely with her dark hair tucked behind her ears. The way she didn’t make eye contact felt strangely coy, as if she were playing hard to get, though I knew better. She wasn’t playing that game. She couldn’t.
I released her hand and stepped back, my hand reaching for the door. She tilted her head toward the sound of me moving away. I knew she was the one at a disadvantage technically, but damned if I didn’t feel like I was the butt of a private joke, the way her eyes never drank me in.
“Thank you for seeing me home, Mr. Taggert.”
“You’re welcome, Miss . . .”
“Anderson,” she supplied, although I already knew her last name.
“Goodnight, Amelie Anderson.”
I let myself out, pulling the door closed behind me.
(End of Cassette)
Moses
THE FIRST TAPE ended with the loud click of the play button releasing, and I exhaled deeply, as if I’d been released as well. I’d been holding my breath throughout, afraid to relax, worried I would miss the clues, that I wouldn’t pick up on what Tag wasn’t telling us. The problem was, he seemed to be baring his soul, leaving nothing out of their first encounters, even the details better left unsaid.
“I don’t watch movies. I listen to them. I’m partial to great dialogue and awesome soundtracks, and romance is a must,” Millie spoke up, as if she felt compelled to supply the behind-the-scenes details Tag hadn’t shared. “A while back, my cousin Robin and I had an eighties movies marathon, complete with Dirty Dancing and Flashdance, and I did my best to follow along while Robin filled in the blanks. I put Flashdance on again when Robin went home. I listened to it over and over, and I imagined how it would feel to dance in front of an audience, to dance in front of people who didn’t know I was blind. That’s where I got the idea. I did a little research, hired a handy man, and within two weeks a sturdy stripper pole was keeping the water heater and the furnace company in our basement. The handyman asked me out, too. I declined.”
“Smart girl,” I said. I was impressed. She was full of life, and I felt a brief flash of happiness for my friend before I remembered that he’d let go.
“I took dancing and gymnastics when I was younger, and I was competitive all the way up to the time my sight started to fail. But being blind didn’t take away my ability to tumble, or swing from a bar, or even balance on a beam. With the help of my mom and some patient coaches, I was able to continue with my gymnastics up until just a few years ago. I still work out at the training facility sometimes, but I’ve over-stayed my welcome. I’ve outgrown my pathetic appeal, and I feel like a burden more often than not, always having to have someone nearby, keeping an eye out for me.
“But in the basement with the pole, with the music pounding as loud as I want, I can put my dance and gymnastics training to good use. And no one has to help me. Nobody has to make sure I don’t fall or hurt myself. When I dance, I can pretend like I’m the real thing, I can pretend I look as good as dancing makes me feel. I even got brave enough to show Robin. She told me I looked amazing. She was so excited for me. So I started creating routines, you know, dreaming a little.
“I even choreographed a routine to “Perfectly Blind” by Day 26. It’s a sexy song and that’s funny, admit it. I figured if I could laugh at myself, then it wouldn’t bother me if other people laughed too. I wanted to dance. I dreamed about it. But I could just imagine the wave of new material available for stand-up comics. I would start a movement. Instead of blonde jokes, or Yo’ Mama jokes, it would be blind stripper jokes.”
“I can think of a few.” I was teasing her, and she giggled.
“Yeah, me too. I have a million of ‘em.”
I didn’t ask her to share, but I was curious. Her laughter faded quickly, and she smoothed her hair self-consciously.
“I make jokes, but I actually care about the way I look. I go to a lot of work to take care of my appearance. Robin’s a beautician and that helps. I’ve been told I’m pretty often enough, and there’s no reflection in the mirror to dispute it. So I choose to believe it. But dancing in front of people? That’s a whole different story.
“A few months ago, Robin told me they were hiring dancers at the club on the corner of Broadway and Rio Grande. She thought I should apply. I wanted to. I really, really wanted to. I could laugh at myself with Henry and Robin, and I could dance around a pole in my basement, but could I actually dance anywhere else? Could I actually get paid to dance?”
“Tag apparently thought so,” I interrupted.
Millie nodded but continued her narrative.
“Robin told me she would help me. And she would have. She would have had me looking like a million bucks. But in the end, I walked into the audition looking like a bag lady. A blind bag lady. Or at least what I imagined a bag lady looked like. I walked in off the street, prepared to be turned away, my clothes unflattering, my hair a mess. I did it on purpose. I wanted to give them every reason to turn me down. I wanted to provide them with an easy way out. But they didn’t turn me down.” Millie paused. “I guess now we know why.”
I had no idea why Tag included that part of his story on the tapes. I’d watched Millie when Tag had recounted the scene with Morgan, and her face had fallen like a house of cards. I’d wanted to throw the tape recorder out the window and hunt my best friend down, so I could slap some sense into him.
But then, as Tag had continued talking, Millie’s expression grew thoughtful and her stiff posture relaxed, and I realized suddenly why Tag was sharing the uncomfortable story. Tag confessed the details of Millie’s hiring because he didn’t want her hearing it from someone else and thinking that he was in on the joke. Tag clearly wanted Millie to know that the first time he’d seen her dancing, he’d had no idea she was blind. He’d thought she was beautiful.
“You heard what he said, Millie. He didn’t know. You convinced him you were the real deal. He thought you were even better than the other dancers.” My gut twisted again. If Tag were coming back, he wouldn’t have felt the need to make that clear or insulate Millie from gossip.
“I know,” she whispered and then stood. “I need to take a break, Moses. I need to go home and make sure Henry’s okay.”
I offered to give her a lift, but she refused, claiming she needed to stretch her legs. She had to dance at the club in a few hours too, and I was glad to hear it, even if she was only going through the motions. Going through the motions means you aren’t sitting still. Sitting still is what kills you. And so far, everyone was keeping up appearances for Tag, everyone was showing up for work, doing their jobs at his gym, his bar, and his store on the corner. Tag may have abandoned his world, but if we all went through the motions, maybe we could keep it turning for him until he came back. I didn’t let myself think any further than that.