People are starting to mill in, even though it isn’t seven yet. I’ve observed that old people, as a
rule, tend to show up early for things. I still have to set up the music. Stormy says that when hosting a
party, music is absolutely the first order of business, because it sets the mood the second your guest
walks in. I can feel my nerves starting to pulse. There’s still so much to do. “I’d better finish setting
up.”
“Tell me what you need done,” John says. “I’m your second-in-command at this shindig. Did
people say ‘shindig’ in the forties?”
I laugh. “Probably!” In a rush I say, “Okay, can you set up my speakers and iPod? They’re in the
bag by the refreshments table. And can you pick up Mrs. Taylor in 5A? I promised her an escort.”
John gives me a salute and runs off. Tingles go up and down my spine like soda water. Tonight
will be a night to remember!
We’re an hour and a half in, and Crystal Clemons, a lady from Stormy’s floor, is leading everyone in
a swing-dancing lesson. Of course Stormy is up front, rock-stepping for all she’s worth. I’m
following along from the refreshments table: one-two, three-four, five-six. Early on I danced with Mr.
Morales, but only once, because the women were cutting their eyes at me for taking an eligible, able-
bodied man off the circuit. Men are in short supply at old-age homes, so there aren’t enough male
dance partners, not enough by half. I’ve heard a few of the women whispering how rude it is for a
gentleman not to dance when there are ladies without partners—and looking pointedly at poor John.
John is standing at the other end of the table, drinking Coke and nodding his head to the beat. I’ve
been so busy running around, we’ve hardly had a chance to talk. I lean over the table and call out,
“Having fun?”
He nods. Then, quite suddenly, he bangs his glass down on the table, so hard the table shakes and I
jump. “All right,” he says. “It’s do or die. D-day.”
“What?”
“Let’s dance,” John says.
Shyly I say, “We don’t have to if you don’t want to, John.”
“No, I want to. I didn’t take swing-dancing lessons from Stormy for nothing.”
I widen my eyes. “When did you take swing dance lessons from Stormy?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Just dance with me.”
“Well... do you have any war bonds left?” I joke.
John fishes one out of his pants pocket and slaps it on the refreshments table. Then he grabs my
hand and marches me to the center of the dance floor, like a soldier heading off to the battlefield. He’s
all grim concentration. He signals to Mr. Morales, who is manning the music because he’s the only
one who can figure out my phone. Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” comes blaring out of the speakers.
John gives me a determined nod. “Let’s do this.”
And then we’re dancing. Rock-step, side, together, side, repeat. Rock-step, one-two-three, one-
two-three. We step on each other’s feet about a million times, but he’s swinging me around—twirl,
twirl—and our faces are flushed and we’re both laughing. When the song is over, he pulls me in and
then throws me back out one last time. Everyone is clapping. Mr. Morales screams, “To the young
ones!”
John picks me up and lifts me into the air like we’re ice dancers, and the crowd erupts. I’m smiling