Slow Dance

Twenty-One

Ryan brought the kids back before breakfast. (Pick them up after dinner, bring them back before breakfast.) He had rehearsals

that day, even though it was Saturday.

Ryan taught theater at a suburban high school—which was about as demanding as directing a show on Broadway. Seriously. His

school put on five shows a year, plus banquets, club meetings, competitions, elementary school tours...

Shiloh tried to accommodate his schedule because it was the path of least resistance—the path of least Ryan.

They’d been granted shared custody of the kids. Shiloh had pushed for the greater share. Ryan said she had outdated and problematic

ideas about the importance of mothers versus fathers. (Well, duh.)

The judge had taken Ryan’s side. Fifty-fifty. Shiloh usually ended up with more than that. Ryan’s schedule—and general temperament—meant

he was always asking her to take extra hours and days and meals. It was hard for Shiloh to complain about something she’d

fought for.

She was still asleep when he rang the doorbell Saturday morning.

“I’ve got it,” she heard her mom call.

Then Shiloh heard the front door open... Heard the kids come in... Heard Ryan talking to her mom... inside the house. Shiloh groaned and rolled out of bed, getting dressed as quickly as she could in dirty jeans and an old cast T-shirt

from one of the shows at her theater— Old Yeller .

Junie ran up to Shiloh on the stairs. “Dad’s making pancakes!”

Shiloh looked up.

Ryan was grinning at her. Shiloh’s mom was standing behind him, making big What the fuck? eyes.

“I promised them pancakes,” he said, “but I didn’t have eggs, so I said I’d make them over here.”

“Um...” Shiloh frowned. “I don’t know if we have eggs.”

Junie was pulling on Shiloh’s shirt. She was six and tall for her age. And she’d inherited both of her parents’ flair for

the dramatic, compounded. “We do!” she said—she exclaimed . “I already checked, and we only need one egg. That’s the recipe.”

Shiloh looked at Ryan again. He was giving her his best Come on, Shiloh smile.

Ryan’s smiles were very effective, as a rule. He was very charismatic. Very attractive, to most people. Even to Shiloh sometimes.

(Even after everything.)

Ryan looked like the smart-alecky sidekick on a teen sitcom. Still, at thirty-six. He was short, with dark hair and crinkly

blue eyes and a smile that tugged up more on one side than the other. (This was possibly a learned behavior.) It was like

Paul Rudd, Adam Scott, Jason Bateman and John Cusack had all pooled their distinguishing characteristics into one Midwestern

high school drama teacher.

Shiloh worked very hard not to despise Ryan at a cellular level; her kids had too many of his actual cells.

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

Ryan tried out a different smile, a softer one. “It’s just pancakes, Shy.”

“I want pancakes!” Junie said.

“I think Dad has to get to work,” Shiloh said firmly. “He has rehearsal.”

“Noooo,” Junie whined.

“Noooo,” Gus echoed. Gus was almost three. Most of what he said so far was just an echo of Junie.

“Yep!” Ryan finally relented, swooping Gus up into his arms for a hug. “Mommy’s making pancakes. She makes the best pancakes

anyway. Mmmwah! ” He gave Gus a big kiss and then set him down, reaching for Junie. He had to pull her away from Shiloh’s legs. “ Mwah, mwah! You guys be good for Mommy. I’ll see you Tuesday. I love you.”

Gus had started to cry. He’d been doing that lately whenever one of them said goodbye. You’d think Gus would be used to this arrangement—Shiloh and Ryan had separated when he was just a few months old.

But Gus seemed newly rattled by the instability. He cried over everything. He’d bitten someone at daycare. And after six weeks

of potty-training, he was less potty-trained than ever. Even mentioning the potty chair sent him into tears.

Shiloh went to pick him up. It was an excuse not to walk Ryan out. “Come on, Gus-Gus. Let’s make pancakes.”

“I’ll text you about next week, Shiloh. See ya, Gloria!”

“Goodbye, Ryan!” Her mom waved.

As soon as Ryan was out the door, her mom followed Shiloh into the kitchen. “Why does he come inside every time? It’s like

he needs to piss all over the place, so it smells like him.”

“Mom. You know the rules. Not in front of the kids.”

Her mom took Gus from Shiloh’s arms. “Gus-Gus isn’t a kid. He’s my baby.”

“Not a baby,” he pouted. Gus was big for his age, too. But he was still round like a baby, with chubby arms and legs, and

a little dimple in his chin like Spanky from Our Gang . He had fine dark hair and round brown eyes. He looked of Shiloh and Ryan, but not really like either of them.

Shiloh got out the eggs and the milk. “Do you want pancakes, Gus?”

“No! Want Hercules !”

“You have to ask in a nice voice,” she said. “You don’t yell at Mommy.”

“ Hercuuuuleees, ” he said, like he was begging for it on his deathbed.

“Junie!” Shiloh called out to the living room. “You guys can watch a DVD.”

Shiloh’s mom set Gus on the floor, so he could toddle away despondently.

Shiloh had had big ideas about not letting the television raise her children. But then she’d actually had children. And then

she’d gotten divorced. And now every day felt like something to get through alive. Something to try and stay awake for.

At least her kids were being raised by actual children’s programming, and not Match Game and Days of Our Lives, like Shiloh had been.

“I was hoping you still had Cary squirreled away up there,” her mom said.

“Uh, no.” Shiloh started on the pancake batter. “He left right after I talked to you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey.”

“It wasn’t you—it just wasn’t a great idea, I guess. We were both drunk on nostalgia.”

Her mom leaned against the counter. She was shorter than Shiloh, with shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair that she colored

herself. She worked at the airport bar and was already in her uniform—black slacks and a silky black blouse with the top two

buttons undone, a small gold crucifix hanging on a gold chain around her neck. “I always thought you were sleeping with Cary

back in high school.”

“And I always told you that I wasn’t.”

“I didn’t believe you. I thought you were going to make me a grandmother at thirty-five—you were here all the time by yourself.”

“We were usually on the porch.”

Her mom laughed. “Do you remember that time I walked in—”

“Yes.”

“I was sure —”

“We were just friends. When do you have to be at work?”

“Eleven,” her mom said. “Time for you to take a shower and a breath if you want.”

Shiloh tried not to assume on a regular basis that her mom would help with Junie and Gus—she wasn’t one of those hungry grandmas

who couldn’t get enough of their precious grandbabies. But she was more enthusiastic as a grandparent than she’d ever been

as a parent. Shiloh had had to keep herself entertained as a kid. But her mom played dolls with Junie. She read board books

to Gus. She’d take them both to the park across the street on her days off.

Shiloh’s grandmother used to watch Shiloh every day after school. Maybe her mom just saw this as the circle of life. The circle of single mothers. From that perspective, Ryan was the most active father in generations .

“Thanks,” Shiloh said. She finished the pancakes, eating the most misshapen ones herself, over the counter.

Then she went upstairs to take a shower. The bathroom was a mess of dirty clothes and bathtub toys. Smears of toothpaste.

She was relieved that Cary hadn’t had to come in here last night. She cleaned up the worst of it while she waited for the

water to get hot.

Then she stood, blank-headed, in the shower, trying to sweep away thoughts of Cary as soon as they rose up. Shiloh had already

lain awake for hours the night before thinking about him.

It had been very Cary of him to imply that he wanted more from her—only after they’d passed the point at which any more could happen.

It was like waiting for someone else to clear the table and then saying, “But I was going to eat that pizza.”

Was Cary right about Shiloh being headstrong and manipulative? Yes. Obviously. Was he right that she’d been too quick to judgment?

Yes. Always.

But when had Cary ever indicated that he wanted something more with Shiloh?

Even last night, during his grand stand, he hadn’t shown her any cards. “What if I didn’t want an out?” he’d said. Yeah, what if, Cary?

Shiloh shouldn’t have pinned all these deep, romantic feelings on seeing him again. (She should never have bought a new dress.)

Maybe she lacked the imagination to see herself with someone new. Ryan was gone, and Shiloh had gone back to the only other

person she’d ever loved.

She did have other opportunities—of this sort. There was a single dad who volunteered at the theater who’d invited Shiloh to go on

a bike ride... He was only slightly creepy. And one of the costume makers at work, a woman, had asked Shiloh out to a concert after her divorce was final. Shiloh

could probably manage to have sex again...

With someone who had far less destructive potential than Cary Saunders.

She’d opened herself up to the person with the most power to hurt her—even Ryan couldn’t affect her like that anymore—and he’d torn through her like a tornado through a trailer

park.

Shiloh wrapped herself in a towel and went to get dressed in her bedroom, digging out another theater T-shirt and another

pair of jeans.

She picked up the books that Cary had kicked off her bed. Shiloh had a bad habit now that she slept alone of stacking books,

and sometimes dishes, in the bed next to her.

She gathered up the work papers and dirty coffee mugs on her bedside table. She threw away Kleenexes and cough drop wrappers.

She made a pile of clean clothes to put away and threw dirty clothes out into the hallway. The washer and dryer were in the

basement.

She was reaching for her tights from the night before when she saw it, kicked under her bed—a man’s wallet.

She picked it up and sat on the bed. The wallet was brown leather, worn slick from riding in Cary’s pocket. She didn’t have

to open it to know it was his—but she still did. She looked at his driver’s license in the clear plastic window. Cary Roderick Saunders. Brown eyes, brown hair.

Shiloh pulled her hair into a thick bun—even though it was still wet and heavy and would give her a headache—and headed downstairs.

“Mom? Cary left his wallet. I’m going to run it over to him.”

Her mom was painting her nails in the small dining room between the living room and the kitchen. “Oh, really... ”

“I’m sure it was unintentional. That smells toxic, by the way—open a window.”

“It’s too cold to open a window. Come right back, all right? I have to leave soon.”

“I will.”

“And don’t argue with him!”

Shiloh found a long cardigan buried under the kids’ coats at the end of the banister and stepped out of the house.

She almost got in the car, but then decided to walk. Cary’s mom only lived a few blocks away, and the neighborhood felt pretty safe on a Saturday morning.

Shiloh hadn’t realized that Cary’s mom was still in her old house. (Shiloh was always coming and going; she never really saw

anyone from the neighborhood.) She was relieved to hear that his mom was still alive—her health had been precarious even when

they were in high school.

Shiloh walked briskly, rubbing the leather wallet in her pocket.

This didn’t have to be painful. Cary might not even come to the door. Shiloh could keep it low-key.

She got to the house, and it looked exactly like it had in 1991, like the same kids had left their broken Little Tikes toys

out in the front yard. The house was big and gray, with cracked siding and a chain-link fence that had seen many better days.

Shiloh let herself through the gate, keeping an eye out for dogs.

They must all be inside—she heard them go crazy when she stepped onto the porch. She knocked on the door.

“I’m coming!” a woman called.

“Mom, I’ve got it,” Shiloh heard Cary say.

“I said I’ve got it.” The door opened.

Several dogs hopped up onto the screen door. Cary’s mom was standing there. She was a heavyset woman with short, curly gray

hair. She looked a little thinner these days—and more fragile. She was wearing an oxygen tube.

“Hi there,” Shiloh said. “Is Cary here?”

His mom smiled. “Is that Shiloh?”

“Yeah.” Shiloh smiled, too. “Hi, Lois. How are you?”

“Honey, look at you! Come on in.” Lois’s voice was breathy. “Cary, it’s Shiloh.”

She held the door open, and two of the dogs started jumping on Shiloh.

“ Mom, ” Cary said. He sounded frustrated.

“Come in, honey.” Lois touched Shiloh’s arm. “Don’t worry about the puppies, they like people. What can I get you to drink? I’ve got iced tea and Diet Pepsi.”

Shiloh let herself be herded into the living room. It smelled like cigarette smoke in here—but less like dog than she was

expecting.

Shiloh had never been inside Cary’s house. The living room was crowded with stuff. Too much furniture, and piles of clothes

and papers. The coffee table was brimming with pill bottles and drinking glasses, and a certain kind of decorative angel figurine—Shiloh thought maybe you could buy

them at the Hallmark store. There were at least fifteen of the angels on this table alone.

Cary was on the landline, with the receiver tucked between his ear and his shoulder, and one hand holding the base of the

phone against his hip. He was reaching for the dogs with his other hand, pulling them away from Shiloh and one-by-one shutting

them behind a door. (Where they one-by-one went ballistic.)

“They weren’t hurting anybody,” his mom said, irritated with him, and settled with a “ Phew ” onto the couch. “Sit down, Shiloh. What a treat to see you, honey. Cary told me you work at a theater.”

“I teach theater,” Shiloh said. “To kids.”

Cary was still trying to get the dogs shut behind the door. The phone cord was stretched to its limit. There was a photo portrait

of him, from when he first joined the Navy, hanging by his head.

“Isn’t that just perfect!” Lois said. She seemed genuinely delighted. Cary’s mom had never been anything but sweet to Shiloh,

the few times they’d met. “You were always such a good actress.”

“Thank you.”

“I loved watching the two of you up there in those plays. Do you remember when Cary was Mr. Scrooge?”

“Of course,” Shiloh said. “He was so talented—I’m sure he still is.”

Lois laid a hand on Shiloh’s thigh. “Can I get you a Diet Pepsi, honey? Or some iced tea? Cary, get Shiloh something to drink.”

“I’m really okay,” Shiloh said.

His mom sighed and gestured toward Cary. He was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and his hair was sticking up a little. “He’s trying to get my electric bill sorted out...”

Shiloh caught Cary’s eye and mouthed, I’m sorry . She slid his wallet out of her pocket so he could see it, and shrugged.

“...but it’s Saturday,” Lois went on, shaking her head. “And they’ve got nobody answering those phones.”

“Have you tried to take care of it online?” Shiloh asked.

“She doesn’t have a computer,” Cary said. “And she’s not set up to pay online.”

“I told him they’re not gonna turn the power off when they say they will, anyway,” Lois said. “This can all wait till Monday.”

“I won’t be here Monday,” he said.

“Angel will take care of it.”

Cary rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to pop in,” Shiloh said. “I should go.”

“Shiloh! You have to wait for Cary to get off the phone—you kids haven’t even had a chance to visit.”

“Cary can call me when he has time.” Shiloh set the wallet on the table next to her. “I’m so glad I got a chance to see you,

Lois.” She reached out and squeezed Lois’s hand.

“Well, if you have to go so quick...”

Shiloh stood up. She looked at Cary. He was watching her. His jaw was clenched.

“Um...” Shiloh wasn’t sure whether he’d want any helpful advice from her right now—but decided to offer it up anyway. “They’ve

got a customer service window. You could go pay in person.”

“On a Saturday?” he asked.

“Till noon.”

“Well, there you go,” Lois said. “You can go when Angel brings back the car.”

Cary was rubbing his temples, staring into space. He looked a million years old—he looked eighteen again.

“I could take you,” Shiloh said.

Cary looked up at her, his eyes widening.

“You don’t have to do that, honey,” Lois said. “We can wait for Angel.”

Shiloh held his gaze. “I don’t mind—if you don’t mind. I’ll have to bring my kids.”

Lois clapped her hands, smiling. “I didn’t know you had kids, Shiloh. How many?”

Shiloh smiled back. “Two.” She looked at Cary again and gently shook her head. “I don’t mind.”

Cary nodded. He hung up the phone.