It was around dusk when we heard the sirens. Peggy noticed it first, fresh from surgery, not ready yet to dance, riding the wall of chairs. She signaled with fingers over her lips, one hand meaning ‘oh, my,’ two hands for ‘oh my God.’ Several dancers left their squares and peered out the windows of the Masonic Temple, trying to see who had died, who had lived, what had been destroyed. The younger girls stood on chairs, their ruffled petticoats exposed beneath upturned poodle slips as they pushed themselves against the wall. Blue hairs questioned each other, wide eyed, mumbling, sluggish. Our caller went on as if nothing had happened, chanting over some forgotten country soundtrack; “Sides face, Grand Square…”
Larry followed me down the narrow stairwell to the front door, ready to use any excuse for a cigarette break, never mind sitting out a dance. I nearly slipped on the over-varnished stairs; My black shoes invisible beneath a rush of ivory. I took careful steps, clinging to the fatigued rail. Larry beat me to the door, pushing it open, saying to me “Ladies first.” We stepped outside.
They brought trucks to block off the road. The sheriff was pointing somewhere, telling a man in slippers that he would have to make a claim on his homeowner’s insurance, that no, the city would not cover damages to private property. Headlights rolled by, people U-turning, pulling out of parking lots. A squad car was parked in the intersection, the loud muffled voice of a woman dispatcher broadcasting from the radio, the street stretching its neck to hear. Two EMT’s pushed a body bag on a trolley, what you would see in the movies, black with a human sized zipper. An ambulance drove away, I could make out plastic tubes dangling through the back window.
“Did you hear the crash?” Larry asked. He stood on his tip-toes, gazed past the flashing yellow lights. “I didn’t hear a thing.”
“No,” I said, “We must have been dancing when it happened.”
No one came to tell us ‘nothing to see here.’ A youngish couple asked if we’d seen the accident; No, we hadn’t. A guy offered us drugs, we were invited to a party, someone asked us for spare change. Still, we were not told to move on, and so we stayed.
An old pickup pulled up next to us. The drivers climbed out and put up barricades. They moved in binary perfection, locking the orange and white legs, tilting the saw horses into place, setting reflectors atop. Now and again one would yell to the other to hold this for me, to plug something in, to tie a weight to that end. They had diesel hands, rough beards, glazed over vision. Probably they had kids, girlfriends or wives, sitting at home drinking beer when the call came in. One of them asked if we had seen the accident.
“Didn’t see a thing.” Larry took a deep, whistling drag from his cigarette and blew out a grey cloud of ash. “I guess one of ‘em didn’t make it.”
“You gotta figure the driver was speeding.” Barricade man said. He took a careful look along the strip of blacktop that had been scarred by the Honda’s violent passage. “Limit here is twenty five.”
“Well,” From Larry, “Could’ve been the light. You know, the sun in his eyes or somethin’.” Both men nodding, thinking it’s not a bad premise, thinking the sunlight at dusk can be murderous.
They had brought the Jaws of Life. I was telling myself we should get back to the dance, my partner still waiting inside. All around us the scream of tearing aluminum, the wail of the Jaws’ tolling engine. I could barely make out the ambulance in the spinning blue and red police signals, like strobe lights through stained glass.
A handful of spectators stood on each corner, people on their way to the bar, to the 7-Elleven, the Taco Bell, none of them on their way to church. Some cross-eyed guy was leaning over the barricade. He shook his head and moved on. Someone laughed briefly.
One thing for sure, the power pole was still standing. A huddle of electricians in yellow plastic gowns stood beneath it, seemingly holding it up with their very presence. A Norwest Electric truck was parked near them, engine still running, radio tuned to Oldies 93.5. Lights in the neighboring homes remained on, short legged dogs pressing their noses into windows, wrinkled eyes peering between the slats of blinds, pink scented steam rising from laundry rooms.
Another ambulance arrived. The Jaws stopped, the driver had been retrieved. A joke was made by the barricade man, something about mother, something about car. We did not catch it immediately, but nodded for lack of any better acknowledgement. There was a pause in which you could hear a cough from a half mile. A metal door swung open on dry hinges. They took the driver away, lights on in the ambulance, alive that means.
“You figure they’ll take him to Valley?” This the closest hospital, thought of by Larry.
“Probably Saint Theresa’s.” Said by the barricade man, remembering that they have a severe trauma unit. “I imagine he’s pretty messed up.”
Nothing said for one leaded minute.
The winter air soaked through my tights, little bumps of cold swelled in my legs. I tugged at my sweater, rubbed my fingers together, glanced back at the dance hall. “We should get back.” I said.
The barricade man eyed us like he was just noticing the hoop skirt, the bolo tie, the hand sewn dress. “You guys having a costume party or something?”
“We’re square dancers.” Doesn’t matter that I said it, Larry could have, the response would have been the same.
Barricade man looking into Larry’s eyes, challenging, the ‘no man would be caught dead’ look on his face. “Really?” He said.
“Yeah, I know man. My wife loves it.” Larry chuckling as he said it, making a mockery of himself. He lifted the small silver eagle from his chest, the turquoise stone in its talons. “Look at this thing. It cost me fifty bucks.”
Barricade man saying, “I don’t believe it,” meaning, ‘who cares?’ He looked out at the flashing emergency parade, watched the ambulance fade into the distance. Finally came the ‘move on’ grin, the ‘nothing to see here’ nod.
Larry, catching on, saying, “Yeah, well, I guess we should get back.”
All this in less than an hour, and back up the staircase we went. Above us the floor trembled, the sound of shoes stomping in unison, “star through, double pass by, clover leaf…” I hung my sweater in the coatroom, watching a handful of dancers miss-step, turning into the square, colliding, the square falling apart. The caller watching, his eyes cold but patient, his voice still clinging to twangy harmonics: “Find your partner, promenade home.”
Fin
more coffee