From the Dust Returned

A room full of softly dancing pigeons ruffling their quiet, trailing feathers, a room full of peacocks, a room full of rainbow eyes and lights. And in the center of it, around, around, around, danced Ann Leary.

Oh, it is a fine evening, said Cecy.

“Oh, it’s a fine evening,” said Ann.

“You’re odd,” said Tom.

The music whirled them in dimness, in rivers of song; they floated, they bobbed, they sank, they rose for air, they gasped, they clutched each other as if drowning and whirled on in fans and whispers and sighs to “Beautiful Ohio.”

Cecy hummed. Ann’s lips parted. The music came out.

Yes, odd, said Cecy.

“You’re not the same,” said Tom.

“Not tonight.”

“You’re not the Ann Leary I knew.”

No, not at all, at all, whispered Cecy, miles and miles away. “No, not at all,” said the moved lips.

“I’ve the funniest feeling,” said Tom. “About you.” He danced her and searched her glowing face, watching for something. “Your eyes, I can’t figure it.”

Do you see me? asked Cecy.

“You’re here, Ann, and you’re not.” Tom turned her carefully, this way and that.

“Yes.”

“Why did you come with me?

”

“I didn’t want to,” said Ann.

“Why, then?”

“Something made me.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” Ann’s voice was faintly hysterical.

Now, now, hush, whispered Cecy. Hush, that’s it. Around, around.

They whispered and rustled and rose and fell away in the dark room, with the music turning them.

“But you did come,” said Tom.

“I did,” said Cecy and Ann.

“Here.” And he danced her lightly out an open door and walked her quietly away from the hall and the music and the people.

They climbed in and sat together in his open car.

“Ann,” he said, taking her hands, trembling. “Ann.” the way he said her name it was as if it wasn’t her name. He kept glancing into her pale face, and now her eyes were open again. “I used to love you, you know that,” he said.

“I know.”