“Moondance” – a short story by Ruth Knafo Setton

“Moondance” was a finalist in our recently concluded 66th Short Fiction Contest, and is published with the consent of the author.

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Barb Crawford/Flicker/CC BY 2.0

Moondance

by Ruth Setton

…..My dad taught me there’s no greater sign of love than making a music mix for the person you care about. Since I don’t have a special someone—and at thirty-six, I probably never will—I make them for my clients. When someone enters Dory’s Love Cab, they get the full experience—music, incense, pillows—and for those who need help, I offer my sideline as well.

…..The passenger I picked up from the bus station hit the right notes, but in a minor bluesy key. Moody and electric, with hot blue eyes and sulky mouth, a shock of black hair. Faded bomber jacket and jeans. He shoved his two large bags in the trunk himself though I reached for them. The address was in Manchester Heights, the new subdivision that sprang up where the old Pennsylvania farms used to be. Same area near the river where Dad and I used to go the first day of fishing season. Afterwards, we’d sit in the shade of a tree near the covered bridge, eat our lunch, and watch the river sparkle past. The memory put me in a dreamy mood.

…..As I pulled out of the bus station, I shoved in Love Tape #3, and squinted through the rear view as Labelle filled the cab with warm sounds. A smile would have been nice, but as the guy adjusted his long frame in the back seat, he gave the embroidered pillow a dirty look. What was his problem?

…..“Visiting?” I asked.

…..He looked up, startled. Then curled his upper lip and without a word, turned his head and stared out the window.

…..Patti and the girls sang, “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”

…..Oh, for God’s sake, the jerk thought I was hitting on him. My hands tightened on the steering wheel as I turned right on Oak Street and headed west. Dad always told me when I felt a rage coming on, I should open the window, take seven deep breaths, and put on something mellow. For him, it was Tony Bennett. For me, it was Anita Baker, and yes, I know my music tastes are old-school, retro, whatever you want to call them, but I know what I love. I reached for Mix #7, skipped to Song #3, and Anita’s rich tender voice crooning, “Angel,” rippled down my spine.

…..A call from Hank came in: a pick-up at the mall, outside of J.C. Penney’s. I sighed and thought about Dad and me walking downtown in its heyday, stores twinkling with lights, streets filled with shoppers. That made me gloomy but driving past downtown’s abandoned buildings and ratty storefronts—now pawnshops and bars—always did.

…..“Can you turn that off?”

…..Not down. Off. Normally I’d have done it but this guy got on my nerves. Didn’t even have the decency to look at me in the mirror. I didn’t lower the sound. Said brightly, “What’s the matter? Don’t like Anita?”

…..“Hate Anita.”

…..Hate Anita? Who the hell hated Anita except a psychopath? “Why?”

…..“If you must know.” Long-suffering voice. “She doesn’t shout.”

…..I perked up in interest. “Go on.”

…..“She’s got all that voice, and she wastes it.”

…..“Wastes it?” I was outraged. “What the—?”

…..“She plays it safe. I’d like to hear her shout.”

…..I let it percolate for a minute, he was throwing my pet theory back in my face.

…..I do insist on the scream, the gut-wrenching, throat-ripping, air-blasting scream—James, Aretha, Otis, Wilson, Janis—but I also like a twist: after you’ve torn yourself away from the passion, then you sit back, smoke a cigarette, lie in a boat curving down a river, dangle your hand in the water—and whisper.

…..“Ok, you’ve got a point,” I admitted. “But sometimes a whisper is louder than a scream.”

…..He raised an eyebrow—actually did it, just like Cary Grant—that spoke as clearly as a voice: Show me, sister.

….. I grinned, hung a right at 17^th and headed north to Liberty, meanwhile digging in my file. Brought out #9: “After Love,” did a switch, and let Jobim take us into samba land. I let the cool hush flicker over us, like walking on the beach at night. Then I glanced in the rearview. He was listening, actively listening, the way Dad used to: eyes shut tight. I kept driving down redbrick gritty Liberty, but I imagined the cab sailing through wild green and blue Bahia. I let him soak up the sun and sea until Chestnut Street. “Well?”

…..He opened his eyes sleepily. “Very sweet. But it has nothing to do with what I was talking about.”

…..“Yes, it does. It’s whisper versus scream.”

…..“No. It’s Anita versus herself. She has all that voice, and she restrains it.”

…..“Some might say that’s a sign of power.”

…..“Some might,” he said, grudging.

…..“Are you a… James fan?” I was going out on a limb here.

…..A wary look. “Depends.”

…..“‘It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World.’”

…..“Jesus. You have that?”

…..“Live at the Apollo, 1969.”

…..“The only version. Play it.” His voice actually trembled.

…..I reached into my stash, dug around till I found it. Love Tape #2: “The Dance,” Song #4. James Brown—young, furious, on fire with his own power. At the endless light on Kilmer Street, I turned my head and almost bumped into him. He was leaning forward, grimacing in pain, as was only right.

…..We discussed early and late James and Aretha all the way to Manchester Heights—houses so enormous I imagined people getting lost and disappearing inside. His parents’ house, he said. He hadn’t returned since they died.

…..When I pulled in his driveway, I stopped the ticker. He didn’t move till the end of the song: it’s a fifteen-minute masterpiece, punctuated by screams from the crowd. I thought: I misjudged you, man.

…..We got out of the cab. A crisp fall breeze blew dark hair over his eyes. I shoved my baseball cap more firmly on my head and reached in the trunk. He moved before me, grabbed his cases, set them on the driveway. He reached in his pocket, paid, added a ten-dollar tip. “That was great. Can I call you if I need a ride?”

…. I handed him my card. “With a ten-dollar tip, you can call me any time.”

…..“Dory’s Love Cab. What does that mean?”

…..“As a sideline I bring people together.”

…..“A dating service?”

…..“You could call it that.”

…..“Do you have someone for me?”

…..I examined him. “What are you looking for?”

…..“Someone fun, interesting. For clubs, movies. Nothing serious.”

…..Perfect for Samantha. “I think I do.”

…..He handed me his card. “I’m Jamie. Jamie James.”

…..“Double name. I’ll call you Louie Louie. I’m Dory Silver.”

…..We shook hands, and he gave me an odd look. “Don’t you need references, Dory? Security?”

…..“I know where you live. My best friend is a cop. And I trust my ear.”

…..He tilted his head. “Yeah? What does it tell you?”

…..“You’re restless. Moody. Looking to fill the hole in your soul.”

…..He smiled, slowly. It was pretty devastating.

…..I was putting together a new playlist, which is what I do on my time off. I wanted an exciting love mix—classics mixing with the unexpected, each song moving inevitably but surprisingly from the one before, so you can’t quite relax, you have to stay on your toes, never sure what will hit you next. Caetano gliding in after raw Esther Phillips, a taste of Van Morrison’s sweet “Tupelo Honey,” to John Lee Hooker jabbing his guitar and making “TB Sheets” sound like the sexiest thing alive. The phone rang as I pondered whether to follow the Hook with Sidney Bechet’s burning “Summertime” or Ray Charles’s brooding “Georgia on his Mind.”

…..“Dory’s Love Cab.”

…..“Dory. It’s—”

…..“Louie Louie.”

…..“Don’t call me that.”

…..“How did it go?”

…..“She was great, but—”

…..“But what?” I stopped the music, sat up straight. “Sammy is sweet, funny, talented.”

…..“I know, I know.”

…..Silence. I imagined him rubbing that moody lower lip.

…..“Michael Bolton is her favorite soul singer.”

…..I sputtered, quickly stifled it. “Sammy said that?”

…..“She did.” His voice was mournful.

…..“Maybe she was teasing.”

…..“She thinks Milli Vanilli was underrated.”

…..“Ok, ok,” I said hastily. “Sorry it didn’t work out.”

…..“Do you have someone else for me?”

…..“Of course. When do you want to meet her?”

…..“Tomorrow night. Is Fat Katz still open?”

…..“You want blues? I’ll take you both to Sugar Hill.”

…..“8:00?”

…..“See ya, Louie Louie.”

…..“Don’t call me that.”

…..Maya is a nurse, more down to earth than Sammy. She’s also a fiery redhead and drop-dead gorgeous. Why she can’t get a man on her own, I’ll never know. She and Louie Louie blinked and immediately moved close to each other in the back seat.

…..I played them Mix #1: “Getting to Know You.” Barry White setting the mood, vanilla incense subtly perfuming the air. I dropped them at Sugar Hill, hard music pounding the walls. Louie Louie said he’d call when they were ready to leave. They barely noticed me pulling away. I’d done a good deed. If they hit it off, they’d be my fourth successful couple. Couple #1 was expecting a baby, Couple #2 had invited me to their wedding in December, and Couple #3 was dating steadily.

…..I drove downtown—even on a Friday night, almost completely abandoned. Druggies and dealers prowled doorways and corners. Downtown belonged to them now. I pictured Dad and me sitting on a bench outside the old Five and Dime, McCrory’s, watching people walk by, not minding the cold because we were so busy making up stories. A wave of loneliness washed over me, Barry White’s fault. I was a solo act, always had been, probably always would be. I moved to a different beat than almost everyone I knew. Maya said I was a throwback to a more innocent time. I took after my dad that way.

…..I pulled out Barry and put in Love Mix #10: “A New Day,” Song #1: Al Green’s “Love and Happiness,” and sang along at the top of my lungs.

…..I waited up till 3 am, watching a Cary Grant marathon—munching popcorn and ice cream. Just as I fell asleep, the phone rang. I was slumped in bed with a carton of Pecan Praline half-empty, melting. I dropped the phone, managed to find it by following the cord with my fingers. I slammed the receiver against my ear and growled, “What?”

…..A hesitant, “Is this a bad time?”

…..“No, Maya. You need a ride?”

…..“I’m home. Alone.”

…..That woke me. I sat up, rubbed my forehead, stared at the TV screen. “How did you get back? Where is he?”

…..“He didn’t want to wake you. Very considerate.” She sounded bitter. “He sent me home in a cab parked outside Sugar Hill and took another back to his place.”

…..“Did you make another date?”

…..“No. And I can’t figure out why not. I looked—well, you know.”

…..“Gorgeous, as always.”

…..“I thought we were clicking like your goddamn meter after midnight. He was saying the right things. We danced slow, and he whispered, ‘Who’s your favorite singer?’ and I said, ‘What?’ and he repeated it, and all I could think was Justin Bieber because—”

…..“You didn’t, Maya. You didn’t.”

…..“It was like a door slammed shut. He said he had to get home to write, and it was too late to wake you. What kind of guy gets so worked up about your favorite singer, for God’s sake?”

…..Louie Louie, I thought. “Don’t worry, sweetie, I’ll find you the kind of guy who appreciates everything you have to offer.”

…..“Step on it, Dory. I’m not getting any younger.”

…..I took out his card and examined it for the first time. Jamie James. An address in Brooklyn. No other information. He was going home to write? I took a heaping spoon of melted ice cream to give myself courage and dialed his number. He picked up on the first ring, and I wondered if he’d been waiting.

…..“Dory,” he said. “I can explain.”

…..“How did you know?”

…..“Caller ID.”

…..“You’re a moron, you know that.”

…..“Two words, Dory. Justin Bieber. Could you live with that?”

…..“I’m not asking you to live with her. I’m asking you to go out with her and have a good time. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

…..“Yes, but I have my standards. Wait a minute.”

…..I heard rustling and shuffling sounds, then Stevie Wonder singing, “I Was Made to Love Her,” in breathless joy. I shut my eyes to listen.

…..“Stevie always makes me happy.” I heard the smile.

…..“Me, too, Louie, but—”

…..“Don’t call me that.”

…..“I’m running out of girls. Why don’t you go back to New York and find one?”

…..“I’m busy here. Actually I’m working on a—”

…..“Don’t tell me. Tomorrow night. Just promise me you won’t talk about music.”

…..Linda wasn’t drop dead like Maya, or funny-charming like Sammy, but she was a cool blonde a la Grace Kelly with assessing grey eyes and a wry smile. I’d hooked her up with two guys already, both successful businessmen—one of her requirements—and they’d been, as she put it, “semi-hot.” I thought she and Louie might hit it off.

…..I drove them to The Blue Rose, a high-class restaurant/club on Route 611. They were both hesitant, glancing from the corners of their eyes—slow burn, better than the quick heat with Maya. Linda was too cool for Barry White, whom she once referred to as that “fat meatball grease-ball.” I put #6 on for her: she was hushed Brazilian all the way. Sea-breeze incense.

…..I glanced through the rearview. They were murmuring, as befitted the music. At the restaurant, I stepped outside with them. It was chilly, Delaware River wind. There was a great jazz club not far from here. I’d head there for the next few hours.

…..Linda looked regal, her pale hair shimmering in the dark. Soften up, I tried to tell her with my eyes. Melt a little. He won’t bite.

…..Or would he? He fidgeted with his tie and shifted from foot to foot. I moved up close. “Now what?”

…..The moody lower lip. “Why do you always wear a cap? What’re you hiding?”

…..“Nothing.” He smelled like the woods. I backed away. “Don’t worry about waking me up. I’ll be waiting.”

…..“Where are you going?”

…..“A jazz club down the road.”

…..“Alone?”

…..“You think I can’t handle myself?”

…..“No,” he said, gloomy as ever. “I’m sure you can.”

…..He turned without a goodbye and put his arm around Linda.

…..The Newark Cats were my kind of jazz band—a mix of memory and avant-garde. A trumpet player, pianist, and drummer who played as if he’d never have a second chance. During the break the drummer sat next to me at the bar. His hair and eyes were the color of cornstalks—pale, khaki, startling against sun-dark skin. I told him how good he was, and he said, “Not good enough.” “Compared to who?” I asked. We talked music till he went back on.

…..During the second break, while I nursed my single beer, he asked if I wanted to hang out after the show. The timing was perfect. Louie called as the band was packing up.

…..I drove back to The Blue Rose to pick them up. A good sign: they were laughing as Louie opened the door. “I’ve never been able to figure that out,” he was saying.

…..“It doesn’t take Einstein,” Linda said, sliding in.

…..“You making fun of me? I’ve got—” The door slammed shut, and he stopped talking.

“…..Intros are in order,” I said brightly. “Meet Wayne. Drummer for the Newark Cats.”

…..“Newark Cats?” said Louie. “Wait a minute, I know you guys. Didn’t you play Ernie’s in the city?”

…..“Yeah.” Wayne turned all the way around in his seat.

…..We went to the Perkins in downtown Easton, packed with the after-midnight people who breed in diners. The lights were glaring, waitresses frumpy, coffee bitter.

…..Linda studied her manicure while Wayne and Jamie talked. Turned out Jamie wrote a music column for New York Nights and was working on a book about the music scene in the Northeast—the groups who valiantly hung on to the dream of breaking into New York City, that elusive oasis just out of reach. Gone was the moody mouth and raised eyebrow: he was excited as a kid, all the electric possibility in his eyes playing out. I was happy for the two of them.

…..After a couple of hours, during which Linda glanced from her nails to me, as if contemplating scratching those long, painted suckers down my cheeks, and the guys talked on as if they’d found their soulmates, I said, “Time to go.”

…..I dropped Wayne off the Motel 6 near Phillipsburg, where his bandmates were staying. Before he got out, he and Jamie exchanged vital statistics. If only fixing up males and females was that easy, I thought glumly. Wayne took my card too, but it was clearly an afterthought. These guys had music in common, and a woman would always be a distant second. I didn’t mind it, had learned early on to dive into that world myself if I wanted my dad’s attention, but Linda was furious.

…..After we dropped off Wayne, she sat in chill silence, her eyes sending ice-spears through the back of my neck. Jamie tried to talk to her, but she shut him up with a sharp word.

…..I reached in the dark for #11: “Making Up”, but following the mixed signals of the night, instead brought up: “Love-Night,” which started with Marvin crooning, “Baby, you sure love to ball.”

…..“Shut that sonofabitch up,” screeched Linda.

…..Jamie let out a hard snicker, then lapsed into silence. I was going to get it from both sides tonight. The hell with both of them. He was selfish, ignoring his date. And she wanted all attention focused on her. At the moment I disliked them both and couldn’t wait to get them to their respective houses and have my sweet cab back to myself.

…..When we got back to town, Linda said coldly, “Drop me off first.”

…..Jamie didn’t protest. Neither did I. Linda’s eyes were still spearing me in the back. She was one scary lady, and I wasn’t sure what guy I’d knowingly sic her on next. She opened her door, escaping without a word, but Jamie leaped out at the same moment, muttered, “Wait.”

…..He walked her to her door, I was glad to see. I put the music back on. Marvin’s sweet croon began to warm the chill in my bones.

…..The passenger door opened. Jamie peered in. “Mind if I sit in front?” He got in without waiting for an answer. I turned the car around and headed toward his house. Marvin’s voice glowed through the cab, as if we sat before a fire.

…..He turned to me. “I’m sorry about tonight.”

…..“I lost a client.”

…..“It wouldn’t have worked. You saw that, didn’t you? Long before Wayne.”

…..“Who’s her favorite singer? Michael? Justin?”

…..“Don’t sound bitter. That’s not you.”

…..“How would you know?” I pulled into his doorway, he lingered. Bobby Blue Bland sang, “Ain’t No Love in the Heart of the City.” I didn’t look at him.

…..“Dory, I—”

…..“Just get out, I’m tired. And I want to go home to bed.”

…..“What do I owe you for tonight?”

…..“I’ll put it on your bill. Good night.”

…..He opened the door but didn’t move for a long moment until I finally turned. His face was eerily lit. “I’m a hopeless case. Thanks for not giving up on me.”

…..He was gone before I could say, “Who says I’m not giving up on you?”

…..Thank God for Caller ID. Maybe the greatest invention since CDs. After Linda’s eighth call, and the sixth Unknown—which I knew was Jamie—I got mad. This was my Sunday. I’d done my best. It wasn’t my fault it hadn’t worked out.

…..I opened my front door, took a deep breath, a beautiful fall day. I needed a walk. I finished my second coffee of the morning, showered, dressed in jeans and sneakers, packed a lunch like the old days, brought out the leash for Billie, my Australian Shepherd, and a handful of dog biscuits, and set off with her on the path to the river.

…..Dad had bought this cabin in the woods as a place to withdraw with his guitar. He never intended to live out here, so far from town. But after Mom died, he and I spent more and more time in the cabin, and finally, when I was in high school, we sold the house in town and moved here. I came and went, on my travels. But I’m glad I returned to be with him the last year of his life. We spent good hours tramping the leafy paths toward the river, fishing, dreaming, talking. Hard to believe he’d been gone three years. Jack Silver was a hard act to follow—my father, my friend.

…..Billie and I walked along the sun-glittering river where Dad’s spirit swirled. I threw sticks, and Billie waded in, retrieving them. Today, I felt it—that hole in the soul I’d heard in Jamie. It would pass. I’d keep busy, see friends, make a new mix, set up another couple.

…..By the time we returned home, I was peaceful again—until I turned the bend. And Van Morrison filled the autumn sky with his request to have one more moondance under October skies with his love…

…..Jamie sat on my front step, a small CD player at his side.

…..My heart gave a quick, hard jerk. “What are you doing here?”

…..“Sammy gave me your address.”

…..I was on the stone path now, facing him. His hair and sweater were rumpled, his eyes shadowed. Billie barked loudly, showing him who was boss, but the instant he lowered his hand to scratch behind her ears, she moaned and rubbed against his leg. He smiled. “What’s her name?”

…..“Billie.”

…..“Billie,” he repeated. “And Dory. No one else? A crazed ex-husband or lover, with a shotgun?”

…..“No.”

…..“I made you a mix of my favorite songs.”

…..My heart did another weird jerk. I sank to the step next to him.

…..“Some new, some old.”

…..I smelled the woods again. “I like the old.”

…..“I know you do,” he said gently. “Me, too, but I want you to hear some great new songs… and I want to hear them with you.”

…..“Why?”

…..Afternoon sun flickered on his face, his fingers scratching Billie, soft crackles as twigs fell. I felt the wonderful ease of sitting on my front steps with a companion.

…..“Funny thing,” his voice was low, “when I’m with you, every song sounds like I’m hearing it for the first time.”

…..The ease was gone. I shivered, and he moved closer.

…..“I trust my ear, too. Do you know what I hear?”

…..I didn’t say anything. He patted Billie, and I imagined those long fingers stroking my throat.

…..“I hear a woman who likes to go down songs she knows… and down roads she knows.” He swallowed. “I’d like to go down those roads with her. Maybe explore new roads together.”

…..I saw a trace of fear in his eyes, and oddly, that calmed me. A little.

…..He stood and held out his hand. “Dory, Dory,” he said, soft, “can I have a moondance with you?”

…..I stared at his hand as if it would leap and bite.

…..Dad, I called in desperation. Do I throw him back? Or take a chance and keep him?

…..Behind Van’s lilting voice, I could swear I heard, keep him.

…..I rose, pulled off the cap and shook out my hair, and let Jamie James swing me into a marvelous moondance under October skies.

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Born in Morocco, Ruth Knafo Setton is the author of the novels, The Road to Fez, and the forthcoming Zigzag Girl, which won the Grand Prize in the ScreenCraft Cinematic Book Competition and First Prize in the Daphne du Maurier Awards. She is a multi-genre author whose award-winning fiction, creative nonfiction, screenplays, and poetry have appeared in many journals and anthologies. She has taught Creative Writing at Lehigh University and on Semester at Sea and is presently working on a new novel.

Editor’s Note…In March, 2016, Ruth’s story “You Blows What You Is” was the winner of the 41st Short Fiction Contest. You can read it by clicking here.

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