(Originally published in Orpheus + Eurydice Unbound.)
Eula says the word and steps into the club with her sisters, no better dancers in town. They slip and skitter in the crowd, all hot excitement. Every joint they hit they light up the party, and manager-men get nervous. Once the sisters get going they don’t stop. They’re dangerous, especially when they’ve been drinking, and they’ve been drinking since yesterday afternoon. You never know what they might do, once the music and the dancing start.
Last three months Eula’s man has been touring the country, playing the hottest clubs for the prettiest tomatoes, high-hoppers with gams forever and deepwater eyes.
She’s not worried. She knows he’ll never find a girl who suits him like she does.
And word is, he’s coming home tonight.
•••
Last night in the cramped apartment uptown, her sisters helped her make her wedding dress.
Stitch, sister, stitch! they cried. Sew your rage into that dress.
I’m all out of rage, baby, she laughed.
Take some of mine, a sister shouted, I’m one angry bitch!
More laughing, clinking of glasses, lighting of candles.
We’ll rip him apart if he hurts you.
He won’t, Eula said, He’s not that kind of man.
We’ll rip him apart anyway!
Hush now, Eula laughed again. You’re talking about my husband-to-be! She stirred up sidecars, pours seven ways.
Why can’t you find your anger, Eula? You think it’s just his eye, takes a side dance on the road? O Orfo, Orfo, love me too!
Quit your teasing, Eula said. If ever there was any truth in that, it’s over and done with now.
Stitch, sister, stitch! You’ve got anger, Eula, you just don’t know what it feels like.
I don’t have a thing to be mad about. Eula drank deep. Orfo loves me, and I love him.
Sew some anger in your dress, sister! Dip, dazzle, dance him into the beautiful black. It’s better down there, baby.
•••
And look, the dress is finished. Blood-black satin threaded fine with silk in every color there’s a jewel for, and it fits her slender as a flute. Sequins pop and glisten, red as rage; beaded cyclones stalk the hem. It’s a dress to kill, and even if she’s had to borrow anger from her sisters, she’ll wear it like it’s hers. Whatever it takes to get her man, her Orfo, and keep him by her side. Forever.
Put some madness in that dress and it will make you beautiful, her sisters said. That dress will make you strong.
•••
The band is on it to a man, raking and scraping with the best horn section in town, might as well say the country, the world, and oh! The trombones! I’ll take one of those pretty boys, she hears a sister yell, he can slide that ‘bone right up my ooh la la!
Meanwhile the busboy’s eyes never leave Eula’s body. His brain still burns with the memory of that first kiss, out back of the rum shop before the G-man shut it down—his first and hers too, years ago, both of them just kids. He’ll find a place to hide, he thinks, palm this little knife he’s dipped in something special. Give her ankle a prick. Soon; not yet. So long as she jitters that bug his blade won’t bite, but Orfo’s coming, and folks are saying she’ll stop for him. Busboy’s no sap; he’ll wait for his moment. He knows it will come.
•••
Is that a wedding dress or a dancing dress?
It’s him, snuck up behind, her Orfo.
Don’t know about you, she says, whirling, but I mean to dance at this wedding. She throws herself his way but he steps back, raises his saxophone. Not yet, baby. First I’m gonna get you good and ready to marry me.
Everything stops and it’s just him, his eyes, his lips, his instrument. He gives her a note, and it’s low and sweet but it shatters her bones, jellies her blood. The sisters were right. Holding that sax he’s too strong for her, and she needs some power too. She needs the anger in this dress she’s wearing, the only power she’s got.
Come to me, sisters, she whispers, I’m scared.
The drums roll in slow, and the piano too, but it’s all about Orfo now and the song he’s playing for her.
We’re here, sisters whisper back from satin skimming soft curves, but you gotta dance this one alone, honey.
Orfo blows his challenge again, and Eula knows she can’t say no; her heart is already thumping its yes. Screeching like ravens the horns grind in, drummer pounding out a beat that sets her sisters to work. Everyone’s dancing, pouring liquor down each other’s throats. The party has begun.
Orfo spits out the sax and smiles. His eyes say he’s ready, and he knows she’s ready too.
Will you have me, Eula? Will you take this poor poet, this Saturday sax-man, to be your own?
That smile says something different, though, says he knows he’ll never belong to her or any woman.
He takes a step closer, and then he sees.
Sees her, and more importantly, sees that dress. He’s an artist himself, not an artist of rage but an artist all the same, so maybe he understands what’s written there. Understands there’s more to this girl he’s set his sights on than he thought, and yes, maybe it scares him a little, but that only makes him want her more.
It’s gonna be a ride, he’s thinking, one hell of a wild ride.
And can he see where this ride will take him? Does he see his girl, his Eula, falling to the busboy’s sting? Does he see his own dance down to the beautiful black, aiming to right a wrong that isn’t his to fix? Does he see the sisters’ rage come to life when he fails; does he feel their red fingernails and sharp teeth? Does he see himself lying in the cold streets of midnight, torn into a thousand bloody pieces?
Maybe so, maybe no. If he does it won’t stop him; he’s a man and he wants what he wants.
Busboy’s found his spot beneath a table, not an arm’s length from his lost love. He sees he didn’t even need to hide; Eula’s got no eye for him. The crowd’s in a frenzy and the band won’t stop, leaderless, Orfo in its wake, standing there reading his bloodstained fate in the weave of that goddamn dress.
•••
Eula’s stomping the beat, but she’s still scared.
Sisters sing, We’re here, we’re with you.
But you’re not, she cries out, and I don’t know how to keep him, I don’t know what to do.
They trace her skin with whispers, figure flesh with storm and flood. Be strong, sister, they say. That’s your man there, pretty and tall, blowing his sax to stop the world. He’s yours, sister. Take him, honey, take him right on down.
Eula holds her man’s eyes as the dancers swirl past like rain in the gutter, music-mad. Busboy crouches, poised to strike. Orfo takes another step, takes her hand. His thumb on her palm is touching her deep, down in the place where all her questions are answered.
Let’s do it, she says. Yes.
