A Dance with Dad

I am dancing with my father at my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. The band is playing an old-fashioned waltz as we move gracefully across the floor. His hand on my waist is as guiding as it always was, and he hums the tune to himself in a steady, youthful way. Around and around we go, laughing and nodding to the other dancers. We are the best dancers on the floor, they tell us. My father squeezes my hand and smiles at me.

As we continue to dip and sway, I remember a time when I was almost three, and my father came home from work, swooped me into his arms and began to dance me around the table. My mother laughed at us, told us dinner would get cold. But my father said, “She’s just caught the rhythm of the dance! Dinner can wait!” And then he sang out “Roll out the barrel, let’s have a barrel of fun,” and I sang back, “Let’s get those blues on the run.” That night he taught me to polka, waltz and do the fox trot while dinner waited.

We danced through the years. When I was five, my father taught me to “shuffle off to Buffalo”. Later we won a dance contest at a Campfire Girls Round-Up. Then we learned to jitterbug at the USO place downtown. Once my father caught on to the steps, he danced with everyone in the hall — the women passing out doughnuts, even the GI’s. We all laughed and clapped our hands for my father, the dancer.

One night when I was fifteen, lost in some painful, adolescent mood, my father put on a stack of records and teased me to dance with him. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s get those blues on the run.” I turned away from him and hugged my pain closer than before. My father put his hand on my shoulder, and I jumped out of the chair screaming, “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me! I am sick and tired of dancing with you!” The hurt on his face did not escape me, but the words were out, and I could not call them back. I ran to my room sobbing hysterically.

We did not dance together after that night. I found other partners, and my father waited up for me after dances, sitting in his favorite chair, clad in his flannel pajamas. Sometimes he would be asleep when I came in, and I would wake him saying, “If you were so tired, you should have gone to bed.”

“No, no,” he’d say. “I was just waiting for you.”

Then we’d lock up the house and go to bed.

My father waited up for me all through my high school and college years while I danced my way out of his life.

One night, shortly after my first child was born, my mother called to tell me my father was ill. “A heart problem,” she said. “Now, don’t come. Three hundred miles. It would upset your father. We will just have to wait. I’ll let you know.”

My father’s tests showed some stress, but a proper diet restored him to good health. Little things, then, for a while. A disc problem in the back, more heart trouble, a lens implant for cataracts. But the dancing did not stop. My mother wrote that they had joined a dance club. “You remember how your father loves to dance.”

Yes, I remember. My eyes filled up with remembering.

When my father retired, we mended our way back together again; hugs and kisses were common when we visited each other. But my father did not ask me to dance. He danced with the grandchildren; my daughters knew how to waltz before they could read.

“One, two, three and one, two, three,” my father would count out, “won’t you come and waltz with me?” Sometimes my heart would ache to have him say those words to me. But I knew my father was waiting for an apology from me, and I could never find the right words.

As the time for my parents’ fiftieth anniversary approached, my brothers and I met to plan the party. My older brother said, “Do you remember that night you wouldn’t dance with him? Boy, was he mad! I couldn’t believe he’d get so mad about a thing like that. I’ll bet you haven’t danced with him since.”

I did not tell him he was right.

My younger brother promised to get the band.

“Make sure they can play waltzes and polkas,” I told him.

“Dad can dance to anything,” he said. “Don’t you want to get down, get funky?” I did not tell him that all I wanted to do was dance once more with my father.

When the band began to play after dinner, my parents took the floor. They glided around the room, inviting the others to join them. The guests rose to their feet, applauding the golden couple. My father danced with his granddaughters and then the band began to play the “Beer Barrel Polka.”

“Roll out the barrel,” I heard my father sing. Then I knew it was time. I knew the words I must say to my father before he would dance with me once more. I wound my way through a few couples and tapped my daughter on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” I said, almost choking on my words, “but I believe this is my dance.”

My father stood rooted to the spot. Our eyes met and traveled back to that night when I was fifteen. In a trembling voice, I sang, “Let’s get those blues on the run.”

My father bowed and said, “Oh, yes. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Then he started to laugh, and we moved into each other’s arms, pausing for a moment so we could catch once more the rhythm of the dance.

在父母五十周年結婚紀念日那天我與父親跳舞了。樂隊演奏著舊式的華爾茲，我們在地板上優美地滑動著。他的手環著我的腰，像以往一樣指引著我，平和而又充滿活力地哼著調子。我們跳了一圈又一圈，不時地向其他舞者笑著點頭致意。他們說我們是舞場中最優秀的舞者。父親握著我的手，露出了微笑。

我們繼續著舞步，這時我想起在我三歲那年，父親下班回家，一把將我摟在懷里，圍著桌子開始跳舞。母親笑著說，飯都要涼了。但父親卻說：“她剛好跟上舞蹈的節奏，飯可以等會再吃。”然后，他開始哼唱：“Roll out the barrel, let’s have a barrel of fun。”我就唱道：“Let’s get those blues on the run。”那天晚上，他教我跳波爾卡、華爾茲，還教我跳狐步舞。那晚我們連飯都沒吃。

我們每天都要跳舞。在我五歲時，父親教我跳shuffle off to Buffalo。后來，我們在露營少女團夏令營中，贏得了舞蹈比賽的冠軍。我們還去美國勞軍聯合組織所在的地方表演吉特巴舞。每次父親進入舞池之后，都會與所有的人跳舞，與在場的女士們旋轉，甚至還有士兵。我們都為父親歡呼、鼓掌，因為他是一個真正的舞者。

我十五歲那年的一個晚上，或許由于青春期的多愁善感，我非常悲傷。父親拿出一堆唱片，非要我跟他跳舞。“來吧，”他說，“Let’s get those blues on the run。”我沒理他，獨自承受著自己的痛苦。他走過來把手放在我的肩上。我跳下椅子，對他吼道：“別碰我!別碰我!我討厭和你跳舞!”我看到了他臉上受傷的表情，但話已出口，我無法收回。我痛哭著跑回了房間。

從那之后，我再也沒和父親跳過舞。我有了其他舞伴，而父親總是會穿著法蘭絨睡衣，坐在自己最喜歡的椅子上，等我回家。有時當我回來，他已經睡著了。我便把他叫醒，告訴他：“既然你這么累，就該早點去睡覺。”

他總是會說：“不，沒有。我在等你呢。”

然后，我們就鎖上房門，各自去睡了。

在我上高中和大學的幾年里，每次我出去跳舞，父親都會一直等我回家。

在我的第一個孩子出生不久的一個晚上，母親打電話告訴我說父親病了：“是心臟的問題。現在不要過來，三百英里太遠了，你父親會生氣的。等等吧，有了結果我會告訴你。”

父親的檢查顯示他壓力有些過重，不過合理的飲食使他恢復了健康。只是暫時的小毛病。背部椎間盤問題，心臟問題，白內障晶體移植。但是他從未停止跳舞。母親寫信說他們參加了一個舞蹈俱樂部。“你還記得你父親多么喜歡跳舞嗎?”

是的，我記得。我的眼中充滿了對過去的回憶。

父親退休之后，我們又聚在了一起。每次見面，我們都要相互擁抱，親吻。但是父親從未讓我陪他跳舞。他和外孫女們跳舞。我的女兒們還不識字就知道怎么跳華爾茲。

“一、二、三，一、二、三，”父親總是數著舞步。“能來和我跳支華爾茲嗎?”每次我希望父親對我說出這句話的時候，心里都會感到陣痛。但是我知道父親在等我的道歉，而我總是很難找到恰當的語言。

而隨著父母結婚五十周年紀念日的到來，我的兄弟和我計劃為他們舉辦一次舞會。我哥哥說：“還記得你拒絕陪他跳舞的那個晚上嗎?天哪，他簡直瘋了。真不敢相信他為了此事竟如此傷心。從那以后，你肯定沒和他跳過舞吧。”

我沒有回答，但他說得沒錯。

弟弟說他能夠搞定一支樂隊。

我告訴他：“一定要保證他們能夠演奏華爾茲和波爾卡舞曲。”

他說：“爸爸可以跳任何一支曲子。你不想跳嗎?是不是很緊張啊?”我沒有告訴他，我只是想和父親再跳一次舞。

晚餐過后，樂隊開始演奏，父母步入了舞池。他們在房間里翩翩起舞，并邀請其他人加入。客人們都站起來，一齊為這對金婚夫婦喝彩。父親開始和他的外孫女跳舞，樂隊演奏起了“Beer Barrel Polka”。

我聽見父親在唱：“Roll out the barrel”。我知道現在是最佳時機。我知道要想讓父親和我跳舞，我需要說些什么。我穿過人群，拍了拍女兒的肩膀。

“對不起。”我說，有一種窒息的感覺。“我想這是我的舞曲。”

父親呆了一樣站在那里。我們都注視這對方，思緒飛回到我十五歲的那個夜晚。我用略帶顫抖的聲音唱道：“Let’s get those blues on the run。”

父親鞠躬道：“噢，當然。我一直在等你。”

說完，他大笑起來。我們挽著彼此的胳膊，停了一下，以便跟上舞曲的節奏。