Whirlaway by Sheldon Birnie
"Lights in the sky at night and unmarked black vans parked down the block and that buzzing in the background on the phone."
WHIRLAWAY
by Sheldon Birnie
Circle left. Allamande right. Do-si-do.
Gerard, the caller Friday nights, is good. Real good. He keeps us moving. Keeps the mood light. The polished hardwood of the community centre hall flashes beneath waves of crinoline, denim, sensible footwear and colourful polyester western shirts as we follow where Gerard leads.
Been calling 32 years, Gerard tells me one night, over a cigarette out front of the community centre after the dancing’s wrapped. In the cold. Dad used to call, he says. Kept him outta trouble dang near every weekend.
Which, more or less, is how I found myself here every other Friday night. Every Friday night I don’t have the kids.
Swing, buddy, swing. Roll away to a half-sashay. Swing your partner, round and round.
Square dancing is about the only place you can dance with someone else’s spouse without causing a tussle.
Or so Sheila’s fond of saying, throwing her head back and laughing that old smoker’s laugh every time. Heard her say it plenty of times since. She first told me that in group, a year or so back now, when she was tryna get me to come giver a try one of these evenings, after she spotted me wearing a Dwight Yoakam tee at a meeting.
Myself, I don’t need to worry about a tussle. Part of the reason I ended up in group in the first place. Wasn’t only the drinking what led to the divorce, though. Things were bad enough anyhow. But it didn’t help, and it only made things worse once we finally split. There were some dark days, darker nights there for a while.
Getting on the straight and narrow, that’s what it took to keep the kids—Sammy and Janine, my adorable little scamps—coming around every second weekend. Worth it for that alone. But I’m finding plenty of other reasons, too, as the days keep coming. Now, the nights don’t seem so long as they did, back then. Nor so full of strange lights and darker shadows.
Chase your lady round the two. Lady round the two. Gent cut through. Join hands and circle half. Dive through.
This here’s an older crowd, for sure. I’m the youngest out there, by far. But it’s not so bad. Folks are friendly, thoughtful, caring. They don’t judge my missteps, nor care what brought me here. So long as I do my best to keep up with Gerard and bring a box of donuts every now and then, things are just ticketyboo.
It was the so-called conspiracy stuff—her words—that really set the old lady off. Back when we were together, that is. Lights in the sky at night and unmarked black vans parked down the block and that buzzing in the background on the phone. I can see that now. Can admit that, now. She thought I’d gone crazy. Unhinged. Off the deep end. Again, her words. Didn’t want the kids coming up in that environment, she said. Didn’t want them living in a quote-unquote alternate reality. Reality’s all the same, I’d try to tell her. Here, there, every fuckin where. It’s only the veils we see it through that differ.
But that didn’t hold much water with the ex. No way Jose. I guess I see her point. Too little too late. But I was only asking questions. Questions that had been bugging me for years. Trying to find answers. What’s wrong with seeking answers?
Duck for the oyster. Dig for the clam. Dive for the hole in that old tin can.
Now, the answers I found—or thought I’d found—took me on a journey she didn’t want no part of. I don’t blame her. Not anymore. I hadn’t bargained on undertaking it myself. Took more than a few turns I didn’t see coming. It got dark there for a while. Real dark. But they say the darkest hour comes right before the dawn. Buy the ticket, buckle the fuck up, bud. Keep giviner.
Had I never seen them things I seen—lights in the woods, hunting; patterns in what they were broadcasting on the TV—would have never started asking questions. Never asked questions, never would have gotten any answers. Never would have known that having the answer sometime don’t amount to nothing. Answers only lead to more questions. More questions that need answers.
Bird fly out. Hawk fly in. Hawk fly out. Give birdie a swing.
They say you dance with the one that brought ya. Square dancing, though, that’s not always the case. You can dance with anyone, long as you know where you stand. Like as not, though, you end up more or less where you started. I like that. The world outside these walls, it’s not like that. I’ve come to accept it. But it’s nice to be in a place that makes sense. And I gotta tell ya, I’m in the best shape I’ve been in since the kids were born. Just from following Gerard’s calls, and putting one foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other, over and over and over again.
Lady go gee. Gent go haw. All the way round until you meet your ma.
When the dancing’s done for the evening, the ladies who run the club bring out dainties and coffee. I always stick around, even though the coffee’s no better than the swill they serve at group. But it’s not like I’m gonna be dropping off to sleep straight away once I get home anyways. I stick around, chat with the old timers. They’ll ask about my kids, I’ll ask about their grandkids. We’ll talk about the Bombers or the Jets. How bad the roads are getting at this end of town. Whatever. It’s enjoyable enough talk, even if it don’t mean much. Maybe just because.
Sometimes, I’ll even stick around for a second cup. But I don’t ever talk about the lights in the sky or the black vans or the buzzing on my phone. My ex, she’d like to think I don’t believe in that stuff any longer. I do, but not like when we were together. Just before I was at my lowest there. Now, it’s just something I know’s out there, but that I don’t pay much mind. Like gravity, death, daylight savings time. Just some more shit I got no control over.
Sometimes, though, I wonder what some of these old timers might say if I were to bring it up. They seen some things in their day, no question; Gerard and Sheila, Bill and Judy. Whoever. Might make some wild conversation. But I don’t say nothing about it. Not any of it. Instead, we just talk square dancing. Probably better that way.
Circle left. Allamande right. Centres load the boat. Now pass on through. Do-si-do, good buddy. Do-si-do.
Sheldon Birnie is a writer, dad, and beerleague hockey player living in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. He is the author of the short story collections Where the Pavement Turns to Sand as well as the forthcoming More Strange Visions, both with Malarkey Books.
