Page 56 of Home Ice

“I am standing straight.”

“Straighter then. She notices the effort.”

A hand closed on my elbow.

“So you’re the boy,” Marta said.

She came up to the middle of my chest. She had steel-gray hair pinned back, a cardigan the color of oatmeal, and reading glasses on a chain.

“Rafe,” I said, and reached my hand out.

She took it, turned it over, and looked at my palm as if she were appraising it, and gave it back. “Lucas says you’re an athlete like he is.”

“I play hockey with him.”

“Then you know how to use your feet. Skating and dancing are almost the same. Come.”

“He just got here,” Varga said. “He hasn’t even—“

“He can hear the music standing still, or he can hear it moving. Which is better?” She didn’t wait for Varga’s answer. She still had my elbow, and she walked me toward the middle of the floor. I glanced back at Varga, and he shrugged with both hands raised.

Marta planted me at the edge of the dancers and pointed at the floor between us.

“Csárdás,” she said. “Don’t try to pronounce it, just listen to it. Two steps this way, two steps back. The music tells you when. Left foot first.”

I moved my right foot.

“Left,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, be left.” She pointed again, and I got the correct foot out. She nodded once and started counting. We went two steps one way and then two steps back. She caught my hands, placing one at her shoulder blade and one out to the side.

She looked down at my feet. “Steps are too big. You’re not going anywhere. Use small steps so everything stays under you.”

I made the steps smaller. It was easier.

“Now do it again, but don’t watch your feet. Your feet know where they are. They’ve been at the end of your legs your whole life.”

Every instruction Marta gave was exact. I didn’t need to figure out any other meaning. I only needed to do what she told me to do.

I relaxed. There was an accordion lead, the floor and a small strong hand steering me.

“Enough,” Marta said, and pointed at a folding chair by the wall. “Rest. Drink water. Then we go again.”

I grabbed a bottle from a table and drank. Five minutes later, Marta found me and pulled me back out to dance.

“You see?” she said. “You’ve got a body that listens.”

My ears flushed.

“Lucas doesn’t listen,” she said, tipping her head sideways.

Varga was three couples down, dancing with a woman in her seventies, and he was terrible. His partner corrected him, and then the woman in the next couple did. A woman watching him from the sidelines shook her head. He argued with one with a massive smile on his face.

“Nine years,” Marta said, “and he still leads with the wrong foot. On purpose, I think. If he did it right, nobody would talk to him.”

The band wound the tune down, and the accordion player made an announcement in Hungarian. Half the hall shouted back. It must have been a request. He nodded graciously and played a quiet interlude. Couples changed partners and caught their breath.