"King of the Dancers" by Eddie Stack A Short Story

"King of the Dancers" by Eddie Stack A Short Story
A Reading Life Special Event

Irish Short Story Month Year III

March 1 to March 31

Eddie Stack

Dublin

In an act of supreme generosity Eddie Stack has sent me 22 short stories to post for Irish Short Story Month.   I offer him my great thanks for this.  I intend to share all of these short stories with my readers.  He is a master story teller with a deep understanding of Ireland.   

Press comments on his work

Praise for Eddie Stack’s writing

"Mr. Stack's fiction is versatile and engaging...a vivid, compassionate, authentic voice...securing (him) a place in the celebrated tradition of his country's storytelling.”

New York Times Book Review

“This second collection of short stories by Eddie Stack has a wonderful sense of unreality, of weirdness among Irish characters and of downright fun.”

Irish Emigrant

“Eddie Stack’s stories jet back and forth across the Atlantic, contrasting small town Ireland and big city US. Every time they land, the author seems to test the borderline of what might and might not be possible in downtown bars, crumbling dance halls and drizzly farms. The result is a remarkably consistent collection of short stories.

Ian Wild, Southword

"King of the Dancers"

by

Eddie Stack

The Heart of Ireland show was a hit in America and after a tour of the main cities, the production was invited back to New York for a further two weeks run. To celebrate the show's return, the promoter hosted a lavish party  in a mid-town hotel, which was attended by the cream of Irish-America: hob-nobs, writers, film stars, musicians, politicians, police chiefs, fire chiefs, religious cheifs, interesting looking people, plain looking people, garnished with a sprinkling of liggers and free-loaders. 

A slender fair-haired woman waited while Domnick Cawley, lead dancer with the Heart show, signed autographs, shook hands with people.

“Hi,” she said quietly, “you were great tonight.”

“Thanks. Are you a performer yourself?”

“No, I'm a film-maker, documentaries.”

Domnick nodded, offered her a can of beer.  He noticed she was well dressed: tailored buckskin jacket, cream cashmere sweater and  blue designer jeans. He senced  a film opportunity as she asked questions about dancing and music in Ireland. She smiled when he smiled. Domnick touched her shoulder and said,

“I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“Wendy, Wendy Torrance.”

Domnick and Wendy had supper in a quiet diner. He heard she'd made an award winning film on the Hopi Indians and another about the salmon fisheries of the North West Coast. Domnick told her he was a humble baker back in Ireland and The Heart tour was the first time he'd ever left the country. America excited him. He'd seen lots of it: Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, Memphis, Dallas, Washington, Seattle, Los Angeles, San Francisco. After two weeks in New York, he'd be back in Ireland.

“I'd be happy to show you around the city while you're here,” she offered.

“I'd like that,” Domnick said and shook her hand to seal the deal.

Wendy lived in Brooklyn, in a brownstone house decorated with Native American furniture and weavings, stacks of pine bookshelves and paintings like Domnick had never seen before. Her bedroom was  large and serene, low lights, soft flute music weaving through sage and cedar incense. A feather bed with a cosy duvet, Domnick waited between the covers while she showered.

Never before had he made love like this: the gentleness, the patience, the sensuous way she came to him. Afterwards they lay entwined and he fingered her soft fair hair.

“You know,” he muttered, “I should have told you I'm married.”

“I guessed that.”

He spoke about his wife and two kids and Wendy said she'd been married once but it didn't work out. Domnick nodded, indicated  his own marriage was rocky, a bit love-less. She held his hand to her breast and tucked the duvet around his broad shoulders.

Domnick danced even better the following night and departed the stage with the audience on their feet. After the show he left the auditorium by a side door and Wendy whisked him off to supper in her green Volvo. Later they  returned to the brownstone house in Brooklyn and talked and made love until dawn brightened the bedroom. Wendy fell asleep with an image of Domnick's wife floating in and out of her mind: a stocky, plump cheeked  woman with short black hair, heavy hands and sullen breasts.

New York exhilarated him. Noise and bustle, smell of delis, smoke from pubs, streaking taxis, screaming cop cars. Domnick and Wendy held hands and she brought him to her favorite places; her heart warmed at the awe in his face as he gazed up at skyscrapers and towers. They strolled around Greenwich Village and St. Mark's Square, embraced by the Hudson, bought toys for his kids at F.A.O. Swartz. He never felt happier and wondered if he was falling in love; he dismissed the thought, reasoning it could never happen so quick.

After a few days, The Heart of Ireland team noticed the change in Domnick. They remarked how affable he'd become, how well he looked. And most of all how great he danced. Reviewers raved about him. One called him King of the Dancers and his arrival on stage was awaited with palpable anticipation by the audience. His performance brought the house down and fans teemed backstage afterwards to meet him. But he was always gone before they got there, away with Wendy for supper and more.  His room-mate, singer Hawley Hannigan, told the troupe Domnick had moved his gear out of the hotel.

A week with Wendy, Domnick was enjoying life so much that he wanted to stay with her in New York for an extra few days after the show closed. He told the tour manager of his plans and asked if his flight home could be changed. The manager said he'd check it out and Domnick patted him on the back and gave him Wendy's phone number in case he needed to contact him.

Sunday morning, Domnick was kissing Wendy's sleepy breasts when the phone rang in her bedroom. She answered and passed the receiver to him.

“What the fuck are you doing with that bitch?” his wife Majella lashed.

“What?” blurted Domnick, swinging out of bed.

“Get out of there you bloody fucker before I fly over and drag you out...”

Domnick was flabbergasted. Stood naked in the kitchen, hands criss-crossing his chest. Wendy made coffee but he couldn't drink it.  He began to shiver and she got a dressing gown and draped it over his shoulders.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

He nodded and put her hands on his face. They went back to bed and lay in silence, stared at the ceiling.

That night before the show, he tackled the tour manager. I didn't know it was your wife, the manager said, Hawley Hannigan put her call through to my room. When he cornered Hannigan, the singer pleaded,

“What could I do? She called for the last three mornings looking for you.”

“And why didn't you tell me?” Domnick cried.

“I forgot...”

“Only for you're going on stage, I'd break your fucking face.”

Domnick didn't dance well  and left the theater immediately after his performance, not even bothering to wait for the encore. Instead of supper in the little diner, he drank whiskey in a Soho bar, Wendy beside him, sipping a glass of white wine. Conversation was sparse and when they returned to her place, Domnick quickly glided into drunken sleep. She held him in her arms, shielded him from nightmares and Irish hexes.

The phone woke them next morning and when Majella asked for her husband, Wendy politely said there was nobody there by that name. Domnick closed his eyes in agony and tears dribbled down his face.

“I hate going back,” he said quietly, “I hate leaving you Wendy.”

“You do what you feel is right,” she whispered.

Wendy brought him to the airport and waited while he checked in for the flight to Ireland with the rest of the Heart troupe. Boarding pass in hand, Domnick met her in the bar and they smiled sadly at each other. She took a tiny box from her handbag. A little gift for you, she said, Indian beads. He nodded, thanked her with a kiss. If you ever get to America again, please contact me, Wendy said.

Shuffling down the crowded aisle of the plane, Domnick clenched his teeth, like he was psyching himself up for the murderous row with Majella that loomed on the other side. He found his seat between Hannigan and Kelly, threw his bag in the overhead bin and sat down. Passengers filed through the aisles, air stewards swished by, his stage mates thumbed through inflight magazines. Domnick stared at the back of the seat in front of him, battling  waves of sadness, fear and panic. Suddenly he unbuckled the safety belt, left his seat and hurried to the front of the plane. Two flight attendants stood at the door  and he rushed past them.

“Sir! Sir!” they  called as he hurried up the loading tunnel and back into the terminal. Officials called after him but he kept going, breaking into a run, past gates, lounges, bars and coffee carts. They tried to stop him at the security check but Domnick leaped over the barrier and headed to an airport exit. Passengers scurried out of his way, cops cried after him. One shouted,

“Stop or I'll shoot!”

He pushed through the glass exit door and ran outside. Neither looking left or right he bolted across the road and was spun in the air by a speeding taxi.

Unable to get any information from the unconscious fugitive, the police feared a terrorist plot. They ordered all luggage to be unloaded and checked; passengers had to disembark while the plane was swept by security men and sniffer dogs. After five hours the flight was cleared for take-off and Domnick Cawley lay in the Hebrew Hospital, his two legs suspended from the ceiling. Next day, the Irish newspapers carried the story with a photo of Domnick. The country wondered what came over the champion dancer. In the end, they put it down to fear of flying and prayed him a speedy recovery.

When Domnick  became conscious  he couldn't figure out where he was or what had happened to him. His head was bandaged and he couldn't feel his legs, though he saw them hanging before him. His hands had feeling and he was connected to a bank of monitors and grey steel cases with lights and dials.

“Oh God,” he moaned and drifted away again.

Next time he came around, a nurse was taking his pulse and she smiled at his bloodshot eyes.

“You'll make it,” she said and he nodded.

When Majella called from Ireland, a nurse brought the phone to Domnick. He wasn't able to talk, words broke in his throat. She spoke curtly and without sympathy, asked if he'd thought about suing the taxi company. Cards and flowers came from family, friends and well-wishers. Plain clothes policemen arrived to interview him  when he was stronger. He couldn't explain why he left the plane, pure panic maybe, he told them. They nodded and left. A man from the Irish embassy heard the same story. Then Wendy was allowed to visit and his spirits lifted. They held hands over the bedclothes and he whispered that he loved her: it really hit him when he sat on the plane, he wasn't able to face going back. Their hands gripped tighter and tears flowed down their faces.

Every few days Majella phoned, often when Wendy was in the room and  Domnick became an emotional yo-yo, depressed one minute, love-struck  the next. As his body regained strength, his heart and mind became more tormented. Some days he wished to stay in New York with Wendy; other days he wept for his kids and felt Majella roping him back.  In the end  Domnick decided to return to Ireland and to his family. Wendy wanted to accompany him on the flight over, take the next one back to New York.

An ambulance brought them to the airport and flight staff looked warily at him as he hobbled down the aisle on crutches. Wendy settled him in the seat and sat alongside. He was pale and nervous, held her hands while the plane taxied  for take-off.

 When the bar opened he ordered a whiskey and Wendy had tea. Not much was said between them until Domnick had a few more drinks. Then he told her he had never met anyone as loving or as kind as she, and she deserved someone a lot better than him.

“I'll never dance again,” he muttered, “I'm just a cripple now.”

“That's not true,” she said, “You'll be back on your feet in no time.”

He shook his head and pressed the attendant's bell for another drink.

Half-way over the Atlantic, Domnick needed to go to the bathroom. He was drunk, and Wendy helped him from the seat, put the crutches under his arms and guided him to the toilet. She pushed the door open and eased him inside.

“You'll need to come in and help me,” he said.

She did, closed the door behind and took the crutches while he steadied himself with one hand, tried opening his fly with the other. He relieved himself and said,

“We should make love one last time.”

They tried. Domnick sat on the toilet and Wendy straddled him. She coaxed him best she could but his member bent and refused to enter. Soon his legs hurt and she had to dismount.

“We should get back to our seats,” she said.

Domnick woke when the plane landed in Shannon. Confused, he looked out the window at the grey morning that spat rain and suddenly he felt cold and began to shiver. Wendy was already out of her seat, had his crutches ready. At the plane door, a wheelchair was waiting, smiling attendant standing beside it. Wendy held the crutches, helped him into the chair. He looked up at her with sad eyes and said,

“I'll be able to manage on my own from here.”

She nodded, bent down and kissed him on the forehead.

“Good-bye Domnick,” she whispered, “I'll miss you.”

The attendant wheeled Domnick up the tunnel and into Ireland.  At passport control he glanced over his shoulder, but there was no sign of Wendy. Going through customs he heard his name being hailed and looked around as the wheelchair approached the exit door: Wendy waving his crutches. He wanted to do something, say something, but the door closed behind with a creak and he entered the arrivals hall.

From a distance Wendy watched him being wheeled through the airport terminal by Majella, flanked by two burly men, probably her brothers. She saw them exit the building, the wind ruffling Domnick's fiery red hair. A black car was parked at the kerb and the men opened doors and lifted Domnick into the back. Majella got in beside him and one of the men folded the airport wheelchair and tossed it into the trunk. Wendy watched as the car pulled away from the pavement and nosed into a slow stream of traffic.

She stepped outside the airport to get a glimpse of Ireland but inhospitable wind and rain pushed her back inside after a few minutes. Shaking with the cold, Wendy left the crutches from Hebrew Hospital by the gents toilet and went to the bar. She  wrote  in her journal and drank Irish coffees until the flight to New York was called.

End of Guest Post

Author Bio

Eddie Stack has received several accolades for his fiction, including an American Small Press of the Year Award, and a Top 100 Irish American Award. Recognized as an outstanding short story writer, he is the author of four books —The West; Out of the Blue; HEADS and Simple Twist of Fate.

                                 

His work has appeared in literary reviews and anthologies worldwide, including Fiction, Confrontation, Whispers & Shouts, Southwords and Criterion; State of the Art: Stories from New Irish Writers; Irish Christmas Stories, The Clare Anthology and Fiction in the Classroom.

A natural storyteller, Eddie has recorded spoken word versions of his work, with music by Martin Hayes and Dennis Cahill. In 2010, he integrated spoken word and printed work with art, music and song to produce an iPhone app of The West; this was the first iPhone app of Irish fiction.

My great thanks to Eddie Stack for allowing me to post this story.

This story is the sole property of Eddie Stack and is protected under international copyright laws and cannot be published or posted online without his permission.

Mel u