The Axeman's Jazz

that supposed to mean?”
    “Why pretend we’re kids on our first date?”
    “I’ll tell you later.”
    “Why not now?”
    “I have to wait for the right moment.”
    She found herself eager for a drink before dinner, something she usually declined, preferring wine later. There was something about the situation—and not just the fact that she was a fraud—that was making her nervous. It was a weird sense that she had to perform, had to please Abe, had to make him like her whether she liked him or not. Those women who loved the place—had they lied to please him? What was it about him? Something intangible; demanding; something oddly controlling yet needy.
    “Want to dance?”
    “Not yet. Later maybe.”
    “Now, baby.” He got up and pulled her to her feet.
    “But I don’t know how.”
    “Skip, you gotta get with it. Everybody’s into Cajun dancing.”
    “Last on my block as usual.”
    “You gotta go to the Fais Do Do at Tipitina’s. Or come here—they have lessons at six o’clock.”
    She would have said she’d do that, but he had dragged her to the dance floor, stuffed ear plugs in his ears (“I never dance without ’em”), and was getting into professorial mode. “Okay, here’s all it is. You think it’s going to be two steps but it’s four. You’ve got to take those two extra steps. Bend your knees and kind of go up and down. That’s it. Got it?”
    “I guess so.” Dancing wasn’t her strong point.
    But the music was irresistible, and he was right, it was getting to be a fad. She went at it with all her heart.
    “Hey,” said Abe, “you can’t do that.”
    “I can’t do what?”
    “You’ve got to go up and down when your partner does. You can’t set the rhythm yourself.”
    Damn! Just like high school—she never could do it right. Her knees were starting to kill her. “Maybe that’s enough for now.”
    But in Abe’s opinion it wasn’t. She was a near-cripple by the time they got back to the table, and, worse, felt off-balance, a failure. She caught Abasolo’s eye—and could have sworn he was grinning evilly.
    When they had ordered—jambalaya for him, catfish for her—Abe leaned forward. “Tell me about yourself.”
    No. Something in her balked at the exercise. Why did she always have to do every little thing he wanted?
    “You first,” she said.
    “No, you.”
    It was a direct order. She said, “I wasn’t really born here. That’s just the story my parents tell. Actually, I was left behind when my spaceship took off and I’ve been trying to learn the language ever since.”
    “I see what you mean. You don’t look like you fit in.”
    “Thanks a lot.”
    “Hey, from me that’s a compliment. I hate this place.”
    But it stung. She had been trying lately to fit in better and she’d thought she was succeeding. What was it that made her stand out? She didn’t ask, knowing the answer was bound to make her feel insulted.
    She changed the subject. “Why do you live here if you hate it?”
    “To be near my kids. I was in Atlanta before—now, there’s a city! But my wife divorced me and moved here; she got the kids, of course, so I’d hardly ever have seen them if I’d stayed there. This is bad enough.”
    He speared a piece of lettuce, using his fork like a weapon.
    “You miss your kids?”
    “I miss ’em like crazy.” He stared at her, letting his eyes go moist. She got the feeling he’d done it before.
    “But you must see them sometimes.”
    “Oh, sure. It’s just not like having a family.”
    Skip had a feeling that she was supposed to take his hand and croon, “Ooooooh, is that what you really want?”
    Instead she said, “You’re upset about the divorce?”
    “Horribly.” He tried the spearing trick again, but missed—his fork squeaked nastily on the plate.
    He wants me to ask him what went wrong and whatever it was will be her fault.
    “Would it be rude to ask what happened?”
    “Not rude at all. Cynthia didn’t want to be married anymore. Period.”
    “She didn’t give any reason?”
    “She gave lots of them, but they all amounted to the same thing—I wasn’t perfect.”
    “And you thought you were.”
    Seeing him start, Skip held up a hand. “Just kidding. Really.”
    “Anyway, she really pulled the rug out from under me. I had a nice wife, nice home, two great kids, good job, friends—now I’ve got none of it. I threw away my whole career to come to a city where nothing’s happening economically.”
    “Do you