The Fancy Dancer

THE FANCY DANCER by Patricia Nell Warren
    “Destined to have the same impact . . . that The Front Runner did . . . There are moments that will make the reader’s spirits soar . . . There are moments, too, that are so warmly moving they’ll bring a tear to the eye.”
    —NewsWest
    “Fans of Ms. Warren will not be disappointed. She still offers us a solid story that flows elegantly and holds our interest throughout . . . Warren possesses the rare knack of pulling the reader under the skin of the gay male ... By all means move heaven and earth to read this book.”
    —Vector
    “An important, sensitive contribution . . . Warren’s characters are warm and real . . . Their positive impact comes precisely because they are not simply genital machines but human lovers.”
    —Dignity
    “This is a hugely likeable book . . . honestly detailed and well-crafted ... Hardhitting.”
    —The Advocate
    The Fancy Dancer The Front Runner
    by Patricia Nell Warren
    To Sidney Walker and to Paul R. Reynolds, Inc. to whom I owe so much
    This low-priced Bantam Book has been completely reset in a type face designed for easy reading, and was printed from new plates. It contains the complete text of the original hard-cover edition.
    NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
    &
    THE FANCY DANCER A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with William Morrow and Company, Inc.
    PRINTING HISTORY Morrow edition published June 1976
    2nd printing ...... June 1976    4th printing ..... August 1976
    3rd printing ....... July 1976    5th printing ..... August 1976
    Bantam edition / August 1977 2nd printing .... August 1977 3rd printing .. September 1977 4th printing ...... August 1978
    All rights reserved.
    Copyright © 1976 by Patricia Nell Warren.
    This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
    For information address: William Morrow & Company, Inc., 105 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10016.
    ISBN 0-553-12416-1
    Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
    Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books’* and the portrayal of a bantam, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10019.
    PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
    1
    I had a few spare moments before confessions that Saturday evening, so I headed for the church loft to play the organ a little. The days were so busy that there wasn’t much time to play it anymore, and this was one of those evenings when I felt like I was going to bust with frustration.
    As I hurried through the dim old sacristy, Father Vance stopped me.
    “Oh, Tom?” he said.
    “Yes, Father?” I said, trying to smother my irritation at losing even one minute of music.
    Father Vance had just finished his own confessions. They consisted mostly of old ladies in town who felt that the young whippersnapper (me) didn’t know anything about souls. Now he was on his slow arthritic way back to the rectory for an hour of meditation before supper.
    “Did you see Mrs. Pawling?” he asked me.
    “I wasted an hour and a half with her,” I said. “She says no.”
    Father Vance shook his head in amazement. “And all the money she has . . .” With one gnarled hand, he made a mute scrawl of frustration in the air. “I’m surprised you couldn’t convince her. She even goes to confession to you.”
    “Well, she was real nice about it, and all,” I said. “But she says she’s doing enough for St. Mary’s by giving money to the town. As if those trees she’s planting are going to raise the GNP of Cottonwood ...”
    “Mrs. Pawling, of all people, talking like a modernist,” growled Father Vance.
    We both looked sadly up at the ceiling. Right in the sacristy, there were old and new rain stains along several big cracks. The church needed a new roof badly, especially since the earthquake, and we had no idea where to get the money.
    Father Vance just raised his bristly silver eyebrows and tightened his lips above his bulldog chin, which always seemed to sprout a silver stubble no matter how often he shaved. He walked creakily out of the sacristy. In the doorway, he turned and shook at me a finger as knotted as an old pine branch. His rheumy blue eyes were hard.
    “None of that modernist music, you hear?” he said. “Some nice old hymns, or Palestrina. You disturb the old people with that