The Elephant Dance
Crystal Taylor
Word Count 781
Joey and I traded basketball cards in my garage, the summer before fifth grade. I bullied him into swapping Pippen for Barkley, even though it wasn’t a fair trade. His head slumped in restrained protest. I never noticed the symmetry of his face before then. A blanket of black lashes cast a shadow on a decidedly handsome mole high on his right cheek.
“Anyways…Wanna watch cartoons at my house?” he asked, cutting the silence.
It was the first time we ever went to his house. I was dumbstruck by their swanky, sunken den, with its angular, black pleather sofa, navy carpet and mini blinds. Indigo tile paved a circle, like a blue eyeball.
His mom didn’t work. and shooed me away when I tried to get water from the kitchen, turning her face away. It was too late; I saw her skin etched with lines at every fold, like the hairline cracks in my driveway. She brought us sodas, without a word, while we watched cartoons. We were like royalty, being waited on. Joey didn’t even say thank you. I did, but she did not respond.. The air conditioner blew frigid on my skin—definitely below 70. “Joey, your dad must be rich!” He shrugged a grin, palms up.
That night, he rang the doorbell and invited me to the circus. “I don’t have money for a ticket,” I told him.
“My dad said he will pay for yours.”
When we arrived, Joey called our seats the “nosebleeds.” (When he explained what that meant, I thought he was a brat.) I squirmed in my seat, anxious to see an elephant dance—or whatever elephants did.
Mrs. Guerra sat on the aisle, with Joey to her right. As I waited for the lights to dim, Mr. Guerra’s beer sloshed over the sides of his plastic cup. My shoes, bouncing up and down, on the concrete sounded like bandaids being ripped off of skin.
Finally, the lights dimmed and an elephant—well, its trunk—entered the spotlight. I squealed, looked at Joey, and saw Mrs. Guerra glance past me at Mr. Guerra. I noticed some kind of telepathic exchange. Without a hint as to why, she sprang to her feet, grabbed Joey by the arm and pulled him up. She began to run, so I ran, not knowing what we were running from. I tried to keep pace as my scrawny 11-year-old body bounced off the bellies of strangers. I looked back, and saw Mr. Guerra’s wide, staggering gait, like a Frankenstein. His jaw clenched and made circles around gnashed teeth. It was the first time I'd seen a man's rage, worse for the drink. I only recognized his contorted face by the mole he and Joey shared on their right cheeks. We nearly lapped the upper deck of the circular Coliseum, and he was gaining on us. Sprinting, we wove through cars in the misty parking lot, silent, but for heavy breath and sneakers striking puddles on the pavement. Joey called out, giving up our location. Mrs. Guerra shoved Joey into the minivan, hoisted herself into the driver’s seat, and grunted as she reached for the locks. That was the only noise I had heard from her.
Mere seconds passed before Mr. Guerra hurled his body against the blue minivan and struck Joey’s side window with closed fists, shouting, "Pam, wait til we get home!" Joey gasped, crying inconsolably, "Mama, how will he get home? Daddy! Daddy!"
I'd never seen a boy, or anyone, sob like that before. Peering through the rear glass, Mr. Guerra flailed and threatened, inaudibly now, in the dark. Joey, clenched his fists and pummeled the rear glass so hard I thought it might shatter. Joey’s piercing screams continued long after we sped away.
I remained stone-still and quiet, like Mrs. Guerra, as we sped through the mist, down the sludgy highway. I understood why she was always so silent.
When they dropped me off, I side-mouthed, “See ya tomorrow,” as we had said when parting every summer evening. He stared out the other window. Neither of them said a word. I retreated to my room, parted the orange mini blinds to see if they went home; they didn’t. A moving van came within the week, and I never saw Joey again.
Months later, at the neighborhood taco kitchen, I overheard two men at a table nearby say that the Guerras had moved up north, and that Mrs. Guerra was expecting. The two gentlemen sighed collectively and shook their heads. When I got home, I tore up the Scottie Pippen card. It was never mine to have, and I wished I hadn’t pushed so hard for the trade.
Crystal is a native Texan, is fascinated by how we respond to change in our lives and how our responses shape our futures. You will find her with many dogs, cats, binoculars and a pencil with a well-worn eraser.