Page 420 - Some Dance to Remember

390 Jack Fritscher

cold stand-still.
“I’ve been coaching you, Ry.” Kick drawled it softly. “All along I’ve
been the coach.”
Ryan sat rocking behind the wheel of the small car. He could not look
at Kick and Kick would not look away from him.
“You were the coach?”
“I’m always the coach.”
“I want you to drive to Bar Nada.” Ryan’s voice was low and controlled.
“No,” Kick said.
“No?”
“No.” Kick’s face hardened.
Ryan sucked in all the deep breaths he had been missing.
“Then, this time, Rhett Butler, you get out.” With that one simple
sentence, Ryan Steven O’Hara avenged every Miss Scarlett ever crossed
by a man. He knew it was the end of his life.
Kick slowly moved his hand to the door. He opened it. The cold air
sucked body heat from the car. He pulled his big body out the door. For
a moment he stood on the curbing. Rain soaked his tee shirt tight against
his shoulders and chest. His groomed blond hair curled into steaming
wet locks. Then with both his enormous arms he gently shut the car door.
Come back, Shane!
Come back, Little Sheba!
Come back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean!
Oh, Ashley! Ashley dahrrrling, come bayack!
Stell-aaah!
What movie are we?
Without Margaret Mitchell there would be no Tennessee Williams.
The white van double-parked next to Ryan roared into life and pulled
away, screeching its tires on the wet street.
Slowly, Ryan turned the key in the ignition.
Kick stepped back from the car.
More slowly, Ryan pulled away from the curb.
He turned once to look, one last time to look, seeing Kick outlined
in the glow from Donuts & Things, standing cast out in the cold rain
without his jacket, without his gym bag, without his Corvette keys, locked
out of the Victorian.
This was the ending against which Ryan had shot the videotapes,
written the Journals and letters, and saved the gifts of Kick’s boots and
clothes. They were empty consolation prizes.
He figured it was the last time he would ever see Kick in his life.

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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