The Dancer
Chapter 5
Fallon had finally slept. The birds were chirping outside his motel room window. It was Sunday morning, and he had survived his first day back in town. He had struggled to get through it, but he had met his demons head-on. Although he didn’t win every battle in the last twenty-four hours, he was standing upright with a cup of freshly brewed coffee in one hand, standing on the balcony, just outside his motel room, taking in the freshness of the morning.
He would cruise down Main Street this morning. Stop for breakfast at the Big Bear Cafe — if it was still there — then he’d drive by the house on Fourth Street, and if he could keep his emotions in check, he would drive up to Brighton Road. If he could do all that, he would consider Day 2 a success.
It had all been planned out for him. If it wasn’t for Dr. Henry Smith, he’d still be stuck on the same merry-go-round. Johnny walked into Smith’s office three years ago, exactly one year to the day since the death of both of his parents, and asked for help for the first time in his life.
Johnny had flown to Hoboken, New Jersey. His parents, Marsha and John, had been found dead in their bed. Their story had made all the daily papers from Hoboken to New York City. The first paragraph described the couple’s early years as dance champions, and one New York reporter closed his story with the line: they completed their last dance together. They were found, holding hands, the old Hi-Fi next to them with a Frank Sinatra album rotating on the turntable, the needle clinging to the end of the record, without life as well.
The coroner had said to him. “Rest easy, Mr. Fallon. Your parents died of natural causes. They died peacefully in their sleep. It’s rare, but I’ve seen it happen before.”
It took Fallon weeks to clean up his parents’ affairs. He inherited a substantial sum of money, including the family home in Forest Hills. He then returned to LA and his job as the assistant director at the Valley School of Dance in Anaheim. His clients: Men and women, mainly over the age of sixty, all alone looking for companionship and to learn, one step at a time, how to dance…and in some odd way, find their way around, not only the dance floor but find an outlet, allowing them to sail through their “golden years” with a smile on their face.
Fallon knew how uplifting dancing could be — for the young and the old. He saw it on the faces of his clients as they successfully mastered a new move, a new step, and left the studio, ready to show the world what they had learned.
For Fallon, it was different. He was sleepwalking through it all.
Johnny wanted desperately to regain that wonderful feeling to have that smile on his face again, swinging round and round — covering the dance floor, keeping time to the music. He had lost all that. Something snapped in his soul up on Brighton Road on that spring day in ’61. He was in a fight, within himself, to get that feeling back — the feeling of dancing to the music again…the feeling of love.
Unfortunately, the loss of his parents had sent him into another tailspin. He turned to the bottle and found himself on the streets of Los Angeles, in and out of one tavern after another. He’d lost his will to dance to the beautiful sounds of the music — the sounds far away now and hidden in the back of his mind.
Fallon showered, shaved, put on a blue polo shirt and a pair of dark-colored jeans, jumped in his Chevy, and headed for Main Street in search of a country-style breakfast. His favorite restaurant had changed names. It was no longer called the Big Bear Cafe and was now called the Do Drop Inn — a catchy slogan, but it certainly fit the bill for the small town of Forest Hills.
It was early enough to beat the breakfast crowd, and according to the waitress, Rita, it would soon become busy and stay that way until after the church crowd had come and gone around 2 p.m.
“What’s your pleasure?” Rita said.
“Bacon crispy, medium eggs, wheat toast, and hash browns, please,” he said.
“Coffee, regular or decaf?”
“Regular, thank you.”
“Coming right up,” Rita said as she hustled off to the kitchen.
Fallon finished his breakfast, paid his tab, and walked up Main Street. He passed the First Baptist Church. The parking lot was full, and he was tempted to go in. The Lord knows he needs to.
He walked by the church, stopped, and doubled back. “Why not?” he said out loud. He figured the Lord knew he was stalling for time, but maybe after a little talk with the man upstairs, he might have some company when he heads back down the highway and takes the turnoff to Brighton Road.
He looked around the congregation and didn’t recognize anyone. Just as well. He was still looking for the “words” to converse with anyone he’d come in contact with. Sometimes, he was just plain annoyed with himself. It was so much easier to remain quiet rather than carry on small talk — the energy to talk wasn’t always there when he needed it the most.
“Then Sings My Soul, My Saviour God, To Me…How Great thou Art…How Great Thou Art…” the Choir sang out. It was a soothing sound. Fallon had heard the song many times while attending church services with his parents, but the last time he listened to the words was in one of the most unlikely of places. It was exactly twelve miles east of Forest Hills at another tavern — a tavern in the woods called Willie’s Sugar Shack.
Bobby Joe Gorman and wild man Clay Hutchins tagged along with Johnny on a cold winter night. It was their junior year of high school, and they were forced to honor a bet and sneak inside the tavern. They had heard the tale of an out-of-this-world blues band playing non-stop music until the wee hours of the morning.
Fallon couldn’t believe he was sitting in the back row of the First Baptist Church, and his thoughts had taken him to Willie Crawford’s place. The Choir finished their song and took a seat. Fallon snuck out the front entrance and continued his walk up Main Street.
Johnny wasn’t too sure the Lord would meet with him on the top of Brighton Canyon. He also knew nothing bad happened that night in the woods. In fact, something good happened. The dancers in the tavern were out of this world. Every couple on the dance floor could have made the finals at any state fair in the country if they had had the opportunity. They were that good.
Suddenly, as the clock on the wall edged closer to the three o’clock hour, a beautiful black woman appeared. She walked onto the stage and closed the night singing. How Great Thou Art.
Johnny and every patron in the tavern sat quietly and listened to the lady sing.
Two months later, dance instructor Johnny Fallon incorporated some new dance steps at the studio. “My goodness.” Marsha Fallon had said at the time. “Where did you learn those steps?”
“I don’t know, mother. Just something I’ve been messing around with,” Johnny said to his mother as he turned off the studio lights and walked her home.
Johnny turned on Fourth Street and drove the four blocks to the edge of the forest. There, in the cul-de-sac, was the family home. Vacant. He was impressed. Walter Maxwell had kept the place in immaculate condition. The grass in both the front and the backyard had recently been cut. He figured he owed his realtor a big “thank you” for that. Madge Evans had been with Century 21 Realty for over 20 years, and she was the top salesperson in Forest Hills.
He would see her tomorrow. Johnny had been dealing with Evans long-distance. Walter Maxwell and his family moved to California. Walter had given 30-day notice, and from the looks of things, he had left the old homestead in pretty good shape.
Johnny took the house keys out of his pocket and entered through the front door. It was like walking through a back-in-time capsule. “Johnny Fallon!” his mother yelled from the kitchen. “Turn the radio off and come to dinner.” He checked out the three bedrooms, the dining room, the two bathrooms, the kitchen, and the Arizona Room — the screened-in porch where his father spent most of his free time sitting and listening to Frank Sinatra tunes on the stereo.
He opened the screen door and walked into the backyard. The square wooden dance floor was still there, built by his father in 1947. Johnny was six, and his parents had him toe-tapping on the little floor to the sounds of the big bands — like Benny Goodman, Glen Miller, and Tommy Dorsey, and a year or two later, it was the sounds of Count Basie, Duke Ellington, and The Ink Spots.
Johnny Fallon was a “dancin’ fool” before he had entered the third grade.
Fallon stepped onto the floor. He looked around to make sure no one was watching. He twirled, tapped his feet together, and went through a two-minute routine. He quickly stopped, shook his head, closed the screen door, locked up the house…and headed for Brighton Canyon.
Johnny cruised south on Main Street, and within minutes, he was out of town. He slowed down…his fingers gripping the steering wheel…harder and harder. He broke into a sweat. The sign ahead in green: Brighton Road.
He sailed by the sign and then floored the gas pedal. He wanted to make the turn, but his mind and his heart had different ideas.
He drove for a mile, made a U-turn, and headed back to town. He roared by the Forest Hills city limits sign, put on the brakes, and slowed to a crawl, edging his way down Main Street. Minutes later, he was in the clear, just him, his ’57 Chevy, and the sounds of the forest.
Johnny rolled up the window and turned on the radio. The DJ had just introduced the next song selection. It was as if crooner Jack Greene was talking directly to him…”Somewhere there should be…For all the World to See…A Statue of a Fool.”
Confused and seemingly on the road to nowhere, Johnny Fallon made the next turn. Exit 211 — Ramsey Canyon Lane.
Chapter 6
It was time for the Gentlemen’s Club to convene at the Tavern on the Hill. The six men, who were always dressed in their Sunday go-to-meeting clothes, would go to their early church services and then meet up at the tavern. They’d leave their coat and ties in their vehicles and proceed into the bar for a cold beer and lunch — the lunch, of course, provided by Wanda Berlson, who, without fail, would carve up a ham or a turkey and provide all the fixings to the delight of the regulars — who treated their Sunday ritual as their own private “happy hour.”
The regulars were Junior Ferguson, a ranch owner; electrician Paul Spivey; Clyde Hart, the new owner of Babcock Lumber; Leo Johnson, owner of the Forest Hills hardware store; Clifford Steele, a retired high school football coach; and Robert Gorman, owner of Gorman Automotive.
The six men were legends around Forest Hills and at the tavern. Their pictures hung on the wall in the back room and, according to the comedian of the group, Paul Spivey, “we are legends all right, that’s why they have our caricatures next to the men’s room.”
Pamela handed out beers to “the big six,” and Wanda was back in the kitchen preparing lunch. It was time for some music, and Junior fumbled through the pockets of his dress pants and located some change. “Oh, let me guess,” said Clifford. “Junior is about to punch E4 and E5.”
Junior said. “How’d you know, Clifford?”
Everyone chuckled. Junior inserted the coins, and the first words rang out to Willie Nelson’s “To All the Girls I’ve Ever Known,” followed three minutes later by Willie and Meryl Haggard’s Pancho and Lefty.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of those two songs, Junior?”
“Never.”
Junior Ferguson was, in fact, a true-to-life legend around town. A third-generation rancher, Junior is the sole owner of Ferguson’s Bluff, a cattle ranch spread out over 100,000 acres in Beaumont Flatts — some thirty miles south of Forest Hills.
Junior’s love life is legendary. Three women tried to settle the Beaumont Flatts’ cowboy down. They all failed. All three left the ranch with some of Junior’s hard-earned money…but they didn’t get it all. If the 75-year-old wasn’t a billionaire, he was certainly close to it. Despite all his money, his friends would get a big laugh when he — on many occasions — couldn’t come up with enough coins in his pockets to play the jukebox.
Fifteen years ago, he met some ranchers in Prescott for a cattlemen’s convention. He found his way to Whiskey Row — a well-known historic street in the center of town, which housed a row of rowdy cowboy taverns. The place to be on a Saturday night.
Junior walked out of the Birdcage Saloon, walked across the street to an art fair, and met Western artist 60-year-old Maddy Madison, a widower. He fell instantly in love with her and her paintings. They were married six months later at the Forest Hills Community Chapel…, and as the story goes, they are the happiest couple west of the Rio Grande.
On weekends, the happy couple spends their free time in Forest Hills. They spend Saturday nights at the Tavern on the Hill, and Maddy opens up her art shop on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. After church on Sunday, Maddy heads for the shop, and Junior heads for the tavern to meet up with the rest of the “big six.”
Paul signaled to Pamela for one more round and questioned her about a rumor that was circulating. “Pamela, we heard you’re getting married next month. “Is that for real?”
“Yeah, we heard you and Danny Smith were going to Las Vegas to get hitched,” popped up Clifford.
“You heard right,” Pamela said. “I’ll no longer be Pamela Jones.”
“Smith or Jones, it’s all the same thing,” Paul said, giggling at his joke.
“Well, congrats,” said Robert. “I hope you still plan to work here.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t give up this job. I’d miss you guys too much, and besides, we need the money. We hope to buy the old Jameson place out on River Road.”
Clyde Hart checked his watch. “This is the last one for me today. We have a missing truck. The jalopy broke down late yesterday with a load of lumber. A fuel pump problem. They promised me they’d be pulling into the yard at three o’clock.”
“You’re working too hard, Clyde,” Leo said.
“I know. We bought out Charlie Babcock a year ago. Things have been a little hectic, but I have great employees, and I’m beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.”
“You take care,” Bob said.
“I’ll do just that,” Clyde responded as he left Pamela a generous tip and headed for the door. Clyde stopped at the entrance as the door opened, allowing rays of sunlight to cascade down and cover the dance floor.
A shadowy figure emerged. Johnny stepped forward and raised his head.
Robert Gorman stood up and put his left hand on the right shoulder of Leo Johnson. The man at the door wore a blue polo shirt, and his long hair bounced freely as a slight breeze filtered through the doorway.
“Leo, that’s Johnny Fallon.”
Pamela heard the name Johnny Fallon. It was the second time in two days she had heard the name. Mary Beth Thompson had gone crazy on Saturday night and couldn’t stop talking about a “heartthrob” who appeared out of nowhere.
She continued to clean the glass mugs, but her eyes were transfixed on the entrance to the tavern. The man closed the door behind him, and suddenly, the sunlight was gone. You could hear a pin drop as the old-timers at the bar stood stunned and in disbelief.
Johnny sat down on Paul Spivey’s vacated stool. Pamela remembered now. “A PBR draft, right? We just changed the keg. It’s nice and cold.” She had placed a beer in front of the same stranger last night. Pamela kept staring at the man and thought to herself, "My goodness, Mary Beth was right." He is certainly good-looking.
Leo was the first to greet Johnny. “It’s Leo. My God! I never thought I’d ever see you again.” Tears rolled down Leo’s face. He looked into Johnny’s eyes. “Is it you, Johnny?”
“It’s me, Leo. It’s me.”
They embraced and held on to each other for a moment.
Robert walked over and grabbed Johnny’s shoulders. “It’s Robert. Robert Gorman. Bobby Joe’s dad. My goodness, after all these years. What are you doing back here?”
Junior, Paul, and Clifford paid their tab and said their goodbyes. They knew they were witnessing an emotional moment. It was time to make their exit. “Pamela, I’ll see you next weekend,” said Junior as he put his arms around Paul and Clifford and led them out of the tavern.
Johnny looked around. “Maybe we should get a table. You two look in shock, and I’m kinda shaking a little myself.”
Pamela said with a concerned look. “Go ahead. You have your pick of tables. I’ll bring everything over. You guys skedaddle.”
The trio adhered to Pamela’s request and selected a table at the far end of the room.
“It’s a long story,” Johnny said. “It’ll take some time to fill you all in.”
“We’ve got plenty of time, Johnny. Plenty of time.” Leo said.”It’s so good to see you.”
Pamela glanced at the clock. It was 2:45. She continued to stock the bar. The bar would close in four hours — the shortest day of the work week for the employees of the Tavern on the Hill.
Johnny began…
At 6:45, Pamela reluctantly edged her way to the table at the far end of the room. The sun had set. The bar was empty, except for the new stranger in town and the two members of the “big six” — Leo and Robert.
The older men remained silent as she could hear the stranger continue to talk… "and that’s the entire sordid story. I can’t believe I’ve spilled my guts to someone other than my shrink out in Los Angeles.”
“Last call, guys,” Pamela said.
“No, I think we’re done here,” Robert said, thinking that his next move was to head back to town and locate his son…and hug him.
Robert lost his wife to cancer two years ago, and he had one relative left in town, his son. He glanced at the clock above the bar. It registered 7:05 — twenty minutes ahead of the correct time.
“Robert is right, Johnny.” A saddened Leo seconded the motion. “Johnny, let me pick you up tomorrow afternoon after you see Madge. We’ll run out to Brighton Road together.”
Leo needed to make his exit as well. His destination: the Golden Gables Memory Care Center on East Valley Drive. Wanda Johnson’s home since ’85. The agony she felt for her daughter, Betty Lou, had all but vanished. Diagnosed with dementia, there were times when Leo believed Wanda knew precisely who he was, and at other times, she just sat motionless, eyeing a stranger who was visiting her. They both eventually sat by the window, held hands, and watched the geese maneuver their way over the forest line.
Johnny stood up and shook hands with Leo and Robert.
Reluctantly, he accepted Leo’s request. “ Johnny, I’ll pick you up at your motel at three o’clock.”
Johnny moved toward the bar to settle up with Pamela. “You’ve been very kind, thank you.” He walked out the red door, got in his car, and started up the engine.
Pamela watched from the window as Johnny headed down Ramsey Canyon Road in his ’57 Chevy. She placed her right hand on her heart. “I’ve got to talk to Mary Beth Thompson about this.”
She shook her head, grabbed her keys, and secured the Tavern on the Hill.
Johnny sailed down Highway 4 deep in thought, as always. He had just let his past 28 years gush out of him and into the hearts of two men, both of them also caught up in the spring of ’61. My God! It was time to get a grip on his life. He wasn’t the only one hurting. Doctor Smith had told him exactly that. “Johnny, go home. Resolve this!”
He'd be waiting for Leo tomorrow, and this time, he’d follow through. This time, with the support of Betty Lou’s father, he’d make it. Johnny turned the radio volume up. The soothing sound of Rodney Crowell. The song, After All This Time…You’re Always On My Mind.
Johnny saw the sign ahead. The Shady Creek Motel was just around the bend. Tomorrow would be another day.
