A True Story

RE-LIVING

 

Not so far back in 1961 or 2 one of the popular mournful songs of the day was 'The Loneliest Night of the week.' It began with 'Saturday night is' but for me, my husband, George, it was the best night, the fun night, the weekly night we shared with old and new friends in our Philly country club. It was always dress-up night. We ladies had slews of evening gowns in our closets, immaculate white leather gloves of three different lengths, fashionable shoes and knock-out jewelry. I had only my 1 ½ carat diamond ring, and very real looking rhinestone necklaces, bracelets that worked for me. I lost no sleep about the fakery. Every male member had at least two handsome tuxedos, soft colored, pleated dress shirts, patent leather pump shoes. Simple, easy for them.

 

From nine to one Wood Valley Country Club's long walnut bar was two deep in thirsty members. I didn't really like the fakery, the 'What'll you haves' and used my secret to lower my inhibitions every week. I would order a shot of Jack Daniels and a glass of ginger ale, send
Jack down the hatch', relaxed and nursed the ginger ale all evening.

 

The big band sound reverberated thru the bar and into the lobby. The dining room offered large round tables covered in long white cloths with a flower arrangement in the center. The nights were made for dancing. Unfortunately for both of us, my George had no rhythm. He was always off beat We argued about it all the time. Not a dance did we do that he didn't tell me to stop leading. If I stopped, we would have to sit down. He danced now and then with Jan, a long time friend of ours. Jan, without a doubt, was the best dancer at Wood Valley. She could make a stick of wood look like Fred Astaire. To me George looked like a handsome pile of fire wood.

 

Suddenly I was a hot shot Twister. I could shake my booty against anybody else's booty and was hot to trot. Popularity was my middle name. I was whirled and twirled and constantly busy dancing with members I barely knew. It took at least ten days for one Saturday to follow another. The new rage was not for everyone and the bandleader interspersed slow, close body dancing often. It gave us all a chance to settle down, breathe. George let me be while keeping an eye on harmless me.

 

It was 11 p.m. The crowd was beginning to thin out when Harold, a member I had seen at the pool but never met, asked me to dance. With a surprised but warm smile, I rose and we walked a few steps to the dance floor. Harold was tall, nice looking, well built and a smooth, easy dancer. He surprised me with his soft, pleasant singing voice as he just about whispered the words to 'After the Lovin'–I'm still in love with you.' In the middle of the number, coming from nowhere, Harold's wife, heavy and buxom, grabbed his hand off my back and pulled him away from me. She lead him like a horse to water back towards the table they shared with intimate friends. I was stunned, stunned beyond comprehension, turned 'fat stuff' around and smacked her face so hard she almost tilted over. Louder than the music, I ranted, 'Don't you ever do anything like that again to me. Take your husband and get out of my sight!' I wanted to crawl under the table to hide my shame and anger, but didn't. George neither defended me or judged me. I stayed in my seat and nursed the flat ginger ale.

 

Before it was all over Harold approached my table. Surely he wanted me to apologize to his wife. No, he brought me her apology for being so rude. Hah. I didn't believe him.  For days I heard whispers about me, skipped going to the club the next Saturday night. The following Friday
my phone had a menacing ring. Truly, I just knew something was not right. Jan told me that Harvey was dead! He had been in his office preparing Saturday's payroll, when a man (at least the police think it was a man) came in, shot Harvey twice in his head and once where he thought Harvey's heart was. He could have saved a bullet. The two head shots were enough. Disbelief filled my mind, my heart ached. It just couldn't be true, but it was. The club closed Sunday in respect for Harvey. There was little merriment the following Saturday, a much smaller crowd than usual. I was no longer the topic of conversation.

 

Sadly but truthfully I wished I were.