She dances through life, moving from partner to partner with such even-handed grace that no one takes affront. The lovers, men and women, cling to her, lose themselves happily in her world. The frankness of her gift is such that they all understand.

But probably he admired her more for letting that surly old husband of hers back for the last years of his life, swiping away with that slender, braceleted hand whatever had come between them once.

As an adolescent, I prayed to be made wise, but now, knowing the price one will pay for such insolence, I regret my words. I could have asked for riches or a long life or many children – but no, I had to ask for wisdom.

“The first sign that something was up was the arrival of a flotilla of pianos on the eastern shore of the city. Each was manned by a tuxedoed pianist who stood with his baton at the ready…”

The Dancer is a beautiful woman. So many blood lines are in her that she is the amalgam of us all. Spanish. Azorean. Arab. English. Gypsy. In her high cheekbones is her Indian blood. Her great-grandmother was Coeur D’Alene and sang the Blues in San Francisco. There are bootleggers and brothel-owners in her as well.…

[box type=”shadow”] Listen to the Podcast: [audio: https://www.kevincarrelfooter.com/podcasts/podcast-3OCT2010.mp3][/box] I went to see my dead father’s lover, to see what she could tell me about the missing man. She was not surprised to see me, though we had only met obliquely in stories. Like most lovers, she held tightly to the idea that what she had…