Page 83 of The Witch

While Henry is driving me home, that same crooner whom we listened to the first time he picked me up is on the radio. Frank Sinatra. Or was it Dean Martin? I’m almost afraid to ask. All I remember for sure is that Henry was very emphatic that he did not wear a fedora.

I look over at Henry, whose face is illuminated by the moonlight. He is bobbing his head to the beat, and it makes me laugh.

“This seems like the sort of music somebody’s grandparents would listen to,” I comment.

Henry glances over at me and grins. “In that case, somebody’s grandparents have great taste.”

“I just don’t understand how you can listen to music that you can’t even dance to.”

“You absolutely can dance to this kind of music.”

“Really? Because I don’t remember too many college parties where Frank Sinatra was playing in the background.”

“You can dance the foxtrot to most Frank Sinatra songs.”

“The foxtrot?” I repeat with a laugh. “Is that a dance that foxes perform?”

Henry shoots me a look, and I have to grab my seat when he abruptly pulls over on the side of the road. He throws the car into park, and I start to get nervous.

“You’re not kicking me out of the car because I don’t like Frank Sinatra, are you?” I say teasingly, although I’m not 100 percent sure it’s a joke.

“No,” he says patiently. “But I’m going to need you to get out of the car so I can explain to you what the foxtrot is.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m absolutely serious. Come on, Julia. It’ll be fun—I promise.”

Since I owe Henry, like, five favors, I get out of the car and smooth out my skirt. We are on a relatively empty street, and there’s only one streetlight above to illuminate the sidewalk. Henry pulls off his tweed jacket and lays it on the hood of his car. Then he takes out his phone and seems to be loading up some sort of music app.

“Hmm, shouldn’t we be listening to this on vinyl?”

“Ideally,” he says, “but my record player is at home, so we’re going to use Spotify.”

A second later, that same voice from the car is floating out from Henry’s phone. Something about the way you look tonight. I don’t know if I was digging it entirely in the car, but out here on the street, the sound echoes all around us, and there’s something almost magical about it.

Henry laces the fingers of his left hand with my right. Even though I’ve only attempted ballroom dancing a handful of times before, I know to put my left hand on his shoulder, and he rests his right on the small of my back. Henry smells like french fries and burgers and a hint of something minty that he must’ve put on before we went out.

“Okay,” he says. “Just look at my feet and follow what I do.”

I do my best to follow his lead, which apparently involves four separate steps, although I’m getting a little distracted by the feeling of his hand on my back. He’s holding me close—closer than I’d imagine he’d need to for your standard foxtrot.

“Wonderful,” he says encouragingly. “You’re doing a great job.”

We do the set of four steps a few times, and amazingly, we’re actually moving in time to the rhythm. Henry was right. You can dance to this song. And as we step to the beat, I hear him humming along softly, under his breath.

Just the way you look tonight…

“You’re a natural,” he says.

“Thanks,” I laugh. “You’re pretty good yourself. Where did you learn?”

“A long time ago. My high school had a ballroom dancing class.”

“Your high school had a ballroom dancing class?”

He doesn’t respond to that, just squeezes my right hand tighter, and then he gently turns me as we continue with the four-step. I wouldn’t have guessed he was so light on his feet.

And then the song comes to an end. He doesn’t have another one set up in the queue, so we just stand there in silence, swaying slightly to music that isn’t there.