Dancing Lessons 3

From our perspective, all our teachers were old, but knowing this was Miss Hanson's first year at least distinguished her from Miss McGraw who'd taught our parents.

I liked Miss Hanson from the first because she knew about everything. How glaciers scooped out lakes, how Amelia Earhart crossed the Atlantic, whatever struck our fancy. We boys were more interested in glaciers; the girls, of course, Miss Earhart.

"It's a big old world, but not too big for not getting back," as Miss Hanson put it.

Miss Hanson liked me because I studied and hardly ever got caught cutting up. When she wanted to move us on to the next subject, but nobody could answer the question, she'd call on me. "Thanks, Andrew," she'd confided when the others were leaving. "You're a sharp guy."

I'd sometimes hang around after class and miss playing shortstop to help Miss Hanson pick things up. That's how I found out how much she got paid and how she found out that I could yodel. I'd never been taught; I just could

The two of us were at her desk looking at the National Geographic, our chairs together so we could read the captions, and I asked if she'd seen "Shanghai Express," and as she hadn't, I summarized the plot, which she said sounded very exciting.

Had I seen "The Sin of Madelon Claudet?" she asked in return, to which I shook my head. "Maybe little old for you, though, Helen Hayes is this lady who has to earn some extra money," and in learning for her pen, her breast touched me. Only for a second, but a second's a second.

Two more times that week it happened, once as we were shelving books and I reached to steady one, the other when in moving her supply cupboard, my hold was between it and her. That one was for a lot more than a second.

***

When Miss Hanson needed somebody to mow her lawn, I was glad to help. Afterward, we were having a snack in her kitchen. "So Andrew, know how to dance?"

I didn't, explaining that it didn't matter because I wasn't going to the prom, or anything.

"Want to learn? I've got Smoke Gets in Your Eyes and I Only Have Eyes for You. They're both about eyes. "

"Maybe."

She took my hands and pulled me up. "Dancing's not just knowing the steps, though. It's about being partners," and with that, pulled me against her.

"No need, your hand pointing out to space," she decided after a period, folding my outstretched arm back to where the side of my hand was against the edge of her bosom.

It was, after all, a lesson.

***

Miss Hanson seemed pleased when I stopped by the following Saturday. "Hi. Miss Hanson. Need help with anything."

"My lucky day, you showing up! I do need to move some things in the attic. It's boiling up there, though."

As it was indeed hot under the eaves, Miss Hanson undid a button, then a second.

Finely, though, she decided we'd done enough. "So how about another lesson, you already being here."

Back in her kitchen, she put on "Moonlight Serenade," not realizing she'd forgotten to fix her buttons.

***

I'd bike to her house each weekend to learn a new step, and it was on one of those rides that Officer Rymer waved me over. I didn't think I'd been doing anything wrong, but you never know.

"Morning, Andrew."

"Morning, sir."

"It's fine seeing a young man who takes such good care of his transportation."

"Thank you, sir," pleased that a policeman would take note of my bicycle.

"And while we're talking," he went on, "you'd be going over to Miss Hanson's, I expect?"

"Yes, sir."

"I keep an eye on things," guessing about me wondering how he knew. "It's swell how you help her out around Miss Hanson's place. The thing is, though, your bike being kept up nice, you might want to park it out of sight. Don't want some punk riding it off while you're in there, do we?"

"I'll do that, sir," as I saw his point.

"I'll do what I can to get it back for you, but they'd probably have been riding in the mud, and whatnot."

"Thanks, Officer."

***

What caused me concern was the interlock of our legs. Backing away didn't help, as she'd just move forward, guiding my hand fully onto her as she did so.

"It's totally natural, Andrew, when you dance," she told me without saying the subject.

Her knowing my state was bad enough, but realizing I might involuntary do something I wouldn't want my teacher knowing about was far worse.

"It's OK, Andrew," taking control with her thigh.

I held off as long as I could, but with her leg working on me, I really didn't have a chance.

"Sorry," I managed after my climax, not knowing Inge what else to say.

"No reason to be," she told me. "It's what sometimes happens."

But nothing lasts forever.

***

"Andrew, I think we need to stop," one Saturday, a hot one.

"How come?" by now counting the days till Saturdays, knowing what would happen.

She thought for a moment. "Because sooner or later... OK, but if this being our last time, you get to do something back."

This being our last time, I reached up the back of her shirt and unhooked her brassiere.

I was unprepared, however, when she in turn reached down.

"You can't," I managed, as she found my boner.

"This is why we need to stop," she told me after I'd wetted everything.

And that's how we ended my lesson.

***

We of the Class of '42 were somber a lot, though we'd deny it. The boys had guaranteed employment. The girls were teary.

"You're joining the Navy, I hear?" Miss Hanson asked me in the hall.

"Maybe be a gunner," hoping she'd picture me in a flak vest, bagging a Zero before it could kamikaze my battleship. "Be at the prom?" affecting a finger snap that might be used by sailors. "Paper Doll's the theme. The girls are making life-sized ones for the walls."

"Chaperone."

"I'm taking Arlene, but I get one dance with you, OK?"

The way my buddies would cut in, I really wouldn't see much of my date until the "Mate your Date at the Lake," what we called it, though the chances were slim.

Everyone knew that Officer Rymer would be out and about, and the law was clear. No speeding to get there. No wheelies. No alcohol. Skinny-dipping only within the buoys. Keep the real fun inside the car.

They said that sometimes you could see the whole rally squad naked, diving off the raft. That's what they said, anyway.

Given the cut of Arlene's formal, it would be a cinch to pop her out. She'd already moved her corsage to her wrist. This was going to be one fun prom night!

For the dancing part, it was about acting casual, the girls going to the girl's room to check their makeup, and making out without the chaperones seeing.

When Miss Hanson walked into the gym, I gave her a half-raised wave, glad that Arlene had gone to fix her hair. "Glad to see you, Miss Hanson," in what I hoped sounded like a sailor's voice,

"Thank you, Andrew. This place looks so nice."

I chatted with a few others so it wouldn't look like I'd been waiting for her and managed to get behind her by the punch table. Rumor was that it had been spiked, but if so, not with much.

"You did promise me a dance, right?" hoping she'd not forgotten.

"Indeed I did, kind sir," touching my arm in a way that made me feel special

No one seemed to think it odd, me dancing with a teacher before being sent off to be a gunner on a warship, and Arlene would rather I dance with a teacher than with one of her curvier friends,

Miss Hanson pulled me closer after they dimmed the lights and I, in turn, forgot our setting and plucked her strap. When she spread her fingers to mask my hand when a glitch in my footwork caused it to go, I touched her breast.

She smiled when the lights returned. "It was lovely dancing with you, Andrew. And I see Arlene waiting for you."

I'd guaranteed my buddies that I'd pop Arlene's cherry at the lake -- the first to score was supposed to honk his horn -- but unfortunately I came on her chiffon.

Perhaps thwarting me had been her intent, though, something to tell her girlfriends about, and they'd giggle when they passed me in the hall.

Once in the Navy, though, I'd score with a hula girl, the recruiter having more or less promised, as I suppose he knew I was a virgin.

***

I wasn't sure why I drove by Miss Hanson's on my way home, but her kitchen light was on. I should have told her at the dance that she'd been my favorite teacher, but she'd already left when I thought of it,

"Why, Andrew!" her not seeming surprised to see me, not seeming to mind that she was in her robe. "Come on in."

I swallowed. "I just wanted to tell you that you were the best teacher."

I followed her into the kitchen. "Sorry I can't offer you more than lemonade, Mr. Sailor Man," and sat me down.

"Lemonade's fine," not sure what else to say.

"Just make it back, OK?" and with that, slipped behind me, put her hands on my shoulders, and drew me to where I could hear her heartbeat.

"I'll watch out," not moving.

"I shouldn't have led you on," as if that's what I'd come to talk about.

"You were giving me dance lessons, was all. Anyway," as I wanted to change the subject, "I just stopped to tell you that you were my best teacher."

"And you were my best student. Did you take Arlene to the lake?" another change of topic

"Sort of."

"And?"

"Didn't work out."

She thought it over, probably realizing what. "Maybe better that way."

I tried to make light of it. "Didn't even get to see the rally squad naked, even."

'What?"

"You know, swimming."

She laughed. "Oh yes. I'd heard that, too." and then again turned serious. "So how about we dance another dance, you having stopped by?"

That we did, my hand near her breast. When she moved me off, I thought it meant the end, but it was to her top button, and once I was done, to the next.

Then it got confusing, but her bedroom was where that dance ended and the following began.

As for how I did, Arlene would have made me pull out early, but Miss Hanson kept me in, even after.

Not knowing what to do next, I mumbled something about the hour and escaped into the night.

***

Gunnery school already had its quota, but as I'd the grades, I'd be in Communications. Easy street, I figured, until discovering that we were the suckers who hit the beach with the Marines, them with rifles, us, with radios. But the Japs surrendered before I got there and I was made a Navy journalist.

The promised hula girls turned out to be Filipina hookers who wanted to know my rank before establishing the price.

I could have taken my discharge, but journalism was interesting and in uniform, I could get experience. "Sailor, you can write any story from the list," the list where I ended up stationed being "The Yanks in Norway," names, hometowns, something their mother could share with her friends.

The piece that won me the award was about a GI doing reconnaissance who'd slalomed to a remote cottage, only to discover the residents were his grandparents. My commander wished the soldier had been Navy, but it was a cracker-jack piece.

The USO was where we hung out for the easy scoops and cheap drinks. It was there where a woman in USO attire, her braid, however marking her as Norwegian, emerged from the phone booth and stared at me.

"Andrew? It is you!"

It took me a minute. "Miss Hanson? How...?"

She beamed. "The school board gave me a leave to do USO. It's Gretta. 'Hvordan har du det?' means how are you?"

"Wonderfully surprised," though I supposed she could tell it. Sailors aren't supposed to be "wonderfully" anything, but I didn't care.

"So how'd you end up here?" she wanted to know.

"Me? I'm a journalist. Navy stuff. Are you...?"

She must have understood. "Same as ever. You?"

"Same as ever."

"So how about let's dance." "Let It Snow" was hardly necessary for where we were, but it was what was playing.

She giggled when I put my hand on her back. A GI tried to cut in, but I said we were together. When I pulled my other hand more between us, she covered it the way she'd done back home.

Afterward, I walked her to her flat.

"Miss Hanson?"

"It's Gretta."

"OK." I paused. "I guess I just want to say I'm sorry for showing up like that, that night."

"We danced."

I gave her a kiss and she laughed.

"Come on in, Andrew. Mary Ellen and Doris can move to the living room. They're good sports."

One would think that a Naval Correspondent and a pretty USO volunteer would tear up the bedroom, but once there, she and I were almost as we'd been back home, maybe a little daring, but hardly that confident as to where to take it. She turned off the light and was still in her slip when she pulled the covers over her. I was about as discrete, facing away when I stripped to my skivvies and slipping into the far side. She was the one who thought to get us kissing, a way to get us closer.

A slip over a brassiere not being much different from a blouse over a brassiere, it wasn't as if her breasts felt much different, though doing it in bed made it rather more obvious than while dancing. I suppose I did feel different to her thigh, though, skivvies being not trousers. Dancing, she'd legged me over and over until I'd come in my pants. Here, though, it wasn't repetitive, maybe for that very reason.

I knew it my job to take off her slip, but with that she was helpful. Same for her brassiere. As for our underpants, we each took care of our own.

As my experience had been with entrepreneurs who knew how to take charge -- the higher their turnover, the more their take-home -- I'd have left it to her to decide how to proceed, but I'd the impression that maybe this was never to her than to than me. It took a bit just to get used to touching together, and a few tentatives to end up as we did, her pulling the bedcover up to my shoulders.

The rest should have been automatic, but again, between my limited experience and what I more and more recognized to be her maybe-complete inexperience, it remained tentative. Not so tentative that she couldn't line me up, but that wouldn't have required experience.

I was the one who decided how much, though, not wanting to hurt her. I don't think I did, but I could tell she was concerned. Once I made it in, though, I held it until I felt her relax a little, and then I did it again, but this time holding back less for her sake than for mine, as I wanted to last. By a couple more, we were together, and it was she who slowed us down, at first causing me to fear there was some difficulty, but the deciding that she thought it better, knowing how quickly I could come in my trousers.

The women I'd known before of course always acted as if I was doing such a great job, but that was to earn a tip. Maybe because this time I cared about more than myself, I did want it to work for her, and maybe that's what helped me tell how she was doing.

The onset of her orgasm took me by surprise, me still trying to be mechanical about it, but once I realized it, I came right on top of hers, our covers lost sometime earlier.

Not much to say afterward, though, just lie there, me still on top of her.

Mary Ellen and Doris were eating Corn Flakes -- almost impossible to acquire in a land of porridge -- at the breakfast table the next morning and said they'd cover for her if she wanted to report late.

"You kiddos are such sweeties," Miss Hanson -- Gretta, I mean -- told them.

A week later, I was off to Naples for a Seabee story, and then to somewhere else. I wrote Gretta a Christmas card saying I was still writing, nothing that she'd ever see, of course, but getting experience.

But I couldn't find a stamp and the holidays had passed.

***

My ten-year reunion didn't particularly interest me, but as I was in the state for a story about vets, I decided why not? After all, it had been a decade.

Why I was even driving by Miss Hanson's place -- the houses hadn't changed, at least -- I wasn't sure. Probably she'd moved elsewhere, maybe even stayed in Norway. Maybe now a mom. Nobody stays the same. I could have made a few calls -- it's what I did for work -- but I hadn't. I just wanted again to look around.

And there she was, just as I remembered, watering her garden.

I pulled over. "Hello, Miss Hanson," unsure of what to say.

She looked at the car, and then the driver who knew her name. "Andrew!" and when I got out, "Nobody knew if you were coming!" her hug a real one.

Somebody had even wondered?

"So how've you been?" all I could think of.

She laughed and let me go. "Never stopped teaching, minus the year serving the country."

Maybe I could ask what she was watering, but what came out was, "Coming to the reunion?"

"Maybe look in, see if anybody remembers me. It's for you students. Ex-students, I mean."

"Should be fun."

"I'm sure. And you?"

"Reporting on whatever."

"So I heard. Kids?"

"Too busy to settle down, I guess."

"Takes a while."

***

It hardly mattered that hardly anybody with whom I'd once hung around attended the event. Most all the guys had served, but what we wanted to talk about was before. Maybe a few ideas on my vet assignment, but those who go back to their hometown tend to be ones without much of a grabbing headline.

At least I'd Miss Hanson to chat with, "Gretta" sounding odd in the setting.

Nothing was said about prom night a decade prior, and other than agreeing how surprised we'd been in Oslo, nothing about the rest. It was easier to talk about what she was teaching and where I'd been.

Most of my classmates were now married, but most of their spouses had begged out, knowing they'd end up talking to other spouses with not much to talk about.

I watched my old friends cozy up on the dance floor with their old steadies, glancing around to see if anyone was watching, as the evening progressed, less and less concealing their renewing relationship.

Tomorrow an attendee will recount to his spouse, "Lots of silly band stories, stuff like that," not adding what followed between him and his one-time music-stand partner. They'd blown their trumpets side-by-side all those years, hiding their thoughts, and now they could! "You absolutely must come to the next one, honey," having cemented his spouse's resolve to again avoid the event.

Some of tonight's culminations might be first ones, even. Nathanial, now an Episcopal minister, and Esther, who said she writes a column for new mothers in Baptist Family Life could at last allow themselves what they'd abstained from when they were in Christian Endeavor,

Ethan and Arthur, who'd played baseball together, had brought their wives, but each was dancing with the other's. Given with whom they left, they'd probably decided where to switch back in the morning.

"Well at least now with those two, no need for a window," Gretta elbowed me, seeing Virginia and Harold make a beeline for each other. Back in high school, he'd actually spend the night at her house, thanks to her window --everybody knew it -- but life hadn't gone well for either in the years since. Maybe tonight would get them back on track.

It never occurred to me that the teachers might have heard about the window, but I guess they kept their ears open.

For me, though, nothing was going to happen. Miss Hanson had my number, the kid to whom she'd given dancing lessons and had run off after the prom, the kid who'd popped up in Norway, slept with her, and again took off.

But at least I'd gotten to see her.

***

After the "And to the future" toast, a string of cars headed for the lake, where the Class of '42 could date as if a decade, a war, hadn't intervened.

Had Arlene come to the reunion, I'd maybe have finished where I'd failed a decade back. Were Miss Hanson not here, maybe I'd be driving there with some girl I'd barely known, us just wanting to be a part of things. Difficult to say.

"Re-unions," Gretta's joke as I walked her to her car. "I'll send you the newborn list in nine months. These girls better sleep with their husbands pretty quick, just in case."