The tap dancer upstairs

 

 

Poppy Cockburn was a tap dancer, a student at the Langdon School. Despite the money her devoted mother spent on tuition at the prestigious institution, she would never be more than mediocre. What she lacked in talent Poppy compensated with sheer force of will, furious determination, a dedication to daily practice, rehearsing for hours each day. Every day. 

Poppy Cockburn was Arthur Shaw’s upstairs neighbor. 

 

The light fixtures overhead trembled. Peter Kaye, interrupted in musing over his Scrabble tiles, scowled across the table at Shaw. “You were going to say something to her.”

Shaw suppressed a nervous cough. He eyed a fragile knickknack that was the only lovely thing he still had of his mother’s, a porcelain cherub, vibrating ever closer to the edge of its shelf. Shaw shot up from his chair to nudge the figurine to a more secure spot. 

When he sat back down across the board from Peter, he avoided his friend’s burning gaze. Instead, he arranged and re-arranged his letters, Z P L K O J M.

“Shying away from conflict is not the solution,” Peter said. “You’re an adult. She’s an adult. Say something to her. She’s been inconsiderate, I’m on your side.”

“I told you. I don’t feel comfortable speaking to her. You don’t know her. She’s intimidating.” In fact, Poppy scared many of the residents in the Rose Hill apartment building. Everyone was convinced she was the one stealing Rhoda Krantz’s New Yorkers---if you saw her in the lobby, the laundry room, out by the recycling bins, she would freeze you with that blank stare, looked through you, “like her crap don’t stink,” Rhoda had said.  

“She’s a spoiled brat,” Peter said succinctly, as he laid down “EXHALED” claiming the triple word bonus and the seven letter word bonus. 

“Part of the problem is these old buildings,” Shaw theorized, “the sound amplification is made worse by brick and the lack of proper insulation, noise bounces around the courtyard.” 

“Rationalizing,” Peter noted his score with a satisfied smile. “The shortcomings of early 20^th century building practices is not in question. The fact that your upstairs neighbor is behaving in a manner that directly inconveniences you in the present day, that is the topic at hand.”

Shaw knew he was in for a tortuous browbeating. Not only had his friend lulled him into Scrabble despite repeated protestations that he would never again submit to the utter humiliation of Peter Kaye’s rapacious wordplay, but now he would be treated to a life lesson as well. Peter liked nothing better than winning games that displayed his superior mind, unless it was telling you what you should do and how you should do it. 

 

The glass light pendants jangled. The cherub cowered on its shelf. Even the window panes pulsed. Upstairs, incessant tap tap tapping. 

 

Shaw’s letters swam in front of him as the vein on his temple throbbed with a coming migraine. In truth, the never ending noise upstairs nettled him. It took every fiber of will not to bang the ceiling with a broom handle, like an old person, like a finnicky killjoy, the kind of person he would have laughed at when he himself was 20. But. Since retirement a few weeks ago, he was spending more time at home. Poppy’s daily hours of practice set his teeth grinding, and he knew he would never have the nerve to confront her no matter how righteously indignant he got. Poppy did not care. She was just as rude as Rhoda had said. The privileges of money, and youth. Shaw was made prisoner in his own home by an ingrained need to be polite, to be nice, to be liked. Hoisted by his own wussiness. That word he remembered from the old days. Classic wuss. But a breaking point was coming.

 

When he slammed his hand on the table, rattling all the tiles on the board, the uncharacteristic outburst completely shut down Peter’s hectoring. Shaw said with lips compressed: “If you’re so smart, why don’t you go up there and say something? I’m passive aggressive, whatever, I’m a coward. I admit it fully. Go on up there. Put up or shut up for once.”

 

They stood on the threshold of Poppy’s apartment, Peter out of breath after the one flight up. “I tell you to quit smoking,” Shaw said. 

“Now. Is.  Not. The moment.”

“Go on, then” Shaw nudged. “Give her door a good knock.”

Peter stood his full height, all 65 inches, regaining himself.

Knock knock knock. 

Assertive. His knuckles rapped squarely in the center of the door. 

Knock knock. 

The two men stood there, listening to the constant tapping against the bare hard floor reverberating through metal and wood that remained solidly closed.

“Try again,” Shaw said, “maybe she didn’t hear you.”

Knock. Knock. 

 

From behind them, the door to the apartment across the hall cracked open, and Rhoda Krantz squinted out, her head wrapped in a filmy scarf. “What’s with the racket?” She looked the two men over, recognizing Shaw. “It’s you,” she said, disapproving of his old blue sweater and baggy pants. “What are you up to?”

Peter explained the situation. 

“You’re not going to get anywhere with that one,” Rhoda sniffed. “Hotsy-Totsy. “

 

The lobby door downstairs banged shut--the tenants had been on the management company to fix it for months—

Andy Li and his dirty mop dog ChiChi came in from their late morning walk, ChiChi’s paws clicking on the checkerboard tile as she shook off the damp. Andy was wearing his usual short shorts, flip flops, and thin tank top he donned regardless of the weather, and as he made his way up the stairs, seeing the tableau in front of Poppy’s door, he made a comment on the chilly drizzling day--

 To which Rhoda said he might consider “putting on some damned clothes.”

 ChiChi went ballistic on seeing the older lady, snarling and yapping, refusing to be soothed or cajoled or bribed with treats Andy held out to her snapping dirty face, she only seemed to get angrier and louder, shrill, yipping furiously. 

“Does that monster have rabies?” Rhoda used her door as a shield.

The dog took umbrage at being thus insulted, for a little beast she made quite a lot of noise, and the group of them were all yelling over each other, no one listening—total chaos, madness—

 

“What the literal FUCK?!” Poppy Cockburn screamed. She stood at her open door. Peter was surprised to see how tiny she was, shorter than himself, weighing barely 100 pounds. Peter gave out an involuntary laugh. This was the woman who had so intimidated Shaw, this little scrap of a thing in leg warmers and tap shoes. Her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, her hands balled up on her hips, a pugnacious toddler. “Who are you?” Poppy said, looking at Peter Kaye like he was a fat bug that must be squished. 

“Let me introduce myself-“ but Peter did not get the chance. 

“I don’t actually care,” Poppy said, dismissing him. 

Undaunted, Peter smiled. “My dear friend, your neighbor, Mr Arthur Shaw, requests that you be a little more considerate with the noise coming from your apartment, it’s quite an inconvenience—”

ChiChi started to bark again, sensing conflict brewing and wanting to comment on it. More rabid yelps. More tremulous rage shaking on four legs.

 

 Poppy, without a flick of an eyelash, kicked the dog with her tap shoe shod foot, sending ChiChi flying. 

 

Everyone else gasped. 

 

Rhoda, who was no fan of ChiChi, or Andy for that matter, opened her mouth to utter protest—

“Mind your own business” Poppy said.

Andy scrambled to scoop up his dog, who seemed uninjured except for her pride. “I’m going straight to the cops,” he said, “this is assault!”

“Call the cops. It was self-defense. Call them. She came at me with her fangs bared.”

Peter thought that if anyone had bared their fangs, it was Poppy.

 She was done with them. “All of you get away from my god damned door before I call the cops for harassment!” then she looked directly at Shaw, a hateful fire in her dark eyes, “you got any other complaints?” 

He blinked, his eyes suddenly stinging and his face too warm, his dry lips trembled with anger. 

“I didn’t think so,” her left hand held onto the door, ready to slam it in their faces, she smiled, red lips parted over dentist white teeth.  “In future, you will keep your concerns to yourself, Boomer.”

“I’m not a Boomer” Shaw said weakly to the closed door, “I’m Gen X” but his voice trailed off, unheard by anyone. 

“Told you,” Rhoda Krantz said before closing her own door. “That one’s a bad kitty.” Exit Rhoda. 

Andy and ChiChi left the scene in a huff, with repeated threats to call the police, the management company, The Boston Globe. 

Shaw was still shaking with impotence and unspent adrenaline, when Peter put his hand on his shoulder. “I suppose now would be an importune moment to remind you that we have tickets for tonight’s recital at the Langdon.”

“What?”

“Remember? I got us tickets for tonight’s performance of “Mildred Pierce the Musical”. It’s been on the calendar for weeks. I have to go, I’m on the board. And you’re coming too. You’ll never guess who the second lead performer is.”

“No. Please. No.”

“One Miss Poppy Cockburn. She’s playing the role of Veda, the spoiled daughter and murderess. Type casting if you ask me. She was nobody’s first choice,” Peter agreed with Shaw’s unspoken incredulity, “but her mother gave such a sizeable check the school just couldn’t refuse. I hear the director is furious. The girl is every bit as terrible as I’ve heard, if this is any indication. It should be quite a spectacle, and-- you and I have third row seats. Tonight at 7 pm.” 

“God no.”

“Oh come on,” Peter chaffed, “it’ll be fun. Maybe we can get the audience to throw rotten fruit at the stage.”

And with that, the two men went back downstairs. 

 

At 7:45 pm, the doors of the Langdon School of Dance flung open as patrons rushed out of the theater at intermission. Some crushed their programs, tossed them into trash receptacles. Some walked determinedly to awaiting Ubers and cabs. 

Shaw needed to find the men’s room, so Peter Kaye walked out into the cool spring evening alone. A figure in a fringed shawl flew past him, he knew her to be the director of the evening’s production and meant to express his condolences, but she was blinded by anguished tears as she stormed out.

 

Peter saw a rare and golden opportunity to sneak a cigarette. Shaw was always on him to quit. Everyone was on him to quit. He resisted, kept his vice as an act of silent rebellion.  Smoking brought him back to himself, like meditation must do for those who practice. He moved toward the back of the building, to a neat rectangle of lawn where he could escape the others. A border of newly planted pansies separated the school’s lot from Shaw’s apartment building, the backs of both abutting, he could practically see into his friend’s windows from where he stood. The spare key sat waiting in his pocket.  An impulse to step across, to run away from the second disastrous act of “Mildred Pierce the Musical” presented itself, but he would be an absolute cad if he ditched Shaw. 

“Excuse me,” a voice said from behind him. 

He turned to see the lovely woman he had seen sitting in the front row, she had been pointed out to him as the mother of Miss Poppy Cockburn. He had observed her during the play, her rapt attention, her eyes abrim with pride as she watched her daughter’s mad performance as the tap dancing Veda, seemingly unaware of the nervous coughing and stifled groans of the audience. Looking at her closely now, he could not believe this woman with the gentle expression could possibly be the mother of such a snarling cub as Poppy. The vagaries of genetics. 

She said, in a conspiratorial whisper though they were quite alone, “Can I bum a Camel from you?” She eyed the pack he was absently holding, and he handed her one, lit it with his treasured silver zippo, watching how she held her hair off her face as she turned toward the blue flame. “Oh, that’s delicious,” she sighed, exhaling smoke. “It’s a filthy habit. I know. My husband Maxim is forever bitching that I should quit. I have quit. Dozens of times,” and then she laughed, a delightful deadpan sound that made Peter half fall in love with her. “I guess we’re members of a secret tribe,” she said, “we need to stick together.”

He agreed. They walked a little, for something to do, enjoying the bond of kinship the length of a cigarette can afford, the hem of her long dress grazing the newly cut grass still damp from that morning’s rain. 

Then she asked the fatal, inevitable question: “How do you like the show?” 

Peter could see the eagerness on her face, he could read the mother’s misguided belief in her child’s gifts that knew no limit in its singular adoration, and even he could not disturb the fragile beseeching nested in her question. “It’s quite a production,” he said, pleased at his own diplomacy. “You must be very proud, Mrs Cockburn.”

“Oh I’m Mrs Monty now. Abigail Monty.  Mr Cockburn is no longer with us.”

“I am sorry.”

“He’s not dead. Burt’s in Boca Raton.”

“That’s almost worse.”

“You should see him. He’s one big melanoma in polyester pants. I’m not so smart when it comes to picking men.” She crushed the butt of her cigarette on the damp flower bed, burying it with the toe of her sandal. “I love pansies,” she said, and Peter was glad of the change in subject as he had nothing further to say in praise of Poppy. “They have such happy faces. So cheerful. You can see the face of God in every flower, don’t you think?”

“Are you a believer?” he asked. The topic of religion could be no more dangerous than children. 

Abigail touched the diamond encrusted crucifix she wore on a delicate chain, the only jewelry she wore, besides a plain platinum wedding band. “I am,” she said, “I know it’s not fashionable these days. But my faith has always been solace. It’s gotten me through some pretty rough patches,” her finger caressed the cross, and she seemed to shake herself out of a reverie. “I wonder where Maxim went off to? He’s always getting himself into mischief.”

“Perhaps we should go in,” Peter suggested, aware that the second act bell was about to chime. 

She put her arm in his. “Thank you for the smoke. And the chat. Both were much appreciated.”

“My pleasure,” he said, and meant it. 

 

Shaw fretted on the stairs of the building, looking paler than usual. “There you are” he said when he spotted Peter, “I have to tell you something—”

“Arthur Shaw,” Peter introduced Abigail. “Arthur, this is Poppy’s mother.”

Shaw’s right eyebrow twitched as he mumbled something like a greeting. 

“Honestly, I hate that name. Poppy. She was christened Penelope, by a bishop no less. But her damn father started calling her Poppy, and it stuck,” Abigail waved her hand, then rested it on Shaw’s arm, “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have a mint, would you? My breath. I don’t want to have to listen to my husband. He gets so pissy when I smoke.”

Shaw fumbled in his jacket pocket, a look of surprise exchanged discreetly with Peter whose nod agreed: how could this lovely woman be the mother of evil little Penelope Cockburn? 

They each helped themselves to a peppermint.

“Oh,” said Abigail, “There’s Maxim now, he must be looking for me,” she waved him over. 

Maxim Monty slouched over in Italian loafers toward his wife, she made introductions. Mr Monty nodded, eschewing the usual handshakes, he kept his hands casually lank at his sides as though the effort of moving them would be unseemly. He had the longest eyelashes on a man Shaw had ever seen. “Pleasure,” he said, his voice a smooth drawl. “Abby,” he sniffed her hair. “You’ve been smoking.”

“And you Max still have lipstick on your face,” she rubbed his cheek with her thumb. Not my shade.”

 

The bell chimed. 

 

What was left of the audience filed obediently toward the entrance like cattle to the abattoir.

 

As soon as they resettled, Shaw whispered behind his program: “I know whose lipstick that was. I saw them. That’s what I was waiting to tell you. I opened the wrong door, walked right in on them. Mortifying —”

“I bet I can guess,” Peter said, as the cast assumed their positions on the small stage. Poppy Cockburn waited under the baby spotlight, dressed in layers of frothy white tulle that trembled with every breath. She grimaced defiantly, a stare that looked through the audience to the backs of their uncomfortable seats. Peter Kaye observed her makeup, hastily slapped on in a mad panic backstage minutes before curtain, like a child who ran wild through her mother’s things. Underneath tear streaked chalky white powder her cheeks were enflamed. She paused to speak her first line, red lips parted. 

Abigail was in the front row, back straight, the faithless Max slumped next to her. 

 

The next forty-five minutes floored everyone in the small theater. Before their stunned eyes and gaping mouths, Poppy Cockburn became a star. She tapped. She hissed. She spat all of the venom she had in her cold black heart.  She was Veda, the spoiled daughter, self-loathing, rageful, the room thrust into blank silence when she shot her lover, standing over the smoking gun, remorseless, unblinking, watching him crumple and die, a smile on her face before the curtain fell. 

 

It was the performance of a lifetime. 

 

The next morning, a lovely fresh Sunday, the body of Poppy Cockburn lay in a heap of rumpled tulle on the checkerboard floor in the lobby of the Rose Hill apartments. Her pale powdered skin scorched around the neat bullet hole in her left temple.