by Ted LoRusso

I

Dan Carroll, tall, stooped, failing, shuffles into my restaurant, an inexpensive Italian joint on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Dan sports a white button-down shirt, slightly frayed at the collar and a crazy silk tie under a tawny brown suit that’s been dry-cleaned so often it shines. Perched atop a substantial heap of silvery black hair sits a tatty fedora, on the brim an oily thumbprint, the culmination of thirty years of Dan tipping his hat to the ladies. His wife, Mona, five-feet-one, sturdy, glowing, steps in behind him. She wears a simple powder-blue shift with a gossamer scarf encircling the neckline. Before they retired, Dan had been a stagehand at the Metropolitan Opera—it’s where he picked up the fedora; Mona was a salesclerk at Lord & Taylor’s—it’s where she picked-up the scarf.

Dan and Mona come in for dinner practically every Saturday night. Tonight is Dan’s birthday. He might be close to 85. Miss Richly, our general manager, welcomes them with a grand gesture of open arms, hugs and kisses. Miss Richly is the same height as Mona and has to pull Dan down to her level for her kiss. Miss Richly walks the couple to their table, where we, the wait staff, await. We’ve decorated their table with balloons and other festive paraphernalia. Dan gathers a handful of confetti and joyfully tosses it up in the air.

“Happy New Year!”

“It’s your birthday, Dan,” says Mona, gently correcting him.

“I know, doll. I know.”

We’ve pre-set a half-carafe of Chablis for Mona, a beer for Dan. The staff and I gather around the table for a toast. Mona blushes. Dan beams. Dan’s hands shake—it’s either advanced age or an advancing disease he never talks about, probably both—so I sit next to him and help him lift his glass. Dan loves the attention and is having a terrific time; Mona is having a terrific time watching Dan have a terrific time.

They order the Fried Zucchini to share, even though it gives Dan gas. For entrees, it’s lasagna for Mona and spaghetti and meatballs for Dan. I deliver their food, but get a couple of tables and must leave them alone for a time. The rush over, Miss Richly and I check-in on them. Mona stands over Dan, wiping something off his suit. We look. Dan is covered in spaghetti and meatballs, grinning.

We take away the remaining food to wrap for Dan and Mona’s Sunday dinner. I finish cleaning up Dan;

Miss Richly fusses over Mona. And we laugh with Dan, who’s getting a big kick being the messy birthday boy.

We serve the cake we bought from the bakery around the corner. The entire restaurant sings to Dan while he dances in his seat.

Everyone in the restaurant gets a slice of Dan’s cake. Couple of coffees later, Dan looks at his watch,

“We better get going, doll.”

Mona to us: “He thinks we’re going dancing.”

Dan: “We are going dancing. And we’re going to dance forever and a day.”

They rise to go. I help Dan up, straighten his tie, hand him his fedora and his doggie bags, while Miss Richly checks Mona’s make-up. There’s no bill. There never is. Mona leaves a 10-dollar bill on the table. Miss Richly slips the crisp bill back into Mona’s pocketbook unnoticed.

Dan waves to the restaurant and exits, Mona at his side. It’s the last time we see him.

II

Mona lost her joy when Dan died, but not her vanity. Awash in rose water, her powdery white permanent-wave wrapped in a shimmering snood, her faux diamond brooch–the one Dan bought on sale at Macy’s–tacked high and proud on her navy-blue brocade dress, she arrives for her once-a-week Manicotti. She’s been favoring Manicotti, recently, because it’s easy to chew–she no longer wears her dentures; they’re painful, and “I only put them in for Dan.” We aren’t busy, so I sit with her. We chat about this, about that, about nothing. She stops talking and loses herself in the flickering votive candle that animates her lipstick-stained wine glass.

“Tell me a story about Dan,” I say to bring her back, “something I’ve never heard before.”

“Did I ever tell you about Dan and his Bear?”

“Never heard it,” I say.

She clutches her wine glass: “Early on, oh, years ago,” she says, “before we met you and Miss Richly, before we got married even, Dan and I danced almost every night. The Club P&G on Amsterdam had a jukebox that played Big Band Music, so we’d go there. One night, while we were doing our Dorsey trawl–that’s what Dan called it–he broke off and started dancing like a wild animal, all by himself, waving his arms like a crazy person. And he was growling. I got worried. It wasn’t like him to let go of me on the dance floor. It wasn’t like him to growl. I asked if he was okay. He lowered his arms and said the silliest thing, he said, “Mona, have you ever danced with a Bear?”

“No,” I said, “not yet.” And Dan said he knew this bear who danced, and he wanted me to meet him. So that weekend, he borrowed his buddy’s car, and we drove to a campsite Dan had rented near a brook that babbled. Dan said he paid an extra 40 bucks for that babble. I said it sounded like it was laughing at us. He said, “So laugh back.”

And we did.

“After we set up camp, Dan took my elbow and led me over to the brook. He pointed to the other side and said, ‘He’s an exile from some circus, but he’ll dance … if provoked.’ I looked to where he was pointing, and there I saw Dan’s bear, lying on a pile of dead leaves and mud, its snout resting on its paw, asleep. It looked awfully comfortable. I think I heard it snoring. It was a great big Grizzly. I turned to Dan and said, ‘He’s asleep. Better not wake him.’ But Dan started waving his arms just like he did that night at the P&G, and he shouted, ‘Come out and dance with me, bear!’ Wouldn’t you know it, the bear got up, shaking its backside, wearing a skirt of twigs and leaves. Dan, arms still waving, shook step-step-touch to his right. Pause. Step-step-touch to his left. Pause. Swivel. Swivel. Back two three. Then he called out, ‘Come on, Bear, dance with me, if you dare.’ I was scared. Was the Grizzly going to dance with Dan or eat him? Well, God as my witness, the bear launched into a step-step-touch to its right. Pause. step-step-touch to its left. Pause. Swivel. Swivel. Back two three. I mentioned to Dan that the poor dear was having some trouble with its swivel. Dan said that was probably what got him kicked out of the circus. Dan and his bear shimmied and shook, and I asked God to write the date across the moon, so I would never forget. The best times are the briefest, they say, and so after their third step-step-touch, the Grizzly dropped to its knees and looked at Dan real serious like. We, all three of us, stood like that for a minute or so. Then the Grizzly lunged, and that’s when Dan kissed me—our first, can you believe it—right there in the woods. It was so sweet and so quick and so sudden it distracted the bear, but just for a second, and Dan whispered, “Doll, we need to get the hell out of here!” We grabbed hands, ran to the car, and tore out of there, leaving the campsite to the bear. Dan drove and drove looking for a place where we could relax and relive our hilarious adventure. He found it on Route Eleven in a hotel for cars. The front desk clerk, a real dope, said we reminded him of Ralph and Alice and gave us the honeymoon suite. I guess he called it the honeymoon suite because it had two wrapped bars of Dove soap.

Mona stops talking and falls into a deep hole of sadness.

“What happened next?” I ask.

Mona couldn’t or wouldn’t recall the mood of the room or their carrying on that night. Eyes wet with the dead, she says, “I’m sorry, honey. I love you, but I don’t want Dan’s Bear to be just some story I told to a waiter over a plate of Manicotti. So don’t tell it to no one until after I’m gone, okay. Then, you can tell it all you want. To anyone who’ll listen. But tell it nice. Please, tell it nice.”

“Don’t worry, Mona,” I say, “I’ll tell it real nice.”