Chapter Eleven
44 Minutes
I closed my eyes, waited for the music to start, took a deep breath, smiled, and took that first step.
The routine had been mastered for weeks. I just needed to remember to show up, to be myself and to have fun. And I did.
Yes, I slipped at one point, but it didn’t matter. Not even the bare back bothered me that night. We were the last to perform before the social and it was an absolute success. So many months of dedicated practice and perfecting had finally paid off.
But it wasn’t like those performances I endured as a child when everything was on the line. It was simultaneously harder and easier. It was harder because of my muscles and stamina had aged. It was easier because I finally knew me, or at least knew me enough to make it count.
I didn’t do it for the coach and I don’t think I even cared at about audience. I did it for me and maybe a little bit for my team: the ladies who made me part of something again, a community that welcomed me, supported me and reminded me to live life to the fullest.
Every couple of weeks, there was a different venue. Some had seen us before and didn’t mind. Others were excited to enjoy the show for the first time, like opening night before critics had partially ruined the experience.
After three months, it felt like more of a chore than an opportunity, and I tried to remind myself that I had chosen this path. I tried to remind myself to enjoy the ride, but I was exhausted.
Pierre and I were knee deep in a caseload that exploded during the first few months of our partnership. I was still living two lives: one in law and one in dance. The only person at the intersection of those two worlds was James, and I hadn’t seen him in weeks. He too was busied by a new partnership and he had chosen well. His partner, Sam, had built up a practice on his own for more than a decade and provided James with new insights into helping their practice grow. It was exactly what James was looking for and their collective skills in any courtroom made for an enviable team.
I rushed out of my front door with bags in hand and checked to make sure I had everything before leaving my neighborhood and driving a little faster than usual into the City. I was lucky to find parking within feet of the venue’s entrance. Perhaps James’ talents had rubbed off.
Despite my apparent tardiness, I was the first of the team to arrive. Sarah’s boyfriend spotted me and led me down a flight of stairs to where we’d be practicing and getting ready for the afternoon performance. We typically presented this number at night, during weekend events and socials around the DMV. About half of the team had travelled to events outside of the area on two occasions, but my work schedule wouldn’t permit the trips.
As the weeks passed, we had lost team members. On that day, we were down to six. Gia was under the weather, Tracy was on assignment, and Vivian and Becca had moved on to another team a month prior. I felt like I too was nearing the end of my time with the team, but I wasn’t ready to admit that to Sarah.
“Everyone ready?” Sarah inquired after we had all stretched, dressed and stood at the bottom of the stairs in line. She didn’t wait for responses before she led us up a flight of stairs, onto the main floor and then up another flight of stairs to the area where we’d perform.
It was crowded and Sarah’s boyfriend asked a few patrons to move back so we could fit in formation on the tiny area in front of the crowd. We usually had the space we needed in large ballrooms and on stages, but this event was held inside of a local restaurant. The tables and chairs typically used for partaking of tapas were moved out and the only seats that remained lined a thirty-foot long bar to the side of the space.
As the music started, the crowded cheered. And when we all turned towards the audience before us, the flashes of cell phone cameras blinded me momentarily. After turning to my left, a move called for by the routine, I almost forgot to continue with the steps. Sitting on a barstool ten feet from me, beer in hand angled towards his lips, with mouth open, I spotted James.
“Isn’t that-” Sam inquired of his partner, but didn’t finish the thought.
“I guess it is,” James decided, shook his head and smiled.
Once our performance had ended and we descended into the lower level to change out of our performance gear, many of my teammates headed back upstairs to dance and socialize. I hung back for a few minutes, not quite sure what to say to James. He’d never seen this performance before and hadn’t informed me he’d be showing up that day.
“Hey,” I approached James and his partner.
“Well done,” Sam offered.
“Thank you,” I smiled.
“Parker, this is Sam.”
“Nice to meet you,” I offered my hand, which he proceeded to kiss instead of shake.
James shrugged his shoulders and took a sip of his drink.
“So?” I inquired.
“So, that’s what you’ve been working on all of these months.”
“Yes. What did you think?”
“I liked it,” James nodded.
“I liked it too,” Sam added.
“Want a drink?” James asked.
“Water,” I responded.
We chatted for a few minutes before I felt my feet begin to move under me.
“You wanna dance?” Sam noticed my feet.
“Yes,” I responded quickly.
Sam wasn’t a trained dancer, he just liked to dance. And so, I had to forget about all of my classes and lessons learned and just have fun with him. And I did. We danced through several songs before he let go of my hand and headed back to his seat at the bar with James. I continued dancing with a few strangers and ended my time on the dancefloor with Sarah’s boyfriend, Mario. He congratulated me for the performance earlier and thanked me for the dance before he found his favorite partner.
I found James and Sam at the bar, informed them I was heading out, and coordinated an outing with James the following weekend.
Before I could partake of any fun with James, I was looking forward to a different kind of fun. For months, I’d been preparing for an oral argument before our intermediate appellate court. We rarely had the opportunity to participate in such proceedings because they were expensive and clients often opted to just deal with the Court’s opinion and Order, rather than risk further funds in favor of a better potential ruling fifteen months later.
My client had no choice. It was the other guy who’d appealed and she had no option but to participate and defend. We’d been given ten potential dates for the argument, and then the Clerk confirmed our precise date and time (sort of) on thirty days’ notice. I was excited to argue the case and was hoping for a very specific three judge panel. We didn’t get to pick our judges and I couldn’t really be disappointed in any combination, but I’d been itching to appear before one particular jurist, the one I’d seen my fellow practitioners enjoy a bit of banter with in publicized hearings I’d viewed.
I was in a better position than most, since I had the facts and the law on my side. Plus, our skilled trial judge had created a thorough record of her findings as to each and every financial issue she’d determined as a result of our three days of evidence. She couldn’t have set the case up better for me on appeal. In fact, the only way I could lose that appeal would be not showing up. Even that likely wouldn’t impact the decision, as I’d perfected and filed a brief that was better than any I’d written before.
When the day finally arrived, adorned in my most sensible, tailored, no bells or whistles, skirt suit and appropriate pumps, I entered the elegant space alongside fellow advocates and awaited confirmation from the Clerk as to my turn on the Docket and, most importantly, my assigned panel. As he read the names aloud, I smiled. This was going to be fun.
Unfortunately, I was the second case of the day and would likely be waiting around for at least an hour before I could enter the courtroom and take my position at the podium. I called into my office and checked in with Rosie before I heard Malorie say, “is that Parker? I need to speak with her.”
“Parker?” she sounded frantic.
“Malorie, what’s wrong?”
“A new rule came out yesterday.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Tax Code changed.”
“Okay.”
“It changes your case.”
“What?” I blurted.
“Yeah. I’m emailing you right now. How much time do you have?”
“An hour,” I relayed. “Maybe less.”
“Okay. I’m so sorry. I just saw it this morning. I’ll give a copy to Rosie right now. We’re here for whatever you need.”
“Thanks, Malorie. I’ll call you back.”
I read over the barely dried ink of a major change in the law that would impact many of my cases going forwarded, and then I understood Malorie’s anxiety. Alimony would no longer be taxable.
Pierre was in a Trial and therefore unavailable for consultation. I looked around the room and saw no other family law practitioners present. I got out a notepad and began jotting down thoughts, arguments and at times, incoherent scribbles that were really about getting out the excess energy and nerves.
“Counsel?” a man inquired.
“Yes,” I looked up at the man.
“You’re up,” he relayed.
“Thank you,” I nodded, gathered my notes and briefcase, and followed him into the Courtroom.
Benches lined the walls across the back half of the space and the podium sat prominently in the middle of the room, just ten feet from the bench which perched about five feet higher than the rest of the room. I took my seat at the table to the left of the podium, after offering a handshake and a ‘good morning’ and my opposing counsel who was readying her paperwork at the table to my right. She looked nervous.
I was nervous too, but I quickly dismissed such thoughts when I heard the first ‘oyez.’ We all stood and allowed the three judge panel to take their seats before we confirmed our appearances and the proceedings began.
My fellow member of the Bar was steadfast in her arguments, despite being peppered with questions and interruptions from the bench from the start. She only paused once, and only briefly, before disregarding one of the Judge’s questions and continuing with her plan. Twenty minutes went by fast and she failed to save any time for rebuttal.
It was my turn. I had barely begun when the Judge whose questions I’d been craving chimed in.
“Counsel, we have your brief and understand your arguments. I’m more interested in your thoughts on the recent change in the law.”
“Well, Your Honor, I’m glad you brought that up,” I started.
“Are you?” he smiled.
“Yes, Your Honor. I think the recent change in the law makes the case before you even clearer.”
“How so?”
“Well, first I want to thank the Internal Revenue Service for giving us something new to argue about,” I spoke seriously but he assumed jest.
“Really? That may be the first time anyone has ever thanked the IRS,” the Judge smiled.
“It may be, but I offer my gratitude sincerely. It’s been decades of argument and calculations about the taxability and tax deductibility of alimony and frankly, laws impacting domestic relations matters don’t often change quickly.”
“True,” he responded.
“And this is a major change, to be sure, but it in no way changes the result today.”
“Continue,” he nodded.
“The trial court found that alimony was not appropriate in this case. And the record is clear why that result was right. But if this Honorable Court finds fault with the judgment below, and Orders remand on the alimony issue, we are looking at a brand new trial under very different conditions, but with the same result.”
“You sound pretty sure.”
“I am,” I confirmed. “And not only would I predict the same result, but these parties would be spending a lot of money to end up in exactly the same place.”
“An attorney wanting to make less money,” the Judge smiled, “that’s a new one.”
“Yeah well, it shouldn’t be,” it was less eloquent than I typically allowed myself to speak in such an important setting.
“Well counsel, let’s assume you’re right, about the remand and new trial at least, how could you know the result would be the same?”
I grabbed the calculator I’d strategically placed on the podium at the start of my argument, a not at all professional-looking contraption with hot pink colored buttons. I believe I caught the presiding Judge smirk at my choice of devices.
“Your Honor, our learned trial judge found gross incomes before alimony of $100,000 and $60,000 respectively.”
“With your client at the $100,000 figure?’’
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Okay, continue.”
“And with my client at $100,000, in the 24% tax bracket, the court found my client’s net income at $76,000.”
“I’m with you,” the Judge nodded.
“And with the appellant at $60,000, in the 22% tax bracket, the court found his net income at $46,800.”
“Still with you.”
“And with appellant’s request for alimony, specifically $2,000 per month, in addition to finding that alimony was not appropriate under the factors and caselaw, the Judge found that the math didn’t make sense.”
“Right. She said at $2,000 per month, $24,000 per year, your client would have $76,000 gross income after payment of alimony, putting her in what bracket?”
“Twenty-two percent, Your Honor.”
“You want to do the math, or should I?” he chuckled.
“That would’ve put my client at $59,280 net.”
“And for the appellant?”
“With starting gross of $60,000, plus $24,000 in alimony, for a total of $84,000, which was still in the 22% bracket, that’s $65,520 net.”
“So, the appellant’s net income would exceed your client’s?”
“Exactly.”
“And with the change?”
“Without tax deductibility, my client’s $100,000 stays in the 24% bracket, putting her at $76,000 minus $24,000 in alimony, which is $52,000. And for appellant, with no tax on the alimony, that’s a straight $24,000 added to his starting net income of $46,800, for a total of $70,800.”
“Well, I think I agree with your trial judge. This isn’t an alimony case.”
“It never was, Your Honor.”
“But if the trial court had awarded alimony and we did find errors or an abuse of discretion, and therefore remanded the case, the trial court would have to perform the alimony calculations as of today, with the change in the law and not as of two days ago, right?”
“I believe so, Your Honor. And I think this Court may see a few more appeals coming, not just where there are arguable errors on the trial court level, but because strategically, attorneys, who aren’t typically skilled in mathematical calculations, may find a better result after the Tax Code change.”
“Thank you, counsel. And if you are involved in one of those upcoming appeals, please feel free to bring the pink calculator.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“How’d it go?” Pierre asked after we’d both returned from our respective court appearances.
“We’ll see in a few months,” I responded.
“Yeah, that’s when the opinion comes out, but how do you think it went?”
“We won. And I had fun.”
“Excellent.”
“What about you?” I asked.
“We won. And I had fun.”
“Excellent. Wanna grab a drink?”
“Yeah. How about that beer you introduced me to and some tater tots?”
“Definitely.”
I was excited when I awoke the next morning and realized it was Saturday. James hadn’t been to a social in months but agreed to attend with me for what I then knew would be my final performance with the team. I was tired of the routine. I was feeling the likely end approaching and just like when I was a child, I wanted to leave that team on my own terms.
It was Elliott’s birthday and he and Jerome planned to attend the weekend’s social to celebrate. We were all headed back to Alexandria, the area where my first Congress experience manifested, although the venue this time was less grand. Elliott had almost given up dancing in favor of DJ-ing and it seemed like many of my friends in dance were moving on.
James and I fueled up at Princeton for old times’ sake, I guess, or perhaps because neither one of us had any better ideas for food, wine and comfort. We arrived at the event a little after 10:00 p.m. and the chilly air marked the unmistakable Autumn, although the season had started a bit earlier than usual.
It was a chaotic scene and as we entered, I was sure I’d be exiting my time in dance a few hours later, not likely to return. That is perhaps why my attire that night was a little less celebratory. I opted for dark jeans with a bit of stretch and a solid black tank top with a smattering of sequins lining the front. Those mirrored heels I’d purchased for my first performance in ladies’ styling had served me well and found their way onto my sturdy feet.
We checked into the Salsa room first and saw Bennett, as always, putting on an enviable show. The social was just getting started and we decided to wander around to the other rooms before taking our turn on the dancefloor.
Upon entering the Kizomba room, I spotted Lauren and she motioned for me to join her for a dance. I left James’ side and enjoyed what felt like a celebratory dance with one of my favorite Zouk partners. It didn’t matter that we had chosen a different genre than the room commanded. I’d long since learned to throw out those pesky rules.
And when my turn about the floor with Lauren ended and I found James standing against a wall, he offered, “nice Zoukie.”
“Wanna try?” I asked.
“I’ll think I’ll wander back to Salsa,” he responded.
“Want me to come with?” I inquired.
“Looks like the birthday boy has arrived,” he looked over my shoulder and spotted Elliott.
“Ready?” Elliott asked me as he approached. “Hey,” he offered to James.
“Hey,” James responded. “Have fun,” he directed his comment to me.
“See you later,” I said to James as I took Elliott’s hand.
We chatted a bit during the first song, playing catch up as it had been months since I’d seen him in Nashville. I barely noticed as the first dance moved seamlessly into the second, and then the third. They weren’t actually separate dances, just changes in music and lyrics that notified me that our steps were changing.
By the fourth song, I found myself in that soft hold that first caused me to lose myself in connection. The back of my right wrist found its home on a strong shoulder blade and the inside of my left hand rested against his chest, covered and protected by his elegant hand. Moments later, we were cheek to cheek and I once again felt the rim of his glasses against my skin.
Allowing my eyes to close and fully accept his lead, I was reminded of Bennett’s blindfold. My Instructor had gifted me the ability to see without eyes. He’d shown me how to embrace other senses and fall more deeply into the dance.
A change in rhythm brought my eyes back open and I peered over Elliott’s strong shoulder to the partnerships gliding across the floor in front of me. These dancers, who to me were once mere Delegates of that first Congress experience, had become friends. They showed me a world where I was accepted and I didn’t have to be anyone other than who I wanted to be in any given moment. They wanted nothing more from me than a dance and never demanded perfection.
I spotted Austin and Annabelle mastering excited Zouk sequences, laughing and smiling and looking as much in love as I predicted they’d fall. The Doctors had welcomed me into their Zouk world and although I’d preferred to practice at the synagogue over that late night adventures in Dupont Circle, they were somewhat responsible for my introduction to Kizomba.
Well, yes, Zeke, that DJ who first danced Kizomba with me on the steps of a courthouse, and then provided my training, had offered my real introduction. But the Doctors got me to the Festival and the Festival made me want to learn that mysterious walking dance.
Elliott pulled back a few inches and I presumed our dance was ending. “Not yet,” he whispered before spinning me around him and starting a new sequence. The music turned Urban and the linear, robotic movements I’d experienced the first time I danced with the Architect returned. Only this time, I could follow. This time, we didn’t falter. And although not every trick manifested a clear result, we were communicating clearly. He even stopped momentarily and allowed me to design my own steps, my own styling: I was the architect.
And when he took over again, it was without any hint of force or control. It was nothing like what I felt in the beginning of all of this. I had given up control and in so doing, I’d realized that neither one of us was really in control of anything. He was leading and I was following, but whatever happened as a result of that was just dance.
My dances with Elliott, whether in practice or the games we’d played, helped me follow so many others. There was the Sailor, with his strong and protective movements, and the Brit with his elegant, perfectly timed musicality. There was Elijah, with his pure, unadulterated joy, who made every dance feel like the best kind of comic relief or celebration. The physicist who caused reactions and attempted to knock the law out of me.
And there were so many others. They made my return to an activity I’d loved for a lifetime, but which I’d left for a time, so seamless, so miraculous even.
The song ended and another began and Elliott proceeded to grab my wrist with his first finger and thumb, another hold I’d gotten used to during our time together. Elegantly poised on my wrist, just above the place where his fingers wrapped around, lay a band of silicone in royal blue and black with the name “DJ Kizzell” printed across it. A matching band adorned Elliott’s wrist and he smiled when he spotted the two together.
Despite missing his first DJ job many months prior, I’d designed and sent a box of wristbands, marketing the DJ name I’d accidentally come up with during our morning dance session in Charlotte, to my friend.
Familiar lyrics permeated the room and Elliott and I chuckled as a Davi Stone song provided the backdrop for our continued dance. Several Kizomba favorites later, Elliott broke our hold and offered me a hug.
“Happy Birthday,” I whispered in his ear.
“Thank you,” he responded as he let his arms fall to his sides.
“And thank you for the dances,” I smiled.
“Anything for my favorite follow,” he offered another quick embrace. With a smile, he placed his hand in mine and led me to the side of the room where James was standing.
I didn’t know how long he’d been there or if he was waiting for me, but I know that night I’d danced with Elliott longer than I’d ever danced with a single lead.
“She’s all yours,” Elliott dropped my hand as we approached James.
“That was fun to watch,” James offered.
With a nod to James, Elliott turned towards me, “see ya.”
“Later,” was my only response. I think we both knew that was the last time we’d dance, since we were both moving confidently in the direction of other dreams, but neither of us said an actual ‘goodbye.’ I guess we didn’t really need to.
“Will you Salsa with me?” James asked after a few moments of awkward silence.
“Of course,” I nodded. “Let’s go.”
As we made our way to the larger room down the hall, James spoke up. “That was a long one.”
“It was,” I nodded. “I wonder how long?”
“Forty-four minutes,” James blurted.
“What?” I stopped walking.
He spoke softer this time, “it was forty-four minutes.”
“Wow. Really?” I said, but mostly to myself. “Wait, were you standing there the whole time?”
“Nope,” James replied. “Come on,” he put out his hand.
Always the proper gentleman, he awaited my hand in his before walking me onto the dancefloor.
It had been a while since we’d partnered, but it didn’t matter. We were just as before. We succeeded in some sequences, failed some steps, and moved liked we’d been practicing together for years. And James didn’t dare go easy on me, except for one moment where another dancer spun right into me and James snatched my arm and pulled me out of the way. He checked to make sure I was okay and I could only laugh. His brief, noticeably nervous demeanor quickly turned to intermittent concentration and sly smiles.
We left the event shortly at midnight, having had our fill of dance for the evening, or perhaps for good. Despite the chilled air, I lowered the window as I rode in the passenger side of his vehicle.
As I looked at the scenes passing to my right, he broke the silence, “what are you thinking about?”
Turning towards him, I smiled, “what’s next.”
“What do you mean, what’s next?” he asked.
“That’s what I’m thinking about,” I responded.
Turning back towards the scenes to my right, I caught that tiny lettering that instructs many a passenger and decided, “maybe things really are closer than they appear.”
James let out a simultaneous sigh and a chuckle, then looked over to me, but offered no clever retort.
Looking beyond the letters, I let my own face come into focus in the mirror and sighed.
“I guess it’s time,” I said to myself.
“Time for what?” James inquired. I turned towards him but didn’t respond.
Time to meet Me.