The Good Thing About Cutting a Scene

The bad news is not every good scene makes it past the final cut. This is one of the hard things about being a novelist. You write so many words. Get close to so many characters. Sometimes, too many. As I worked my way through another revision this week, I realized this sweet old guy wasn’t going to have a place on the pages of dance teacher Rachel’s 70 weeks of prayer story. So what’s the good news? He still has a place in Rachel’s heart. And in mine. And because I get to share his story here, maybe he’ll find a place in yours, too.

 

A story from the middle of week 22 

Some lessons I could almost do in my sleep. Mr. Hope’s are not of that category.

He may be pushing ninety, but he’s still as exacting as ever when it comes to technique. Eight weeks to go before the Colorado Star Ball and I’ve just about worked everything out for my assistant to go to the competition in my place this year. Only two students left to tell. I’m convinced Celia will do fine with every one of them.

Now, it’s a matter of convincing Mr. Hope.

“Once more,” I say to him. “And watch those heel leads.”

Moon River lifts us into the rise and fall that seemed at times could only ever be a fall for the feeble man who took his first lesson with eighty-two non-dancing years under his belt. But now, beyond all expectations, his dance hold is firm and, despite that one arthritic finger pressing into one’s shoulder blade with a tad more pressure than is ideal, he has become our most popular leader in the Friday night practice parties.

He showed up four years ago with his eager granddaughter who, fearing Grandpa would quickly follow on the heels of the grandma who’d died just six days before their 65^th wedding anniversary, had purchased our introductory special and talked him into being her partner.

The granddaughter, Danielle, faded away after the special, but her granddad has gone on to enter and place in six pro-am competitions and I’m not sure how he’s going to take the news that he’ll be dancing with a new teacher this year.

With the last line of the song he takes our twinkle into an oversway, holding the final pose as we’ve rehearsed.

“Well done! Let me grab your folder and you can help yourself to some water. I’ll meet you at the table to go over some notes.

“I brought my own liquid refreshment, church lady,” he says with a wink.

“Mr. Hope, you know that’s not allowed.”

And he does know. And he also knows I’m well aware the clear liquid in his bottle is nothing more than water with a splash of peppermint.

Like many of my longtime students, we’ve almost developed a script. These repeated private jokes and light flirtations build a sense of loyalty without crossing into the dangerous waters of intimacy.

Still, students do tend to become possessive of their teachers.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” I say once we’ve settled at the table. “You’ve probably noticed Celia’s started working with a few of my private students. I’ve put you on her schedule next week.

I give him my brightest teacher smile, but lines grow deep on the ridge between his eyes. I can see I’ll be needing every day of lead time I’ve given myself.

“I wouldn’t ordinarily do this so close to a competition,” I explain. “The thing is, I’ve got two concerns and I believe this could be the solution for both.”

He perks up at this as I knew he would. I imagine his problem-solving brain kicked into gear as soon as I mentioned two concerns. One would not be enough of a challenge for Mr. Hope.

He opens the note pad that comes to every lesson. Not the same notepad, of course, but the exact model I remember from when he whipped it out after his very first one. He must have a lifetime supply. I imagine heaps of them stowed in his garage.

“First concern?” he asks, his pencil-equipped hand hovering steadily over the page.

“I suppose my first concern is Celia. She’s a wonderfully quick learner and has a lovely way with the students. It’s just she’s not as, what would you say…”

“Perky?” He writes this on his notepad.

“Uh, yes, we can go with perky. Not as perky as the stereotypical dance teacher. So, I’m afraid some of my newer students might read that as a lack of skill and confidence. They might feel slighted if they’re scheduled with what they consider an inferior teacher.”

“Well, isn’t she?”

“Inferior?” I say.

“Yes. She clearly has less experience.”

“Less experience certainly, but when it comes to the partnership dances, a less experienced follower offers value that a more experienced teacher can’t.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, the leader has to learn to adjust his communication with each partner. Adjust the height of his hold and the lift of his arm for the turns.”

Mr. Hope lays down his pen, his look direct and open. The scowl lines have softened. “So, how can I help with this concern?”

“Your lessons with Celia will help establish her position here as a valuable teacher. When the others know you are scheduled with her, they will be more open to what she can bring to their lessons.”

“And your other concern? You said you have two.”

“Mr. Hope.” I take his cold, dry hands in mine across the table. I return his steady gaze with a careful smile. “You are my other concern.

“Me?”

“Yes. I’m afraid I’ve let you get too comfortable. It isn’t good for a student to get all his instruction exclusively from one teacher. But I also know you aren’t one to back away from a challenge. I want you to trust me that Celia is ready to take you to the competition in June.

His gaze falters, and I see a shadow of the frail and grieving man I remember hanging on his granddaughter’s arm.

“It’s just so hard to lose a partner,” he says.

I open my mouth to reply, but he stops me with a squeeze of his hands.

“I know,” he says. “It’s not the same. Not at all the same.”

He releases my hands and picks up his pen. “And you’ll be back, when?” His wrinkled cheeks lift into a smile as he records the dates in his notebook.

Just in time, too. The bell over the door rings and Mr. Boyer walks in. One down, one to go.