There was a guy there who might have been about fifty, all dressed up in a herringbone jacket and tie, wire-framed glasses. He looked like a dork doing the twist—his face got so red I was scared he was going to have a heart attack. But when they started playing Glenn Miller he got out there with this woman in our unit and all of a sudden they were gliding and dipping like something out of a 1940s movie. Then he asked someone else—just another woman out of the crowd—and I couldn’t stop watching, it was so beautiful. When the next song started he was in front of me, holding out his hand and bowing.

Dancing with him was like riding in a car, it was so smooth, the steering mechanism in the small of my back, where his palm was pressed. He hummed along in a pleasant, absent-minded way, and I thought, This is what it’s like for other girls to dance with their fathers.

Afterward I went over to the refreshments table, where I ran into the alcoholic we’d been with in Admissions. She was all the way up to Status Four, weekend passes and everything. “They’re going to spring me soon,” she said.

“You going back home?”

“My husband and I have some friends in Albuquerque. We’re going to leave the baby with my mother and spend some time there, try to figure out if we want to stay married. What about you?”

“I thought maybe I’d go down to St. Pete.”

She wrinkled her nose and exhaled a stream of smoke. “Old people and no surf.”

“My aunt and uncle have a house down there.”

“At least it’s not New York City. Jeez, what a snake pit.”

In front of us a slender man with long dark hair was dancing with a wispy adolescent. The alcoholic said, “Remember him? Can’t keep his hands off the girls. Rumor’s he’s on probation.” I looked closer and recognized the catlike confidence: it was the MH from Admissions, the one who looked like the romantic lead in a movie.

After the dance was over he leaned down and said something to his partner, who pouted but went back to the group behind the basketball hoop. Then he was striding in our direction. The song coming on was “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” He extended his hand and I thought about refusing, but it seemed easier just to go along. We stood there for a moment feeling for the beat. “You’re thinking too much,” he said to me. “Just follow.” Before I knew what was happening he’d rolled me out into a spin and then back in again against his chest. It was so fast and easy, I felt like one of those paper-tongue party favors. “Okay?” he said into my ear.

I decided to take his advice and let him lead. As the song progressed we did other, complicated things I’d seen people do, and I saw that he, like the Glenn Miller guy, knew where a woman’s center of gravity was. The difference was that the MH would use this knowledge for his own nefarious purposes.

Nothing, he’s nothing, I told myself. Can’t hurt you.

“I bet you don’t even remember who I am,” I said, when we were dancing close.

He spun me so that my back was against his chest and said: “Ms. Broken Heart. The one with the sister.”

“That’s right.”

“And I know you’re an artist.”

I spotted Lillith sitting alone on the bleachers. She was watching us.

A few minutes later the MH said: “I saw that drawing of yours they put up in the cafeteria.”

“My abstract period.”

“No kidding, you’re very good.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Professional?”

“I was in school, but I dropped out.”

“You should go back,” he said.

Who are you to give me advice, I thought.

When the dance was over I thanked the MH and then I climbed up the bleachers and sat down next to Lillith. She looked exhausted and a little crabby.

“You’re the fucking belle of the ball,” she said.

“Right.”

Then she leaned up against me so that I could smell the rankness of her unwashed hair and whispered, “You ever do it with a girl?”

“What did you say?”

“You heard.” I was staring straight ahead, but I could feel her fingertips slide between the buttons of my cardigan. They were so cold I had to suppress a shiver. “You and your sister never. . .?”

I looked down. Her crossed feet in dirty white ballet slippers were so tiny I knew I could crush one with my hand.

“No.”

“But you have the look.”

“What look is that?”

“Hungry. Like you’d do it with anyone.”

“It’s exactly the opposite. I never do it at all.”

“It’s not so bad, you know. It’s actually pretty nice. More subtle than with a boy, if you know what I mean.”

I wanted her to continue and I didn’t.

“Quit it.”

Slowly, her fingers withdrew. When I looked at her again she was back behind her own eyes, unreadable. As I watched she began to scratch herself viciously again, this time on the palm.

Back at the unit, I went straight upstairs to get ready for bed. I was on the way to the bathroom to brush my teeth when someone called up the stairs that there was a phone call for me.

I couldn’t imagine who it would be. I went down in my bathrobe.

“Hello?”

“Oh God, it is you.”

“Carey.”

“I kept getting switched. There’s another Wang in that hospital.”

I knew who it was—a seedy adolescent who gave me the eye in the cafeteria. Thank God he hadn’t been at the dance tonight.

“Ma told me you’d called.”

“Yeah, well, you know she’s not a very good liar. I got hold of Fran and she told me where you were.” A pause. “So. I guess you went off the deep end.”

I pictured my lanky ex-husband sitting at his desk, pushing his glasses up and rubbing the bridge of his nose, something he did when he was nervous.

“I guess I did.”

“So what happened? You could have called me, you know.”

“I know.”

“Are you okay now?”

“I’m better.”

“Sally. . . listen, I hope it wasn’t because of what happened with us. The divorce, I mean.”

“So that’s the reason you called? Because you feel guilty?”

“I called because I care about you, Sally.”

“Right.”

“Look, do you want a visitor?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think I do.”

“Well, you can call me anytime you want. For anything, to talk, whatever. I have a new number. That’s why I was trying to reach you in the first place.”

“You moved?”

“Yeah. You have something to write with?”

I exhaled. “No. Wait a sec.”

The door to the nurses’ station was closed for the shift-change meeting. I peeked into the dayroom and Mel was sitting placidly in an armchair reading a paperback. I wondered if they were still giving him Thorazine.

“Do you have a pen?”

“Here.” He handed me a pencil stub and tore out a leaf from his book. I was surprised to see that it was the title page of a poetry anthology.

Carey gave me the number and said: “During the day is the best time to reach me.”

“So you’re living with someone.” I felt very calm and very cold, like I did sometimes when I was painting well.

“Um. Well. Yes.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“Listen, when you get out of there, we should have dinner.”

“All right,” I said. “Thanks for calling.”

“Sally, I still love you.”

“Good-bye, Carey.”

I went back to the dayroom. “Thanks,” I said to Mel, returning the pencil.

“Anytime. Hey, are you all right? You don’t look so good.”

“Ex-husband.”

“Rough.” He picked up a pack of Marlboros and offered me one. I shook my head and watched him light it, and then the way he smoked, snatching the cigarette away from his lips after each drag. I had never noticed before how sexy it was.

“What’re you reading?” I asked.

He picked up the book. “Yeats. Listen to this: