Henrietta
by John Muellner
He’s married, to a woman no less,
but I saw him dance. The moves were silly,
he was sober, and I couldn’t stop staring.
This felt inappropriate, like I should
make the sign of the cross, or head
to the aquarium if I wanted to gawk.
I, too, was sober, we were at work.
I wanted to brush aside the black hair
swinging in his eyes. The first wife
of my great grandfather died on the dance floor
from a heart attack when she was 32. Likely
mid-Charleston or jive with her husband,
Henrietta kicked up her feet for a night,
and down she went. My coworker keeps
his balance. This week I’m researching
the differences between working in public
or private spaces. In the 1970s,
Professor Barbra Smuts went to Tanzania
to study authentic primate behavior.
She began in the distant tall grasses as if she
were a performer stricken by fright
and the baboons observed her instead –
the strange peripheral woman, creating
unease. I drank water. I watched him dance.
He was fully clothed in polo and pant,
but I giggled as if he’d stripped.
I’m uncoordinated on water or gin.
In Africa, Smuts moved closer,
joining the baboon social circle,
greeting animals like dance partners,
prompting the baboons to act naturally.
On a podcast, decades later, Smuts revealed
that if baboons turned to her and grunted
she grunted back. It’s not polite
to act like a rock, she said.
Henrietta laid beside wingtips and calfskin
while her husband panicked and smeared her sweat.
In my confusion, I thought I came from this woman,
that spotlight might be hidden in my blood,
but my grandmother is the daughter
of her father’s second wife, and so I’m still
the same wallflower I always was.
He didn’t dance for me, but knew I was there.