Frail ghosts, echoes of youthful voices, barely heard, the full strong step of his friend—these memories made Ken strain, his senses attempting to re-people the void created by the passing of time.
In the front office, Henry Colman, older, less portly, his skin thinner, a delicate scarlet line beneath eye pouches; he rose.
"Dear boy," he said.
"Boss," said Ken.
They talked of the past. Howard, it appeared, was in England. He had produced no new show. Henry Colman apologized for not visiting Ken during his long stay at the hospital.
"How's your leg?" he asked.
"Well as ever," said Ken.
"Can you do a step or two for Gebhardt?"
"I'd rather not," Ken said. "I'm working on some new numbers now."
"If I were you, I'd dance your old specialty. You can still do that, I suppose. He won't remember it. Then when you go into rehearsal about a month from now you can build something new."
Ken hesitated. Henry Colman was insistent. "I like you, son. I drink, too, once in a while, you know."
"I haven't touched a drop in nearly a year," said Ken.
He danced for Gebhardt. A pianist played the time-step number from "Sweeter Than Sweet." He was on the stage of the Commodore Theatre, where that very dance had stopped the show, night after night. Yet everything was changed. He could not keep time. He could not kick above his head. His oblique side-kicks were impossible.
