The Dead Don't Dance by Charles Martin

class a third time. I suppose most of my students knew this. The syllabus allowed for weekly, sometimes daily, quizzes, but the bulk of each student’s grade would be determined by one single term paper.
    With this in mind, I set aside the third day of class as optional. On the second day I told them, “The most important aspect of your paper is not your topic—there are thousands
    of interesting topics. The most important aspect is your question. You ask a vague question, you get a vague answer. Ask a specific question, and you tend to get a specific answer. I want specific questions and specific answers. If you have any doubt as to the effectiveness of your question, such as, ‘Is it tight?’ you’d better come see me on Thursday.”
    I was willing to answer questions, no kidding, but more than that, I just wanted to see who would show up if I gave them the option.
    No one came.
    That meant one of two things. Either they all had good questions, or they could not care less. The proof would be in the paper, and we’d find out toward Christmas.
    B LUE AND I ARRIVED AT THE HOSPITAL AROUND FOUR IN the afternoon. We walked into Maggie’s room, where her brushed hair told me that Amanda had been working. Around Maggie, the sun hung a peaceful light. The lack of tension in her facial muscles told me that she liked it. Aware but unaware, peaceful but not at peace, rested but tired, sleeping but not asleep.
    I wanted to wake her up. To nudge her shoulder, watch her stretch and yawn, reach for a hug, sip coffee, and then head for the barn or slip along the river and watch the bass and bream break water or the wood ducks whistle overhead. I sat down next to Maggie, kissed her cheek, and she moved not at all.
    The doctors say her brain registers “normal activity for a person in this condition,” whatever that means. They say, “All we can do is wait. Sometimes shock does the unexplainable to a person.”
    I’m having a hard time with this. If we can put a man on the moon, split an atom, move a heart from one man to another, cure polio, or build a hundred-story building, we ought to be able to wake up my wife. One minute she was awake and crying, reaching for our son. The next minute she was vomiting and then not awake. I can’t explain that.
    I sat with Maggie while the sun went down. Blue settled in on the blanket someone had folded in the corner. The same someone had filled a bowl of water next to it.
    Just a couple days after the delivery, my friend Mr. Thent-whistle had sent a nurse to tell me that he was calling animal control to remove my “filthy canine.”
    â€œMa’am,” I said politely and pointing at Blue, “I’ve tried to tell him, but he won’t listen to me. The dog goes with the girl.”
    She had left, reported to Mr. Administrator, and he called animal control. Animal control is a voluntary position in this county, and it happens to be held by Amos’s dad, Mr. Carter. When Mr. Carter found out what kind of dog it was, he put two and two together and said, “No sir, that girl might need that dog. You best leave it alone.”
    I sipped coffee and held Maggie’s hand in silence.
    Maggie wasn’t a real touchy-feely person, but she loved for me to rub her feet. In her bedside table she kept some moisturizing cream that she got at one of those sensory-overload stores in the mall. You know, the kind full of creams, candles, and all the fluffy crap that sits unused in your medicine cabinet. I didn’t really like the smell, but she did. She said it smelled like honeysuckle. The label said “Body Butter.”
    For some reason, I don’t smell too well. I mean, I can smell gardenias or bacon cooking or that perfume of Maggie’s called Eternity, but on the whole, I don’t walk around smelling life the way she does. Maggie can smell anything. We’ll be walking in the mall, stop at the perfume counter, and