He pushes me back to Sara and asks her to dance. Her refusal allows no argument, and he goes away. Fine.

“You ne-ver dance?”

“Not in eight years in this place. That’s a record.”

“Do you think I should say no?”

“I don’t know. I guess there’s no harm. Just don’t let them mess with your mind.”

The music changes to rhythm and blues, and I wonder what do you do to keep people from messing with your mind. But before I can come up with an answer, the music starts to draw me in.

One bass guitar, one lone bass guitar, repeats five notes, less than a tune, over and over again. As though called by the bass, black counselors and black walkie-talkies fall in line on the floor. Holding hands, Denise and Margie take places at the end, and all seven brown bodies start bobbing up and down. The bobbing continues, and the bass continues, continues until it is almost too much, those five notes throbbing like an aching tooth.

When the first drum comes in, it feels like freedom, a door opening to release the song. On cue, a giggling girl bursts through the kitchen door, dragging an old cook by the apron. The drums hammer in counterpoint, and the older woman breaks loose and makes a run for the kitchen. A girl counselor falls out of the line and makes a joyful tackle, just as the drums and the bass shift into a new pattern. The other black people are laughing, but the line holds tight.

“It’s an African thing,” Sara says knowingly. I don’t need her to tell me that. The white people have left the floor.

After making them force her into the line, the old cook slowly straightens her back and removes her apron. The others take a step back, deferring to her as leader. She stands. Listening. Listening to that vamp that seems to have no end. The others stand. Waiting. The guitars come in. Reed-thin, the woman sways. The line sways like grass in a warm summer breeze. The sax comes in, and the voices. The tempo jumps to a higher level. My heart jumps up, but the cook drops down, bending her knees deep. The line follows. She steps. The line steps.

The dance is serious business. Under her black hairnet, the old cook has a serious face. Her spotless white uniform seems to have ritual significance. The dance is cool, languid, almost stately in its dignity. At the same time, it is powerfully alive. It expresses unity, unity of movement, unity of purpose.

Denise prompts Margie through the changes with a big-sisterly grip of the hand. They lean to the right, kick, turn, cross their feet. Then clap! Denise lets go. And Margie claps too. With no prompting, Margie makes another turn, a squat, step forward, step backward, and a twist of the hips. Another clap. Now separated from Denise, Margie becomes connected to the line. The line has become a living thing, a joining of individual bodies into one dancing mass, a kind of joining that does not depend on touch. Dancing in her faded yellow church dress, Margie radiates competence beyond question. Where did she learn to dance like that?