Page:Levenson - Butterfly Man.djvu/319

Rh "Who says I can't dance? Who says I can't dance?" he cried. "Look. Look!"

He felt the old rhythm within him, life beating a furious tom-tom upon his brain.

"I can dance!" he shrieked.

"Shut up!" said Kewpie.

Ken pivotted, sought the space of a kick. He felt the rhythm within him. He knew how to keep time. His body was fresh and young, unspoiled.

But the room was small and crowded. The jealous walls persisted in moving toward him, the floor insanely spun, as in the funny house at Coney Island; and he couldn't lift his leg from the floor. He tried. Don't say he didn't try. It hung there, lifeless, as if made of lead.

In a mighty effort he attempted to kick. He lost his balance. He fell. His head struck the arm of a chair. He heard drunken laughter, jeers, the bitter tones of derision.

He couldn't dance. They were right.

Blackness of annihilation. Then a desire for air. Someone helped him to his feet. He saw the door.

"Where you going?" asked Verne.

"To get air."

"That's all you got, man," Feathers gibed.

He felt the corridor race beneath his feet. The stairs were like springs. He bounded down.

A chair clattered to the floor as he spiralled through the dining room. The side door was open.

Air.

Air. Light of dawn above the buildings. Streets of New York.

Air.