Dead Reckoning by Tom Wright Page A

attention could only be drawn from the banner with much prodding. Even well after the event, people nudged their neighbors, pointed to the sign, and recounted what had happened—as if the neighbor had somehow since forgotten. I watched one man scowl and nod impatiently, annoyed at his neighbor for telling him that which he already knew.
    Everyone clapped as music began and the dancers in white streamed into the church. As they entered, the dancers performed a routine that consisted of a forward shuffle followed by a slightly shorter backward shuffle. At the pace of three steps forward and two steps back, it took them the better part of ten minutes to assemble entirely in the church. In unison, the performers shouted a word and stomped their feet, which signaled the end of the song.
    I became very hot and began to perspire, but I knew that leaving in the middle of a performance, especially a sacred one as this appeared to be, would be offensive nearly anywhere. I thought it better to try to leave than to pass out, so I attempted to extricate myself from the church without drawing attention. But as does naturally occur in those situations, I bumped into a small planter that refused to give way quietly. No one looked at me but rather remained fixed on the performers, as if afraid to look away lest they miss the very thing for which they waited. I managed to withdraw to an exterior foyer that gave me a different angle from which to search and also provided access to a light breeze. Hot air moving is always better than hot air standing still.
    I was now seated in the front row of a posterior section where the faithful with less dependably quiet children and those wishing to freely come and go were seated. In front of me was a walkway between the sections. Children skittered up and down aisle to the disapproving looks of adults. The ancillary activity provided an interesting diversion since I had no idea what was going on.
    I stood out in the crowd, and nearly every child who passed looked at me curiously. Some smiled, some frowned, and some looked away feigning ambivalence, as I looked at them. I decided that children are the same in every culture.
    Suddenly, the performers broke into a more vigorous dance and song. I could not understand the song, but it was obviously well known as many of the onlookers sang along. Separated by sex, men on one side, and women on the other, the performers danced in unison. The men made a rowing motion as they danced and sang. At periodic intervals, they shouted a word at which point the women stopped dancing and swooned while the crowd laughed. This performance continued until the group made three complete circles around the church.
    For all I knew, perhaps Denver was among the performers. So I sat through a few songs and observed.
    For the next performance, the sexes intermingled. It was a much more somber sounding song, and no one laughed. The sea of white swayed to and fro, singing in unison, acting like a single organism, much like a school of fish. Two rows of people shuffled slowly in one direction while a single row of men moved swiftly between them in the opposite direction, much like a current on the open sea opposes the water surrounding it. Denver was not among the people.
    A girl of not more than sixteen walked in front of me, carrying one infant child with three others of increasing age in tow. The youngest child ignored me, but the two older boys held up a hand for me to slap as they went by. I obliged, and they smiled. Another girl saw this and began to walk my way. She stared at me as she approached but began to look apprehensive as she drew nearer. I considered that my squinting in the bright light might have made me look angry, so I forced a smile. She sat down next to me and tapped my hand as one’s own child might when wishing to ask a question in a quiet place.
    She was no more than eight years old and dressed in a thin yellow dress with white flowers printed on it. She wore