The Midnight Dancers: A Fairy Tale Retold

by Regina Doman

  She shook her head. “I think he was bored here alone. He said he was glad to have the company.”

  “Doggone lucky for us.”

  Rachel had to agree.

  The party broke up around three, and Michael saw them off. Before she got in the boat, he took Rachel’s hand suddenly and said, “I’m serious. I’d like you all to come back again. Can you come tomorrow night?” It was a polite gesture—he was just helping her into the boat—but she still felt a rush of warmth.

  “Sure, I think so,” Rachel said, casting a glance around at everyone, who nodded.

  “Good. I’ll look forward to it.”

  When they were roaring away from the island, Prisca sidled up to Rachel and said, “Well! That was luck!”

  “No kidding,” Rachel said, still marveling at it.

  “And he’s handsome too,” Prisca breathed in her ear. Rachel, who had already observed this, felt no need to reply.

  Yes, luck had been with them, she thought. For sure.

  The next day, Rachel was languid. The day was muggy, and hot, and she was tired and out of sorts. She couldn’t imagine a more stark contrast with the excitement of last night. Michael had told them to come back. Maybe he would dance with her. She felt certain he was an excellent dancer.

  As she stood in the kitchen, cleaning up the dishes, she thought again of the midnight butterfly dress. More than ever, she needed to make it. The problem was getting the material. “Shiny material calls too much attention to the body,” the pastor’s wife had earnestly said at a woman’s day retreat some time ago. “As Christians we’re not meant to be paying that much attention to the body. And should we really be spending money on worldly excesses?” Ever since that time, Sallie had shoed her daughters away from the “formal occasion” section of the fabric store, so much so that Prisca had dubbed it the “sin” aisle. I don’t care, thought Rachel. I’m going there and getting it anyway.

  The problem was, she didn’t know when Sallie was going to let her out of the house. Sallie was on the warpath, upset that the house was not cleaned, and irritable from having discovered three of her daughters still in bed after nine o’clock.

  “I don’t understand it!” she complained to Cheryl, who was moping around the kitchen, pouring cereal and rubbing her eyes. “All this sleeping in! Tammy and Taren are still lazing around upstairs and it’s going on ten! Well, take advantage of the fact that it’s summertime. I don’t want to see this in the fall.”

  “I told you, Mom, they were up too late last night,” Cheryl said. “We’ve been reading those missionary books you got us for Christmas.”

  “You girls have to start getting to bed earlier,” Sallie said. “Linette has been cranky this entire week. Maybe I’ll just have to get up at midnight and turn off your lights.”

  “I’ll make sure the lights are off,” Cheryl said quickly.

  “I hope so,” she said, and heaved a sigh. “No, Jabez, no. We don’t pull hair.” She pulled the toddler off his older brother, Robbie, who had started yelling. “Rachel, could you take him?”

  Rachel had already mechanically gone for Jabez, disentangling the pudgy hand from the handful of Robbie’s hair. She picked up the toddler by his overall straps and swung him into her arms. He punched her shoulders excitedly. Absentmindedly she sat him on the counter and gave him a cookie.

  “Cheryl, after you’ve cleaned the kitchen, we need to get out the canning jars I have downstairs,” Sallie said. “I want you girls to bring them up and put them through the dishwasher, okay? Rachel, no more cookies for him, please.” Rachel took away the cookie. “Cheryl, while you’re at it, could you—Jabez! Please! Be quiet!—Rachel, could you—?”

  Rachel took the wailing boy out of the kitchen into the living room. She felt dead tired, and collapsed on the couch.

  “Okay, Jabez, let’s play ‘Rachel goes to sleep.’ Here, lie down with me and pretend to go to sleep.” The toddler tucked his big head under her chin, and she could just see, through her half-closed eyes, his cheeks puffed out in a smile. “Aww, sleepy Jabez. Sleepy….” she coaxed, knowing he would only tolerate this game for about fifteen seconds.

  Then he sat up and pounded her on the chest. “Oh! Waking-up Jabez! Awake!” she breathed. “Now sleepy again! Sleeeepy….” He lay down again obediently, and then sat up a second later with a shout. “Awake! Oh, boy, Jabez. Now we sleep … Sleepy Rachel…”

  She played with him in this manner, all the while falling into a half-doze. Sleepy Rachel …

  Jabez eventually tired of the game, and scrambled off her to go play on the piano. She was able to tune out the pounding of the keys, and when that ceased, she tumbled into a deeper layer of sleep.

  Sleep was like night entering into the day, and she had tantalizing visions of dances in the moonlight, in that other world where she was more alive than …

  She stirred in her sleep and then abruptly woke up, feeling herself watched.

  Paul was standing in the doorway of the living room. She blinked at him.

  “Hi,” he said, uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

  “Oh!” she said stiffly, sitting up. “No, that’s okay. I must have dozed off.”

  He shifted his weight to his other foot. “The girls told me you might be in here, but I didn’t realize you were sleeping.”

  “I didn’t realize it either,” she yawned, covering her mouth absently. “What’s up?”

  “That’s a very nice dress you’re wearing, by the way.”

  Rachel pulled the skirt of her plain denim dress straight in some annoyance. “Huh. Thanks.”

  “Um. I actually came to ask you a favor.” He wasn’t looking her in the face. She curled her lip in amusement.

  “Sure,” she said, stifling yet another annoying yawn. “Sit down?”

  “Thanks.” He sat on the footstool instead of the chair. “It’s like this. Your younger sisters are really doing great at the juggling, and I asked them if they wanted to be part of my routine at the fair. I asked your—stepmother—” his eyes flew to her face at the word, and she nodded, “if it was all right, and she said, fine. The problem is, they need costumes. For tumbling in. And she didn’t think she’d have time to help them make any. The girls said you’re the best seamstress in the house. So I was wondering if you’d make them some costumes.”

  She considered. “Well, sure, I could. What sort of costume?”

  “Well, mine is mostly black and white with a multicolored vest. For the girls I thought maybe something simple—like black pirate pants and white tunics, and sashes. The big thing is they need pants to wear when they tumble. I told your stepmother it’s okay with me if she wants them to wear dresses on top of that. But I don’t know how complicated that would be.”

  Rachel was already fitting this request into her already-in-process schemes. “Hmm. Black material. Like satin, maybe?”

  “Oh, sure. Whatever you can find. Whatever is cheap and durable. I said I could pay for the costumes. Would you want me to pay you to make them?”

  “Oh, never mind about that. I’m sure Dad will give money for the costumes. They’re for the girls, after all. How soon do you want them?”

  “Well—as soon as you can. Maybe two days? Is that too soon?”

  “Not if I can get the fabric today,” Rachel said, tossing back her hair. “I’ll ask Sallie if I can take the car.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Do you want to come with me to pick something out?” she asked, looking him in the face.

  “No, no that’s okay. I trust your judgment. I actually have to go juggle in an hour. The fair opens at noon.” He seemed flushed. What’s up with him today?

  “Do you need a ride there?” She asked only to see what he would do.

  “No. That’s okay. It’s not far to walk.”

  “Okay.” She thought of something, and said, “Maybe I can bring the fabric by the fair and you can see if you like it.”

  “Sure, i
f you want. Just ask for me at the gate, and they’ll let you in.”

  “All righty then.” She got up.

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.” He fleetingly met her gaze, then turned and walked out.

  She couldn’t help chuckling to herself. I suspect, she thought, that something is up with Corporal Paul Fester. Maybe Debbie had started some mischief. “Rachel likes you,” she could picture Debbie saying.

  Or maybe, of his own initiative, he liked her. She was amused, but not surprised. Guys were like that. Sad. He didn’t have a chance.

  nine

  Paul was juggling.

  Bap bap bap bap, bapbap bap bap

  The rhythm of juggling was broken only by his occasional toss under his knee or over his back. He was sweating in the hot sun, but concentrated.

  Bapbap bap bap, bapbap bap bap

  He really wanted to step back into the shade, but that put him a bit closer to the craft booth behind him than he felt was comfortable. There was a ring of day-care children watching him, and he broke his rhythm to wipe his hand swiftly across his brow, making a face as he did so. The grown ups chuckled.

  Bap bap! He caught the clubs and bowed. The kids clapped and then an adult said, “Okay, let’s go see what’s over here,” and the day-care group moved reluctantly on. Paul took a moment to pull out a handkerchief and wiped his brow more thoroughly, then took a drink from his water bottle. Hot, hot work. There weren’t many tips in his basket so far today, but that didn’t bother him.

  What was bothering him was Rachel. He wasn’t exactly sure how to put the feeling into words. Maybe because I’ve never had to deal with girls like her before. I’ve usually just tried to stay out of their way.

  And if Rachel Durham found out what I was up to, I doubt she would be happy with me. He couldn’t help feeling like something of a sneak.

  Plus I’m still not sure whether what I’m doing is a good idea or not…

  Sitting down on a wooden crate that he had staked out as his own, he pulled out his flute, and began to play slowly, recovering his breath. The music absorbed him for a while. Passersby might not have recognized the tune, but it was an old hymn to the Virgin Mary. If singing was praying twice, maybe this melody would serve as double the prayers.

  Rachel entered the fabric store with the sense of treading onto forbidden ground. At the same time she felt a delicious pleasure: she was one step closer to the midnight butterfly dress.

  As she made her way down the “sin” aisle, Rachel thought smugly, Well, Mrs. Pearson, today I have a perfectly legitimate excuse to be in the formal fabric section, thank you. I have to look at black materials and find a good price.

  Rachel studied the rows of black silky material judiciously. She had already picked out a simple clown costume pattern from the books in the back, while browsing the evening gown sections for inspiration. Fortunately, she knew her own body sizes so well she didn’t need a pattern. Just this fall she had sewn a Renaissance dress for a play on John Hus that included an irritating and complicated closely fit bodice. Modern clothes were decidedly less complicated.

  A quick search of the black fabrics (which were on clearance, since it was summer) revealed that satin was the cheapest fabric. Three yards would make two pairs of clown pants for the girls, but Rachel shamelessly bought six, plus a few lengths of white cotton for tunic-dresses. She began exploring the evening fabrics again for special fabric for the sashes—and for her dress.

  As she wandered, she remembered how the pastor’s wife had warmly complimented her Renaissance dress after the play, and Rachel had tasted the hypocrisy. Why was it fine to wear a fancy dress for a show less than an hour long, but wrong to wear a modern version of the same dress to a dance for the same amount of time? Maybe anything Christian that happened in the past is fine, she thought, but today we’re just so immoral that it’s bad.

  If so, I was born in the wrong time period. And with the wrong talent.

  A bit depressed, she found a bolt of glitzy material with rainbow-colored diamonds on it and tossed it in the cart. Then, rousing herself, she began to go through the remaining fabric with the discretion of a connoisseur. She couldn’t waste this chance.

  The bodice had to be of just the right fabric, in order for it to be the perfect dress. On the first try, she found nothing, and was disappointed. Methodically, she began to go through the bolts again, adjusting the image in her mind to fit the reality of the choices before her.

  Then, she saw it. A bolt with not much left on it, wedged between two other inferior fabrics. She seized it and ran her fingers over it. It had to be silk. She checked the top label. Yes, a silk blend.

  It was a knit material, woven into a tube, black and blue and silver running all together into a shimmering blend of subtlety and glamour.

  Her breath caught in her throat. Yes, this was it. She checked the price. Thirty-four dollars a yard! But she didn’t need a yard. Anxiously, she measured from her chest to her navel. Maybe fifteen inches. She could work it carefully, make it just to size, and she could make it. Why, maybe she could add a satin band at the top—that would need even less. Yes, she could do it… Thirty-four divided by two was … seventeen dollars. Mathematics was a wonderful thing. She could add this material to the order for the juggling outfits and her dad would never be the wiser.

  Triumphantly, she brought the bolt to the cutting counter and asked for a tape measure so that she could narrow it down to the exact inch. Finding out the fabric was twenty-five percent off was merely the icing on the cake.

  Paul looked up from his flute playing and saw her coming towards him. She was swinging a yellow plastic shopping bag gaily, her dark brown hair falling carelessly around her face and into her eyes. He knew she was conscious of attracting attention, and relishing it. But he also knew she was not seeking his attentions. There was the same mocking half-smile on her tanned face. But she lacked her usual bored swagger. Obviously she was up to something, something that had to do with her midnight excursions.

  He switched to a happy dance tune as she sauntered up. As she paused beside him, he finished with a flourish and bowed to his audience.

  She watched him with interest as he passed his basket. As his onlookers wandered off, she said, “Do you make much money doing this?”

  “Enough to live on,” he said, unable to meet her eyes. He hated being divided, keeping secrets.

  “Is this how you’re going to live, then?” she asked, as though in response to his thoughts.

  He shrugged. “Until I finish medical school and my residency.”

  She laughed, apparently thinking he was making a joke. “I bought your fabric,” she said, swinging up the bag expectantly. She showed him black shiny material. “For the pants,” she said. “I’ll make them kind of puffy, with elastic at the knees. Okay?”

  “That works,” he said.

  Then she pulled out white material that looked like something to make curtains. “This is cotton,” she informed him. “Because I figured they might get hot. I can make big blousy tunics, with round collars and full sleeves with elastic at the wrists. The tunics will go about halfway down to their knees, and the pants will come out under them. Okay?”

  “Sure,” he said. He couldn’t picture this at all, but it was clear that she could, and that was what mattered.

  “And this,” she said, pulling out a length of glittering fabric decorated with harlequin diamonds in a variety of colors, “is for sashes, but I could probably make some hats out of it too, if you wanted. If I have time.”

  He fingered the shining material, and smiled. “That is neat stuff,” he said. “That’ll work just fine.”

  “Good!” She seemed pleased too. “I put it on my dad’s credit card. It wasn’t much.” She told him the total, and he agreed.

  “Thanks a lot!” he said. “I hope it’s not too much work for you.”

  “Oh, no. It’ll be fun.” She flashed a smile at him. “See you.” And off she went.

  And of cours
e, she had a gorgeous smile, with those glinting green-blue eyes. It was good to see her a bit more animated. But all the same, whether she realized it or not, she had begun a dangerous dance. And maybe I have too, he thought.

  Feeling a tightness in his chest, he picked up his flute again and blew out a long sustained note. The wisest way out of this mess would also be the longer road, and the more precarious one. He wondered how it would turn out.

  When Rachel set foot on the island quay that night, she felt the same tingle in her spine she had felt when she first saw Michael. She didn’t know what that meant, but she knew it made her feel aware and alert. A not entirely pleasant feeling but mixed with anticipation of pleasure.

  On the way over, Alan and Prisca and Rachel had talked eagerly and enthusiastically about the previous night’s close call, but now that they were back on the island, Alan seemed uncertain. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around.

  “Hey, there’s tables,” he said, pointing to a corner of the portico near the edge of the waterside forest.

  The girls looked in surprise. “You’re right,” Rachel said, going over to them. There were several light metal tables and chairs. “Almost as though he was expecting us.”

  “Well, he is expecting us,” Prisca huffed. “He said so himself.”

  “Then where is the guy?” Alan asked.

  Kirk’s boat pulled up to the quay and Tammy got out. The other two boats were coming in. Rachel, distracted, looked back at the steps leading up to the house, and saw a movement.

  “I think he’s coming down,” she said.

  I wonder if he’ll invite us up to the house, she thought to herself, and felt that same thrill of tense anticipation.

  But Michael didn’t invite them to go up to the house. He came down carrying a boom box. “I brought my own,” he said nonchalantly. “Thought I’d give your valiant little CD player a rest.”

  The boom box was stacked with nine CDs and an iPod shuffle. The music played and some of the girls danced. But Rachel sat with Michael at one of the tables, and talked. Alan and Prisca sat with them a while, as well, but Rachel and Michael did most of the talking.