The Firefly Dance

by Sarah Addison Allen

  Blurb

  Bright lights flicker in the dark evenings of summer. Pinpoints of hope float against the black descent of night. The sweetest of small and innocent creatures find their way through the shadows. Fireflies seem to dance on sheer air, illuminating the space between heartbeats.

  Children give off a similar brave glow, despite the challenges of their young lives, and the lessons of childhood are often painful, the shedding of fragile wings in the gloam of an uncertain future. The stories in THE FIREFLY DANCE see that reality; the authors know that childhood is sweetly sad and sadly sweet, profound and deceptively easy to categorize, yet poignant to remember.

  Phyllis Schieber’s Sonya, a child of Holocaust survivors, is confronted with the responsibilities of her legacy when she has a poignant encounter with a classmate, another child of survivors, and her mother, in a local shop in their 1970’s New York neighborhood.

  Kathryn Magendie’s Petey deals wryly with her family’s move from the cool blue mountains of North Carolina to the hot flatlands of Texas.

  Augusta Trobaugh’s stoic Georgia boy leads us through his surreal encounter with a mysterious backwoods toddler who turns out to be anything but ordinary.

  Sarah Addison Allen’s indomitable Louise invites us inside her wistful yet wisely observant life in a small Appalachian town, after her father dies.

  These are not stories of sentimental childhood memories, of funny escapades and simple emotions. These are small jewels reflecting the essence of what it means to grow up dancing among the shadows of life, carrying a brave, small beacon because you know that even the brightest days always, always, end in darkness.

  The Firefly Dance

  by

  Sarah Addison Allen

  Augusta Trobaugh

  Kathryn Magendie

  Phyllis Schieber

  Bell Bridge Books

  Copyrights

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  eISBN 978-1-935661-30-6

  ISBN: 978-0-9841258-6-9

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  The Stocking Store - Copyright © 2011 by Phyllis Schieber

  Petey - Copyright © 2011 by Kathryn Magendie

  Resurrection – Copyright © 2011 by Augusta Trobaugh

  In My Dreams (anthology) - Copyright © 2008 by Sarah Addison Allen

  Fly by Night - Copyright © 2006 by Sarah Addison Allen

  Nothing Disastrous - Copyright © 2008 by Sarah Addison Allen

  Lazarus - Copyright © 2008 by Sarah Addison Allen

  The Wayfarer - Copyright © 2008 by Sarah Addison Allen

  God’s Honest Truth at the Fashionette - Copyright © 2008 by Sarah Addison Allen

  I’ll See You in My Dreams - Copyright © 2007 by Sarah Addison Allen

  The Manicurist - Copyright © 2011 by Phyllis Schieber

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

  Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo credits:

  landscape (manipulated) © Christophe.rolland1 | Dreamstime.com

  :Eftd:01:

  The Firefly Dance

  Jewel-like immortal

  does not boast of its length of years

  but of the scintillating point of its moment.

  The child ever dwells in the mystery of ageless time

  unobscured by the dust of history.

  Fireflies, excerpt, Rabindranath Tagore, 1861-1941, India

  Phyllis Schieber

  The Stocking Store

  I was seventeen the last time I went with my mother to the Stocking Store. I have more important concerns now than the simple errands of childhood. I am busy protesting the war in Vietnam and listening to rock music. Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy have both been murdered within a few months of each other. I am devastated by these losses, but I am also in love for the very first time. When I tie my hair back with a scarf, he says I look like a gypsy. Still, I say yes when my mother asks me to accompany her to the Stocking Store. I think she is even more surprised than I am.

  I still call it the Stocking Store because I do not know it by any other name. We call the store where we buy all our buttons the Button Store, and the small cave-like shop that both repairs and sells umbrellas the Umbrella Store. I still long for the red umbrella with the pink ruffle and the appliquéd poodle with its rhinestone collar. I often dream about that umbrella. I can see myself twirling it before a crowd of admirers.

  These small shops are part of our daily lives. The Cheese Store, the Pocketbook Store, the Hat Store, and the Toy Store are places that need no other identification. But it is the Stocking Store that I love best. It is in the Stocking Store that I first come to know exactly what it is that makes me different from others.

  The women who work in the Stocking Store take special care of their hands. Their skin is smooth and supple. Their nail polish is never chipped. My mother tells me that these women sleep with white cotton gloves. Each night they apply scented lotions to their hands and then cover them with clean white cotton gloves. “Like surgeons,” my mother says, holding her hands aloft to show me. My mother, Giselle, paints her own nails, but only for a special occasion. She promises me a real manicure if I stop biting them, but even this is not enough to persuade me.

  My mother always likes Edith to wait on us. Edith paints her lips the same bright red as her nails. Her blonde hair is very short and straight. I do not know how old she is, but I know she is older than I and younger than my mother. I know this because she is not yet married, but she has already finished school. Edith likes my mother. I can tell by the way she smiles whenever we walk into the shop. “Mrs. Applebaum,” Edith says. “It’s always such a pleasure to see you and Sonya. What can I help you with today?” My mother almost always buys the same six pairs of stockings unless she needs a special color for a new holiday suit. Then she buys a pair with seams. Those are my favorite.

  The shop is very small. The window display never changes. There are many mannequin hands positioned on pedestals. Each hand is covered with a different shade of stocking. All the hands look the same, except some are left hands and some are right hands. One hand has a huge emerald on its middle finger. Of course, the ring is an imitation, but I love the way the stone sparkles through the sheer nylon. All the fingernails of the hands are painted pink. I would have chosen a different color. I like the salmon color my mother uses.

  Edith is the only salesgirl who wears a ring. I think she might be the one who insists on the emerald ring on the hand in the window. Edith wears her high school ring. It has an amethyst stone set in the center. “My birthstone,” she tells us without our even asking. Edith tells us a lot of things without our even asking. I like the way she turns the ring so the stone fac
es her palm before she shows my mother the shade of the stocking. Edith knows my mother’s size without asking. “The usual?” Edith always says. “Seven-and-a-half in Barely Beige. Right?” My mother nods. Then Edith turns behind the counter and opens a drawer marked: BARELY BEIGE. Throughout the store there are built-in drawers. They are deep and wide because they have to hold countless stocking boxes. I watch as Edith removes a slim blue box. There are six pairs to a box. She tears the blue paper seal and gently, gently parts the white tissue paper to reveal the delicate contents. She checks to make certain the stone on her ring faces the inside and then slips her hand into the stocking. Edith’s skin is so white, so flawless, that it could have been the hand of the mannequin in the window.

  “O.K.?” she says. “Six pairs of Barely Beige?”

  My mother looks to me for approval. It is a mere formality. I know that she will buy the stockings regardless of what I think. I am always tempted by the display samples on the counter. I would have picked Bit of Black or Blushing Pink. Edith always waits for my consent. Then she arranges the stiff tissue paper and returns the blue seal to its original position. If you buy six pairs, you get the box. If you buy less than six pairs, they are lifted from their cardboard nest still in the tissue paper. Next, they are folded and put in an unmarked brown paper bag. The blue boxes are the most prized. I used to collect them and play Stocking Store at home. It feels like a very long time ago.

  There are never any men in the Stocking Store. It is a sanctuary for women. In some ways it is like the beauty salon, but really different. There is always a great deal of activity in the beauty salon. And noise. The beauty parlor rumbles with the countless conversations that go on at one time. The Stocking Store is quiet. The loudest noise is the rustle of the tissue paper. Everyone speaks softly. Perhaps it is because the merchandise is so fine, almost gossamer in texture. “Like spider webs,” my mother would say. The comparison is fitting. My mother is so rarely poetic that I enjoy this description and ask her to repeat it often. “What do you always call the stockings?” I say. She always smiles when I ask. “Spider webs,” she says. And we are both pleased.

  Now I think that the Stocking Store is old-fashioned. I wear dark colored tights and work boots. I have no use for the garter belts and panty girdles that my mother still insists on wearing. She resists the new panty hose even though they sell them at the Stocking Store. I agree to go with my mother today only because I have my eye on a pair of dark green tights that I want her to buy for me. They will go well with my new black Capezio ballet slippers.

  Edith is long gone together with all the stores that have disappeared, one by one. We buy our umbrellas from street vendors or on sale at the big department stores. The Button Man has died. No one wanted his store. We go to Woolworth’s now to buy new zippers or lace trim, but it’s hard to find any buttons equal to the selection in the Button Store. Many things have changed, but many things have stayed the same. In some ways, I think I already know that there will be very few more trips to the Stocking Store.

  We do not even know the name of the woman who waits on us. She does not know my mother’s size or remember to ask after my father or brother. This woman does not remark on how much I’ve grown or what a young lady I have become. It is even more silent than ever in this once revered haven, but now it is because there are few customers.

  “What can I help you with today?” the woman says.

  “Barely Beige,” my mother says. “Size seven and a half.”

  The woman is rough with the blue paper seal. She tears at the tissue paper thoughtlessly. She does not slip her hand into the stocking and dramatically pause for just the right amount of time.

  “How many?” she says.

  “Six,” my mother answers.

  Even though I do not collect the slim blue boxes any more, I am disappointed when the woman lifts the six pairs and proceeds to place them in a paper bag.

  “I’d like the box, please,” my mother says.

  “The box?” the woman says.

  My mother nods, but she is distracted by a small disturbance at the front of the store. I follow her gaze. Toby Weiss is speaking with great tenderness to a short, slightly stooped woman. At first, I think she must be Toby’s grandmother.

  “C’mon, Mama,” Toby says. “It’s too much for one day. Let’s go home.”

  Toby hangs out with the fast crowd at school. We are in the same grade. We have gym, history and French together. I always see her smoking in front of school in the morning. Now she looks towards me and nods imperceptibly. I have heard stories that her mother was a bit odd, but I have never seen her before. Toby’s father attends all the school functions alone.

  Toby’s mother speaks in a heavily accented voice. I recognize that she must be from Poland. I am quite good at identifying accents. It is a game my brother and I often play.

  “Sarale,” Toby’s mother says. “Pinch your cheeks before the morning selection. If you look able to work, they won’t take you. Pinch your cheeks. Here. Let me show you.”

  Toby bends at the knee and leans in towards her mother, allowing her to touch her cheeks. I watch as Toby’s mother extends a shaking hand and pinches Toby’s cheek. Their movements are even. It is clear that they have done this many times before.

  “Don’t be afraid, Sarale. Mama will take care of you.”

  “Thank you, Mama,” Toby says.

  I am surprised at the sound of Toby’s voice. It is so soft, so filled with sorrow. The Toby who sits in my classes is sullen and coarse. When she speaks, it is usually to call out something inappropriate.

  “I told you, Sarale. It will be all right. Stay close to me, and it’ll be all right.”

  Toby’s mother smiles and pats Toby’s cheek. Then I see the numbers on the inside of her thin white arm. The blue identification of the concentration camps is not an unfamiliar sight in the enclave of Holocaust survivors where I live in Washington Heights. I am more surprised to see people without numbers on their forearms than I am to see people with them. But the skin on Toby’s mother’s arm is as thin as parchment. I feel the need to look away from Toby and her mother. None of the people I know ever behave like Toby’s mother. The people I know are lively and spirited. It often seems as if they have to make up for everything they lost. If they are sad, they keep it to themselves. They believe that in this way they are protecting their children from pain.

  “What could I do?” Toby’s mother says. “She insisted. ‘Let me go with the transport, Mama. I am starving. There will be food there. Let me go.’ What could I do? All the children went. I don’t know any who came back. One woman hid her baby in a suitcase, but they found it. I could have saved my Sarale, but she didn’t listen. What could I do?”

  “You did the best you could, Mama,” Toby says. “Come on now. Papa’s waiting for us outside.”

  My mother steps forward as Toby leads her mother by the arm. Next to Toby’s mother, my mother looks very young and very beautiful. She takes Toby’s mother’s face and looks into her eyes.

  “Siz nisto a shlecter mameh. Deigeh nisht. Azoi gait es,” my mother says, reassuring her that there is no such thing as a bad mother. After all, my mother’s gentle words comfortingly suggest, that’s life, so what is there for one to do?

  Toby’s mother nods and begins to weep quietly, still nodding.

  “Azoi gait es,” Toby’s mother repeats.

  Toby does not look at anyone. We watch as she leads her mother out the door and into her father’s arms. Their car is double parked in front of the shop. Toby says something to her father and waits as her parents move with great effort towards the car. I wish she would leave with them, but she comes back into the shop to speak with us.

  “She gets confused a lot,” Toby says. “She was in a labor camp, Skarzysko. One of the lucky ones.”

  Toby laughs, but the sound is hard a
nd bitter. Now she sounds like the Toby I know from school. One of the lucky ones . . . the phrase echoes in my head. My mother always tells my brother and me that we are the lucky ones.

  “They took truckloads of children to Treblinka. Her daughter, my sister . . . well, half-sister, was on one of those trucks. Sarale. She was nine. My mother just can’t get over it. She was all right when I was little. Sometimes she would call me Sarale by mistake, but that’s pretty normal, I guess. Now I don’t even think she knows who I am.”

  My mother reaches for Toby’s hand, but she steps back.

  “I’m all right,” Toby says. “Really. It’s just that no one talks about it. I mean, we’re surrounded by it all the time, but we never talk about it.” She turns to me. “We should really talk about it. About how it feels. About what it means, and how it makes us different.”

  Although my mother is witness to this entire exchange, she says nothing. Toby’s father honks the horn, and she leaves without saying goodbye. My mother looks at me, and then looks away quickly. She pays for her stockings and thanks the nameless woman.

  The Stocking Store closes the next month. My mother mentions this to me over breakfast one morning.

  “No more Stocking Store,” she says. “Gone. Forgotten.”

  She makes a whistling noise through her teeth.

  “Ancient history,” she says. “No one will remember that store twenty years from now. Azoi gait es.”

  I know we are no longer talking about the Stocking Store. We have never talked about my responsibility before, and I am afraid. Yet, I know what to say, what will lessen my mother’s concerns.

  “I’ll remember,” I say.

  She turns then, coffee pot poised in the air. This time she looks straight into my eyes and holds my gaze.

  “Promise?” she says.

  I nod solemnly and take the coffee pot from her hand.

  “Sit,” I tell her, and she listens. I pour her coffee. She takes her coffee black. I wait as she sips from her mug, drawing back sharply and causing me to start.