Dancing Ladies

by Marilyn Gardiner

  And then she came to the den. It looked as if the storm had come inside. Sofa cushions were upended, lamps askew, and all the videos on the bookcase were lying scattered on the floor. It was as if an invisible arm had scooped them off the shelf in a fit of pique.

  For an interminable time she stood, transfixed, trying to grasp what this might mean. Shock, then fear, warred through her body. Shock was a numb disbelief. Fear was a sick, oily scum in her stomach. Then, slowly, as if she'd aged thirty years in the last five minutes, she slowly went into the kitchen pantry to get the oil lamp, retraced her steps and began putting the room in order. The cushions went back in their places, lamps were righted, and at long last the dozens of videos—most of which were home movies arranged by date—were back on the shelves.

  There was no point in trying to make sense of it. Leah's motive, if she had one, was obscure. At least there had been no attack on her person, or on Max. There, Kate decided on the spot, that is where she would draw the line. If Leah attacked Max, frightened him, they would have to leave the house. It would break her heart, and Max's, but she could not, would not, risk Max's life.

  Things just seem to keep happening, she thought, carrying the oil lamp down the hall to the kitchen to check the back door. Little things that didn't mean anything, like the videos all scrambled on the floor. What possible, earthly reason could there to be to such an action? Almost poltergeist in character.

  "No,” she said aloud. “I don't believe in poltergeists.” And then with a wry, desperate shrug, “I don't believe in ghosts, either."

  She'd make a pot of coffee, drink a cup, and put the rest in a thermos for morning. A little caffeine in the system helped almost everything look a little more manageable. But as her hand reached for the coffee pot, she realized it was already full. She blinked at it, on the counter, in the wavering light of the lamp, in confusion. Could she have made the coffee and forgotten? But she hadn't. She was sure she had not. She hadn't made coffee all evening.

  And then her eyes came to rest on a cup beside the coffee pot on the counter. She frowned. The cup didn't hold coffee, but something was stuffed inside it. With two fingers she lifted a strap, and the whole thing came out. A bra. Her bra. Her favorite sports bra! The bra she wore when she ran. The bra that ought to be upstairs in the very back of her drawer since she no longer ran every morning. A queer niggle of alarm went off in Kate's stomach. Furtively she glanced around, not knowing what she thought she'd see.

  And then, with an icy spill down her spine, she realized that no coffee could possibly have been made. The power was out. Unless it had been made before the storm hit a transformer cutting the power. And she had not been to the kitchen during that time. She couldn't move. Couldn't even blink away the sight of her bra in the coffee cup. Her brain seemed frozen with the impossibility of reality.

  For long minutes she stared at the coffee pot and cup. At last she poured the coffee down the drain. She wasn't exactly sure why she felt this to be necessary, but she didn't want to drink the brew when she had no clear idea of who or how or when it had been made.

  She couldn't be sure, but it seemed as if there was a surreptitious giggle from somewhere behind her left shoulder. Leah's giggle. There was, however, definitely, the scent of gardenias wafting through the kitchen.

  Feeling more than foolish and mumbling to herself about idiots who let themselves be thrown into senseless panic attacks, she climbed the stairs once more, lamp in hand. She knew full well who the ghost was—ghost hah!—and she'd just been assuring herself she didn't believe in them—and at least part of the why. She also knew this particular ghost inside and out. Leah was jealous. Kate found herself more and more angry, but for some reason, no less afraid.

  Feeling grumpy and disgruntled, she checked Max still sleeping soundly, put out the oil lamp, and went to bed, flashlight at hand. The storm was over. No leftover wind gusts buffeted the windows. The window by her bed, which she'd left cracked when she settled down to read, let in the sweet smell of rain on the neighbor's freshly mowed grass. All appeared to be peaceful.

  She sat for a few moments, wishing for a cup of coffee and forcing herself to think rationally, and then gave up and closed the window. She knew the pane of glass wouldn't keep Leah out if she came again, but it gave Kate a sense of doing something, anything, to protect herself and Max. Assuming they needed protection. Which she believed at least enough to hang on to the flashlight.

  No electricity, no overhead fan, she groused. The room was stuffy. Frowning she picked up the E-reader again. Words danced before her eyes as if they were on puppet strings. Clicking the device off, she tried to close her eyes against the dark, but for some strange reason she felt safer with them open, even though she couldn't see even the shapes of furniture. At least I'll be ready if something jumps at me or lights begin to flash or—something. And then she covered her eyes with one hand and groaned. There wasn't any kind of preparedness against Leah.

  Apparently sleep, if any was to be had, would be an exercise in determination. She tossed and turned, alternately flung back the sheets and covered up to her chin. Leah might return at any moment. Yet, that wasn't her pattern. She'd never come back in the same night after one appearance.

  Being reasonable was fruitless. Here she lay, shaking and talking to herself, when she knew, didn't she, that Leah would not physically harm her. She was sure of it. But ... But, what? Mental torment was worth a lot of points on the anxiety scale. And the worst was never knowing what to expect from one moment to the next. One day or night to the next. She was getting tired just being constantly on alert.

  Things happened. Little things. Things that didn't mean anything, did not frighten or startle. Just tiny reminders that Leah was still there even when Kate didn't see her. Things to keep her off balance.

  There had been more little flashing lights in the hallway at night. Kate tried to ignore them, thinking that maybe if she didn't give Leah the attention she craved, she'd give up and go away. So far, it hadn't worked. And, how in the world had her bra gotten into the coffee cup?

  At the end of an hour, she gave up trying to sleep. In her little claret-colored silk robe she shuffled down the hall to the workroom and re-lighted the kerosene lamp. She'd work for an hour and then try the bed thing again.

  She had just picked up a brush when the phone rang.

  "Are you all right?” Cass's voice was warm, deep and enormously reassuring. “That was one hell of a storm."

  "We're okay here in the house. I'm not sure about some of the old trees outside, though. We had a lot of wind.” And another visit from Leah.

  "I'll come out to check first thing in the morning. I have a couple of limbs down."

  "You don't need to do that. I can—"

  "I'll check."

  There was a small silence while she appreciated his thoughtfulness and thought just how very lucky she was to have found a friend like him.

  "Cass, I really appreciate everything. But I can take care of myself. Really I can."

  "Maybe I enjoy taking care of someone special. Ever think of that?"

  Another silence while she digested what he'd said. This was encroaching on being more personal than she wanted. Would he kiss someone he didn't feel was special?

  "By the way.” He interrupted her thought. “What are you going to do with that old car in the garage? The noisy one."

  "I take it you aren't talking about my van. You mean the falling-apart Ford."

  "I mean the vintage Ford, gathering dust and scaring you senseless with a horn that can't possibly work. That's what I mean."

  "I don't know. Have someone haul it to the junk yard, I guess."

  "Junk yard! Woman, bite your tongue! That car is worth a small fortune. It's a treasure! There are folks out there who'd pay a great deal for that car."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, really. Do you want me to look around for a buyer?"

  "Well ... Sure, I guess so. Max, and me too, would feel a whole lot better about
finding a home for it. He has fond memories of working on it with my dad."

  "I'll keep my eyes open. By the way, how do you and Max feel about picnics? Tomorrow looks like a good day for one. Want to try it? I have Stacey for the day."

  "Sure. We love picnics. I'll bring dessert."

  "Great. And I'll bring some fishing gear. Max like to fish?"

  "I don't think he ever has. He'll love it."

  Another small silence. Then, Cass asked, “What are you doing?"

  "You mean now? I couldn't sleep, so I was going to work a bit."

  "Everything quiet?

  She hesitated, but for some reason didn't want to tell him about the videos and tapes, much less about the image on the window. Not on the telephone. She could deal with it face to face, but the phone was ... No, not now. “Now that the storm is over, yes."

  "And you're going to paint."

  "For a while, yes."

  "Paint those squiggly things you have on the windowsill onto fabric."

  "They aren't ‘squiggly things.’ They're beautiful orchids on tall, slender stems."

  "The flowers are gorgeous, I agree, but the stems are spindly and squiggly."

  "They aren't! They wand-like and graceful!"

  "Not that they aren't pretty when you get done, but on the windowsill they're squiggly,” he insisted.

  "You're as stubborn as Babe when he wants his belly rubbed!"

  "You offering to rub my belly?"

  "You wish. No, I'm not going to rub your belly.” Although the idea did have a certain charm, she admitted.

  He sighed. “Yeah. I wish.” And then, “What do you sleep in?"

  "What do I—” The question was so unexpected Kate fumbled. “Cass..."

  "Indulge me in a little bit of fantasy here. If I can't kiss you goodnight, I can dream at least."

  Silence. Kate was speechless.

  "So, what do you sleep in?"

  She looked down at her body. “I have on a claret-colored robe."

  "M-m-m-m. And underneath?"

  "Cass, this is pointless. We aren't going to—"

  "Please."

  "A ... A matching teddy, if you must know."

  He groaned. “I shouldn't have asked. I'm not likely to sleep at all now.” And he hung up.

  Kate stared at the dead phone for a full minute before she disconnected. A faint curl of something, anticipation, warmth, something, began to unravel in her stomach.

  She wasn't even going to think it. No questions. No fantasy. No dreaming. She was not going there. She was going to pick up her brushes and paint. The turkey. He'd done that deliberately. Said something outrageous and then hung up before she could respond.

  Her mind refused to shut down, however. There was something more between them than just the male-female thing. It went deeper than simple sex. And that's what worried her. Passion she could have handled. This other went to the marrow of her bone. And that bothered her.

  With the giving of oneself to love came the power to be hurt. She'd not willingly make that mistake again. If she could help it.

  Absently, with her mind still on Cass, she noticed that the swinging drawer at the bottom of the little sewing table was ajar. The little ball and socket catch had been hard to work for years, but the walnut table was an antique, her grandmother's, and because Kate had many loving memories of her grandmother sewing in her rocker beside this very table, it was precious. She bent to readjust the drawer to fit and close it properly, and then swung it open all the way to run her hands over the tiny spindles lining the drawer and filled with small spools of various colors of thread.

  There were a half-dozen crochet hooks. Crochet hooks when she hadn't crocheted in years. An old evening bag in tissue paper that had belonged to her grandmother. She remembered it was covered in tiny, multicolored beads, with a small gold clasp at the top. A tapestry needle, curved with a large eye that her mother had once used to mend a rip in the seam of an overstuffed chair. A cut glass jar of buttons, looking like so many jewels inside the glass. So many memories. So many memories.

  Her hand stopped. In back of the drawer where it should not be, was a video tape. All the other tapes were downstairs on shelves in the bookcase. Tapes like those that she had just an hour ago replaced, in order. What was this one doing up here, in the sewing cabinet? She was sure it hadn't been there last weekend when she was hunting blue thread to mend a tear in Max's favorite T-shirt. She would have noticed. Leah again?

  She stood for a long moment with the video in her hands, gazing unblinkingly at the innocent box. In her father's sprawling script it read “Little Dancing Ladies.” She knew very well what it contained. She remembered every inch of tape recording a dance recital when she and Leah were five years old. They wore matching short, pink, ruffled dresses and black patent Mary Janes while tapping a Me and My Shadow routine. Dad's voice would be on the video narrating, calling them “My two best girls. My little dancing ladies."

  Kate smiled even as she wondered why Leah had put the tape there for her to find. Put it where she could hardly overlook it. Because she was sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that Leah was responsible. Their favorite pastime for years had been getting out that old homemade video and dancing along with the tinny piano music and their own beginner, learning steps. They took turns being the shadow, because it was more fun making a comedy routine out of it and mimicking each other in silly ways.

  She remembered the rainy afternoon she had been holding two fingers up behind Leah's head while they danced and fell over the ottoman, badly spraining an ankle in the process. She limped for a month. The ankle was weak to this day.

  Leah had teased her unmercifully, asking who was wearing the finger-ears now, but she had fetched and carried anything Kate wanted without complaint the entire time. She had even saved her own piece of pineapple upside down cake, from dinner. It was Kate's favorite, and this way Kate could have a treat in the middle of a sleepless night. They had been so close then, each part of a whole. Twins.

  Kate stood beside her grandmother's sewing table, with the video in her hands and tears swimming in her eyes, remembering the good times. The wonderful, warm feeling of being complete and content.

  For the moment, bad memories were a blur, indistinct and unimportant. A certain part of her life had stopped with Leah's death. She'd been taken away, jerked away violently, and Kate wasn't certain her brain had even yet processed the loss. The shock had been like taking a fist in the solar plexus. She awakened every morning knowing that Leah wouldn't be there. That half of her person was forever gone. She'd been in pain for years.

  Another glimpse came into focus. The two of them facing each other in the lawn swing out back, toes touching, sucking on red popsicles and laughing at the ring around each other's mouth. That was all. One brief moment out of all the rest. Why that image should stick in her head and her heart Kate didn't know, but there it was, burned for all time in her being. The way it should have been for always. That glimpse surfaced at the oddest times. And it always brought tears.

  Was Leah trying to tell her something? Ought she to go downstairs when the power came back on and watch the tape? Why the tape in the sewing table? Why the finger pointing from the window last night? Why the whispers about being careful? Could it possibly be that Leah had another reason to get her attention, rather than simply trying to frighten her half silly? A lump too hard to swallow lodged in her throat. Could there be more to these ghostly manifestations than she thought? A sob shuddered through her chest.

  What had Leah really felt about Cass? Surely, high school crushes didn't go on after death! Were these manifestations more than just jealousy?

  Trying to ignore the tightness in her throat, Kate replaced the video in the drawer and only then saw the two matching pennies in a small plastic zip lock bag half hidden beneath an envelope. With one finger she pulled it out. One lay heads up and one heads down. Her grandfather had given them both a penny, shiny and new, with the year of their birth. She had w
ondered briefly, years ago, what became of them and her mother didn't know. Now here they were. She picked up the bag to look more closely at what was another warm memory and jolted when the date seemed to jump out at her. Frantically, she turned the other penny so they matched. One side of each still bore the year of their birth. The other—Dear God—the other bore the year of Leah's death. And on the second she read the date of the current year. Her fist closed over the bag and she threw back her head. Was this to be the year she, too, died? What was happening? Was someone playing with her? Trying to frighten her? If so, they were succeeding admirably. Was this Leah's doing also? She didn't know what to believe. What to think. She couldn't think at all. She slammed the drawer closed and backed away.

  One thing for certain, she was not going to look at that tape any time soon. Not until she had company with her, in broad daylight, with every light in the house blazing.

  Creeping back into bed, trembling in every fiber of her being, after having seen Leah in the window and being thoroughly terrorized yet one more time, after everything that had happened, Kate lay thinking that it ought to be difficult to call up all those warm, fuzzy memories of the sister she'd so loved. Amazingly, it wasn't. The love was still there, not even buried very deep, but she had to admit Leah was beginning to sorely test the strength of their bond.

  In the dream she'd had for the past ten years, Kate unflaggingly saw Leah's terrified, pleading, drowning eyes through the rear window of the sinking car. Was it because they were so different, or so much alike that she couldn't quit thinking of her?

  Toward morning she slept.

  * * * *