»
Main Forums
»
Passions in Prose
»
The Sad Dance
| Passions in Prose |
|
The Sad Dance |
|
|
Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049California 
|
The Sad Dance They say you can’t remember things that happened to you when you were an infant, but I can. I remember lying safe and warm in blankets looking up at the stars. When I asked my mother about it she said, "How could you remember that far back Janette? I used to take you out in the back when you were fussy. You would cry and cry, it drove me crazy, until I found out about the night sky. As soon as I took you out there, you stopped." I’m still that way. I remember stars were like pretty baubles to my baby eyes. But when I was in elementary school, I learned about the solar system and I couldn’t believe how such a big thing could have happened. I would go out on the front lawn and lay on the ground and watch the sky in awe. "Janette, come in here right now," my mother would call. "Just a minute," I’d reply, hoping for just a little more time. I whispered my wonder into the cool grass. Looking up, the big fingers of the elm tree seemed to hold up the firmament. Or she’d say, "It’s time for bed, Janette, I swear, I don’t know what you find so interesting out there in the dark." When I would try to tell her, saying, "Mom, did you know that the earth rotates? Right now we’re turning around," or "Mom, I saw the Milky Way." Her reply was always "hummm." When I was in bed later, I’d sing every song I knew at the top of my lungs until she would call, "Go to sleep, Janette, stop that infernal singing." The lace curtains on the window sent a pattern hop-scotching across my bed. In the mirror at my dressing table I would look at my face and wonder who the girl with the curly brown hair and green eyes was. The moon made my face into a beautiful orb of light, different from me as a pale daytime child. "Why doesn’t my mother love me?" I asked my reflection. I’d pretend I was a princess in a castle being held prisoner by a wicked step-mother. Later I’d dream of dancing in moonlight in a dress that moved like grasses in the wind. I could leap and twirl in the air and fly across the night sky like Tinker Belle, trailing sparklers of light. On the windowsill my elbows were bleached bones pointing away. "I want my father," I said to the strong and sturdy truth of the Elm. "Bring me my father," I wished on the flickering promise of the stars. "You don’t have a father," my mother said, her words angry exclamation points, spoken in a staccato shrill. "Everyone has a father," I said. "Don’t get sassy with me young lady," she said, then looked up from her magazine and right into my eyes. "Janette," she said, "don’t ask me again about him. Lord, sometimes I wish you’d never been born." My mother would have been a pretty woman if she had cared about how she looked and if happiness was somewhere in her heart. Her hair was dark brown and curly like mine, with hints of reddish gold that you could see in the sun’s light. She did her best to pull the grace from the curve it sometimes made against her cheek, coming loose from clips and bobby pins in protest. I resigned myself to the straight line of her lips and the spittle of anger that struck my hand that day. Her mouth was taunt and a crease had formed between her eyebrows. There was anger in the gray of her eyes and it frightened me. The cold and forbidding signal on her face was "stop". I wondered constantly about my father, but after that time, I never asked again. I wished I had a mother who would dance with me like I danced in my dreams, but our dance was graceless. As I took one step forward, she took one step back. It was a sad dance. Since I didn’t know my father and my mother didn’t want me, I stayed away as much as possible. As the years past and I turned fourteen I was allowed to go places by myself. I found the library. Books took me out of myself and into other lives. Words, were also magic steps to power. I would sit for hours with the dictionary, reading the meaning of unfamiliar words. I used these words as ammunition. Each time I used a word my mother didn’t understand I felt better about myself, but bad too. I could see under the stern exterior of my mother’s face at those times, and what I saw was vulnerable and unsure. Her face would soften and a flush appear on the paleness of her cheeks. Something in my heart told me that I was as mean as she was. I would see her try to gain control of her feelings and when I was about to put my arms around her she would shake her head and say, "Who put all that nonsense in your head, Janette?" I met Jake in high school. He was my good buddy before we fell in love. He listened. We became inseparable. He was the blond and sunny opposite of my darkness. He taught me about jokes and laughter. We would sing together and best of all he liked the night sky. Jake had a mother who hugged him and a father who clapped him on the back and they both had love in their eyes when they looked at him. We were married soon after we graduated. That day was the first time I ever saw a touch of pride creep from hiding and capture my mother’s face for just an instant. She lived alone in the cave. That’s what Jake and I jokingly called her house because it felt so cold and empty. Later, when she got sick, I became her nurse. The physical closeness of moving her body made my skin crawl at first. I wasn’t used to touch between us. I remember being surprised at how soft her skin felt as I applied lotion to her hands and face. That fragrance of Pond’s cold cream became a part of her, sort of an olfactory signature. One night she looked at me and I saw something I had never seen before. I saw compassion. "I’ll come back, Janette, I promise," she said. "There’s something I have to tell you. Watch for a sign." That was the night she died. I had been watching ever since. Last night Jake and I were in the living room. The television was on the old movie channel. All around were the cushions of an ordinary life. Even after seventeen years of marriage, Jake has a way of making me feel beautiful. "Girl", he said—he always calls me girl even though I’m thirty-six, "you’re so lovely and you smell so good." He took deep breaths into my hair as if he wanted to inhale the essence of me. He is not an old movie fan like I am. I was completely absorbed in the drama and tears were beginning to dam up behind my eyes. Jake tried to distract me by breathing into my ear and whispering, "let’s go to bed." When he exhaled I smelled chocolate pudding. "Stop it Jake, this is the best part," I said, trying to ignore his advances. "Okay girl, you’ve had your chance," he said and kissed my cheek and headed toward the bedroom. I lay down on the couch and pulled a blanket up to my chin. It was then that the soft night fragrance of Pond’s cold cream settled around me. After Mom died, I had found a jar of Pond’s behind the bottles of medicine in the bathroom-one that I had never used. When I opened it I saw the gouge her fingers had made into the cream. The fragrance and that small evidence of her life made me cry for the first time since her death three months earlier. I took some deep breaths, thinking hazily that maybe the fragrance was the sign I had been looking for. Then, when I looked back at the television, the color movie I had been watching had been replaced by black and white and a beautiful, clear-skinned woman of about nineteen was looking directly at me from the screen with just a twitch of smile. Her hair was bobbed as was the fashion of the l920’s. She looked just like the photograph I have on the piano that was taken of a nineteen year old girl, nick-named Bucky by all her friends—before she was my mother. I closed my eyes feeling dizzy and disoriented and when I opened them again she was still there. I looked over at the piano and saw the empty frame. This can’t be real, I thought. I must be having some sort of crazy dream. The image still filled the television screen and now it had movement and dimension and sound. I sat up and pushed the remote control button to off. Nothing happened. My heart was racing as I watched my mother look down to adjust her silk stockings. I could see out her window to a rose garden. I could hear the birds singing and see three girls sitting on a porch-swing, talking. From somewhere in the house music was playing. "Bucky, hurry up," one of the girls shouted. "We’re going to miss the first dance." Their laughter drifted in the open window where Bucky was getting dressed. A black Cocker Spaniel danced around her feet. "Get down, boy," she scolded, as he attempted to climb her leg and bury his nose in her lap. She stood in front of her dressing table and closed her eyes. She was beautiful I could tell that her beauty at that moment radiated from happiness. When she opened her eyes again, she spoke. The voice was my mother’s voice but not her voice. It had the lilt of youth in it. "Bucky," she said to her reflection, "you look like the cat’s meow," then she pinched her cheeks and pulled at the curl that crossed her forehead like a letter "J". She lifted her arms and danced with a pretend partner, fox-trotting around the room with closed eyes singing, "If you knew Susie, like I know Susie, Oh! Oh! Oh! What a girl!" Then I watched her slip into the soft fabric of a dress, tie the sash at her hip, and admired the curve of her ankle. She dusted powder over her long neck and down over the rise of her breast, turned and moved away from her mirror. As she did this, she looked over her shoulder and frowned. Someone knocked softly and looked in the door. "You look enchanting," said the woman I knew had to be my grandmother. I had seen pictures of her once that mom had kept in box in the closet. I had never known her and mom didn’t like to talk about her. She just said that they didn’t see eye to eye. Bucky twirled around in front of her. "It’s impossible to dance the Charleston wearing a girdle." She complained. "Nice girls do not go out without proper undergarments," her mother replied. "Why, when I was your age, my mother cinched me into a corset. You’re fortunate that all you have to wear is a girdle." When her mother left, Bucky made a face, then stuck her tongue out at her reflection in the mirror and left the room. I watched the dog sniff the floor where a trace of powder lingered, sneeze, then curl up on the braided rug. The screen went blank for a moment and filled with static, then a new scene rolled for a moment then stopped. Bucky and her friends were in front of a house where a party was obviously going on. The porch was washed with light and the sky had darkened into evening. I could hear a piano as I watched them climb the stairs. A couple sat talking on a bench, and three or four young men leaned against the porch rail, blowing smoke into the evening air. "Hi, Bucky," one of them called out to her. She waved a greeting as she opened the front door, then immediately turned down the hall and headed with her friends to the lavatory. There, they quickly discarded their girdles and giggling, stuffed them into a carpet bag. In a large sitting room a group of people stood around the piano singing, and several couples were dancing. Bucky went to the kitchen where there was a big glass bowl of punch. A boy in the kitchen spoke to her as she filled her cup. "Be careful," he said, "that punch has more in it then just sugar and water." Bucky returned to the sitting room and stood sipping her drink as she watched couples dancing. One of the boys that had been standing around came up to Bucky and took her hand. "Hi, my name is Vinnie. Come on, dance with me," he said, as he pulled her out to the dance floor. As they danced around the room, I watched Bucky look up and into his eyes and smile. He was very good looking. I could tell he knew his way around. He had the unabashed confidence of someone who had been with more than one woman. His hair was dark and wavey and was combed back from his face. His slacks eased over his waist and hips and his white shirt was rolled up enough to see the muscle of his arms. I watched his hand at the back of my mother’s dress, leading with the pressure of his palm and finger tips. I was drawn to the grace of his movement as he danced. They had done the Charleston until breathless and as Bucky sat down to rest, Vinnie rushed to the kitchen to refill her cup. She finished her second drink fast as he pulled her back to the dance floor and the fox trot. I watched as she staggered a little before he steadied her with a hand around her waist. He kept his hand on her waist after the dance and lead her out onto the porch. I could hear the crickets singing as they kissed in the moon-glow. "You have the most beautiful, soft skin," he said, touching her cheek with the palm of his hand. He pulled her to him and his hand moved down her back and curved around her un-girdled bottom. My heart was racing. I wanted to warn her, to tell her to be careful, to remind her that she’d had too much to drink, that she was vulnerable, but the scene kept playing out and I was just an observer. "Your hair smells like flowers," he whispered, burying his face in the soft waves. Her eyes were closed and she was holding on to Vinnie’s neck as though she might fall if she let go. He put his arm around her waist again and led her down the steps and into the yard where she leaned against an oak tree. I could see the back of the tree digging into and catching at the soft material of her dress as he pushed himself against her. Then his hands were on her breasts and all I could see was the oak tree and all I could hear was their breathing and the wind. Then I heard my mother’s voice, insistent, but as lost and unnoticed as the crickets hum. "Stop Vinnie," she said. I tried again to turn off the set, thinking if I turned it off I would stop the situation that I could see happening to my mother before my eyes. I watched helplessly as he pulled her to the ground beneath the tree and the next thing I heard was the pop, pop, pop of the buttons on his trousers. They seemed as loud as cannons on that quiet summer night. "Vinnie, no, help me," came my mother’s voice now, louder and full of fear. The scene faded and a shot of the big yellow moon filled the television set. I could hear, as if from far away, the sound of the piano and many voices singing, "If you knew Susie like I know Susie, Oh! Oh! Oh! What a girl!" Suddenly, the television switched off. All that remained of my mother was a lingering scent of Pond’s and my heart trying to separate from a young girl’s life, beating in a crazy kind of fear and exhilaration. I put my feet on the ground, like a drunk trying to steady the turning of the room. I fumbled into the dark, stubbing my toe on the coffee table and touched the cold glass of the television screen. I turned to look at the photograph on the piano. "Mother," I said, as she looked at me with just the twitch of a smile. Jake heard me crying. He found me curled up on the couch. He held me, and the warmth of his body brought me back to my own place in time. I think about my mother all the time now and the feeling I get is no longer sad. She took a step toward me for the first time and the grace of the truth she gave me has freed me from the bitterness I felt for so long. As for my father--I had begged the Elm, wished to the night sky, insisted to the silence of my mother’s knowledge, and finally got an answer--it came from somewhere beyond the complexity of the earth and stars and the turns that led me to that place in the heart of their youth, and that makes me feel really good. Yes, I still go out at night and watch the sky, and although I don’t know where my mother’s spirit is, I like to think of her up there near the stars looking down on me. [This message has been edited by Martie (edited 10-09-2000).] |
||
| © Copyright 2000 Martie Odell Ingebretsen - All Rights Reserved | |||
Marge Tindal 
since 1999-11-06
Posts 42384Florida's Foreverly Shores |
Martie~ This is so magnificiently tender and well written. You drew the characters and filled them with souls. I am so touched at this poignant piece of writing. Oh, my ! So touched. It held me all the way through - and no skip-reading allowed ! What a remarkable talent you have, Martie. I feel like I've just experienced the entire story ... and like Janette ... I too, still love the night sky. This is a lovely piece and you should be very, very pleased with it. It is such a pleasure to know you.  ~*Marge*~ ~*The pen of the poet never runs out of ink, as long as we breathe.*~ noles1@totcon.com |
||
|
Rosemary J. Gwaltney Senior Member
since 1999-08-26
Posts 997northern mountains, Idaho |
Martie - what a treat to find such an unusual smorgasbord here! The story drew me in, and pinched me tight, and flooded me with tears by the end. Excellent! Excellent! |
||
|
lucky Senior Member
since 2000-01-17
Posts 1601Idaho |
I'm a sucker for a story... I loved it... Tears in corners of eyes, a litle hard to see. Got a tissue..? Love Dale |
||
|
Wilfred Yeats Member Elite
since 2000-08-04
Posts 2704Wilmington, Delaware |
ok - where's the kleenex? - you did it again - took my heart - wrapped it up in your story wrung it of every tear - beautifully - Great writing Martie |
||
|
Mark Bohannan Member Rara Avis
since 2000-06-21
Posts 7269In the winds of Cherokee song |
No one does it better. Very beautiful. |
||
|
vlraynes Member Rara Avis
since 2000-07-25
Posts 8229Somewhere... out there... |
Martie- WOW!!! I must admit I don't read alot of prose. I don't always have the patience for the length of much of it. This, however, is AMAZING!! It pulled me in and held me all the way through. Very touching, and very well-written. I owe Marge a huge 'Thank You' for sending me the link to this one.  -vicky "...until you have read the verse on his heart, you have not truely met the poet." -vlraynes |
||
|
One Who Understands Member
since 2000-01-20
Posts 251Cedar Rapids, Iowa |
How amazingly lovely. This touched me in more ways than than your beautiful description. It reminds me of my mother and my grandmother. Absolutaly wonderful!! |
||
|
Poertree Senior Member
since 1999-11-05
Posts 1359UK |
i always promised myself i'd never say just "wow" in a reply ... but... WOW and now i'm off to whack jim and chris over their respective heads for not telling me about this .....lol philip |
||
|
tracie66 Member Elite
since 2000-01-18
Posts 4713Australia |
Martie~ Fabulous story, captivating and although in parts soo sad was a very enjoyable read...well written piece Tracie~ Love is the life of the soul... It is the harmony of the universe |
||
|
Honeybee Member Ascendant
since 1999-12-26
Posts 5372Ontario, CANADA |
Martie You certainly have the talent for writing prose. A bittersweetly beautiful story. It had me captivated from beginning to end, I became the characters and felt the pain and wonder. Take care, Melissa Honeybee The beauty of poetry gives my soul wings to fly free within dreams |
||
|
Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
Martie, where are you!? Come answer all these replies! Wow girl...a whole new side of your talents shining on all of us! |
||
|
Balladeer
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-05
Posts 25505Ft. Lauderdale, Fl USA |
Martie, as editor of the current newsletter in progress, I am assigned to select an outstanding prose piece for this issue. I would be honored if you would grant permission for this one to be my choice.... gee, do you think I like it? |
||
|
Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049California |
Marge--my sweet editor-in-chief, it is a pleasure to know YOU!! Rosemary--thanks so much for coming to read this prose piece and for letting me know that you liked it...Hugs your way! Dale--I used all my tissue up long ago...how about some toilet paper ...thanks bro for checking this out.Bill--Thanks for letting me know that this moved you...I'm glad.. Hi Mark...I know many do it better, but thanks ...you always make me smile...Hugs! Vicky--Marge is wonderful...I'm so glad you stuck this one out...and all the way to amazing..thanks. One Who Understands--Thanks for reading...and letting me know it reminded you of someone...actually, the character Bucky was fashioned, in looks anyway, from my own mother. (my mother wa a doll inside and out!) Philip--A simple Wow from you, then...is a high compliment...thank you, my friend. Tracie--thanks so much for reading...and the wonderful reply! Melissa--I am glad to know that this captivated you...I was hoping for that effect. Karilea--Here I am...I was sleeping..am overwhelmed by all these responses...big smile here!!!! Balladeer--It is I, who would be honored!! [This message has been edited by Martie (edited 10-10-2000).] |
||
|
Cerenity Member Elite
since 2000-02-16
Posts 2637Escondido-California |
Hi Martie, Right at this moment my whole body is full of emotions, from tears to pure delight at the out come, I aploud you for this magnificent piece of art work, the detail is amazing, thank you so much for the awesome beauty you have shared here, and Marge you were right a perfect piece for sure. Love, Cerenity "God doesn't have to be reminded that we exist. We have to be reminded that He exist!" (Writer Unknown) |
||
|
CocoBaci Member Elite
since 2000-05-06
Posts 3043 |
This is a gem my friend Coco |
||
|
Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296Purgatorial Incarceration |
Welcome yet again to Prose Martie! Another marvellous addition. I must say it held me too! I was wondering where you were going at first (maybe the introduction could be pruned down just a "little" bit) but the second half was perfection itself!  Chris ps: Phiip - could you maybe give us half a second or two??? |
||
|
Parker Member Elite
since 2000-01-06
Posts 3129ON |
Martie, this was absolutly wonderful. a great story. I was glued to the screen the whole time. Bravo. Parker |
||
|
Janet Marie Member Laureate
since 2000-01-22
Posts 18554 |
well you already know I love this amazing piece of writing ... I dont have words to tell you how it touches me... but you probaly already know that too ... this is so good ... I dont even mind you spelled my name wrong *winkiewinkie* (just kidding) I bet even your grocery list is poetic later-love-when-your write-prose-gator jm |
||
|
Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049California |
Cerenity--I'm so glad that you enjoyed this story...thanks for such a nice comment and if Marge had anything to do with you reading it...thanks, Marge! Coco--A gem is a small beautiful thing...thank you. Chris--Thank you for your words about the first part...I will look at it again...I have read it so many times I can barely tell what's what anymore...I appreciate what you say...and glad the last part pleased you... Parker---hi...I'm so glad that you enjoyed this story...thanks for letting me know. Janet--I don't even write a grocery list...inhibits my creativity and my impulse buying...thanks hon, for being you! |
||
|
Dark Angel Member Patricius
since 1999-08-04
Posts 10095 |
Oh Martie, WOW!! it gave me goose-bumps! very captivating. Loved it Maree "If my words could blanket the skies and fill every corner and crevice of this earth, still this won't be enough" "Maree Russo" |
||
|
Elizabeth Santos Member Rara Avis
since 1999-11-08
Posts 9269Pennsylvania |
Martie Every single word of praise is so well deserved for this piece and for you, an extremely talented writer and poet. I am so ovewhelmed by all that you write, and you know from way back, I've always been your #1 fan. I stand in admiration for your creativity and your unique way of looking at the world, and most of all for your ability to draw the reader into that world.. You are a very special lady Liz |
||
|
Mark Bohannan Member Rara Avis
since 2000-06-21
Posts 7269In the winds of Cherokee song |
I stand hand in hand with Liz when I say also that I too am your #1 fan. I would fight her for the right but my daddy told me never to fight a woman....cause ya might lose and if ya do then ya will never live it down.LOL. I came back to add to my library and to read again because to tell you the truth, I simply love each and every line in it. You my friend are amazing. |
||
|
Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049California |
Dear Liz and Mark--You are both very dear to me and having you as friends is what is important..thanks for all you mean to me. |
||
|
Victoria
since 2000-08-12
Posts 5869 |
I am so glad I peeked in tonight and read your prose Martie..it was very heartfelt, when i read the part of your moms fingertips in the ponds creme...although my mom is still living i have always thought she had the softest skin i ever felt too...but your piece did bring tears to my eyes..very well written indeed... A poem is never finished, only abandoned. - Paul Valery (1871-1945) |
||
Mysteria
since 2001-03-07
Posts 18328British Columbia, Canada |
I would have to write all day to explain the emotions you churned with this one. I don't have too much good to remember about being young, and this story brought back a memory I had forgotten all about, and somehow thank you just will not be enough for giving me that. What exception writing. I will now read them all now that I know they are here. |
||
|
fractal007 Senior Member
since 2000-06-01
Posts 1958 |
This was a really cool and mystical piece. It was a neat way of showing the soft interior and even history that lies behind those who live inside of those hardened harsh shells we all know too well. "If history is to change, let it change. If the world is to be destroyed, so be it. If my fate is to die, I must simply laugh" |
||
|
vlraynes Member Rara Avis
since 2000-07-25
Posts 8229Somewhere... out there... |
Martie...had to come back for another read, and I'm so glad that I did. This story touched my deeply, my friend. As you know, I don't always have the patience for the longer reads, but this one just grabbed me, and I was hanging on every word. I can certainly understand why this would be a favorite of yours...it's a favorite of mine too. Love and hugs to you, friend.  "My friends are my estate." |
||
|
Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
...it even got a second read from me! |
||
|
|
⇧ top of page ⇧ |
|
| All times are ET (US). All dates are in Year-Month-Day format. | ||
