Hey All,
Here's a story that resulted from a writing challenge issued by an old high school friend of mine -- who coincidentally contacted me through JWD. The challenge was, "A friend from your past brings you a gift". Here's my take. You wanna take the challenge too, and add your own story to this thread? Gopher it!
The Dancer
Jill's listless mood was jarred by a knock at the door. Startled, she nearly spilled the now-cold coffee she was still holding since after dinner. What time was it, anyway? Eleven-thirty? Who would be knocking at eleven-thirty? Is it a cop? Oh please, God, don't be a cop...
As she approached the door, such thoughts twirled around her head like so many vultures waiting for a dying creature to give up the ghost. Quietly, and with apprehension, she peered through the peephole. Ever since Brian had left her, the nights were that much harder to deal with. Particularly when she found herself performing tasks he would normally take for himself. Investigating oddly-timed knocks fell squarely into the "Brian" category. She sighed, for so many reasons she didn't bother cataloguing them.
A man! And no uniform. This can't be good. Should she say anything? Damn! She's looked through the peephole, and so he saw the dot of light disappear, and reappear. He knows she's there.
Knock, knock, knock. Louder, perhaps he didn't see her after all. She took another quick peek. This time, with her initial panic now blunted, she took the time to see beyond his gender. He looked familiar, but many people do. There are only so many noses in the world. Still, he looked more than familiar. She KNEW him. But who was he?
"85% of rapes are perpetrated by assailants known to the victim, often in their own homes." The statistic rang in her head louder now than it did on the news yesterday when she'd first heard it. She had an 85% chance of being raped by this man, she thought, thoroughly misinterpreting the data. But he didn't look like a rapist. Of course, that's precisely why 85% of men can get away with it; they don't look the part. He really does look like he's comfortably in the 15% group, though.
KNOCK... KNOCK... KNOCK...
Nobody knocks three times. Nobody. Maybe the police, or an ex-husband trying to get back his precious collection of Star Wars figures. But nobody else. "85% of people that knock three times are police or ex-husbands" she thought, and smiled.
She leaned against the peephole again, in time to see the man walking off her porch. Apparently even those in the 15% group don't knock four times. She wondered if anyone did. He got in his car -- something big and black, probably foreign -- and drove slowly off. When she was certain he was gone, she opened the door a crack and saw that he'd left something. A small package, about the size of two Precious Pony lunch boxes, stacked lid to lid. The lunch box jumping unbidden to mind suddenly made her crave soup from a thermos. And kickball.
She retrieved the package and brought it inside. It was wrapped in red paper, and tied with a shimmering white ribbon. A bow was taped on top, which also held a small envelope. The card, or the gift first? The girl with the Precious Pony lunchbox wanted to tear into the gift, but the woman with the statistics still rolling around uncomfortably in her head wanted to know a little more about it before she opened it. The card won out. It read: ========= Jilly,
Sorry about your music box. I've always felt bad about it. Worse, because I did it on purpose. And lied about it. I hope we're even now.
Enjoy it, and have the life of the dancer,
Derek ========
Derek? Who is Derek? And what music box?
She carefully unwrapped the box, cautious to watch for any signs of a bomb or other mechanism. It occurred to her that anyone that might create and deliver a bomb would probably be better at concealing his efforts than she would be at discovering them. Still, the man looked innocent enough. The card seems innocent enough. He called her "Jilly", for goodness sake. How bad could he be?
In a rebellion against her paranoia, she quickly tore off the remaining paper, revealing a simple white cardboard box, sealed with a single strip of tape. Savoring the anticipation, she slowly peeled back the tape, trying -- and failing -- to avoid tearing the box. As she opened the box, music began to flow from it. Tinkling, pinging music -- a music box! Through her childlike delight, she also detected that the tune was familiar. Light, dancing music; as if the notes themselves were skipping and pirouetting across some unseen stage. Then recognition -- "The Music Box Dancer"! The same tune her grandmother's music box had played, before it stopped working.
Her eyes immediately shot to her curio cabinet, the package momentarily forgotten. Her grandmother's music box. She had taken it to school -- show 'n' tell -- and it had never worked since. Her father told her someone had poured something into the works, probably orange juice. It looked fine, but the song never played again, and the dancing girl that so delighted her had never spun since. She swore she didn't do it, of course. And her father didn't believe her, of course. And she'd spent a week grounded because of it. Of course.
Of course. The music box. And Derek.
Derek. Stupid, dumb, stinky Derek. Who'd had a crush on her. Who'd broken her crayons, kicked her desk, made fun of her, and called her "Jill-O'-Lantern" -- whatever that was supposed to mean. Derek, the cootie-king.
Derek, the repentant. Derek, the surreptitious music box deliverer. Derek, the man.
Derek.
She returned her gaze to the music box, now winding down. The tiny dancing figure still spun, but slowly, jerkily. She pulled it loose from the packaging, looked for and found the mechanism, and rewound it. Sitting it back down on the coffee table, she watched and listened as it transported her back to her bedroom at 413 Maple Avenue, where her windows looked out over a backyard full of old trees. For a moment, she was nine years old, in her Strawberry Shortcake pajamas, imitating the twirls and swirls of the dancing girl. It was a moment without time, outside of it, immune. It lasted forever.
Derek.
She searched the packaging for an indication of how to contact him, some way to thank him. There was nothing. Just the cryptic card, and its advice to "have the life of the dancer". She considered that advice. The dancer lives in a box, dancing when she's told, stopping when she's told. She's dependant on others to wind her up. In many ways, her life mirrored that of the dancer already. It didn't seem like particularly good advice.
She let her mind wander with the dancer across the mirrored dance floor that was her world. There was a magnet, she knew, under the mirror, that drove the dancer around. Still, she seemed to maintain some independence. She slid to and fro, at times sliding straight, at times spinning. Sometimes she faced Jill, sometimes she turned away. And her life -- her whole world -- was filled with beautiful music. Was that what he was saying? Live your life with music, enjoying the freedoms you have and submitting to those you don't?
"Have the life of the dancer".
Knock, knock.
Her amnesty from time was revoked by another knock at the door, less insistent as before. Almost a question, a light rap suggesting the requestor doesn't even expect an answer. She leaped to the door and threw it open, entirely ignoring the statistics that suggest this is not a good idea.
"Hello Jilly, did you like the music box?"
"Derek! Wow, I haven't seen you in decades. It's good to see you!" she gushed, never having heard his question.
"It's good to see you, too," he replied, allowing his hands to join in front of him. Seconds passed before either spoke again. Jill realized that a question had been asked, which in degrees began to rise to her consciousness, then hit. "Oh yes! Yes, I did like the music box. It's JUST lovely. Thank you so much."
"It was the least I could do after ruining your other one. It was your aunt's, wasn't it?"
"My grandmother's, actually," she said, and immediately regretted it. "Would you like to see it?"
"Yes, thank you, I'd love to."
She showed him in, led him to her sitting room, and waved her hand across the curio cabinet where the aged music box resided. "It's beautiful," he said simply, and continued to examine it. "May I see it up close?"
"Certainly," she said. She carefully removed the box from its shelf and set it on the coffee table, next to his gift. "Yours is beautiful, too. Where did you find it?"
"It's a Swiss design," he replied, knowing he hadn't answered her question.
They sat in silence as he examined the old, damaged music box. Its corners were worn from many years of tiny hands opening and closing it. The surface bore a patina from years of existence; it seemed to have stories to tell, but patience to wait until someone asked. He smiled at it, as he drank in its every detail.
To Jill's eye, it was inferior to Derek's gift. Seeing them side by side made that all the more clear. She could see that his music box was in an entirely different class from hers. He had clearly spent a considerable amount on it. From the farthest reaches of her mind, a small voice asked her, "Why?" She ignored it.
"Well, I can't replace your grandmother's heirloom, but I thank you for accepting my token gift. I've taken up enough of your time this evening, and I do apologize for coming so late. I need to head back to Chicago tonight, but I didn't want to leave without getting this to you."
He's leaving? Now?
"It is a bit late," she said, and immediately wished she weren't so stupid. Of all the stupid, stupid things to say in the entire stupid world of things that could be said, didn't she just have to say that!
"Yes, yes. You're quite right," he said, getting up. "I can give you the number of the clockmaker, in case something ever goes wrong with it. I'm sure he'd trip over himself to make it right again. Poor guy, he's so wrapped up in his work, he even forgot to get married! Here, let me jot it down for you." He pulled a pen and a card from his wallet, wrote the number down, and laid the card on her table. Then, tilting his head slightly toward her -- almost a bow -- he wished her a good evening, and walked back out the door. She was so flustered with herself, she didn't manage to say a word.
He was gone. He breezed in, transported her to her childhood, and gave her a delightful moment. And now he was gone, forever.
Wait! She had the number of the music box company! They would surely have his number and they would simply have to give it to her. She would insist on it, beg for it, demand it. But she would get it. Yes, there was still hope. Frantically, she scrambled the card from the table and read the number.
But instead of a number, she found a drawing. A tiny dancer, wiggly lines denoting her twirling. Under her, the words, "Be the dancer." Turning the card over, she read: "Derek Steinwetz, Master Clockmaker. Custom made music boxes a specialty. Call for quotes." His office, cell and fax numbers were listed.
The dancer had stopped some time ago, but Jill twirled anyway.