Emilie Krone

Dance

Excerpt

Every time I think of that night, I live it once more, just as it happened the first time. I’ve barely got the dessert dishes soaking when Nicholas starts in on Jamie again about the credit card bill. She’d mentioned it to me over the phone once or twice, that they were working through some temporary money issues, but from the way he hisses at her I can tell it’s much worse than she’s made it out to be. It’s just like Jamie to protect me, keep me from worrying about her even when she knows it’s all I do. Worrying is all a mother can do, sometimes. 

I’ve never been able to stand the sound of their fights. He’s just so aggressive with her, white flecks of spit at the edges of his lips like leftover mashed potatoes when he yells. Right in front of us too, me and Paul, like we’re not there as their guests, enjoying a dinner she’s made for him. Maybe Jamie can’t manage money, but at least I taught her to be grateful. At least she’d never raise her voice at a dinner party.

The first time he brought up the bill was before he knew we’d arrived. Paul never liked ringing the doorbell, was always saying that as long as he was Jamie’s father he’d be entering her house through the side door in the garage like real family does. We didn’t know Nicholas would be yelling like that when we popped into the kitchen, bearing homemade pie and ice cream fresh from the freezer section at the store. He stopped as soon as he saw us, welcomed us in and showed us our seats, but there was no way to unsee what we’d seen, unhear what we’d heard. Their credit card debt was deeper than Paul or I could have imagined, and according to Nicholas, it was all Jamie’s fault. 

He’s at it again now, nagging Jamie in the other room in that tone I hate, that one I never would have let Paul use with me. The only thing worse than his yelling is his whispering. You could slice right through someone with the sharpness of that whisper. There’s a childishness to the way Nicholas yells—like a toddler in the throes of a tantrum—but that whisper has something truly nasty in it. 

Still, who am I to criticize who she chose to marry? I have friends who criticized their daughter’s husbands, and now they only see their grandchildren on holidays, have to beg just to be able to babysit. I always said that when Jamie had kids, I wanted them every Sunday morning, curled up in the big guest room bed beside me while Paul made us breakfast. I’d tell them privately over pancakes and bacon not to listen to their daddy when he yells. 

That’s what I’m thinking as I scrub the dishes. I want to tell Jamie that it’ll all be OK, remind her that the guest bed is always open and that a night away from Nicholas might be refreshing, healthy even. Marriage can be so draining in the beginning, once the excitement has worn off. Even Paul and I got a little sick of each other once the honeymoon tans had faded, and we’re as close to soulmates as two people can get. It’s only human to need some time to yourself.

The water is practically shut off, only the faintest stream running from the tap as I strain to listen to their argument. It’s too quiet to make out many of the actual words, but I feel that grating anger in Nicholas’s voice like a million pinpricks at the back of my skull, and when Paul puts his hand on my lower back, I realize my shoulders have been tensed up to my ears. 

Paul offers to finish the dishes and I say no no, I’ll do them, because really, he just wants to peek into the other room to check on Jamie, and God help us if Jamie sees us looking in on her. It’s only fair, I suppose, to afford her a little privacy in her own home. We fight too, after all, and I bet it isn’t always pretty. Even if Paul doesn’t use that tone of voice with me, there have been times where I couldn’t believe his nastiness. People say horrible things when they’re under pressure, especially to the people they love. 

I turn the tap back on full blast, reach for the sponge, think of anything but the terrible dissonance of Nicholas’s voice against the soft, reassuring melody of my daughter’s. But even under the hottest water my hands feel numb, and when the suds make them too prune-y I sneak a peek into the other room anyway, just to double-check. 

I’ve never seen a gun in person before, except for old ones in museums and occasionally in a shop window when I was a little girl. My parents were never the gun-toting type, and neither is Paul, and we always lived in nice areas, even when I was young. It’s smaller than I imagined, less shiny. They must use some sort of product on the ones on television to make them gleam the way they do. Or perhaps Nicholas has forgotten to clean his. He always did say that Jamie was better at cleaning. 

I want to say something, to remind Nicholas that the leftover pie is in the fridge, to tell Jamie to heat it up for him for just forty-five seconds and only one scoop of vanilla ice cream because two will make it too soggy. Instead I drop the plate I’m washing, let it fall to the tiles, and there is no satisfying crash of porcelain, because just as it hits the floor there is an eruption from the gun in Nicholas’s hand, and suddenly Jamie is a dancer.

A dancer? But yes, when I look at Jamie that’s all I can see. Her back arches slowly, slowly, and she’s at that high school recital again, the one where Paul objected to the outfits. They were admittedly a little vulgar even for my taste, and I watched him avert his eyes at the sight of her nipples protruding through the leotard like that, although green had always been such a nice color on her. And here she is now, mint green leotard, thighs all soft pink flesh and her back arching slowly, slowly.       

There is the dip and curve of her pelvis, always so lovely in proportion to her waist, pushing ever more outward as her body contorts. Her arms come out next, fingers bent in that soft-yet-tense way, arching out above her body and working their way backwards to meet her in that perfect, bent-legged lean. Even her chin, jutting out above that long, slender neck, seems engaged in the movement. How is Paul not seeing this? I think. Or maybe I’m only recalling that thought, dredging up old feelings. I’d been so disappointed in Paul for not watching that recital, after all the money we spent on Jamie’s costume. Either way I’m overcome by her, just as I was then, something like awe filling the empty spaces inside me like a helium balloon. Every movement of Jamie’s body emanates grace, strength, precision. My daughter, the dancer.

About the Author

Emilie Krone is a fiction writer from Northern California, currently based in New York City. She focuses primarily on literary fiction. Before Columbia, she studied creative writing at Emerson College.