A Short Story About Violence

The Dancer

I go to work like normal at the family store. It’s the store that keeps a roof over our heads. Work hard, my father says, so you can go to college. If I don’t have class I work. My father doesn’t appreciate free time.

There’s no time for free time, he says.

Two boys come into the store. I imagine I’m standing at the top of the stairs in a beautiful dress and curtsy like they do in the movies. I took dance lessons when I was young because mother wanted me to. This is what she wanted for me. So I stand at the top of the stairs and gracefully descend. The moonlight shining through the window. My date in his black tuxedo standing at the base with his arm outstretched. Waiting for me to take it. Saying, You look so beautiful, Marnie. Would you care to dance?

Yes, I say, cool, nonchalant. I would like to dance.

Then he says, suave, Well, would you care to dance with me? and I take his arm and we dance all night beneath the crystal chandelier that sparkles like a diamond ring.

Missus Corcoran was a strict dance teacher. Always she would tell me to focus. Always she was yelling at me more than anyone else.

Ligne, Marnie! Are you paying attention?

I usually read at work. Not many people come in at once. It’s not that I love chemistry, I can hear my father’s voice telling me, Why would you stand around when you could be getting ahead? There is no time for free time, Marnie.

I know these boys are not old enough to buy alcohol. I don’t care. Father doesn’t care. One of the boys smiles and he has nice eyes. He drives a black car I think looks silly. But he likes his car and he’s proud of it and that makes me like it too.

Jeté entrelacé! No, Marnie, spin and then drop.

It’s almost Halloween. The leaves are starting to change. Red and orange and yellow. I’ve always liked Halloween, since I was young. Not for the reasons most people say. Like. To dress up as someone new or to be someone you’re not. I like Halloween for the weather. Weather for sweatshirts. Nice for walking outside. And the decorations on people’s houses. Like jack o’ lanterns on windowsills and families made out of raked leaves stuffed into old clothes.

The boys come in and they’re joking around, pushing each other and laughing. I read my book. I don’t make eye contact. Not like he could tell through my glasses. They’ll come and I’ll ring them up and I won’t ask for their identification. His black car is sitting in the parking lot. Red and orange and yellow leaves on the sidewalk.

The Gun

A man comes in. He’s overweight with a sweatshirt on. He looks strange. But it’s a strange neighborhood. He’s talking about cigarettes or cigars and what do I have behind the counter. He’s looking behind the counter and getting too close and I tell him we only have cigarettes.

He asks for a small bottle of whiskey. He hands me money. Okay.

Chassé, Marnie. Pay attention.

Is this the right amount?

En Face.

I open the register. He pulls out a gun and suddenly his face is covered by a mask and his voice is like a hiss and my breath goes out of my chest and I think not cool at all, not nonchalant, this is not the beau I would curtsy for and this is not what was supposed to happen today. I have a test tomorrow, I have to study, I have to rake leaves, I have to…

Pas Jeté.

But I can’t move. There’s a gun pointed at me and he is telling me he wants what I have in the register. Cash and receipts. Cash and receipts, he says. Now!

Chassé, Marnie. Are you paying attention?

My hands are sweating. The gun is shaking, shiny and black like the car in the parking lot. I know there is a button underneath the counter for calling the police. Father showed me where it was. I can’t find it now.

Focus, Marnie! Missus Corcoran says. You’re not paying attention.

My fingers fumbling. Not as graceful as my curtsy. Why didn’t I pay attention when father showed me where the button was? I can hear his voice too and he says,

If you want to make it in this world, you can’t fool around. You have to work hard. Do you hear me? I’m only going to show you this one time. Are you paying attention?

Yes, papa.

Missus Corcoran says, Allegro, Marnie, allegro! You’re not quick enough.

Yes, Missus Corcoran.

BOOM!

What was that, Missus Corcoran?

Fouetté, Marnie.

BOOM!

What?

Fouetté.

It’s like thunder in my ears, but I think, but wait, it isn’t raining? My sister, she is three years younger than I am, she is scared of storms. We hide beneath the blankets and talk about the chandelier under which we would someday dance.

Thunder goes BOOM BOOM BOOM and I can see the guy’s face mask fall off when his head explodes into red and blood and I think, but wait, it isn’t Halloween? Not for a few days. I need a costume. I need a dress in which to curtsy.

BOOM!

Ligne!

The world freezes around me. Then another BOOM and something blows through my chest where I don’t have any breath. And I can feel my face and it’s hot, hotter than anything I’ve ever felt before and I need to –

Petit jeté.

Like my whole body shakes and I don’t know what it means –

Chassé, Marnie, are you listening?

I think it hurts but I can’t feel anything because my whole body shatters into diamonds –

Spin and then drop, Marnie.

I see the chandelier sparkling above me –

Brisé, Marnie. Very good.

And I descend, gracefully.

Finale, Missus Corcoran says, smiling at me. Finale, bravo.