The Ballerina - A Whimsical Tale by Samantha Green

Ballerinas only dance when you give them a chance to stumble behind curtains of sufferance. He should have talked to her sooner. She was standing right there, arms held high in a relevé. As odd as it seemed to see her dancing on the top of a tombstone, foot pointed out and then, like a demented bird, turning her head just so, down to the fresh dirt below, there was something inhuman, a friscalating snowflake in a desert.

They came to bury their relatives, their lost enemies and friends. They said goodbye to those they had wed and the lovers they had regretted. They stood there sobbing and stony eyed while the ballerina leapt to the sky. Right in front of them too!

“Well, I guess this um … I guess this won’t do,” the groundskeeper mumbled to himself.

He was a cynical man, aged forty-three and it baffled him, not that she was there – no, he had seen far crazier things, like drunks who recited Shakespeare, and self proclaimed witches casting ‘spells’, and even the postman leaving a package for deceased Mr. Wells (yes, right on his grave) – and she was positioned for a lighthearted pirouette. No, that was certainly not it. It was the reactions of the cemetery guests.

Most of them did not care if she put on a show next to the fresh flowers placed upon lamented memories. Some, glanced only for a moment out of respect – because how would this look to the dead? – wondering, how does a woman move unaffected by all of this dread? A few would snicker because it was peculiar and, what does it matter? It’s nice to freshen up this hopeless air. Then, usually one out of each party, would walk right up and talk to her. Why did this happen? Well, the groundskeeper had no clue!

“Does that,” his words stumbled out, so he had to give a laugh. “Uh … does it bother you?”

The groveling woman wiped her tears with a silk handkerchief, “Oh my husband … if only I would’ve stayed faithful! Maybe I would have a dime! Oh – oh … that sickly man. Why did he have to be so righteous!!”

This was not what the groundskeeper expected, this candid confession, so he spoke again, “But the … the ballerina?”

“What? I couldn’t care less about her. She can dance all night!” The woman blew her nose. “But what am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to live on the streets?”

She hurried away with the procession, moaning, “How could he? How could he do this to me?”

She was no help to him and soon, he was alone with the ballerina again. How long was she going to be there? She had already planted herself there for a week. She even brought a picnic to eat every morning before she danced. He was bewildered by the situation and, since confrontation was not his forte, it was a grievance to shuffle his feet to the tombstone she was dancing on that day.

“Hello,” was all he could say.

She sang, too. “Oh, hello. You must be the groundskeeper. I see you here every day.”

“Yeah …”

“My name is Anya, and yours?”

“Er… Ernie.”

“You should really talk with more enthusiasm, Ernie,” she said. “Or people will think you’re just waiting to die. Maybe you’ll make a fool of yourself if you say the first thing on your mind, but it’s agonizing either way, right?”

Who was this woman to tell him how he should speak? By God, he was the groundskeeper! This intimidation did not serve Ernie well, and he had to admit to himself that her bold presence made his intestines coil around themselves. Poor Ernie, a man who found it so difficult to speak when the time was called for.

“So,” he began. “This is a graveyard.”

“Yes.”

“The people. I think they are a little uncomfortable that you’re here,” he lied, and she knew he did too. So what did she do? She raised her arms up for another relevé! What else was there to do?

“No they’re not. Some even come over and say hello to me.”

“But this is a graveyard.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re dancing on people’s tombstones.”

“Yes.”

Dance with me? Ernie had almost forgotten the old memory of the woman in the white dress, blue ribbon tied in front. He’d said yes, because that’s what gentlemen do. Though he’d never paid her much attention before, now her hair was curled and his jokes were silent in the slow notes that scattered the floor. Her hands trembled around his neck, this woman who did not seem to care if the way she spun made people stare or glare. She was bold too, telling him, I’m so nervous. Except, it wasn’t the woman who had to be nervous. When the confession was made, his throat locked and he could only utter, Thanks.

“Maybe you should go.”

“Go? Why?”

“Why?”

“I’m just asking questions. There’s no harm in that.”

Ernie puffed up his chest. Not to take a stand, but rather to keep himself from tumbling to the grass. This strange woman! What was this now? She couldn’t stay!

Then he babbled, “It will be a little cold tonight.”

“That’s fine. I’ll sleep in the mausoleum.”

“I don’t – you can’t go in there!” But when her kind eyes fixated upon him, Ernie backed down. For the first time, out of all the years he had worked in that cemetery, he felt the cold air grip his neck and pull all of the gusto he had left. “Fine. Stay here. I’m locking up.”

The next day Ernie pushed the cemetery gate open. The ballerina emerged from the mortuary yawning, with a croissant in her hand and a newspaper tucked under her arm.

“Good morning Ernie!” 

“Anya.”

She chewed, crumbs tumbling out of her mouth. Anya sat in the grass and opened the paper to the obituary section.

“Let’s see,” she said. “Who will be our new guests?”

Thank you … Thank you … I should have never slow danced with you. The ballerina noticed Ernie’s absent expression. She rolled up the paper and handed it to him.

“Here. Thought you would like to take a look.”

“Thank you.”

The Ballerina only giggled and hopped. She leapt from tombstone to tombstone as the sun rose. After a while she noticed that Ernie had not moved, but was holding the paper close to his face, reading one section over and over again, eyes wide with a grimace. “I don’t believe it …”

“What is it?”

“Oh, I just used to go to school with this girl.”

Ernie tore part of the paper off and stuck it in his pocket. “It’s almost time for the burial. The gravediggers aren’t digging fast enough.”         

Dressed in black, with a blue ribbon in her hair, almost thirty years later, Elinor’s presence was just the same. And it is interesting how he held the memory this way. Her face had changed (ever so slightly), but her broken laughter in the midst of her tears circled in the pool of his stomach. She had to look at him twice to remember, and Ernie didn’t realize how the arrow in her eyes would pierce his side. She was the one who had said it first, gaze twinkling, It’s just that I like you!

He dug the grave (much swifter than those he had hired)! There was no choice for a man who’d lost his voice. His face was dusted with soil, his hands cracked from the wooden handle. His back was breaking and Elinor would never know. All she would see was the beautiful grave prepared for her lost friend.

Was he suffering from paramnesia or had the world revealed a new kind of dread to him? How could he stand near, watching Elinor pour out her tears for a friend? The procession was gathering and now he was being shooed away by the more important ladies, the ones whom this friend presumably shared all of her secrets with. However, Ernie’s feet were firmly planted on the ground, his dirt face leaning on his shovel. As long as Elinor stood near him, he was senseless. He figured that if he put a stick in front of his face, she wouldn’t be able to notice he was near.

“Excuse me,” one woman berated him. “Gravedigger… yes you. Move, please. Your job is done.”

He was pushed out of the way and retreated back to the ballerina who was singing:

Rip the lace.

Tear the thread.

Save you from the woe of dread  

Turn. Turn.

Turn your head. 

Or never capture love, my friend.

She stopped. “You don’t seem as ornery as you were yesterday, but you’re so quiet. Was she important to you? The one in the coffin?” Ernie did not speak.

“That is fine.” The ballerina jumped off the tombstone and landed with a THUMP. She pulled out her handkerchief and wiped the dirt off his face. “Your hands, why are you clenching them my friend?”

Again, he did not answer her.

“There is something. I do not know what, but I will be here when you’re ready to reflect and reset.”

“You’re a strange woman,” he said finally.

“Not strange. Necessary.”

He took a walk, away from the group gathered near Elinor, but his curiosity did not let him wander too far. He could still see her between the waving leaves of the willow trees. He leaned on one and pulled out a handkerchief to blow his nose. Yes, a tree was much better to hide behind than the stick end of his shovel, and now he could watch her face for a few seconds longer without her knowing. Her tiny nose was upturned, just as he remembered, and her brow furrowed in her grief, but the pale freckles were still there, and so was her expression that always seemed to rest in a frown. And in this way, Elinor would be taken a bit more seriously than her peers in school. She could look at someone plainly and they would still be unsure of their standing with her. Oh, that frown! That mysterious, jovial frown on her charming face! Reader, do you know what Ernie liked the most about her eyes? It was when they cried and the hue brightened to a sparkling blue. But he never wanted to see her cry! That was the dilemma! It was a curse to feel for her in this way.

How could he know she would be there? How could he see her again after so many years and not want to choke?

“How could you!” came a wretched shriek. It was the lady who had pushed him earlier.

“How could you leave me like this! You are selfish!”

“Hush … stop … hush … you look like a fool, Katie,” came from the crowd.

“She left us to suffer!” she continued, and was ushered away. 

Elinor stood at the foot of the grave, alone, focusing on the words etched on stone. She was whispering something, but he could not make it out. Then she lay on the ground, and placed her ear on the grass, listening for a sound. The ballerina sat next to her and sighed, put her hand on Elinor’s shoulder and said (this he could make out), “Dear Elinor, what are you going to do?”     Elinor shook her head, rejecting the thought, but soon turned her face to the sky to say, “I will bury her.”

She took a shovel and began her work. Anya leapt away. Ernie even witnessed her humming with a twirl.

He strode up again, chest puffed out (and this time, he meant it), “You can’t do that.”

“What can’t I do?”

“You … stop dancing! I’m talking to you!”

“So talk.”

“You can’t hum like that.”

She whistled instead, “I wasn’t humming to mock her pain. Why do you care so much? Ernie, you make yourself suffer for nothing.”

Anya was silent for a moment, but just long enough to make Ernie’s cheeks turn red.

“Ah.”

“Ah what?”

“That woman needs help burying.”

“… I was going over there.”

“Yes. Hurry!”

He turned without a second thought and called back to her, “Go dance in the mausoleum …”

“Great suggestion! I think I will!”

Ernie shuddered. No. No. What am I doing? The tree! The tree was safe! But Elinor had already seen him.

“Ernie,” that frown again. “I thought that was you. Grab a shovel and help me please.”

Ernie shuffled. His hands were still shaking from the torment of his decision to help her bury her friend. Elinor packed the dirt into the grave in a fury, turning away the other gravediggers when they approached her.

“No, no,” her command came like the gust of the wind. “Let me do this please!”

“But ma’am, that’s a fancy dress you have there,” one said. “You’ll get dirt on it.”

“There are worse things.”

The gravediggers looked at their boss, who could only manage to shrug his shoulders. Alas! Ernie was doomed to relive his past anxiety! Or maybe the feelings never left. He had only buried them in silence, just like Elinor was burying her close friend. Why did this shattering pain mute him? There was nothing he could say to her. Nothing more than a grunt!

Ahhhh! His heart cried. I need a beer!

The ballerina watched them, as they moved the heaps of dirt. There was a moment (or five), where she caught hidden glances from both, though the one who was struck by grief seemed much calmer than the other. Ernie was gritting his teeth, eyes wide like he was concentrating on some elaborate task to win a prize. No. Not win. It was then Anya pondered, Why is it that humans endure within?

Anya giggled out loud. She had figured it out! What a silly man, that Ernie! If only he understood! I MUST help him turn.

Ernie had heard her indecent cackling (tense situations really alter perception, don’t you think?) He pointed and snapped his fingers as if to say, By God, let me just suffer! … in silence!     

The soil had set and the shovels were dropped. Elinor wiped the sweat off her brow, which left a large dirt mark, and instinctively Ernie reached in his pocket to give her his handkerchief, but then … oh no! “You can’t have that!”

The handkerchief was already in her hand. “But you gave it to me.”

“I need it back.”

Ernie tugged it, not so much that she would be offended, but not so little that she would still consider using it. He was going to explain, but when he saw that furrow between her brow, the words left him. However, Elinor was an extraordinary woman, and what she said made Ernie want to carve out his own tombstone.

“Did you … wipe your nose?”

He stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket and muttered, “I fo … go.”

A few moments had passed between them. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you … The corners of her mouth lifted and Elinor laughed, a sound that rewound time. It was young and vibrant, filled with hopes that were never squandered. The grass had become a ballroom floor and the balloons, hundreds of them, slow danced in their heads.. 

“Well, Ernie,” she said. “Thank you. For not giving me that.”  

“Hm,” he muttered again.

“… I should get going now,” her words were Ernie’s nightmare and salvation. “Thank you.

For helping me bury my friend. It was wonderful to see you again.”

“Yup.”

Over the next month, Elinor visited the graveyard frequently to replace flowers on her friend’s grave. Of course, Ernie did his best to pretend he had important matters to attend to. He was prompt in raking every leaf that had fallen from the trees. He removed the flowers that had died, and every time he passed a row, he would nod his head to her, his stomach slithering with snakes. On one occasion, he wiped every tombstone to make them shine, though this was a silly thing to do, as Anya pointed out to him that, in the paper, the weather was forecasting a storm that night. Ernie insisted on doing this anyway. It was easier to hide behind the bigger tombstones and take small glances at Elinor, just as he had done by the willow tree.

“You are a very strange man,” Anya popped her head up from the tombstone next to him. “Most people want to talk to their friends, not stare at them from a distance with beady eyes.”    

“She’s not my friend.” This was not necessarily a lie, but this was: “Look at her, reading next to a grave like that. It’s a little annoying.”

“Hm.”

“Well, doesn’t it bother you?”

“Why would it?”

“And the other day, she packed her lunch and brought it here to eat. She stayed for hours!”

Anya looked at him.

He sighed and waved her off, “You wouldn’t understand.”    

“So what are you going to do?” she asked.

Ernie didn’t know how to respond.

“What are you going to do?” she asked again, but he walked away this time. 

There were regular visits from Elinor for the next month. At the beginning of that month, a father who had been in an accident. The wife lamented for her husband who would never be able to make it to another one of their son’s little league games.

“The car … I should have gotten the brakes checked. I should have … the brakes …”    

Anya hugged her as the tears streamed, “Yes. Yes. I see you. What are you going to do now?”

Ernie glared at the ballerina, startled, but she ignored him.

There was another instance, where a child had died from sickness. Everyone had left except the father, who refused to let the gravediggers do their job. When Ernie tried his best to reason with him (because it really was getting dark), the father jumped into the hole and cried,

“This is my son! MY son!”

The ballerina pushed Ernie to the side and looked down from the edge. “That is awful. Now. What are you going to do?”

Again, Ernie was baffled and quite embarrassed by this.

“I will throw you out on the streets …” He ground his teeth.

“Tsk tsk, Ernie. How rude,” but she wasn’t looking at him. The father was already taking her hand and climbing out. 

What the hell is going on? Ernie still couldn’t figure it out, but Anya had a sort of blind faith in this cynical man.

One of the more recent encounters involved an older gentleman who died of natural causes, and while one would find it hard to believe, the family stood there around that grave, sighing in relief. There was no eulogy. Again, one would think these grinning faces would be rare, but pushing aside mourning the dead for a laugh happened on occasion in a graveyard.

“Who wants his beer fridge?” piped up a son.

“We should bury him with it, replied another. “And if we pour in the rest of what’s left, he just might wake up.”

Anya could sense a tense silence rising and, wanting to be jovial, she threw in a bottle opener. “That’s a very interesting proposal. Tell me, what are you going to do next?”

“Get out!” Ernie puffed up his chest and let out a holler. “Get out of my cemetery!!!”

They all laughed at him, the kind of laugh that makes someone roll into a ball. They all laughed, except for the ballerina, who had already hopped off of her tombstone. She stepped up to him, close enough so that their toes were inches apart.    

“Why didn’t you just say that before?” His stature collapsed again.

“Now look at you,” she said. “What are you going to do without me? Certainly not talk to Elinor. You’ll be stuck in this loop. What are you going to do?”

She left, but Elinor was already making her way through the entrance. Ernie did the only thing he knew how to do and jumped into the old man’s grave until she left.      

In case you are wondering, dear reader, the party did continue to laugh at him.

The next morning it was clear to Ernie that kicking Anya out of his cemetery was a mistake. He found that he did actually look forward to seeing her come out of the mausoleum every morning carrying a croissant, with a newspaper tucked under her arm. Ernie supposed that it was not so bad that she was dancing on tombstones. What other use did they have than to mark a solemn end? And though she asked those strange questions, he noticed that no one ever seemed to mind. It was as if she was supposed to ask the whole time.

When he went to unlock the gate early in the morning, she was tiptoeing on the tops of the fence. 

“Good morning, Ernie,” she was cold.

“Hey Anya.” When was the last time he apologized to someone? “I – uh … I didn’t mean it. Yesterday.”

“Of course you didn’t. You couldn’t ever mean it.”

“I don’t … if I made you angry yesterday …”

“Oh Ernie,” she shook her head. “You don’t understand, do you. You could never make me angry. I just am as I am.”

He opened the gate and stepped in, but the ballerina didn’t follow. He looked at her, as if to say, you comin’?

She stood there for a moment, looking like she was in deep contemplation, but it was fun making her friend squirm. “Well, I suppose I don’t really have a choice.”       

Ernie puffed up his chest, again. “So now that we’re, uh, on better terms. Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, but it won’t be the answer you’re expecting.”

“Still … what is a ballerina doing in a graveyard?”

She smiled.

Ballerinas only dance  when you give them a chance

 to stumble behind curtains of sufferance.

Rip the lace.

Tear the thread.

Save you from the woe of dread Turn. Turn.

Turn your head, or never capture love, my friend.

Soon feet are numb and you can’t recall

the very first time you fell down at all.

The dance finally is by the arch of movement.

“… and that is why I dance on tombstones.” The ballerina jumped up and landed like a bird on stone. “It’s alright if you don’t understand. It’s all a dance. But I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Your friend. Elinor. She visits often, but you never speak to her. Why?” Anya knew the answer to this already. She saw how he hid behind shovels and tombstones because it was better to look like a fool than to confess what he had always wanted to. She saw the sweat on his brow and the grimace whenever Elinor came around. It was painful for even the ballerina to watch.

“She’s not a friend,” he reverted back to muttering again.

“You are a silly man.” Then, with a big breath in, Anya puffed up her chest. “But I have to ask. If she shows up again today, what will you do next?”

There was a pause.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Nothing. That is what Ernie did. When Elinor reached the gates, carrying a new bouquet, Ernie stayed behind, watched and accepted things as they were. This was a time for Elinor. His story had already been told and Anya could smile in the beauty of that silent dream.

This went on for another month, the balloons that danced inside of their heads. However, one day, there were no funeral services, and the grey sky had become a cerulean Spring. The trees were blossoming and birds sang a new song. The ballerina raised her arms and whispered, “It won’t be too long now.”

Elinor touched her friend’s grave and looked up to breathe, filled the lungs in her chest and caught Ernie’s eye. What was this? Elinor let out a laugh! Then, after all this time, Ernie relaxed, took a step forward, and met her on that cemetery path.

“Hi Ernie,” she said.

“Hey Elinor,” he replied.

“It’s funny,” she observed. “I’ve been coming back here for months and you never said hello to me, not after that first time. Do you dislike being around me that much?” 

“No! No,” to Ernie’s dismay, it came out as a shout.

“Oh. Well, why then?”

Anya clung to the top of a tombstone and watched. What would her friend Ernie do next? There was really no right answer and that was the wonder of it all; a turn that only he would make. Whether it was a turn he benefited or lamented from was entirely up to him. The warm breeze was rolling up the cemetery hill and when it touched Anya’s skin she whispered, There is still some hope.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he confessed. “You were here to see your friend, not me.”

This made Elinor begin to cry, her emotions flooding through a dam. She turned her head away. To look at Ernie was an event of elation and regret, and yet, how could she run away now? That memory, the one that had been buried so deep, had sprouted up; life given to a new tree. This was the moment, where their eyes would meet again at last, retrieve the past, hold it in the air and tie their feet to the ground, as they understood the emergence of the heavenly sound.  

“How could you say that?” Elinor poured out. “Why wouldn’t I want to see you? Don’t you realize that I asked you to help me bury Charlotte’s grave? And – and all of those times I came back to replace the flowers … I spent so much money on flowers and they kept dying, but I had to come back. I had to. At first, I mourned, yes, but then I would see you, Ernie. You just stand there, saying nothing, but,” she collected herself. “Maybe it was better you said nothing at all. You said nothing and it made me remember.”

He didn’t have to answer what he already knew.

“It was one of my favorite memories, you know,” she said. “Slow dancing with you … Every time I saw you here, that is what I thought of. And soon, I started coming back here, just to see you.”

Ernie’s lips parted. His heart lifted out of his chest! Perhaps this was the wonder of it all, that silent turn of beauty in the fall.

“I’m going for a walk,” he said. “If you would like to join me.”

Anya leapt and twirled one more time, landed in a grave and buried herself until there was a next time. For in that moment, my dear reader, there was nothing left, absolutely nothing left to hide.

Thank you for listening to my whimsical, surreal, and bizarre tale!

*The Ballerina by Samantha Green is featured in The Stygian Collection