The Dancer
The young woman was exotic-looking. As she danced, the audience was utterly captivated. Then, as the lights dimmed, she pirouetted off the stage to the right. The sound of clapping hands was deafening. The beautiful prima ballerina performed the best performance of her life. Betty knew she had danced with every fiber of her being.
Another dancer once asked her how she could dance with so much intensity. What motivated her? The answer she gave him was puzzling. Betty said I dance for others who cannot dance for themselves. I dance for Jean with blue-violet eyes. I dance for Ernest, who will never marry. I dance for the memory of Cindy, who can no longer braid her hair. I dance for Eleanor, Thomas, Joyce and Jimmy, Rose and Rory, and Mary, who will never work in a department store. I dance for Alice June, who lost her heart on that sad day.
Finally, I dance for Miss Sheridan, who gave her soul for us. But, most of all, I dance for William, my husband, who took my hand and showed me the way out of insanity so many years ago.
Sweet William had screamed Ernest’s name over and over that day. Betty stood crying, not realizing she had been standing and yelling, until Sweet William took her hand and said, I will save you, Betty. We will find Ernest, and it will be Okay. William led her outside to safety that day. They were inseparable from that day on. Betty would dance; it was what she was born to do. Wasn’t that what her mother had wanted?
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