The Midnight Dancers: A Fairy Tale Retold (7 page)

“‘Never been boating? Well, what have you been doing then?’” Paul quoted. The female faces around him looked blank. “From
The Wind in the Willows
,” he explained. There was a silence. “Haven’t any of you read it?”

“I’ve heard of it, but the literature teacher at Bayside Christian said she thought it had pagan parts to it, so I didn’t read it,” the blond twin said.

“Oh,” Paul scanned his memory. “What, because of the scene with Pan? I guess so. Well, that’s a shame you didn’t read it. It’s really a good book. I read it in college.” He set the large pan he was washing in the dish drain. “It sounds like your school is pretty strict.”

“Yes,” Miriam said emphatically. “My gosh, you’d think we were in the Middle Ages.”

“Well, actually, the High Middle Ages were a time of great intellectual inquiry,” Paul said. “Maybe you mean, ‘the Dark Ages?’”

She stared at him again quizzically. “Yeah, whatever.”

Only Cheryl seemed to appreciate his remark. She tittered. “Seriously, they are
so
close-minded at our school. We’re not allowed to read hardly anything except what they call ‘Great Christian Classics,’ like
Pilgrim’s Progress.
I keep in touch with my friends from North Carolina who are in public school and we aren’t reading the same books at all.”

“You might not be missing much. In Catholic school, we read some pretty trashy modern books in literature class,” Paul said. “It’s a shame that most high schools don’t teach the real classics.”

“Are you Catholic?” several voices asked.

“Yes,” Paul said.

“But are you a Christian?” Melanie asked. She had been leaning on the counter, listening, but hadn’t spoken until now.

“Of course he is. Catholics are Christians,” Rachel said, a bit edgily. Paul was surprised to hear her speak up.

“Not necessarily,” Cheryl said. “Just because you were born Catholic doesn’t make you a Christian, you know.”

“Oh, stop being stupid, Cheryl. There are Catholics at Bayside Christian Academy, and you know it. We’re not supposed to interrogate guests about their religious convictions. It’s not polite,” Rachel said, her voice sharpening.

Cheryl flushed, and Paul said, “Really, it’s all right. I’m not offended. I had several Protestant friends growing up and they were always asking me questions like that about my faith. I’m used to it.”

He looked at Melanie. “So what do you do around here for fun?” he asked. “Go swimming?”

She shrugged. “We don’t get much chance during the day,” 

Two of the younger girls suddenly started smiling.  

“We keep ourselves busy,” one of the blond twins said airily, giving what was intended to be a sly wink to the others, some of whom tittered.

“Mostly after hours,” one of the younger ones said with a laugh, and was shushed by an older one.

“We sew,” Miriam said dryly, casting a hard look at the younger ones.

Melanie said, “We do things with our church group. But lately we’ve just been at home.”

 
Bored and up to something “after hours”—at night?
Paul thought to himself. But he doubted that any of them were going to confide in a stranger like him.

“Do you really know how to juggle?” the youngest dark-haired girl, asked. For answer, Paul grabbed a handful of cooking utensils from the sink and began tossing them in the air. A spatula, ladle, serving spoon and wooden spoon were worked into a fountain. He juggled them for a few passes and then stopped, letting them splash back down one by one into the soapy water. He stared at the water.

“Yeah, I think so,” he said.

There were muffled giggles, and a little blond girl breathed, “That was so cool.”

Juggling is a great icebreaker,
he thought.

four

Rachel, seeing that Paul was washing pots and keeping the girls younger girls entertained enough to actually finish their jobs, decided she was going to slough off her own chores. She shrugged off her denim apron which she had put over her summer dress. Conveniently, the phone rang just then, and she said, “I’ve got it,” scooped up the handset, and stepped outside. “Hello?”

“Hi Rachel! Uh,
is
this Rachel?”  It was Keith Kramer, from her class at school.  Her antennae pricked up.  Keith was a friend, but he never called the Durhams.  It was odd.

“You know it is, Keith,” she said. “What’s up?” She was sure she had heard someone pick up the phone on the other end.

“I, uh, wanted to give Colonel Durham a message about the Bible outreach.”

“Okay, I’ll go get him.” But Rachel stood still. If her dad had picked up, he could just intervene, right now.

“That’s okay. Just tell him my dad and I won’t be able to make the meeting on Wednesday. Uh—how have things been, Rachel?”

“Okay,” she said, wondering if her dad was listening on the line or not. Was he testing her or something? Trying to see if she was going to obey him or not?

“Having a good summer?”

“Yeah, it’s been quiet around here since graduation,” Rachel said. If her dad was listening, it had to be clear to him that it was Keith Kramer, not her, who was initiating the conversation.

“So—what have you been up to?”

Aha, maybe that was it. Dad didn’t need to listen in on the conversation. Dad was hoping that Keith would be a spy for him. Just like Dad was hoping that Paul would be a spy.

Flushed with anger, Rachel suddenly felt reckless. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she said softly.

“What was that?”

“Oh, come on Keith,” Rachel said in a soft voice, staring at the golden row of windows on the house. “Wouldn’t you like to know what I’ve been up to?”

There was a silence that seemed too long and Rachel wondered again, her heart racing, if her dad was listening on the phone after all. If he was, she had just given herself away. On a sudden impulse, she walked swiftly around the house.

“Uh,” Keith said with an effort. “Yeah, that’s why I’m asking.”

Rachel didn’t answer because she was hurrying, as fast as she could without breathing hard, around the house to the place where her dad’s study was. Slowing to a halt, she peered in the window.

Her dad was typing on the computer. The phone was in its receiver—but maybe he had it on speakerphone?

I’m being way too paranoid,
she chided herself. She had an idea. “Well, then,” she said with a laugh. “Maybe you should talk to Taylor.”

“Taylor from our class?”

“Yeah, maybe you should talk to him,” she said. She had talked to Taylor at church last week. She had figured out that even though Taylor was in her dad’s study group too, he wasn’t going to be a spy.

“Okay, I’ll do that,” Keith said. “Uh, make sure you give your dad that message.”

“Sure I will,” she said, and hung up the phone.

She wandered up the path that ran between the vegetable gardens, feeling the breeze tugging her hair out of the bun, and planning. Glancing up, she saw Paul through the kitchen window and wondered idly if he were watching her. He probably thought she looked like some kind of old-fashioned heroine in her too-long skirt and blouse.
He would be mistaken
, she thought.
I’m trapped in this quaint Christian life by day, but now I have an escape.

And that thought alone was invigorating.

After Paul had finished the dishes and helped the girls with the kitchen, the evening had darkened. Colonel Durham returned and offered to drive Paul back to his campsite.

Paul had a feeling that the man wanted to talk with him alone, so he said yes. After saying goodnight to the girls and Mrs. Durham, Paul got into the passenger side of the colonel’s large town car. It was a comfortable car, but not ostentatious. The Durhams, he was starting to see, were well-off, but didn’t live extravagantly. It was interesting to see Christian parents who took the challenge to live simply seriously. He admired that principle, although he could see the teenagers were chafing under it.

“Thanks very much for having me over,” Paul said.

“We enjoyed having you as well,” Mr. Durham said.

As they drove, Colonel Durham was quiet for a moment then said abruptly, “So, now you’ve met my daughters. You see the problem?”

Paul searched for words. “They’re all very beautiful young ladies,” he said slowly.

The Colonel gave a wry smile. “Yes, they are. I wonder if that’s half the trouble. I wish God had given me godly daughters, but instead He gave me beautiful daughters. And that makes my job twice as hard. I don’t know what it is about females and beauty, but if a girl’s beautiful, she seems to think that she has a right to focus on that. But I guess that’s human nature.”

“Does there have to be a conflict between being beautiful and being good?” Paul couldn’t help saying.

The colonel frowned. “I don’t know if there
has
to, but in my experience, there often
is
,” he said.

Fingering the medal around his neck and silently asking for guidance, Paul tried to think of where to start.  “I was wondering…just thinking about how my own dad related to my sisters…Have you had much time to spend with them? How much do you see them during the week?”

“I’m working from home three days a week and Sallie’s almost always home. They’re practically never out of our sight. That’s what’s so puzzling to me. I don’t see what they could be hiding. They couldn’t be doing anything at nighttime: they’d have to walk right past our bedroom to get downstairs, and we always keep our door open. Yet I’m sure there’s something going on. I just can’t figure out what it is or when it’s happening.”

“Have you looked into getting any help?” Paul asked.

The man harrumphed. “I’ve tried to sound out some of their friends from church about it. A couple of their male classmates are in my Bible study group. I’ve asked them to try to find out. You know how sometimes teens will only talk to other teens, and I know my girls are always trying to talk to these boys anyhow. But the boys have no idea. Either that, or they know what’s going on and they’re not telling me either.”

“I meant, have you tried seeing a family counselor or something,” Paul amended.

The colonel shook his head. “Been there, done that,” he said. “We did the whole counseling thing when my first wife died. I don’t know that it did much good.” He turned off the car—they had reached the campsite. “Besides, I don’t think this is psychological. It’s all about trust. The girls don’t trust me. I don’t trust them. And frankly, I don’t see what can be done about it.”

He coughed and looked uncomfortable. “Like I said, I asked a couple of their friends already if they could find out what was going on. And I’m not sure if I can trust what they’re telling me. I don’t know if you’d consider trying your own hand, to see if you can find out what they’re up to?”

Paul stared at him. “So you’re asking me to spy on your daughters?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. If you were to talk to them…get to know them…and happen to figure out what it is they’re up to…you could let me know.” He looked a bit aggravated. “I know it’s an awkward request. I just don’t see what else I can do, short of bugging the house or having chips implanted in their arms. The situation has deteriorated to this point.”

Paul could see how frustrated the colonel was. The man was in a tough spot: he was spying on his daughters but he didn’t want to have to spy.

Thoughtful, Paul leaned forward and looked down at his feet. “Let me ask you this,” he said at last. “Which would you prefer—to have someone tell you what it is your daughters are doing? Or to have your daughters tell you themselves?”

 “I’d rather my daughters told me themselves, of course,” Colonel Durham said, looking searchingly at Paul. “Why? Do you think you could get them to do that? How?”

Paul drummed his fingers on his knees, thinking of the snatches of the girls’ conversation he had inadvertently overheard. “Well, I don’t know if I could. Part of it would depend on how much you’re willing to trust me,” he said at last.

The Colonel sat there, frowning and looking hard at Paul, suddenly looking formidable, the way that Army commanders can look when the need arises. Paul knew he was being scrutinized.