Plie for Mercy

There she was on the train ride home, a flower yet to blossom. This little angel of a thing, no older than fifteen or sixteen, had a small lithe frame that captured much of her noble pursuit's energy and discipline. He remembered the one time he sat with her before. As she'd fumbled in her wallet then for the monthly commuter pass, he'd spied her ID. The laminated pass revealed her to be a dancer for one of the city's prominent troupes.

He admired her youthful dedication to this graceful art. Tutored outside the normal realm, her commute was a chance to do homework. This evening she read from some oversized textbook, then scribbled down notes on small index cards. How tightly she held the pen in three fingers of her left hand; how she leaned forward while writing, as if supervising the very process. He saw her print words in tiny, neat letters, filling two cards with new and necessary knowledge. From where he sat, he could see a lot. For one, he saw a girl who'd be breaking hearts in a few years' time. Her ballet performances might mean masses of hearts. Right now, golden hair framed a pale face with nice features, a thin straight nose and a chin that almost apologized for its angular attractiveness. The untrained eye might mistakenly dismiss her as plain. But he saw much more.

It was a late November evening that called for warmth. He watched her check that heat was coming from the registers below the window, and she smiled at being caught. The fire of her smile ignited his heart. Her radiant blue eyes made him wish away twenty-five years, but facts overruled fantasy. Without any special awareness, time had marched him far beyond youth. He had to own up to being 'middle-aged.'

Still, experience afforded insight. He saw beyond this waif of a girl to the special young woman she soon would become. He expected she also knew she was destined for greater things, her talent and discipline not driven by blind faith alone. Yet at this point, he imagined it remained a secret to her peers. She was between seasons herself, at an awkward pre-butterfly stage. He pretended to glimpse at the paperback in his lap. She kept smiling, instinctively sensing his attention.

Every smile was a renewed wish for lost innocence, to again feel things powerfully, to live for dreams. When had numbness pervaded his soul, he wondered, this cynicism and weariness and compromise. Reading was an impossibility with her there; these thoughts shouting in his head. In deference to the silent politics of commuting, he turned a page. She held her gray woolen overcoat against the cold window, and leaned into it, shutting her eyes and slinking down in her seat.

As he watched her feign sleep, he noticed the resemblance to Lynn. Twenty-five years ago, Lynn was a freshman cheerleader who showed up for a pre-production drama department meeting. Word had it this thin bundle of attractive energy could act. He watched her float across the room, where big John Grinsley picked her up as if she were no more than a dress back from the cleaners. She seemed unbound by the rules of gravity, and he very much wanted to know her better, discover this secret of converting enthusiasm to weightlessness.

She'd sensed his interest, and he later wondered how much of this show with big John had been for his benefit. The thing is it worked. Though seniors rarely bothered with freshmen, his interest had been piqued. He kept seeing her around campus, having coffee in the student union or hanging around backstage at the theater, helping the property manager and stagehands. It wasn't a secret she deserved the lead that had been given to another, older student, but she never made a point of being bitter. Instead, she'd accepted her relatively minor role and continued to help the production in any way possible. As assistant director, he had ample occasion to see her in action and the more he saw, the more he liked. They traded what passed for witty banter, always kidding about running away together.

The week before the production was a rough one. The professor directing the show had a major blowup, verbally eviscerating the cast person by person, thinking this the ultimate in motivational technique. Instead, it made more than a few people cry. As assistant director, he was an embarrassed silent spectator. Afterwards, he caught up with Lynn on her way to the Rathskellar.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she said. "But no one deserves to be treated like that."

"I hope you don't think I had anything to do with it."

"I know you didn't. And thanks for asking. You're always so considerate." She put her arm around his waist and gave him a small kiss on the cheek.

"Oh Lynn, when are we going to run away together?"

"Just say the word."

"When are you going to take me seriously?"

"Should I?"

This time he leaned in. The kiss startled her in its ferocity. There was no mistaking his seriousness, or her surprise at this. He knew he'd made an impression, and figured things would take a turn for the better. He was ready to commit to this. Running away had never seemed so positive.

What followed instead was a month of confused emotions, as she tried hard to avoid him. Yet the few times he caught up with her, it felt right. There was kissing, hugging, petting. But after, she seemed upset.

When confronted about it, she had a hard time containing the tears. She was betrothed to some wealthy hometown lothario named Chip. He conjured up hatred for some ascot-wearing gent with Roman numerals behind his name, and believed her when she apologized about it. Lynn seemed to regret not being able to have a relationship, and wanted him to stop because she was having a hard time resisting. He promised in deference to good old Chip that he'd try to behave. And apart from a few stolen kisses in library carrels, nothing serious developed. The play, however, was a great success.

He saw Lynn the day of his graduation. She'd stayed the extra week, though most of the underclassmen had gone home. She made it a point to come by, introduce herself to his parents, and tell them how wonderful she thought he was. She pulled him aside and whispered the line that would stick with him for years afterwards: "I'll marry Chip, but I'll always love you."

He lost touch with Lynn. From mutual acquaintances, he heard the Chip deal fell apart. Rumor had it she'd given up life in the theater to marry the heir to some real estate fortune. Her stage was that of high society, getting nowhere perhaps but always dressed well for it. He made other choices too, and now found himself commuting from the suburbs. In the end, it was that simple.

Lynn was talented and pretty and had used both to her advantage. His consolation had been an ability to recognize it before others. Perhaps this was his talent. He smiled now to see this one with her eyes closed, making sure to rub knees with him across the seats. A dancer in control of her body's every movement, he knew this innocent flirting was no accident. She was very like Lynn, he thought, sensing his interest, rewarding his attention. He wished her only good things.

As his stop approached, he retrieved his coat and briefcase from the racks above the seats. The young girl opened her eyes and smiled again. As her knee brushed against his legs, she politely apologized. He smiled back and said "No problem. You have a great night."

He got up and joined the crowd of regulars standing in the open passage near the doorway. These guys were like overgrown college kids masquerading in business suits, telling jokes and heatedly discussing the week's football match-ups. As was their way, they gave him a hard time about the dancer girl.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," one said. "Young enough to be your daughter."

He had no lecherous interest. He loved the smiles she gave him, the way they melted something inside. For a brief train ride, she made remote feelings seem less far away and even allowed him to imagine a younger, romantic self. These other guys wouldn't begin to understand.

"I was just reading."

"Yeah, sure you were. I bet."

Their good-natured jibes were as much a part of the commute as the train's poor intercom system and horrible lighting. The doors opened and let in a rush of bitter cold air. He moved past them onto the dark concrete platform, slowly hitting his stride.