Dancing Killed Dimitri

Thick, tempestuous winds roll against a house from another age. The old, possibly Victorian-style mansion is lit with carriage lanterns and window candles. A young and tall woman walks up the gravel driveway with her blonde hair waving in the wind. She latches her hand around the metal knocker to announce her arrival. An older man dressed in white and black, presumably the butler, opens the door.

“Welcome to the Caswell Estate. May I see your invitation?”

Reaching into her cream-colored purse, the widow pulls out an envelope with a golden sticker that once sealed its flap. Extracting a letter made with cardstock, she hands it to him. Head turned down, he reads:

Dearest Jane Arbury,

It is with great delight and eager anticipation that I, Arthur Caswell, invite you to my estate in celebration of my 35th birthday.

Saturday, the Eighth of July

Two Thousand Fourteen

at Nine in the Evening

The Caswell Estate

Scarborough, Maine

“Mrs. Arbury,” he glances up as she swallows the lump in her throat. “It’s Ms. Arbury, actually.” “Oh, my apologies, madam. Please, come in,” he says as he feels the awkward tension. “Thank you,” she responds as she steps into the old mansion.

Most of the cordially invited guests have already arrived and said their pleasantries. After all, it is 9:30 PM. Jane is fully aware of her tardiness, and even more aware of the reason for it. It has been seven years since she last attended a party of any kind, but the trauma she associates with them never seems to quiet. Shaking away the images that always protrude, she makes her way from the long hall into the large, open ballroom. Several candle-lit chandeliers hang from the 40-foot ceiling, each one large enough to light a neighborhood. The marble floor reflects her white 2-inch heels as clearly as a mirror would. Crowding the dance floor are men and women dressed in formal clothes. Three-piece suits and long dresses are the image of the evening.

Arthur Caswell, the young entrepreneur-turned-millionaire, approaches Jane. His short black curls bounce above his eyebrows as he closes the distance between them. “You know, I was beginning to wonder if you would ever show up,” he says with a sarcastic grin on his face. Seeing her unamused reaction, he adds, “you did notice the invitation said 9:00 PM, right?” “Yes, of course I did,” she responds with the slightest hint of disdain. Jane has always been fond of Arthur, but his sarcastic persistence has been somewhat of a nuisance recently. “You know why I’m late,” she continues. “I know, Jane. And this must be difficult for you, but you needed to come around eventually.”

Distracted both by the party and a suppressed flashback, she breaks eye contact with him for the first time. Unable to stray from her past, Ms. Arbury remembers a time when she didn’t need to correct people like the butler. She sees herself seven years younger. The music was bouncing off the windows of a large apartment overlooking the city. The noise complaints were justified, considering Dimitri Guthrie had just become the first man to successfully create machines that operate completely on Artificial Intelligence. Jane clearly envisions her husband of two years walking up to her, grabbing her hands, and insisting that they dance. 

Staring into the back of his head and seeing his long brown hair moving from side to side, she is simultaneously at peace and overcome with excitement. As they plant their feet on the dance floor, Jane begins to enjoy herself. The pace at which they dance is of no concern to her, so long as she can see his happiness. A slow song comes on. One of their favorite soft love songs from the 1960’s plays in the background as they draw closer to each other. Dimitri places his hands on Jane’s waist, hers traveling up to his shoulders. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispers. “It means the world to me that you are by my side for this.” She smiles and looks at their feet as they step in tandem with each other. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

His body is thrust against hers. Against his will, he continues to fall limp in her arms, fearfully aware of what just happened. Panicked, Jane looks over his shoulder to see a man with a knife. He flees the apartment only to leave a trace of blood and unanswered questions. Looking into Dimitri’s eyes, she sees regret and sorrow. Choking on his blood, he manages to voice four words. “It’s … not … your … fault.” She wants to scream, but she feels a lump in her throat.

“You’re right,” she replies. “I know you are.” Pulling herself back into the present, she signals that she needs a drink. While the mostly gin and some tonic helps, she needed distance more than anything. She was suffocating over the idea that someone might ask her to dance this evening. “It’s going to be a long night,” she whispers to herself and takes a gulp.

The next hour is typical of any formal gathering; the host gives a speech and shows his gratitude for everyone attending, the platters of hors d'oeuvres are emptied and filled again, and the soft jazz in the background makes way for formal conversation. Many of the attendees are closely related to the Caswell family. Some lifelong business partners, some summer holiday friends. Sitting alone at a well-set table, Jane realizes that the saying is true: the rich mingle with the rich. Older gentlemen, most likely friends of Arthur’s father, are talking about politics and the stock market. The older women are telling anecdotes of how they met their husbands—some containing embarrassing secrets.

As the evening approaches midnight, most guests have accustomed themselves to the dance floor. Each couple has found their way to the middle, slowly dancing in each other’s arms. Jane has not glanced up from her drink. She wants to avoid the questioning looks but also needs to avoid her curiosity. Practically melting the ice with her eyes, she does not know that Arthur has approached her again. “Staring at it won’t refill it,” he says, smirking. Jane forces a laugh out, hoping it sounds convincing enough. “I was waiting for you,” she fires back. He laughs, grabs the glass, and returns with another gin and tonic. “So, I hate to address the elephant in the room, but have you found anything new?” “Well,” she replies after letting out a long sigh, “it’s not an elephant if it’s just between us. It’s more like a horse. But no, I haven’t yet.” For the first time at the party, he doesn’t respond. “It’s been seven years, you know. Maybe I should just give up.” Sympathy fills his face. “J, that’s not what I meant.” “I know,” she answers quickly, almost as if doing so would change his reaction. “But at some point it’s got to be over. I guess I need to move on.”

“Hey, tell you what, why don’t you and I dance tonight?” Knowing he crossed the line, he braces for the impact. Jane, staring at her half empty drink, looks up slowly. “You know I can’t do that.” Trying to make light of a situation he cast darkness upon, he perks his voice and says, “oh, come on! You know it’s just dancing right? It’ll be slow and quaint and nothing will go wrong.”

Forcing words around the lump in her throat, they finally arrive on her tongue.

“I can’t. Dancing killed Dimitri.”