The Sandman Ball

The envelope sat at the edge of the large, wooden, dining room table. The seal depicting a crescent moon glistened gold in the warm kitchen light. Sarah returned from school to find her parents awaiting her. Her mother indicated the envelope and she took a seat. Sarah broke the seal by sliding one long, index finger along the front. Dear Ms. Shepard, We are so glad to invite you to the Sandman Ball. Please arrive at the estate by 5pm on Saturday, June 30th. We will be delighted to serve you a full supper before you dance. The Sandman would like you to wear EMERALD. The letter fell from her hands,“They want me in emerald.” Her parents lit up. Sarah’s mother reached across the table and began counting the cash from the envelope. Sarah bit her lip. “Emerald will look lovely on you,” praised her father. Sarah retreated to her bedroom for the evening. Supper was brought to her by her little sister, Lila, “Sarah, why won’t you come down with us?” Sarah rolled over in bed and sat up to look at her sister’s doe eyes. She patted her bed spread. Lila put the tray on the bed side table. 

“Come here, I need to tell you a story,” Sarah said and pulled Lila’s squirming, hot body onto her lap, “Once upon a time, the world’s population was exploding. The Government knew that there’d never be enough food, land, or work for that kind of population. So they made a rule, each family could bear one child.” Lila looked with little furrowed brows at Sarah. “The population diminished drastically as families were taxed heavily if they chose to keep multiple children. A few decades passed and it became apparent that now the elderly outnumbered the youth. There wasn’t anyone to care for the growing retired population, people like Grandma and Grandpa,” explained Sarah. “So The Sandman stepped in. He created a way for every girl in the world to have her own fairytale.” Sarah reached for the invitation. Lila’s little finger’s traced the loop of the “S” in Sandman. She was beaming with excitement. “All of the women would receive an invitation the spring before her 20th birthday. They would be assigned a color and treated to a large dinner provided by the families with sons. That evening, they’d be expected to find a match and marry in the morning. They would live happily ever after…” Sarah trailed off.

Three years prior, Naomi had received the letter in the mail. Sarah cried herself to sleep remembering the pain of her sister’s strong arms around her the night before the ball. It was the last time Sarah would fall asleep to the sound of her rhythmic breathing. In the morning, Naomi had been whisked away to her fairytale.

Penelope began the preparations for her daughter’s ball the morning after the letter had arrived. Sarah came stumbling down the stairs and Penelope cringed at the sight of her red rimmed eyes. “I made fresh orange juice, your favorite, Sarah Bearah,” Penelope set down a tall glass which Sarah gulped down in seconds. Penelope refilled it and offered some to Lila. “I think we’ll start with the dress,” Penelope commanded. “Then, we can go shoe shopping,” she filled her husband’s coffee mug, “Make sure you wear something you can slip out of easily.” Sarah nodded obediently. Peter offered his wife a brief kiss on the cheek, mumbling about how he would take Lila to the park. The girls raced off to the bathroom and Penelope tidied the dishes. Penelope was giddy with anticipation as she counted out the bills provided by the Sandman. She folded them neatly in an envelope just as Sarah descended the stairs.

Sarah walked into the store with her head hung low. Sarah watched her mother in her blue cotton dress walk confidently up to the counter. The woman with the pale, swanlike neck and a name badge reading Claudette, took the letter from Penelope’s hands. She nodded along and approached Sarah with a frightening smile. She led Sarah to the changing hall. Sarah watched in awe as Claudette reached a pale, thin hand up to open one white curtain silently. In the dressing room were three ball gowns. One was satin and seemed to shimmer in the light of the store. One was a slimming sheath style gown. It was covered in bejeweled lace. The third one was a strapless A-line. It had the same satin base, but was adorned with green tule.

“Take your time,” instructed Claudette. She left Sarah staring at the softly billowing curtain. The room smelled strongly of disinfectant. Sarah reached up and slipped out of her pink, cotton dress, a hand me down from Naomi. She stood in the full length mirror and stared at her lanky arms, her barely visible breasts, her freckled face. Her nose scrunched like a bunny, her pink tongue darted out like a lizard, her lips pursed like a fish. “How’s it going in there?” called out her mother.

“Fine!” shouted Sarah. She reached for the A line dress and swished the gown around her ankles. Penelope tapped lightly on the door frame and began to lace up the corset in the back of the dress. Sarah stepped back, her mother assessed with pride. “I love this one!” gushed Penelope. “But we need some heels,” she frowned at her daughter, “You’re just a bit,” she ran her warm hand along Sarah’s slender bicep, “Stubby…” Sarah blushed and demanded to be released from the corset.

Sarah shoved the gown to one corner of the dressing room before she reached for the sheath gown. She stepped out with more pride. She felt as tall as the shop mannequins. Penelope beamed back at her little girl. “This one is better,” sighed Sarah. Her mother nodded full heartedly. Sarah stepped back into the dressing room and stepped through the top of the final dress. She pulled the half sleeves up on her shoulders. When she turned to assess the damage she hardly recognized the woman in the mirror. She imagined her dark, Asian silk up in an updo. She imagined flaming red lips. She imagined a daring cat eye. Her fingers grazed the goosebumps on her shoulders and imagined a fur wrap. Sarah smiled for the first time. 

The day of the ball came all too soon. Sarah’s ball gown hung pressed and clean in her closet. At the base was a small shoe box containing a pair of emerald ballet slippers. In the morning, Penelope fixed a light breakfast. Lila came down stairs, clinging to her sister’s hand. Her doe eyes were rimmed in red. Penelope felt the threat of tears herself. She tried to remain cheerful, “Orange juice for you, Sarah Bearah?” Sarah took her seat without a word. She did not fight her sister as her monkey limbs helped her climb into Sarah’s lap. Even the house cat seemed to understand the weight of the day. “When are we going for pictures?” inquired Sarah. Her father held up two fingers from behind his newspaper. He raised his coffee mug to his lips, swallowing his fear with each sip.

Sarah nodded and finished her meal. Once in the sanctuary of her room, she finished packing her emerald silk bag. She could fit her teddy bear from her childhood and her favorite picture book. Lila stood in the doorway, “I made this for you,” she offered a small sketch of the two of them, down by the river that ran through their village. A poorly sketched heart with their initials and a plus sign in between floated above their heads. Lila through her arms around her. 

At 1:30, the family raced down to the river bank. A few other families gathered with their photographers and it was the first time Sarah glimpsed the other colors. She saw girls with pink gowns, with yellow, and orange heels gleaming in the sun. All of the families wore the same, pained grin. The photographer pushed everyone together underneath the willow tree. Her long branches wrapped around them and tickled their chins, causing a burst of happiness on a difficult day. Sarah posed, holding tight to her sister, wondering if she saw her future in this moment the way Sarah had seen her future when she posed with Naomi. “This is for you,” whispered Penelope. She held out a small, velvet jewelry box. Sarah opened it with a soft crack.

A photo of Naomi and Lila, one of the last ones ever taken, was on the right side of a golden locket in the shape of a heart. On the left was a photo of her parents from their wedding day. Her mother stood in a glittering blue ball gown. Her father was in a black tux with a single, dark blue tie. They did not smile. They were perfect strangers.

The car arrived at 4:14pm to whisk Sarah off to her fairytale. On the car ride there, she tried to commit to perfect memory the feeling of her mother’s strong fingers in her hair. The way that she smelled softly of oranges and the way she smiled softly as she applied the red lipstick. Sarah clung to her small, emerald bag of treasures. She resisted the urge to examine the drawing from Lila. Her eyes filled with tears at the memory of her sister tugging on her hand, “When you get back from the ball, can we go play down by the river?” 

The driver pulled into a large, circular gravel drive behind the growing row of cars. Sarah exited the vehicle and followed the trail of princesses into the castle. None of the girls spoke to each other. The large, oak front door was decorated with a carving of a crescent moon and a swooping “S.” The doors swung open and the girls shuffled in. “Welcome,” raised a melodic voice, “To The Sandman Estate,” Claudette from the shop stood at the balcony above the girls. She was the only one dressed in gold. Her dress glittered and shimmered in the candle light. “Please, find your room. Place your silk bag there, it will be returned to you at the end of the evening.” Slowly and cautiously, like baby birds seeking the edge of their nest, the girls peeled off to their rooms. 

A large emerald adorned one door. Sarah slowly pushed on the glass handle and was overwhelmed with the familiar scent of oranges. She found a large, green vanity, lit by old fashioned bulbs. She sat in front of the mirror and applied another coat of lipstick. She placed her green bag beside her. She took a steadying breath. “Ms. Emerald, we’re seating for supper,” Claudette stood at her doorway. Sarah felt her anxiety increase as she stood to follow the goddess out of the door. She was led to a large dining hall. A single, long table sat in the middle.

Sarah admired the way the candle lit chandeliers provided a romantic sheen. Soft violin music played. She noticed place cards with a single, full dot of color by each of the plates. Sarah sat at the very end of the table. The girls sat in anxious silence. The violins had stopped. A single gong rang out and the men entered. They all wore the same charcoal black suit, but each of them had a custom silk tie. Sarah’s anxiety grew as she realized none of the men wore an emerald tie. Sarah brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. Silence followed once again. The gong rang out again. Then, the big oak doors opened. A tall man in an all white suit entered. He was the only one in a mask. It was a gold, Cavalli mask that covered his forehead and the edges of his eyes only, shimmering beneath the candlelight. His hair was the color of golden straw. All of the guests watched in awe as the Sandman took his own at the head of the table, in front of Sarah.

“They say he is ageless,” giggled Naomi in Sarah’s memory, “They also say he is the most dreamy man in the world!” Naomi threw herself on the bed spread. “And, he picks a bride each year. I hear she lives in the lap of luxury,” Naomi sighed dreamily. Sarah had watched her sister and found herself wanting to meet the man who could make a woman swoon like that. At 17 she had only flirted with a few young boys on the playground. “But it comes at a cost,” Sarah whispered into the dark of their shared bedroom. Her voice lowered, suddenly serious, and Sarah had felt an unexpected fear wash over her as her sister warned,“I mean, they call her the Shooting Star for a reason.” Her sister patted the bed and Sarah dutifully sat allowing her long hair to be braided. They mulled over the thought in their minds. “But it’d be worth it. To burn bright at his side. To be his queen,” Naomi’s voice echoed in Sarah’s mind.

The Sandman beamed at Sarah and she basked in the warmth of his gaze. His eyes seemed to glitter like black diamonds in sunlight, highlighted by the jewels encrusted on the mask. “Sarah, I am so glad to have you here,” his voice was like honey dripping from a golden spoon. Sarah sat entranced. She did not notice when the waiters filled her cup with a glittering, golden liquid which was unlike the deep red wine served to the other guests. “Drink,” he ordered. 

Their glasses clinked in a toast and the sound rang out through the dining hall. Her lips parted and allowed a few droplets to enter her mouth. Sarah was surprised at the taste. It was the first glass of water after a long, hot summer day working in the fields. She recognized the spices her mother placed in healing teas when the girls felt ill. The drink felt warm and cool, hot and cold, refreshing and soothing, all at the same time. The main course was served next, a decadent wine braised beef roast. Sarah downed her glass of elixir and the Sandman chuckled. His laughter sounded like wind chimes dancing in the breeze. Sarah instantly craved more. Dessert was a glorious fruit torte served in individual goblets. The Sandman’s smooth index finger wiped away a bit of whipped cream from Sarah’s button nose as he released another laugh. 

The Sandman stood and encouraged his guests to do the same. In the blink of an eye the dining table disappeared. Sarah stood in the center of the room facing the Sandman. He extended his hand out to her. The orchestra swelled as they began to dance. The Sandman gazed adoringly at her. Sarah clutched to him, her balance seemed impaired. She inquired,“Why do you wear the mask?” She noticed soft streaks of white in his dark curls and a few laugh lines around his face. Her question went unanswered. The world swirled around her as she posed the question again. Sarah could identify flashes of the beautiful ball gowns, the bright chandeliers. Sarah held onto the feeling of The Sandman's strong hand, firmly on her back. They danced for what felt like minutes, but the candles around her seemed to dim. She vaguely noticed couples leaving the ballroom. Suddenly, the music stopped. Sarah was out of breath and collapsed into the waiting arms of the Sandman.

When she awoke, she was wearing a white chiffon gown. She relished in the cool, satin sheets. The memory of the ball lingered on her like perfume. Her emerald dress was laid on a chair in one corner, tucked in front of the oak desk. Around her, soft tulle billowed in the morning light. The air smelled of fresh cut grass. Outside, she could hear soft birds calling to one another. She sat up in bed and found herself drawn to the balcony. As she approached she saw him. He was in a white tux with a beautiful green tie. Yet, he still wore the mask.

She was entranced, “It’s time,” he told her. His hand was cool, smooth, and flawless like marble. When she gazed into his eyes, she noticed the laugh lines had faded away, his hair was once again pitch black. Sarah’s hand reached to touch it, but she quickly felt the cool, directive grip of his fingers on her wrist. They stood side by side on a balcony. Below stood the couples from the night before. The women wore variations of the gown that Sarah wore, but in the same colors they had from last night. “I now pronounce you man and wife!” boomed the Sandman. A shiver danced down her spine at the sound of his laughter. A soft rain of golden glitter began to fall from the sky and cover the couples as they kissed for the first time. At last, he turned his attention to Sarah who flushed a vivid red in his gaze. “I now pronounce you mine,” he whispered before sealing his promise with a kiss. 

Below the estate, deep tunnels led to a mausoleum. Four footmen carried a long, elegant, white coffin with a glass lid. They set it down with a loud thud. Claudette lay in her tomb, her once long, lucious black hair had turned to aged grey. Beside her lay a woman named Lilac. Her once perfect skin wrinkled and aged. To Lilac’s left was another coffin with a thin veil of dust. The woman in this coffin’s eyes were open. They had been a deep, inky black, the kind of eyes one could get lost in. Now, they were a haunted, misty grey. In the corners of all of the women’s eyes was a soft dusting of golden sand. Her plaque read: Naomi Sandman.