The Gift of Maggie

Maggie Face-timed her mentor, a ballet teacher, for advice. When the woman answered, Maggie heard Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet in the background. A woman's face filled the screen, razor thin, straight as a ruler, a mask fastened tightly. Above her mask, her dark eyes pierced the screen. Maggie saw Christmas decorations, in red, green, and silver, on a back wall of the office. The teacher removed her face mask as soon as she recognized her student, Matryoshka. Her mouth puckered with maroon lipstick against her leathern cheeks. Her elongated neck perched elegantly above her thin shoulders.

"You haven't been to the studio, Matryoshka," the teacher chided. Maggie loved the way she pronounced her name, the same way her parents did. "You still need the discipline of dance during this trying time."

"What's the point? All performances have been canceled. We won't perform the Nutcracker this year. Will we ever perform it again?"

"Now, now, little doll, the classics never disappear. You must remain strong to survive. That is the Russian way. The music, the ballet, the audience will return. Never fear." The teacher shook her finger as she spoke.

"But I need to dance for an audience now! I want to be seen. My body craves the opportunity to perform and to be appreciated. I want to wow audiences. I want their eyes and their judgment on my form. I want to transport them."

"And you will, my child, you will, but not yet. Keep your instrument in perfect shape. Push yourself. If you like, come back to the studio and I will take you further than ever in your education."

"You are kind but it's not what I want, teacher," Maggie said in Russian. "I am compelled to dance before real people, now."

The teacher tapped her long maroon fingernails on her desk. "So impatient! You have talent, but you must not squander it."

"So, I ask your advice," Maggie said. "Everywhere is closed except the places where women dance for money. You see, I am willing to dance there; I want to dance there."

Her teacher was visibly shocked. Her eyes widened, her lips pursed. She looked down her nose at the phone. "You propose to dance where men pay you to take off your clothes? Are you that desperate for money? Because, I must be honest, little doll, you have a ballet dancer's figure. It is not the kind of body men pay to see."

"But at least I would be dancing!" Though in her mind, Maggie recalled how pleased her boyfriends and lovers had been when she revealed her body. These memories gave her confidence.

"That's not dancing! That's shaking your "grud' zaboya," your "zad," your "pizda." I talk to you crudely so you understand me clearly. The type of man who frequents those clubs doesn't pay to see you dance but to see you humiliated."

"So? I'd be dancing."

The teacher made a spitting sound. "I can't stop you. But you may be sorry, little doll."

"I may surprise you, teacher. I may become a big star."

"Go, then. Try it. You can always come back, if you haven't ruined your form or been damaged by the publicity you'll find."

"Pray for me, teacher." Maggie signed off. She would show the teacher. She could still dance before anyone and they would appreciate her skill and grace.

Maggie fairly danced down the streets of her adopted city. Her cloth mask obscured all but her own glittering dark eyes. She glimpsed others on the street and tried in vain to read faces from a study of eyes alone. It was impossible. Eyes convey emotion, but are used primarily for observing. A face's message needs the nuances that come from the shape of the smile, the set of the chin, the lift of one's cheeks, the glint of teeth, the curl of lips, in order to telegraph what that person is thinking. Is that person a friend, an enemy, a threat, an invitation, a possible lover, or a comforting friend? Without these clues, the world becomes indecipherable and hence, threatening.

Maggie's parents emigrated from St. Petersburg in Russia and passed to her their love of the exquisite ballet performed at the Mariinsky Theatre. Her parents still called her by her Russian name, Matryoshka, which means Lady. They encouraged her study of ballet. She especially loved the Nutcracker Suite performed at Christmastime. Lately, she felt less like a lady and more like a peasant, a Maggie, just one more isolated dancer, waiting for the sequestration to end.

The University she attended was shut down and its students sent back home or to their own apartments. They couldn't return after the holidays until they tested negative for the virus or quarantined for fourteen days. Maggie's favorite local student bars were closed. The restaurants would only allow pick-up or run meals in styrofoam containers to her car, for your dining pleasure. She had felt at home among the scruffy students at the University. She enjoyed lounging in the small coffee shops with a steaming cup of black coffee, flirting with American boys and enduring their rude manners. The pandemic changes and lockdowns were driving Maggie nuts.

She missed the attention that every beautiful young woman receives. Admittedly, she intimidated most of her dates because her posture was impecable, her head held high, her jaw pointing forward when most silly girls dropped their chins, slouched, and clouded their eyes. Favored young men liked to place their strong hands on her knee as she sat next to them. Some moved their hand up her muscular thigh, hoping to find the rough fuzz between her legs. The more successful men moved their hand down from her knee. They traced the corbel curve of her calf, noticing with sexual excitement how slim the leg became, until they found her dainty ankle, the tight bundle of muscle, bone, and nerves that served as her gyroscope for dancing. If a young man complimented her ankles, she willingly rewarded that appreciation. One benefit of being a dancer was that her body responded enthusiastically to stimulation and love. None of her lovers were disappointed. But she was a challenge. And now she was lonely.

Maggie was tired of practicing ballet alone in her apartment. Her pointe shoes were her only companion. She needed to dance again for an audience. Any audience.

She began looking forward to mundane things, like the mail arriving. Most of the mail was junk until she found the official envelope from the County Courts. She was summoned for jury duty three weeks hence. She called the County Court Administrator to confirm that the summons was not in error.

"Is this a mistake? I thought everything was shut down for the pandemic," she said.

"Serious trials must go forward or the accused can be released for not receiving a speedy trial. So, we have juries for the most heinous cases. These are not easy cases, so don't be surprised if you're not selected to be on the jury panels."

"No, no, I want to sit on the cases. I want to be there!"

"That's refreshing," the voice said, sarcastically. "Show up in three weeks, room 500, unless you're ill or have symptoms. Wear a mask, please. If you cannot afford a mask, one will be provided for you."

"I'll be there!"

Maggie tingled with the anticipation of meeting with others and of doing her American civic duty. She had to wait three weeks, though. She had three weeks to practice dance diligently. Three weeks to read, if she wanted. Three weeks to look for other work.

But nearing the end of the three weeks, she hadn't found a job. Her dancing no longer felt crisp. She needed an audience. Her apartment was small and at night, she heard disturbing noises. Across the streets and behind in the alley, Christmas decorations were put up and their garish colors disturbed her equanimity. She imagined that some of the windows across the street could see into her apartment, and she would not be surprised if there were some men surreptitiously observing her stretch and dance. She hoped they were pleased with what they saw. Still it was not enough.

She remembered her mentor's advice. She decided to look for a place to dance for money despite what she had been told.

Maggie squeezed into a black Danskin which left no question regarding the power of her leg muscles, the curve of her ass, and the flatness of her abdomen. She added a gleaming white blouse buttoned to the throat, and a short black pleated skirt that floated up when she twirled. She drove the epidemic-emptied streets looking for a strip club where she might feel comfortable. She found one that was open where the large signs showed dancers wearing facemarks. She parked and she went in. The huge Black at the door sent her to the manager's office. On the way, she saw the brightly lit stage, heard the discordant music, and felt the heat of hot lights pounding the stage. A tired woman whose mask hung from one ear swayed lazily, distractedly, wearing a fuzzy bikini bottom, not appreciating the opportunity she enjoyed. Maggie was drawn to those hot lights like a moth to a candle.

In the manager's office, she saw two men--a 70-year-old bald man smoking a cigar and a bearded young college-age student holding a glass of whisky. They, too, wore masks hanging from their ears. Their eyes hungered for her as soon as she entered.

The old man coughed to clear his throat. "All our talent wear masks. You can take off everything else, but the mask stays on. Capisce? Now, strip."

The young man sat down in a chair close to Maggie. The old guy adjusted his glasses. They both looked like greedy children waiting to open Christmas gifts. "We don't have all day. If we approve of your technique and your body, you can start today."

"Is there any music?" Maggie asked. She heard only the dull thumping of the stage music in the main area.

The men chuckled. "Quit stalling, sweetheart," the old guy said. "We need to evaluate your talent."

Maggie elevated on her toes and held her arms at shoulder height. She did a quick pirouette, without appearing to move her head, held at a lofty angle. Her skirt flared as she spun, revealing her excellent butt. Her arms extended gracefully. She puzzled over how to remove her skin-tight clothing with anything approaching elegance. Perhaps it would be better just to peel everything off and stand there for them to gawk at, without trying to dance at all. Of course, that would prove her teacher had been correct, so she kept dancing. She bent her right arm at the elbow as she spun again. When she finished the quick spin, she had unbuttoned her blouse. With another quick move, she removed the blouse with her left hand. Now, they could easily see the seductive curves of her back as the muscles shifted beneath her black leotard. The men strained to study the shape of her boobs, which were not easily defined by her dark clothing. She knew her breasts were not large; they were shapely dancers' breasts, small but high on her torso. They were her "sugar plums."

As she danced, the door to the manager's office opened and a tall man with striking blue eyes entered. He was well-dressed in a dark, pin-striped two-piece suit that moved easily on his body. He had large, strong, graceful hands. He lifted his head to acknowledge the other two men but his ravenous eyes never left Maggie.

"New fish, Uncle Nick," said the young bearded man.

"When can she start?" he asked through his mask.

"She hasn't said. When can you start, darling?" the young man leaned forward.

Maggie continued to dance and answered easily without gasping for breath."Tomorrow or the next day," she said not winded at all although she was stretching and extending and doing small hops in the crowded office. The blue-eyed man unhooked his mask and let it dangle from his left ear. He smiled at her, the way a fox leers at a bunny trapped against a streambank.

"She have something against getting nude?" Blue-eyed Uncle Nick asked the other men, not addressing Maggie directly.

"Give her a chance," the old guy said. "She'll get there and it'll be worth the wait."

"Hundred bucks says she has a bushy beaver," the young bearded man said.

Maggie felt her face going red with embarrassment but she continued her act. She shrugged her leotard off her left shoulder, then her right shoulder. Both were beautiful, white, smooth. Blue-eyes leaned back against the wall, taking in her captivating performance. He took out a cigar, clipped the end, and rolled it in a flame until it lit. The thick brown tube settled sensuously in his mouth and his lips drew the smoke. When Maggie pulled down her top to reveal her small but perfect breasts, he caught his breath. Maggie smiled at his reaction. It was one that she had seen with her boyfriends and lovers. She called it the "Wow! in their eyes." It always began when they caught sight of her delicate breasts and tiny areolae, her sugar plums. She lifted her straightened left leg behind her, nearly knocking the old guy out with her heel.

The men were all at attention, awaiting her next move, wanting to see more of her. Nothing so far had disappointed them. Then Maggie extended her left leg from the extended rear position and continued to lift it until it was over her head. The men held their breath. She continued to lift her leg until her right leg and left leg formed nearly a straight line from the floor. She remembered her training--her chest was open and confident, her eyes were up, her back was engaged. If her ankles were gyroscopes, her back was a power crane, using tendons and muscles to raise her limbs and keep them graceful. Here was a creature not entirely human who had appeared before these men. None of the three men, who all had seen thousands of nude women, had ever seen a womanly form like this one, or one so unbelievably flexible.

Maggie lowered her leg and began to roll down her Danskins, wiggling her hips side to side as she did.

The blue-eyed man cleared his throat. "You can stop now. I'm satisfied. You have the job. You can start today if you like."

"Awww," the bearded man said. The old guy licked his suddenly dry lips.

Maggie grabbed her white blouse and pressed it to her sugar plums. "Thank you," she said. "I should tell you something. I have to report for jury duty tomorrow. But that shouldn't be a problem, do you think?"

Blue-eyes smiled, put his arm around her bare shoulders, and turned her toward the door. "It won't be a problem. I was surprised that the Courts are having any trials at all. But if a bright mouse like yourself can't figure how to answer questions so that they excuse you, then you're a lot less capable than I think you are."

Maggie felt the blush rising in her cheeks. His large hand gripped firmly on her naked shoulder. She pulled up her leotard, tucking her breasts into place with her back to the men, who snickered. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not a prude, really."

"Good!" the young man said. "Keep going. Let's see it all!"

"Now, now," blue eyes said. "We're satisfied. You report tomorrow or the next day. I know my eager nephew Marcos will be sitting in the front row watching you. You already have secured one fan."

"Thank you," she said. She finished buttoning her white blouse and encircling her hips with the black pleated skirt, smiled awkwardly toward all the men, then nodded and left. She could still feel where blue-eyes' firm hand had gripped her alabaster shoulder. She had been missing such innocent contact, a precursor to more intimate activity.

She must have been holding her breath. It returned to normal only after she had walked two blocks to the parking lot. She sat in her car and screamed her excitement.

The next day, Matryoshka fulfilled her civic duty by reporting for jury duty at the courthouse. The two security guards who scanned her and examined her purse were surprised she showed up at all. They gave interested looks at her long legs in her tight maroon skirt. Usually 120 jurors were summoned. This time, of that number, only 55 showed up. The pandemic had made everyone leery and gave the reluctant juror an easy excuse.

Everyone wore a covering over mouths and noses. The Courthouse provided masks to those who came unprepared. Her court case was a criminal one, involving a dangerous man accused of assaulting several women in their homes, cars, apartments. He had been out on an enormous amount for bail, which the defendant paid easily, and the prosecuting attorney wanted to put him permanently behind bars. The case intrigued Maggie. She wanted to punish the accused.

The bailiff organized the jury pool. The jurors sat two seats apart and spaced around the court room. Maggie was easily the best dressed, wearing her tight skirt that extended only to mid-thigh when she sat, a thin gold sweater with a scooped neck, her nude stockings, and a gold watch. From the glances she had received as she walked in the halls, she had everyone's attention. Even the bailiff blushed when he looked at her. He touched his sidearm absentmindedly. She smiled with her eyes lowered.

Maggie was put in a chair in the first row and the judge and the lawyers had a complete view of her. The bailiff moved so he could watch her, too. She didn't mind. The room was dark-paneled and deep-carpeted and must be terribly boring for the judge and the others. If they wanted to look at her, so much the better. She sat up primly and crossed her legs at the ankles.

The proceedings began even though the defendant was not present yet. He would be in court later, according to his attorney. The judge snarled to the defense attorney, "If he doesn't show, he forfeits bail, and will be incarcerated. Understand?"

The prosecuting attorney smiled. "That would save the taxpayers the cost of this unnecessary proceeding."

The lawyers' questions seemed to go on for ever. Her number was not called as they neared the end. Roughly half of the potential jurors had been excused. Before they got to her, they reached the twelve jurors required by the defendant's attorney. Her shoulders sagged when the judge swore the twelve in, not including her. The others were led away after being admonished not to talk to anyone, including each other, about the case.

The defendant had still not arrived. The judge pointed to his watch.

The attorneys were starting to pack up when the defense counsel stood and addressed the court. "Your honor, I request that we have at least one alternate juror."

The jowly-faced judge frowned. "Do you really think it will take that long to present your case? Are you really afraid that we'll lose a juror? Assuming he shows at all."

"I like to anticipate problems and have options, your honor. Let's just have one more juror, just in case."

The judge threw up his hands and settled back in his chair. "Call the next number."

Maggie listened closely. The first number called was not hers, but that person was dismissed for cause when he claimed he wanted to castrate criminals convicted of attacking women. The next number called was her own.

Maggie sat up straight, her head high, and spoke clearly in response to the questions asked. She tried her best to enunciate and not let slip her slight foreign accent. She was a citizen, but she didn't always sound like one. At the end of her voir dire, she was in. She was acceptable to both the prosecution and the defense. She agreed to report the next morning for jury duty as an alternate.

The defendant arrived in the court house. Maggie stifled a gasp when she saw him. He was the blue-eyed man with strong hands, Uncle Nick, from the club. He wore a mask initially, but let it slide off one ear when he saw her. He smiled. Her insides fluttered when he did.

That night she could hardly sleep. She called the strip club and talked to the old bald guy, explaining that she had been selected for jury duty. In the background, she heard blue-eyes say that she wasn't as clever as he had given her credit. There was more muffled conversation before the old guy came back on. "You just get your ass in here as soon as that trial is done, Missy. Understand? We are counting on you."