Author’s note: The story Victoria tells is based loosely off of “The Shadow” by Hans Christian Anderson. I chose for her to tell an unoriginal story both because it reflects the concept of a shadow being unoriginal. Also, I wanted to convey that she was a storyteller, not a storywriter. So in the style of traditional storytelling, I decided to have her tell an old tale with her own twists.

Blame it on the Day

There is a saying I often hear overused. “Too good to be true”, is what it is. I’ve only used it once or twice, so I’m not very familiar with all of its mechanics. However, I have noticed that it is often only used when everything good has dissipated into the shadows of the past. It is when the catch has sprung onto its bait, snarling you and entangling you. Then we wave it all off, broadcasting it as a brilliant scam, beautiful and flawed, just like life. Perhaps that is what I could say now, about them, about the job, even about Eric. Was that really all just too good to be true?

I like to think so, from time to time.

They were beautiful, of course. The Bennett twins, Victoria and Amber, seemed to have a certain glow to them that no other female in the world could match. They were identical in every physical aspect; with tumbling blonde curls, big green eyes, and soft tan skin. If there had been a Greek goddess of dairy products, I suspect she would have looked a lot like Victoria and Amber Bennett. Yet, there was always something about Amber.

Amber was golden, like her name. She sent every boy who crossed her to her mercy. She could make them buy anything she wanted, with a smile. She had me tangled up in her web too.

“Thank you for choosing Funland Family Fun Land,” Victoria said in a soft and melodic voice, “Have a good time out on the course,” she then beamed. No one made mini-golf look more elegant.

I was sitting in the one chair inside of the mini-golf shack that day. It was the beginning of our shift, yet I was already ready to go home. The sky was gray and heavy wit the promise of rain. Victoria and I both knew that after the few early-morning family left, it was going to be a long, uneventful day.

“What are you doing?” she asked, trying to be as conversational as possible. There was usually not much need to talk before. True, we worked in a tiny shack, practically shoulder to shoulder. Yet I managed to not say a word to her. Well, perhaps that was too generous. I managed to choke on my tongue every time I tried to say something to her.

“I’m uh…doing some calculations on…well, I’m figuring out the…the probability that a green ball will be chosen. You know…if a family comes,” I began to stammer out. I have since discovered that most people, especially girls, didn’t want a specific answer when they ask that question. I often try to relive this moment in my mind, replacing my words with something much more clever. I always think it might have made a difference. It never really works that well.

Victoria didn’t respond. Instead, she looked out the shack’s large opening towards the green, “That’s your friend Eric, right?” she asked me, causing me to look up from my position of shame and make my way over to the opening.

It figured that she should ask about Eric. All the girls asked about Eric. He was handsome. He was Italian, which meant something back then. And he was a smooth bastard. Most importantly, he was the opposite of me, which is what made us best friends.

“Hey Mike,” he said, grinning at me and then looking at my coworker, “Hey Vicky. Looking ravishing today, naturally,” he said. This would be cheesy in this day and age. But back when I was kid, that’s what made the girls blush silly. And it worked, “Some weather we’ve got, huh? I’ll bet we’ll be clocking out early, if you know what I’m saying.”

“What are you saying, Eric?” I asked, questioning his sanity a little bit.

He leaned over close to me, so he could lower his voice. He apparently didn’t want the Dairy Goddess standing next to me overhearing his next words, “Working in the arcade today with Amber. Going to do a little bit of work in the prize stock room, and I know you know what I’m saying now.”

Of course I did. And of course it disgusted me. Victoria was lovely, kind and mysterious. Yet Amber was more so. She was a ball of energy that no one could decipher. I was nervous around Victoria, but I was shaking around Amber. It was natural that Eric would have her.

I still like to believe he didn’t. I still like to tell myself that something else happened in there. That he…I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m sorry. The story comes first.

As he left, Victoria looked over at me. I think she was biting her lip. Memories tend to run together, “He really likes Amber, doesn’t he?” she asked. It might have been the tight working space, but I could have sworn her heart was breaking loud enough to hear. She looked at me with those perfect crystal eyes, expecting some kind of answer.

But what do you say in a moment like that? What are you supposed to say? I opened my mouth awkwardly, just praying I would blurt out praises for her sister. I was fortunate in all that came out was a lame, “You…you asking me?”

Victoria ran her hand through her hair and sat on the back counter. A mini-golf ball plunked in the bucket that they go in after the game. It was followed by another, “You’re right. I’m being stupid,” she laughed to herself. I grabbed the two balls and put them back in the rack. I couldn’t stop looking at her the whole time.

I didn’t want her to cry; I thought that if she cried the whole sky might break with it. And then my last hope of costumers for the day would be lost. And I would be stuck here, with nothing to do but comfort her. The mere thought made my stomach flip. I muttered, “It isn’t stupid. I understand.”

I didn’t really. I don’t think I fully understood until many years later.

She was kicking the back counter, staring at the ceiling. Light drops of water were hitting the sidewalk. Small children on the green began to shriek as the skies opened up. All of the quiet was unnervingly loud, “I’m sorry,” she said, silencing the noises ticking in my brain, “I’m no good at talking. That’s usually Amber’s thing. I wish we had more to do.”

We normally did. Taking money from costumers, setting up golf balls and clubs, fixing problems out on the green. That was the first rainy day since I had started. Although I was relieved to know that it was driving us both insane, “We don’t have to talk,” I lied. Of course we had to talk. She knew that better than I do.

“Do you like stories?” she asked suddenly. I don’t know what I think of stories, to be honest. But I still nodded and looked at her quietly. Eric always told me that I was best at listening; it was my “thing”. She smiled, “I love to tell stories,” she then added, smiling mistily, “Amber says its annoying, that I should quit.”

I saw the shadow of her sister pass over her face, know more than ever before. I had always viewed the two as equally gorgeous and equally perfect. Yet even I knew that Amber had something Victoria didn’t. She knew it too. In fact, she knew it better than I did, and had to shroud herself in that shadow every day.

“Do you want to tell me a story?” I decided to cut to the chase. This sister business made me feel uncomfortable, almost guilty. I didn’t want to be an unwitting therapist to a girl’s problems. It didn’t matter if I was a good listener. It didn’t even matter that she was a Dairy Goddess. I still didn’t want it, “I won’t mind if you do.”

She seemed pleased. She began to pat the counter space next to her with her palm. Either there was something under the counter that she wanted to startle, or she wanted me to sit next to her. I chose the latter. She didn’t complain.

“I have a good one. I’ve been saving it for a time like this,” she said, in a low and rushed voice. I knew right away that I had passed the threshold between nice guy and total idiot. She seemed to turn into a totally different person, a delighted and over-eager one. I later learned that this was the warning light when a girl was talking. It meant your ears wouldn’t be around much longer.

She began:

“There once was a man who never did anything wrong. Sin was not known to him. He washed himself only in pure thoughts and deeds and never tried to stray too far into the sun, for he knew that he would only get burned. He was a composer, finding his deepest love and passion in music. He found beauty in the way music notes looked on paper, and happiness in the way they sounded in the air. Yet all of his songs were empty and meaningless. They were lovely, yet they had nothing within them but melody and air.

“One day the man began to fancy the way his pen had cast a shadow on his paper. And he began to divulge himself in daydreams about how shadows might write music as well. He wondered to himself whether music was any different when written by shadow hands, or sounded different when played by shadow players.”

I remember being astounded by her eloquence. I never knew much about Victoria, I’ll admit. But all of my time attempting to talk to her, I had never heard her sound like she did now. It is rare to see someone other than yourself completely within his or her element. She had a gift. Every word sounded so perfectly crafted and well rehearsed. Yet when I looked at her, I did not see a girl who was a wonderful storyteller. I saw a girl who looked exactly like Amber Bennett.

“One day, after wondering about these things, he noticed his shadow was gone. He was lonely at first. For what is a man without a shadow? With a shadow, we have the ability to control someone other than ourselves. It makes us strong. But without…”

She trailed off, twisting her hair in her fingers. I looked for her shadow. I even looked for mine. But the now steady rain made the shack too dark to see the cast.

“Anyway, he did not think much of it and he continued his days composing happily. Until one day, many years later, a man came knocking on his door. He opened to find a man who looked identical to him. The same height, the same hair, the same nose, everything. There wasn’t a bit of him that was not out of place. Yet somehow, this man was different. His features were stronger, almost. It seemed as though this man held some sort of secret that only he knew about, and it could show on his face.

“‘Who are you?’ The composer asked, clearly concerned about this strange arrival at his front step.

“‘Why, you do not recognize me? I am your dear shadow! Oh, I could not bear to live another moment from you.’ The identical man responded. The shadow then asked if he could come in. Being a man of good will, the composer agreed to let him in for tea, against his better judgment.”

It was here I thought that I had heard this tale before. Perhaps an old fairytale from a few years back. She never told me it was an original tale, so it never bothered me. Yet if you find the original author, do let me know.

Sorry, I digress.

“The shadow asked if his master still composed music, which he did. The man was charmed by his shadows wit and kindness, so he was compelled to have the shadow stay with him. After all, where does a shadow have to go but his master’s side? So the man sat at his piano and played his new (and many ways old) companion a recent piece of work.

“The shadow frowned, ‘Have you become any more successful in your work?’ he asked. Indeed, the man had not. The shadow shook his head, ‘Your music is lovely. Yet is missing emotion and troubles. Men and women cannot listen to songs without soul. I can give that to you, so long as you promise to keep me by your side forever, you as my shadow. And I as your master.’

“Needless to say, the composer was taken aback at this. He thought that there was very little the man could do to change his music; since if the man were truly his shadow, the music would be the same. However, his ponderings from the past were proven correct; the music was different. The shadow held his hands to piano and began to play. There was darkness and imperfection in every stroke he hit. Yet as in life, darkness and imperfection lead to beauty and light. And there was power and emotion with the keys he hit. The composer was breathless and astounded at what his shadow could compose.

“Of course, the composer immediately accepted his offer, eager to call the music his own. He could gain the money and recognition he always wanted.”

I cracked a small smile as a bolt of lightning filled the sky, “Perhaps he was not without sin after all. Greed is a sin, right?” I wasn’t familiar with the cardinal sins, at the time.

She nodded and smiled, “Exactly,” she then said, looking out the window, “I should have chose a horror story,” she then added, nodding towards the gloomy atmosphere. The family from before came running back, huddled in their coats. I bounced off the counter and went fishing for rain checks. I felt relieved I had memorized the inventory once, during a slow day. Otherwise, I would have had to fetch the boss in to help. And strangely, the last thing I wanted was anyone else in the shack but Victoria and me.

Victoria and I put the putters and balls away promptly and returned to our post. I remember us talking about whether we should close up and how we should get the boss to check. However, I also distinctly remember neither of us wanting to walk through the arcade to get to his office, afraid of getting too close to what may be happening in the backroom.

“Do you want to hear the rest?” she asked, in the middle of our conversation of closing up the shack. I nodded, not sure on whether I playing puppet to my hormones or to my politeness. Or perhaps I wasn’t playing puppet at all. Perhaps the only strings pulling my head into a nod were my general curiosity.

“So he accepts the offer,” I started her off again. She sat back on the counter, but I pulled up a chair. I hated sitting on counters, and this time she didn’t subliminally motion for me to sit there.

She smiled her Dairy Goddess smile and continued, “He accepts the offer and his music becomes better. In fact, every note sounded more golden than ever before. He felt something when he composed songs, which he had never done before. And in return, those who heard his songs noticed. Conductor took his songs and made whole symphonies play them, trying to capture the emotion the man had spilled all over the page.

“However, the emotion spilled was an emotion lost, it seemed. For every time he wrote, he felt the smallest bit less. A smile did not mean as much happiness as it before. A tear did not bring as much sadness. And he never felt as ashamed as he thought he should for always following his shadow around. He never felt terrible for doing his bidding.”

A large crack of thunder jolted the shack. She shrieked and jumped in her seat on the counter. I jumped, but I tried to cover it up. I don’t know if she saw my heart pounding. But I saw hers leap out of her chest, and it made me catch my breath.

“Wow,” she laughed, covering her chest with her two hands, “Oh, where were we?” she then asked me. I opened my mouth to answer, but she never gave me a chance to say my piece. I never did understand the different between rhetorical and just regular questions.

“The composer never noticed that he was fading away. The shadow began to whither the man into an emotionless and shapeless form. After a while, the man’s music went back to meaning nothing, because he had nothing left to give. Even if had noticed, I don’t think he would have stopped. What he was promised was far more beautiful than his fate.”

I looked at her. It crossed my mind that this was not the story that I was familiar with. I could not remember it being so dark. Though one question stuck in my mind, “What was his fate, exactly?”

I scooted my chair close to the counter and looked up at her. She looked down at me with her big, shining eyes. She had somehow lost that delight she started off with. It was replaced with another feeling, one I couldn’t recognize, “The shadow took out his old master’s emotions. Despite its human form, the shadow was never truly human until it took everything his master had. And the composer became the perfect shadow; just a figure locked at its look-a-like’s heels.

“They say it still happens, from time to time,” she added, I suppose to make it sound more like a scary story. Although the rain was slowing to a strange and sudden stop, so there was not as much atmosphere, “They say that other living shadows will tempt people into making deals. Those who accept then begin to lose their shadow, and it all starts over again. And no one says no to the shadow’s offer. It’s all too wonderful.”

I looked at her oddly, “Surely someone says no,” I suggested, standing up from my chair, “The temptation can’t be that great.”

I hardly noticed that we were face-to-face, nose-to-nose. We were every teenage movie cliché that you’ve ever seen. We were looking at each other as the rain cleared up, locked in a proximity that confused us both.

I sat back down. She only looked at me with a confusing and uncomfortable stare. I remember that stare to this minute. I still am not sure what it meant. Although there was suddenly a pounding my gut that told me that I was not the person she wanted to tell stories to. I was only the next best thing. Just like she was the next best thing to Amber.

“Mike, we have to go now,” Eric’s voice said, as I heard a pounding on the shack’s half-door. I looked up at the young man. His hair was a mess and his eyes were dark and urgent. Both of which were not sights I was used to with him, “Lightning hit a nearby tree. The boss is letting us go early,” he said, his words slurring together excitedly. He grabbed the doorknob and pulled me out of the shack. I followed him lifelessly as I watched Victoria move from the shack. Perhaps she was off to find her sister. I never found out.

The sun was seeping back into the sky, and the ground was dyed dark with water. Eric dragged me by my wrist until we had walked well past Funland. I tried to strain to see where the tree fell, but it must have been hidden behind the building. For as hard I as I tried to stretch my neck, I saw nothing.

“Eric, are you…?” I started, concerned.

“We can’t go back there Mike,” he said softly, letting go of my wrist, “We’ll get new jobs and forget about it completely. You never liked working in the shack anyway.”

I felt my heart sink and my mouth drop open. But only air came out before I shut it again. I never said no to Eric. I just stared at him blankly and never went back there, just like he told me to, “What happened in there?” I then asked in a near whisper, as though I was afraid of anyone hearing me.

He looked at me and straightened his shirt. He bit his lower lip and gave me a look that made me flinch. I was a coward at his mercy, and this moment was no different, “She said things to me. Tried to…do things.”

He paused for a very long time. Both of us stopped walking, although neither of us was tired, “I can’t talk about this,” he said in a single breath.

I thought I understood, I really did. And I wanted to say something. But nothing came out. I looked at our feet as we stood at the street corner. He followed my gaze and we stared there for a long time.

Finally, he picked up his feet and turned down the street. We were heading to my house that day. I followed behind, looking up at the sky, searching for the sun. The sun was there, shining among the leftover clouds.

Then why could I not see Eric’s shadow?