Everly and Simon had arranged to meet the following Saturday morning, at the church where the wedding would take place. Wear something fancy, Simon had said, and they'd go to brunch afterward at The Mill. He'd seemed agitated, and Everly wondered if he had given their discussion further thought. Maybe it would be mutual, this change of plans -- they would meet at the church, review the sequence of events for the wedding, repair to their favourite restaurant, and then ruefully agree that they just weren't ready. It would be very civilized, even sophisticated. They would affirm their undying friendship with a glass of champagne and orange juice, and part with a tender hug and loving glances.
Either that or he was agitated because he was deliriously happy at the prospect of marrying her, insanely happy, unhinged with glee, and he would snap like a twig when she broached the subject of "rescheduling" -- for this is how she had decided to phrase it -- the wedding. Brunch at The Mill would be a hideously embarrassing scene, with other diners looking out of the corners of their eyes at the tomato-faced tall woman and the weeping man.
Everly was sweating now, dressing for the debacle ahead. What would be dressy enough to signify that she wasn't taking this lightly, yet not so dressy as to make the break-up stilted and formal? The fitted blue linen -- his favourite colour? That would be heartless. The scoop-necked sundress? Too sexy. The white suit? God, no, not white. Not when you're calling off a wedding. Frazzled, she chose a pale yellow knit, a dress he'd seen once or twice before but never commented on. Neutral. Innocuous. Perfect. She put on her makeup, being careful not to overdo it, and clasped her grandmother's pearls around her neck. And emerged, dishevelled.
***
St. Patrick's Church looked like a wedding cake itself, small and white, all peaks and spires, dripping with bricabrac and trim like melted icing. Where the figures of the bride and groom should be, there stood instead a statue of Jesus, red and gold robes flowing and arms outstretched over his confection. This cake image had occurred to Everly as a child, and it tormented her for years of churchgoing, stoking her hunger as she waited through Mass, stomach empty, until Holy Communion. Often the Sunday morning fast had proven too much for her. Her face would get cold and sweaty, the priest's drone -- first in Latin, later in English -- would fade, the light from candles and stained glass windows would dim, and she would topple to the floor, followed occasionally by a few more topples from a few more children for whom the power of suggestion proved irresistible. Then the roaring in the ears, and visions of floating wedding cakes and puffy white gowns would slowly recede until she was conscious again, staring up at a circle of concerned grownup faces from flat on her back on the pew. Everly had been eternally grateful at age 10, when the Church waived the need to fast before Communion; and probably her parish priest, who rarely got through an entire Mass uninterrupted, shared her gratitude.
Pulling into the parking lot now, she felt a twinge of guilt. Was she doing a bad thing? Would wedding cake Jesus disapprove? She drove past the first parking area, into the second, where the statue could not be seen. And waited nervously for Simon. Simon had immediately agreed to a formal church wedding, and had participated in Father Shanahan's Marriage Preparation Course with his usual earnestness and affability. He, too, had been raised as a Catholic, although he had stopped attending Mass long ago, when he left home to go to university. Everly had seen his background as a huge point in Simon's favour -- there would be no need to explain this or that sacrament or ritual -- particularly the confessing of one's sins, a concept which seemed to generate skepticism and hilarity among her non-Catholic friends.
She shifted in her seat and leaned forward to unstick her dress from her back. It was unreasonably hot for the May long weekend, an instantaneous summer, despite the fact that the last dregs of ice had thinned away in shady areas not three weeks earlier. Hot enough to have launched a full-fledged mosquito attack throughout the Ottawa Valley -- a ravenous hatching that was keeping the entire city indoors. So Everly stayed in the car with the windows rolled up, dabbing her face occasionally with the tissue she kept in her sleeve, and thinking wistfully of the sleeveless sundress. Wretched Ottawa weather, she thought. Too cold one week, too hot the next.
But here was Simon -- and at least the church would be cooler than the car. Simon came striding up to the hatchback like a master of ceremonies, all big and jovial, a large smile pasted on his face, hand outstretched to open her door. He looked nervous and sweaty, too, but perhaps that was just the heat. Everly smiled in greeting and gave him a restrained hug. He took her arm, batted a few mosquitoes, and hurried her toward the church.
"Everly, I've thought a lot about our conversation the other night," he said, as they approached the massive front doors. "And I want you to know that I understand how you're feeling."
"Really?" They entered the outer vestibule of the church, and Everly breathed in the cool bugless air with relief.
"Really. As a matter of fact, I think we should reconsider the timing of this wedding."
"You do?" This was going much better than she had expected.
"I do. Darling -- I love you!"
Simon flung open the doors to the inner sanctuary and fifty voices shouted, "Surprise!", as Everly yelped and the organist began to play. Friends, families, co-workers, even some of Everly's students were there, all laughing and craning their necks and watching her face for a reaction. Cameras flashed. Everly's knees liquefied, and she clutched at Simon's arm for support. This was much worse than she had expected.
Simon beamed at her and disengaged her fingers, closing them instead around a large bouquet of white roses. From the wings, Everly's father appeared and offered his arm. "Ready, honey?" Ready, honey? No! Not ready, honey. Not at all ready honey!
Simon sprinted to the front of the church, genuflected, and took his place beside Romy, his brother and best man, at one side of the centre aisle. A wedding party materialized in front of Everly -- Simon's niece, in a pink ruffled party dress, carried a basket of rose petals ready for scattering; his nephew held a small white cushion with two gold rings affixed to it; and Marlene, dazzling in violet silk, stood ready to precede her up the aisle.
All eyes were on Everly, as the last notes of Ave Maria faded away, and the first stirring chords of Handel's Processional sounded. Faint. Now is the time to faint. You've done it a hundred times here to no good purpose; now do it once to save your life. Faint, damn it, faint! But Everly's circulatory system conspired with the rest of the assembly. Far from swooning, she was flushed and rosy -- the very picture of a radiant bride. In the front pew, Everly's mother blotted her eyes with a handkerchief. The procession moved forward, and Everly's feet followed.
Past the empty pews at the back of the church -- pews which were normally the first to fill with parishioners unwilling to sit too close to the priest's scrutiny. Past the rows of students who, in hindsight, had been particularly giggly and unruly in history class yesterday. Past the lawyers from Simon's firm and the teachers from Everly's school, the single ones sizing up any of the lawyers who appeared to be unaccompanied. Everly's principal and good friend Sharon gave her a dewy look as she passed; Everly shot her a bleak one in return. Stop me. Save me. Can't you see it's all a mistake?
She was passing the families now -- Simon's soberly dressed clan on the left, her own more vividly attired relatives on the right. Siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles, even Grammie Emmaline out of the nursing home -- how on earth had he pulled this off? And how long had they all known? Couldn't anybody have dropped a hint? A yellow knit dress of all the unsuitable things to wear. With a lovely and expensive wedding gown already picked out at the bridal shop, and a fifty-dollar non-refundable deposit left to hold it.
Father Shanahan nodded kindly as Everly reached the front. The wedding party melted away and Simon stepped forward. He took her hand and squeezed it.
"Is this more the kind of romantic gesture you had in mind?", he whispered.
"Um, not really," she whispered back. She was helpless. He was a wonderful perfect man and she was lucky to be marrying him. Even in a yellow knit dress.
"No?" He was genuinely surprised.
"No." She raised her voice, and said to the priest, "No."
Father Shanahan raised his eyebrows and lowered his prayer book. "No?"
"No." She said it louder now, to the altar and the candles and the statues and all the people standing behind her, though she dared not turn and look at them.
"No!" she said, to Simon's stricken face and "No!" to Simon's frozen hand and "No!" to Simon's lovely, thoughtful, dreadful romantic gesture.
"No," she whispered into the electrified silence of the church. And then she fled.
Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession and these are my sins: I lost my patience with a student in the classroom yesterday. I admired my reflection in a window that made me look shorter than I really am. I broke our engagement and wonderful perfect Simon's heart. And I killed a spider.
DARE TO BE GREAT – Step 1: MAKE THE COMMITMENT
In every woman's home, there is a security blanket. It might be, literally, a blanket, a leftover from childhood, tattered and worn, which represents all that is safe and secure. It might be a particular item of clothing -- perhaps a warm and sloppy sweatshirt that to you means total relaxation. It might be your diploma or business card -- a reassurance of who you are. Or maybe it's a comfort food -- if you're like me, ultra-premium chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream can fix almost anything.
Whatever your personal security blanket might be, I want you to get up, right now, and get rid of it. That's right, get rid of it! If possible, I want you to destroy it: cut up the sweatshirt, burn the business card, flush the ice cream down the toilet. If it's a family heirloom, and you simply must keep it, put it in a box, seal it up with plenty of shipping tape, and give it to a friend for safekeeping.
Now, find yourself a new talisman. If your security blanket was a sloppy pink sweatshirt, get yourself a leather motorcycle jacket or a low-cut velvet sweater. You don't have to feel comfortable in it, you don't even have to like it, just buy it, bring it home, and treat it just as you did the sweatshirt. Next time you get home from a bad day at work, feeling confidence-shattered and helpless, don't look for the old sweatshirt to slop around in -- it's gone! Instead, put on your sexy sweater, turn up the radio, and strut around your bedroom until you feel good again. Or at least until you see the humour in the situation.
Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "I'm five (or 10 or 20) pounds overweight! If I put on a tight sweater I'll feel worse, not better!" Don't you worry. We'll be working on your physical appearance in Step 5, "Look the Part" of the Morris Method of Creative Risk-taking. Meanwhile, trust me.
What if your security blanket is a diploma -- a symbol of your academic qualifications and the time and money you spent earning them? Burn it! And choose a director's chair for the movie you'd like to make, or a wallet for the money you'd like to earn, or a hammer for the house you'd like to build. Forget the past. Focus on a new and exciting future!
In my own case, when I threw away the ice cream, my new symbol of adventure and success became a tin of caviar. To tell you the truth, I wasn't crazy about caviar at that time, and even today I can take it or leave it. But the point is, it represented daring, excitement, and risk-taking. I decided -- and I want you to decide this for yourself, too -- that I would rather be the kind of person who came home and ate caviar in a plunging neckline, than the kind who ate ice cream in a sloppy sweatshirt.
Are you still with me? Not too scary, so far? Alright then! Throw away the security blanket, find yourself a new talisman of courage and success, and say to yourself out loud, right now, "Yes! I dare to be great!... I dare to be GREAT!... I DARE TO BE GREAT!"
***
Everly was hiding in her apartment with a massive headache and an upset stomach. Pale, she lay on her back on the couch, her eyes covered with a damp face cloth, while Marlene made a little more noise than necessary in the kitchen.
"What I don't understand," her sister said, banging a bottle onto the counter, "is why you never told me you were having doubts. If you'd even hinted that you weren't happy I would never have allowed it to happen. But no, you were all 'wonderful this' and 'perfect that'... and now Mr. Wonderful Perfect has been humiliated in front of everybody, and all your friends and family feel awful -- like we were selling you into slavery."
Everly said nothing, but a tear emerged from beneath the face cloth and rolled down into her ear. That was the worst of it -- not that she had broken Simon's heart but that she had jilted him so horribly in front of everyone who mattered. She would have to call him, try to explain. And all the relatives as well, to apologize. Her stomach curled, and she moved the face cloth to her mouth as a precaution.
She could see Marlene standing in the doorway now, holding a bottle of rum and surveying her with a look of exasperation. And that consoled her; it could have been a look of contempt -- Marlene was very good at those -- or at least a look of annoyance, but it was not. It was definitely fonder than either of those.
"And poor Mother!" Marlene continued, "She'll be hysterical for a week. She was so happy to finally see you getting married, and then you pull a stunt like this one."
"I'm sorry," Everly whispered.
"Well don't apologize to me, Everly. In fact, don't apologize to anybody -- you don't marry someone just because they surprise you at the church. What a harebrained idea, anyway."
"He was just trying to make a romantic gesture."
"Yeah, well, next time he should send chocolates." Marlene sat on the edge of the couch and took the face cloth from Everly. It was hot and steamy now, like the cloths they hand out with tongs in Japanese restaurants, and she flapped it once or twice to cool it off.
"Are you feverish?" she asked, a little more gently, putting her palm on Everly's forehead before replacing the cloth. "No, just embarrassed," sighed Everly.
"Well, get over it. By next week people will be laughing about it, and a week after that they'll have forgotten it completely." Great. Laughing about it. Everly blushed.
"What about poor Grammie? How will I ever explain it to her?"
"Don't bother. She thought the wedding was lovely -- wanted to know why the bridesmaid in the yellow dress had to rush out early, though." Everly laughed and moaned at the same time. She was actually feeling better, although she knew she didn't deserve to.
Marlene indicated the bottle of rum. "Here, have some -- it's all I could find in there. Don't you ever have any fun?" "Of course I have fun. I just don't have hangovers," Everly said primly. She sat up and took the bottle, wiping the mouth of it with a tissue from her sleeve, taking no chances with germs, though it had sat untouched in her cupboard since Christmas eggnog for the family. She sipped, made a face to please her sister, and sipped again.
Maybe alcohol should be her new talisman. Scrap the cup of herbal tea, the wintergreen and willow bark remedy for tension headaches that was her habit after work, and sip a glass of wine instead. No, something bolder, more dramatic. Scotch, perhaps, or martinis. Definitely not rum, however.
She swallowed again, and surveyed her feet, shod as always in a sensible pair of tan leather loafers. Who was she kidding? Flat shoes, not tea bags, were her security blanket. She hadn't worn heels since... well, since never, because by the time she was old enough to wear them she was also tall enough not to want to. And the talisman of courage, if she had any nerve at all, would not be alcohol but the magical, sexy, pointy-toed black shoes that she had bought four years ago and never worn.
"Marlene, do you consider yourself courageous?" she asked suddenly. Her sister produced two glasses filled with ice and a bottle of diet Coke. "Not courageous enough to drink rum out of the bottle. Here, get loaded."
Everly was well on her way to doing that, having had several swigs of the alcohol on an empty stomach. She poured a small drink and sipped recklessly. "No really, Marlene. Are you a brave person?"
"Sure. I speak my mind. I don't back down. I don't let people intimidate me."
"Would you rescue someone who was drowning?"
Marlene snorted. "Brave, yes. Stupid, no. I'd probably drown myself if I tried, and I would certainly ruin my hair."
Everly laughed and finished her drink. "I envy you," she said, looking again at her shoes. "You are so certain about things." She noticed that her vision was distorted, but in a clear and merry way. The shoes looked crisp and important; even the scuff marks were larger than life, and they called to her, taunting her to put her money where her mouth was, goading her into action.
She stood and walked to the window that overlooked the street below. She opened it awkwardly and kicked off her loafers. "What are you doing?" her sister asked in some alarm.
"I'm making a commitment, Marlene," she said, picking up the shoes and waving them over her head. "I dare to be great," she intoned, causing several pedestrians on the street below to look up at the apartment building and pause.
"I dare to be GREAT," she shouted, causing her sister to run over and hold her firmly around the waist, lest she be overtaken by a sudden urge to jump.
"I DARE TO BE GREAT!" she screamed, and hurled the shoes, and almost the bottle, out the window, into the pale blue muggy Ottawa sky, over the treetops and across the road towards the helmeted head of one of the city's finest bicycle patrol police officers -- Constable Arne T. Olsen, to be exact.
***
With his highly trained powers of observation, Constable Olsen immediately recognized the shoe that flew by him as one he had last seen on the moderately large foot of the redhead in Apartment 303 the week before. In fact, he had been patrolling the area with extra diligence ever since, hoping for another encounter with the attractive young woman.
He deliberated briefly. It was possible, he thought, that there had in fact been an intruder the other day, who had now returned. Perhaps even as he stood there, the lovely Ms. Rowan was defending herself by flinging any weapon that came to hand. Or foot. It was also possible that the two events were unconnected; that for some strange and unknown reason the woman had decided to throw things out her window. And finally, it occurred to him that she might be flirting with him -- had seen him passing below and was now tossing shoes at him in hopes of attracting his attention. This seemed the least likely of the scenarios, but Constable Olsen had an optimistic outlook on life, so he scanned her apartment building hopefully. Nothing, apart from a window being hastily closed.
Instantly, he decided the situation bore investigating, and he scooped up the other shoe from a laurel hedge, tucked both into his belt, and bunny-hopped his bike (for the benefit of any observers) over the curb and across the road to the brick building. All this took mere seconds, and in fact, he would have arrived within two minutes of the shoe's flight had it not been for a lengthy delay in rousing the manager to let him into the building.
Inside the apartment, meanwhile, Everly's high spirits had vanished. She had glimpsed the policeman's uniform through the bushes across the street, and while she did not for a minute suppose it would be the same officer, she was aghast at the prospect of another visit from the law, and another half-baked story for another blue notebook. For all she knew, it was some kind of crime to hurl objects from a third-floor apartment. Assault, or reckless endangerment, or littering at the very least.
She grabbed at Marlene's arm. "You've got to deal with this for me. I can't handle it." Marlene squeezed a look out of the sides of her eyes -- a mixture of pity and amusement. "Oh Everly," she said, in that way she had, "What are you afraid of?" Nevertheless, when the knock came, Everly hid, and her sister answered the door.
Constable Olsen gave Marlene a piercing look, and perused the room behind her for signs of a struggle. "Afternoon, ma'am. Constable Olsen, bicycle patrol." He withdrew a shoe from his belt. "I have reason to believe this loafer may have been thrown from one of your windows approximately..." he checked his watch, "...approximately five minutes ago."
"Not thrown, officer, just dropped." Marlene smiled charmingly. "Thank you so much for returning it." She took the shoe and began to close the door but the policeman stood his ground. "May I speak to the young lady who lives here -- just for the record?" The young lady eavesdropping behind the bedroom door was horrified to recognize the policeman's voice, yet oddly pleased to hear him ask for her.
"She's indisposed. Thank you again," Marlene said firmly. But he was immovable. "We've had a few incidents in the area recently. I think it would be best if I spoke to Ms. Rowan."
"Ms. Rowan is my sister and she's not feeling well at the moment. I'm sure you wouldn't want to --"
"Oh, Marlene, it's alright." Everly emerged from the bedroom, sheepish. "I'm sorry, officer, I was just opening the window and I was holding my shoes and they ... well, actually, I broke up with my fiance, and I guess I sort of threw the shoes -- it's a book I'm reading..." she floundered. She wondered if her breath smelled of rum.
The policeman stepped gallantly forward. "Then allow me to return this to its rightful owner," he said, pulling the second shoe from his belt and bending low to hold it in front of her foot. Everly giggled nervously and looked at Marlene. Really she had no choice -- she raised one stockinged foot, wishing it were smaller, and wobbled it into the proffered shoe. Marlene raised her eyebrows.
Constable Olsen straightened. "Well, I'll be on my way. I don't think we need to bother with any paperwork on this one," he said.
"Thank you so much," Everly shook his hand fervently, and walked him to the door, one foot shod. With a manly smile, the policeman left.
"So what was all that about, Cinderella?" said Marlene, handing her the other shoe.
Everly blushed. "Oh, he was the policeman who came in the other night when the cat jumped me."
"I gathered as much. I can see why you found him so annoying."
"Oh, he's not so bad. A bit gung ho, but kind of attractive, in a way."
"Too short."
"Oh I didn't mean for me... just, in general."
Marlene nodded, and fluffed her hair.