be compatible. The kids ended up loving each other, and marriage just felt like the logical next step. Many have criticized our marriage plans; we haven’t known each other for long enough, our backgrounds don’t mesh well. We ignore it all.
“Do you think you’ll be able to squeeze an ‘I do’ out of him.”
Those words were just uttered by the man about to walk me down the aisle. He’s a well-known older male actor who has been the closest thing to a father figure in my life. His name is of no importance; however it begins with the pompous proclamation “Sir” because the Queen saw fit to fan his smoldering ego many years back with a Knighthood. His dig against Anatoly simply refers to my future husband’s inclination towards avoiding small talk.
Anatoly is a man of few words. He’s a deep thinker and can express himself beautifully if he wishes, but he internalizes many things. As a child, he was isolated from other children, and was forced to amuse himself without the aid of friends or toys. His parents were poor, which wasn’t a strange occurrence in the Soviet Union during his childhood, but they told him stories at bedtime full of excitement and wonder, and allowed him to fertilize his rich creative mind. He’s wealthy now; his wealth allowing him to adopt and care for four young children who were born unwanted in faraway countries. As many of our critics have reliably pointed out, his wealth and the fact that he has four children are really the only experiences we share. I remind them about our undying love, and they sneer.
The church is beautiful; a classic catholic church in every sense with stain glass windows glorifying the Stations of the Cross. The altar, where my nervous walk will end, is fantastically decorated with roses of all colours; without being disrespectful to the holy nature of the place. We’ve been warned about this, warned that a few roses could be placed around the altar, but that anything in excess of that would be deemed disrespectful.
I was raised as a catholic, attending church every Sunday with my parents and my sisters. Those days are over, and it’s been a while since I attended mass, but it’s important to me that I get married in a catholic church. My first marriage had been at St. Jude’s, which was fantastic. The roses on the altar hadn’t been a big thing back then, and I think way too much has been made about it now. At the centre of the rose controversy is Bishop Aloysius M James. Admittedly, I pulled some strings; called in some favours from some powerful people to get the bishop to do our wedding. In hindsight this was a mistake. He’s embarrassingly questioned us on many things; the roses, Anatoly not being catholic, my divorce, and the list goes on. He’s an old, angry man—a pain in the ass, and my tolerance for his antagonism is running thin.
I’ll admit that I’m nervous right now. I keep reminding myself not to rush down the aisle, and to keep a nice steady pace to my walking; the checkered floor will help me with this. Three squares per stride; I’ve practiced several times. There’ll be two hundred sets of eyes on me, which is fine, given my line of work, but there’ll be no second takes on this one. I keep reminding myself to breathe from the stomach; we don’t need any hyper tension today.
My sweetie and the kids are at the front of the church now. It’s almost time to go. Need to keep breathing. The music is starting.
“Show time honey.”
I give Sir pompous ass a kiss on the cheek and we’re off. Still breathing; looking good; three squares per stride. Lips a little pouty—this is my look, the one that made me a star. Breathing still perfect. Anatoly looks great; my kids all have big smiles on their faces. Suddenly Anatoly’s two youngest, Kara and Boris, break free and head for the exit at the side of the church; Anatoly scoops them up and hands them to my two eldest, Kim and Jude; we’re ok; things still looking good.
“Nervous dear?”
I ignore the question, and give a shy cute smile, which is another famous look of mine. God I hope someone got a picture of that one. This walk will be the only really good chance to get a shot of me, as there are to be no pictures of us at the altar—the goddamn Bishop has forbidden it. The more I think of that man the angrier I get. No pictures. Unbelievable.
Half way there and I’m thunderstruck; the altar looks magnificent; the roses are truly beautiful. I love roses more than most people love breathing. I mean roses touch my soul. A tear slides down my cheek, but I don’t dare wipe it—hopefully it’ll just evaporate. Three squares per stride. Still breathing. Anatoly’s looking great. He appears a bit uncomfortable, likely due to the attention that will shortly focus on the both of us.
“Good luck sweetheart”
The knight gives me a peck on the cheek, and I squeeze his hand in appreciation; we’ve arrived. I give Anatoly a smile, and throw a quick wink to the children. We wait. I try not to look at the roses because I know I’ll tear up. Finally, Aloysius M James comes through a door at the back of the altar and makes his way towards us. He’s got the traditional robes on; his expression isn’t warm or loving. He stops in front of us.
“I’m afraid we have a problem,” the bishop says sternly. “These roses can’t stay here. This ceremony will not happen as long as these roses are on this altar.”
Anatoly looks at me as I turn toward the bishop. “You goddamn fu . . .”
Anatoly Smyslov looked at his opponent, and then back down at the board. He swiftly took his queen from the square beside his king knight and placed it on the square in front of his opponent’s bishop. His pawn structure wasn’t what he would have liked; two in particular were in strategically poor positions, and he had given serious thought to moving them, but for the time being he needed to take a run at that bishop. His opponents’ bishop play was particularly strong.
The Tryst
Lamar Gordon heard the familiar sound of tiny footsteps through the thin veneer of his sleep. They got louder, as he knew they would, but they still suggested a rather small perpetrator; a small deer perhaps. He knew that in a moment the door to the bedroom would swing open, and he’d be face to face with the interrupter of his sleep—the one with the doe like prance.
The door opened.
“Hello Josh,” Lamar said, not bothering to open his eyes, but knowing his son was standing in the doorway, eyes wide, a ferny mop of blonde hair contrasting against his purple pajamas; like something Jim Henson might have come up with.
“Hello Daddy.”
Lamar forced his tired eyes open. “Have a bad dream?”
“Yeah, I was . . . and then . . . and it was.”
“Slow down Josh,” Lamar tried to say; his mouth was dry and he had more mouthed the words than spoken them. He cleared his throat, a slight tinge of pain suggesting a cold was coming on. “What was the dream about?”
“A Spider,” the youngster said, examining his toes
“A rather large one I’m guessing,” Lamar said, sitting now on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes.
“Yeah, gigantic,” Josh said, using a word Lamar had never heard him say before. The youngster looked up at his father, his mother’s beautiful eyes wide with fright.
“Alright, in you get,” Lamar said, holding the blankets up. Josh dove into the space beside his mother.
As he turned to cover his son with the warmth of a down comforter, Lamar glanced first at his sleeping wife and then at the bedside clock; it was half past one in the morning, officially the last Friday of the month. It was their night, he and his wife Laura’s, a night they’d spend like they had all the other last Friday’s—alone in their secret place.
Lamar looked down at her, her gentle features and long lashes resting peacefully on her pillow, a few age lines here and there adding character more than anything else. He longed for the days of their youth when they’d frantically explore each other’s bodies in the half hour intervals they’d steal from the world—between classes, parked somewhere, on a couch with trusting parents sleeping a floor above. Their lives were more complicated now; the boys, jobs, a mortgage, credit cards. Each day seemed to be a loose collection of unorganized, frantic episodes, each leading into the next; from nightmare
s, to diapers, to work, to dinner, to scrapes and bruises, to the emergency ward, and back again.
There was no doubting that it was a happy life; Lamar and Laura filled in the gaps in their frantic schedule with love, respect and the occasional bout of blissful joy, but deep down inside, somewhere where Lamar stored his more provocative memories, there was a wanting, a desire to relinquish the handcuffs of responsibility for just one brief period.
Tonight they’d satisfy a longing which had grown in them for the last month—since the last time. Lamar pulled the covers up over Josh and nestled his own head down onto his cold crisp pillow. After a few moments he was asleep, visions of their tryst dancing in his head.
Laura Gordon was woken up by the cry of a baby, her baby. Young Rory was four months old and was clearly headed towards a career in opera; he was that loud, although Laura never slept very deep; she wondered if any mother’s did. She jumped out of bed, instinct allowing her to find her way to the door, paused for a moment at the threshold and glanced back at the bed, the cadence of two breathing patterns catching her attention. She smiled as she realized that Josh was nestled in beside his dad. There had obviously been a bad dream of some sort: dragons or bees or spiders she thought . . . and large. She was surprised she had slept
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