Prerequisites for Sleep

by Jennifer L. Stone

  We girls bonded instantly, calling ourselves the Rella sisters — Flo (short for Florence), Jo, and Syd. In appearance, we were as different as the herbs that grew in the back garden. I was tall, much too tall, and awkward, constantly bumping my head on chandeliers and archways when I would forget to duck. Syd was curvaceous and beautiful — eye candy, but with brains. As smart as she was, she never clued in to the fact that she was a head turner. Jo was the girl next door, always smiling, covered in freckles. If you looked close, you could see how they clustered together to form what appeared to be a heart-shaped birthmark on her right cheek.

  We idolized the three musketeers, who frequented Frank’s pub and were described as witty and handsome by our mother. Not allowed inside, we spied on them through the alley window by secretly venturing from our cottage after dark. Later, in our bedroom, we would strip down to our bloomers and have sword fights, using feather dusters for weapons, each of us taking a swooning shift as the maiden in distress, all of us preferring to brandish the dusters.

  Mother worked in the pub alongside Frank. She was a big woman with a big laugh. The patrons enjoyed her sense of humour and loved her meat pies, which were the best in the land. Her list of secret ingredients included hot sauce and tarragon. News of these delicacies had travelled far and wide. The king himself, disguised as a peasant, visited The Glass Slipper Pub twice a year for one of my mother’s meat pies, which she always served with apple chutney. She would recognize him by the ring on his left hand that doubled as his royal seal. No one could figure out whether he stupidly forgot to take it off, or deliberately left it on. Star-struck, my mother was unable to speak in his presence, denying him the anecdotes and jokes he would no doubt enjoy as part of the peasant experience. “Cheap bugger,” she would say after he was gone. “He never leaves a tip.”

  Mother and Frank were generally at the pub, so Syd, Jo, and I did most of the household chores. Once a week we would get into our grubbies, our term for the tattered clothes we worked in, and clean the cottage from top to bottom.

  It was a Tuesday, not too hot. A breeze travelled through open windows from east to west, carrying fresh air and the bustle of the street into our rooms. We placed shoes as stops against inside doors to keep them from slamming shut. I was busy sweeping cobwebs and picking bats and other vermin out of the thatched roof. Jo was sorting laundry in the upstairs hall, while Syd scoured the kitchen. To this day, I find it hard to believe that a rabid dog managed to get inside the house. Later we discovered that we had left the garden gate open when we returned from our wanderings the night before. At some point, we must have left the back door open as well. Syd shrieked when the creature crept out from behind the stove with strings of saliva hanging from its teeth. Then she panicked and ran, with the mangy dog following, out the front door and into the street. From my vantage point in the upstairs bedroom window, I saw the shocked looks on the faces of those who watched Syd sobbing in her threadbare clothes.

  Things quickly became distorted, as things tend to when the rumour mill runs amok and the local papers only get half the facts. The next day’s edition ran an engraved-plate image of Syd in her cleaning attire, along with a sensational headline and quotes from the neighbours about how wicked and abusive her step-relatives were.

  Someone called Child Welfare. Their mediaeval representative made a surprise visit, only to find Syd dressed in a lovely peau-de-soie pinafore, her feet resting on a tasselled stool. She was reading — a pastime considered inappropriate for young girls of our time. They would have preferred her to be tatting lace or eating curds and whey. Mother was severely lectured for this, after which the ill-treatment-of-Syd matter was dropped. A retraction was printed on page eleven of the paper, a single paragraph lost in columns of jousting scores.

  People looked at us differently after that. Unless Syd did the shopping, we received the worst cuts from the butcher and sour milk from the dairywoman’s cows. Business at the pub slowed for a while but fortunately not for too long. The competition, a fast-food-ale joint lacking in decent cuisine and atmosphere and a seedy inn several kilometres out of town, didn’t satisfy the hearts and stomachs of the local male population. They had stopped frequenting The Glass Slipper to appease their wives, then realized that the women didn’t have the luxury of free time for drinking ale and eating meat pies and would never know they had returned.

  Several weeks later, after most of the ruckus had died down, notices appeared, tacked to all the wooden doors in town, announcing a dinner and dance to be held at the castle. The parchment specifically stated that those arriving in business-casual attire would not be admitted.

  We immediately dug into our trunks to retrieve our gowns, which were refashioned on an annual basis with new ribbons, silk flowers, glass beads or pearls. My gown required lengthening, as I had grown three inches since I’d last worn it. This, we decided, could be accomplished with a flounce. Jo was pleased to find that hers fit perfectly. It had been sloppy the previous year, constantly falling from her shoulders, so that she had to spend most of her time with her arms crossed or discreetly sliding the neckline back in place. Syd’s curves got the better of her and proceeded to burst from the seams. The dress had been altered twice; no fabric remained hidden inside to let out.

  Mother called every seamstress in town, only to be informed they were booked solid. How unusual, she thought, that not one of them was able to accommodate her. The household was in a state of panic. It’s not as if a Gowns R Us outlet could be found in the market of our village. Then mother remembered Mrs. Godparent, wearily retired after thirty years of making gowns for primping, self-absorbed females. Promises of brandy and meat pies, as well as assurances that Syd was not the primping, self-absorbed type, secured her services.

  By the afternoon of the event, Syd’s dress had yet to be delivered. Mrs. Godparent sent a carrier pigeon with the message that she was running a few hours behind. There were no mice and no dramatic scenes where Jo and I tore apart a secretly constructed gown. I don’t know how that silly rumour began.

  “Go, go,” Syd said, “or you’ll miss the dinner. The food is always the best part. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  The meal was over when Syd arrived. Most of the guests were outside on the patio, catching a breath of air while waiting for the musicians to begin playing. My sister was strategically positioned on top of a cartload of pumpkins, wildly driven by Mrs. Godparent. The old woman’s silver hair had escaped from its usual bun and whipped around in a state of frenzy, sending dandruff flying in all directions that resembled fairy dust in the harvest moonlight. Through it all, Syd remained composed and beautiful. Jo and I watched, listening to the cooing of oohs and ahhs around us as though the fireworks had begun.

  The prince, who had been exchanging pleasantries with a couple of dukes and the Duchess of Everafter, stood mesmerized, unable to move until Syd had gracefully climbed the stairs and curtsied apologetically before him. He had a slight lisp and kept pronouncing Sydney as Cindy. My sister was much too polite to correct him. They waltzed throughout the evening until Syd discovered she had to leave because she started her monthlies and had forgotten to slip some rags into her evening bag. Such explicit details could not be spoken to a prince. Instead she rushed past him, calling out, “I had a wonderful time, but I must go before it’s too late.”

  Who is the mysterious Cindy? Syd, Jo and I, as naive as we were in thinking that it would all blow over, couldn’t help but chuckle over the tabloid story and engraving that accompanied that headline. The entire town was buzzing. It’s a small village. Everyone knows someone, and someone eventually directed the prince to The Glass Slipper, where he professed his undying love for the owner’s daughter. A beaming Frank brought him home, forgetting that it was Sydney’s day to clean the kitchen.

  When the shocked prince proposed to a filthy Syd, it effectively placed her between a rock and a hard place. It is bad protocol to refuse a prince, and
common knowledge that, in doing so, a girl would give the impression that she thought she was too good for one. I could tell Syd felt she had no choice. Under the circumstances and given the times we lived in, I would have probably done the same thing. I didn’t get the chance to tell her, though. Sid was whisked away to the castle, for her own good, before we could speak again.

  The second-last time I saw Syd was at her wedding. We did go to the wedding, relegated to the table of the town’s assorted evil relatives. I was surprised to be in the company of so many and wondered if they were as bad as they were made out to be. Syd was almost in tears when she tracked us down. She said she had nothing to do with the seating plan. The queen had made all the arrangements, right down to choosing her pretentious wedding dress and ridiculous shoes. She lifted her dress to show us her feet, red with blood from where the crystal pumps were cutting into her skin. We searched our purses for hankies and mother gently padded them under the sharp edges.

  After the wedding, the image of Syd in her tattered clothes appeared in the paper next to the official wedding engraving. The corresponding article served to propagandize the event as a valiant rescue of an ill-treated maiden by a noble, but perhaps starry-eyed, prince who could be forgiven any future transgressions.

  A few months later, Jo reverted to Smith and took off with an artist who delighted in connecting the dots of her freckles to form constellations. The two of them run a travelling tattoo parlour. Her letters say she misses us but enjoys the anonymity of her lifestyle. Within two years, Mother died of a mysterious illness that I can only attribute to depression. She bequeathed to Frank her secret recipe.

  There have been many times that I have thought about visiting Syd, just as I am sure that she has frequently thought about visiting me, both of us deterred by the fact that getting in and out of the castle alone is a bureaucratic and security nightmare that only a select few know how to navigate. I know her only through castle proclamations of births and visiting royalty. Poor Syd. I feel that she, stuck on the inside without an ally to escape with, as the three of us did when we braved the night to spy on the musketeers, is unable to navigate alone and spends her days treading water.

  A few years ago I married Dwayne, the dragon master. He fell in love with me upon discovering that I could stand, look the creatures in the eye and they would allow me to wash behind their ears without breathing fire. He is a giant of a man and we are equally matched. Last week at our fundraising dragon wash, the proceeds going to the castle upkeep fund, since chivalry is now dead and tourist numbers are down, I saw Syd again. She was accompanying her children on an outing to see the dragons. She had miscarried four babies and laboured over five princesses before the obligatory prince was born. It is said that her husband no longer visits her at night. Frank often sees him at the pub. He doesn’t hide his identity and he’s not there for meat pies. Syd’s father, and the only father I have ever really known, does not go in for gossip. If he makes a statement, it is true. It obviously pained him to make this one.

  The dragons were uneasy with so many children about. Two things you can’t trust together are dragons and children. Dwayne double-checked the cable fencing that kept the spectators at bay and filled buckets of water on standby. Sydney approached with my nieces and nephew, all holding white-gloved hands, from smallest to largest. From under the velvet of the girls’ dresses came the rustling of crinolines and petticoats. Crystallized sunlight reflected from the tiaras in their hair and the jewelled buckles of the prince’s shoes. When they stopped in front of the pen, the air was still, except for the occasional snort of a dragon. The crowd was silent. Waiting. Expecting.

  I noted that Syd had acquired a couple of rolls around the middle. She took in the crow’s feet that now radiate from the corners of my eyes and the chiselled lines at my mouth. I saw the edge of her lips twitch on one side as if she was about to break into a giggle, then her eyes moisten as if she was going to cry. We remained there, the thick wire of the pen between us, two women quietly acknowledging the fact that we were still sisters and friends, until the dragons and the children became restless.

  Double Exposure

  Why is it that you are always the last to know? It’s two in the morning. You’re thirty-six years old and you realize that your five-year relationship is in trouble. Your girlfriend stands before you in a short skirt and coordinating sleeveless tank with a low neck and a high midriff, moist as if returning from the gym, and tells you that you sometimes act like a mother. You tell her that she always acts like a child. Normally, you say that you are worried because she is unusually late. The argument is punctuated by broken glass, an exclamation mark, the smashing of your favourite photo, a cheesy picture of the two of you biting off the same slice of pizza. You used to think it reminded you of the Disney movie Lady and the Tramp. Perhaps Disney movies were the only things you ever really had in common.

  You end the relationship, vowing to stay single because partnerships with other women are far too difficult for you to manage. You move into a new apartment, which you paint blue and yellow, then spend the next year immersed in your work while trying to adjust to being on your own again. You go to bed in men’s boxers so you can slip your hand inside the fly front and indulge yourself when you have difficulty sleeping. Slip. Rub. Breathe. Moan. Sigh. Sleep.

  At a New Year’s Eve party, an acquaintance introduces you to a man who looks at you as if you are familiar. This man smiles and takes your arm to guide you to the kitchen, where he offers to open and pour the bottle of wine sticking out of your oversized purse. You are attracted to him and feel giddy inside, although you haven’t dated men since high school. The two of you finish the wine and after midnight go to your place, where everything you once felt awkward about when around men now comes easy. He stays the night and you decide you could be convinced to change preferences. You spend the next day together, mostly in bed. He pleasures you with his tongue as women once did and you reciprocate. He tells you he is divorced and that his ex-wife is an artist. You tell him you’re single and that you are a food photographer.

  “Why food?” he asks.

  “Because I don’t cook,” you reply.

  He cooks, rummaging through your fridge and cupboards to find the ingredients for an impromptu fettuccine Alfredo while teasing you about your lack of domestication. You are stunned and amazed that he could produce something from almost nothing, the unused samples you bring home from the job. In a cupboard above the stove, he finds an unopened bottle of Jamaican Rum, a gift your brother brought home from vacation several years ago, and makes hot chocolate liqueurs for dessert.

  On your second date with this man, you meet downtown. The snow is noisy, like corrugated cardboard breaking underfoot, so you walk without words to the Italian restaurant next to the farmers’ market. The restaurant is empty, other than the two of you, and commands quiet, so you talk in whispers. He tells you he has an eleven-year-old daughter who stays with him some weekends. “Don’t worry, she’s a great kid,” he says, before relating the details of her aquatic and music skills.

  Afterwards, you spend the night at his place and he serves you an omelet filled with ham and cheese and fresh vegetables for breakfast. This man is a history professor at the university. He lives in a nineteenth-century house in the south end, the type of house portrayed in nostalgic paintings or Christmas movies — the epitome of security and happiness. He has silver strands of hair at his temples and discerning taste. He tells you that he, like most of his favourite people throughout history, has an affinity for beautiful women. You are conscious that he is trying to win you over with his charm and kitchen skills.

  The first time you meet his daughter is at Swiss Chalet. “Kid food,” the man says, deliberate neutral ground. When he leaves to use the washroom, she spits in your face and says she hates you and that you are not her mother. You wipe the spit off on the red logo of your napkin and tell her you are not trying to be her mother but w
ould like to be her friend if that’s okay. She doesn’t smile but says that maybe it is. When the man returns, the two of you pretend nothing happened. She snatches glances at you over her half-full Shirley Temple. You don’t know whether she is daring you to tell or imploring your silence.

  In the summer, the man suggests that you give up your apartment and move in with him. You remind him again that you don’t cook and he laughs and says he’ll help you pack. In a box of things he is clearing away to make room for your stuff, you discover a photo of his ex-wife and notice that you both wear your blonde hair in a shoulder-length bob with bangs, and have brown eyes, and freckles across the bridges of your respective noses. “I think we look somewhat alike,” you say, holding the picture up next to your face. Smiling, he takes the frame out of your hand and leads you to his study, where he undresses you and, on an antique armchair with eagle-claw casters, he reminds you why you decided to move in.

  When this man goes to a conference, he asks you to allow his daughter to still come for the weekend. You do, and plan all kinds of things to fill the time. Shopping. Crafts. Disney movies. Making cookies with Pillsbury dough. On Sunday evening, you drive the daughter home. A blue SUV is in the driveway, curtains move, and a lamp is on upstairs. No one answers the doorbell. You bring her back to the house and try phoning, calling every fifteen minutes for several hours before her mother picks up. She tells you she was away, adds something about car trouble and being out of cellular range.

  “She was lying,” you tell the man.

  “It happens,” he says. “There is nothing I can do about it.”

  You feel angry with him and sorry for him at the same time.

  Sometime in September, you run into your former girlfriend at a coffee shop. She looks fabulous, flirts with you and invites you to lunch. You are flattered and accept, then spend the morning torn and unable to concentrate on the compositions of cuisine you are trying to photograph. Lunch is at a new bistro overlooking the water. You are disconcerted and feel somewhat out of touch. You used to know whenever a new place opened in town. How had you managed to miss this one? What else have you missed?