The May Queen
© 2007 Michelle Tocher, used by permission
[Images:"Thumbelina and the Dragonfly" by W. Heath Robinson, 1913; "Thumbelina on the Wind" by Margaret Tarrant, 1910; "Thumbelina the Seamstress" by Arthur Rackham, 1932]

3

Molly
Sunday, May 8

Yesterday, I got another email from Eric, which started a bit of a volley.

Dear Molly,
What can I glean from your silence? I'm done with second guessing. Look, the heat is off. We don't need to meet at any particular time. I'm sorry if I said anything to scare you off.

Hi Eric,
You didn't scare me off. Other things have happened. It's not about you.

Dear Molly,
Wow-words from Molly! (Albeit, snappish) What has happened? Can you tell me?

No I can't, Eric.

Right. You wanna let me off the hook?

I did. I wanted to call the whole thing off. My reason for wanting Eric in my life has escaped me. I don't know what I feel anymore. I've gone completely numb. Everything has disappeared into a thick fog. But then, I thought, why not. Let's get it over with.

Eric, I think we should meet, and as soon as possible. How about Allen's Pub. Tomorrow. Noon. Let me know if that works for you.

It's not what we had in mind, but sure ... of course.

I'm sitting out on the patio of Allen's waiting for Eric to show up. Who knows how I'm going to react when I see him, assuming I'll have any reaction at all. I could jab myself with a pin and I'm not sure I'd feel pain.

I'm really angry. The wind has been totally sucked out of my sails. Eric and I had something special, but now we have nothing at all. The romance has died. I have no more enthusiasm for this meeting than a business lunch. What happened to my ardor for Eric's activism, his environmental work, his published books, his world-changing vision? He was my new and improved knight in shining armor — we would travel together, have deep philosophical discussions over cups of fair trade coffee, go to book fairs and revue theatres.... The dream has gone up in smoke. Now all I see are things about him that concern me. He's ten years my senior, and he's never married. In one of his letters he admitted to a fundamental distrust of women, something he wanted to change. He's been engaged twice, but never made it to the altar. He said he could relate to the story of Thumbelina — having met his share of toads, cockchafers and moles.

I first contacted Eric when I was working on a story for the hospital newsletter that dealt with air quality in the hospital. I thought the subject would be a big yawn until I emailed Eric with some questions. His answers were so cogent and fascinating that the article practically wrote itself. I thought, Here's a guy who really knows the air. He doesn't just approach air quality as a problem that needs to be solved. He appreciates oxygen. He knows things, like we take 19,000 breaths every day. Air, he says, is our common space, borderless and beautiful. Fundamentally, each one of us is responsible for the quality of the air we emit. He sent me a copy of his favorite book, Gasp! The Swift and Terrible Beauty of Air, by Joe Sherman. The more I got to know Eric, the more I wanted to be in his atmosphere. I didn't care what he looked like. I just wanted to grow wings with him, and fly.

But now everything has changed. I can't help it. I'm fuming!

I'm not exactly dressed to impress. I'm wearing a long pink vest, a white blouse, torn jeans, and pink sneakers. My hair is still damp from the shower. I towel-dried it, but I didn't pin it down or put a hat on. I didn't care if it went wild. I came in early and told the waitress that a guy named Eric would be arriving, and when he asked for Molly, could she please steer him to my table.

I'm not nervous. Like I say, I'm not feeling anything at all. I'm sitting at a corner table under a budding maple tree. The air is warm and fresh, and it actually smells clean. Breezes are chasing one another around, and birds are singing. I don't know their names. Robins? Song sparrows? Finches? Beats me. I'm a mole.

The waitress is an unnaturally thin teenager with blond hair tied into knots on either side of her head. She leads a man out onto the patio. He's got a dark, graying beard. Surely that's not Eric. Eric would not have a beard. Besides, that man has got to be ten years older than 43. And he's so ... tall.

"Eric, Molly, Molly, Eric," she says blithely, and swings away.

I'm not sure what to do. Neither is he. He sits down and reaches for my hand. His grip is strong but his palm is sweaty.

"Hi," he says with an intimacy that makes me squirm.

"Hi." I look down, wincing. He's taking me in. Catching whiffs of my hair, imagining the touch of my skin, the taste of my lips — putting me on, fitting himself in.

He's got a rather large nose. Long, narrow. He looks so — philosophical. I stare at his hands, his long sensitive fingers. I never asked him if he played an instrument, but I bet he does. He wears wire-rimmed glasses, ten years out of date. His eyes are somewhat magnified by the lenses, and they're unattractively round. (Oh, God, is he a toad? No, with those feelers he's more of a cockchafer....) I can't put his physical image together with the man in the computer. What did I think he looked like? I should have insisted on seeing a picture before I met him, but I didn't want to be superficial. (Instead, I was näïve.)

We don't have any words. We just keep looking at one another.

"This is awkward," he says finally. "I'm not sure what to do with your silence. You're beautiful, Molly. I never imagined...."

Oh God, here we go. The restaurant wasn't a good idea. Why are all my secrets coming out in public? I want out of here.

"But something has definitely changed," he's saying.

The waitress interrupts us, slouching over her little notepad. We hastily order lunch, not willing to let her go until she's got our choices and can get our food. Move things forward.

We order lentil soup. Coffee for him. Tea for me.

"Did I frighten you?" he asks when she's moved away. "I shouldn't have started sending you those poems. It was too forward of me. I'm sorry."

"It wasn't the poems, Eric. Like I said, it wasn't about you. I've just received some shocking news. Family secrets are coming out, and now I'm really upset and confused. Actually, I don't want to talk about it. I feel so stupid! For thirty-three years the people closest to me have been lying to me, and those who have tried to get through haven't. Instead they've been telling me fairy tales — "

His attention has been distracted by the bird over my shoulder, who is out-singing me.

"What is it?" I snap.

"A cardinal," he says, smirking.

I flush. I flare. "You're not even listening to me!"

"You're not saying anything, Molly!" He shoves himself back from the table. "A week ago, we were both so excited about seeing one another. Then suddenly, I get silence. More silence. Then you deign to see me, on your own terms. Now you won't tell me what's going on. You've just put a big wall up. I guess I've stopped trying, you know — this is all pretty painful." He leans forward and slumps over the table. "You say that it's not about me, it's about you, but that's not entirely true because you're affecting me. You don't want to tell me what's going on — fair enough. But don't cast me into the role of someone who is trying to force you out of your hole. You wanted to meet me, and I'm here."

I glare at him. I should never have told him about Thumbelina and the moles. It's like I gave him a piece of my soul.

The soup arrives. We dip our spoons into the thick green broth. I can hardly swallow it.

Finally, he rests his spoon on the side of the plate, puts his napkin on the table, and slides his seat back. "I'm going to assume it's over," he says. "It was right to meet. We can't live in a fantasy. You're so beautiful, Molly, way more beautiful than I expected. But you lack the one thing I did expect."

"What's that?"

"Sweetness," he says, wincing. "You're all sharp edges."

"I'm just angry, that's all. It has nothing to do with you."

"Right. You've been telling me that." He sighs and looks down at his soup. "We ran an incredible experiment, you and I. It was foolish to think that we could commit ourselves to one another, sight unseen. Right now, Molly, I don't even know who you are."

My heart starts pumping strongly. I should say something. I should say I'm sorry. I should say let's give it a chance. I should —

"Look, Molly, I understand that you're angry about something that has rocked your world. It's just that, one day I'm in and we're sharing all this intimate stuff, and the next day I'm locked out. Forever. You don't have to let me in— I wouldn't be so presumptuous — but please don't make me the enemy."

He gets up and puts a ten dollar bill on the table. "Bye, Molly."

"I'll pay," I say, sliding it back to him.

He takes the bill, shoves it into his back pocket, and walks away.

Leaving me to clean up my mess.

May
Monday, May 9

It's been a busy day. Had an appointment at the lawyer's office at 9:30 to go over my will. I have a bit of money that was given to me as a gift long ago, and now, of course, it's going to Molly. After, I drove over to the recording studio to deliver a couple of spots and a voice-over. My agent Tom Collins (no kidding that's his name— and he's a teetotaler!) calls me Mae West. Loves my "whiskey voice." Scotch has served me well.

I drive back home, listening to Josh Groban. I can't get enough of him. Make me cry, Josh. Take me Home to Stay...

When every boat
Has sailed away
And every path
Is marked and paved
When every road
Has had its say
Then I'll be bringing you back
Home to stay...

I'm pooling in his sentimental slop. I park in the underground and take the elevator up to the lobby. It's dark, the slick leather sofas are cast in shadow. I'm prompted to take a walk down the boardwalk. I can't walk far — my groin is throbbing. It's the extra weight I'm carrying around, my fast growing stone. I'm going to need something to distract me during this dying process. I used to paint. But that won't do. I would only paint stones.

Outside, the light is brilliant, blinding. I'm wearing one of my favorite vintage hats, a turban made in crimson and indigo raffia. My skin has already been damaged by the chemo and shouldn't be exposed, but what the hell? I need to smell the rank water and sniff the foul air.

Off I go! I'd like to say that I saunter down the boardwalk in my georgette skirt with fluttering layers of cherry silk— I'd like to say I'm a vision in my vintage-but the sun is making me dizzy and my right thigh is throbbing wickedly. I'll have to be carried back if I don't turn around soon.

And then I see him. Sitting on a bench, gazing out onto the lake. Leaning forward with his calloused hands clasped together. I recognize the silver hair, the high, weathered cheekbones-Gerald. I guess I hardly need to ask what he's doing here. I sit down beside him, arranging my layers of silk. "Must look pretty for the passers-by," I joke.

There are tears flickering in his charcoal eyes.

"Hi May," he says, looking out at the lake.

How did he know that I would come along today? How did I know that he would be here? Those are the big secrets — bigger than us.

"I take it that Molly told Cora and all hell broke loose," I begin.

He frowns. "It's time that Molly knew."

Good. Well, then.

"But I've been thinking," he says, adjusting himself on the bench. He's still staring at the lake. He hasn't even glimpsed my vintage glory, let alone met my eye &38212;

"...about that story you used to tell Molly. Thumbelina. It's interesting that we don't know what happens to the mother in the story." He cocks his head in my direction. "What do you think, May?"

I want to rest my head on his lap. I want to curl up under the shade of his arm, or at least, lean my back against his trunk. But of course, I do not. I just fidget and rearrange my skirt. And think. I think hard. I conjure the story back up, and sink into the bones of the mother who lost her baby, which isn't much of a feat, since I'm already living in those bones. I'm standing in her cottage, gazing at a broken windowpane, and, of course, it's obvious. The loss of the child was the end of her life. "She's not going to try again, that's for sure," I sigh.

"Why not?"

"Because she has failed utterly, hasn't she? She can't conceive, and now, when she's given a chance, and it's only the tiniest chance, the tiniest child, she blows it! Leaves her precious baby beside a broken window. What was she thinking? She'll never forgive herself. She can't raise anything! She's an utter failure as a mother, isn't she?"

I could go on. But I don't dare. Given the circumstances, I could easily become hysterical, right here in front of the whole unsuspecting harbor crowd.

"See," says Gerald evenly, "that's a good portrayal of her. I wouldn't be able to get Cora to portray herself, but you just did it for me."

"Cora?"

He leans forward, resting his muscled forearms on his thighs. "All these years, Cora's been trying to create a perfect, safe, ordinary place for her little fairy child. But it's never been possible, has it? And yesterday, when Molly came over and spilled the beans, Cora lost her baby just like that mother in the story."

He lifts my right hand, kisses it, and then gently returns it to my knee. "The whole time she raised Molly, Cora pretended that the baby didn't come from a fairy but was human and belonged to her. Now she has to face the truth."

I heave one of my legendary sighs. I hate talking about Cora. It's such a bore. "Cora's always going on about facing reality, well good. Now she's had a dose of her own!"

"I'm not arguing with you, May," he says.

He still won't look at me, not that I blame him. I'll dazzle him in my finery.

"It's just that she's having trouble swallowing her dose. You of all people should understand how hard it is to let your baby go."

I know what he's saying and I know it's true, but Cora's a toad toad toad. She took my baby (yes, I know, I gave it to her), but she took it and she fixed me with her evil eye and she said, "Don't you ever say anything — you just go away." I dreamed about the toad last night. She leapt in through the window with her rattle of skulls. "I've got your baby, now, so die!" she croaked, stinging me with her venomous warty tongue.

I can't tell Gerald my dream. I must contain my madness. Quiet as a mouse, I remove myself from the bench.

He won't even know I'm gone.

Molly
Wednesday, May 11

"Come on, Pansy. Come here, kitty." I lift the skirt of the sofa. Pansy's deep in the "bushes." Cats don't have much compassion, not Pansy, anyway. Not for little stuff. I feel her wet nose on my fingertips. She's sniffing, but she's not coming out. She might come out if she heard me bawl, but I can't even manage a whimper.

I don't have any feelings.

"She hasn't any FEELERS," said one of the cockchafers.

The insect had seated himself on a large green leaf beside Tiny, and he was listening to the opinions of the other cockchafers. He had been giving her honey from the flowers to eat, thinking she was very pretty, but his friends didn't think she was marriageable.

"Her waist is quite slim," said one.

"Pooh!" said another. She is like a human being."

"Those cockchafers are nasty creatures," said my mother. We were sitting together under the quivering tinsel of the Christmas tree. She was reading Thumbelina out loud, starting from where Auntie May left off.

Mom was wearing white flannel pajamas with a red-striped candy cane on her left breast pocket. There weren't any candy canes in my sock because they weren't good for my teeth. My stocking held a tangerine, some dried-fruit candy, and little plastic puzzle toys. The day before, Auntie May had slipped me a bag of red jelly Santas, telling me to hide it away. And make sure to brush my teeth.

"What happened to the white butterfly?" I asked.

Mom turned the page back. When Tiny got caught by the cockchafer, the white butterfly became all tangled up in the ribbon that the girl had attached to his wings. The poor white butterfly went floating downstream, still tied to the green leaf.

"Do you know what a cockchafer is, Ger?" Mom asked, just as Dad was about to set the needle down on Smoky Robinson's Christmas with the Miracles. His shoulders jiggled as if he found that funny.

"It's a May fly," she said.

Dad's shoulders stopped jiggling.

"But what happened to the white butterfly, Mom?" Now I was really frustrated. From the moment the white butterfly had appeared, I had become attached to it just like Thumbelina. He couldn't just disappear. Mom flipped through the book. "As far as I can tell, nothing more is said about the butterfly," she said. She closed the book.

"There must be more!" I cried, grabbing it. I was really upset about the fate of the white butterfly, and angry with my mother for putting an end to the discussion. "Auntie May could tell me what happened to the white butterfly," I blubbered. "When is Auntie May coming back?"

Now that I think about it, that must have hurt my mother. I'm beginning to get a bigger picture of my life. It's still unfocused, but critical memories are surfacing. I'm beginning to think (and possibly, even to feel) that the story of Thumbelina is the key. It was the way that May tried to reach me.

The fairy tale raised so many questions, but answered so few. I suspect that's why my mother hated this breed of story. It wasn't just that she thought fairy tales had no bearing on reality. They frustrated her. The fate of the white butterfly was not unraveled and from her point of view that was just plain bad writing. Irresponsible, even. Drop clues, but solve the mystery. That's what she did. What she failed to understand and what I'm seeing now as I lie on the floor, staring into the dark at Pansy's luminous cat eyes is that the white butterfly's fate was an opening. An invitation. A question cut perfectly to my shape, which I alone can answer. What happened to the white butterfly?

"Well, let's see now," Auntie May would say if she had been there to answer the question. "What do you think happened to the white butterfly?"

"He got all tangled up and he was swept downstream, Auntie May, and it was all Tiny's fault! She never should have attached herself to the white butterfly!"

Now I'm feeling something.

"Oh, Molly," I hear Auntie May say, "I'm sure the butterfly wouldn't feel that Tiny was to blame! I'm sure he wanted with all his heart to help her get away from those toads and find her way in the world. How could Tiny know that the cockchafers would grab her and tell her something that we both know is absolutely wrong. No feelings? Nonsense! Not pretty? What a lie! Why, Thumbelina is as beautiful as you are, Molly Mite! But now tell me because I'm dying to know — what do you think will happen to the white butterfly?"

Suddenly, I feel so bereft, so utterly bereft. There's a knowing in my heart, a tug to a very deep place, a drowning place. I want to tell Auntie May that the story is going to end happily, but that's not true. It's not the picture I'm seeing.

"The butterfly floats downstream, and then the current drags him down to the bottom of the river where he gets eaten by a fish. It's over, Auntie May. The End."

The dam breaks. All the emotion I've been holding back pours out. I should never have gotten attached to Auntie May or to Eric. They're both meant to fly, not to get tangled up with someone like me.

Pansy creeps out from her hiding place, leaps up to the couch and watches me from above. "I told you so," she seems to mew. "Stay undercover where it's safe, little mouse."

May
Friday May 13

I grab my towel and head out of my flat to the pool on the top floor. I don't want to swim in that chemical soup. I want heat. I intend to sweat this stone out. I've got a two-litre container of water in my bag, and there's a steam room up there with my name on it.

I got in over my head when I made that baby for Cora. You don't sail over a threshold wanting to be heroic. I thought a child would be such an easy gift to offer. Who did I think I was? Befana? I can see her in my mind's eye as I ride up on the elevator. A fairy godmother, Italian style. Flies around the world on her broom. She set off to see the Christ child two thousand years ago but never found him and she's still flying around on her broomstick. She gives her gifts to every child she meets, because any one of them could be Christ. Every Christmas, Befana sets off on her broom and gets absolutely madly lost.

Like I was when I sealed my fate. Absolutely madly lost.

I thought that I could step into Cora's life, have the baby and exit quickly, stage left. Peek in from time to time from the wings but basically get back on my broomstick and make myself scarce. I'd drop a kid without all the mess of actually raising one. Molly was right. I didn't want the obligations.

The elevator door opens and I follow the chlorine smell to the pool. There's a man swimming, cutting through the Colgate blue water with long, smooth strokes. Born to do breast strokes! I like him already. I head across the deck to the Ladies Room, peeling off my clothes as I stride towards the sauna door. I hope to hell there's no one else in there because I've got a lot to sweat out.

Merciful Jesus. I am alone.

Dee was the kicker — she really pissed me off. Why the hell wouldn't Dee give her sister a baby? Dee's got more babies than the old woman in the shoe. She wouldn't even miss one. But no, it was up to me.

I didn't think it was possible to get so attached. My idea was, cut the umbilical cord, and there's one for your sister. Why was I so quick to have Cora's baby? Was it a feather in my cap? Did I want to tell strangers, "Oh, yes I have a child," so they would think, "Wow she's done it all"?

Or maybe it was just for Gerald.

It was 1970. I was all of 21 (another clue to my stupidity). Mother died in 1955, so she wasn't around to straighten us out or challenge my heroic decision. Not that she would have said anything had she been alive. For seven years, following the disappearance of my father, she had only one preoccupation and that was to complete her lace burial shroud. My mother was the last in a long line of highly skilled Belgium lacemakers. Walking into her house was like entering the inner chamber of the Snow Queen. Cora took most of the lace after she died (curtains, doilies and table cloths) and hung the curtains over her windows. (They could do with a wash.)

Cora wanted to pay me for my surrogacy and I flatly refused. It made me sick to think of putting a price on a child's life. I was okay with the deal. Let's just get her conceived and mum's the word. I did ask to name her, however. That was my one condition.

"Oh, she is beautiful," Cora blubbered, as the nurse filled her arms with the baby bundle. "Hello, you sweet, precious thing!" Then she remembered me, lying there, nothing left but a carapace-nymph debris. She wanted to know if I had named her. Her expression was worried. She feared I would name the baby Elspeth after our mother, or do some other crazy thing to piss her off.

"Molly," I said, squeezing my eyes shut. "Her name is Molly."

"Hey, Molly," she cooed.

"Bye, Cora," I groaned.

After that, I fell into a depression. I didn't want to fly off anywhere. I wanted to be with Cora and Gerald and Molly. But they left me outside in the cold, knocking on a locked door. I'm sure I became troublesome.

Oh, I'm sure.

I went over whenever I could — always making the excuse that I had just returned from a trip and would love to have a visit before I dashed off again. I would bring gifts for Molly. Cora asked me to stop (first politely, and then with teeth — "If you don't stop spoiling her, I won't let you come over!") I resented that. Molly wasn't six before we began to conspire. I'd bring over books that would annoy Cora (fairy tales worked best) and we'd dress up and act things out.

Ugh. It's boiling in here. I've gone through a litre of water already.

Like that time we did Cinderella. I brought over my usual pile of fairy tale books and some costumes I got on the cheap. Molly instantly fingered Cinderella as the story she wanted to act out. We set the stage around the living room fireplace and decided to do the scene when Cinderella confronts her evil stepmother. We made Cora come in and watch. Molly wanted to be Cinderella, of course, so I put her in a flax-blue shift (it pooled around her ankles) and we smeared ashes over her face. She was a vision of the fairy princess with her big hair coiling all over the place. We tied it down in a kerchief and it's just too bad J.W. Waterhouse wasn't around to paint her. I put on a black wig piled up in an elaborate chignon, and a red velvet gown with gold brocade.

On with the show!

Cinderella: I have made a decision, mother.

Stepmother (crossing her arms): You have, have you?

Cinderella: (placing her broom squarely at her side) Yes. I want to go to the ball.

Stepmother: Ha! Impossible!

Cinderella: Please let me go.

Stepmother: Where did you get such a cockamamie idea? Look at you. You have no gown, you've got ashes all over your face and you're wearing — what are those? Clogs? By heavens, you're a mess!

Cinderella: (tearfully, wringing her hands) Please let me go! Please!

Stepmother: (throwing a pail of imaginary beans into the hearth) See all those beans I've just thrown into the hearth? If you can separate the beans from the ash in an hour, maybe I'll reconsider.

Cinderella: (running to the door) You pigeons and turtle doves! Fly to my aid! Put the beans in the pot and the ash in the crop! Come quick! Come in! Come in!

Swept up in a flock of invisible birds, Cinderella puts her bucket down before the hearth. Stares at it for a second, then picks it up again and whirls round.

Cinderella: Look! I did it!

Stepmother: Well. I have no idea how you managed that, but the idea of you going to the ball is simply unthinkable. I will not even consider it, unless, of course, you can do the task in half the time.

Cinderella: (repeating the action, only this time, more hurriedly, tripping on her dress and getting the words mixed up when she calls the birds. Beans go into the crop, ashes to the pot. No matter.) Look — I did it! Now please let me go!

Stepmother: I do not know how you did that, but I repeat: there is no possible way you can come to the ball. You're a disgrace to the family and you will never belong with us.

She stiffens, all three and a half feet of her.

Cinderella: Now you look here, you evil stepmother. You can't keep me here at home all my life. I have a right to go to the ball like everybody else. And besides, I don't even need to ask your permission because I've got a special fairy godmother who will grant my wishes, so you can just sod off!

It was just too funny. I howled with laughter and even Cora had to crack a smile. Molly and I collapsed on the floor, giggling hysterically, and Cora made her exit. Did she feel the sting? You bet she did. I saw her stricken face when she left.

God, it's hot in here.

Cora must have hated the role I cast her in. We acted out our hurts, over and over again — not understanding at the time what we were doing, no more than a teenage girl who is crisscrossing her skin with a razor blade. Cora was all trousers and visors, and I was all vintage skirts and hats. But take off our clothes, and we'd look pretty much the same. All cut up.

I'm dizzy. If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. I've got to put my head down between my knees before I can stand up. It's that or crawl out of here on my hands and knees. There's a lot of darkness in me. There's meanness and resentment and vanity and cruelty. I don't want to see it, but I'm staring at it now, head between my legs. It's time to dive into the underworld. But I'm panicking on the surface. I don't want to meet what's down there.

I can't tell Cora I'm dying. I wouldn't be able to face her unspoken howls of relief. She could easily destroy what little soul I am cradling on my march to the grave.

I stagger out of the steam room. I think the stone grew.

Michelle Tocher has been described as "an enchanting storyteller" with a deep understanding of fairy tales and their relevance to everyday life. Her books include How to Ride a Dragon: Women with Breast Cancer Tell Their Stories (Key Porter Books, 2002), and Brave Work: A Guide to the Hero's Journey at Work, which she co-wrote with Anna Simon. Formerly President of a Toronto communications company, she has spent nearly twenty years spinning yarns that demonstrate the power of the mythic imagination.. She recently finished her first novel, The May Queen. You can read more about Michelle Tocher at her website michelletocher.com