by Lillie Papps

"Keep your feet apart!" Mary says as she watches the circle of women exercising. "This is not the time to be ladylike." 

Mary never yells. She does not need to. Even though she is tiny, she has a voice like a well-trained opera singer and can be heard a long way off without assaulting the ears of those nearby. Once she scared off a man who threatened her just by speaking to him. Any one of you could have done the same, she says. All it takes is confidence. We make ourselves victims by not being assertive. 

This is the last class. They are practicing all the things Mary has taught in the previous ten weeks. At the moment they are working on individual techniques. Next they will combine some of these to fend off mock attacks, with Mary as the assailant. She has been known to be sneaky, grabbing you when you least expect it. One time she grabbed someone coming back from the bathroom. "What are you going to do?" she demanded as she tightened her grip on the startled woman. It is a question she often asks. There are many answers -- a kick to the side of the leg, an elbow in the face and at least a dozen different ways you can twist free. So there's no excuse for being helpless. 

Ainslee wants to be prepared. She is practicing a "soft" technique that does not require much strength in order to be effective. She pushes her arms forward in a circular motion and tries to knock her partner off balance. Her movements are awkward and her hands end up in the wrong position. The other woman remains firmly on her feet. Mary offers some advice: "Your feet are still too close together and you need to bend your knees more. Try again." Ainslee takes a bigger step forward and repeats the thrust. This time she does not jerk like the hands on an old clock, but glides as smoothly as time itself. Her partner staggers backwards and almost falls. 

"That's good," says Mary. "See how easy it is?" 

Ainslee does not reply. She excuses herself and goes and leans against the wall. Everywhere she looks she sees limbs flicking out like the blades of a Swiss army knife. Some of the women are athletic, but most, like her, are not. Sixty-seven year old Irene has just knocked down a woman in her twenties. "Are you alright dear?" she asks. The other woman grins and congratulates her. Anyone can do this, Ainslee thinks. Anyone at all. 

Ten weeks earlier Ainslee was sitting on the living room floor with her back against the oak panelled wall, smoking a cigarette. Behind her the wall felt very solid, as though dozens of trees had been used to build it, although in reality it was far fewer. She sat there because in that position every part of the room was visible. From the corners of her eyes she could see the wagon circle of wood panels stretching out on either side. 

Her roommate would be home from work soon. She thought about going into the kitchen and starting dinner, or at least doing the dishes. But the kitchen was very small and if she worked at the stove or the sink her back would be to the door. She did not move. 

Instead, she lit another cigarette and flipped through the pages of one of the magazines beside her. Miranda would be pissed off if she caught her smoking indoors. As soon as she walked in the room, she would sniff loudly and bring out the air freshener. Then she would start going on about how inconsiderate Ainslee was and how she had agreed not to smoke indoors. Ainslee would get the telling off she deserved. She took a deep drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke towards the ceiling, where she knew it would linger. 

She was still sitting there when Miranda came home. She reached for the ashtray and was about to put out the cigarette, when Miranda said "It's okay. Smoke if you want to." 

"No," said Ainslee. "I've had enough." She ground the cigarette into the ashtray until there was nothing left except the butt. 

Miranda took off her coat and shoes and sat down beside Ainslee. "So how's it going?" she asked. 

"Okay." 

"What have you been up to?" 

Ainslee shrugged. "Nothing much." 

Miranda nodded. For a while neither of them spoke. Ainslee stared at Miranda's coat, which was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. One arm was flung out to the side like a southern belle in a cheap romance novel. "Ple-ease save me!" it seemed to say. She wanted to hang it up somewhere out of sight. 

"I've been thinking," said Miranda. "You need to do something to get your self confidence back." 

"Like what?" 

"You know my friend Mary? She teaches a self-defence class at her place on Saturday mornings. It's a small group -- all women. I think it would be a good idea for you to join them. What do you say?" 

"I don't think I'm up to that right now." 

"Ainslee -- you have to take control. You can't just sit around the apartment forever." 

"I know that." 

Miranda reached over and took hold of her hand. "Just try it Ains -- please. I know it will help you. Give it a go. And if you really don't like it, you don't have to go back." 

"I'll think about it." 

But she knew she would try to wriggle out of it any way she could. It was bad enough that she had to go back to work the day after tomorrow. By now everyone will have heard that she was in an accident. That's what Miranda had told her boss when she phoned to let him know Ainslee was taking a few days off. When her co-workers can't see any scars, bruises or plaster casts they will be even more curious. They will ask her what happened and all she can say is "I'd rather not talk about it." It's a lame response. It sounds as though she's trying to hide something. 

The class is taking a break from physical exercise. They are sitting in a semicircle in front of Mary. Even sitting she still seems to take up more space than a five-foot, 100-pound woman ought to. 

"I want to talk to you about potential weapons. I don't mean guns or knives or baseball bats -- I'm talking about things you normally carry around with you that can be used against an attacker. Ainslee, show us your purse." 

Ainslee fetches her brown leather handbag. Mary holds it by the straps and swings it around. "This weighs about five pounds," she said. "Enough to give someone a headache if I walloped him with it." She gives the bag back to Ainslee. "Would you mind showing us what you have inside that?" 

Ainslee pulls out a notebook, lipstick, a box of tampons and her wallet. "That's all," she says. 

"Do you have any keys?" Mary asks. 

"Yes." She unzips a pocket inside her purse, pulls them out and passes them to Mary. 

"I'm going to show you a little trick," Mary says. She holds the key ring in her fist with the ends of the keys poking out between her fingers. "This," she says "Could do some damage if you punched someone. I always hold my keys like this when I'm walking home at night." 

Mary divides them into groups of three and asks them to make a list of other things they can use to defend themselves. Ainlee's group is quite imaginative. Their list includes perfume, diamond rings, stiletto heels, string bags and hard leather cases. Ainslee is busy writing everything down. She has only made one suggestion. 

But why did you hold on to your cello? Miranda's question kept coming back to her. It was not meant to be an accusation; Miranda couldn't figure out why she had not dropped it and ran, or at least fought back with both hands. Instead she had hung on to the cello from the moment she felt his hand on her shoulder until she found herself alone in a pile of garbage. Ainslee can't explain it. She does not remember having the cello when she was being dragged along. 

She went into the spare room and opened the closet door. Her cello was in its case leaning against the heavy winter coats. She took it out and held it by the handle. It felt heavier than she remembered. For a moment she stood weighing the instrument, then she spun around, thrusting the neck in front of her. Wham! How much would that hurt? She rammed her fist into the black leather case. Her knuckles made a faint cracking sound. It was as hard as a tree trunk. If she had hit him in the groin it would have crippled him. 

Shortly after the attack, Miranda had taken her to the Emergency department at Toronto East General. She was still shaking and desperately needed a cigarette. She looked around for something she could focus on to calm herself down. There was a WCB poster on the wall opposite her that said: ACCIDENTS DON'T JUST HAPPEN -- THEY ARE CAUSED. At the time she had stared at the words without reading them. She had stared at them for so long that now they were burnt into her memory: white on black and their meaning was clear. 

She tucked the cello away in the far end of the closet and pulled several coats in front of it. When she left the room the door closed behind her with a sound like Mary clicking her tongue. 

The class is over. The women linger a while, exchanging phone numbers and promises to "get together again sometime". Ainslee watches the last three as they say good-bye and climb the stairs. One of them has wrapped a chiffon scarf around her neck. The ends of the scarf float down her back like wisps of green smoke. Ainslee wonders what she would do if someone grabbed those ends and tried to strangle her. Would she remember to move closer to her attacker so that she could elbow him or crush his balls? Would she yell 'Fire!' the way they had been taught to (breathing from the diaphragm, not the chest), or would she just scream wordlessly? 

Mentally, Ainslee goes through the items in her own wardrobe. She sees shoes she can't run in, skirts that are too tight. Jewelry that could turn lethal. All the beautiful clothes that make her vulnerable. If she gave them up would she be safe? Mary is standing beside her. At the moment she is wearing sweat pants and a T-shirt, but Ainslee knows she likes to wear ankle-length skirts and dangling earrings. She will probably change into those clothes when everyone has gone. 

"How about some coffee?" Mary asks. "I made another carrot cake, seeing as you liked the last one so much." 

They go upstairs and drink a fresh brew with thick slices of Mary's delicious cake. Ainslee is halfway through her second cup, when Miranda shows up, twenty minutes late. "Sorry," she says. "There's a Greek festival going on, and all the streets are blocked off. I had to drive miles out of the way." 

"Coffee?" Mary offers. 

"No thanks. Oh, by the way, I brought the wrought iron brackets for your shelves." She reaches into her bag and produces them. The brackets consisted of bars that were thicker than two of Ainslee's fingers together, with heavy curls of metal woven underneath. They glinted challenges when the light caught them. 

"Wow, they look great!" says Mary. "I love how you've painted them." 

"We can put them up right now if you like," says Miranda. 

"Sure. I like to get that job out of the way." 

"Do you need a hand?" Ainslee asks. 

"That's okay, Ains. You finish your coffee." 

Miranda and Mary go upstairs. Ainslee hears them knocking on the walls as they try to locate studs they can screw the brackets on to. She can hear snippets of their conversation too, but is sure they don't realize this. It is mostly Mary she hears, because her voice penetrates more. "She's getting there. She needs to be more aggressive though." 

For a while they talk too softly for Ainslee to hear, then Miranda's voice breaks through. "I don't understand why anyone in a situation like that wouldn't at least try to fight back. I mean it's a survival instinct." 

There is some more quiet speech. The next time Ainslee hears Mary; she is louder and clearer than before. "I'd like to see one try. I'd rip his balls off!" Laughter follows, and their conversation becomes less interesting as they concentrate on putting up the shelves. 

Ainslee swallows the last mouthful of coffee and rinses her mug in the sink. By the time Mary and Miranda come down, she is sitting innocently in an armchair. 

"Shall we get going?" Miranda asks. 

Ainslee stands up. Without warning she takes a firm grip of Mary's shoulder and elbow. Mary raises a hand to block the move, but she has been caught off guard and her technique is poor. Ainslee parries the counter attack and wraps her leg around Mary's. She presses hard against it, until she feels it give way. Mary drops with a thud. For a while nobody says anything. Then Miranda cries: "Ainslee! What the hell ...". As for Mary, she remains on the floor looking bewildered, wondering how something like this could have happened to her.

Lillie Papps is a Toronto-based freelance writer.