by Unknown
Even if I had to hold my nose to do it.
Intemperate and invidious.
And so we were married. Such a shame Barry insisted on clinging to his old tight-fisted ways. He just didn’t believe in the joint ownership of anything. Alas, he’d had his own way for far too long, first as an only child indulged by his parents, then pampered for years by Miranda, that doormat.
Intransigent and imprudent.
Barry brought it on himself. You do see that, don’t you? I really do try to avoid violence whenever possible. To be honest, I do find it thrilling, but the risk...
Did I mention that I graduated as a biomedical engineer? During one of our more exotic evenings, where I played nurse and Barry became the naughty patient, I injected him with a full vial of insulin, not saline solution as he supposed.
Inconspicuous and inevitable.
My cell phone rings, startling me. Barry’s lawyer must see me without delay. I feel an unfamiliar flutter of panic. Barry’s will was straightforward, I assure myself. All goes to me. I made sure of that.
But when I arrive at the lawyer’s office, she looks distressed. She sits me down.
Turns out Barry stayed as true to his nature as I have to mine. Ten years ago, to protect his money from Miranda, he made her sign a co-habitation agreement. Miranda, that sly bitch, is suing for her share of the spoils.
Impossible and inconceivable.
How could I slip up? I scrutinized every document Barry kept in the house after we were married. Not a hint about that old agreement sleeping in his lawyer’s vault. Barry and the lawyer assumed our marriage rendered it invalid. Both were mistaken.
Incompetence!
The lawyer advises me to settle. Miranda’s lawyer is expert, her case impregnable. If I fight, the legal fees will devour my share.
I rise to leave but there is more bad news. The lawyer begs my forgiveness. Miranda, pudgy, hopeless Miranda, has a new fiancé – a police officer. She has made wild accusations about Barry’s sad and untimely death. The police will be asking questions. Until all is resolved, Barry’s assets remain frozen.
I shed a few tears, let the lawyer pat my hand and leave.
Alone in the elevator, I rub my black spot, ready for battle. No need to worry: I had Barry cremated – and quickly, too. But should the police examine my life too closely…
And I want that money. I worked hard for it. It’s mine.
Obviously Miranda deserves a violent solution, but the risk is high. I must be wonderfully subtle and effective.
Invisible and inescapable.
Why on earth is my cell phone ringing again? I go to turn it off - I’ve had enough of that idiot lawyer – but it isn’t her, it’s my doctor. He must see me immediately.
Now what?
I drop by the doctor’s office. He sits me down, begs my forgiveness. He should have taken more care.
On my last visit, his young intern insisted on testing my black spot. It may be my talisman, but it’s also melanoma. The tests say it has spread.
Incurable and inevitable.
How apt, you say, the universe has rebalanced. Erased a predator from civilized society. But that’s not it at all, sweet heart. The universe really doesn’t care about your nice little world.
It was simply incompetence. Truly, it will be the death of me.
Madeleine’s stories have been published by several magazines and anthologies. This year, her story, The Lizard, won the Bony Pete prize sponsored by Bloody Words, Canada’s national crime writers conference. Her debut novel, Gunning for Bear, was short-listed for the 2012 Unhanged Arthur award and previously for the Debut Dagger award. It is now under review by a major publisher of Canadian crime fiction.
Visit Madeleine at her Website
or at her FaceBook page
FAMILY VALUES
Sylvia Maultash Warsh
He was an eighty-year-old horror, thought Libby, stirring the tomato sauce on the stovetop.
Still lived in that ancient house, a wretched old man who hated everyone. He should have been the one to lose his memory and forget their only child. Not Mama, who loved her. Who always took her side and protected her from his rages. Who lately peered at her, trying to excavate some memory of her daughter from an unyielding mind.
Mama’s old age pension barely covered the bed in the short-staffed nursing home. She shared a cramped room with three other crazy women, one who screamed day and night. Libby had asked about the price of a private room. Well beyond her office administrator’s salary, it turned out. And how long would that job last, now that she had let herself go, hair unkempt, clothes haphazard?
She carefully steamed the cabbage leaves in the pot. The home said her mother was agitated all day until Libby arrived after work. No wonder. By the time she got there, Mama’s diaper was soiled and she was starving. Libby was exhausted, going daily. Her father never visited. The home suggested she pay a caregiver to be with Mama while she was at work. But that took money.
The house would bring in money. Yet her father would never agree to sell. And he could be around for another twenty years, still tall and strong for eighty. Anger kept him going. While she was at home he had slapped her regularly. She was a pile of crap, he said. Why couldn’t he have a son?
She hadn’t spoken to him in months. The last time she phoned, he cursed her and hung up. Maybe she could convince him to sell. Fat chance. But he did have a soft spot.
One evening she arrived at his door carrying a warm foil-covered pan.
“Get the hell outa here!” he yelled behind the closed door.
“I brought you something. Cabbage rolls.” He hated to cook, loathed meals-on-wheels. Cabbage rolls were his favourite.
He opened the door, squinting at her with disgust. “How do I know you didn’t poison them?”
“I’ll have some too.”
He let her in. He looked thinner, a bit stooped. Still a head taller than her, a force to be reckoned with.
In the kitchen she served the rolls. He sat down and started to eat, ignoring her.
“I want to sell the house,” she said.
He stopped chewing. “Did your mother send you?”
“Yes, she wants you to sell.” Libby avoided his eyes.
“She was always a crazy bitch. Tell her to go to hell!” He pointed at her plate. “You’re not eating.”
She took a bite to reassure him. He resumed eating.
She rose quietly as if going to the counter. Instead, she stopped behind him. He would never change. Just grow meaner with age. Crueler. She took the clear plastic bag from her pocket. Holding her breath, she flung the bag over his head and pressed it against his face.
He screamed, outraged, clawing at the bag. He was half-choking, half-coughing. She held the bag tight, hardened by the memory of his hand on her face, the burden of his insults.
Unexpectedly, he swung his elbow back and jabbed her in the stomach. The pain almost made her let go of the bag. But she thought of her darling mother and held on, till the plastic filled all the crevices of his face.
Sylvia Maultash Warsh writes the award-winning Dr. Rebecca Temple mystery series. Her historical novel, The Queen of Unforgetting, published in 2010, was chosen for a plaque by Project Bookmark Canada. Best Girl, a Rapid Reads book, came out in 2012. She lives in Toronto where she teaches writing to seniors.
Visit Sylvia at her Website
or look for her books at Amazon dot ca
GIVING THANKS
Kathleen Bjorn
Cara Robinson wakes to begin the preparation of the Thanksgiving dinner. She pays no mind to the tear-stained pillow.
Bill, her husband, is nowhere to be found. The same holds true for her seventeen-year-old daughter Casey, fourteen-year-old son David, and here twelve-year-old son Chris. Bill has probably taken the kids outside to play football and Frisbee. She can hear the faint songs of play outside the window. The day is clear and unseasonably warm. Perfect for play —and every Thanksgiving they play,
she toils.
The pumpkin pies are still sitting on their cooling racks and the pie smell still permeates the air as she descends the stairs to the kitchen. She sees that a small wedge has been removed from one of the pies. Bill never can wait for his pumpkin pie. It is the perfect breakfast food he says every Thanksgiving. (Is that the phone? No.)
The fourteen-pound turkey is stuffed and ready to be placed into the oven right on time. With the oven door open she carefully lifts the roasting pan and slides the turkey into the chamber. (Is that the phone? No.)
She ascends the stairs to take a shower and get dressed for dinner. Bill and the kids don't believe in all the pomp and circumstance of dressing up for dinner. They would sit around the table with the outdoor smells and the incidental remnants of play on their clothes. (Is that the phone? No.)
This is Bill's favorite dress. Casey loves these shoes. David has some weird affection for the scarf. And for Chris she wears Victoria, a cologne he says smells like her so it is his favorite. She is careful to spray a mere hug scent, not one that will overpower the smells of Thanksgiving. (Is that the phone? No.)
Carefully placing the last .995 sterling dinner fork next to her grandmother's china she calls for Casey to bring the cranberry sauce to the table. No answer from Casey but is that the phone ringing? No.
She yells out the front door for the family to come in and get washed up for dinner. There comes no answer but she does notice that the play songs suddenly cease. (Is that the phone? No.)
Now she's carrying the fourteen-pound stuffed bird to the table. The yams have their place in front of David's setting, the corn, its place in front of Chris. The cranberry sauce sits in front of Casey. The gravy sits in front of her own plate. The turkey, the crown of the Thanksgiving coronation, is set in front of Bill's plate. He will carve it. (Is that the phone? Yes.)
She runs to the kitchen to answer the phone, yelling that dinner is on the table. The phone is no longer ringing but she lifts the receiver to her ear. It's a recording, a recording made four years ago this Thanksgiving Day.
"Mrs. Robinson, my name is Matt Stone, I know you don't know me but I found your number here. There's been a terrible accident and I think they might all be dead. The police and ambulance have been called but no one has answered yet. I'm so sorry to have called but I thought you should know.'' The phone goes dead.
She again ascends the stairs, carefully removes her Casey-loved shoes and places them in their box. She unties and removes her David-loved scarf, folds it and places it in the third drawer, the scented one, of her bureau. Her Bill-loved dress slides down around her ankles. She steps out of the dress and carefully hangs it on the satin padded hanger. Her scent, her Chris-loved mommy smell is all that remains. It will stay there so that he can find his way back to her when he needs comforting.
Her pillow beckons...the tears again, as the dinner grows cold.
Visit Kathleen Bjoran at her Website
or at her FaceBook Page
THE BATTLE OF BEAVERCOAT
Melodie Campbell
Canadian Authors’ Association pick
First Published in The Hamilton Spectator
Mary trundled up the broken sidewalk, feeling very much her 68 years.
These young doctors…”stout,” he had called her! And she, only 160 pounds (well, 180 on the doctor’s scales, but everyone knew there was something wrong with them.) In old Doctor Briscoe’s day, they would have said “healthy.” Instead, today, this one said lose 20 pounds.
“Cut out butter and sweets for a start. You’re not getting any younger, you know. Time to watch out for cholesterol and diabetes.”
It was all too miserable. And here she had been so looking forward to her afternoon tea with cookies and tarts. She deserved it too, after such a tiring day. Maybe if she did without two lumps of sugar in her tea…
Mary walked wearily, defeated by the November wind and the doctor’s icy voice. The five wooden steps to her from door seemed suddenly higher and formidable. The house was old…older than she was. A distant relative had built it before the American war. It had seen the turn of two centuries and it was past its prime. The roofline sagged on two sides and the stone foundation was crumbling. Yet it was a good house, stoic and proud. Still ready to do its duty. Not ready to say goodbye.
Mary dragged each sensibly clad foot up one step at a time, waiting for the right foot to meet its mate before lifting the left one still higher. At the top of the landing she reached for the screen door, balanced it against her back, opened her vinyl organizer bag and struggled to locate keys.
Ten years ago, Len would have unlocked the front door while she stood patiently by, waiting for it, and the screen to be held open for her. But those days were gone and so was Len. Mary opened her own doors now. Sometimes they seemed uncommonly heavy.
Not today, thought. Today, the door swung inward before she had the key in the lock.
“Hello?” Surely not. She couldn’t have. She pushed the door further in and poked her head around the corner. Muddy tracks led from the welcome mat, down the hall to the back kitchen.
“Hello, is anyone there?” Mary shuffled cautiously in the vestibule, clutching her purse in front of her. For a brief moment, she wondered if she had stepped through the looking glass instead. The hallway was suddenly a bewildering place. Remnants of a particularly violent tea party littered the floor. Two sterling silver teaspoons and a broken teacup lay across the entry to the parlor. A china rabbit had mysteriously leaped from her collection in the front window to commit suicide on the second stair. Somewhere, drawers were opening and closing of their own accord. Upstairs, it sounds like the Mad Hatter was jumping on the bed.
A flurry of activity in the next room left her blinking away Cheshire cats and staring at an all too human male.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked. A young man streaked by her, barely a blur in the hallway, grabbed the handbag from her trembling fingers, and bounded out of the house. Mary fell back against the wall, faint with confusion.
“Help!” It came out a feeble bird-chirp. Oh, this was dreadful! Her purse gone! Robbers everywhere, stealing her things. Where was Sergeant Thompkin? Who would help? She shuddered and tried to focus on producing a really good scream.
Another man was running down the stairs, two at a time, with something bulky in his arms, brown and bulging. Mary stared at the familiar bundle bouncing toward her most unnaturally.
Her beaver coat! Hers! Dark brown sheared beaver, for which she had scrimped and saved for years and years, working at the bank…only to find out later from her niece in biophysics that it wasn’t politically correct or even nice to wear dead animal skins - only now they say it is all right again, because fur is a renewable resource and supports the native culture – and now this skinny boy, this punk, with greasy hair and bloodshot eyes and who know what venereal diseases was going to run out the door with her coat…This was too much.
“Not my beaver!” She screamed and launched herself at the intruder.
The boy yelped and tried to shield his face from the clawing hands. But he was no match for her. Oh no – a skinny kid from the street was no match for someone whose ancestors had come over on the Mayflower. Well, maybe not the Mayflower exactly, but soon after it, and they had fought the Indians! Pioneers, they were, not to mention United Empire Loyalists, and the Boer War, the United Church and Baden Powell and the whole Girl Guide movement, which she herself had been involved with all her long life.
Hah! No mere punk of a boy could expect to deal with that. With an animal scream she wrenched the massive coat out of his arms and stumbled back against the wall. Indian yells continued to screech from behind a flailing curtain of soft brown fur.
The wooden screen door banged shut. Running feet echoed on the wooden steps, hit the grass, and faded abruptly.
Back in the front hall, Mary sat in a heap, hugging the beaver coat with all her might.
“Well,” she said, pushing herself up from the pl
ank floor. Her tweed skirt had ridden up rather badly. She smoothed it down with one hand. Next, she held up the coat to check for damage. One rip across the top of the shoulder continued down the length of the armhole. Nothing that couldn’t be mended. She clucked with satisfaction.
Then Mary did what any good woman whose ancestors had come over on the Mayflower – or at least shortly after it – would do. She put on her beaver coat, first one arm, then the next, and – with battle-worn torn shoulder flapping like a flag in the breeze – marched briskly down to police headquarters to report the break-in to Sergeant Thompkin.
Melodie Campbell got her start writing comedy. In 1999, she opened the Canadian Humour Conference. Her third novel, The Goddaughter, is a comic mob caper. Melodie was a finalist for both the 2012 Derringer and Arthur Ellis Awards, and is the Executive Director of Crime Writers of Canada.
Visit Melodie at her Website
or at her FunnyGirlMelodie BlogSpot
TREASURES IN THE ATTIC
A.C. Cargill
Climbing up the creaky stairs,
She slowly enters attic space.
Darkness reigns o’er musty airs
Gives solemn visage to this place.
Oaken beams with cobwebs hold
Roof above this treasure mine,
Boxes piled up, dust so old
Thick on cardboard without line.
Pulling chain, the bulb she lights,
Blinks a time or two to see
Labeled boxes, welcome sights,
Special contents, mystery.
Pandora did open box,
Spread on world a plague of pain,
Sent by Zeus to punish man
For a trick of off’ring lain.
Treasure hunters dig in sand,
Foll’wing map so quickly drawn
