Fiction #34: Leila Marshy

Ladies, This Article Could Save Your Life!

This article was written for you! And millions just like you – women who want to take control of their lives, who want to put an end to negative thoughts and cellulite. Who want to slice through the clutter and botox their secrets forever. Ladies, we know who you are.

Take Sunira, for example. She is at a crossroads, her husband works hard, her children wear keys around their necks. Sunira, like most women – no, like all working, thinking, harried women – is neglecting her family. Two words: self-esteem. Or make-up.

When Sunira leaves for work at 5:30 in the morning does she remember her smile lotion? her happiness foundation? her positive outlook? We don’t think so, because her husband has started verbalizing his dissatisfaction. For “verbalizing” read “thrashing.” Sunira feels unloved. She feels ugly inside. You’d almost think her husband was betting on it!

Sunira’s oldest daughter – 8 going on 18! – reads her mother our checklist. Number one: Ten Ab Crunches a Day Go a Long, Long Way! If Sunira could only lose that expanding tire around her waist, a certain Mr Sunira might find a certain Mrs Sunira hotter than a chapatti stove in the middle of August.

But Sunira just tosses and turns at night. Albeit as slowly and inconspicuously as she can, because if the bed creaks or – worse! – if she accidently elbows Mr Sunira in the head, she’s in for a surprise. We all know that a man needs his sleep (if you don’t have a man yet, check out our 25 Tips to Bag the Beast!) and this one doesn’t like being woken up. Not one bit. So when that happens, which seems to be every night, she “gets it.” Sounds hot? It is! There are a few things Sunira can do when she gets it, and this is where we come in. Sunira, have you bought yourself that G-string yet? Black lacy underwear? Edible massage oil? Nair and tweezers? Please consider these purchases on your next trip to the hospital!

Let’s take a quick break here and have a look at Sunira’s name. Did you know that women whose names end in a have the most sex? Sunira, you sly thing!

Sunira’s days are full. After her ab crunches in the dark (you are crunching, right Sunira?), she makes sure to leave out breakfast and bagged lunches for the kids. Good for you, Sunira! Check out our recipes for French Crêpes, Belgian Waffles and Andalusian Eggs Over Easy. The kids will love it! But perhaps Mr Sunira could use something with a little more flava. There’s nothing like wearing a cute number at the breakfast table to whet a manly appetite. Get that dress on, Sunira. Pronto! Even better, have you thought about calling in sick? Life is all about turning that sweatshop into a sweets shop!

Ladies, time to get serious. We’re not going to lie to you, life is complicated. For example, can you really wear Ugg boots in the summer? Honey, if sweat = pheromones… Hello!

Another pressing question was asked by Sunira’s young son on our last visit: Can I hit my wife when I grow up too? Young man, if she’s as cute as your mother, you most certainly can hit on her!

Time for a poll!

Sunira, if it’s Saturday night, do you:
- Quickly take a hot bath.
- Put the kids to bed early.
- Text sweet nothings to Mr Sunira while he’s watching television.
- Call your mother.

Sunira, please don’t tell us you’d call your mother! What man likes to see his wife go crying to his mother in law every time something goes wrong? It just doesn’t inspire confidence, and you and I both know there’s nothing sexier confidence. So next time you see Mr Sunira touching your daughter in a way that makes you panic, remember our LadySita(TM) stress tips. It all starts with the breathing. In. Out. Concentrate on the nostrils. Practice positive visualization. What do you want to see here? Anything’s possible, Sunira.

This is probably a good time to tell you about our Pink Fake It(TM) line of body products. Remember Saturday night? Ladies, not every Saturday night is Saturday night, if you know what we mean. And when you just can’t be the life of the party, the belle of the ball, the diwali debutante, or dance the dance of the seven veils, we have the Pink Fake It(TM) body suit. Wear it just like you’d wear your smile and you’ll see how easily Saturday night becomes Sunday morning.

But before going to bed, Sunira makes sure to fill out another checklist: Do You Want What He Wants When He Wants You To Want It? And then she reads the heart warming story: How I Bounced Back from Brutality and Bought my Own Bandages.

When she’s done, the house is quiet. She folds and puts away and sweeps and lines up her makeup for the next morning (right?). The sweet noises of sleeping children fill her heart. Except, that’s a strange noise, that one. Yes it is. She takes a little peek in her son’s room and he’s sound asleep. She takes a little peak in her daughter’s room and, now, isn’t that funny. There’s Mr Sunira.

Suddenly a screaming Mr Sunira flies out of the room to chase Mrs Sunira, followed by a crying daughter. Sunira is in shock. She can’t find her PinkFakeIt suit and it’s really not the time for LadySita breathing, now is it. But those ten ab crunches a day went a long, long way and her stomach is very, very hard. Sunira runs as fast as she can to the kitchen. Mr Sunira is not far behind, his hand forming a manly fist.

Sunira looks quickly around and the first thing she grabs is that new Martha Stewart carving knife. Perfectly weighted, it makes a lovely arc in the air – we can almost hear it swoosh – and lands with a delicate pouff pastry right in Mr Sunira’s stomach. Quelle cirque du soleil! Talk about cutting to the chase!

Things quiet down after that. Who wants to eat in a messy kitchen, right?

It takes another moment or two before Sunira notices (1) the men in uniform, and (2) the. men. in. uniform. We sincerely hope that she’s read Three Signs He’s Putting You Under Arrest.

Sometimes we get emails asking us difficult questions, like, What is the point of all those polls? Well, we hope that if this story teaches you one thing at all, it’s that polls are the pulse of life. So when Mr Police Officer But You Can Call Me Mr July asks Sunira who she would like to call, she says her mother. And it’s not even Saturday night.

*

Leila Marshy has published in Canadian and American journals and a handful of anthologies. Currently, she is editor of The Rover, a Montreal arts and culture magazine. Mostly, though, she's a farmer with well worn billy boots and very dirty fingernails.

Fiction #41: Leila Marshy

Ed the Hero

Sometimes Ed understood fame. Let others have the paparazzi and fur coats and fancy cars, or even drugs and whoredom and death – like that sharmouta Marilyn Monroe – I have something none of these clowns have. I have the respect of my wife and kids and everywhere I go the neighbours salute me and the cashier girls imagine I was their lover. Everywhere I go people turn to watch me cut through the air like a knife – like a sword! – and they wonder, who is that man, who is that hero.

Ed drove a cream coloured Mercury Monarch – the carriage of kings! – and when it pulled into his driveway every day at 5:30 the curtains in the living room window shook. Ah, he’d smile, they are waiting for me.

But Marvin was in his driveway with that stupid little dog. “Hello Ed,” Marvin stuttered.

“Marvin.” Ed didn’t understand that name, so undignified. It called out for a flexing of muscle.

“How’s your love life,” Ed winked. Marvin must know that his wife was the unsightliest woman on the block, with her shortened leg and thick neck and one side of her mouth frozen on the letter B. Ed moved his head back and forth in a little conspiratorial dance. Marvin looked away. One day he’s going to kill that Ed, he vowed again.

“Let me know if you need any pointers,” Ed laughed. Then he affected a stage whisper, “or girlfriends.” But by then he was opening his front door and didn’t see Marvin give him the finger.

The two youngest were playing in the living room, blocks and puzzle pieces spread out over the thin carpet. The two older ones were at the table, books open. “Hi daddy,” they said, soft reed-like voices hanging in the air like flat notes. His wife, where was she? “Where’s mommy?” he asked. No one answered. “Where’s mommy,” he asked again. The kids looked at each other. He raised his voice and slapped the table hard. The kids jumped. The youngest one’s face rippled like a pond, and he started to cry. “Where’s your mother,” Ed boomed like a broken log jam, trees exploding out of their chains and crashing into the river bank. The eyes of his children, wide, innocent, in awe of his power, like deer about to be shot. It made his heart bloat with pride.

“I’m here.”

She held a basket full of laundry that needed folding. Her hair fell around her face and she was wearing those slacks, the ones that pulled up way too high and made her look fat. “You been eating all day,” he asked, smiling so wide she could see all his teeth. She looked away and managed a smile. The eyes of her children on her every move. She sat down on the couch and pulled out the clothes one by one, folded them, lay them in neat piles. He went in the bedroom to change. A drawer slammed loudly in the otherwise now silent house.

When he came out he strutted down the hallway and sang a familiar song. “Who’s the biggest man today, who’s the biggest man today? Who’s the biggest man today, who’s the biggest man today?”

He flexed his arms and caressed his biceps. Lucky kids! to have such a strong and impressive father. “Feel this,” he said. “Feel this!” They didn’t want to touch his arm, they kept their eyes on the blocks and on their books. “Come on!,” he yelled at them. He danced around the table, round and round. “Who’s the biggest man today, who’s the biggest man today! Who’s the biggest man today, who’s the biggest man today.” His wife stood up and he grabbed her rear end. She made sure to be seated next time he went around the living room.

Finally the youngest one succumbed. He reached up and grabbed his father’s arm and swung off it like a monkey. Ed hoisted his little boy up as high as he could. “Ah ha!” he said. “Ah ha!” He grabbed the child’s waist and held him aloft. “Now you can climb the ceiling!” And the little boy crawled like an upside down monkey. He giggled and laughed. “Look at me!” he said to his sisters.

“Now let me fly,” the boy said. “Now I want to be an eagle.”

“Fly! Fly!” said Ed, and he turned the boy around and whooshed him through the air. He held him like a rocket and zoomed him around the girls and his mother, almost crashing into them each time. “Ed, you’re being a little rough,” his wife said quietly, removing the boy’s hands from her hair. “Shut up,” Ed smiled.

“Fly some more,” the boy said. “Let go and let me fly. Like a bird! Like a rocket!” Ed stopped whooshing the boy and looked at him, his eyes squinting darkly. “Are you sure? Are you sure you want me to let go of you?” The boy threw back his head and giggled. “I want to fly like a bird! Tweet tweet!”

“Ed…” his wife stopped folding laundry. The oldest girl pushed back her chair and stood up. “Daddy,” she said, her voice tremulous, her body bracing for a smack, only the slight quivering in her chin betraying the bravery.

“What?” he turned around angrily. “What? We’re playing. I’m playing with my son.”

“Daddy! Daddy! I want to fly” The boy stretched out his tiny thin limbs and clouds parted for him, the sky was open and vast and warm. His father rocked and pumped him back and forth. “Are you ready bird? One!” Back and forth again. “Are you ready rocket? Two!”

“Ed, don’t you dare!”

“Three!” The boy closed his eyes and stretched his arms out as far as he could. He was an eagle high in the sky, circling over the forest, the most majestic of birds. In the second that his body soared through the air he heard the cawcaw calling of his mother eagle. Then his face crashed into the wall.

“No!” The boy’s mother screamed. She was over him in a second and folded his wrinkled body into her arms. A streak of blood had followed him down the wall. It took him one second to fill his lungs again and when he did he arched his back against his mother and wailed. He kicked and grabbed at her, willing that his broken eagle spirit might transfer into her soft body, that she in turn might kick and grab and kill for him. Might kill the man. But she only held the boy and cried also, each of them cowering in the hunter’s shadow. Blood poured out of the boy’s mouth from where his tooth had been. He cried and coughed, cried and choked, cried.

“Stupid boy,” Ed said, pacing, “stupid boy.” He poked at him with his foot. “Come on, I just did what you asked, you wanted to fly.”

He turned around to see his three girls staring at him, the smallest one crying, the two oldest unable to conceal the anger in their eyes. “What?” he shouted. “What!” He leaned over his wife and son. “Shut up you two! And stop crying like a little girl. Who cares about that tooth, it was going to come out anyways.”

He pulled the boy up to his feet, but the fury in the child was still alive and he flailed at his father, all windmilling arms and legs, growled like a dog, screeched like an eagle. Ed just laughed. “Go then, go to your mother,” he said, tossing him onto his mother’s lap. “You take care of your little girl,” he said with disgust, and walked away. The boy had nothing left now and buried his face in his mother’s breast and cried.

Ed went downstairs to the basement. He had done it up with wood paneling the year before so it looked like the kind of rec room he’d seen on television. He picked up a Time magazine from the stack on the table.

“Peasants,” he muttered to himself. “Peasants.” He read the magazine and slowly started to feel better. He was smart. He could read such smart things as Time magazine. The magazine for intellectuals like him. World events at his fingertips! Who else from the old country was sitting in a suburban rec room reading Time magazine? Eh? Who else? By the time he got to the last page he could smell supper cooking. Perfect timing, he thought to himself, and went upstairs famished and ready to eat.

*

Leila Marshy is editor of Rover, a Montreal online arts and culture journal. She has published here, there, but not everywhere. When not writing she is raising chickens, selling her bread, and holding world leaders hostage. Because somebody has to.

Fiction #78: Leila Marshy

Winter, the Waiter, Water

Winters in a hot country are deceiving. The gentle morning sky entices a Canadian family out of their hotel and onto the busy streets. All around them the locals are wrapped in sweaters and scarves. Are they crazy, the tourists wonder, it’s so hot!

It is Friday and the family visits the Egyptian Museum, Coptic Cairo, and Khan el Khalili market. They are careful to never pay more than the “average Egyptian,” haggling and bargaining at every turn. The leather bag from Luxor cost 10 pounds and the shawl from Siwi only four. Emboldened, they take it up with the taxi driver. No native Egyptian would pay more than ten pounds for a cross-city trip, they tell each other. No six-day-a-week-wearing-the-same-shoes-for-years-and-five-children-he-can-hardly-feed Egyptian would pay more, so why should they? Watch and learn, says the father. But the daughter and son catch the expression on the taxi driver’s face and see that value and price are two different things. No matter.

The family eats their dinner at the Ramses Hilton. Waiters in polyester tuxedos serve peasant food on porcelain plates. French fries extra. The sky darkens, a muezzin chants the Quran, the tourists write their postcards. So noisy! they scribble.

They ask about the Nile boats that serve drinks and promise a belly dancer or two. Now wouldn’t that be a hoot. The waiter gives directions; advises that they bring their coats before heading out after sunset. His English is impeccable they generously tell him. Please, he insists, it will get cold, especially on the water. The waiter’s voice carries both authority and resignation. Looking up, the girl is surprised to see a boy her age. “Don’t be silly,” her mother says. “Do you know it’s snowing where we come from!”

Her father motions for the bill. Nudging his daughter, he clears his throat and addresses the waiter.

“What you say we knock off a few pounds from this bill, eh? Drinks on the house?”

“Dad.”

“Nick,” murmurs his wife. “This is a hotel restaurant, they don’t do that here.”

“Oh come on, of course they do.” He stares brightly at the young man.

The waiter shifts awkwardly. “You can pay me or pay at the desk,” he says.

“Dad, let’s just go,” says the girl. At this point she is not sure what is more mortifying: appearing poor or being impolite.

“No, no. This is what they do here, watch.” He looks up at the waiter and fabricates a challenge. “We ate a lot here, yallah. Good food, good food. So what do you say we fold in the desserts. Delicious, yes? Do we need to speak to the manager?”

“Dad,” says the girl, hitting her father in the ribs. Now she wants to give the boy all their money.

The exchange upsets the waiter. He catches the girl’s eye and, for a brief second or two, they share the universal language of adolescent embarrassment.

The mother gets up and opens her wallet. Credit card in hand, she walks over to the desk. The waiter follows, relief visible in the quickness of his steps.

*

Blue patio lanterns dangle along the riverbank and the father wonders what holiday the Egyptians are celebrating now. Traditionally-dressed men escort them onto a boat deck where the vinyl seats shock their unsuspecting skin. They huddle together as close as is comfortable, which is not very close. A quartet of musicians wearing thick scarves and acrylic sweaters remind them of their warmer clothes back at the hotel.

“But we’re practically at the equator,” complains the father.

“Not really,” says the son. “We’re thousands of miles away.”

Somewhere on the deck a tabla player begins with a dum-da-da-dum-da, then a violinist and clarinettist pick up the rhythm followed by an oud.

“Let’s dance!” says the mother. She’s going to enjoy this evening, it’s decided. “To keep warm, come on!”

“Are you kidding me?” asks the daughter. Whatever excitement the trip held is now gone. She drinks a hot sahlab, grimaces with every sip. “This is disgusting.”

The waiter notices, motions to the busboy to bring a mint tea instead. She passes back the sweet starchy drink without looking up. “Well that was horrible.”

Winters in a hot country means the waiter can eat meat on Fridays. Fresh lamb carcasses hang in the overleaf of a butcher’s shop. Carved directly off the animal, wrapped in newsprint, the meat is warm and comforting, bought with his Thursday wages. The Nile flows softly beside him almost the entire way home. On his left, vehicles of every sort assault the senses with a chemical distraction. He crosses the Corniche at Imbaba, the old camel market and poorest neighbourhood in the city.

He sinks the meat in yogourt, cumin and salt then goes to sleep. The next morning, he arranges himself on his bed, sits up straight with a pad of paper on his lap, and writes. He doesn’t work on Friday afternoons but he cooks the mid-day meal and his mother ensures he is not bothered. Her son writes and the Quran is written; she recognizes the sacred even if she can’t read it. The meat simmers as he mixes his words. Then he spreads newspaper on the floor and lays out the stew and rice. He calls his mother, his three sisters, and his brother. There is much chatter but he eats quickly. He has shaped a delicate contour with his pen, filled in flesh with consonants, groaned with the shuddering of vowels. It waits for him.

In the evening, like all evenings, he returns to the centre of the city, passing packs of dogs and barefoot children as he walks back along the river. The surface of the water undulates, a heave from a boat, a ripple from a fish. The furrows remind him of the ever-changing shape of letters and he wonders if the Arabic language was born from this shape-shifting river. The way an adrift baby became Moses, Arabic letters change their form depending on their place in the word. In the world.

*

He arrives at the boat, lights glowing in the early night, and pulls on the crimson galabaya and the Turkish fez, a costume for tourists. Tray in hand, he approaches a table. He has been doing this for a year and still he is surprised by their smiles. They are never happy, even when they are happy. Still, at the end of the evening, Adil will roll some bills into his hand. Happiness is beside the point.

The girl slouches over the railing while the rest are dancing. Her mother pulls at her but is slapped back. The waiter waits for the mother’s reaction, but there is none. The girl finishes her tea and throws the gold-encrusted glass into the water.

The waiter and the busboy exchange glances. Someone is going to have to pay for that glass. The busboy decides it won’t be him and turns on his heels back into the kitchen. The waiter leans over the side but the glass is gone. The girl frowns at him for a minute.

“It wasn’t a person, just a glass,” she scoffs. Then she realizes he’s the same boy from the hotel.

He is uncomfortable when foreigners look at him; he knows what they see. Native Egyptian with fez! But he recognizes her familiar eyes from earlier in the day. He is happy to see her. She mutters something that he doesn’t quite catch. She extends her hand. A shy flutter stirs inside his chest.

“Can I try on your hat?”

“Sorry?”

She speaks up. “That’s really a crazy hat. Can I try it on?”

He steps back, reaches up to his head. “No, no, sorry. No.” If Adil sees this he will send him to the kitchen, away from the tourists – and the tips. He is disheartened, maybe she’s drunk. That’s what tourists do. How else to explain the raised voices, the hard slaps on the back, the laughter that exits their throats like torpedoes.

The girl sees she has come on too strong, said the wrong thing, pushed him away. But aside from English the only other language she speaks is bravado, learned from her father, and guile, learned from her mother. This is the best she can do with her limited skills.

“Do you always wear it or is it just for work because sometimes I see people wearing them and sometimes I don’t. Like, it’s hard to tell what’s put on for tourists and what’s real. How’re you supposed to know what’s fake, eh? Have you ever been to Canada? Ha, well if you come make sure it isn’t January that’s for sure.” She exhales noisily and rolls her eyes.

The waiter doesn’t know if he understood everything. What does she want with his fez? He searches through his English vocabulary, but not one word for what he wants to say. Adil is suddenly behind him, “yalla ya homar.” As if calling him a donkey is not enough, he slaps the boy on the back of the neck. The girl is startled by the casual cruelty of the gesture. She watches the boy’s eyes liquefy. Adil yells again. The waiter jumps and runs to the other end of the boat where a quiet group from Italy are watching a passing felucca off the stern. Inside it, a small propane light flickers in the darkness as a fisherman and his wife cook the day’s catch. The waiter hovers over the tables, picks up empty glasses, replaces napkins, wipes spills, calms down.

But a sudden yelp bursts through the air and even the music stops. The busboy and Adil are screaming at each other. Adil looks strange, different, though the waiter can’t quite figure out why. The girl’s father is yelling to everyone, the mother is yelling at the father.

But where is she? Alarmed, the waiter runs to the railing and leans over it. Something floats in the darkness and in one stroke he pulls the galabaya up over his head. He puts his right foot on the railing and is about to heave himself over when he is yanked back. Adil kicks him for good measure.

“Son of a dog! Do you want to increase my humiliation?”

“But the girl!”

Just then, a husk of laughter pierces the commotion. He can’t quite figure out where she is but she is clearly not overboard.

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” she protests. “It just flew away, there was a gust of wind.” The mother snatches her away from the rails and slaps her arm. The father stands with a hand hiding his forehead, muttering to himself. Her brother smirks.

The waiter looks out on the water. A fez floats jauntily on the surface and he realizes why Adil looked odd. In a collective collapse, the family escapes to their table. The girl catches the waiter’s eye and shrugs conspiratorially. She leans over her brother and onto the railing. “It looked stupid on him anyways, not like on our waiter.” Her father reaches across the boy and yanks her back into her seat.

“No more dancing,” Adil says. He calls to the waiter. “You. In the kitchen. Enough out here.”

“But…”

Adil tsks in the universal Arabic signal for don’t bother me anymore.

“Please. I need my tips.”

He hates to beg, but the injustice is too much. He knows how the night will end. Her parents will tuck a generous wad of dollars into Adil’s hand and say something about sunstroke, and that money will go right into Adil’s pocket. The busboy snickers and throws the waiter a towel. He spends the rest of the trip drying glasses.

The boat docks with a bump. The waiter puts his galabaya back on, replaces his fez and leaves the kitchen to stand with the rest of the staff. Her family are the last to disembark, hands gingerly holding the velvet rope that leads to shore. He imagines the parents have already given Adil enough money to not only replace his fez but pay for his son’s education. Bitterness grips him. But just before the girl is off the boat she runs back and, smirking – kindly? unkindly? he cannot tell – presses something into his hands. Then she tears off down the gangplank and is lost in the commotion of the busy Corniche. It is money, he thinks. Suppressing a smile, he puts it directly in his pocket.

*

The walk home is long and the waiter is more tired than usual. He keeps one hand in his pocket around the dollar bills. He thinks ahead to his mother’s reaction, to his siblings clamouring for gifts, to the fountain pen he saw on Talat Harb street. The bowab is asleep at the entrance of his building. He climbs the stairs and, before entering the small apartment, decides to fish it out of his pocket before showing his mother. He unfolds it slowly so that when he sees it is only the boat’s menu, his heart stops with disbelief. But just before he tears it to pieces he notices the handwriting.

“the night is too big for –” it begins. He is astonished: it is a poem.

small things: a glass, a fez, your face
long rivers, the waiter, my tea
this stupid girl acting drunkenly
when all I drank was the night
but it was too big for me

He rereads the poem a dozen times before folding the paper up slowly and putting it back in his pocket. He goes back downstairs and sits on the front step of his building, quietly so the bowab doesn’t wake. He watches the moon fill up the sky and the clouds shredding it into small pieces. He fishes for a pen in his pocket, turns the menu around to find a blank spot, and writes.

*

Montrealer Leila Marshy is of Palestinian-Newfoundland heritage. She has been a filmmaker, a baker, an app designer, a marketer, a farmer, and editor of online culture journal Rover Arts. She founded the Friends of Hutchison Street, a groundbreaking community group bringing Hasidic and non-Hasidic neighbours together in dialogue. She has published stories and poetry in Canadian and American journals and anthologies. Her first novel, The Philistine (LLP Press) was published this year. 

Fiction #65

New fiction! Issue #65

• The Key by Caleb Brasset
• The Plow by Leila Marshy
• Arabic Love Poetry by Bassel Atallah

Submissions now open for #66

Special thanks to all who have been submitting. Enjoy.

Fiction #34

Here is new fiction, issue #34:

• Ladies, This Article Could Save Your Life! by Leila Marshy
  
• Backtrack by Reed Stirling

Submissions now open for #35.

Fiction #78 (Final Issue)

New fiction! Issue #78

• Winter, the Waiter, Water by Leila Marshy
• Ouch by Don McLellan
• The Documentary Channel by Jill M. Talbot
• Iced-Tea and Bruises by Grace March
• My Death by Lynda Curnoe
• Antonina by Chelsea La Vecchia

Plus:

• Final TDR Editorial by Michael Bryson

Extra special thanks to all who submitted and contributed ... since 1999!

Enjoy. Keep writing. Never give up.

Fiction #41

New fiction! Issue #41

• Ed the Hero by Leila Marshy
• I Walk On Gilded Splinters by Jéanpaul Ferro
• The Strangest Places by Philip Miletic
• Laying Skin by Suzannah Windsor

 Submissions now open for #42.

Special thanks to all who have been submitting. Enjoy.

Fiction #65: Leila Marshy

The Plow

Marc woke up with one arm under her, the other over, a leg across her shins. Like a bear stirring in its cave, the tiny hairs on her skin intermingled with his own, generated heat. He dressed in the dark, missed the toilet bowl slightly for which she always forgave him, brushed his teeth. He used to skip the teeth part but she took to leaving his toothbrush on the edge of the sink. He had to use it or risk knocking it to the floor. There was no five second rule with toothbrushes. In the kitchen, the layers of sweaters, jackets and pants stiffened his limbs, slowed him down, then heated him up again. He ate fast, moved fast, left quickly. The cold didn’t hit him until he turned the key. The old Honda was a freezer on wheels and it took the entire trip to the garage, almost 25 kilometres, for the engine to heat up. By the time he climbed into the cabin of the snowplow his back and kidneys were aching. It was minus 32 Celsius and don’t talk to him about wind chill.

He drove quickly with the blade up. The seat bounced hard with every rut, always in tune with the music, buds nestled comfortably inside the large headset that kept his ears warm and sealed in the music. The night was black and yellow, empty streets save for a taxi or two. A gang of teenage boys walked in the middle of the road as if on parade. He knew the uniform: bomber jackets, baseball caps, running shoes. They moved stiffly, hands deep in their frozen denim pockets, shoulders wrapped around necks like scarves. Their collective shivering transformed them into figures of energy and menace that cast moon shadows in ways only boys can. He turned onto a smaller street. He didn’t know this neighbourhood but knew that after a couple of snowstorms it would be as familiar as his own. Small and narrow streets of single family homes built after the second world war. That’s what Serge had told him and Serge only knew because his wife had grown up there. He was expecting something a little more upscale – Serge obviously easily impressed – but as he lowered the blade he was relieved to see old cars, drafty windows, unrepaired fences, rotting balconies. He’d tell Marie-Claire. Neither of them had family in Montreal so they could set their sights anywhere. Just a simple place to raise a kid maybe two hopefully three, anywhere to settle back into her skin their shared fur skin her legs vined around his their arms rooting together in the cave of their shared breathing. Nights were long.

The blade bounced up too fast and crashed hard. The entire cabin rattled, a steel against steel quaking he didn’t like one bit. Something flew by on his right into the snow behind him. An animal maybe, a raccoon he suspected. Serge said there were lots of raccoons out here because of the fields and empty lots. But the colour was off, it seemed brighter in the streetlamp, maybe even red. Like a coat? A red coat. He screeched to a halt and looked around. Snow was careening hard off the bank and had already covered the newly cleared road with a thin drift. It sworled in through the top of the jammed window and wrapped around his torso. He pulled his arms close and wondered about getting out for a quick tour around the machine. But with the wheel up against the bank on he'd have to climb over it, slip step by step, balance on the frame of the bulldozer as the engine squalled. He’d never admit it, but he hated being close to a roaring engine. In any case, he’d done plenty of walkarounds before and for what. For nothing. After a minute he nudged the truck forward. He picked up speed at the corner and finished the route in no time. She was eating breakfast when he got home. There was an egg for him and some toast, pot of coffee. She kissed him softly on her way out and reminded him to pay the phone bill. He took his plate to the living room and looked out the front window. He wondered about his chances of getting a route closer to home. He wondered who would wear a red coat. Only a woman would wear a red coat. He scraped the rest of his breakfast into the garbage.

70,000 tons of salt, 800 trucks, thousands of hours in overtime, Montreal’s budget blown and winter had barely begun. How long would it last this year. Could be a melt in February with only a few stubborn heaves in March. Or could be a pile up until April, so much snow that the rivers would rise up and break into building-sized sea blocks, crackling day and night as the muddy glaciers broke off and moved upshore. He’d seen it out by Valleyfield, out by Rigaud, out by Chambly, as if the modest rivers had been violated by an icebreaker. He’d made piles of money then. That’s how they had the down payment for a house and that’s how she’d finally said yes. He was doing everything right. See? Proof, he said to his old friends, anyone can change, even me. They laughed and took bets. He napped in the afternoon so he could be up when she came home. She made them an early dinner, heavy greasy meaty dinner just for him. He dozed in front of the television while she cleaned up. Later, her hands roamed his body like a light breeze and he fought his fatigue, wanting to respond, wanting to be like bending grasses against her gentle plowing. But he fell into an even deeper sleep and she loved him for it. He woke up a few hours later to her soft snores. He buried his desire like a treasure, untangled his limbs, got out of bed.

The guys were hovering over the coffee pot. Serge was reading the Journal aloud, punctuating the text with commentary. Five foot three, thirty eight years old – bén she looks like fifty in this photo! – two kids, works at the Bar Chantalle in Lasalle. He wondered what this was all about. She’s missing, said Serge. He turned the paper around so everyone could see her picture. So? he asked. So, she was coming home from the bar and no one saw her again. She’s missing.

He didn’t like the way everyone was quiet, the way they looked at him. You didn’t see anything, Serge asked. You didn’t hear anything? Did you know she lives on your route? Did you notice people leaving Bar Chantalle when you drove by? What the hell. No, I didn’t see anything! He poured the rest of his coffee down the sink and stomped towards his truck. She was wearing a red coat, Serge called out. Did you see anyone with a red coat? Serge was an asshole, always an asshole. But he was also a tease and Marc was too far to hear everyone laughing. They loved to rile each other up, to jab at that place that was softest, most vulnerable, most afraid. They'd hunt it down, yank it into the light and watch it shrink in horror. They were the men who drove monsters through the darkened streets while the rest of the world dreamed, trusting their thick hands to turn the right way, change the gear at the right time, lift the blade just so. But they were afraid of what they could do. Behemoth machines who forgave no one, who always made them pay for their sins. He started the truck then stopped it again, got back out and ran to the bathroom to empty his insides. Later, the seat bounced even harder, landing with bone shattering smashes each and every time, as if the voided weight was making all the difference between comfort and torment.

He said nothing to her over breakfast. She wanted to see the Journal, which he usually brought from the work room, but he told her he had forgotten it. She wasn’t happy about missing the paper because apparently a 9 year old girl was all set to win La Voix – plus the fact that the girl's parents were in the middle of a messy divorce due to the father's sex change. He didn’t see the connection but she laughed. Of course there’s a connection. Look it up on your phone, he said, you’re always on your phone. She waved away the suggestion, I want a new phone, mine is too small it hurts my eyes. He shook his head. Who knew how long winter is going to last this year, let’s wait. Who knew how long winter is going to last. Who knew how long winter is going to last. She stared at him.

The snow pounded and pounded and pounded. Heavy flakes came straight at him like parachuted soldiers, the wipers charging angrily up and down. He rumbled along the autoroute, an impatient trail of white lights behind him. He laughed at the idiots who maneuvered to get in front then fishtailed on the unsalted lane ahead. Hosti des caves, he said out loud. He was comfortable now. The cab was warm and he just had to drive. He marveled at the snowflakes. Each one tiny and insignificant but together they converged into a massive and brutal army.

The woman was still in the paper. In spite of the absence of news or clues, the Journal had updates daily. They had narrowed down and itemized her last moments. She had worked late at the bar, closed it up, parted with a colleague. He had offered a drive home but she was okay, she only lived three blocks away. The last he saw her was in his rear view mirror, standing in the bar parking lot as if waiting to take the first step. She had been wearing a long, red parka with a fake fur lined hood, might have been listening to music. There were two teenagers at home, the father lived in Verdun and worked as a mechanic. He was married again, had two more kids, younger ones, babies. Any possibility of his involvement was dismissed. It was his week with the kids and he had been home. They left the Journal on the table when they went for their shift, forgot all about it. Marc picked up every single copy and threw them in the garbage.

He crouched down and looked under his truck, ran his hands along the wheel well, felt under the chassis as far as he could go, looked for fabric, thread, bits of cloth. Ran his fingers over and along every inch. Wondered if had been born blind would his fingertips be more sensitive, feel what was not there, feel her breath, feel her cry as she flew against her will into a wall of steel and smoke.

What are you doing? Joe stood behind him. Joe would sell you to the devil or the dépanneur if it suited him. Joe had both hands in his pockets and was asking him questions. Did you get into an accident or something, did you forget to fill out an accident report, is there something I should know? Nothing, Marc said, straightening up. He knew how to deal with assholes. He knew it in his bones, was raised on it merci tout le monde. When you never have family you never have enemies, some one had once told him. Joe eventually just shook his head and walked away. His insides shook and for the second time that week he emptied his breakfast lunch and supper into the garage toilet.

It was too hot in the bed but she kept putting her arms and legs on him. He moved them off but she shuffled and put them back. He looked at his phone: he didn’t have to get up for another hour. She moved her face to his shoulder, both legs on his. He swore and got up. What did she want from him anyways, he wondered for the first time. Someone safe? reliable? a good man? How did she know he was a good man? He yanked up his pants and regretted where his mind was taking him. She’d had a tough ride. She said he was the first man to love her and not want to rip her apart in the process. He couldn’t begrudge her that. You have a good heart, she whispered once. He’d been so surprised to hear it, like it was another language. You make me want to be good, he answered after a long minute of hiding his eyes. Now he felt a melting and for a strange and discomfiting second thought he was going to cry. He swore out loud, louder, louder. He left the house and, forgetting everything, banged the door behind him.

He took a detour, stopped the truck. Walked over to the snowbank and kicked it. Realized that people might see him, that in spite of it being 2:10 in the morning, there might be someone wondering why the snowplow driver was kicking the snowbank right where the woman from Bar Chantalle went missing. So he dropped his glove then made as if to find it and pick it up. He waved it around theatrically, put it back on his hand. Felt like an idiot. He hated whoever could be in their window, hated them he could almost taste it, a bloody taste that shocked him with its familiarity. Chrisse, he didn’t want to go there. That was then and this is now goddammit. Got a good job found a good woman deserved a good life. He kicked the snowbank and exhaled loudly, almost a growl. No one heard.

He tried to remember. The blade bouncing off the packed snow with a jarring bang, something flying off to the side then was gone. Fluttering like fabric, not like a raccoon, heavy fabric, a coat, a red coat. He had twisted around to look but whatever it was was gone. The remembering competed with the music so he turned it off. It was hot in the cab now, he pulled off his ear protectors then his scarf. With his ears exposed the noise shocked him with its heft, the sound of working gears and pistons and pneumatic thrusting. So much metal, so much weight. His bones and insides shook as the chair bounced up and down. That was the fun part when he had first started. Now this was a job! This was something he could do, rumble down the roads in the black of night and push that wall of snow with all his weight. It made him feel strong and purposeful for the first time in his life. Like a coat whose job it is to keep a woman warm, thick fabric, not a raccoon, most certainly red.

He refused breakfast, third morning in a row. But you have to eat, she insisted, and pushed the plate towards him. A red scarf was wrapped around her neck as she readied for work. She reminded him, didn’t he know that breakfast was the most important meal of the day? Tabarnac! Are you stupid? This is my supper. I have to go to sleep while the rest of the world has a life to live. He pushed the plate away so roughly it landed on the floor. She opened her eyes wide. A dormant part of him took pleasure as an inchoate beast sparked to frightening life. She shut the door silently behind her.

Someone had put up pictures of her face. Her name was Angèle. What the fuck kind of name was that, he wondered. Every lamp post and mailbox had a picture of her and if he drove by quickly enough it played out like a movie. Angèle, Angèle, Angèle. He pushed down on the accelerator and ran over a mailbox. Two streets away he got out and inspected the truck for dents or bits of paint. Nothing so fuck you, Joe.

Someone taped up the most recent Journal article in the kitchen. The guys worried about her now. Someone had a brother who knew her sister. They could afford to be solemn he thought, easy for them. They’re all losers. He tore it down. Hey, what are you doing, Serge asked. What do you care about her for, he demanded. Eh? Who cares about some Bar Chantalle bitch. And Angèle, what the fuck kind of name is that? They looked at him, saw something they had seen in each other, in the mirror even, but never in him. They thought he was one of the good guys and it made them proud, made them feel proud of themselves. We’re all just good guys, they could say, just simple guys who want a simple life. Now his face was screwed up and his voice was loud and the veins in his neck throbbed with visible anger. They backed away. They got in their cabs and covered their ears.

He found out where she lived and drove by her house. He stopped the truck. So what? City trucks do nothing all the time. That made him smile. He’s just another lazy city worker, they’ll think, and who the fuck cares. He sipped his coffee. She was 38 and had been wearing a red coat. Eight years older than him, he only had black coats no kids one cat, not black not red but orange. She never made it home but was lying in the snowbank a block away. Suddenly he panicked. Winter was not going to last forever. One day the snow will melt and she will be discovered. Frozen and mangled in such a way that the only conclusion will be that a snowplow was the culprit. He knew how things like that went down. A minute scrap of yellow paint on her boot, on her hand, maybe nudged between two teeth, and they’d find him. He’d be charged with negligence, hit and run, manslaughter, murder. His entire life would be ruined, he’ll be back in hell with no way out and no one to love him. Marie-Claire will look at him with disgust. He jammed down on the accelerator, careened the beast around the corner and down the road, onto another road, another corner, missed a parked cars by inches, and stopped with a thud at the snowbank. Here.

He backed up, faced into it, rammed his blade. Backed up, angled a little to the left, rammed his blade. Backed up, angled more, rammed. Backed up, angled, rammed. He kept at it until he carved out an area the length of half a dozen cars, pushed the snow so resolutely that grass could be seen underneath. First grass in months. The next morning kids on their way to school would jump up and down on it, touch its frozen lace. So resolutely was the snow pushed back that it covered a walkway and hid a front door. He wondered who lived there. Depending on their attitude, they could make a stink. Later that morning he went straight to the bedroom. She was doing something with her clothes or jewelry he couldn’t tell what. Happy to see him she went for a kiss, hot arms around his neck. He pushed her away and crawled under the blankets. Well at least take off your clothes, she said, I just changed the sheets. Fuck the sheets, he mumbled, and fell asleep. He dreamt he told her everything but then she put on a red coat, grew another head, and devoured him.

Joe waved him to a stop, motioned him down from the cab. What the hell you doing plowing a wall in front of a house? It was such a strange thing to do that right now Joe was more curious than angry. Listen, if there’s anything going on, if there’s anything I should know. How’s Marie-Claire? How’re things? No way, Marc thought to himself. No way you get to ask me about her. Everything's fine, he said out loud. She’s fine and I’m fine. Have you seen the fucking snow outside? If people can’t deal with it they can go to Florida. I plowed the snow so they can drive their fucking cars to their fucking jobs. Now they want it manicured? Joe raised his eyebrows, raised his hands, walked away. He knew to back off when guys got like that. Another hothead, he thought to himself. I thought he’d be one of the good ones but he’s just another fucking hothead.

He returned to the snowbank at the end of his shift. The street was alive with people, dogs, cars, school buses, noise. His head was light and empty, ready for sleep. How strange, he thought. Darkness can give you the impression that the world is yours, but daylight reveals that it belongs to someone else. He stopped a block away and walked to the wall of snow that was pushed up against the house. He chuckled, had to admit that it was a bit extreme. The door flew open. An old man yelled in Italian-accented French. In spite of the raised voice and shaking fist, he was relieved. Just an old guy in stained pants. He nodded sympathetically and pretended to be taking his complaint. The old man finally went back inside. He felt a wave of dizziness. He kicked around in the snow. He thought he saw something red but it turned out to be the plastic end of a sled. He could hardly breath.

Marie-Claire was waiting for him. Are you seeing someone else, she finally asked. That woke him up. Are you fucking kidding me? He tried not to swear in front of her. Are you kidding me? When? Where? I come home every day, I sleep with you. She had to acknowledge that, but logistics did not fill the gap in her instinct. There was something going on. She refused to cry, no way was he going to see her cry. Fine, she said, but a hardness in her voice had taken hold. If it wasn’t a woman then what was it? Then the thought of another woman didn’t worry her as much as the attrition of his attention. If he was turning away with no outside reason, then there was nothing she could do. A tide of despair rose up and everything inside her began to drown. Not again. She left him with breakfast and lunch and the car insurance renewal papers. He ate neither and tore up the bill.

He went back to the snowbank and idled in his truck. The old Italian opened the door and yelled. Didn’t he have anything better to do? Go back in the house old man. He did it differently this time, kept the blade high and scraped backwards. He dug through the snow like an archeologist at Giza. It had meant absolutely nothing to him when they learned about the pyramids at school. Some place, some history, some lost land of sand. But here he was at an icy monolith, feeling like one of the slaves pushing and rolling the snow back and forth. No, he was a Pharaoh, a great leader, showing the people how it’s done. The vague memory made him wonder exactly what the pyramids were used for. Something about burying the Pharaohs? The cold was getting to him so he dialed up the heat in the cab.

What the flying fuck, Joe yelled as he got out of the truck. Joe only talked to him in English. He rarely answered and Joe probably thinks it’s because he can’t speak the language. Is that it? Does Joe think he’s a dumb ass? Thinks he can’t speak English? What the hell do you think you’re doing? What is going on? Joe wouldn’t let up, he couldn’t even get a word in French let alone English. I got two complaints tonight, two! One from the same guy and one from a neighbour. What the fuck? I got the city breathing down my neck, the mayor breathing down my neck, the fucking union breathing down my neck. And you're acting like a weirdo. I’m asking you nicely now Marc, what the fuck is going on. You losing it? Drinking? He looked at Joe and unzipped his jacket. Unfurled his scarf. Kicked the snow off his boots. He said nothing. But Joe’s eyes got harder. Worse, they got questioning. Like he was the asshole. Fine, Joe said. This one’s going in your file. One more complaint and you’re out. On your fucking ass.

Marie-Claire stood over his sleeping body. Fuck you, she said softly, and left for work. He opened his eyes and shot up, layered himself, two for his feet, two for his legs, three for is torso, then the coat. Not red, but black. Coffee was waiting for him: one, two, a third. He returned to the snowbank. It was daylight, he was in his own car, everything would be different. He retrieved his shovel out of the trunk and got to work. Five minutes later the Italian came out in his boots and coat. Not red. Didn't yell. Mark glanced up but otherwise paid no attention. Then the Italian started blathering like he was talking to someone. A crazy, Marc thought. I just call police, the old guy said. Marc stood up and groaned. His back was sore, his hands were cold, snot was running down his face. The snow was soft, like a pillow. He remembered crawling in a snow cave once and hiding for the entire day. His hot breath had made a soft film of ice around the inside walls, strengthening them, keeping in the heat. He should have stayed there his entire childhood. The Italian lurched forward and grabbed Marc’s shovel. You go, he said, you get out of here! They tussled back and forth until the old guy fell forward on his face. What do you expect, Mark yelled at him, frustrated that he had been forced to wrestle an old man down. He nudged at him with his boot. Come on, get up tabarnac. But his body was as inert and heavy as the snowbank. Fuuuuck, he yelled to himself. He thrust the shovel again and again into the snow. Fuuuuck. The police car screeched to a halt. Snow was on his face, down his neck, up his stomach, breaching the layers, cold rivulets on his skin. They pushed him into the back seat. An ambulance arrived a minute later and loaded the Italian onto a stretcher.

Marc had no answers for them at the station. Why was he digging into the snowbank? Why had he made the snowbank in the first place? So, Marc thought, they’re thorough. He resisted calling Marie-Claire. No sense calling a lawyer, he didn’t know the first thing about finding a lawyer. Anyways, they hadn't charged him with anything. What, arrest him for plowing too hard? He wasn’t even thinking of Angèle. He looked around the station. The officers were like teenagers, their heads boring into cellphones. He got up and looked at the printouts of various missing people. Then he saw the poster for Angèle. He glanced around and met someone’s eyes, a police officer he hadn’t noticed before. So what happened to her, he asked as casually as possible. Did you ever find who killed her? The cop got up and tore it down.

Have you solved the case then? Marc was incredulous. Nah, they found her. Found the body? The cop looked at him now, something strange about this guy. No, he told Marc, they found her, she had just ran off with some guy for a few days. What? Yeah, she turned up with some guy she met on the Internet, why? Nothing, Marc said, we all followed her story in the Journal. Yeah, this shit happens all the time, the cop said. She went to Arizona or something like that, go figure. Marc had to sit down to catch his breath. Another cop came in from outside and they whispered. The first turned to him. Mr Del Fiacco is dead, he said. Who? The guy you beat up, he’s dead. They cuffed him.

When Marc didn’t call or come home, she didn’t panic. She knew then and there that the trust was broken, all bridges down. She packed up her things, took that overtime due her, and went to Trois Rivières. She’d set up at her mother's apartment for a bit, figure things out, get back on her feet. She cried for three days, maybe four. Her mother never liked him, didn't she say? Never liked the look of him. Darkness doesn't go away just because you turn on a light, she'd said. They were eating dinner in front of the television when they saw him on the screen, a mug shot, followed by a picture of Vincenzo Del Fiacco, age 81. The union was blaming it on the stress of overtime. Her mother recoiled. Did she have anything to do with this? Is she in hiding? Marie-Claire did not have the energy to deal with her mother’s confirmed suspicions. She packed her bag.

Marie-Claire paid his bail took him home ran a bath put on the kettle didn’t ask a single question, answers would come eventually, winter always leads to spring, rivers thaw, darkness disappears with the flick of a match. He lay quietly in the candle-lit bathroom. The smell of onions and butter coming from the kitchen filled him with a hunger he hadn't felt in weeks. He let his arms float in the water, every now and then turned on the hot to keep the temperature up. He hadn’t taken a bath since he was a boy. In spite of everything he had always been a kind boy, a sweet boy. People would say that in court and it was true.
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*

Leila Marshy spent the last two years as an overnight baker and got to know a snowplow driver or two - in the weathering sense. This story was concocted in a blizzard and written while the bread did its second rising. She’s been published in journals and anthologies in Canada and the US. She is completing her first novel. She is at haikuboxer.com