Three's a Crowd

by Gill James

mixed shots

"Well this seems all right." Hal sank down on to one of the beds.

"Hmm. The view's not bad either." Sam was standing on the balcony, looking out towards the sea.

No, the view wasn't at all bad. He couldn't stop staring at her perfectly formed buttocks. He'd got himself a winner there: she was beautiful, intelligent and she was all his. What a pity he couldn't just keep her to himself for this short break.

Right on cue there was a knock on the door.

Sam rushed from the balcony and ran over to open it. "Hi Trevor," she called. "Is your room as gorgeous as this one?"

Did she have to be so friendly to him? They'd talked about this before they came away. They were supposed to be as nasty as possible to Trevor and they should try their best to put him off hanging around with them. It didn't look as if Sam was making much effort.

And now here he was. Drippy Trevor, looking slightly crazy with his silly thin legs poking out of his Bermuda shorts. His bright orange hat was even more stupid and could anyone look any tackier than he did in the flowered T-shirt?           

That evening they stayed in the hotel bar after dinner. Hal was so pissed off at having to put up with Trevor that he couldn't stop drinking. But even all of those shots weren't enough to anaesthetise him against the irritation that was drippy Trevor. And Sam was still being far too friendly and making no effort whatsoever to shake the third wheel off. His own coldness didn't seem to be enough either.    

He woke the next morning as Sam nudged him. "Come on. Best get going if we're to be there in time for the kayaking session."

He turned over and groaned. His head felt as if a hammer and a knife with a sharp edge were crashing around inside. Then he was hit by a wave of nausea and had to rush to the bathroom where he vomited copiously,

"Are you all right?" Sam called.

He wasn't. When he dared to come out of the bathroom it was only to face a Sam who was looking slightly disgusted.  

There was no magic cure. There was no way he could go out kayaking feeling this bad. He could only wave to Trevor and Sam as they made their way to the beach.

"Look after her for me," he called from the balcony.

"Of course I will," replied Trevor, a bit too gleefully Hal thought. 

He returned to his bed and slept again.

He woke up several times and still his head pounded. He drank goodness knows how many glasses of water each time then went straight back to sleep. Finally he woke up and the headache had gone.

He showered, pulled on some fresh clothes and wandered down to the small cafe in the foyer.

My, it was hot even here in the shade. He was astounded to see that it was already afternoon.

He was tempted to try the hair of the dog but he decided against it. He wanted to be fully alert for when they returned. Why had he been so ill? Sure, he'd had a lot to drink but he was used to it wasn't he? Something wasn't quite right. Perhaps it had been a bug. But he felt better again now. 

He settled for a bottle of water and a chili dog.

They seemed to do the trick. He was now completely human once more. 

He was about to order a coffee when he saw people rushing towards the shoreline. 

An ambulance had pulled up on the street and a couple of paramedics were hurtling towards the sea.

Then he saw Trevor get out of a boat. One of the paramedics wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.

Where the fuck was Sam? Hal got up from his seat and started running.

"Shall I put your bill on the room, sir?"

He hardly registered what the waiter was saying but just about managed to nod. A few seconds later he was standing next to Trevor. "Where is she, mate? What have you done with her?"

Trevor covered his eyes. "I didn't mean to do it," he stammered. "We got into a bit of a fight. Then her kayak overturned. The instructor pulled her out but ... "

"What?"

Hal watched in disbelief as the paramedics carried a stretcher to the ambulance. On it was someone covered completely with a blanket. They only did that when someone died, right? That was his Sam?

He grabbed Trevor by the shoulder. "What were you fighting about?"

Trevor gulped. "About her not leaving you."

"Not leaving me?"

"That's right. She's been wanting to for months but couldn't find the right moment to tell you. She was scared of what you might do. She was supposed to have finally broken up with you before we came away. It was meant to be just me and her here."

"What?" Hal suddenly remembered the drinks.

"Last night, in the bar, did you...?"

Trevor grimaced. "Oh yes. I spiked your drinks all right. Not quite enough, obviously."

Hal punched him squarely on the nose. There was a loud crack and Trevor's face was soon covered with blood. Hal had probably broken his nose. That was at least something. He felt a hand on his shoulder. "Gentlemen, we would like you to accompany us to the station."

The other police officer was already putting handcuffs on Trevor.   

Sirocco Peak

by Jim Bates

sparkling cranberry juice

On the day of her wedding Sam pulled himself to the top of the flat stone mesa called Sirocco Peak. Gusts tore at his shirt as he stood on the edge, six hundred feet above the Arizona desert floor.

            "To hell with her," he yelled and threw the ring he'd bought into the empty space.

            Sandblasted wind whipped his words and the ring away. No matter. For a moment he felt like a man standing there. A man's man. No one to tell him what to do. No one to hurt him. The infinite horizon stretching on forever. He lifted his arms to the sky and leaned out, buoyed by the swirling sirocco, wanting nothing more at that moment than to step into space and fly. Fly away and be free.

            Just then the wind shifted and he stumbled, falling backwards away from the edge and tumbling hard to the ground. He lay on his back and stared up to the sky. What am I going to do? he asked himself. Fly away from my problems? Kill myself?

            Easy solutions to the mental state he was in, but the answers to both were clear: no and no. No flying. No killing of one's self. None of that. But the fact still remained - his life was a mess.

            Sam sat up and closed his eyes, tears forming, tears he could no longer contain. He had to face it, she was gone for good.

            He buried his head in his arms and sat weeping until he was cried out and his breathing returned to normal; an equilibrium of sorts.  It was then he heard a familiar call. His mood lightened as he raised his head and looked up. High above he saw a golden eagle soaring motionless on an upward thermal. Then into his field of view another approached, gliding swiftly, and in that instant the two big raptors came together fast and grabbed talons. He watched entranced as they swirled together, twirling and falling for hundreds of feet before releasing their grip on each other and flying away side by side.

            He was a bird watcher. He knew birds and he knew eagles. They're probably a mated pair, he thought, performing their bonding ritual. He watched them soaring on the wind as they called back and forth, and he smiled. It made him feel good to see them together.

            For a minute, anyway.

            Then he sighed a resigned sigh and stood up. He wiped his eyes and made his way to the trail head where he began the long, lonely descent to the desert floor. The wind was at his back as he moved slowly forward, one step at a time toward his uncertain future. High above the two golden eagles flew in a soaring ballet, their shadows drifting back and forth across the trail as if showing him the way; unlikely companions as they kept him company, all the way down. 

About the author 

Jim lives in a small town twenty miles west of Minneapolis, Minnesota. His stories have appeared online in CafeLit, The Writers' Cafe Magazine, Cabinet of Heed, Paragraph Planet, Nailpolish Stories, Ariel Chart, Potato Soup Journal, Literary Yard, Spillwords and The Drabble, and in print publications: A Million Ways, Mused Literary Journal, Gleam Flash Fiction Anthology #2, The Best of CafeLit 8, Nativity Anthology by Bridge House Publishing and Gold Dust Magazine. You can also check out his blog to see more: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.

The Saving of Banerjee and Wilson

Penny Rogers

 Nothing to drink, just suck a lemon drop

It can’t get much worse, mused Sandra. The night was very dark; the storm that had caused the power cut was still raging and no light filtered through the none too clean windows of the holiday chalet. Her primary concern at the moment was Kenneth; more specifically the strain upon his octogenarian bladder. ‘No you can’t go downstairs to the toilet. It’s pitch black and that ladder’s unsafe.’ She was sure there were regulations about holiday lets that stipulated handrails on stairs, but now was not the time to worry about that. ‘Try and think about something else. Would you like a boiled sweet?’

            ‘Lemon drops? No thanks, I think they might be diuretic.’

            If only she’d remembered the torch. It was in the passenger door pocket of her blue Renault Clio. Only it wasn’t hers anymore; it was on its way to an automotive knacker’s yard, the life-saving torch still in it. At least they were safe. She’d known that it was foolish to continue along the flooded road but she’d seen cars coming the other way and Kenneth was anxious not to be late. The meeting of the natural history society was scheduled to start at 2.00 in the beach car park. It was already 1.55 and their satnav had taken them through an industrial estate rather than to the shore. To make up time, and against her better judgement, she’d driven under the bridge. They didn’t make it out of the flood and the last she’d seen of her car was it being pulled unceremoniously out of the water and away down the road suspended by the front axle from a breakdown truck.

‘Could I pee out of the window?’ The desperation in Kenneth’s voice was obvious.

‘No, the window ledge is too high. I’ll think of something.’

Aided by a police officer who looked just like Meghan Markle, Sandra had paddled around in the muddy water rescuing coats, bags, road maps, even a tin of sweets from the doomed car. The water was seeping up the seats by this time. She didn’t even think of the torch.

            The fire engine left; there was no pumping out to be done. Sandra felt relieved when it had gone.  She hadn’t realised the impact that her 999 call would have. As soon as it became obvious that the flooded engine was not going to restart, she’d made the call and Kenneth had swung into action. Swivelling round in the confined space of the Clio he’d rummaged through the bags on the back seat. ‘Must make sure Banerjee and Wilson doesn’t get wet.’     

         Sandra helped him find all of his precious books among their rapidly dampening possessions. She even found a robust bag for life to keep them dry and made sure that the bag took priority when help arrived.

‘Do you realise that I went to Rugby with Mohandas Banerjee?’ Kenneth cut into her thoughts. His preoccupation and passion was his collection of books on littoral invertebrates of north-western Europe, and among those his first edition of Banerjee and Wilson was his most treasured possession.

            ‘You have mentioned it’ Sandra was thankful he was distracted from his immediate problem. ‘Did you once tell me you started annotating that book when you left university and that he used some of your observations in the second edition?’ She listened patiently to his detailed answer and by the time he’d got to the reproductive cycle of the sandhopper she’d had an idea.

            The next time he said ‘I’ve got to go downstairs’ she had her answer ready.

            ‘Give me that bottle of water. I’ll empty it out and you can pee in that.’

            ‘I can’t pee through that tiny hole; it’ll go all over the place.

            ‘I’ll cut the bottom off and you can hold it upside down.’

            ‘But it’ll run out the top.’ For a Professor Emeritus at a highly respected university Kenneth could be very slow.

            ‘Leave the cap on.’ Sandra snapped. She was tired, cold and worried about her car. All her belongings were damp, the heating didn’t work in the chalet and there were dead woodlice in the bath.

            Using the faint light of her phone she emptied the water bottle out of the window; it ran down the roof along with the thousands of gallons that were still crashing from the sky. Fumbling about in the gloom she found her washing bag and the pair of nail scissors she always kept in it. As Kenneth described seasonal variations in mud crabs, she carefully cut the bottom off the bottle by the fading light of her phone. It wasn’t easy, and she didn’t want to risk cutting herself. The prospect of making another emergency call was more than she could contemplate.

            Triumphantly she held up the receptacle. ‘You can go now. Be careful when you’ve finished. Better give it to me.’ She had a vision of going to all that trouble and Kenneth absent mindedly spilling it all.

            ‘Don’t think I need to go any more.’

            ‘I think you do.’ Sandra was terse.

                                                                                 

Sandra’s helpful neighbour Ian had come round with advice on acquiring a replacement car. The autumn sunshine poured into the cosy living room as they enjoyed tea and homemade cake. Between mouthfuls of shortbread Ian asked ‘So, when did you get the power back?’

            ‘The lights came on at exactly 3.07. Sandra made all that fuss about me peeing in a bottle and half an hour later the power was restored. I could’ve waited that long.’ Kenneth helped himself to a scone.

            Before Sandra could reply Ian chipped in again. ‘How did you get home?’

‘Hired a Ford.’ Kenneth volunteered. ‘Trouble is it was manual transmission and Sandra’s forgotten how to drive them, so I had to.’

            ‘It was all you did do.’ Sandra got up to re-fill the tea pot.

            ‘That’s not true. I had to pee in a bottle and I saved Banerjee and Wilson.’

The Book

by NT Franklin

strong coffee 

 Mark perused the book titles at the Second Chance Bookstore in Phoenix. The one book on scrimshaw was already in his collection. Checking out used bookstores was one of his joys and the reason he arrived a day early for these dreaded actuarial accounting conferences.

He strolled empty-handed along the sidewalk, glancing in shop windows. He was nearly past the Salvation Army storefront when a box of books on the counter caught his eye. Usually books at Salvation Army stores were bodice-ripper romances, not his style, but he had lots of time.

The clerk was a silver-haired woman in a green cardigan who looked like everyone’s grandmother, volunteering to occupy her day.

She nodded.

Mark smiled. “Good afternoon…books?”

“Far back left-hand corner. Kinda sorted by interest. And this box, it came in today. Mainly astrology and that sort of thing. I haven’t priced them yet.”

“Slide it over. I’ll have a look. Maybe save you some shelving.”

 Mark looked at the spines and grabbed ‘Astrology for Nonbelievers.’ He knew the book. His hands shook when he opened the cover.

There it was: ‘For Ellie, use this to teach me the way. Love always, Mark.’

He gave a little gasp and tried to slow his racing mind.

“Where did you get these books?”

“Oh, a lovely young lady has brought a box in at lunchtime every day this week.”

“How much for this book?”

“Is one dollar too much?”

“Here’s a ten. Keep it, I’ll go check out the shelves in the back.”

Mark clutched the book to his chest. His life began when she moved into his apartment with just a few clothes and a box of books. His life ended two years ago when she left. Could she be in Phoenix? It was him, not her, who loved the heat. He closed his eyes and remembered the day he gave her the book. I almost gave you a book on the healing power of crystals but chose this instead. You can use this to guide me. Her serious expression to what he thought was a joke was still vivid in his mind.

He could hear her voice in his head, ‘Good choice, everyone knows crystals don’t work.’ That was four years ago.

Life was everything it was supposed to be when they lived together until he came home one day and saw the bare space in the bookshelf where her astrology books had proudly resided. A check of the closet showed her few clothes were gone as well. She left with what she brought and none of the things they acquired together on trips. Hell, he had a ring on order at the jewelry store.

No note. No goodbye. No reason. Just gone.

He’d spent two years asking why. Two years trying to get over her. Two years pining.

Mark looked at the book titles without seeing them. Ellie. Here in Phoenix. Why? Mechanically pulling a book off the shelf and returning it, he mulled over options. He had so many questions for her. Ten minutes later, he knew what he was going to do. With ‘Astrology for Nonbelievers’ under his arm, he nodded to the clerk on his way out.

Damn the morning session and lunch presentation, tomorrow he’d be in the store before lunchtime, hoping she’d stop in.

Mark was up before the sun, pacing in his hotel room. He looked at the conference agenda. Nothing came close to the importance of a chance of seeing Ellie. Another hour before the restaurant opened. He paced. And thought of what he would say to her, what he would ask her. Finally, a chance to ask some questions, get some closure.

He was the first one seated in the still-dim restaurant. The waitress filled his coffee cup before he settled into the booth. She promptly brought him two eggs over easy, hash browns, bacon, and rye toast.

He looked at his plate. Empty. Must have eaten it but I don’t remember.

“Are you okay?” the waitress asked.

He shook his head and blinked a couple times.

“I’m fine, thanks. Just trying to sort some things out.”

“I’m glad. I spoke to you three times before you came out of your trance.” She smiled at him. “And I don’t know CPR.”

As the restaurant filled up, Mark jotted in his pocket notebook. He rewrote his notes, trying not to be confrontational. He needed some answers, but didn’t want to upset her. Did he still love her? He managed to duck out before any of the conference attendees showed up.

Back in his room, he tidied up and thought about his actions before the store opened. He reread his notes and paced. I can do this.

The Second Chance Bookstore was about a twenty-minute walk. To bide time this morning, he would thoroughly go over the volumes in the crafts as well as the art books, in case some there were scrimshaw books in both areas.

The third time he had studied the title of each volume, it was time to leave the bookstore and go to the Salvation Army store.

The same clerk looked up when the bell chimed. She nodded to Mark as he entered.

Mark pointed, “Books, left side in the back, right?”

“Yes, same place as yesterday.” She cracked a smile.

He positioned himself so he could lift his head without turning around if Ellie or the person with her books came in.

The shelves had the astrology books from yesterday and many sported 50-cent price stickers. The yellow price stickers were ten percent off on Tuesday. Who would wait to buy a 50-cent book on Tuesday to save a nickel?

The bell on the door chimed and brought him back to focus. A scruffy-looking man entered with a cheery, “Morning, Mabel, what’s new?”

“Some summer shirts came in and they’re on the rack. They look like your style, Robert.”

Mark turned his attention back to the books on the shelf and became lost in his thoughts of Ellie, rehearsing what he would say to her. Was it me? What did I do wrong?

“Another box of books?” the clerk asked.

“Yes, this is the last one.”

Mark froze and dropped the book he was holding. He knew that voice. It was Ellie. He picked up the book and put it back on the shelf and started toward the front of the store.

Even with her back to him, he knew it was her. Black hat with shoulder-length brown hair, white peasant top over a long, pleated skirt. Boho style. Ellie turned and looked at him. Or more correctly, right through him.

He started to say something, but she turned away and left the store. Mark stopped in the aisle with his arms at his side and his mouth gaping open.

Gathering himself, he left the store in time to see her turning the corner. He picked up his pace and followed her. When he reached the corner, he saw her entering a stationery store.

He reached the stationery store and watched her through the window. There she was, as beautiful and graceful as ever. Two years disappeared into two seconds. When she finished dealing with a customer, he put his hand on the door handle but stopped.

Mark retraced his steps to the Salvation Army store and smiled at Mabel when the door announced his entrance.

“Mind if I look at the box of books that lady just dropped off?”

Mabel slid the box across the counter. “Sure, take your time.”

The first book he opened was inscribed, ‘For Ellie, the love of my life. Yours forever, Arthur.’

Mark returned the book to the box and stepped back. “Uh, thanks.”

He turned and left before Mabel responded.

Outside, he leaned against the building and gasped for air. A full five minutes passed before he could catch his breath and his legs stopped shaking. He knew where he had to go.

Back at the stationery store, he caught Ellie’s eye as his hand was on the door handle. She looked at him and gave him a sales-clerk smile. No recognition, just a mechanical response.

Mark let go of the door and headed back to the hotel. Time to start healing.

About the author:

https://www.amazon.com/N.-T.-Franklin/e/B013YXUBW6
https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100018933397624

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

Plavine Part 15

by Mitzi Danielson-Kaslik

ruby port  

I followed Marius back down the narrow streets until we came to another house on the other side of The Artists’ District. He lived on an equally tiny and ancient street called Voie de Fil which had all the doors of the houses splattered in paint – by design or accident I wasn’t sure. He grabbed my hand and pulled me up a very narrow flight of stairs to a much-splattered door, which he quickly unlocked. “Come on,” he whispered. I followed him into a wooded hallway and in through a little door which led to a tiny room with a desk and two chairs and an inkpot and a quill and lots of parchment. I sat down hurriedly – hardly thinking – and there I began my letter. A letter from Sylvester.

My Dear Camille

I do not wish to run away with you

I am not in love with you. I never have been. I never will be. Please do not see me again.

Yours Sincerely

S.S.P.

Marius informed me that I should strike through the first line. So I did. I handed it to him and wiped my eyes. With a swift kiss, I left the little flat for what would be the last time.

I spent a long time that evening imagining Camille’s reaction to the news the letter brought: that Sylvester – My Love – was never in love with her. Was she heartbroken? Though I had never met the girl I so so hoped she was heartbroken. I wanted to punish her for trying to take him away from me. Who was she to hope to steal him away from me? I had waited for him for a deafeningly long nine months and I had loved him every moment we had been apart and still even now, when I still somehow truly believe he loves me, even though he seemingly planned to disappear from my life once more and run away with her in his arms.

I still loved Sylvester and it was at that moment in my life that I realised I would always love Sylvester.

As I pondered over what I had done I began that it did not really matter to me how Camille felt and yet – and this dazzled me – I had still sort to hurt her and I was not about to attempt to make a mends for one good reason; it felt good. I was reveling in the very thought of her in misery, the same misery and melancholia I had felt for the brutally long nine months that I had been forced to spend away from my lover.

I looked over from the table where I had been writing to the piano where Sylvester was gently playing The Great Gate of Kiev by Mussorgsky. He looked somewhat sad. He stared at his sheets of music with a stare that seemed to lack its usual passionate flare. I wondered why. I had not confronted him about Camille, nor did I intend to for I could not face the prospect of all of this becoming real. I could not face the fact that Sylvester Spence Palvine may have loved - love – someone else. He would always be mine and mine alone in my eyes.

Finding My Feet

by S. Nadja Zajdman  

mulled ale

          One early autumn, I joined a hiking club.  My intention was to find a way into nature.  I don’t own a car.  The most I hoped for was to sit quietly on the school bus as it transported our group of active senior citizens into the countryside.  I still pay full price for everything, so I don’t know how I’ve come to be considered a senior citizen, but in certain milieu, I am.  Perhaps I am a junior senior.

          On that first Friday morning I arrived at the meeting point, and a member of the club noticed me hanging back in a corner, clutching my new knapsack.  I was more nervous that morning than on my first day of kindergarten  “Come on in!”  She called.  “The water’s fine!”  The lady wasn’t lying.  On the bus, I discovered that I could comfortably socialize. 

          On the trails, I was startled to discover how frightened I had become of downward slopes.  As I stiffened and inched along, a hand reached from behind, gently nudging the back side of my forearm and guiding my direction.  “Why are you afraid?”  The warm male voice of one of the fitness trainers who lead these outings asked.  Why, indeed?  I came to think of these trainers as good shepherds who will not allow a lamb to slip over the side of a hill.  Beguiled by the beauty of the views, at first I moved forward tentatively, later with budding assurance.  And though I sometimes tripped over the exposed root of an ancient maple, I was always grateful to be out in nature breathing cedar-scented air.  Lunchtime would find me stretched out on a rock or a dock or a picnic bench by a rushing gorge or a sun-dappled lake. 

         

          When autumn turned to winter, we strapped snowshoes onto our boots, and the lunches we carried in our knapsacks were consumed in huts, by the amber-coloured flames of logs burning in wood stoves.  The first time I put on snowshoes, I felt like I would topple over.  “Stomp, Sharon, stomp your feet!”  The head shepherd instructed.  “The reason you feel like you’re falling is because you aren’t stepping forcefully.  The snowshoes have clamps.  They’ll bite the ground and hold you up.  Stomp, Sharon!  Stomp!”  So I stomped and I clomped, feeling like the Abominable Snowman.  Climbing uphill was hard, but not frightening.  The effort felt familiar.  In a sense, I’ve been climbing uphill all my life.

          Sometimes we tramped in open meadows surrounded by taupe-coloured trees, and sometimes we edged our way through narrow paths in a snow-laden glade I dubbed The Land of Sugar-Frosted Pines.  Once, we entered a region in the Laurentians called Farhills.  These hills were not only far, but steep.  On one hill, all my fellow hikers had to be helped down the icy and treacherous trail, so what chance did I have?  When my turn came, I gauged the conditions and made my choice.  “Screw this.”  A fine line separates courage from stupidity, and I was on the verge of crossing it.  I plunked down onto the ground, raised my snow-shoe clad feet in the air, tossed my hiking sticks away from me, shoved at the snow with my gloves, and whizzed down the slope, the ice under my bottom turning me into a human toboggan.  Two alarmed female shepherds dashed down the hill—they were the only ones capable of doing so.  “Sharon!  Are you alright?!”

          I thrust out my arms and exulted, through crystallized breath, “It’s the only way to travel!”

          Having flown down the hill literally by the seat of my pants, I faced another challenge.  How to stand up?  My feet flailed in the air.  They were trapped in the snowshoes.  “I need to get these things off.”  I assumed.  “No you don’t,” the shepherds corrected.  “We’ll get you on your feet.”

          “You can’t!”  I bleated.  “I’m too heavy.”

          “Oh yes we can!”  Shepherd Annette positioned herself on one side of me.  Shepherd Annie positioned herself on the other.  “As we lift, you push.  Push from your knees, Sharon!  Push!”  So saying, they heaved, I ho-ed, and up I sprang!  I grinned at the good shepherds in admiration and awe.  Not only was I on my feet; I was also smiling. 

          By late afternoon we were back in the city.  I returned to my apartment, soaked in a warm, sea-salted bath, and in sweet exhaustion fell into bed.  My body burned, my muscles ached, and I slept like one of the logs that occasionally blocked our paths on the hiking trails.      

The Show Must Go On

by S. Nadja Zajdman              

hot chocolate                  

           

It was the dead of winter.  It was Saturday morning.  In the afternoon I was scheduled to perform in a Children’s Theatre production at Victoria Hall.  The drama queen in me is tempted to declare that a storm was raging but truth be told, the blizzard had passed.  Our cozy corner of North America was transformed into a dark and deserted region of mountainous snow.    

     The metro system did not yet exist.  Neither did snowploughs.  The buses weren’t rolling.  The buses weren’t moving.  Nothing was moving.  Or so it seemed.

     My parents and I were huddled around the kitchen table.  Breakfast was over, but argument was not.  Mum insisted that I stay home.  “Daddy can’t take the car.  He’ll get stuck.  No one will show up anyway.  You can’t go.”

     I was mortified.  “But I have to!  If I don’t show up, they’ll never give me another part!   ”  I stopped short of saying, “And I’ll never work in the theatre again!”  But I did proclaim, “The show must go on.”  Our teachers at The Montreal Children’s Theatre had taught us that.  I was an impressionable little thespian.  I was also a quick study.

     With the edge of a long silver spoon Daddy pressed a slice of lemon against the inside of his glass of tea.  My sense of responsibility made him smile.  It also prompted him to rise from the table, enter the hallway, pull on his heavy boots, his warm jacket, and the silly hat with the big floppy ear flaps.

     “Mishigah!”  Mum wailed, instantly deciphering the intentions behind Daddy’s actions.  “Abram!  What are you doing!”  Mum wasn’t asking. “You can’t do it.”  Now Mum made her meaning clear.  “You won’t make it!”

     “Well we can’t let the child go by herself!  And besides,” Daddy raised his arm and waggled a forefinger, “The show, it has to go on!”

     Daddy was a Polish Jew who survived the war years in Siberia.  The prospect of trekking from the Cote des Neiges area to Westmount didn’t faze him.  He was also an older parent. When I was ten, my daddy was almost fifty.  But he was a tough and strong Almost Fifty.  Mum was overruled.

     In late morning we set out into the empty streets, my small mitted hand resting in Daddy’s large gloved hand.  What confronted us was a wonderland.  Ropes of snow rimmed bare branches like sugar frosting.  Caps of snow perched on spiked fences, like ice cream in cones.  What looked like white sculptures turned out to be cars buried under snow.  Despite the early hour street lamps switched on, as though ignited by an attentive elf. 

     A gust of wind whistled at the snow, startling it off rooftops.  Particles of snow, transformed into silver sequins, pirouetted under the illuminated lamps.  Smoke curled out of chimneys in pearl grey and crayoned swirls.  Formless clouds smudged the sky.  Traffic lights were the only spots of colour in a magical, monochrome world.

     Generally I was a chatterbox, but now I knew to conserve my energy and hold my peace.  In companionable silence I trudged beside my dad.  Sometimes I hiked behind him as he marched through deep drifts, creating a trail for me to follow.  I raised my knees high and plunked down my feet in the imprints of my father’s footsteps.  My feet hurt because my feet were flat, like my daddy’s feet.  But Daddy didn’t complain, so neither did I.  When snow banks proved too high, Daddy lifted me over them.  When wind currents proved too powerful, Daddy pulled me through them.     

      It was early afternoon when we reached the invisible border that divides Notre Dame de Grace from Westmount.  Curtains of clouds parted, and sunshine tossed a spotlight on a fairy-tale-like castle that rose higher than the surrounding mounds of snow.  Through the frost-laced windows of this wondrous Gothic structure I glimpsed chandeliers blazing with light.  We were approaching the imposing Victoria Hall.

     “Did we make it, Daddy?”  Anxiously, I broke our three-hour silence.  Are we going to be on time?”

     Daddy raised the sleeve of his jacket and checked the face of his wristwatch.  A barely perceptible sigh escaped his lips and was caught by particles of frigid air.

    I would make it to the dressing room before the two o’clock matinee.  So would every other child scheduled to appear on stage that afternoon.  The silver metal band of Daddy’s wristwatch glittered in glints of cold winter sun.     

About the author 

 S. Nadja Zajdman is a Canadian author.  Her first short story collection, Bent Branches, was published in 2012.  Zajdman has had her non-fiction as well as her fiction featured in newspapers, magazines, literary journals and anthologies across North America, the U.K., Australia and New Zealand.  She has completed work on a second short story collection as well a memoir of her mother, the pioneering Holocaust educator and activist Renata Skotnicka-Zajdman, who passed away near the end of 2013.