Little Secrets

Ever found yourself in a ridiculous situation that coincidence can’t explain? And then wondered what the heck to do about?

I have.

Many times.

I guess that’s why it’s so easy for me to write stories. Remember, every story starts with a grain of truth. It’s what we do with the truth that turns it into literature.

Cleaning out my Hard-Drive

As promised a few months ago, I am cleaning out my hard-drive. I read this story in Calgary at Shelf Life Books when I finally got to meet some of the wonderful classmates I met through the University of Calgary’s Creative Writing Certificate. (I took all of the classes online. It’s a great option for anyone who wants to gain skills and feel more confident about their writing!) This was the short story I wrote in my first class 🙂

This story is part of my collection of short stories my website is named after– What Would My Mother Think? Your eyes will be amongst the first to fall on this story. I hope you enjoy it!

Little Secrets

Rachel Laverdiere

I stagger and slop red wine on my brother’s cream-coloured carpet. Ronald sucks at his teeth, and his girlfriend squints into the dark recesses of their living room. Patrucia whispers, “Well you know, Boris—they call him ‘Butcher’—was ringleader of Russian drug cartel.”

Patrucia’s story roller-coasters. This episode from her series of whirlwind romances pre-dates her time with my brother and features the Butcher. The police hounds sniff out the Butcher’s luggage at Pearson International Airport. Hustled into an interrogation room, Patrucia and the Butcher are held under the most gruelling of circumstances for so long they miss their connection to Regina.

I yawn and top up my glass from the bottle of cheap wine on the coffee table. I’m sure the last time she told this story, the dogs were after the moose jerky tucked into his carry-on bag. Closing my eyes, I imagine Patrucia tied to train tracks in the snow-tipped forests of Ukraine. When I hear her staged screams, I giggle and spill wine on my blouse, and Ronald kicks me under the coffee table.

Once Patrucia finishes her story, she leaves the room to fetch another plate of perogies. Ronald glares and hisses, “You’re such an embarrassment, Les!”

I shrug and drain my glass. “Didn’t she tell us Boris was a carpenter from Regina? And that she moved to Saskatoon to get away from him? I’m sure that’s what she said when I first met her.”

“We’ve taken you in and given you a place to sleep. Get your shit together, Les. You’ve got two more weeks.”

“So, you’re saying you don’t think it’s unusual that this Boris guy moves to the frozen wilds of another continent when he used to live in Regina? And I’m sure Patrucia’s accent is getting stronger. How is that even possible?”

He shrugs. “Look, Patrucia might live in her own little world, but the sex is really good, and she pays half the rent. Plus, she likes to cook.”

“Really, Ronald. You could do a lot better if you just tried.” I’m shocked to hear Ma’s voice come from my mouth. It’s as though she’s returned from the dead.

But Ronald doesn’t notice. “We can’t all be as perfect as you, Les.”

Blinking back tears and feeling anything but perfect, I mimic Patrucia’s accent, “Be careful! Maybe she killed Boris, and you’re next!”

“I’m starting to think Ma was right—you do drink too much.”

“Gawd, you don’t have to be so mean! We just buried her yesterday. And you do remember that Ma doesn’t—I mean—didn’t like her, right?”

Ronald stomps out to the balcony for a smoke. Sinking into the sofa, I let the cushions cradle me while I sob. Now that Ma is gone, Ronald is all I have left. More than anything, I want him to hug me and take back his horrible words.

Patrucia flocks to my side. Her floral perfume and sturdy arms envelop me. “Will get better, Leslie. Will get better.”

I hear Ma’s voice again. We all have our stories, Leslie. We all have our reasons for behaving the way we do. As Patrucia fills my glass to the brim, I wonder if maybe she isn’t as bad as I’ve made her out to be.

A moment later, Ronald steps in. He hesitates but sits next to me. I put my head on his shoulder and blubber about how I envy young couples holding hands, how my heart aches when I see a pregnant woman with swollen feet waddling down the street, and how utterly alone I feel when I spot old married couples sitting on park benches tossing breadcrumbs to the birds. Patrucia holds out a box of tissues and rubs my back while I blow my nose. Then, I wail about my bad luck with jobs and men who don’t stay, and I weep over how quickly we lost Ma to the cancer that spread from her ovaries to her lungs to her brain.

Through it all, Ronald listens and nods. When I’m done, he shrugs and says, “Face it, Les. Ma’s gone. We have to pull up our own socks now and get on with our lives.”

***

Patrucia’s nasal voice pierces my eardrum and baby Igor is crying in the background, so put I her on speaker phone and lower the volume.

When there’s a lull, I chirp, “I think I’ve found my happily-ever-after. I can’t wait for you to meet. You guys are gonna love him!”

Though I rarely drink alone since Ma passed away, when I get off the phone, I uncork the bottle of white chilling in the fridge. After all, it’s my birthday, and Ma would be proud of me. I make a toast to my promising career and the house I bought in a safe neighbourhood. I take a sip. Pleased with the wine—crisp like tart green apples—I take a larger sample. I toast the fact that I’ve painted my kitchen the perfect shade of aquamarine, lost a ton of weight, and met the man of my dreams. Another deserving sip.

I cut through the packing tape on the box I sealed up three years ago when Ma passed away. She’d insisted on having her favourite things with her until the end: a Walkman containing Zamfir’s Greatest Hits, her tube of coral lipstick, a tarnished pearl rosary, a tin of powdered toothpaste, a bag of lemon drops and the recipe box I’m after. This milestone birthday would be incomplete without Ma’s famous lemon meringue pie.

As I pull the recipe box out, a photo flutters to the table. When I turn it over, my stomach lurches. In the photo, my extra chins squeeze out of a mustard yellow turtle-neck. There I am, looking like I’ve been wrapped in puff pastry and baked at 450 degrees.

I place the photo face-down on the mantel and fetch another drink.

***

The kitchen is cleaned and the table is set. I’m dressed and ready for company. There’s nothing left to do, so I put up my feet and picture a shirtless Morley in overalls. A ribbon of cedar curls from the chisel in his hand, a lathe gently hums in the background. I take another sip of wine. As he turns towards me, he unfastens his shoulder straps and the overalls puddle at his feet, revealing his bronzed, godlike glory. As I slither toward him, my dress snags on a nail and it rips away from my voluptuous body—

—Ding! Time to take the lemon meringue from the oven before it gets those sugary drops of moisture. I’m aiming for perfection tonight.

Moments after I’ve rescued the pie, the doorbell goes. Careful not to ruin my lipstick, I toss back the rest of my wine.

“Happy birthday, my love.” Morley beams, holding a bouquet of yellow tulips. I get a whiff of cedar as I take the flowers. As he follows me into the kitchen, I picture myself turning around and tracing Morley’s lips with my fingertips. I imagine pulling him up the stairs, pushing him down onto the feather bed, and warning him not to say another word as I kiss every inch of his wiry body.

Morley spins me around. “It smells divine, darling. And your dress—it’s the perfect shade of green for your eyes.” I bury my nose in the tulips to hide the heat spreading across my cheeks.

His lips on my neck make gooseflesh creep up my arms and down my legs. The tulips tremble between us as I choke down the urge to rip open his shirt. When his hands reach for my cinched waist, I remember the shapewear I tugged on. I wriggle free and say, “There’s still so much to do.”

“Sorry, my love. I just can’t help myself around you.” He pulls a package from the cloth shopping bag at his shoulder. “Smoked sausage from my mother. Says she’s looking forward to meeting you.”

Morley puts the meat in the crisper as I pull a chair toward the counter. Reaching for a vase—turquoise to contrast with yellow—the loose skin of my upper arm flaps. I tug at my sleeve.

He helps me step down from the chair. Colour rushes to my cheeks as he twirls me into the dining area, and the hem of my full-skirt lifts from my legs. I clutch the vase of tulips to my chest and watch my world spin.

From the corner of my eye, I see Morley reach for the horrid photo, and I sputter, “My love, would you mind?” I’ve startled him, but he turns away from the photo. Handing him the vase, I add, “Sorry, darling. I’m a little jittery.”

Morley sets the flowers on the mantle. Then, he takes my hand and gestures at a chair. When I sit, he says, “I never thought I would find you.” He drops to one knee, and my heart pushes up into my throat. Trembling, he takes my hand and says, “I was beginning to think there were no sane women left. But then I met you, Leslie Lurlene Williams.”

I force air in through my nose. Get a hold of yourself, Les! Ma says in my head. You must act like a lady in a gentleman’s presence.

Morley pulls a small wooden box from his blazer pocket. A fresh cedar scent wafts toward me. I recognize his handiwork—a tiny whittled nuthatch perches on a twig. He pops the lid and clears his throat. “What I’m saying, darling, is I want you to be Mrs. Boris Morley Nayfeld.”

“Yes, yes, yes! I’ve been praying you’d…” I swallow the rest of the sentence while he slips the ring onto my finger. The diamond shimmers.

Handing me a glass of red wine, Morley says, “Let’s start with a toast, shall we? To the adventures yet to come.” He clinks his glass against mine.

I take a slow sip—holding the bold flavour on my tongue. I swallow, take a deep breath and lead Morley upstairs, telling him not to make a sound.

***

Fixing my hair in the mirror above the mantel, I say “You’ll finally get to meet Ronald. I don’t know why I kept you secret for so long.”

“Darling, let’s vow not to keep secrets from this moment forward.”

Eying the photo, I meet his gaze in the mirror. “No more secrets.”

He chuckles. “You can be quite the little vixen. I wonder what else you’ve got hidden up those sleeves of yours.” He pulls a smart-looking paisley tie from his pocket and drapes it around the neck of his crumpled shirt.

I purr, “Too bad Ronald and Patrucia will be here soon—”

“—Patrucia?” Morely’s shoulders stiffen. His fingers fumble with the knot he’s attempting to tie.

“My brother’s wife.” I take over for Morley, admiring the ring on my finger as I slide the knot into place.

“Patty—that psychotic woman I dated before you—was also named Patrucia. I had to get a restraining order. That’s why I left Regina and started going by Morley.”

“Well, Ronald’s Patrucia stretches the truth, but I doubt she’s crazy.”

Morley shakes his head and forces a smile. “Let’s leave Patty to my past, darling. I can’t wait to meet your brother and his wife.”

I nuzzle into Morley’s neck. “Speaking of dreadful memories,” I say, taking a deep breath as I reach for the photo, “there was a little more of me—”

—Ding! Dong!The doorbell chimes.

Ronald hollers, “Happy Birthday, Les! Just nipping upstairs. Iggy made a stinky.”

The colour drains from Morley’s face and the photo trembles in his hand. He looks past me and blubbers, “Oh God, I can’t—How—? This is just too horrible!”

I pry the photo from Morley’s fingers.

Behind me, Patrucia says, “I bring famous kielbasa and holopchi, but needs go in oven.”

“Morley?” His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. His face is pale and his eyes are wide.

The fridge door squeaks open. “Ooh! I smelling the jerky. Is my favourite!”

“Patrucia, grab a cold cloth! I think Morley’s going to faint.” I lead him to a chair and gently push him down onto the seat. Morley puts his head between his knees.

Placing the damp dishrag at the back of his neck, Patrucia says, “What is happen?”

I shrug and mouth, “He saw how fat I used to be.”

“Maybe he needing the vodka.” Patrucia frowns.

Morley sits up. Some colour has returned to his face, but his eyes still look wild.

Now, Patrucia pales, and she sputters, “Boris?… Is that you? What on earth are you doing here?”

Her accent has disappeared. I have no idea what’s going on. My heart rattles against my ribcage. Maybe I’ve had too much wine.

***

I pull the quilt around my shoulders and plop my bare feet into Morley’s lap. I lick my fingers to get the last buttery crumbs off the plate before I wash them down with wine.

“Another glass, Mrs. Nayfeld-to-be?”

I giggle. “Imagine you, a drug trafficker! I can see the headlines, ‘Boris Morley Nayfeld, Russian Mafia Lord’”

Morley shakes his head and chuckles. “It makes me sound rather interesting.” He nudges another piece of pie toward me.

“For all I know, you really are just a skinny butcher trying to fatten me up for the slaughter.”

Morley gazes at me as I push a forkful of pie into my mouth. “For the record, I’d love you even if I couldn’t wrap my arms around you anymore.” He chuckles, “I do like the idea of more of Les. Or how about a little Morley inside of Leslie.” His eyes glitter as he tugs at the quilt around my shoulder. I let it fall open.

“Convince me of how awful you really are,” I growl. My toes loosen the towel wrapped around his waist, and it falls to the floor.

Morley bares his teeth, roaring as he lunges. Goosebumps rise up on my arms and legs and my spine tingles as the Butcher ties me up to those ancient train tracks in the mountains of Ukraine.

Never in my life have I felt more intoxicated.