Sometimes my short stories come one snippet at a time. I’ll suddenly have a character or a setting in my head, but the story is not clear. Usually, I open a new file and type out what’s in my head. I toss the ideas into a bulk folder called “Unfinished.” Once in a while, another part of the story will come, so I dig out the document and continue. Snippets of the story can arrive days, weeks, months or years later.

For me, this is the way short stories typically arrive. Now that I have more time for writing, I tend to look in my “Unfinished” folder and force some stories along.

“On the Way to the Roxy” is one of many short stories that was written in snippets–in this case, two significant chunks, about one year apart. I was on my way to The Roxy Theatre, a beautifully refurbished theatre on 20^th Street in Saskatoon—all of the trendy new cafés had closed at 6:00, and I was very disappointed. The scene where Marge and Marcel are walking down 20^th was written from notes I jotted down that night.

About a year later, I had this grumpy old Québécois guy in my head, demanding I let him out onto paper. He became Marcel, and suddenly Marge was writing herself into the story. Once the characters appeared, I added them to the setting and the story bloomed.

I’ve added it here for you to read. Enjoy!

p.s. If you are interested in reading more about how stories arrive, consider reading a previous post about short stories that arrive all at once https://www.rachellaverdiere.com/writer/short-stories-first-draft/#more-151

On the Way to the Roxy

Marcel’s therapist, Arty, has convinced him to agree to a date tonight. It’s our forty-fifth anniversary, but we’ve been treading water for at least half of those years. I feel compelled to act cheerful tonight. I do want Marcel’s recovery plan to work, but he is making the enjoyment of things even more difficult than he usually does.

“Tonight I’m taking you to the new coffee shop on 20th Street,” I say in my cheeriest voice, “And I’ve been told they even sell crêpes.”

This should rouse the old guy. He loves crêpes. In fact, over the past four decades he’s often described his mother’s crêpes in explicit detail the way a person would describe the birth of a newborn or a first kiss. In the early years, I tried to compete with my mother-in-law’s crêpes. I followed her recipe, studied and practiced her technique. I even begged her to give me tutorials without Marcel ever knowing it, but he refused to consider the results as anything other than inferior.

“Julian says they are almost as good as Grand-Mémère’s…” I throw in the comparison to get the old guy’s goat. I grin on the inside as I pull thick wool socks over his waxy feet.

“Hmmfff. I doubt they will be as good as Maman’s.”

He wipes the drool that’s slowly running down the right side of his chin. He’s in a pissy mood, but he’s already promised to come out with me. At least there’s colour in his cheeks again, now that I’ve gotten a little under his skin. I help him into the bright red Turbodown Columbia jacket he received at Christmas from the grandkids and finish him off with the pilled blue and white fleur-de-lys scarf his mother knitted decades ago. He looks warm and colourful. And a tad ridiculous. My mood is improving.

***

The wind is a little harsh, but the temperature is hovering around zero. I’ve coaxed Marcel into wearing wind pants and he’s wound the woollen scarf tightly around his neck and lower face to keep the chill out. All I can see of him are his watery blue eyes and bushy grey eyebrows. He’s walking with a slight limp, but he insists he’s gotten strong enough to walk on his own. His walking cane is propped up against the hall closet, at home.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you off at the doors?”

“Just park in the lot, Margie. I’m not all washed up yet.” The layer of wool muffles his voice. He grunts as he hoists himself out of the passenger side of our sedan. It’s taken him three attempts.

“Okay, but we’ll have to walk about four blocks there and then three blocks back to the theatre—”

“—Maybe we should just go home and watch your Netflix. Stop treating me like an invalid.” Harrumph.

“At least let me hold on to your arm. Let’s be happy tonight, Marcel. Let’s really celebrate our long life together.”

Another harrumph.

I force my mittenned hand through the crook of his arm and lean into him a little. I breathe in his familiar smell of Old Spice and freshly baked bread and he presses his padded lips against my forehead.

We haven’t been on the West side of town for over a year. It’s nice to see the surprise in Marcel’s eyes as he sizes up the changes that seem to have cropped up overnight. The City is trying to clean up Riversdale so the area will attract a new, cleaner clientele.

“According to Julian,” I say, “It seems that most of these newly scrubbed shops, as Julian would say, mostly sell hipster food and coffee.” I chuckle a little as I think of my tragically jaded grandson.

The furrow between Marcel’s eyes has softened. Apart from the musings of his mother’s crêpes, he is also fond of anything concerning our sixteen-year-old grandson, Julian.

Marcel puffs up a little, “That boy will be a great political activist some day. A revolutionary even. It’s good to see somebody inherit some piss and vinegar in this family.”

I’ve heard many times, over the past forty years, how our own children turned out too soft, too British, too much like me. None have the fiery Quebecois blood that rages through Marcel’s veins. Harrumph.

***

When we get to the little coffee shop, Marcel and I are out of luck. Marcel tugs on the door, the CLOSED sign bangs against the steel bars, but the patrons their shrug their shoulders at us. There is nothing they can do to help; the crêpes will have to wait.

I study Marcel’s, looking for signs of fatigue. I press the cell phone against my thigh. I am a little concerned because he is wheezing and trembles despite the extra layer of clothing I convinced him to wear. I am a little nervous to be out alone with him.

“Do you want to wait on the bench while I get the car? We could turn on the radio and the heater, go for a drive…”

He shakes his head and bows against the wind that’s picked up. I hook my arm through his again and we start the trek back towards the Roxy. We have forty-five minutes before the shows starts.

Marcel and I have been regular patrons at the theatre since the beginning of time. It has always surprised me that this vintage theatre is so vastly under-appreciated. One would think the hipsters who roam around the coffee shops by day would enjoy the splendours of the Roxy and its indie movies in the evenings, but there is nobody in the street apart from Marcel and I.

A gust of wind blows a few discarded flyers towards us. I feel like I am walking down a deserted street on my way to a gunfight. I chuckle to myself. The image is actually quite fitting. Every business on the three blocks we’ve walked is closed. We have already passed three coffee joints. All closed. The Korean restaurant has its perpetual “under renovation” sign taped to its unlit window. Even the doors to the Roxy are chained shut. It’s a ghost town, all right.

A young man saunters towards us, his hips leading the way. I’ve noticed a lot of young men and teenagers walk this way nowadays and I am pretty sure it’s because it’s the only way they have of making sure their low-slung, unbelted or loosely belted pants don’t pool down around their ankles. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of a jacket he probably bought at the army surplus store, or maybe the Sally Ann. I am a little startled when he jerks his hand free of the pocket. I’ve been watching too many thrillers on Netflix. There’s no danger, besides the brightness of the flashing lights of his phone.

The young man nods in our direction and shrugs the phone onto his shoulder as he plucks a cigarette out of the other pocket. Despite the wind, he manages to light up on his first try. I’m impressed. If Marcel weren’t here, I might even ask to purchase a cigarette from the young man. But it was a real struggle for Marcel to give up the habit. He has no idea that it was also difficult for me when he no longer had the luxury of puffing on his Du Maurier Kings. I hadn’t realized how dependent I’d grown on the cigarettes I’d been regularly snatching for at least forty years. I had never considered myself a smoker before Marcel was forced to quit because of the stroke.

Marcel is adamant. He does not want to go sit in the car like an old coot. He’s been trapped in our small house far too long. I agree to walk another block, in search of shelter, but that I need him to rest. He agrees with a harrumph.

Up about half a block, we come to a steel gate. It accesses a court yard shared between a new guitar and amp shop that puts on live music some evenings and another closed coffee shop. The gate is slightly swinging on its hinges. Marcel pushes on it a little and the chain falls to the ground.

What luck! We’ll be sheltered from the wind and there’s even a little bench to sit on. Marcel and I sneak through. As an afterthought, I loop the chain back through the metal bars so the gates will stay shut. Although the area has been cleaned up a lot, I have always felt vulnerable here at night.

When I turn back towards the bench I see that Marcel has unwound the long scarf and is neatly folding it. He places the rectangle of wool onto the bench next to him.

“Kind of makes me think of the old days, Margie,” he says, eyes twinkling in the pale moonlight, “Do you remember? We couldn’t get enough of one another.”

I walk towards him, take the hand that he offers and sit on the cushion he’s made. I haven’t seen his romantic side for decades now. I lean my head on his shoulder. It is still broad, if a little stooped. I close my eyes and breathe in his fresh smell.

He angles his torso towards me so he can look me in the eyes.

“I know I wasn’t always good for you, Margie. But I have always loved you the best I knew how to…” I stop myself from wiping the spittle sliding down the side of his chin. “I don’t know where all the years went.” He looks down at his gloved hands, as though he’s written notes he doesn’t want to forget in the palms.

“Marcel, you’ve been a good man. Did Arty put you up to this?”

“Dammit, Margie, I can come up with the right way to do things all by myself. I’ve had a lot of time to think about how it must have been hard for you. I need to set things straight with you Margie. Just let me say what I’ve gotta say. I don’t know how I forgot to be tender enough for you. What, with all my piss and vinegar, I forgot to be the man you agreed to marry forty-five years ago.” I am surprised to see tears welling up in his eyes.

“Marcel, you don’t have to do this. You’ve given me a good life. We haven’t gone hungry. And the children and the grandchildren… And you were tender enough, Marcel.” I place my head back on his shoulder. “We did what we thought was best. And it wasn’t always best, but we made it through.”

I squeeze his hand. We sit quietly for a while. The air is still and there are no sounds from the street. It feels like even the buildings have gone to sleep for the night.

“I miss these times, Margie. Remember when we lived down here. How we barely scraped by, especially after Philip was born and you couldn’t work in the dress shop anymore?”

“I remember it well.” I smile at the memory. “How your mother taught me to make pea soup. It was hearty and cheap and made you fart all through the night.”

We chuckle. I feel his papery lips against my forehead.

“Arty tells me I need to tell you how I feel. And I feel like I failed you, Margie. And I think that’s why I lost my tenderness. And I want to live the rest of my time, with you, being tender enough for you.”

“Well, maybe I should tell Arty that you’ve always been good to me so he doesn’t get the wrong impression. I love you, Marcel. As you are.”

He struggles a little with the zipper on his jacket. He finally pries his glove off with his teeth, unzips the jacket and reaches into the inner breast pocket. He pulls out a small black box tied with a green ribbon.

“I got Julian to take me shopping last week. That boy already drives better than his father…” He cuts himself short. “Err, so he helped me with this. I never get you anything nice. Margie, and I wanted to let you know how much you have meant to me all these years. I would have been nothing without you.”

He extends the little box towards me and kisses me full on the lips. The butterflies are freed of their ancient cocoons deep within my belly. I remove my mittens.

“I didn’t get you anything, Marcel. I didn’t think to—“

“—Just open the damn gift Margie!” He winks and grins at me.

Gingerly, I undo the tidy bow. My heart is beating hard against my ribs. This is so unlike Marcel.

Nestled inside the box is an antique silver heart-shaped locket. There is a fleur-de-lys carved into the centre of the locket and faint filigrees adorn the outer edges. A dozen tiny emeralds have been fitted into the outline of the fleur-de-lys.

It is breathtaking. My hand trembles as I pull the silver chain free of the velvet furrow that holds it securely.

“The lady at the shop told me this is our Emerald Anniversary. Now look inside.”

He watches me carefully as I open the fine clasp. When the heart falls open I see that on one side he’s had our wedding picture shrunk to fit and on the other side is a candid picture taken of us at our twenty-fifth anniversary. We are both laughing, mouths agape.

“It’s absolutely perfect, Marcel. This life has been absolutely perfect.” I snuggle back into him and he kisses my ear. The butterflies beat their dusty wings.

“Shall we try the theatre doors again?” I ask, blushing like a young virgin.

“Maybe we could go home. You could make me some crêpes. Maybe put on your Netflix? You got me all worked up, you know.” He nibbles my earlobe and the butterflies rush down between my legs like they haven’t in years. “My doctor says its okay to resume our bedroom activities…” He winks at me. The old goat still has it in him.

“What’s gotten into you Marcel?” I swat at him with my mitten, laughing. “Whatever it is, I don’t want it to go away.”

I put the jewellery back into the box and the box into my pocket that I zip shut. We sneak back out the gate and down the block towards our car.

In the time it’s taken us to rekindle a few decades of lost amour the parking lot has filled up and we watch bundled people lean on each other as they cross the street. They are all filing towards the movie theatre, but not Marcel and I.

I pat my pocket to make sure the locket is still secure.

Nope. Marcel and I, we are going home to make love.