Eleven Shorts +1

By Shireen Jeejeebhoy

Eleven short stories:

Two little girls, in two different eras, yearning for their parents. A shy girl in a new country. Emerging after the death of a spouse. A short short. Mother and son argue over what is dignity, what value her life. A creepy little short. The bureaucrat and his ever-so-busy day. A party that glitters. A daughter rebels. A mother and her youngest, a conflict without end? Death stalks the homeless, the vulnerable in Toronto's innocent streets.

Bonus: a 1919 story of romance, misunderstanding, and danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shireen Jeejeebhoy
• Release date: Aug 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9780987711069

Shireen Jeejeebhoy

I write a mix of books: novels, biography, short nonfiction. I set my novels in Toronto, my home for most of my life, a city of contradictions and ripe with conflict possibilities. My debut book, LIFELINER, is set in Ontario, but also travels down to New York and across the pond to Sweden. My life is one big question mark, has been ever since I sustained a closed head injury (or mild traumatic brain injury or concussion, whichever moniker is fashionable) in a four-car collision. But my writing keeps me grounded, my photography takes me to other places. I wrote about it and treatments I discovered in my revised memoir CONCUSSION IS BRAIN INJURY: TREATING THE NEURONS AND ME. When I'm not writing, reading, taking photographs, I'm hunting for good coffee and sensational chocolate.

Book preview

ELEVEN SHORTS +1

by Shireen Jeejeebhoy

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 1988 to 2011 by Shireen Anne Jeejeebhoy

Their Mistake Copyright 1919 by Dorothy Searby

Discover other titles by Shireen Jeejeebhoy at Smashwords.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to events, locales, organizations, or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

~~~*~~~

For the Duffys and Dar

~~~*~~~

Story List

Author Note

Angelica

The Girl with the Glistening Plaits

Dance Class

Us

The End

Like Beads of Time

Great Doings at the Ministry

Pale Glitter

Faith

And the Line Went Dead

Our Father

Bonus: Their Mistake

She Sneak Peek

Connect with the Author

~~~*~~~

AUTHOR NOTE

I WROTE THESE short stories from 1988 to 1997. I seem to have had a dry period in the early 1990s before starting up again in the late 1990s. But ever since my brain injury in 2000, I have been unable to write short fiction. Actually, writing any fiction at all eluded me until 2009 when I wrote my first novel. Funnily enough, before Y2K, although I easily planned and started writing Lifeliner, a non-fiction book, I had trouble writing book-length fiction while shorts used to pop into my mind almost fully formed. I’d see something — a thing, a scene, an event — and a story would form about something different.

I always wrote longhand prior to my brain injury. I’d often write two or three drafts on sheets of paper with whatever pen came to hand before I’d type a story into my computer. I kept every computer draft, but the handwritten ones are long since lost. I noted with each story when I first typed it into the computer and the last recorded date of editing. Some stories I whipped off and left alone; others I kept tweaking for years. Pale Glitter I wrote during a short story writing workshop at the 1997 Canadian Authors Association conference. We were tasked to write a story, and I wrote it all in one go. Like Beads of Time garnered an Honourable Mention in the 1988 Hart House Short Story Contest and was published in 1997 in the anthology WORDSCAPE 3. I hope you enjoy this ebook homage to my old writing self.

~~~*~~~

ANGELICA

Put in computer: October 1990

Final edit: January 1997

I HAD TROUBLE washing the pile of dishes that I had been avoiding for the past two days, for my eyes kept being pulled through the open window to the activity outside as I tried to distinguish the bird calls: the raucous caw of the crow, the demanding call of the blue jay, the twittering of the sparrow, and the high-pitched singing of — Angelica? Home so soon? I looked up at my clock. Good Heavens, it’s four o’clock, and I still have the whole sink of pots to wash up before I can put supper on. I washed the pots quickly while I half-listened to Angelica’s childish whisperings. As the filmy water drained out, I took some leftover potato soup out of the fridge and put it in the microwave to heat up. Then I went outside to my herb patch to pick my first sprigs of chervil.

The chervil grows next to the fence, quite close to Angelica’s swing set. I often use the pretence of gathering chervil or other herbs to talk to my young next-door neighbour. But when I went out, Angelica was on her swing, deep in her own world, so I didn’t disturb her. Instead I slowly picked chervil sprigs while I watched her covertly.

When I first saw Angelica playing by herself in her backyard, I tried to make some neighbourly comments; but she told me sternly that she did not consort with strangers. Yet as I became a familiar presence, she shyly became a friend of mine, partly I think because she was curious about all my strange-looking plants. At first, she just watched me furtively from afar. But soon she was standing beside the fence, peering at me through the slats. One day, she asked me what I was doing. As I was explaining to her, I suddenly found her standing next to me. Somehow, she had managed to climb the fence. When I finished my explanation, we introduced ourselves formally to each other. After that, she visited me regularly since Sue (Angelica’s babysitter) preferred to spend much of her time gabbing on the phone and since — of course — her parents were busy professionals. Although Angelica would brazenly climb over the fence when I was out in the garden, once over she would stand with her hands behind her back, say hello politely, and ask me equally politely what I was doing. Then she would help me gather some basil or plant tulip bulbs or pluck juicy tomatoes from their vines, always questioning me and studiously listening to my answers. And occasionally we would share life stories or, rather, anecdotes of my childhood and sobering revelations of her short six years. When we finished, she would thank me, say good-bye, and leave. Recently, though, I had noticed that she tended to stay in her own world much of the time. So I watched her, hoping that one day she would confide in me.

Abruptly, she stopped singing. She turned her dark eyes on me pensively; her hands gripped the chains. Then she smiled. I could feel my face creaking in response as, after one darting look at the house, she ran over to the fence and climbed over.

What are you doing, Mrs. Shaw?

I’m picking chervil for my potato soup.

Mom doesn’t have time to grow chervil, and she says potatoes are bad for you: too much ca-ca …

Carbohydrates.

Yeah. She crouched down to scrutinize the lacy leaves of the chervil. Mom and Dad are going away. They said they need a holiday where they can get peace and quiet. She peeked up at me, Am I noisy, Mrs. Shaw?

No, of course not, Angelica. You’ve never been too noisy for me, and I’m old. Old people are not supposed to tolerate little children and their noise.

Oh. I gotta go. Bye. And she was back over the fence and racing for the house.

I had a practically bare plant and a full plate of chervil sprigs by this time, much too many for my modest pot of soup. But I carried them in and dumped the lot into the soup. I fixed the rest of my supper and sat down to a quiet meal. Afterwards, I gathered up my knitting and settled down in front of the T.V. But the inane programs eventually bored me, so I went to bed, hoping for sleep. Instead, I found myself thinking of my happy childhood in India. I, being an only child, was the centre of my parents’ attention, and their warm, comforting love enclosed me, protecting me from the bad world out there.

The sun burned, blinding those who dared to look up. Inside, the fans whirred, trying to cool the apartment down; but they succeeded only in stirring up the hot sticky air. I couldn’t wait to get outside.

Be still, Korshed. How can I possibly comb your hair when you’re jumping around like a rabbit.

But Mummy, I want to go outside.

Not until your hair is combed and remember what Mummy told you?

Yes, I’m not to let go of your hand or go near strange men without your permission. Are you finished yet?

Yes.

I squiggled off my chair and ran to the door, but Daddy grabbed my arm. I made a face at him, but he only grinned back, and he didn’t let go.

Don’t you have her harness?

No, I seem to have misplaced it. We’ll just have to keep a sharp eye on her; for some reason she’s full of beans today.

Can we go, Mummy!

My parents finally responded, and we finally got to leave the stuffy apartment. Each of my hands in theirs, I pulled them along the corridor, down the concrete steps, and into the blazing sun. Crowds of people covered the front lawn of the apartment building, chatting and laughing carelessly; nobody wanted to miss the fair.

I found myself in a cold sweat. I had not thought of that experience in ages. It was one I would sooner forget. But why would I remember it now, after all these years? I lay on my back, my hands convulsively holding the covers up to my chin, trying to think pleasant thoughts. Slowly, my limbs relaxed as the sun rose and gently lit my room. I decided to get up and work in my garden. I was out there for most of the day, and so I heard, from behind the forsythia bush, Sue and Angelica come outside.

Why can’t Mom and Dad come out to play with me?

You know why, Angelica. I have already told you several times.

I know, I know. Because they are packing for their holiday. But why don’t they want to play with me? They never play with me.

Now, that’s not true, Angelica. They took you to the zoo last Sunday, and two weeks before that they took you to the museum.

But they never play with me. When will they get back?

I’ve already told you.

But I forget.

Your parents are going to Japan for four weeks, which means they’ll be back in mid-May. And you get to stay at your grandparents’ place. You’ll enjoy that. You’re always begging to see them.

Yeah, I guess so. How come I can’t go with them?

Because you’d be bored. Now do you want me to push you on the swing?

I want Mom to push me. Why won’t she come out and play?

Angelica, I’ve already gone over this a hundred times with you. No wonder your parents don’t want to play with you when you keep nagging them with questions! Now do you want me to push you on the swing or not?

Okay.

I heard the swing sag with Angelica’s weight and then the creak of the chains as Sue pushed Angelica higher and higher.

I went in.

That night, despite myself, my wakeful nightmare continued.

I hung onto my parents’ hands as I devoured the scene before my eyes. Half-naked acrobats shinnied up and down bamboo poles; others, with colourful handkerchiefs in their hands, leaped and somersaulted in the air; still others walked on stilts above the crowds, singing out for alms. And fakirs were everywhere. My parents and I weaved through the hordes, narrowly avoiding being stepped on by those on stilts. The crowd seemed to get closer and closer, and the voices grew distorted. Soon all I could see was a forest of strange legs: trousered legs, bare legs, wooden