Unholy Stories

By Carole David and Nora Alleyn

Characters tightly clutch their existential problems to their chests and teeter through the unstable, modern world in this collection of short stories. The 12 seemingly disparate stories—such as a young girl suffering from anorexia, the life of a heroin addict, and a farmer obsessed with his female neighbor—are intimately linked through the unique language and societal outlook.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Guernica Editions Inc
• Release date: Jan 1, 2005
• ISBN: 9781550717709

Carole David

Poet, novelist, and short story writer, Carole David was born in Montreal, and holds a doctorate in French studies. She taught for many years at the college level. Her Manuel de poétique à l'intention des jeunes filles (2010), won the Alain Grandbois Prize, and was a finalist for the Governor General's Literary Award. Her most recent collection, L'année de ma disparition (2015), (The Year of my Disappearance), won the Prix des libraires, the Prix Québecor of the Trois Rivières International Poetry Festival, and was a finalist for the Grand prix de la ville de Montréal. She lives in Montreal, where she devotes herself to writing. Her books have been translated into English and Italian.

Book preview

CAROLE DAVID

UNHOLY STORIES

 PROSE SERIES 72

TRANSLATED BY NORA ALLEYN

GUERNICA

Toronto – Buffalo – Lancaster (U.K.)

2005  

Contents

Monster

M

If Only

Maiden Name

Island

A Mother Up in Arms

Corridor to Eternity

An Unholy Story

Monsieur George

Female

Grotto

Corinne Gilbert’s Daughter

I do not care for the body, I love the timid

soul; it hides for it is afraid.

Emily Dickinson,

Letters

Monster

People are hurrying into the Dollar Store before closing time. The snow is falling thickly. Large wet butterflies stick to my eyes almost blinding me. With just twenty dollars in my wallet, I wander through the aisles looking for something special. My biggest thrill is buying an item, then asking people how much they think I paid for it and where I got it.

You must have bought it on Laurier Street or Bernard Street, my mother would exclaim. You’ve gone and blown your whole pay on St. Denis Boulevard, my daughter would say.

It never fails. People are always misled by the appearance of things. Today, it’s quite a challenge because I have only fifteen minutes left to find a present that looks original. The store used to be called Rossy’s. It was my favourite place to buy baby pyjamas and undershirts which I would stack on the changing table. In my dreams, they became designer baptismal gowns for unborn children, or for the ugly and abandoned ones.

A Haitian woman and her daughter are busy examining a man’s dressing-gown. A Latino woman has generic potato chips in her basket and an impressive quantity of marshmallow hearts that were fresher two weeks ago. The counters spill over with foodstuffs at ridiculously low prices. Employees unpack boxes of artificial flowers that make you think of an early spring: April in Paris, Spring is in the Air …

A salesperson scolds customers who are intent on rearranging her flowers as soon as she places them on the shelves. To the manager’s stunned amazement, two children with snow-encrusted boots are cheerfully stomping on their own flower arrangements.

I have to act quickly. The head cashier has already locked the door. She is stalking down the aisles in pursuit of latecomers, numbing them with a glacial eye. I choose a new-style flashlight like the one advertised on television and sold here for next to nothing. And that includes even the batteries. At last I’ll be able to dress in the cupboard without too much trouble. Today is Valentine’s Day. It had totally slipped my mind. As I go by the counter for men’s underwear, I spot Calvin Klein boxer shorts on sale. I drop a pair into my basket and head for the cash register. The manager is checking out clients’ bags at the door. She nods her head by way of saying Good-bye, thank you.

*

My boyfriend and I have a date. But the lovers’ official holiday is not the best time for a tête-à-tête. The restaurant is packed. The waitresses, all dolled up in red, tender a rose to all the women. I choose a seat by the wall where I can watch the people inside the restaurant and on the street. I wait, sipping a red cocktail that tastes of mint. There are women alone and there are couples. Suddenly, I spot them. Unlike everyone else, their eyes are not glued to their Caesar salad. The young man, with a rose in his lapel, looks like a newlywed. I can see half of the girl’s face reflected in the French door, the other half is in the shade. I sip my cocktail that tastes green, I doodle on the tablecloth. The waitress offers me a second drink that I automatically accept. I turn the place mat into an agenda and jot down my chores for the coming week.

The attentive young man cuts up his beloved’s tagliatelle and prepares mouthfuls as if he were feeding a child. I sigh and say to myself that love, real love, will never be mine. The beloved’s fork