One Bedroom Ark

By Allan Hudson

Jeb Coyne, proprietor of Coyne's Confectionary, will have been widowed for two years tomorrow. Tending to his daily business takes his mind off the looming anniversary for a moment, as do his customers, whether cheerful or grumpy. But he's never felt so alone.
With the workday finished, Jeb is a few minutes from locking the doors. He goes out to bring in the sign board his father made and is interrupted by a tiny voice asking if he is closing.
Olivia Fletcher stands before him, a teenager with wet strands of hair across her cheek, a baby in her arms.
This chance meeting will change both of their lives forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: South Branch Scribbler
• Release date: Apr 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9781988291338

Allan Hudson

Allan Hudson was born in Saint John, New Brunswick now living in Dieppe, NB. Growing up in South Branch he was encouraged to read from an early age by his mother who was a school teacher.His short story, The Ship Breakers, received Honourable Mention in the New Brunswick Writer’s Federation short story competition. Recently, his short story, The Abyss, recieved the same award. Other short stories have been published on commuterlit.com, The Golden Ratio and his blog, South Branch Scribbler.

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Table of Contents

Title

Jeb Coyne

Olivia Fletcher

Jeb Coyne & Olivia Fletcher

Jeb II

Olivia II

Jeb III

Olivia III

Jeb IV

Olivia IV

Jeb V

Olivia V

Jeb VI

Olivia VI

Jeb VII

Olivia VII

Jeb VIII

Jeb & Olivia...

Jeb IX

Olivia VIII

Jeb X

Olivia IX

Jeb XI

Tuesday

Jeb XII

Olivia X

One Ye...

Thursday

Jeb XIII

Olivia XI

Jeb XIV

Olivia XII

Jeb XV

Four Days Later

Olivia XIII

Jeb XVI

Olivia XIV

Over The Next Few Weeks

The Fu...

At The...

About the Author

One Bedroom Ark

Allan Hudson

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Copyright © 2024 by Allan Hudson and South Branch Publishing. All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, digitally reproduced or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding, cover or digital format other than that it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations for review purposes. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

South Branch Scribbler 410-3400 Principale Ouest Dieppe, NB Canada E1A 9E7

[e-mail]

www.southbranchscribbler.ca

eBook ISBN – 978-1-988291-33-8

No AI has been used to create this book.

As always - To Gloria.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you, always to Gloria, for allowing me the space and time to pursue my hobby.

Thank you to my dearest friends, Gracia & Allen Williston for always being there.

Thank you to Sandra Bunting for editing, to Donna Dean Photography for the great cover and to Jeremy McLean for formatting. Thank you to Beta readers, Gail Brown, Darlene Daigle and Bernie Blanchard.

Thank you to the following individuals for their ongoing support: Author MJ LaBeff. Don Daigle. Jacinthe Blanchard. Linda Vautour. Carol & Christine Beers.

June Hebert. Stephen Shortall. Theresa LeBlanc. Susan Jardine.

Cynthia Murray. Linda Vautour.

Lyndsay Gauthier of Chapters Dieppe.

Linda Hall & Mary Hachey

Jeb Coyne

Autumn. 1982.

"Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep……….

Jeb Coyne groans as he pulls himself out of bed. He props himself on the edge, reaches over and snaps the shut-off button on the alarm clock.

I don't like you.

No one answers. He lives alone. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes with knotted knuckles, he focuses on the carpeted floor. He runs his hands through his dishevelled hair and shakes his head to clear the haze. Never one to open his eyes and be up and running, he needs a short timeout between movements. He places his hands on his knees and stares at the fabric of his red and grey plaid pajama bottoms. It is getting thin and the elastic waist band is stretched. He should've thrown them out months ago. But he can't. It was the last birthday present Avery gave him.

The thought of her makes him look over to the night table. Two side-by-side five-by-seven photos are contained in a hinged frame which rests open in a wide V so that the portraits of both women are looking directly at him. The one on the left is Avery at thirty-one with a sideways glance, her head blotting out the sun. Rays of grey on the black and white photo highlight her lovely profile. She's laughing and the photographer expertly captured the glee in her eyes. The same Avery on the right, but now at sixty-two, is also laughing, but this time directly into the camera. Her tight curls are grey in the color photo. Lifelines along her temples and upper lip add wisdom to her beautiful smile that displays the same joyful outlook on life. His heart quickens no matter whichever one he looks at.

I miss you, honey. Every day. I can't believe it'll be two years tomorrow.

The empty room is his only audience. No more crying. He's empty. He turns his gaze away and catches the first tint of a sunny day glowing through the bedroom window. He takes it as a good sign.

I know, I know, you'd tell me to get my lazy ass out of bed. I'm going.

With that he presses down on his knees to give himself some momentum and stretches out of bed with another groan when he straightens his legs.

Ooh! Damn hips. Although, it's not as bad as yesterday.

He wiggles his butt in a lazy rendition of the first of several exercises the chiropractor told him to do to alleviate the pain in his hips. He lifts each leg a few times. None of that knee-to-the-chest stuff for Jeb. Following that he pretends to touch his toes; only he misses them by at least ten or twelve inches each bend. He stretches, standing erect, hands on hips, until something cricks in his back and zaps his spine with low voltage.

Ooh! Ooh! That feels better. I now need to pee.

He hustles off to bathroom right outside his bedroom door. It's a good size with a walk-in shower and wide vanity, the toilet to the left of the sink area. As he relieves himself, he can see his image in the mirror. The hair pushed up in the middle from both sides gives him a mohawk look, like the O'Connor kid. He talks to himself as he washes, shaves and wets his longish thick hair. His steel blue eyes stare back at him in the reflection.

Wouldn't that be a gas if I did my hair up like Johnny? Yeah, the kids would like that, but they don't spend a lot of money. Annabelle Sawyer wouldn't like it, but she doesn't like anything.

Annabelle's a sour old girl. Although she doesn't buy much, she buys often. So he treats her to his usual sarcastic wit. He compliments her natural beauty while really thinking her homelier than cow flop.

He nods his head back and forth admiring his thick hair, rare at his age. He adds pomade, sweeps it back and tucks it behind each ear. Satisfied, he returns to his bedroom to get dressed. He can hear a pot beeping. The aroma of fresh coffee wafts into the bedroom from the kitchen, teasing him.

Normally he wears a tee shirt under an open shirt, leaving them both hanging out over his favourite jeans. It is time for a change today. In departure from his usual attire, he decides to button his shirt. Whoa. Big deal. He really likes this one, a blue plaid with black and white lines, over a black tee. He picked it up almost new at the Salvation Army Thrift store. His jeans are fading to a mellow blue, but not yet the bye-bye blue of their last days. He pulls on sturdy work boots up to his ankles. He swears by a firm boot for someone who stands most of the day, and especially on hardwood floors as they have in the store downstairs.

He's doing a longer shift today, eight to ten with a couple of breaks. One part timer, Liz, is down with a cold. His other worker, Bonita, is attending university and has a test today but she can step in from noon until two, and then five-thirty to seven. She is leaving at the end of the month, only ten days away. He needs to start asking around and look for a replacement. He doesn't like putting ads in the paper. Draws too many weirdos. He needs someone he can trust. He'll ask Digger when he comes in for his usual smokes and coffee.

During breakfast of the usual Corn Flakes with banana slices and more coffee, he rereads the letter he got from his daughter who lives in Australia. There is a photo enclosed of his grandson in his army uniform. He smiles at the resemblance. He just can't get over how much he looks like his mother. He turned out to be a good kid.

He's off to the store at seven. A wide cement threshold, pockmarked and etched by the passing of many years and many feet, divides the front of Coyne's Confectionery and the city sidewalk. Unlocking the door to the store, he's welcomed by the tingling of the bell, a warning system his father installed when he first opened. The sandwich board which holds his daily message is where he put it when he closed. He sets it down near the sidewalk where it slouches from a weak hinge to the right of the double glass doors.

While putting the display out, Jeb breathes in the cool, clean air before straightening the sign. He is warmed by the same memory the board provokes each time he touches it. His father built the sign fifty-seven years ago. The first day Jeb worked in his father's store, his first chore was to put the sign out front. He even remembers the message printed in blue chalk in his dad's neat hand, Welcome my son Jeb to the family business. Bananas 6 cents/lb. Today it says Bananas 3lbs for $0.99. Same deal as yesterday. If there are any left, they'll be 10 cents a pound tomorrow.

When you enter, you must go to the right and climb six stairs to the store area. A large bulletin board filled with business cards, notices, posters and want ads dominates an eight-foot-wide wall to the left. A half wall in front has a railing of black twisted metal bars and is open to the store. The cash is across from the top of the stairs. Jeb sets his thermos of coffee on the counter and goes behind it. Sliding a panel open, he dials the combination on a stout safe and removes the cash tray with three hundred dollars in it. He then checks to see if the receipts and cash from yesterday are still in there. It's a habit. So is talking to himself.

I'll need to make a deposit tomorrow if Liz is feeling better and can do her shift.

He shuts the safe, slides the cash tray in the drawer under the register and clicks it shut. He's whistling Michael, row your boat ashore as he picks up the circular waste basket to empty it out back in the stockroom. There's a larger bin in the back for debris which he notices is almost full.

Too much throwaway stuff. I emptied that thing first of the week, and it's only Thursday today. Oh well. I'll do it later.

A knock on the back door gets his attention. He knows exactly who it is. The morning knock is always Shave and a Haircut, Shampoo Donnie from McCain's Dairy, a farm boy. Lots of Irish in him. Freckled cheeks and roseate skin that makes him look like he's always blushing. Likes his beer. Seven-thirty, right on the button. Unlocking the delivery door, he swings it open. Jeb likes this guy, greets him with a big smile.

Good morning, Donnie boy.

Same to you, Jeb. Gonna be warm today. Going up to seventy-eight. Doesn't feel like it now though. Typical of late September. Cool nights and warm days. I likes it.

The usual weather report. It is still nippy. Jeb rubs his hands together as he pokes his head out the door. On the back stoop beside Donnie are four blue plastic crates filled with milk products.

Yeah, the air is cool. Whatcha got for me? Did you remember the cottage cheese?

For sure. And the sour cream but I could only get four, Not the six you ordered. We'll have more in a couple of days.

Four will do.

Jeb helps him bring in the containers right up to the fridge units which are at the back and right side. Donnie sets about rotating the stock and filling the coolers. Jeb leaves him to it.

Just pull the door shut when you go, Donnie. I gotta sweep the entry and the store front, then open up.

Donnie waves at Jeb and pulls an envelope from his uniform jacket pocket.

Here's this week's invoice.

Good. I'll have a cheque waiting for you in the morning.

Excellent. Have a good day, Jeb.

With ten minutes to opening time, he does a final swipe of the counter and then turns to wipe down the small work area, behind. It's more of a cramped office nook with a few drawers for his papers, pens and pencils, invoices, stationery and store stuff. At eye level there is a medium-sized cork bulletin board. He checks off the number 22 on a small calendar on the bottom left-hand corner. In the center is a picture of Avery on her sixty-fifth birthday when they went to San Francisco. It's a close up of her standing under the Do Not Enter sign at the bottom of Lombard Street. A splash of flowers is behind her, framing her in pinks, reds and white. He remembers it so well; he can still smell the hydrangeas.

A flush of melancholy overtakes him, and he aches for her embrace one more time, the hug they shared every morning. He feels like giving up sometimes. A rapping on the glass doors brings him back to the present and reminds him that he can't give up yet. A quick glance at his watch and he sees it's two-minutes after eight. His usual early morning customer will be out of smokes and in a hurry.

Hang on, man. I'm comin',

He unlocks the front door and steps back to let in a tall skinny guy who can't stand still for a minute, hands, knees or feet always moving. Digger sweeps in, ignoring Jeb.

When you gonna get a real coffee perk-o-later in here, and not that swill from the machine.

You like that swill. You complain every day. I should charge you double for having to put up with you.

Digger bends down to feed two quarters into the slot of the chrome and black contraption. He slides an extra large paper cup in the receptacle and pushes the biggest cup button. He steps back to listen to the machine grinding his beans followed by the gurgling of hot water. He sniffs at the scent of the beans and approves it with a slight nod.

Hah! You should pay me to take this slop off your hands. Now gimme my cigs.

You're grumpy today. Real fun to serve.

They meet at the counter. Jeb digs a package of Export A from the selection on the wall behind him. A twenty-five pack. Digger has his head bent as he goes though his wallet. Jeb slides the smokes over to him while looking at the peak of the hat. A green and yellow John Deere logo looks back at him.

That's two-forty.

"Where's your lighters?

He points to the ledge under the windows.

There on the spinner by the CDs.

I'll get one of those too then. Damn. You ain't got any black ones left. I don't like that sissy blue or puke green.

Take the pink one. That would suit you better.

Jeb can't hold it in and the two of them start laughing. They both love the game. It doesn't matter if there are other customers, although the insults may not be as personal then… maybe.

Take the blue one. Blue is for boys. That's two-ninety-nine. And listen, you know anyone looking for part time work? Someone who won't steal behind my back.

Digger looks up showing a slim face, a pointed chin and a toothful smile.

Let me think about that. Debby Lutes is an honest young lady. Her little fella is starting school next week. I suspect she might be interested.

Hands Jeb a two and a one-dollar bill.

Keep the change old man.

With a wink and doff of his hat, he's off before Jeb can reply. He chucks the penny in the SPCA donation jar kept on the counter. Another customer comes in and he recognizes the top of the hat. It's a wide brimmed thing with black and white circles around the brim, two of each. The center is a black pillbox. It looks like a target to shoot at. Watching it bob back and forth as it climbs the stairs makes him dizzy, and he looks away. Evgenia Baranova. She won't say how old she is, but he guesses over eighty. She continues to walk everywhere. Sometimes takes the bus. It has a stop on the next street over. She was in a cranky mood the last time she was here a couple days ago. Best prepare for the worst he thinks and keeps his chin up. Uses his best line.

Good morning, Baroness.

The prune like face which peers up at him has the usual paint job by whatever cosmetic artillery she uses. Her sunken cheeks are rosier by an undefined red substance which makes Jeb think of paintings by knife artists. Ooh! A crack in the finish. She likes it when he calls her baroness. She claims she is of noble birth, Russian aristocracy and such, although he's not sure if it's true or not. She appears a bit dotty at times but he humours her. She's one of the few who addresses him with his full name.

Yes, yes, it is a good morning, Jebidiah. My back is much better today. Thank you for asking. Now, is the paper in yet? Did you save me a copy?

He bends down to pick one from the top of the heap he's yet to put out. Pretending it's exclusive he whispers as if there's been a run on the newspapers for the last ten minutes he's been open.

Yes, Baroness. Just for you. Shall I put it in a bag?

As she speaks to him, her eyes wander to the cork board behind Jeb and the colorful pictures and notes.

No, no. I'll carry it. Going to visit my good friend, Davida, at Kingston's Nursing Home and we'll read it together. The bus stops right in front. I…

She pushes her eyeglasses back up and focuses on Avery's photo. She never fails to notices and admire it but she doesn't ever comment. She remembers that it's the anniversary of her passing tomorrow. She speaks before she thinks.

…I still miss Avery. She was always so kind to me and…

Jeb turns away. He doesn't want her to see him. He's scared to blink. He feels such a fool. He pulls a Kleenex from a box on the shelf under the cash and dabs his eyes, then blows his nose.

Excuse me. Must be getting a cold.

"I'm