South of Elfrida
Authors: Holley Rubinsky
Tags: #General Fiction, #FICTION / Contemporary Women, #FICTION / Short Stories (single author), #FICTION / General, #FICTION / Literary
The nature of relationships is skilfully illuminated in this collection of stories by award-winning author Holley Rubinsky.
South of Elfrida
delves into the lives of those coming face to face with personal truths that require resilience, humour, and the ability to change.
With a clear eye for the complexities of the human heart, Rubinsky's stories take the reader to deeper understandings about the nature of love, loss, and longing. Spare and rich with wit, these stories celebrate the act of self-renewal.
“In these tender and surprising stories, Rubinsky is the voice of a true original. Quirky, moving, and laugh-out-loud funny.”
âCaroline Adderson, author of
The Sky Is Falling
and
Pleased to Meet You
Praise for Holley Rubinsky's Writing
“Beautiful, spellbinding evocations.”
â
Quill & Quire
“Affecting, fascinating . . . Rubinsky reveals the strangeness of humans and the heart-rending drama of ordinary survival.”
â
The Vancouver Sun
“Books this good are rare.”
â
Edmonton Journal
“Impressive.”
â
Maclean's
Yuri
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The ragged fronds from palms along the strand twist in the breeze as Leonard walks his nine-year-old niece down the beach to the fenced turtle enclosure, his toes and hers sticky with sand. The turtle enclosure is made of finely meshed wire so the turtles can't escape when they hatch. The gate is kept locked and wire is attached to the top to prevent the theft of eggs, a local delicacy. In the sand, beside the mounds, there are ice cream sticks with labels, noting dates, the type of turtle, relative age, and size.
“How do you suppose the eggs get inside the fence?” The child is slight for her age, so the reflective phrasing of her question seems incongruous coming from her lips.
“After the mother turtles lay them, it is the turtle man who collects the eggs from the beach to keep them safe.”
“Safe from what?”
“Predators,” Leonard says. Her eyes are a remarkable green. She has long, dark lashes and light brown, curly hair. The bruises on her cheeks and upper arms are fading. “There are many kinds of predatorsâbirds as well as peopleâwho hurt the young.” She throws him an irritated look before turning away. “The Olive Ridley nests in an arribada,” he resumes, using the Spanish word for a group of nests. “The arribadas are a mystery. The egg-bearing females seem to know where to come. It's as though they get a message and then pile up together on this beach where they were born.”
“How do they know where to find the beach?”
“Finding. Ah. The greatest mystery. Perhaps the whiff of a familiar wind from offshore tells them.”
She runs her palm along the wire enclosure and cocks her chin. “I knew it was you in my room.”
She's lying. At the back of her eyes he sees a pool of confusion. He visited his sister when the child was two years old, too young to remember him. Because of the nature of his work, he was able to keep tabs on her. The word
uncle
means nothing to her. She has had too many uncles.
The moment of alarm in her room was followed quickly by willingness. He despairs of the willingness of little girls. You don't have to be in law enforcement to understand the vulnerability of girls.
He'd left the village with Bianca in the Skylark, an old car in better shape under the hood than it looked from the outside; Leonard had seen to that. The Skylark belonged to the village taxi driver. Bianca, who had children of her own, knew that a little girl could need rescuing. She made arrangements with a nurse at the health clinic to take care of her children for two or three days, depending. Leonard didn't tell Bianca his niece's name because he didn't want her to be implicated, should there be questions in the future. He paid the tolls along the road north, waited patiently in lines while inspectors inspected. They slept in the car on the long ferry ride.
He dropped Bianca off at the Walmart in Nogales, Arizona, and continued on to his sister's shoddy house in south Tucson, notorious at that time for gangs and drugs. He entered the child's bedroom through the windowâhe had some experience along those linesâand waited for her. The look on her face when she came into the room for her Barbie doll's silver shoes was one of haughty surprise, an expression charming on a little girl.
As they drove back to Nogales, she asked if he had a gold tooth because robbers always had a gold tooth in the stories she wrote for school. She was smug with excitement. He told her he wasn't a robber.
At the prearranged time, he met Bianca outside the Walmart, surrounded by bags and bags of nonperishable groceries, clothing and toys for her children. They loaded her purchases in the trunk and went into the store together, with the child (named Chastity by her mother; a name he would never call her), to let her choose a brand-new Barbie. Bianca picked a fairy doll and pretended to listen to it. “This dolly tells me she like you very much. She like to go on a trip with you.” The child shook her head and chose instead a Barbie Stardoll, a fallen angel, a rebelâstrutting in patterned black nylons, wide red streaks in her raven-black hair, wearing a very short, red sateen dress. Bianca put the fairy doll back on the shelf. “Que escandalo!” she sighed. The child peered quizzically at Leonard. “She says you are outrageous, scandalous.” His comment made her laugh with wicked delight. Bianca led her into the restroomâby then they were gigglingâand changed her into a ruffly pink nylon dress with white lace on the collar. As Leonard had instructed, Bianca stuffed the shorts and T-shirt the child had been wearing into her large handbag. In the car they ate candy corn while Leonard applied light brown makeup to the backs of the child's hands and on her face, his fingers patting gently over the bruise still fresh on her cheek from that scumbag. He combed her brown hair with oil.
The camper where he lives year-round is set under a palm, near enough to the village, yet close enough to hear the ocean all night. The odour of the sea is that of slightly sweet greenness, humid wetness, the flavour of oyster on the tip of the tongue. On their way back she walks ahead. Her small footprints darken the sand.
“Who takes care of them?” She turns and looks back at the egg mounds.
“The turtle man.”
She has gradually adapted to limitationsâone doll, sketchy
TV
reception, milk that comes from a can.
“I don't know who you are,” she occasionally murmurs.
“I am your real uncle.” The old news causes her to shrug. Off and on they have this talk, at the morning market, when they visit Bianca and the children, or at the panaderia, where he allows her to buy sweet, sticky buns.
In the mornings he slides open the six windows, including the two in her sleeping area over the cab of the truck. Her breath is fresh and delicate; her lips rosy. He hesitates. She is so beautiful, so fine. And a new feeling stirs in him: he loves her.
They take their chairs to the sand and put their feet on concrete extrusions from an abandoned building project. She sets her chair far enough from him to indicate she doesn't trust being touched yet; she flinches involuntarily if his hand grazes hers as he passes her a corn tortilla he takes from the iron skillet. Her involuntary movement tells him more than she can. Sometimes when they sit out, watching the ocean, they turn the transistor radio on and listen. One day Leonard introduces the idea of a new name for her. “Chastity is a stupid name,” she says. “I don't want a name.”