My One Published Short Story

https://books2read.com/The-Twelve-Dates-of-Christmas

https://www.amazon.ca/Twelve-Dates-Christmas-Joan-Donaldson-Yarmey/dp/1772992518

https://books2read.com/Single-Bells

https://www.amazon.ca/Single-Bells-Joan-Donaldson-Yarmey/dp/0228628385

I am a writer who lives in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. I write fiction, non-fiction, short stories, and some poetry all set in Canada. My published fiction covers mystery, holiday romance, and Canadian historical novels for adults and young adults. My published non-fiction covers travel writing and a memoir. In my memoir, The Art of Growing Older, I talk about aging with attitude and how is it possible to live a good long life.

I don't send out my short stories to many magazines so have only had one published. The following is that story.

I was vacuuming the living room the day that my husband Byron hung up the phone and announced that his literary agent, Ron Higgins, had found a publisher for his novel.

“I've been telling you it was a great idea, Celia,” he said to me. “I just had to find an agent who thought the same way and he had to find the right publisher. They must think it will sell because they offered me a contract and an advance based on just my query and synopsis.”

 I was so happy that it finally happened. I thought that now he could relax and enjoy the writing instead of getting so worked up about all those rejection letters. I hated when he yelled and tore the letters into pieces and threw them around the room.

When the contract came in the mail Byron read it out to me. According to the contract he had to send the chapters as he finished each of them to his agent who would edit them. When half the manuscript was finished, Mr. Higgins would send it to the publisher to read. Byron signed the papers and I brought out the bottle of wine I had bought for the occasion. We had a drink to the millions of copies Byron was convinced the book was going to sell. I didn't expect it to be that many but I secretly hoped that we could buy our own home or take a vacation with his royalties. He told me to phone our friends to come for a party the following evening to help him celebrate.

I made the phone calls and then worked hard the next day making Byron's favourite appetizers, cleaning the house, and getting ready for the party.

Our friends came and they all seemed to be having a good time congratulating Byron. Everyone had a drink and I was circulating with a tray of food when Byron began talking loudly.

“Yes, I did send my idea out to a few other agents and some publishers before I acquired my agent. He’s the one who found a publisher. And those agents and publishers who turned me down are sure going to feel like idiots when it’s a best seller. I’ll have the last laugh then.”

“Is it a big publisher from Toronto or New York?” Someone asked.

“No, it’s a small publisher in Vancouver. Of course I got an advance. All good writers get advances.”

“Was it enough to buy a home in Mexico?”

“No, the advance wasn’t as big as Stephen King’s. But this is just my first book. You can be sure that with the success of this one larger publishing houses will be bidding to publish my next one.”

I couldn't take any more of it. I pulled him aside and whispered that he was starting to sound like a pompous ass. He was aghast that I would say such a thing.

“I am not. I’m just telling the truth. Besides, they are all interested. This is as close as they will ever get to a famous published author.”

“You’re not famous yet,” I told him.

“It’s just a matter of time.” He turned to the crowd. “I’d like to propose a toast to my new book. When you read it you will be impressed with my creativity.”

 Everyone in the crowd raised their glasses and dutifully toasted him. He then said that he would sign their napkins because when he was as popular as Stephen King they could tell their friends they knew him when he was a struggling writer, that he had been their neighbour.

I worked part time in a drug store and had a small home business making children's costumes. I used our spare bedroom as my sewing room. One day as I had just finished sewing the first of fifteen dresses for a dance group Byron came home early from work. He walked into my sewing room carrying a box. He set it on the bed.

“What are you doing home?” I asked him.

“I went shopping today,” he said and left the room.

I looked at the box and then up at Byron as he came in again carrying another box. He set it beside the first one.

“What’s in those?” I asked as I wrapped the dress in plastic.

“They are part of my new computer,” he answered.

I was shocked. “What?” I asked

“I just bought a computer, a computer desk, printer, paper, chair, and a bunch of supplies I need for my writing.”

I looked after our finances and I knew we couldn't afford all these things. “We don’t have the money,” I said. “How are you going to pay for it?”

Byron answered nonchalantly. “The store was giving a $100 discount if you bring in your old computer so I took in my old laptop. The rest I put on the credit card. The advance from my book will cover some of it.”

“But you only got $150.00 and ten percent of that went to your agent,” I told him

“Don’t worry,” he scoffed. “I’ll get more when I finish my manuscript and my agent gets it to the publisher. And with this new computer that won’t take me very long.”

The house we rented was basementless and only had the two bedrooms.

“Where are you going to put these?” I asked him.

“In here,” Byron said. “So get your stuff out. I need the room.”

I was totally confused. “What?” I asked.

“You heard me. I have a book contract now. I am a bona fide writer and I can’t write on an old laptop at the kitchen table any more. I need a real office to do my writing.”

“But where will I put my sewing machine, my material, my patterns,” I asked. I needed the space for my business.

“In the garage, throw them away, whatever. Just get them out of here.” Byron left the room and I stood in shock. I didn't know what to do.

When Byron returned with another box he dropped an even bigger bombshell. “And I quit my job.”

“What?” That seemed to be my favourite word in this conversation as I was having a hard time absorbing everything.

“I have to finish my manuscript.” Byron was beginning to sound exasperated. “I can’t continue to work and get my writing done, too.”

I was really beginning to worry. “How are we going to live, make our rent payments?” I asked. “I don’t earn enough money with my part time job.”

Byron didn't seem to care. “You’ll have to get a second job or start working full time.”

“But what about my business? I won’t have time for my sewing.”

Byron really sounded disgusted as he waved his hand around the room. “This isn’t a business. It’s hardly a hobby. It’s time you started contributing some real money. Now get rid of this stuff so I can set up my new office.” And with that he took some packets of paper out of one of the boxes and handed the box to me. “This will help you get started. And hurry up. I want to set up my office today.”

Byron left again and I slowly began to gather the patterns and materials on the bed into a pile.

Byron returned and stopped in the doorway, an angry look on his face. “What’s taking so long?” he demanded

I was in tears and could barely answer. “I don’t… What will I…?”

Byron dropped the box on the floor. He grabbed my bolts of material from the bed and threw them in the empty box. “I don’t have time to wait while you have a hissy fit. Get busy. Everything has to go except the bed. I’m keeping it so I have some privacy.”

I looked at him. “Privacy?”

“Yes. If I want to work into the night then I can lie down when I’m tired and not be disturbed when you get up to go to work in the morning.”

My sewing machine and material ended up in a corner of the garage. I took the dress to my customer down the street and told her I was sorry but I couldn't make the others as I had promised. I returned the deposit.

A week later I got a second part time job at a grocery store and when I got home I opened the door of the spare room to let Byron know.

Bryon was working on his novel on his new computer. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interrupt me when I’m working,” was all he said.

“Sorry, I just thought I would let you know that I won’t be home many evenings to make supper.”

Byron waved his hand and went back to work. I closed the door.

 

For the first few months I thought everything was going well. Byron would be at the computer when I got up in the morning and working hard when I came home from work. I was just earning enough money to keep ahead of the bills and I was hoping he would finish his manuscript soon and find another job.

One day, though, I answered the phone and it was Ron Higgins, Byron's agent. He wanted to speak with Bryon. I knocked on the bedroom door and opened it. Byron immediately began yelling. “Would you quit interrupting me? Haven’t I told you not to talk to me when I am working. I lose my train of thought.”

I handed him the phone. “Your agent wants to talk with you.”

Byron glared at me and grabbed the phone. He took a deep breath then said pleasantly. “Hello Ron.”

He listened and I could see his face turning red. “Yes, Ron. I know I am late with some chapters. I will get them to you by the end of the week.”

When Byron hung up he said to me. “From now on, when you have something to say to me, you write it on a piece of paper and slide it under the door. I don’t have time for interruptions.” He threw the phone and me and slammed the door.

That was the first of many phone calls that I answered from Mr. Higgins. Apparently, Byron wasn't sending in chapters on time and he wasn't answering Mr. Higgin's emails about them. Each time I would reassure Mr. Higgins that I had given Byron his last message and then dutifully write down the new message on a piece of paper and shove it under Byron's door.

My sister Sylvia lives in England. Before the contract we'd keep in touch through emails and Facebook but Byron wouldn't let me in his room to use the computer anymore. And I had to cancel my cell phone so I couldn't text her. With just my two part time pay cheques coming in we only had a landline and Internet service for Byron. Long distance phone calls cost extra. Sylvia wasn't any better off than me financially and couldn't afford to call me either. One day she did phone and asked if Byron would let us email each other twice a week. I didn't think he would agree but she insisted on sending him an email to ask.

I was dusting the living room after work one day when Byron stomped down the hall, his housecoat flapping behind. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of beer and body odor as he neared.

“I printed this off for you,” he yelled, throwing a piece of paper at me.

I cringed. He never talked to me in a decent voice anymore.

I hadn’t liked the changes in my husband while he’d struggled to become a published writer and I certainly didn’t like the person he’d become since getting his book contract. There were many times I wished he’d never gotten that contract and, even some, when I wished I’d never married him.

“I want you to come into my office now and email your sister back.”

In his office there were empty beer cans, plates with leftover food, and full ashtrays everywhere. It smelled as bad as he did. On the floor I saw the many notes I’d pushed under the door. I picked some up and asked if he even read them.

“I don't have time,” he said crossly.

Byron gestured to the office chair and told me to sit down. I sat and asked him what he wanted me to say.

“What do you think? Tell her not to send any more emails.”

In my agitation, I accidently hit the Caps Lock key and started to type in capital letters.

“Capital letters means you’re shouting, Dummy,” Byron laughed harshly. Then he sobered.
“That’s not a bad idea. You’re going to type the message in capital letters. That way your sister will definitely get the message not to do it again. I don’t need the hassle of receiving stupid emails.”

“I don’t want to shout at my sister,” I said.

 “If you don’t do it, I will,” Byron threatened.

So I typed Sylvia's message in capital letters then left his office in tears.

I was tired and hungry and decided to make something quick and easy for supper. As I put the lid on the pot with the pasta, Byron entered the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator door. “Is that all the beer?” he asked peering in.

“I guess so.”

“Is it too much to ask that there be beer in the fridge?” He grabbed a can and opened it.

“I bought a dozen yesterday.”

“Are you saying I drink too much?”

Byron had claimed other writers like Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler drank while writing and it made them more productive. From the number of phone calls from his agent about late chapters, I guessed it wasn’t working for him.

“What’s for dinner?” He lifted the lid from the pot.

“Macaroni and beans,” I answered.

“Geez.” He slammed down the lid. “Can’t you fix anything decent?”

“Hey, I worked all day.” I was getting angry at his attitude.

“Are you insinuating I didn’t?”

I sighed and wished, again, that I’d never married him.

 

The next evening I put oil on to heat for French fries then went to have a quick shower. It felt so good I spent more time under the soothing water than I’d intended. When I stepped out of the shower, I could smell smoke. I donned my housecoat and hurried to the kitchen. The oil had caught fire and it had spread to the cupboards and curtains. The living room and hallway were filling with smoke.

I coughed as I warned Byron, then rushed next door to call the fire department. I returned but Byron was not out in the yard. When the trucks arrived, I hurried over.

“My husband’s still in there,” I cried.

The firemen tried entering the house but were driven back by the heat and smoke. An hour later the fire was out and an ambulance had taken Byron’s body away.

“I set the oil on the burner and went for a shower,” I explained to the police officer who was questioning me. “When I came out there was smoke everywhere.”

“Then what did you do?” she asked.

“I ran next door to call the fire department,” I said as I dabbed my eyes.

“Did you warn your husband?”

“Oh, yes. I shouted at him,” I said, thinking of the word FIRE I’d printed three times in capital letters on a piece of paper and shoved under his door.