by Lee Kvern
Marta is a human resources employee at a grocery store chain. She moves through the days passively, always taking the path of least resistance, until a case at work - that of a hijab-wearing woman, in defiance of a strict no-hats policy - awakens her to the injustices of her own life.
“This Is a Love Crime by Lee Kvern is a cunning and intensely human look at one of the central issues of our time. It negotiates the space between belief, racism, liberty, and sexuality with curiosity and compassion.”
— Todd Babiak, bestselling author of Toby: A Man and The Garneau Block
“Lee Kvern paints with a scalpel. With characteristic unflinching honesty, she peels the relationship between Marta and Corbin back to quivering nerves in This Is a Love Crime and juxtaposes it against veiled assumptions about cultural oppression. The narrative leaps crackle with energy and empathy. When I read Kvern’s stories, I’m seduced by exquisite detail and—love or loathe them—left with the scent of her characters long after the last page.”
— Betty Jane Hegerat, author of Delivery and The Boy
“In This Is a Love Crime, Lee Kvern uses the intricately drawn characters of Corbin and Marta to explore the charged topics of ethnicity and Western modes of submission and control. Written in Kvern’s distinctive, poetic, and multi-layered style, the story leaves us with warm insight into all the characters—and challenges our hearts and preconceptions.”
— Barb Howard, author of Whipstock, Notes for Monday, and The Dewpoint Show
HE COVERS THE LENGTH of Marta’s freckled body, from her Wham Bam Glam toenail polish up along her velvet-shaved thighs, lingering, always, too long at her groin, shaved and hairless the way he likes it. In contrast to Corbin’s hairy body that at times Marta finds repulsive. Then up her childless abdomen to her small breasts, her warm neck, her worried, moist armpits, behind her ears to her glossy black hair that hangs loose and thick down to her shoulders like he prefers.
Marta lies perfectly still, not submissive necessarily, though her body is stiff and erect while her husband Corbin performs his animalistic ritual of confirming that she is his, his alone, his only. Luckily she’s had a few drinks, easier to submit than to mutiny and spend their swiftly passing weekends quarrelling with one another, interlocking his and hers horns. She saves the weight of her humility for the other five days of the week.
No scent this Friday night beyond Joey Tomato’s, deep-fried calamari, a couple after-work Crantinis with her colleagues from Save-On-Foods where Marta’s worked her way up to human resources from her many years as human cashier; the reek of Phil perhaps, the Aldergrove store manager’s florid, effeminate cologne—no one that Corbin need be concerned with. The residual odour of nicotine, the cigarettes she isn’t to be smoking but can’t not. Not a trace of sea or strange men as Corbin sniffs her genitals like a dog—though it’s Marta who feels canine.
“Are you smoking again?” he asks, resurfacing.
“No, it’s the girls.”
He looks at her. She looks away.
“Whose godawful perfume?”
“Phil’s,” Marta says, pulling the duvet up over her exposed body, cold now in the late night.
“He could at least smell like a man,” Corbin says, his conversational opener that Marta doesn’t respond to. Yes, Phil’s gay, so what? What business is it of theirs?
“I’ll inform him of that on Monday,” Marta says dryly.
Corbin breathes in the dark, not saying what she knows he’s thinking. Talk to me, for God’s sake, Marta. I don’t see you all week, I miss you like hell, and you can’t come home and talk to me? She knows it like the etched frown on his idealistic face. She doesn’t talk.
“You can be such an asshole,” he says in her silence.
She rolls over. Corbin sighs.
“Going to sleep?” he asks.
“Okay,” she answers.
HE GETS UP EARLY Saturday morning, his Monday to Friday 5:00 a.m. shifts as an urban arborist so deeply rooted beneath his skin that he couldn’t sleep any longer even if he wanted to. He showers, shaves, dresses, then lets out Harold, Marta’s ten-month-old prized Shar-Pei. Harold: the overpriced, exotic dog that some days Corbin would like to throw in the dryer and shrink down its ill-fitting skin and ever-increasing canine largeness to a more manageable size. Harold? he’d questioned when Marta initially brought the dog home. It’s funny, she’d said, cradling the wrinkled pup on its back between her breasts like a newborn. Harold’s blue-black tongue, like a giant bruise, caressing the pale freckled skin on Marta’s neck, beneath her delicate chin.
Corbin helps Harold out the back door with the side of his foot, then turns on the coffee machine. He can hear their orange cat, O.J., in the basement, scratching in her litter box that needs to be cleaned after breakfast. His domestic regime is no different than his professional one as urban arborist—the constant maintenance of it all. The deluge of flowering trees alone—cherry, plum, crab apple, magnolia, dogwood—that line every other street in the area, which require his dogged safeguarding, his careful preservation. He is, he tells Marta, not simply an arborist but a tree guard, not unlike the lifeguards at the beach. The never-ending upkeep is enough to make anyone woozy with the relentless falling branches, the pale pink-frilly blossoms slippery, treacherous even, beneath his feet. Not only is he saving trees, but perhaps, in the process, he’s saving people’s lives. He reads the Province, drinks coffee, moves on to the Sun, eats six slices of cinnamon toast, then goes down to change the litter box. The feline putrid stench of it ... he turns his face aside and dumps the clumped clay litter into a garbage bag.
Out back, he yells at Harold, who, lacking the proper early socialization that Marta neglected, has become distant, remote, if not outright stubborn and strong-willed. Harold is in the unkempt garden that Corbin planted last year for Marta. Her rogue dog pays Corbin no mind, is busy digging for treasure in the fertile soil he imported from a U-pick blueberry farm in Langley, though none of the dried, decaying plants in Marta’s left-for-dead garden seem to have benefitted from it.
Harold bounds over to him with a mouldy potato in his black mouth—the desiccated prize he has unwittingly found. The rank odour is a scourge in the early morning air. The dog flips the rotten potato in the air, then crouches down on his sable haunches as it lands in a pulpy mess on the hardened earth. He barks wildly at it. Corbin doesn’t know why. Perhaps trying to play with it? Make it whole again? Good flipping luck with that. Corbin kicks the potato shrapnel with his purple Crocs, tries to distract Harold from it, but the Shar-Pei doesn’t budge. Corbin leaves him to it, goes back into the house.
After what seems like hours of numbing silence in their stagnant house, he goes to the bedroom door.
“Marta, get up and come talk to me.”
Marta opens her eyes to the murky light and sees Corbin standing at the foot of their bed.
“What time is it?” she asks.
Corbin checks his watch.
“Okay,” she answers, easier to give in than to start the day in a snarl.
about the author
LEE KVERN is the award-winning author of short stories and novels. Her novel The Matter of Sylvie was nominated for the 2011 Alberta Book Awards. Her novella Afterall was nominated for the 2006 Alberta Book Awards. Her short stories are also well celebrated: “White” was the winner of the 2007 CBC Literary Awards, and “I May Have Known You” was nominated for the 2010 Alberta Literary Awards. “Detachment” was a finalist in the Malahat Open Season Award 2010. Her work has been produced for CBC Radio, published in Event, Descant, enRoute, Joyland.ca, and New York. Her website is www.leekvern.com.
from the library
Memories of a Carnivore
by Julie Dupuis
A hybrid travelogue and memoir that pieces together the fragmented recollections of one woman’s rocky journey toward vegetarianism. From her rural upbringing in francophone Northeastern Ontario to exotic locations, outlandish adventures, and bizarre meals, Julie relives her struggle to make the right food choices for herself and examines the consequences of her decisions.
In the Afternoon
by Laure Baudot
Catherine wants what Richard has: a richly decorated house, and a perfect, lavished-upon baby. Catherine also wants Richard: a disaffected diplomat whose true passion is for cinema. But Catherine is only the babysitter, and her envy—and its fallout—come to the fore when Richard is accused of a crime, and she must decide whether to help exonerate him.
“Laure Baudot’s prose is exquisite, patient, and sophisticated. In the Afternoon immerses you in the fascinating and complicated mind of a babysitter who is wise beyond her years, yet dangerously impulsive at the same time. This story is irresistible and heartbreaking.”
— Sarah Selecky, author of the 2010 Giller Prize–shortlisted collection This Cake Is for the Party
Eleven Miles There,
Twelve Miles Back
by Meghan Rose Allen
Deep in the heart of Ontario cottage country, Izza Ingram’s biological family disintegrates when her parents become trapped in a moment Izza can barely remember. Lost to their parents, she and her sister Paulie form an unlikely family unit under the guidance of their parents’ friend Doug. In this trio of their own making, Izza, Paulie, and Doug try to navigate the differences between the families we are born into versus the families we choose.
When I'm Old, When I'm Grey
by Andrew Wilmot
After an unexpected malfunction, the technology which enables humanity to cross vast distances has separated an interstellar traveler from the love of her life — not in space, but in time. Now, while her companions remain in stasis, she must endure the loneliness of the journey until the moment her lover wakes.
Winner of the 2015 Friends of Merril Short Story Contest, When I'm Old, When I'm Grey imagines the strange — and strangely familiar — forms that fear and longing can take, as we venture forth into the unknown of the future.
by Lana Storey
Some time after the incomprehensible death of his son, Joan Miró has settled into his new job working the overnight shift at a Hasty Market in Toronto. He has plenty of time to think beneath the fluorescent lights of the convenience store: of ghosts and late nights, of downtown living and dying, of customer service and self-preservation, of the beauty of the night sky, and of the attempts people make to connect with one another despite seemingly insurmountable distances. These fragments of life prove as difficult to make sense of as any code—until one night, when an extraordinary series of events suddenly teases a pattern from the dark.
“In this graceful, dark, and nuanced piece, Lana Storey reveals a private man unhinged by grief. These are events—and this a narrative—that will stay in my mind for a long time. Never one to shirk from difficult truths, Lana Storey writes in the tradition of George Saunders: an original, at times disturbing, but ultimately transformative worldview.”
— Carolyn Smart, author of Hooked: Seven Poems and At the End of the Day
“Cross Yourself is Lana Storey’s gorgeous swirling image constellation, a story about a man becoming unhinged from the universe and finding redemption in a downtown Hasty Market convenience store. A vibrant, beating heart of a short fiction, Cross Yourself is a vortex worth being pulled into.”
— Kathryn Kuitenbrouwer, author of the 2005 Amazon.ca/Books in Canada First Novel Award finalist The Nettle Spinner
by Nicole Chin
In a world terrorized by a mysterious criminal organization that recruits children as its foot soldiers, a boy reflects on the journey - steeped in a cocktail of friendship and fear - that has drawn his life past the point of no return.
of My Sound
by Andrew Forbes
Saxophonist Metche Hufu and his band are the talk of Addis Ababa, filling nightclubs and packing dance floors. But the precarious existence of this golden age of culture depends on an emperor’s benevolence - and when his power begins to wane, Metche Hufu's music threatens to be silenced by the sounds of a country torn apart.
“How do you give voice to a sax player silenced by the politics of his country? If you’re a jazz singer like Kurt Elling, you take Dexter Gordon’s solo on ‘Body and Soul’ from his Homecoming album and you turn it into vocalese. If your name is Andrew Forbes and your tenor sax player is Ethiopian and it is Addis Ababa 1973 and his musical idol is King Curtis, you write The Expansiveness of My Sound and what you write is wider, more straight-ahead, stronger with political fervour, sadder than Elling but every bit as smart. Forbes is doing it solo and you have to imagine the quartet behind him. Read it with your fingers tapping and you’ll catch the beat. Read it with your ears open and you’ll hear Metche Hufu’s body and soul. Dig it!”
— T. F. Rigelhof, author of Hooked on Canadian Books: The Good, the Better, and the Best Canadian Novels Since 1984
by Caroline Adderson
Coming out of an unhappy relationship and a stint at an artist colony, Charlotte, a writer, takes a job teaching at a private ESL college. There she befriends Renata—audacious, sexy, and as changeable as Proteus. “I have a story for you,” Renata says to her one day over lunch. She doesn’t elaborate further, but Charlotte soon discovers that she has found in Renata an unexpectedly passionate and compelling subject.
“Caroline Adderson is such a graceful and intelligent writer that the work that must surely go into creating her hilarious, prismatic stories is never betrayed in the language. There is no strain on the page, not a bead of sweat. I think of her as a writer’s writer. I envy her talent and learn from her sentences. The short story, Obscure Objects, is, I’m happy to report, Adderson at her glorious best.”
— Barbara Gowdy, author of Helpless and The White Bone
“Obscure Objects, Caroline Adderson’s fierce and affecting workplace comedy, is a deadpan gem: droll, moving, snapping-smart.”
— Meg Wolitzer, author of The Uncoupling, The Ten-Year Nap, and The Position