I re-read one of the first short stories I wrote and I could barely get through it. There was so much I wanted to edit and re-work. I’ve taken this as a positive sign. If I wasn’t learning anything new, I wouldn’t recognize what could be improved.

Learning a craft, any craft, is a process. Learning curves are not gentle slopes. They are more like meandering paths, winding and uneven. Sometimes the path is well worn and easy to follow; sometimes it’s overgrown and feels too steep to carry on.

I remind myself to respect the learning process; stay on the path, don’t criticize the journey, and don’t try to see too far ahead. Let the path be your guide. Sounds a little woo-woo, I know, but it’s working for me.

Below is a short story I wrote in February, imperfections included. It’s intended to be a caper story, a fun romp. It’s my favourite so far, I hope you like it too.

Keep your joy.

Anne Milne is an every Sunday blogger, unless it’s a holiday weekend. Or summertime. Facebook or email.

PAYBACKS

I gazed out my bay window, feeling ashamed because I had managed to lose half of my family’s inheritance when—what are the odds? My ex-husband, who had won the other half in our divorce settlement, drove up in his precious 1967 vintage Mustang.

“What do you want?”

He mimicked a conversation; “Hello, Ivan, good to see you. Nice to see you too, Rosy… How’ve you been keeping? Oh, not too bad, still doing custom carpentry, you know.”

“Stuff it.”

There were dark circles under his gem-blue eyes and he was not as well put together as he usually kept himself.

He sighed, “You still have my grandmother’s Russian Dolls? Can you get them for me? Please?”

“See you later.” I moved to shut the door.

“Aw c’mon, Rosy, you still have them, right? In that box? I need them back.”

“Since when?”

“Babushka’s dying. She asked me to bring them to her. Just get me the box and I’ll be on my way.”

That news made me pause. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’ll wait here.”

“Like hell you will.” I slammed the front door.

I resumed moping over my financial situation. The dot-com bubble had burst and taken me with it. The chances of me finding a decent paying job were slim; born into a wealthy family, I had never worked a day in my life. Out loud I practiced three ways of saying, “Would you like fries with that?”

For a distraction, I found the dolls and unpacked them. Ivan’s grandmother, Babushka, used to tell me stories over tea. After the war, her family had walked from Russia to Germany with gold coins and jewelry stitched inside their coats. I peered carefully into each doll. Nyet. Anytime Ivan asks for anything I get suspicious.

The dolls were kept in a specially made box, covered inside and out in a jacquard material reminiscent of a Fabergé egg. I felt all around the edges looking for gold. Nada. Then I realized the bottom layer seemed a little too thick. My fingernails pried a carefully fitted piece out to reveal a manilla envelope. 

Bingo. Stock certificates. Beautiful, art deco, Bank of Montreal certificates, crisp and fresh as new dollar bills. Lots of them, each for ten shares of BMO, in bearer form. Cashable to whomever holds them. 

I grabbed this morning’s newspaper and calculated their worth based on BMO’s closing price. I drew in my breath. Over a cool million in my hot little hand.

“Babushka! You sly fox.” For decades she had kept house for the bank president in his large Rosedale mansion. “Everything clean, shiny,” she used to tell me. These must have been gifted to her, like an annual bonus. I wondered if she grasped their value.

Ivan’s gambling problem wasn’t quite developed when we took our vows. If love is blind, I was blinded. Stupidly, I believed signing a pre-nup agreement would jinx our relationship. I purchased this house in both our names with the money I inherited. When the marriage ended, there was nothing my lawyers could do. In law, if not in fairness, he was fully entitled to half my wealth and he took it.

Well, well. Ivan, Ivan, Ivan. Per the divorce agreement, Ivan had had one chance to remove his belongings from the house; anything left behind was mine. Including this box. My face split into a wide grin. Finders keepers.

I gloated over this unexpected turn of fortune like Scrooge McDuck swimming through his piles of gold. Interrupted by the doorbell, I wiped the smile off my face. I had expected Ivan; instead a large bald man barged through the doorway and backed me abruptly against the wall. One hand held my throat, the other hand gestured for me to stay calm.

“Easy now. I’m just here to give you a little advice. Your friend Ivan is in a spot of trouble, yeah?” His breath reeked of garlic.

My voice was taut as piano wire, “Whatever his problem is, it’s got nothing to do with me.”

“Well, you see now that’s confusing. Because I see this big house, I see art on the walls, and I think a nice woman like you… well, you wouldn’t want to see him suffer? Would you?”

“Get out of my house,” I hissed.

He jerked his fist back as if to punch my stomach and I gasped. He let me go, sauntered across the foyer, hooked his finger into the rim of a large vase and crashed it onto the marble floor.

“Awww. I hate when accidents happen. Don’t you?”

I’d like to report I kept my cool, but I burst into tears. As he pulled the door shut he nodded at me like we were passing each other on the street. 

Ivan picked up on the third ring. Anger couldn’t cover the fear from my voice as I screeched a string of profanity.

“Rosy, calm down, I didn’t send anybody anywhere. Tell me what happened.”

To me, this was all Ivan’s fault, and I spat my accusations into the phone.

“Rosy I’m so sorry. He must have been following me.”

He pleaded with me to meet him at a bar, and I agreed.

He started with apologies.

“Stuff it. Tell me what’s going on, and don’t lie.”

Gambling debts were nothing new for him, but this time he had doubled down after he was already in over his head. My mouth gaped open. He owed what he would make in a year.

I stared.

“All that money you took from me is gone?”

He sighed and looked away. Finally I asked,

“What do Babushka’s dolls have to do with this?” Deliberately, I did not say box. 

“Nothing. She’s been in hospital for over a week. She asked me to bring them to her.”

“Why didn’t you take them when you had your chance?” 

He shrugged, “They didn’t matter to me and I thought you liked them. Every once in a while she’d ask if I still had them and I’d say yes. She’d say ‘good boy, you keep dolls safe?’ I’d say yes and that was it.”

“So, how did I get caught up in this gambling mess?”

He shrugged again, “That guy probably figured I asked you for money. When I didn’t pay up this afternoon, he went after you.”

He reached to take hold of my hand; I snatched it away.

“Believe me, Rosy, I came to you looking for Babushka’s dolls. Nothing else.”

Another lengthy pause occurred and finally he said,

“Rosy, these guys are serious. On my honour, I’ll take care of this, but you can’t go back to your house. I can’t go back to my place either.”

I demanded to know why I shouldn’t call the police. Ivan insisted that would make things worse. He’d be adding rat-fink to his resume—not exactly endearing. Me, I  worried if the police got involved, then somehow, the box, the certs—it would all come out and my game would be over. In a court of law, I believed I could claim ownership, but why risk it? I’d already been on the losing end of that stick.

Chances were good he knew nothing about the certificates or he’d be focused on getting the box. I reasoned that I could pay off this debt, get us both out of this jam, and let him think I was being generous. It was Friday night. The certs couldn’t be deposited until Monday. We only had to stay safe for the weekend. 

Together we decided to take my car to a seedy hotel on the city’s outskirts. Ivan had stowed the Mustang in his buddy’s garage as a precaution against being followed. I snorted my derision at the timing of that strategy. 

At the hotel, his credit cards were maxed out. I refused to pay for two rooms so we got a room with two queens. We were in our respective beds, neither of us able to drop off, when he started to talk;

“Just like old times, eh, Rosy? After the prom? We got a room exactly like this. You were so gorgeous. All the other girls in pink and blue and you wore that red strapless number. I almost lost it when I saw you.”

I resisted the urge to tell him to stuff it. After the stress of the day his voice was soothing. There had been a time between the crazy-for-each-other heat and the get-out-of-my-life divorce when we could share each other’s confidences. 

“The first big bet I ever won was at the pool hall. I felt on top of the world. Guys were clapping me on the back, I bought a couple of rounds. It was a rush. Harmless fun, bets on horses, games and such, so what? I didn’t see it as a problem. Even after you and I married.”

“Yup. I remember.”

“Rosy, I’m trying. I have to tell you something… when I took your inheritance I needed to get out of a situation just like this. I believed I could win it back and repay you.”

I bit my lip to keep silent. 

“You know how much I love her, right?”

“Who? Lady Luck?”

He ignored this, “She was always so strong. Up until last month, I’d drop by to visit and she’d be raking leaves, inside she’d have something baking, everything spotless.”

I winced. Babushka had worked hard all those years, raising Ivan like her own. And then I pictured Ivan gambling away my inheritance. Payback’s a bitch. 

Drifting toward sleep, I recalled the rush I’d had, buying all those unbelievable dot-com stocks. Every day I’d had a higher net worth. Like any degenerate who’d been too long at the roulette table, I pushed my chips all in.

In the morning, Ivan begged me to take him to see Babushka. We figured there’d be little risk of being accosted by thugs at a hospital. 

I parked on a side street to let Ivan go on ahead. When I entered the room he and Babushka were holding hands, speaking intently in their familial language, an Anglo-Russian mix. When she saw me, her face lit up. I felt genuinely happy to see her.

She took both my hands and squeezed hard. Her face was as weathered as an apple doll’s yet her dark eyes were alive and bright.

“You have the box, with dolls, yes?”

“Yes.”

I couldn’t look away. She looked into my eyes for so long I felt she was reading my lying mind. I held my face tightly in a plastic smile.

She let go my hands and looked at Ivan,

“She a good girl. You get the box and do good.”

I murmured a few words about them needing more time alone. In the hallway I exhaled my relief and squelched my guilt. I sought the comfort of a hot coffee. 

Looking around for a place to sit and relax with my Tim’s, I locked eyes with the guy who had barged into my house. If you want to stay under the radar of thugs, think like a thug. We’d underestimated them. 

A group of residents were passing by, I stepped in close behind. So clever of me, I thought, until they stopped at a locked double door to scan their ID tags. Thug-man smiled at my predicament, then, with perfect timing, Ivan rounded the corner and they collided. A brief push and shove ensued until Thug-man pulled Ivan into a bear hug like he was a long lost pal. The two walked away, awkwardly arm in arm, reminding me of movie scenes when one man holds a gun to the other. Ivan turned and mouthed ‘help me’. Okay, so it wasn’t a movie. 

I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit I weighed my options here. I could swear I saw nothing, knew nothing. Ivan would get roughed up a little—that’s what happens when you gamble. Let the chips fall where they may.

What if they killed him? Do gamblers kill each other? That makes no sense because then they’d never get their money back. Unless they go after the widow.  

Out on the street, Thug-man turned to see if I was following. He had the bloody gall to wink. The guy had some sass. I ran up behind him and splashed my hot coffee against the back of his wide bald head. Ivan shoved him hard into the street and together we ran like hell. 

Back in the car, for once, Ivan didn’t run his mouth with promises and bargains. He was crying. 

“Babushka needs me right now and here I am running around like a common criminal. Rosy, I’m so sorry you’re involved in this.” 

My conscience prickled. I could rationalize my entitlement to the certificates but it was a dirty trick I was playing. I considered making a full confession when Ivan said, 

“Enough of this. I know what I need to do.”

His precious car was the one thing he had never bet on. The only legacy he had from his father, it was worth enough to clear the debt. I joked that maybe he’d have enough left over for a bus pass. 

The transaction was simple. Ivan knew a collector who had coveted the car for a while. A small discount was necessary in exchange for immediate cash, but he had no cards left. 

Back downtown, I waited while Ivan delivered his payment. When he returned, he exhaled loudly, 

“Done. They took extra for inconveniences but it’s over;

“Rosy? Give me a lift? I have somewhere I’m supposed to be.”

I figured it was the least I could do. When we arrived, he asked me to go in with him. 

“Absolutely not. I’ve had enough fun.”

He held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. 

“This much. Can you trust me this much?”

We walked into a stale, overheated church basement. About nine people were seated on folding chairs. A middle aged woman nodded at Ivan and he stood up; 

“My name is Ivan and I’m a gambling addict.” 

He told his whole story, including losing my inheritance. He counted our marriage among his many losses. The others responded with sympathetic nods and comments. 

To my shock, I stood up next. My chin quivered. A respectful silence passed while I gained enough control to speak.

“My name is Rosalind. I’ve gambled too. Worse than that, I was willing to cheat; I wanted to rob someone of their inheritance and an old woman of her legacy.”

I looked Ivan right in his baby blues and told him the truth about the box, the certificates, my stock market gamble, my losses, all of it. He listened, teary eyed. When I finished, he stood, grasped my hands and said, 

“Rosy. You know I’ve always believed in halfsies.”