Tales of displacement and migration abound in Holley Rubinsky’s short-fiction collection, South of Elfrida. These are stories of women alone, growing older and managing lives with grace and dignity—and occasional lacks thereof. Rubinsky—the author of two novels and a previous book of short stories—is based in British Columbia, but the majority of these eighteen stories are set much further south, in the towns and countryside of Arizona, proximal to the Mexican border.
South of Elfrida is marked by a tranquil, meditative tone and moments of richly descriptive prose. There is a certain uniformity of voice, pace, theme and revelation to much of the collection, though to be fair, the kinds of protagonists who receive Rubinsky’s attention are not usually so consistently centre stage in contemporary Canadian fiction. Divorcées, retirees, snowbirds and other nomads traverse these pages.
Sometimes, Rubinsky’s female characters change their names. Frequently, they alter their lives more drastically. In some cases, they are moving away from incidents in their distant or recent pasts—such as the accidental death of a cherished dog or the deliberate choice to terminate a romantic relationship. Their common terrains include chain stores, RV campgrounds and the hot, dry open road. Feline companions are a very common motif.
Human engagement with animals is a recurring theme—not just domestic pets, but beasts ranging from mating woodpeckers to threatening coyotes. Sometimes characters are content to observe—bird watching figures prominently in several stories—but other times they choose to get closer. In “Among the Emus,” Crystal wrestles with relationship ennui and responds by daring to do the thing least expected of her while visiting an emu farm. She enters the cage, allowing herself to experience both emotional and physical distress:
And she’s not afraid. Easy as pie, she works the latch and steps inside. One emu sees her. Then the others swivel their heads in her direction, and like a wave of feathers on stilts they come bobbing her way, their necks swaying from side to side, their eyelashes fluttering over heavy-lidded eyes, huge eyes. She hears deep-throated bok-bok sounds as they trample toward her, sounds like ping-pong balls hitting a table. They’re so close, Crystal sees a whirlwind of dirt-pronged and scaly feet. Necks like fronds reach down for her. She ducks, puts her hands over her ears. Their beaks tap her neck, tap her skull, rip at her skirt. They pull her hair.
But the effect of the siege is ultimately calming. As Crystal and her aging boyfriend and his stepson eat bison steaks in the yard, emus surround them and “[h]er heart stays where it should be, not losing its beat, not banging around to get out.”
Most of the stories in South of Elfrida are light on plot mechanics and focused more intently on mood and interiority. In “Little Dove,” Linda watches as her short-haired tabby Delphinium plots against a newborn mourning dove in a nest atop the adjacent trailer. The threat of the baby bird’s death evokes memories of the loss of her own child years ago, for which she never forgave herself. Linda still mourns, but sees in her desire to protect the fledgling a chance for redemption she’s hitherto been denied: “Why, for all this suffering, has she not become a better person?” With a subtle touch, Rubinsky combines children, predatory animals, changing seasons and a sense of timeless remorse. The story is slight, but moody and effective.
Many other pieces in the book recount the relationships that single, older women have with birds, dogs and cats—but things get more interesting when Rubinsky moves outside this territory. In “The Compact,” the author explores subtle forms of resistance in relationships that seem conventional. Al and Sally are a pair of political conservatives living in a “resort” comprised of “gleaming” recreational vehicles; they have a spot as close as possible to their son, the derelict park’s maintenance man, so they can monitor him for signs of drug relapse. The pair sit around their trailer drinking and disdaining foreigners and queers. Al’s former military, and the relationship is all about control. Sally finds ways to rebel against the rules however, both small—spitting into Al’s meatloaf while she prepares it in their camper’s kitchen—and large—having an abortion without his knowledge.
“Borderline” is a standout for its distinctiveness of voice. Paula is forty-nine and struggling to manage her borderline personality disorder, which manifests via racing thoughts that trigger bouts of sudden and intense emotions:
The next thing I know, I’m cursing a blue streak and Why the hell, How the hell is the mild part of it. My swearing accelerates to shouting, then I’m screaming, foot pressing the pedal, the car picking up speed. Then I yell, “Stop! Stop shouting, stop shouting!” I want to bulldoze the falling-apart Pontiac in front of me, a mattress strapped to the roof. I shout, “Stop!” again.
This story is an instance where Rubinsky’s slice-of-life approach to plot and narrative works well—Paula is smart and self-aware, but with the challenges she faces, there is no tidy resolution available to her.
Even the stories characterized by greater homogeneity of theme and content are marked with beautifully descriptive passages. In “Stronghold,” Suzanne recovers from the death of her pet dog Baby by travelling from Colorado to visit her friend Myrna in Arizona. Myrna’s a New Age guru leading a group of women in a “Blue Moon Ceremony,” in which Suzanne participates. Beauties of nature surround them as they march to the place of the rite:
[W]e enter the opening of a canyon where oaks, junipers, and manzanitas are watered by a creek. The mountains’ flat breaks, like stacks of crispy bread, and the lichen on the granite that make the reddish rock appear pistachio green on like rinds of lemon are stunning.
Against such backdrops, Rubinsky’s characters strive to redefine identities in flux. In the face of aging and other obstacles both corporeal and emotional, they manage a delicate balance between a sense of autonomy and a desire for belonging.
Brindle & Glass | 240 pages | $19.95 | paper | ISBN # 978-1927366059
‘South of Elfrida’ by Holley Rubinsky
Book Reviews
Tales of displacement and migration abound in Holley Rubinsky’s short-fiction collection, South of Elfrida. These are stories of women alone, growing older and managing lives with grace and dignity—and occasional lacks thereof. Rubinsky—the author of two novels and a previous book of short stories—is based in British Columbia, but the majority of these eighteen stories are set much further south, in the towns and countryside of Arizona, proximal to the Mexican border.
South of Elfrida is marked by a tranquil, meditative tone and moments of richly descriptive prose. There is a certain uniformity of voice, pace, theme and revelation to much of the collection, though to be fair, the kinds of protagonists who receive Rubinsky’s attention are not usually so consistently centre stage in contemporary Canadian fiction. Divorcées, retirees, snowbirds and other nomads traverse these pages.
Sometimes, Rubinsky’s female characters change their names. Frequently, they alter their lives more drastically. In some cases, they are moving away from incidents in their distant or recent pasts—such as the accidental death of a cherished dog or the deliberate choice to terminate a romantic relationship. Their common terrains include chain stores, RV campgrounds and the hot, dry open road. Feline companions are a very common motif.
Human engagement with animals is a recurring theme—not just domestic pets, but beasts ranging from mating woodpeckers to threatening coyotes. Sometimes characters are content to observe—bird watching figures prominently in several stories—but other times they choose to get closer. In “Among the Emus,” Crystal wrestles with relationship ennui and responds by daring to do the thing least expected of her while visiting an emu farm. She enters the cage, allowing herself to experience both emotional and physical distress:
And she’s not afraid. Easy as pie, she works the latch and steps inside. One emu sees her. Then the others swivel their heads in her direction, and like a wave of feathers on stilts they come bobbing her way, their necks swaying from side to side, their eyelashes fluttering over heavy-lidded eyes, huge eyes. She hears deep-throated bok-bok sounds as they trample toward her, sounds like ping-pong balls hitting a table. They’re so close, Crystal sees a whirlwind of dirt-pronged and scaly feet. Necks like fronds reach down for her. She ducks, puts her hands over her ears. Their beaks tap her neck, tap her skull, rip at her skirt. They pull her hair.
But the effect of the siege is ultimately calming. As Crystal and her aging boyfriend and his stepson eat bison steaks in the yard, emus surround them and “[h]er heart stays where it should be, not losing its beat, not banging around to get out.”
Most of the stories in South of Elfrida are light on plot mechanics and focused more intently on mood and interiority. In “Little Dove,” Linda watches as her short-haired tabby Delphinium plots against a newborn mourning dove in a nest atop the adjacent trailer. The threat of the baby bird’s death evokes memories of the loss of her own child years ago, for which she never forgave herself. Linda still mourns, but sees in her desire to protect the fledgling a chance for redemption she’s hitherto been denied: “Why, for all this suffering, has she not become a better person?” With a subtle touch, Rubinsky combines children, predatory animals, changing seasons and a sense of timeless remorse. The story is slight, but moody and effective.
Many other pieces in the book recount the relationships that single, older women have with birds, dogs and cats—but things get more interesting when Rubinsky moves outside this territory. In “The Compact,” the author explores subtle forms of resistance in relationships that seem conventional. Al and Sally are a pair of political conservatives living in a “resort” comprised of “gleaming” recreational vehicles; they have a spot as close as possible to their son, the derelict park’s maintenance man, so they can monitor him for signs of drug relapse. The pair sit around their trailer drinking and disdaining foreigners and queers. Al’s former military, and the relationship is all about control. Sally finds ways to rebel against the rules however, both small—spitting into Al’s meatloaf while she prepares it in their camper’s kitchen—and large—having an abortion without his knowledge.
“Borderline” is a standout for its distinctiveness of voice. Paula is forty-nine and struggling to manage her borderline personality disorder, which manifests via racing thoughts that trigger bouts of sudden and intense emotions:
The next thing I know, I’m cursing a blue streak and Why the hell, How the hell is the mild part of it. My swearing accelerates to shouting, then I’m screaming, foot pressing the pedal, the car picking up speed. Then I yell, “Stop! Stop shouting, stop shouting!” I want to bulldoze the falling-apart Pontiac in front of me, a mattress strapped to the roof. I shout, “Stop!” again.
This story is an instance where Rubinsky’s slice-of-life approach to plot and narrative works well—Paula is smart and self-aware, but with the challenges she faces, there is no tidy resolution available to her.
Even the stories characterized by greater homogeneity of theme and content are marked with beautifully descriptive passages. In “Stronghold,” Suzanne recovers from the death of her pet dog Baby by travelling from Colorado to visit her friend Myrna in Arizona. Myrna’s a New Age guru leading a group of women in a “Blue Moon Ceremony,” in which Suzanne participates. Beauties of nature surround them as they march to the place of the rite:
[W]e enter the opening of a canyon where oaks, junipers, and manzanitas are watered by a creek. The mountains’ flat breaks, like stacks of crispy bread, and the lichen on the granite that make the reddish rock appear pistachio green on like rinds of lemon are stunning.
Against such backdrops, Rubinsky’s characters strive to redefine identities in flux. In the face of aging and other obstacles both corporeal and emotional, they manage a delicate balance between a sense of autonomy and a desire for belonging.
Brindle & Glass | 240 pages | $19.95 | paper | ISBN # 978-1927366059