ÿþ<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> <html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> <head> <title> Poetry and Prose from In Posse Review</title> <meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html" charset="utf-8" /> <meta name="author" content="In Posse Review, http://www.webdelsol.com" /> <link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="19_a_style.css" /> </head> <body> <center> <br /> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"> <tr> <td valign="top" width="35px"> <p> <img src="insposse.gif" width="30px" height="187px" alt=" " /><br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;</p> </td> <td valign="top" width="15px" bgcolor="#0f0000">&nbsp;</td> <td width="15px">&nbsp;</td> <td align="left" valign="top" width="400px"> <h1>Hardcore Life</h1> <h2>Michael Bryson</h2> <p> The military command decided. A hole where a house once stood. George watched his daughter eat her cereal. In a world so intense, he thought. In a world so full of death and dying. The photograph on the front of the newspaper showed the crater from the blast. A 500 pound bomb directed by lasers down the chimney of a house. Boom. Hole. His daughter wanted to know, "Did they kill the bad man?" Who could say? Whatever had been there once was gone. DNA experts were en route, but he wouldn't tell her that. The day before she'd asked, "When you were young, was there a war?" No, there hadn't been. "When your Gran and Grampa were kids, there was," he'd answered. </p> <p> "You frighten her," his ex-wife had accused him. </p> <p> He said, "The war frightens her." </p> <p> "Then don't talk about it." </p> <p> Silence? No. His daughter asked questions. He tried to answer them. </p> <p> He put a call in to her teacher. "What do you say to them? How do you explain it?" </p> <p> "We ask them what they've seen. We ask them what they know," the teacher said. "We ask them about their feelings." </p> <p> "What do they say?" he asked. </p> <p> "They say a bad man was doing bad things and needed to be stopped. They know a war is happening. People are dying. They are uncertain, anxious, fearful." </p> <p> His daughter stayed with him one week in three. Two weeks in three, she lived with his ex-wife and Greg. Greg was a nice man, his daughter said. But Greg was not her father. </p> <p> "Daddy!" she called in the middle of the night. </p> <p> He came into her room. </p> <p> "I dreamed they were bombing our house. I dreamed there was an airplane over our house dropping bombs." </p> <p> He brushed hair off of her face. He kissed her cheek. </p> <p> "It's only a dream," he said. </p> <p> "It was a bad dream." </p> <p> "A bad dream is still only a dream. I'm here now. Go back to sleep." </p> <p> She did, but not quickly. </p> <p> He sat on her bed, stroking her forehead and wondering about the nights she was with his ex-wife. Did she call out for her mother? She probably did. Tara, his ex-wife, had never mentioned it. Nor had he told Tara, either, about their daughter's night screams. </p> <p> Lately, he'd felt again the love he'd once had for Tara. Had hard once, before he disbelieved it had ever been possible. But he <em>had</em> loved her large once. Carried a pain for her sharper than he'd felt for anyone. More than just memories of that love had returned three days earlier when he'd picked up his daughter and seen a bouquet of roses on Tara's kitchen table. </p> <p> He asked her, "Is it your anniversary?" </p> <p> "No. Greg just bought them." She said this and turned away from him. Once, he'd have thought that subtle body twist was an exclamation point. <em>Greg just bought them. He couldn't help himself. He loves me so much better than you ever did. </em>But their fighting days were over. They still argued sometimes. Their conversations were often conducted in a tone of disappointment. But they'd forgiven each other a little, too. For their daughter's sake, Tara was quick to remind him. Whenever she wanted to cut short an argument. Whenever she'd made her final point and didn't want to hear another rebuttal from him. </p> <p> "For our daughter's sake," he'd said once, "I'm not giving in on this." </p> <p> She said, "We'll talk more about this next time," going as far towards concession as he remembered her going in a long while. </p> <p> Tara's roses reminded him that he, too, had once showered her in romance. That he'd once thought they were building something together, something worth protecting and celebrating. That he'd once pushed himself to his outer limits to create with her an A-plus-plus life. And it had actually been A-plus-plus wonderful. Sometimes. Like the summer before they got married. The summer before he proposed. They spent two weeks at her parents' cottage. He later told friends their marriage began then. They spent two weeks wearing little more than their underwear, often less. They discovered the special sex of the spin cycle, sex in the laundry room, sex on the washing machine. The future seemed full of beginnings. The week after Labour Day, they discovered the consequences. </p> <p> Tara called him at work and asked him to come over that evening. </p> <p> "Why?" </p> <p> "I want to tell you something." </p> <p> "What?" </p> <p> "I'll tell you later." </p> <p> "Tell me now." </p> <p> "No. I want to see the look on your face." </p> <p> He agreed to come over right after work. She called back ten minutes later. She couldn't wait. She was pregnant. </p> <p> He went over after work and she burst into tears when she saw him. She'd told him on the phone, "I'm not sure I want it. What are our options?" </p> <p> "Have the child. Adoption. Abortion." </p> <p> "I'm not sure I want it," she repeated. </p> <p> "I can't imagine giving it up," he said. </p> "We'll talk later, okay?" </p> <p> He said, "I love you, whatever the result." </p> <p> Before the month was up, he was holding her hand at the clinic. On the way home in the taxi, all she could talk about was the girl in the recovery room beside her. She was seventeen. It was her third procedure. </p> <p> Tara said, "I never want to do that again." </p> <p> He had his arm around her shoulder. </p> <p> "Never," she said. "Never, never." </p> <p> The next day, he bought her a huge bouquet. He took the day off work. She stayed in bed. He went through her recipe book, then went to the grocery store, came home, and boiled up a large pot of chicken and vegetable soup. He'd decided over that soup pot that he would ask her to marry him. She told him later that she'd laid in bed, heartsick and tired, wondering how to break it off with him. </p> <p> Boom. Hole. </p> <p> She told him of her misgivings four years later. After three years of marriage and a daughter between them. </p> <p> He never thought he'd yearn for the days of ICBMs. Cold War. Megatonnes. White heat. The Reagan presidency. Simpler times. He wanted to know: What did his daughter think about 500 pound bombs? Could she make sense of the pictures in the newspapers? Did she experience anything more than a cloud of fear? He knew she wanted him to reassure her. All he did was confirm her anxiety. Fear was good. Fear saved lives. We stand for what we have always stood for, except we have changed. We are on the side of right, and we are making a mess of things. Truth is always conflicted, never extreme. To tell a story is to distort. To have an opinion is to create a fiction. </p> <p> His daughter's teacher said she had students who had been shot at. She herself was from a small town in Northern Ontario. Now she was teaching ten-year-olds from the four corners of the Earth. </p> <p> "We try to make life as normal as possible for them." </p> <p> She had a pair of girls in her class who shared an apartment with their mothers. The two fathers had been killed by a foreign dictator. The mothers survived on welfare, put their hope into their children. </p> <p> Q: Mr. President, the war goes poorly. What are you going to do about it? </p> <p> A: </p> <p> Q: Mr. President, my daughter can't sleep at night. What are you going to do about it? </p> <p> A: </p> <p> Q: Mr. President, I'm falling in love with my ex-wife. What are you going to do about it? </p> <p> A: </p> <p> It was a world as old as time itself. A world of suffering. Inspiration. Conflict. A world unsafe for children. </p> <p> In his garden, the tulips were about ready to bloom. Spring after spring the tulips returned. He planted a few new ones every fall. Tried to add some new colours, new patterns. Planted them in bunches or drew them out in lines. Sometimes the squirrels ate them. It didn't matter. Most survived. He tried to interest his daughter in the garden, but all she wanted were sunflowers and pumpkins. The spectacular plants. </p> <p> He tried to change her mind. "Look at the way all of the different parts come together," he said. "You've got to stand back and look at the whole thing." He spread his arms as if to say, <em>Here. My garden. My creation. It's good.</em> </p> <p> She said, "Sure, Dad." Her mouth was full of chewing gum. Her eyes wandered. She took his hand and looked at the tulips. She lifted her face to his and smiled. </p> <p> Innocence wasn't something he knew how to shelter, though he'd watched his daughter play with her dolls. Had sat down with them sometimes, sipped air out of tiny plastic cups and proclaimed it marvelous tea. </p> <p> He called Tara at work. Asked to meet for lunch. </p> <p> "Not today or tomorrow," she said. "Maybe early next week." </p> <p> "Okay." </p> <p> He wore a tie and a jacket. </p> <p> He said, "You look terrific." </p> <p> Two hours later, she said, "I need to go. I have stuff to do. What was it you wanted to talk about anyway? Didn't you have something you wanted to discuss?" </p> <p> No. He just thought it would be nice if they could talk. </p> <p> Talk like they used to, is what he didn't say. </p> "We can talk anytime," she said. "Call me again. I enjoyed this." </p> <p> But she didn't kiss him or hug him or shake his hand, though he saw her smile a little. Turn back to look at him lingering over his coffee and smile a little. Something he'd seen before, but not in a long, long time. </p> <p> Before the clock runs out there's always a chance to regain lost territory, his father had said the month before he died. "Death comes for us all, but we don't need to go quietly." </p> <p> His mother baked cookies with his daughter and told her stories he hadn't heard in thirty years. </p> <p> He did have things he wanted to say to Tara, but he didn't know how to say them. <em>You think things are lost, but they're not. You think it's all over but for the dream, but for the memories, but it's not. All things lost can be recovered, if only in fragments. Those were real things, real chucks of hard core life, not elements of a mirage. We were not faked. What we had was true. </em></p> <p> "I don't want to disrupt your relationship with Greg," he almost said to her. But he did want to disrupt it. So he said nothing at all. </p> <p> Nine-to-five he sold furniture downtown. A year earlier, the department store had wanted to promote him. He told them he didn't think he would be there much longer. Good luck, they said. Whatever you do, we're happy for you. But he had no other options. He watched tracer bullets on television. Woke up shaking and covered in sweat. He paced the length of his house at three in the morning. Once upon a time, a divorced man picked up his life and moved on. How? Once upon a time, a divorced man walked out his front door and never came back. Why? Once upon a time, tomorrow, the day after that. What? Play the game a shift at a time, his hockey coaches had told him. Don't play the game, play the shift. Yes, but he wanted to stop playing. He wanted to retire. Wanted a job in management. Wanted to take his victory lap and blow kisses to the crowd. </p> <p> Planes into buildings. Anything can happen. </p> <p> Boom. Hole. </p> <p> Tara called the day the towers fell. </p> <p> "Can you come over?" </p> <p> Their daughter had retreated to her bed and wouldn't come out from under the covers. </p> <p> He went to see her. Entered her room. </p> <p> "Can I join you under there?" </p> <p> "Yes." </p> <p> They stayed in her bed for two hours, her head nestled against his shoulder. Until she had to go to the bathroom. </p> <p> "I'm okay now. You can go home." </p> <p> Anything can happen. </p> <p> At their third lunch date, Tara said, "Aren't you seeing other women? You should be getting out. You have a lot to offer. Spread yourself around. I'm happy to spend this time with you, but don't get me thinking that you're looking for something more." </p> <p> "I'm not." </p> <p> "I'm not saying we should stop." </p> <p> "No." </p> <p> She asked if he'd told their daughter they had been meeting for lunch. "It took her a long time to stop asking when we were going to get back together." </p> <p> "I know." </p> <p> "I think she's over that now." </p> <p> "Yes. I think so." </p> <p> He almost said, I'm over it, too. </p> <p> What Tara didn't know was, he did have a girlfriend. A woman named Gina. Gina worked at the cosmetic counter five floors below where he sold furniture. Gina helped women paint their faces. She had a philosophy: Reality is the surface of facts seen, felt, heard, experienced through the senses. Yes, it was different for everyone, but it had a solid core. </p> <p> When he talked to Gina about his daughter, she listened, but she also said, "When you're with me, I want you to think about me." He tried, but he wavered and she knew it. </p> <p> Gina warned him, "She'll push you away when she's done with you, when she needs to be on her own." </p> <p> Yes, he thought. But it will be okay then. </p> <p> Gina was five-foot-two. She was the shortest woman he'd ever kissed. She wore scarves and trim outfits. She wore makeup you couldn't see. </p> <p> Once she said, "You remind me of my father after my mother died. He never admitted his hurt. He carried it around with him like an aura. He would walk into a room, and everything would slow down. He absorbed everyone's pain. I don't understand you; you're not a doctor, you're not a priest. You're a furniture salesman." </p> <p> "I'm a good furniture salesman." </p> <p> "You think you can change the world." </p> <p> "I'm not pushy. I let people make up their own minds." </p> <p> "You miss what's right in front of you." </p> <p> "But I still close the deal. That's the hardest part. I close the deal without people knowing it's even happening." </p> <p> He was ready to marry again. He would never get over Tara. Everything would work out anyway. </p> <p> "I almost think I love you," she said. </p> <p> "I'm still working on you." </p> <p> She raised an eyebrow. "Are you?" </p> <p> He winked. "And you don't even know it." </p> <br><br> <hr /> <h2>Michael Bryson</h2> <p>Michael Bryson is the author of two books for short fiction, <em>Thirteen Shades of Black and White</em> (Turnstone Press, 1999) and <em>Only A Lower Paradise</em> (Boheme Press, 2000). His story "Six Million Million Miles" appeared in <em>05: Best Canadian Stories</em> (Oberon, 2005). He is the editor of the online litmag <A href="http://www.danforthreview.com"> The Danforth Review</a>. </p> <br /> <br /> <div id="logo"><em>In Posse:</em> Potentially, might be . . . </div> <p><img src="tedhead.gif" align="right" alt="logo" /></p> <h3><a href="http://webdelsol.com/InPosse/index.htm" align="right"> Return</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; </h3> <br /> <hr /> </td></tr></table></center></body></html>