It was the beady little eyes and their often vacant expression that pissed Lauren off most. Kimmy Johansen was the HR rep she had been paired with for this round of interviews. Kimmy. Five year olds go by Kimmy. Cheerleaders. Strippers. Certainly not a senior executive at one of the foremost consulting firms in the north east.
“Ooh, look at this one coming in. He’s a cutie,” Kimmy giggled.
Lauren resisted the urge to kick her in the face, and glanced through the conference room window at their next interview.
He was cute, with soft brown eyes, a dirty grin, and a small scar that split his right eyebrow where she’d thrown the engagement ring he’d given her back in his face. Not for the first time today she wished she’d reviewed the resumes ahead of time.
The receptionist motioned him through the door, and the two ladies rose to greet him. To his credit, when his eyes met Lauren’s he only paused momentarily. The split eyebrow quirked and settled hiding his surprise.
“Mr. King, pleased to meet you. I’m Kimmy Johansen, senior veep of human resources. This is Lauren Stanton, our senior project manager.”
“Ms. Johansen, Ms. Stanton,” William King held his ground. He needed this job, and needed it bad, but with Lauren sitting across the table, it wasn’t likely. Though it had been six years since she’d try to blind him with a two carat diamond, he couldn’t hope that she’d mellowed.
Kimmy sat attentively, crossing her legs kittenishly, tossed her hair and nearly batted her eyelashes. She was as coy as a randy rhinoceros. “Tell us about your work experience Mr. King.”
“Well, I’ve spent the last four years working in Hong Kong for Highland McGregor, the first two as deputy project manager, and the last two as acting project manager. We got the Takami Tower up one week over projection, but 4% under budget.”
Lauren knew of the project, and guessed that the four percent would represent roughly two million. Still, a week late wasn’t something that was forgivable.
“Konnichiwa,” Kimmy giggled. No one bothered to mention that was Japanese.
There was an awkward silence.
“Before that I was an associate project manager for the Big Dig here in Boston,” he offered a small quick smile. One of the biggest infrastructure projects this century, the Big Dig was a loaded gun. It was an engineering marvel and a legal nightmare. There was no point trying to hide it though; that job had paid for the diamond that had nearly put out his eye. “And a number of other smaller jobs before that. I understand that the current project you are looking to staff is still in the planning stages?”
“Lauren?” Kimmy needed help here.
Lauren bit her tongue. She couldn’t berate Kimmy for being unprofessional if she didn’t at least finish this interview, even though she would rather slap the smiles off both their faces, run from the room or both.
“We’re in the late stages. Ground breaking is to take place in six months time, once the t’s are crossed and the i’s dotted.”
“Understood,” William tried to project a confident air, though his insides were tangled like speaker wire. “And who would I be reporting to.”
“Lauren.” Kimmy managed to sound more confident this time.
Lauren had to admit that her one talent was knowing exactly where everyone sat in the company power structure.
“Wait a minute,” Kimmy turned toward Lauren. “Didn’t you work on the Big Dig too?”
Lauren nodded.
“Did you two know each other?”
Kimmy could feel the tension ratchet up another few notches. There was an opportunity here, and she knew what it was. “Wait, Lauren weren’t you engaged to a guy who worked on the Big Dig?”
She’d hit the nerve she was looking for. Lauren blanched, and William’s hand went to the scar splitting his eyebrow. Kimmy hid a wide smile behind a vacant expression, an expression that she had perfected very early on.
“Small world isn’t it? Let’s talk a little more about your work history Mr. King.”
Monday, August 10, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Cockfight
Cockfight. Is there any other way to describe two assholes with more hair gel than brains circling each other, trying to assert their manhood over a perceived slight? Both full of booze and testosterone, each trying to prove who has the biggest dick. They don’t know yet, but it’s me.
I'm tempted to pull out a ruler, just to get it over with quicker. I see this every night of the week. It's my job to separate these ass-hats, and throw them into the street before they do enough damage to potentially make the club liable.
Better to let them kill each other, in my estimation, but lawyers and insurance agents being what they are, I signal the boys to separate them. As usual among their kind, the cockfight is over arm candy.
She plays dumb, but knows the game. This is Caveman Og writ large for the twenty-first century. She needs a provider, and either of these greased up, pseudo-evolved apes will do. She’s no Helen of Troy though; the only thing her face has launched is a plastic surgeon’s career.
“Okay girls, time to break it up and go home.” If I were a big burly guy, this would prompt the two of them to turn on me. The fact I’m five two in stilettos gives them pause; the glittery eye-shadow and cleavage distracts their pea brains with thoughts of shinies. They back down.
“She’s the best boss we ever had,” one burly bouncer whispers to another.
I'm tempted to pull out a ruler, just to get it over with quicker. I see this every night of the week. It's my job to separate these ass-hats, and throw them into the street before they do enough damage to potentially make the club liable.
Better to let them kill each other, in my estimation, but lawyers and insurance agents being what they are, I signal the boys to separate them. As usual among their kind, the cockfight is over arm candy.
She plays dumb, but knows the game. This is Caveman Og writ large for the twenty-first century. She needs a provider, and either of these greased up, pseudo-evolved apes will do. She’s no Helen of Troy though; the only thing her face has launched is a plastic surgeon’s career.
“Okay girls, time to break it up and go home.” If I were a big burly guy, this would prompt the two of them to turn on me. The fact I’m five two in stilettos gives them pause; the glittery eye-shadow and cleavage distracts their pea brains with thoughts of shinies. They back down.
“She’s the best boss we ever had,” one burly bouncer whispers to another.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Just For One Day
We're all the heroes of our own stories. We'd have to be; otherwise we'd collapse into a heap, never to rise again. Each of us a protagonist, variably sure of ourselves and our own virtue. It's a rare one who thinks of themselves as the villain of their own life.
I've always thought of myself as a cool headed sort, someone who reacts well under pressure. For the most part, that's played out in the movie of my life. I'm normally quite unflappable.
Sometimes though, you end up in a situation so far outside your realm of experience that you don't know what to do. You're not sure how to react, so you end up taking cues from those around you. You become one of the mob.
It was a day like any other, a casual Friday that had ended with drinks after work. One of our colleagues was moving on, so we all went to celebrate. I was making a conscious effort to try and be more sociable, though I didn't really feel much like it.
Three beer and quite a bit of chat later, I'd had my fill. I'd never been much one for palling around with work mates; I liked to keep a degree of compartmentalization to my life. So I said my goodbyes, and headed home.
It was roughly eight thirty when I plopped down on the subway car. It had been a long day and a longer week; our quotas kept increasing the harder we worked. Every time we thought we'd come close to finishing, the goal posts were moved. I was exhausted, physically and mentally.
We rolled into St. George station, and a bunch of rowdy kids got on, trash talking back and forth between the two groups. Three young men and two young women appeared to be trying to inflate their own egos, each at the expense of the other. I tuned out their foolishness and tuned back into Bowie.
I too, wished I could swim. Like the dolphins. Like dolphins can swim.
One of the young men sat directly across from me, and the thought briefly crossed my mind to try and get a picture of him with my camera phone. I don't know where the thought came from, or why I suppressed it. And then it came.
One young man called one of the young women a particularly incendiary word. Suffice to say, it had the desired effect, and set her off. She charged toward him.
Her earring flew off and landed on the seat next to me. It was a large gold hoop, somewhat stylized, and suddenly intensely fascinating. I couldn't take my eyes off it.
This is where my tendency to compartmentalize confounds me. Part of my subconscious must have known that things were not right, and were not going to end well. The rest of the passengers sensed it as well, though somehow being seated in the midst of the confrontation, I remained bemused and detached.
Another part of my brain was fascinated with the earring. I've seen a million earrings before, what was so special about this one?
The fracas seemed to break up, with each side pulling their respective antagonist away. I breathed a small sigh of relief as the young woman walked past me to where she'd set her purse. Bowie sang of remembering standing by the wall. The earring no longer mattered.
I saw the second young woman say something to her friend, and the first one reached into her purse. A third part of my brain realized that this wasn't going to end well, setting screeching alarms of self-preservation off in my head. The rest of my brain was unperturbed.
I never saw what she took out of her purse, or really much of what happened next. As Bowie sang that we could be heroes, just for one day, she ran at the young man with the clever mouth. There were two pops.
The train pulled into the station jerking to a stop to the sound of the pops. The doors opened and pandemonium ensued. The third part of my brain was screaming to get off the train, to get out of the way, to get to safety.
The bemused part of my brain insisted that nothing was wrong. The young lady staggered past, and cried out "I've been shot." Bemused brain insisted that wasn't possible. It hadn't been loud enough. And what a ridiculous thing to say in any case.
I looked around to see that everyone else was scrambling to get out of the train and out of the young men's way as they raced out of the subway station. I watched the young woman collapse, as a spread of dark red stained the back of her white pants.
I stepped out of the train, nearly running into one of the fleeing assailants. I watched stupidly as he ran past. I did nothing.
I watched as the young woman lay crying on the floor. Her friend cried as she pressed a jacket to the wound. I did nothing.
My brain tried to process what had happened, still not believing that two shots had been fired from point blank range in a half full subway car, and that only one had hit, and that shot to the leg.
I gave my statement to the police, and decided to walk home. I thought that I should feel something more, fear or something appropriate. All I really felt was detached.
Though I didn't consciously feel anything, it took me a long time to get to sleep that night, and for the next few days. My brain tried to consolidate the incident into my life experience, to make sense of it.
I fantasized that I could have done something different. If I'd done something, maybe the girl wouldn't have been shot; not that she'd been entirely undeserving of what happened. I could have stepped in and defused the situation.
I could have tackled the young man who ran by me, and held him for the police.
I could have reacted differently. I could have done something that would have made the situation make sense. I could have done something.
In the end, I realized there was no lesson to be learned from what amounted to a random event. Stepping in could have resulted in getting either stabbed or shot.
Tackling the young man wasn't likely to have gone well either.
I did the only thing I could to take control of the situation. Eleven months later, I testified to my recollection of the events. I lost the arrogance that made me believe I would be heroic in a tense situation.
I'm just a normal guy, doing what a normal guy does to make it home.
I've always thought of myself as a cool headed sort, someone who reacts well under pressure. For the most part, that's played out in the movie of my life. I'm normally quite unflappable.
Sometimes though, you end up in a situation so far outside your realm of experience that you don't know what to do. You're not sure how to react, so you end up taking cues from those around you. You become one of the mob.
It was a day like any other, a casual Friday that had ended with drinks after work. One of our colleagues was moving on, so we all went to celebrate. I was making a conscious effort to try and be more sociable, though I didn't really feel much like it.
Three beer and quite a bit of chat later, I'd had my fill. I'd never been much one for palling around with work mates; I liked to keep a degree of compartmentalization to my life. So I said my goodbyes, and headed home.
It was roughly eight thirty when I plopped down on the subway car. It had been a long day and a longer week; our quotas kept increasing the harder we worked. Every time we thought we'd come close to finishing, the goal posts were moved. I was exhausted, physically and mentally.
We rolled into St. George station, and a bunch of rowdy kids got on, trash talking back and forth between the two groups. Three young men and two young women appeared to be trying to inflate their own egos, each at the expense of the other. I tuned out their foolishness and tuned back into Bowie.
I too, wished I could swim. Like the dolphins. Like dolphins can swim.
One of the young men sat directly across from me, and the thought briefly crossed my mind to try and get a picture of him with my camera phone. I don't know where the thought came from, or why I suppressed it. And then it came.
One young man called one of the young women a particularly incendiary word. Suffice to say, it had the desired effect, and set her off. She charged toward him.
Her earring flew off and landed on the seat next to me. It was a large gold hoop, somewhat stylized, and suddenly intensely fascinating. I couldn't take my eyes off it.
This is where my tendency to compartmentalize confounds me. Part of my subconscious must have known that things were not right, and were not going to end well. The rest of the passengers sensed it as well, though somehow being seated in the midst of the confrontation, I remained bemused and detached.
Another part of my brain was fascinated with the earring. I've seen a million earrings before, what was so special about this one?
The fracas seemed to break up, with each side pulling their respective antagonist away. I breathed a small sigh of relief as the young woman walked past me to where she'd set her purse. Bowie sang of remembering standing by the wall. The earring no longer mattered.
I saw the second young woman say something to her friend, and the first one reached into her purse. A third part of my brain realized that this wasn't going to end well, setting screeching alarms of self-preservation off in my head. The rest of my brain was unperturbed.
I never saw what she took out of her purse, or really much of what happened next. As Bowie sang that we could be heroes, just for one day, she ran at the young man with the clever mouth. There were two pops.
The train pulled into the station jerking to a stop to the sound of the pops. The doors opened and pandemonium ensued. The third part of my brain was screaming to get off the train, to get out of the way, to get to safety.
The bemused part of my brain insisted that nothing was wrong. The young lady staggered past, and cried out "I've been shot." Bemused brain insisted that wasn't possible. It hadn't been loud enough. And what a ridiculous thing to say in any case.
I looked around to see that everyone else was scrambling to get out of the train and out of the young men's way as they raced out of the subway station. I watched the young woman collapse, as a spread of dark red stained the back of her white pants.
I stepped out of the train, nearly running into one of the fleeing assailants. I watched stupidly as he ran past. I did nothing.
I watched as the young woman lay crying on the floor. Her friend cried as she pressed a jacket to the wound. I did nothing.
My brain tried to process what had happened, still not believing that two shots had been fired from point blank range in a half full subway car, and that only one had hit, and that shot to the leg.
I gave my statement to the police, and decided to walk home. I thought that I should feel something more, fear or something appropriate. All I really felt was detached.
Though I didn't consciously feel anything, it took me a long time to get to sleep that night, and for the next few days. My brain tried to consolidate the incident into my life experience, to make sense of it.
I fantasized that I could have done something different. If I'd done something, maybe the girl wouldn't have been shot; not that she'd been entirely undeserving of what happened. I could have stepped in and defused the situation.
I could have tackled the young man who ran by me, and held him for the police.
I could have reacted differently. I could have done something that would have made the situation make sense. I could have done something.
In the end, I realized there was no lesson to be learned from what amounted to a random event. Stepping in could have resulted in getting either stabbed or shot.
Tackling the young man wasn't likely to have gone well either.
I did the only thing I could to take control of the situation. Eleven months later, I testified to my recollection of the events. I lost the arrogance that made me believe I would be heroic in a tense situation.
I'm just a normal guy, doing what a normal guy does to make it home.
Abandoned
Great Uncle Todd had lived and died here. The house reeked. The stench of old man, dust, and musty desperation assaulted my nostrils as I stepped through the door.
The house creaked ominously under at least thirty years of accumulated junk. There were narrow paths carved to and from the front door, bay window, a corner with a twelve gallon bucket and hot plate, plus a small spot for sitting on the overstuffed and ancient sofa.
I’d only met him once, just after I’d started grade school. My mom was aghast as Great Uncle Todd presented me with a cheque for seven dollars to start saving for college. I could tell that Unca Todd was not someone like the other adults I knew. He just didn’t fit in.
Home from school with no immediate job prospects, I’d been assigned to clean up his hovel, now that he was pushing up daisies. He’d died in the front room, rotted and mummified among the piles of papers, magazines and trash. It was nearly seven months before anyone checked up on him.
His entire five bed room, three story house was filled to rafters with junk, until he could only live in the front room, sleeping on a dingy cot, cooking canned food on a beat up hot plate, relieving himself in a bucket in the corner.
I’d arrived yesterday, opened the front door, and nearly passed out. I held my breath long enough to crack most of the windows I could get too, then locked the front door and found a motel. I hoped that a night of airing out would make the clean up process less unpleasant.
The left wall was dominated by soot stained brick fireplace, its mantle filled with porcelain and kewpie dolls, and a lone, one armed cabbage patch with its eyes punched out.
The back wall at first looked like it had several small heart and star shaped mirrors on it, but was actually one large mirror, painted over with the shapes scratched out of the paint.
The potty bucket was next to it, and on the right hand wall next to it was a narrow window, which looked to have been used to empty the bucket. There had been no running water here for over a decade, the coroner/funeral director had told me. Electricity had been cut off for longer than that.
Any doors out of this room were closed and blocked by junk, though one looked to have been nailed shut, boards criss-crossing it haphazardly.
The only other window looked out to the dooryard, and was covered with heavy, dark drapes. Empty cans once containing beans and spaghetti-o’s lay on the floor by the window, half kicked under a chair that Todd must have sat in while watching the world pass him by.
Judging by the smell, the cans contents had been replaced with mouse droppings. I picked one up tentatively, hoping the rubber gloves and the latex gloves beneath would keep me from getting lockjaw, or worse. The chef in the big white hat looked sea-sick.
I decided to start from the door, and slowly work my way in. The first stack of junk was newspapers, five feet high. The top date was New Year’s Day, 1999. I adjusted the dust mask I’d picked up; it was going to be a long day.
The house creaked ominously under at least thirty years of accumulated junk. There were narrow paths carved to and from the front door, bay window, a corner with a twelve gallon bucket and hot plate, plus a small spot for sitting on the overstuffed and ancient sofa.
I’d only met him once, just after I’d started grade school. My mom was aghast as Great Uncle Todd presented me with a cheque for seven dollars to start saving for college. I could tell that Unca Todd was not someone like the other adults I knew. He just didn’t fit in.
Home from school with no immediate job prospects, I’d been assigned to clean up his hovel, now that he was pushing up daisies. He’d died in the front room, rotted and mummified among the piles of papers, magazines and trash. It was nearly seven months before anyone checked up on him.
His entire five bed room, three story house was filled to rafters with junk, until he could only live in the front room, sleeping on a dingy cot, cooking canned food on a beat up hot plate, relieving himself in a bucket in the corner.
I’d arrived yesterday, opened the front door, and nearly passed out. I held my breath long enough to crack most of the windows I could get too, then locked the front door and found a motel. I hoped that a night of airing out would make the clean up process less unpleasant.
The left wall was dominated by soot stained brick fireplace, its mantle filled with porcelain and kewpie dolls, and a lone, one armed cabbage patch with its eyes punched out.
The back wall at first looked like it had several small heart and star shaped mirrors on it, but was actually one large mirror, painted over with the shapes scratched out of the paint.
The potty bucket was next to it, and on the right hand wall next to it was a narrow window, which looked to have been used to empty the bucket. There had been no running water here for over a decade, the coroner/funeral director had told me. Electricity had been cut off for longer than that.
Any doors out of this room were closed and blocked by junk, though one looked to have been nailed shut, boards criss-crossing it haphazardly.
The only other window looked out to the dooryard, and was covered with heavy, dark drapes. Empty cans once containing beans and spaghetti-o’s lay on the floor by the window, half kicked under a chair that Todd must have sat in while watching the world pass him by.
Judging by the smell, the cans contents had been replaced with mouse droppings. I picked one up tentatively, hoping the rubber gloves and the latex gloves beneath would keep me from getting lockjaw, or worse. The chef in the big white hat looked sea-sick.
I decided to start from the door, and slowly work my way in. The first stack of junk was newspapers, five feet high. The top date was New Year’s Day, 1999. I adjusted the dust mask I’d picked up; it was going to be a long day.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The End
They were plotting against me. Again. It was time for this to come to an end.
Watching from the edge of the platform, I could see the six of them standing there. His agents, dressed as they always were, in an innocuous melange. They were tall and small, all the same age, but blending in.
If I hadn't known they were after me, they would have looked like anyone else. I'd learned to interpret the signs, the seemingly casual gestures, the signals to the other Watchers and Plotters. They were after me; my cover was blown.
Adjusting my gloves, I prepared to make my move. They'd followed me in here, but I was sure they hadn't spotted me yet. My silver crucifix concealed me from their penetrating gaze.
I slid behind two of them as the train approached, swirling papers that had fallen to the tracks. The largest and the smallest, the brain and the brawn, the most dangerous of the six. If I could eliminate them, I'd be safe. The others would be too confused without their hive control to make a move.
Timing was to be crucial. I took a deep breath, adjusted my position. I am ready.
I shove the largest one, and he tumbles to the track. Quickly, I switch targets and shoulder the smallest onto the track. One of the other Watchers reaches out to catch the small one's elbow.
The train brakes screech. The Watchers scream. I push my way through the crowd, melting through as I've practiced so many times.
Panic erupts, and I ride the wave of passengers exiting the station. The route is plotted, and has been practiced many times. I run up the alley and across two yards, euphoria fueling me as my chest heaves.
Across the park, through the parking lot, and over the fence that separates the school from the street. Soon I will be safe. I throw my hat into a trash can behind the school.
Footfalls pound behind me. I'm being followed. I must shake this tail.
I don't dare glance behind. My lungs are burning. I can't breathe.
The world slants sideways. I crash to the ground. One of them is on top of me.
I am theirs. Undone. It is ended.
Watching from the edge of the platform, I could see the six of them standing there. His agents, dressed as they always were, in an innocuous melange. They were tall and small, all the same age, but blending in.
If I hadn't known they were after me, they would have looked like anyone else. I'd learned to interpret the signs, the seemingly casual gestures, the signals to the other Watchers and Plotters. They were after me; my cover was blown.
Adjusting my gloves, I prepared to make my move. They'd followed me in here, but I was sure they hadn't spotted me yet. My silver crucifix concealed me from their penetrating gaze.
I slid behind two of them as the train approached, swirling papers that had fallen to the tracks. The largest and the smallest, the brain and the brawn, the most dangerous of the six. If I could eliminate them, I'd be safe. The others would be too confused without their hive control to make a move.
Timing was to be crucial. I took a deep breath, adjusted my position. I am ready.
I shove the largest one, and he tumbles to the track. Quickly, I switch targets and shoulder the smallest onto the track. One of the other Watchers reaches out to catch the small one's elbow.
The train brakes screech. The Watchers scream. I push my way through the crowd, melting through as I've practiced so many times.
Panic erupts, and I ride the wave of passengers exiting the station. The route is plotted, and has been practiced many times. I run up the alley and across two yards, euphoria fueling me as my chest heaves.
Across the park, through the parking lot, and over the fence that separates the school from the street. Soon I will be safe. I throw my hat into a trash can behind the school.
Footfalls pound behind me. I'm being followed. I must shake this tail.
I don't dare glance behind. My lungs are burning. I can't breathe.
The world slants sideways. I crash to the ground. One of them is on top of me.
I am theirs. Undone. It is ended.
Friday, February 20, 2009
An Open Letter to My Sanity
Dear Impulse Control:
I just wanted to send you this short thank you note for all the work that you do day in and day out. It's not an easy job, to be sure, but I know Face appreciates how often you keep Mouth in check. The fact that we've only be hit a dozen or so times is a testament to your skill. We all know that Mouth is a handful.
Also, thank you for keeping control of Humour, especially his tendancy to tell jokes. We've all reviewed your helpful memo on when Jesus jokes are not appropriate (church, funerals, the subway, before everyone but the hardcore cynics have been put to bed).
We also reviewed the helpful memo about singing in public, and the fact that reworking lyrics to pop songs to be more suggestive or filthy is not appropriate at Wal-Mart. I know that Justin Timberlake is not singing about *my* sexy back, that Crabs is not an appropriate substitution for Fab, and that it is not alright to sing Hey Mr Vaseline Man, grab some lube for me. These are not appropriate song re-imaginings, especially in a public setting, just as 'hey shit-for-brains move your cart' is not an appropriate substitute for 'excuse me please, kind sir who is blocking the entire bloody aisle with your cart and behind while you debate the merits of chunky versus smooth peanut butter'. Even though the first is more succint and efficient.
But please know that we all love and appreciate you, no matter what. That being said, there's been a couple of lapses recently that have started to concern us all.
Let's just say that we're getting quite concerned about how close Hand comes to checking the element on the stove to see if it's on. There's no reason for Hand to touch the element, but there's been a couple of close calls recently. I don't think that we need to experience second degree burns to know that they hurt. This also applies to dishwater.
There's been an alarming increase in escapes by Mouth. The reply to someone's question as to why they can't figure their syllabus for Intro to Calculus should not have been a 'because you're an idiot' mumbled nowhere as near under our breath as it should have been. While 'I didn't ask for your attitude' fairly begged for a response, and while 'We didn't ask for yours either' was entirely appropriate, it really wasn't necessary, and certainly didn't add anything positive to the situation. I understand that it can be tiring constantly being on your guard, and that you catch more than you miss, but we are all concerned (especially Face) that Mouth is going to get us hurt one of these days.
Liver would also like to have a few words with you though, especially about the tequilla. My theory is that you're allergic to alcohol, which is why you are nowhere to be found when the bottle comes out. This can create uncomfortable situations for us all, especially Stomach when she has to turn herself inside out, and Inner Ear, when he can no longer tell up from down as the room seems to be spinning. Just keep in mind that it would be nice if you could man up every once in a while when a bottle comes out.
All in all though, great job.
Love,
Me
I just wanted to send you this short thank you note for all the work that you do day in and day out. It's not an easy job, to be sure, but I know Face appreciates how often you keep Mouth in check. The fact that we've only be hit a dozen or so times is a testament to your skill. We all know that Mouth is a handful.
Also, thank you for keeping control of Humour, especially his tendancy to tell jokes. We've all reviewed your helpful memo on when Jesus jokes are not appropriate (church, funerals, the subway, before everyone but the hardcore cynics have been put to bed).
We also reviewed the helpful memo about singing in public, and the fact that reworking lyrics to pop songs to be more suggestive or filthy is not appropriate at Wal-Mart. I know that Justin Timberlake is not singing about *my* sexy back, that Crabs is not an appropriate substitution for Fab, and that it is not alright to sing Hey Mr Vaseline Man, grab some lube for me. These are not appropriate song re-imaginings, especially in a public setting, just as 'hey shit-for-brains move your cart' is not an appropriate substitute for 'excuse me please, kind sir who is blocking the entire bloody aisle with your cart and behind while you debate the merits of chunky versus smooth peanut butter'. Even though the first is more succint and efficient.
But please know that we all love and appreciate you, no matter what. That being said, there's been a couple of lapses recently that have started to concern us all.
Let's just say that we're getting quite concerned about how close Hand comes to checking the element on the stove to see if it's on. There's no reason for Hand to touch the element, but there's been a couple of close calls recently. I don't think that we need to experience second degree burns to know that they hurt. This also applies to dishwater.
There's been an alarming increase in escapes by Mouth. The reply to someone's question as to why they can't figure their syllabus for Intro to Calculus should not have been a 'because you're an idiot' mumbled nowhere as near under our breath as it should have been. While 'I didn't ask for your attitude' fairly begged for a response, and while 'We didn't ask for yours either' was entirely appropriate, it really wasn't necessary, and certainly didn't add anything positive to the situation. I understand that it can be tiring constantly being on your guard, and that you catch more than you miss, but we are all concerned (especially Face) that Mouth is going to get us hurt one of these days.
Liver would also like to have a few words with you though, especially about the tequilla. My theory is that you're allergic to alcohol, which is why you are nowhere to be found when the bottle comes out. This can create uncomfortable situations for us all, especially Stomach when she has to turn herself inside out, and Inner Ear, when he can no longer tell up from down as the room seems to be spinning. Just keep in mind that it would be nice if you could man up every once in a while when a bottle comes out.
All in all though, great job.
Love,
Me
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Not a Christmas Story, Written over Christmas
He awoke from the dream. Pain bubbled up, dulling conscious thought. Moments passed, as he summoned the concentration needed to open his eyes. Ronnie was there as always, hair the colour of stoked coals, complimenting his ashen complexion. Her hard beautiful face betrayed only traces of concern.
“Bad night?”
“Very.” He tested his breathing. Shallow was okay, anything deeper than a half breath brought lancing pain that set off fireworks at the corner of his vision. It looked as though this would be his best day in quite a while.
Daniel Cyr was dying. He’d been dying his entire life but more-so during the past twelve years. He’d held on as long as he had, through pain that often made him doubt his sanity, for twelve years, three hundred and sixty four days. Today marked the thirteenth year, one for each of his son’s victims.
He’d never been much of a father. The kids’ mother had done most of the parenting while he’d been chained to a desk processing claims for a mid-sized insurance company. He was strictly a weekend parent, and not much of one at that. Still, he had managed to raise a dentist, a lawyer and a serial killer.
Jonathon Devon Cyr, better known as Devon the Devil, had killed twelve young women. Butchered them really, and then forced each successive one to eat part of a prior victim. Countless books had been written about him, examining everything from his past and childhood to determine how an otherwise average middle class teacher could turn to murder and mayhem.
When the police had knocked on Dan’s door that cold October morning over a decade ago to ask if he knew Johnnie’s whereabouts, Dan hadn’t been surprised. He’d always suspected something was wrong with that kid. There was something creepy and off; neither his brother nor sister had ever wanted to spend any time with him. His mother had noticed, but never treated any of the kids different. This led Dan to believe that he *had* to have been the cause.
“How’s the pain so far?” Ronnie asked.
“One click,” he replied, setting down the clicker which with a simple flex of his thumb sent morphine into his system. He limited himself to one click an hour at most, no matter how bad the pain. He didn’t like the way morphine dulled his thoughts, completely opposite to how the agony crystallized them. And he felt that he was due a little agony, to in some small way make up for those twelve young women.
Ronnie’s thin lips were set in a disapproving line. Though they’d never discussed his reasons, she knew why he didn’t click more often. But she knew.
Today was going to be a big day. Twenty-two miles away, in roughly forty minutes, Johnnie would be strapped to a gurney, his arm wiped with antiseptic, and a needle would be inserted. A few moments after that, a fatal cocktail would be coursing through his veins, slowly bringing his heart to a stop.
This would all happen in full view of parents of his victims. Not all of them, Dan was sure, but at least some. He’d gotten to know the families, in an odd way, over the past twenty years. First at the trial, that they’d all attended every day, then through the constant appeals, and then that one final appeal. He’d also come to know them through the interviews and books.
It wasn’t the same as talking to them face to face, but he had come to know them.
After the call came through, the call that would finally signal that his nightmare son’s life was over, Dan planned to give the morphine dispenser ten clicks, and drink his own cocktail, one of lye, arsenic, and the cheap vodka that the tea-totalling Ronnie had tucked beside his bedside.
“Are you going to be okay without me?”
Ronnie nodded. She knew he had to do this, and there was no point in discussing it. She would miss him, but she loved him too much to watch him extend his suffering any longer.
Dan knew that she was too good for him, that he didn’t deserve the kind of love that she had for him. His first wife had loved him too much too, and because of that he’d given into her white picket fantasies of the perfect nuclear family.
That fantasy had ended with twelve dead young women.
Dan and Ronnie passed their last minutes together sitting in a companionable silence, with the occasional dry jab at one another. Though she looked mirthless, Ronnie’s dark eyes would occasionally take on a roguish glint, and her wicked wit would unleash a charm attack that would leave him gasping for air. Then, and only then, was the pain welcome.
The phone rang.
“It’s time.”
Ronnie nodded and rose. They’d agreed that she’d leave the room, so there could be no repercussions. Death was not a right, and helping someone achieve it, regardless of their circumstances was still something most people couldn’t or wouldn’t understand.
“I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too.”
In fifteen minutes, a combination of morphine, lye, arsenic and cheap vodka claimed Jonathon Devon Cyr’s last victim, a full twenty minutes after the monster himself had slipped loose of the bonds of this life, and descended into hell. Devon’s only question now was whether his father/creator would follow him.
Dan closed his eyes. He slipped gratefully back into the dream.
“Bad night?”
“Very.” He tested his breathing. Shallow was okay, anything deeper than a half breath brought lancing pain that set off fireworks at the corner of his vision. It looked as though this would be his best day in quite a while.
Daniel Cyr was dying. He’d been dying his entire life but more-so during the past twelve years. He’d held on as long as he had, through pain that often made him doubt his sanity, for twelve years, three hundred and sixty four days. Today marked the thirteenth year, one for each of his son’s victims.
He’d never been much of a father. The kids’ mother had done most of the parenting while he’d been chained to a desk processing claims for a mid-sized insurance company. He was strictly a weekend parent, and not much of one at that. Still, he had managed to raise a dentist, a lawyer and a serial killer.
Jonathon Devon Cyr, better known as Devon the Devil, had killed twelve young women. Butchered them really, and then forced each successive one to eat part of a prior victim. Countless books had been written about him, examining everything from his past and childhood to determine how an otherwise average middle class teacher could turn to murder and mayhem.
When the police had knocked on Dan’s door that cold October morning over a decade ago to ask if he knew Johnnie’s whereabouts, Dan hadn’t been surprised. He’d always suspected something was wrong with that kid. There was something creepy and off; neither his brother nor sister had ever wanted to spend any time with him. His mother had noticed, but never treated any of the kids different. This led Dan to believe that he *had* to have been the cause.
“How’s the pain so far?” Ronnie asked.
“One click,” he replied, setting down the clicker which with a simple flex of his thumb sent morphine into his system. He limited himself to one click an hour at most, no matter how bad the pain. He didn’t like the way morphine dulled his thoughts, completely opposite to how the agony crystallized them. And he felt that he was due a little agony, to in some small way make up for those twelve young women.
Ronnie’s thin lips were set in a disapproving line. Though they’d never discussed his reasons, she knew why he didn’t click more often. But she knew.
Today was going to be a big day. Twenty-two miles away, in roughly forty minutes, Johnnie would be strapped to a gurney, his arm wiped with antiseptic, and a needle would be inserted. A few moments after that, a fatal cocktail would be coursing through his veins, slowly bringing his heart to a stop.
This would all happen in full view of parents of his victims. Not all of them, Dan was sure, but at least some. He’d gotten to know the families, in an odd way, over the past twenty years. First at the trial, that they’d all attended every day, then through the constant appeals, and then that one final appeal. He’d also come to know them through the interviews and books.
It wasn’t the same as talking to them face to face, but he had come to know them.
After the call came through, the call that would finally signal that his nightmare son’s life was over, Dan planned to give the morphine dispenser ten clicks, and drink his own cocktail, one of lye, arsenic, and the cheap vodka that the tea-totalling Ronnie had tucked beside his bedside.
“Are you going to be okay without me?”
Ronnie nodded. She knew he had to do this, and there was no point in discussing it. She would miss him, but she loved him too much to watch him extend his suffering any longer.
Dan knew that she was too good for him, that he didn’t deserve the kind of love that she had for him. His first wife had loved him too much too, and because of that he’d given into her white picket fantasies of the perfect nuclear family.
That fantasy had ended with twelve dead young women.
Dan and Ronnie passed their last minutes together sitting in a companionable silence, with the occasional dry jab at one another. Though she looked mirthless, Ronnie’s dark eyes would occasionally take on a roguish glint, and her wicked wit would unleash a charm attack that would leave him gasping for air. Then, and only then, was the pain welcome.
The phone rang.
“It’s time.”
Ronnie nodded and rose. They’d agreed that she’d leave the room, so there could be no repercussions. Death was not a right, and helping someone achieve it, regardless of their circumstances was still something most people couldn’t or wouldn’t understand.
“I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too.”
In fifteen minutes, a combination of morphine, lye, arsenic and cheap vodka claimed Jonathon Devon Cyr’s last victim, a full twenty minutes after the monster himself had slipped loose of the bonds of this life, and descended into hell. Devon’s only question now was whether his father/creator would follow him.
Dan closed his eyes. He slipped gratefully back into the dream.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Short Scene
This was written as an assignment for a writing class. It's supposed to be part of a larger piece; I envision it as somewhere near the end of the first act.
The formating is going to be awful, just as a warning.
Scene: Open stage, with the base of the gibbet visible, extending upwards to the rafters. A single narrow open staircase winds its way around the scaffolding.
JON STOCKTON stands at the base of an elaborate gallows, in full uniform.
A GUARD enters SL, leading MALCOLM ST. JAMES by a leash and metal collar.
GUARD
Watch ‘im, ‘e bites.
MALCOLM
You liked it though, just a little bit. I could see it in your eyes sweetie.
GUARD
(pause)
So, ye gonna take ‘im?
JON
What’s the exchange protocol?
GUARD
Uh right. I hereby transfers this prisoner to yer hands, duly convicted by Our Republic of crimes against her Citizens.
JON
I accept the transfer Citizen. I will hold this man’s soul until it is consigned to hell. You are dismissed.
GUARD exits SL
MALCOLM
Listen to the roar of my people, clamouring to see me.
JON
Be quiet Convict 24604.
MALCOLM
You almost make me want to break into song... are you to be my Javert? Will you pursue me wherever I go?
JON
You’re going nowhere but up the gallows, then a quick trip down Convict.
MALCOLM
All for stealing a loaf of bread.
JON
Be quiet Convict.
MALCOLM
Or maybe it’s the bakery I burned down. And the thirty people in it.
JON
Citizens.
MALCOLM
Sorry, citizens. If I’d killed 30 People I’d be congratulated. Actually, I’d likely be you. How many have you killed Citizen Politic?
JON
(ashamed)
I am not Citizen Politic.
MALCOLM
Delightful! You do their dirty work, and they won’t admit you to the body.
JON
I will be. At least I’m not a murderer and agent of chaos.
MALCOLM
Ah, Javert, but you are. You are a killer for the state. A murderer of freedom and free thought. Why do you do these things? What do you hope to gain Javert?
JON
Why do you call me that. What does that name mean? Where did you learn it?
MALCOLM
Inquisitive for a Citizen. I call you that because you are my jailer; that is what it means. I learned it from a book.
JON
Liar. Books are forbidden, they were all destroyed.
MALCOLM
Ah yes… the Republic is afraid of knowledge. Do you suppose that’s why I’m being hung? To kill the knowledge in my head?
JON
The Republic does what is right for us.
MALCOLM
By putting to death a murderer?
JON
Yes
MALCOLM
And doesn’t that make the Republic a murderer? And shouldn’t she be put to death?
JON
Be quiet Convict.
MALCOLM
Ah yes. The agent of chaos must be quiet. Can’t have someone questioning our Lady Republic. Can’t question how amongst all this enforced order, someone who kills for sport can exist.
JON
You killed thirty Citizens and destroyed Republic property. You deserve death. You can’t question.
MALCOLM
I killed three hundred and fifty People before I killed those thirty Citizens. No one cared about that.
JON
Three hundred fifty? Exactly?
MALCOLM
Yes Javert. Exactly.
JON
You were like me?
MALCOLM
Yes Javert. Exactly. By the end I had a taste for it. And I bet you will too.
JON
Not possible.
MALCOLM
Completely possible. And then I found books; I found books and learned that it wasn’t always this way. Our Lady Republic and her Patrician Priests and Magistrate Ministers, her God-loving Governors and Inquisitors are not the way it has to be.
JON
But Chaos…
MALCOLM
Chaos is another word for Freedom. Freedom to think, to dream, to live. I found freedom, the freedom to kill whomever I wanted, until what I wanted to kill was Citizens. And when that happened, regardless of how many I’d killed before, only then was I stopped. Only in a world as terrible as this, in a society so corrupt, could someone like me exist, and not make people want to burn it all down.
ANNOUNCER (OS)
Now, Convict 24604, to be hanged by the neck until he is dead.
The CROWD cheers.
MALCOLM
See how excited they are? See what appeal death holds? Hear how hungry they are for Chaos?
JON
You must repent.
MALCOLM
(moves towards the steps of the gallows)
Would it matter? Is the problem me?
JON
You must repent!
MALCOLM
(moves up steps)
Our Lady Republic should join me in repentance.
JON
Your soul is in peril! Beg forgiveness in her eyes. You must repent!
MALCOLM
My people await. Be yourself, Javert. There’s no shame in bucking the status quo.
JON
She will grant forgiveness! She can save your soul.
MALCOLM
But who can save hers? Who would want to? (exits up the steps)
The formating is going to be awful, just as a warning.
Scene: Open stage, with the base of the gibbet visible, extending upwards to the rafters. A single narrow open staircase winds its way around the scaffolding.
JON STOCKTON stands at the base of an elaborate gallows, in full uniform.
A GUARD enters SL, leading MALCOLM ST. JAMES by a leash and metal collar.
GUARD
Watch ‘im, ‘e bites.
MALCOLM
You liked it though, just a little bit. I could see it in your eyes sweetie.
GUARD
(pause)
So, ye gonna take ‘im?
JON
What’s the exchange protocol?
GUARD
Uh right. I hereby transfers this prisoner to yer hands, duly convicted by Our Republic of crimes against her Citizens.
JON
I accept the transfer Citizen. I will hold this man’s soul until it is consigned to hell. You are dismissed.
GUARD exits SL
MALCOLM
Listen to the roar of my people, clamouring to see me.
JON
Be quiet Convict 24604.
MALCOLM
You almost make me want to break into song... are you to be my Javert? Will you pursue me wherever I go?
JON
You’re going nowhere but up the gallows, then a quick trip down Convict.
MALCOLM
All for stealing a loaf of bread.
JON
Be quiet Convict.
MALCOLM
Or maybe it’s the bakery I burned down. And the thirty people in it.
JON
Citizens.
MALCOLM
Sorry, citizens. If I’d killed 30 People I’d be congratulated. Actually, I’d likely be you. How many have you killed Citizen Politic?
JON
(ashamed)
I am not Citizen Politic.
MALCOLM
Delightful! You do their dirty work, and they won’t admit you to the body.
JON
I will be. At least I’m not a murderer and agent of chaos.
MALCOLM
Ah, Javert, but you are. You are a killer for the state. A murderer of freedom and free thought. Why do you do these things? What do you hope to gain Javert?
JON
Why do you call me that. What does that name mean? Where did you learn it?
MALCOLM
Inquisitive for a Citizen. I call you that because you are my jailer; that is what it means. I learned it from a book.
JON
Liar. Books are forbidden, they were all destroyed.
MALCOLM
Ah yes… the Republic is afraid of knowledge. Do you suppose that’s why I’m being hung? To kill the knowledge in my head?
JON
The Republic does what is right for us.
MALCOLM
By putting to death a murderer?
JON
Yes
MALCOLM
And doesn’t that make the Republic a murderer? And shouldn’t she be put to death?
JON
Be quiet Convict.
MALCOLM
Ah yes. The agent of chaos must be quiet. Can’t have someone questioning our Lady Republic. Can’t question how amongst all this enforced order, someone who kills for sport can exist.
JON
You killed thirty Citizens and destroyed Republic property. You deserve death. You can’t question.
MALCOLM
I killed three hundred and fifty People before I killed those thirty Citizens. No one cared about that.
JON
Three hundred fifty? Exactly?
MALCOLM
Yes Javert. Exactly.
JON
You were like me?
MALCOLM
Yes Javert. Exactly. By the end I had a taste for it. And I bet you will too.
JON
Not possible.
MALCOLM
Completely possible. And then I found books; I found books and learned that it wasn’t always this way. Our Lady Republic and her Patrician Priests and Magistrate Ministers, her God-loving Governors and Inquisitors are not the way it has to be.
JON
But Chaos…
MALCOLM
Chaos is another word for Freedom. Freedom to think, to dream, to live. I found freedom, the freedom to kill whomever I wanted, until what I wanted to kill was Citizens. And when that happened, regardless of how many I’d killed before, only then was I stopped. Only in a world as terrible as this, in a society so corrupt, could someone like me exist, and not make people want to burn it all down.
ANNOUNCER (OS)
Now, Convict 24604, to be hanged by the neck until he is dead.
The CROWD cheers.
MALCOLM
See how excited they are? See what appeal death holds? Hear how hungry they are for Chaos?
JON
You must repent.
MALCOLM
(moves towards the steps of the gallows)
Would it matter? Is the problem me?
JON
You must repent!
MALCOLM
(moves up steps)
Our Lady Republic should join me in repentance.
JON
Your soul is in peril! Beg forgiveness in her eyes. You must repent!
MALCOLM
My people await. Be yourself, Javert. There’s no shame in bucking the status quo.
JON
She will grant forgiveness! She can save your soul.
MALCOLM
But who can save hers? Who would want to? (exits up the steps)
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Coming Home
My mom was exactly twenty-six and one-half when I died. I know exactly cause her birthday is the first of July, just like Canada. I died on January one. Shitty way to start the year, my grampy said while they cried together. My family was me, my mom, my grampy and grammy. But my grammy died when I was a baby, from shame Missus Thompson said. She's our neighbour and she's mean. Grampy said she was the town busybody and working on being the town drunk. Mom would tell him to hush his mouth and not to be mean. But Grampy wasn't mean, Missus Thompson was.
Mom married Eldon Ryan when I was in grade one. I got to be the flower girl and the maid of honor, which means I got a pretty dress and got to stand by Father Mac who's really Father Mackenzie but everyone calls him Father Mac. Mom asked me one day if it would be okay if Eldon was my new dad. I said how could he be my new dad, cause I didn't have an old one did I? Mom's eyes got real sad, and Grampy told me we were going to go wash up for dinner, and if I was good we could have ice cream for dessert.
When Grampy and me went for ice cream, I asked him if Mom thought I was lonely and that's why she wanted me to have a dad. Grampy got quiet for a minute, then he told me that sometimes grown-ups got lonely, and they needed someone to talk to and hug and kiss like the grown-ups on the TV. When we got home I told Mom it was okay if she was lonely and wanted a boy to talk to and kiss. So Mom kissed Eldon in front of Father Mac and me and Grampy and Eldon's mom and they were married.
Tommy Ryan who was Eldon's little cousin, but he wasn't little cause he was the biggest kid in the fourth grade, told me that his mom told him that I was a bastard child which is why my eyes are different from everyone. My left eye is blue and my right eye is greenie-brown. I didn't know for sure what bastard child was, but I knew it wasn't good from how he said it, and how everyone went ooooh. So I punched his nose bloody, and got sent to Principal Wood's office. Everyone laughed at Tommy cause he got beat up by a girl and a second grader at that.
Principal Wood called Grampy cause Mom was at work, and Grampy was his fishing buddy. Grampy was pretty mad at me until I told him what Tommy Ryan said. Grampy asked me if I knew what it meant, and I told him I didn't. I hadn't seen it in any of the books he gave me, and I read a lot. Grampy taught me how to read when I was three, and every morning I used to read him the first page of the newspaper while we were waiting for the school bus. He told me that a bastard was a child who didn't know who their father was, and I got real scared and started to cry.
Principal Wood wanted to know why I was crying, and I said that now I had to apologize to Tommy Ryan. I said I punched him 'cause I thought he was lying. But he wasn't, cause I didn't know who my father was, so now I had to apologize; it wasn't right to punch people when they were telling the truth. Grampy smiled and said that just this once it was okay, and I didn't need to apologize. I was glad, 'cause Tommy Ryan was a big jerk. He’d always been a big jerk, ever since kindergarten, when he made fun of my eyes. He said only dogs had eyes that were different colours. My grampy said that some dogs do have eyes of different colours, but only the really special ones. Just like people with different coloured eyes are special too. But this isn’t really a story about me. It’s a story about my mom and my real dad, and how they met again when my mom was twenty-seven.
**********
Fat October snowflakes danced a lazy foxtrot, coating Thomas Edward Nickerson’s head, shoulders and duffle. It wasn’t unusual for snow to come off the bay in late October, but the occasional bolt of lightning from a further off storm served to eerily light the sky. If Ten, as he’d always been called, was slightly more superstitious, he would have thought it a bad omen. If he were slightly less, he’d be wearing a coffin rather than civilian garb for the first time in four years. As it was, the scars ached from the drastic change in temperature, scars both physical and not.
The news had taken its sweet time getting to him, and his dad had been in the ground for two months at least, buried before the trees had thought of turning, let alone shed their leaves. Two days prior he’d gotten news that his mother had died three weeks earlier. There was no chance his father had died of grief for a lost spouse - they’d all hated the woman with equal levels of venom.
The house was his sister’s now; being the only one left. He hadn’t seen her since he’d left eight years earlier, though they’d stayed in constant contact by letter and email up until he was deployed. They hadn’t really communicated much since then.
Best to rip it off, rather than linger, he thought, climbing the steps.
“Leave the beer on the back porch Hope,” the tall man puttering in the kitchen announced on hearing the door open. He moved with practiced ease, though Ten knew he’d lost his eyesight to shrapnel three years earlier.
“Not Hope Jude.”
“Sunnova… when’d you get back?” Jude Marr turned, eyes covered with pirate style patches with deep blue eyes painted on them.
“Just now. What are you doing in Sophie’s house?”
Jude kept taking dishes from the caddy beside the sink and putting them in the appropriate cupboard. “Your sis and I have been shacking up since I got back, more or less.”
“More or less?”
“More more than less.”
In the way that men with a common bond do, Ten got right to the point. “Is she happy?”
“As much as can be expected, you know, considering.”
“And he’s a lot to do with that,” Sophie announced from the doorway. She looked her brother up and down, and cracked a smile. “You’re getting snow on my clean floors.”
Where her brother embodied everything that was conservative in appearance, Sophie Elise Nickerson was the opposite, and had been since puberty. She was the wild (looking) child in town, with variously purple, red and gold hair. She was currently sporting a platinum blonde coif more reminiscent of Billy Idol than anything.
“Looking good kiddo.”
“Nice to know you’re still alive,” she replied crashing into her elder brother, enveloping him in a breathing restrictive hug “I missed you,” she whispered.
“Nice to still be alive,” he whispered back.
A long moment passed, until Jude cleared his throat. “Don’t keep the blind guy is suspense, okay. Did one of you kill the other or what?”
“Beatings will start tomorrow,” Sophie replied. “Can you keep him out of trouble while I finish up upstairs?” It wasn’t clear who she was talking to or about, but didn’t bother to clarify, whirlwind that she was.
“Beer?”
“Beer.” Ten took the proffered beverage, marveling at Jude’s ability to adapt to his blindness. “You, uh… Have you been, I mean have you and Soph been thinking about, settling down or anything like that?”
“I talked to your dad before he died, and he was happy that Sophie and me were together. He gave me permission to ‘do right by her’ the day before... Sorry man, it’s gotta suck coming back to this.”
Ten sighed. What sucked was coming back at all. To say that he’d left on bad terms with his parents was the understatement of the decade. There were others that had been left in the lurch as well, including…
“Wait, did you call me Hope when I came in?”
The blood drained from Jude’s face and a glass crashed to the floor.
**********
Hope Elizabeth White slammed the door to her old clunker, moved to the passenger side, opened the door and grabbed the case of beer she’d been tasked with picking up. Like a hundred times before, she got a brief feeling of Natasha; a scent, a whisper in the dark from her dead daughter. Like a hundred times before, the weight of that loss crashed down on her. Like a hundred times before, she steeled herself seconds too late.
As the wracking sobs subsided to merely heaving, the requisite second wave hit her. It had been three hundred and one days. Three hundred and one days and she didn’t have enough left to mourn for the man that had been her husband.
Her father had died at the beginning of the summer, broken-hearted and listless having lost the light of his life and his best friend. He hadn’t had tears left to cry for his son-in-law either. Hope had no tears for him, just a deep ache in her heart for having no one to share the loss with.
Wiping her eyes with the heels of her mitten clad hands with a practiced motion, she was set. She’d stopped wearing mascara to avoid raccoon eyes, at least until some time, likely in the distant future, where she wouldn’t burst into tears at the drop of a hat. Any hat, any time, anywhere.
Gritting her teeth, she headed for the back porch. She’d promised Sophie that she’d pick up beer on the way home for the party, though she didn’t think she’d be good company. Soph had insisted that she move in after her dad died; having lost her own father a few months later.
Sophie had Jude to lean on, and Jude, Sophie. Jude was not the same man Hope had grown up with. Being over there had changed him in ways more profound than taking his sight. The acid tongue and sarcastic retort were tempered now, the formerly well-hidden caring heart more often visible.
None-the-less it had been strange moving into the house that she’d spent so much time in growing up, especially during their teenage years. Sophie was a few years younger, but still managed to mostly fit in. Mainly because Ten wouldn’t have it any other way.
She mounted the stairs carefully, slowing her breathing and hoping that it wouldn’t look like she’d been crying. Sophie wouldn’t say anything, and Jude usually couldn’t tell so long as she kept her voice steady. It was still embarrassing to be bursting into tears a couple of times a day, regardless of how justified it was.
She slid the case under the bench, and tapped the snow off her boots, and slid through the door.
Reflexively, Jude’s head swiveled toward the door, and as Hope took her boots off she noticed he was holding a broom.
“That part of your costume? And yes, I left the beer on the porch to cool.”
A tall lean man, almost unrecognizable stood from behind the kitchen island, holding a dustpan with the remnants of a glass in it.
“Hi.”
“Hi Ten.”
“Oh shit,” Sophie skidded into the room, having heard the back door open. There was no chance to cushion the blow. “Hey, I didn’t think you’d be back for another couple of hours.”
“And you were going to sneak your brother out of here before I got back?”
Ten cleared his throat. “Look, you’ve got every right to be pissed at me. That’s why I’m back, to try and make amends.”
“You have no idea Ten. I’m glad you’re not dead, but you can go back to wherever the hell you came from.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You can shove sorry up your ass.”
“Minefield man,” Jude muttered quietly, praying Hope wouldn’t hear him.
“Shut up Ray Charles.” No such luck. He could tell from Hope’s tone that she was more pissed than usual.
Sophie placed her pinkies in her mouth and let out a loud whistle. “Enough. Hope, go upstairs and get ready for this party. I’ll be up in a minute.” She pointed to Ten, “You park your ass in the living room; I’ll get to you in a minute.”
“And me?” Jude asked.
“Stand there and look cute sweetie. And try not to break any more dishes.”
“You’ve got it luv.” Jude sighed as he heard Hope and Ten leave the room, slowed only by a brief and awkward dance at the door. It seemed like Hope won out as he heard her climb the stairs before the sofa cushions creaked. Sophie kissed him on the cheek.
“I know you’re trying to help him, but they’ve got to sort this out.”
He wrapped his arms around her small frame. “Shouldn’t we tell him what’s been going on?”
Sophie lowered her voice. “He needs to know why she’s a mess, but not his part in it. That’s hers to tell him if she wants.”
“Sweetie, it’s the most open secret…”
“But he hasn’t been around. He couldn’t know. And if she doesn’t want to tell him, that’s her decision.”
Jude grinned. “Got this all planned out don’t you. You’ve been thinking about this a lot?”
“It was bound to happen, and it’s better to prepared than not. It’s gonna blow up in someone’s face, I’d just prefer if it weren’t ours.”
“Is it any wonder why I love you?” He kissed her noisily for a moment before a voice drifted from the living room.
“Still my sister, guy.”
**********
An hour later Ten had been briefed on the events of the last year, particularly relating to Hope, and New Year’s Day. He felt terrible; who wouldn’t? It explained a great deal about her behaviour. They’d always been on the same wavelength when they were younger, it was part of the reason that they’d worked so well together. The running joke had been that they shared a brain, so often were they able to complete each other’s sentences.
She felt like a stranger to him now. The part of his life that was missing, the biggest reason he had come back, was still missing. And he was probably a stranger to her. He’d seen and done so many things he’d never imagined during the long nights they shared a hammock and stared at the stars.
The walks by the harbour in the fog, the nights so cold, the air so clear you could see across the bay, these were things enjoyed by someone else. He wasn’t that angry kid any more. He hadn’t been that angry kid in a long time. It seemed she wasn’t that effervescent girl with the sardonic smile who could draw him out of any funk.
“Jesus Jude, how the hell is she still standing?”
“She's a tough chick man. She loved that kid like... hell there's no comparison to anything. That kid was life to her. And a sweet kid too. Everyone loved her.”
Ten felt there was something more to the story. Something else that he wasn't being told; he couldn't trust that feeling though, he was just too overwhelmed.
The doorbell interrupted that train of thought, and Jude motioned for him to get the door. The first of the guests had arrived.
It took less than an hour and a half for Ten to become chronically tired of explaining where he'd been for the last seven odd years. The issue with a town as small as the Harbour was the fact that it was so damn small. He'd reflected on that fact a number of times in his life. There was a complete lack anonimity.
Everyone was up in everyone else's business as his father had often said. There were really no secrets in a town of this size, at least not any that lasted a significant amount of time. The reason for a lack of secrets ranged from idle chatter to malicious gossip and everything in between.
When he was younger, he had hated it. He'd been called to task, caught doing things he shouldn't have been, and seen in the company of those that were verbotten to him. The longer he'd been away, the more he had missed it. The anonimity in the cities he'd been in and in the military had led to a feeling of disconnect. At first, it had been exhilerating, a feeling of freedom, like a kite that has broken it's string, and he soared without restriction, without outside control.
That euphoric sensation had faded as of late, starting with the fateful patrol. Two inches and a half second was the difference between life and death. After that day, he'd lost the stomach needed for grand adventure.
He watched the mingling at the party from the safety of the outside. Though he'd given up on adventure in favour of what he thought of as the familiar, this place wasn't familiar any more. True, he knew these people, he'd grown up with them. And some hadn't changed in the time that he'd been gone, still living and behaving as they had in high school.
But others, like Hope, had changed significantly.
He watched her as she mixed with the others; they all knew what had happened, but treated her much the same as they always had. He was the outsider now, treated with kid gloves, treated as though he was From Away.
From Away was a hard concept to pin down. There were those that had moved to the Harbour and whithin a generation were considered as locals. There were those born and raised there, their parents born and raised there, but were still considered as outsiders.
He'd never understood it, but had instinctively known. Known that he was From Away, despite the fact his father had been born and raised in the Harbour. He'd gone away to school, and come back with a wife from elsewhere, a wife who had never fit into the town, and had resented being stuck in what she saw as a backwater. His father had lost his local status, and both Ten and Sophie had been labeled as From Away.
Hope hadn’t ever cared about that. The vast majority still did; even those of his generation. It was an oddity of small towns.
Ten watched as she moved to the kitchen, and he trailed behind. He needed to talk to her. Sophie intercepted him.
“If you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do, then don’t screw it up.”
“I’ll do my best sis.”
Ten squeezed through the crowd, threading the needle to make it through the kitchen door. There was no sign of Hope there, but he knew where she would be. The old swing on the porch, as clichéd as it was, was a spot where they’d spent a lot of time.
“Figures I’d find you here.”
“I thought you might want to talk. I don’t have the energy to be pissed at you Ten.”
“Look, I’m sorry…”
“Don’t. You don’t get to say that. You lost the right to be anything about me when you took off.”
This was taking a decidedly downward turn, he thought.
“I am though. More than you can ever know.”
They sat in tense, not even remotely companionable silence. There was a gulf between them, one that had grown in the years apart. Absence, apparently, did not always make the heart grow fonder. For two people who had been so close, it was painful for this gap to exist between them. The scab had grown over their relationship, and proximity was ripping it off.
For Hope, already raw, it could have been too much to bear. But she had faced so much, so quickly that she was simply numb.
“Would you tell me about… her?” It occurred to Ten that he didn’t even know the little girls name.
“What do you want to know?”
“What she was like, her likes, dislikes. I’d like to know her.” Ten could feel the words taking over. It was his habit when nervous, to fill the empty spaces with conversation. He was more nervous than usual now; empty spaces were new to their relationship. “She was important to you, and…”
“She had your eyes.”
“…I want to know her. Sorry, what did you just say?”
Hope blinked twice, holding in tears.
The seconds drew out like so much taffy, exquisitely sweet with pain as Ten processed the bombshell that left him gobsmacked. The ice pick driven between his eyes was rivaled only by the pain of his shrinking heart.
“She was… She was...” One blue eye and one hazel one darted back and forth, trying to comprehend.
“She was ours.”
The thought of being a father had never crossed his mind. Unlike Sophie, Ten had never wanted to be a parent just to prove to his own that he could do it better. He’d always thought that was a pretty rotten reason to be a parent, and wasn’t willing to subject another human being to being raised in that environment. Despite that, he knew that Sophie would be a great mother. He wasn’t sure that he had the self-sacrifice necessary to be a parent.
To find out that he was, or had been, a father, without knowing took some time to process.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You took off without a word, and I knew how you felt about kids. It was easier to just deal with it on my own.”
“So you married Eldon Ryan?”
“Shut up. You never liked him, but he was there for me when no one else was. And he was a great dad.”
“Did you love him?”
The furrow in her brow said no.
“Then why…”
“You get to ask that question when I get a good answer to why you took off.”
Ten nodded, that was fair enough.
“So where do we go from here?”
**********
They tried to make it work, they really did. But my Mom and my real Dad just couldn’t get it together enough to stay together for a long time. Grampy says it’s ‘cause sometimes people love each other too much, and it just makes it too hard for them to be together.
My real dad went back to being a soldier, though he didn’t really want to. He was different though, at least that’s what everyone said. He was quieter, calmer, and not as sure of himself.
Mom didn’t really do anything. She kept living with Sophie and Jude, kept working, and kept crying. It got harder for her after she found out that Sophie was going to have a baby. I guess she misses me a lot. I miss her too, but I want her to be happy. Grampy says that she just doesn’t know how to be happy any more.
After Sophie’s baby came, Mom got a little better. But she was still sad a lot of the time.
Then my dad came back again. He said that he was in the middle of a firefight, and that was the first time that his head had been quiet enough that he could hear his heart.
“I want to come home,” he told her. “Home is where you are. I'm sorry that I...” Well, he said a bad word there, one that I'm not allowed to say. “... but you are home to me.”
Maybe this time they’ll make it work. Grampy says that love is hard. I don't know about that. I think that love is only as hard as you make it.
Mom married Eldon Ryan when I was in grade one. I got to be the flower girl and the maid of honor, which means I got a pretty dress and got to stand by Father Mac who's really Father Mackenzie but everyone calls him Father Mac. Mom asked me one day if it would be okay if Eldon was my new dad. I said how could he be my new dad, cause I didn't have an old one did I? Mom's eyes got real sad, and Grampy told me we were going to go wash up for dinner, and if I was good we could have ice cream for dessert.
When Grampy and me went for ice cream, I asked him if Mom thought I was lonely and that's why she wanted me to have a dad. Grampy got quiet for a minute, then he told me that sometimes grown-ups got lonely, and they needed someone to talk to and hug and kiss like the grown-ups on the TV. When we got home I told Mom it was okay if she was lonely and wanted a boy to talk to and kiss. So Mom kissed Eldon in front of Father Mac and me and Grampy and Eldon's mom and they were married.
Tommy Ryan who was Eldon's little cousin, but he wasn't little cause he was the biggest kid in the fourth grade, told me that his mom told him that I was a bastard child which is why my eyes are different from everyone. My left eye is blue and my right eye is greenie-brown. I didn't know for sure what bastard child was, but I knew it wasn't good from how he said it, and how everyone went ooooh. So I punched his nose bloody, and got sent to Principal Wood's office. Everyone laughed at Tommy cause he got beat up by a girl and a second grader at that.
Principal Wood called Grampy cause Mom was at work, and Grampy was his fishing buddy. Grampy was pretty mad at me until I told him what Tommy Ryan said. Grampy asked me if I knew what it meant, and I told him I didn't. I hadn't seen it in any of the books he gave me, and I read a lot. Grampy taught me how to read when I was three, and every morning I used to read him the first page of the newspaper while we were waiting for the school bus. He told me that a bastard was a child who didn't know who their father was, and I got real scared and started to cry.
Principal Wood wanted to know why I was crying, and I said that now I had to apologize to Tommy Ryan. I said I punched him 'cause I thought he was lying. But he wasn't, cause I didn't know who my father was, so now I had to apologize; it wasn't right to punch people when they were telling the truth. Grampy smiled and said that just this once it was okay, and I didn't need to apologize. I was glad, 'cause Tommy Ryan was a big jerk. He’d always been a big jerk, ever since kindergarten, when he made fun of my eyes. He said only dogs had eyes that were different colours. My grampy said that some dogs do have eyes of different colours, but only the really special ones. Just like people with different coloured eyes are special too. But this isn’t really a story about me. It’s a story about my mom and my real dad, and how they met again when my mom was twenty-seven.
**********
Fat October snowflakes danced a lazy foxtrot, coating Thomas Edward Nickerson’s head, shoulders and duffle. It wasn’t unusual for snow to come off the bay in late October, but the occasional bolt of lightning from a further off storm served to eerily light the sky. If Ten, as he’d always been called, was slightly more superstitious, he would have thought it a bad omen. If he were slightly less, he’d be wearing a coffin rather than civilian garb for the first time in four years. As it was, the scars ached from the drastic change in temperature, scars both physical and not.
The news had taken its sweet time getting to him, and his dad had been in the ground for two months at least, buried before the trees had thought of turning, let alone shed their leaves. Two days prior he’d gotten news that his mother had died three weeks earlier. There was no chance his father had died of grief for a lost spouse - they’d all hated the woman with equal levels of venom.
The house was his sister’s now; being the only one left. He hadn’t seen her since he’d left eight years earlier, though they’d stayed in constant contact by letter and email up until he was deployed. They hadn’t really communicated much since then.
Best to rip it off, rather than linger, he thought, climbing the steps.
“Leave the beer on the back porch Hope,” the tall man puttering in the kitchen announced on hearing the door open. He moved with practiced ease, though Ten knew he’d lost his eyesight to shrapnel three years earlier.
“Not Hope Jude.”
“Sunnova… when’d you get back?” Jude Marr turned, eyes covered with pirate style patches with deep blue eyes painted on them.
“Just now. What are you doing in Sophie’s house?”
Jude kept taking dishes from the caddy beside the sink and putting them in the appropriate cupboard. “Your sis and I have been shacking up since I got back, more or less.”
“More or less?”
“More more than less.”
In the way that men with a common bond do, Ten got right to the point. “Is she happy?”
“As much as can be expected, you know, considering.”
“And he’s a lot to do with that,” Sophie announced from the doorway. She looked her brother up and down, and cracked a smile. “You’re getting snow on my clean floors.”
Where her brother embodied everything that was conservative in appearance, Sophie Elise Nickerson was the opposite, and had been since puberty. She was the wild (looking) child in town, with variously purple, red and gold hair. She was currently sporting a platinum blonde coif more reminiscent of Billy Idol than anything.
“Looking good kiddo.”
“Nice to know you’re still alive,” she replied crashing into her elder brother, enveloping him in a breathing restrictive hug “I missed you,” she whispered.
“Nice to still be alive,” he whispered back.
A long moment passed, until Jude cleared his throat. “Don’t keep the blind guy is suspense, okay. Did one of you kill the other or what?”
“Beatings will start tomorrow,” Sophie replied. “Can you keep him out of trouble while I finish up upstairs?” It wasn’t clear who she was talking to or about, but didn’t bother to clarify, whirlwind that she was.
“Beer?”
“Beer.” Ten took the proffered beverage, marveling at Jude’s ability to adapt to his blindness. “You, uh… Have you been, I mean have you and Soph been thinking about, settling down or anything like that?”
“I talked to your dad before he died, and he was happy that Sophie and me were together. He gave me permission to ‘do right by her’ the day before... Sorry man, it’s gotta suck coming back to this.”
Ten sighed. What sucked was coming back at all. To say that he’d left on bad terms with his parents was the understatement of the decade. There were others that had been left in the lurch as well, including…
“Wait, did you call me Hope when I came in?”
The blood drained from Jude’s face and a glass crashed to the floor.
**********
Hope Elizabeth White slammed the door to her old clunker, moved to the passenger side, opened the door and grabbed the case of beer she’d been tasked with picking up. Like a hundred times before, she got a brief feeling of Natasha; a scent, a whisper in the dark from her dead daughter. Like a hundred times before, the weight of that loss crashed down on her. Like a hundred times before, she steeled herself seconds too late.
As the wracking sobs subsided to merely heaving, the requisite second wave hit her. It had been three hundred and one days. Three hundred and one days and she didn’t have enough left to mourn for the man that had been her husband.
Her father had died at the beginning of the summer, broken-hearted and listless having lost the light of his life and his best friend. He hadn’t had tears left to cry for his son-in-law either. Hope had no tears for him, just a deep ache in her heart for having no one to share the loss with.
Wiping her eyes with the heels of her mitten clad hands with a practiced motion, she was set. She’d stopped wearing mascara to avoid raccoon eyes, at least until some time, likely in the distant future, where she wouldn’t burst into tears at the drop of a hat. Any hat, any time, anywhere.
Gritting her teeth, she headed for the back porch. She’d promised Sophie that she’d pick up beer on the way home for the party, though she didn’t think she’d be good company. Soph had insisted that she move in after her dad died; having lost her own father a few months later.
Sophie had Jude to lean on, and Jude, Sophie. Jude was not the same man Hope had grown up with. Being over there had changed him in ways more profound than taking his sight. The acid tongue and sarcastic retort were tempered now, the formerly well-hidden caring heart more often visible.
None-the-less it had been strange moving into the house that she’d spent so much time in growing up, especially during their teenage years. Sophie was a few years younger, but still managed to mostly fit in. Mainly because Ten wouldn’t have it any other way.
She mounted the stairs carefully, slowing her breathing and hoping that it wouldn’t look like she’d been crying. Sophie wouldn’t say anything, and Jude usually couldn’t tell so long as she kept her voice steady. It was still embarrassing to be bursting into tears a couple of times a day, regardless of how justified it was.
She slid the case under the bench, and tapped the snow off her boots, and slid through the door.
Reflexively, Jude’s head swiveled toward the door, and as Hope took her boots off she noticed he was holding a broom.
“That part of your costume? And yes, I left the beer on the porch to cool.”
A tall lean man, almost unrecognizable stood from behind the kitchen island, holding a dustpan with the remnants of a glass in it.
“Hi.”
“Hi Ten.”
“Oh shit,” Sophie skidded into the room, having heard the back door open. There was no chance to cushion the blow. “Hey, I didn’t think you’d be back for another couple of hours.”
“And you were going to sneak your brother out of here before I got back?”
Ten cleared his throat. “Look, you’ve got every right to be pissed at me. That’s why I’m back, to try and make amends.”
“You have no idea Ten. I’m glad you’re not dead, but you can go back to wherever the hell you came from.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You can shove sorry up your ass.”
“Minefield man,” Jude muttered quietly, praying Hope wouldn’t hear him.
“Shut up Ray Charles.” No such luck. He could tell from Hope’s tone that she was more pissed than usual.
Sophie placed her pinkies in her mouth and let out a loud whistle. “Enough. Hope, go upstairs and get ready for this party. I’ll be up in a minute.” She pointed to Ten, “You park your ass in the living room; I’ll get to you in a minute.”
“And me?” Jude asked.
“Stand there and look cute sweetie. And try not to break any more dishes.”
“You’ve got it luv.” Jude sighed as he heard Hope and Ten leave the room, slowed only by a brief and awkward dance at the door. It seemed like Hope won out as he heard her climb the stairs before the sofa cushions creaked. Sophie kissed him on the cheek.
“I know you’re trying to help him, but they’ve got to sort this out.”
He wrapped his arms around her small frame. “Shouldn’t we tell him what’s been going on?”
Sophie lowered her voice. “He needs to know why she’s a mess, but not his part in it. That’s hers to tell him if she wants.”
“Sweetie, it’s the most open secret…”
“But he hasn’t been around. He couldn’t know. And if she doesn’t want to tell him, that’s her decision.”
Jude grinned. “Got this all planned out don’t you. You’ve been thinking about this a lot?”
“It was bound to happen, and it’s better to prepared than not. It’s gonna blow up in someone’s face, I’d just prefer if it weren’t ours.”
“Is it any wonder why I love you?” He kissed her noisily for a moment before a voice drifted from the living room.
“Still my sister, guy.”
**********
An hour later Ten had been briefed on the events of the last year, particularly relating to Hope, and New Year’s Day. He felt terrible; who wouldn’t? It explained a great deal about her behaviour. They’d always been on the same wavelength when they were younger, it was part of the reason that they’d worked so well together. The running joke had been that they shared a brain, so often were they able to complete each other’s sentences.
She felt like a stranger to him now. The part of his life that was missing, the biggest reason he had come back, was still missing. And he was probably a stranger to her. He’d seen and done so many things he’d never imagined during the long nights they shared a hammock and stared at the stars.
The walks by the harbour in the fog, the nights so cold, the air so clear you could see across the bay, these were things enjoyed by someone else. He wasn’t that angry kid any more. He hadn’t been that angry kid in a long time. It seemed she wasn’t that effervescent girl with the sardonic smile who could draw him out of any funk.
“Jesus Jude, how the hell is she still standing?”
“She's a tough chick man. She loved that kid like... hell there's no comparison to anything. That kid was life to her. And a sweet kid too. Everyone loved her.”
Ten felt there was something more to the story. Something else that he wasn't being told; he couldn't trust that feeling though, he was just too overwhelmed.
The doorbell interrupted that train of thought, and Jude motioned for him to get the door. The first of the guests had arrived.
It took less than an hour and a half for Ten to become chronically tired of explaining where he'd been for the last seven odd years. The issue with a town as small as the Harbour was the fact that it was so damn small. He'd reflected on that fact a number of times in his life. There was a complete lack anonimity.
Everyone was up in everyone else's business as his father had often said. There were really no secrets in a town of this size, at least not any that lasted a significant amount of time. The reason for a lack of secrets ranged from idle chatter to malicious gossip and everything in between.
When he was younger, he had hated it. He'd been called to task, caught doing things he shouldn't have been, and seen in the company of those that were verbotten to him. The longer he'd been away, the more he had missed it. The anonimity in the cities he'd been in and in the military had led to a feeling of disconnect. At first, it had been exhilerating, a feeling of freedom, like a kite that has broken it's string, and he soared without restriction, without outside control.
That euphoric sensation had faded as of late, starting with the fateful patrol. Two inches and a half second was the difference between life and death. After that day, he'd lost the stomach needed for grand adventure.
He watched the mingling at the party from the safety of the outside. Though he'd given up on adventure in favour of what he thought of as the familiar, this place wasn't familiar any more. True, he knew these people, he'd grown up with them. And some hadn't changed in the time that he'd been gone, still living and behaving as they had in high school.
But others, like Hope, had changed significantly.
He watched her as she mixed with the others; they all knew what had happened, but treated her much the same as they always had. He was the outsider now, treated with kid gloves, treated as though he was From Away.
From Away was a hard concept to pin down. There were those that had moved to the Harbour and whithin a generation were considered as locals. There were those born and raised there, their parents born and raised there, but were still considered as outsiders.
He'd never understood it, but had instinctively known. Known that he was From Away, despite the fact his father had been born and raised in the Harbour. He'd gone away to school, and come back with a wife from elsewhere, a wife who had never fit into the town, and had resented being stuck in what she saw as a backwater. His father had lost his local status, and both Ten and Sophie had been labeled as From Away.
Hope hadn’t ever cared about that. The vast majority still did; even those of his generation. It was an oddity of small towns.
Ten watched as she moved to the kitchen, and he trailed behind. He needed to talk to her. Sophie intercepted him.
“If you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do, then don’t screw it up.”
“I’ll do my best sis.”
Ten squeezed through the crowd, threading the needle to make it through the kitchen door. There was no sign of Hope there, but he knew where she would be. The old swing on the porch, as clichéd as it was, was a spot where they’d spent a lot of time.
“Figures I’d find you here.”
“I thought you might want to talk. I don’t have the energy to be pissed at you Ten.”
“Look, I’m sorry…”
“Don’t. You don’t get to say that. You lost the right to be anything about me when you took off.”
This was taking a decidedly downward turn, he thought.
“I am though. More than you can ever know.”
They sat in tense, not even remotely companionable silence. There was a gulf between them, one that had grown in the years apart. Absence, apparently, did not always make the heart grow fonder. For two people who had been so close, it was painful for this gap to exist between them. The scab had grown over their relationship, and proximity was ripping it off.
For Hope, already raw, it could have been too much to bear. But she had faced so much, so quickly that she was simply numb.
“Would you tell me about… her?” It occurred to Ten that he didn’t even know the little girls name.
“What do you want to know?”
“What she was like, her likes, dislikes. I’d like to know her.” Ten could feel the words taking over. It was his habit when nervous, to fill the empty spaces with conversation. He was more nervous than usual now; empty spaces were new to their relationship. “She was important to you, and…”
“She had your eyes.”
“…I want to know her. Sorry, what did you just say?”
Hope blinked twice, holding in tears.
The seconds drew out like so much taffy, exquisitely sweet with pain as Ten processed the bombshell that left him gobsmacked. The ice pick driven between his eyes was rivaled only by the pain of his shrinking heart.
“She was… She was...” One blue eye and one hazel one darted back and forth, trying to comprehend.
“She was ours.”
The thought of being a father had never crossed his mind. Unlike Sophie, Ten had never wanted to be a parent just to prove to his own that he could do it better. He’d always thought that was a pretty rotten reason to be a parent, and wasn’t willing to subject another human being to being raised in that environment. Despite that, he knew that Sophie would be a great mother. He wasn’t sure that he had the self-sacrifice necessary to be a parent.
To find out that he was, or had been, a father, without knowing took some time to process.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You took off without a word, and I knew how you felt about kids. It was easier to just deal with it on my own.”
“So you married Eldon Ryan?”
“Shut up. You never liked him, but he was there for me when no one else was. And he was a great dad.”
“Did you love him?”
The furrow in her brow said no.
“Then why…”
“You get to ask that question when I get a good answer to why you took off.”
Ten nodded, that was fair enough.
“So where do we go from here?”
**********
They tried to make it work, they really did. But my Mom and my real Dad just couldn’t get it together enough to stay together for a long time. Grampy says it’s ‘cause sometimes people love each other too much, and it just makes it too hard for them to be together.
My real dad went back to being a soldier, though he didn’t really want to. He was different though, at least that’s what everyone said. He was quieter, calmer, and not as sure of himself.
Mom didn’t really do anything. She kept living with Sophie and Jude, kept working, and kept crying. It got harder for her after she found out that Sophie was going to have a baby. I guess she misses me a lot. I miss her too, but I want her to be happy. Grampy says that she just doesn’t know how to be happy any more.
After Sophie’s baby came, Mom got a little better. But she was still sad a lot of the time.
Then my dad came back again. He said that he was in the middle of a firefight, and that was the first time that his head had been quiet enough that he could hear his heart.
“I want to come home,” he told her. “Home is where you are. I'm sorry that I...” Well, he said a bad word there, one that I'm not allowed to say. “... but you are home to me.”
Maybe this time they’ll make it work. Grampy says that love is hard. I don't know about that. I think that love is only as hard as you make it.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Wherein We take another kick at this particular can
Not much to say now, beyond the fact that this blog will be focused on writing, short form primarily, until I finally get around to some longer form.
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