Stegner
01-03-2004, 08:24 PM
The Bridge
By C.M. Tisdale
Harold placed his pail on the front porch and wiped the sweat from his brow, watching the day thin out with a tired kind of relief. The sunset was purple, and there was a tinge of orange that served as a fiery lining for the massive violet marks in the sky. Harold had done what he set out to do that month: build a small bridge over the creek on his father's land, land which now belonged to Harold.
The creek on the land was no grand thing, no Mississippi. Though it was typically small and slender during the year, it regularly passed at four and a half feet deep and five feet wide, making it somewhat of a small river, enough to drown a bad swimmer.
The creek ran along the northern side of the land. Harold, who used to swim in the creek -- against his mother's wishes, of course -- had admired the creek ever since he was five, when he first fell in and was sucked down its current. He was small enough then to be dragged down the length of the creek, but instead of feeling scared and hesitant to return to the creek's cool and swift water, Harold made a habit of disobeying his mother in the pursuit of a mindless thrill -- though, of course, Harold would have begged to differ on that issue.
Harold was free in those days, days that often saw him climb dozens of tall, rough-looking trees, ride the creek until he thought he might wrinkle up like a prune, and then roll down the grassy hills on the other side of the land, all before eating quickly -- which he was prone to do, for fear that he might miss something, anything -- and then dropping like an anvil into a deep sleep.
But Harold changed, much like many people change. He grew up, and then -- without thinking much about it -- he decided that he'd go away to school. He then decided that he'd go to law school not long after, something that didn't disappoint his parents, and that he'd marry a woman, a fine woman, and then be -- as his father was prone to say -- "as utterly constructive, without fail, as one could be."
But plans, as many people can attest to, can fall off as easily as a leaf on a ledge, and glide unpredictably off into some spot where they get lost among other dreams and ambitions and false hopes. But, of course, only Harold knew that what he was doing was actually false, and that what he thought he was meant to do was actually something displeasing to him.
What he really wanted he still didn't know, and he needed badly to discover it, no matter if that meant exhausting his options and maybe even throwing away most anything he had already achieved.
II.
The bridge was made of a fine pine, which smelled sweet and strong, though not too intoxicating. Though the cool, fresh air that normally breezed across the land mixed in for nice effect, the hint of pine that carried strongly for a while was nice itself.
The bridge easily cleared the creek at nearly eight feet in length, enough to safely carry anyone and anything across. Though the bridge was nice to look at, and certainly nice to smell, and placed in a good spot -- dead center of the creek, to be exact -- Harold couldn't help but laugh when he first completed it. He put one hand on it, and then he proceeded to laugh a deep and droning laugh, and that laugh -- which, unknown Harold, sounded just like his father's -- echoed through the air and through the tops of the trees until it faded dully, causing some birds to scatter and then settle with an obvious uneasiness.
This, if Harold would have fully realized it, was his way of clearing the air, and getting one last shot at his father. It seemed strange to Harold that he had done something this important for his father: it was in his father's last wishes -- Make nice small bridge over the creek on the northern side.
The fact that his father was gone now couldn't be dissolved; it was a fact, a pure and simple notion that couldn't be destroyed or even broken. Harold had to live with the reality that his father -- who never took the time to know his son, and ultimately never took the time to admit it -- had remained elusive.
So the bridge was done, and there was no way, at least according to Harold, that this bridge could be as worthless as his father's attempts, or lack thereof, at knowing his son. The bridge would be a vibrant symbol on the land, and it would certainly be used, maybe just to spite the old man, if not to be enjoyed.
III.
Harold took the pail off the porch and poured it out, waiting for the water to settle and disappear into the mud and grass in front of the porch. When he seemed satisfied with what he had done outside, he turned toward the door and went inside, strolling slowly like a tired man who just did something he never thought he could.
Harold went upstairs, yawning all the way to the top step, and then he went quietly into his bedroom.
Claire was already asleep; she had to have been tired, too, he thought, what with all of the work she had to do that day. Actually, Harold felt guilty being outside those two weeks. He had the breeze, which cooled the sweat on his back, and the smell of pine; she got the job that was the house; it almost made him want to hit himself for not telling her that the bridge was not-so-great, that it was something that paled in comparison to making over that worn-down house on what used to be his father's land. After all, the house was part of the land, and it belonged to the both of them. He should have mixed things up a bit more.
Harold sat down on the bed and undressed quietly, letting his clothes gently come off with care, and then he pulled the covers over softly so that they came to his neck; he crossed his arms like an embalmed king -- which he was prone to do -- and counted back from five. He was asleep on 3.
IV.
The morning was cool -- it had rained that night, something Harold and Claire didn't know until now. The ground was moist from recent -- possibly heavy -- rain, rain that woke neither one of them. There was a swirling breeze in the air, something not uncommon for the land, especially in the morning after a thunderstorm. The sky was slightly cloudy, but the sun was out and warming the porch and the front of the house.
Harold ate his breakfast and decided to walk down to the bridge, maybe decide whether the bridge was satisfactory; he swore to himself, even before he started building, that he wouldn't force himself to achieve perfection, so he'd stick with anything good enough, anything suitable for the land. His last look at the bridge was in the late afternoon, just before it started to darken and the sun began to set in its violet and gold. He remembered being happy with it, happy with the two weeks he had invested into the project.
Harold had some time, at least until he found a job; Claire was still making the quilts, and she was a devoted housewife, as always -- though Harold would have been completely satisfied if she decided to do something else, maybe choose a career of some kind. But Harold wasn't too worried; he knew he'd find a job and that things would work out; that's kind of how he got to the land, that's what drove him, his unflagging optimism.
But he just wanted peace, and a bit of happiness mixed in, for his family.
Harold pushed his chair away and stepped to the side, placing his napkin on the table. He finished chewing, and then kissed his wife firmly on the cheek. He didn't know why he kissed her that way; he'd be back in a short while, maybe not long at all. But he guessed that he needed to kiss her that way.
"Something wrong?" Claire asked.
"Nothing's wrong.... What, you didn't like the kiss?" Harold chuckled, hoping she might smile a bit.
"You just don't look all that great, that's all."
"I'm fine. Look, my mother is supposed to call today, maybe pretty soon. Don't hurt yourself running out to find me. Just take a message -- I'll call her back when I can." Harold put on his hat and coat -- in case the morning air was more brisk than he thought -- and moved towards the door, trying not to upset Claire with another odd gesture or look.
"You'll be at the bridge, right? You know, I'm coming down there in a little while to see your work. I'll bet it's lovely..." Harold turned around, feeling comfortable enough to respond.
"Yeah, I'll probably be at the bridge for a while. Maybe it needs some more work, I'm not sure.... I'd like to hear your input, though. But I'm glad it's about over. I kept a promise, and I can live with that. It isn't perfect -- but maybe the old man, wherever he is, can live with that --"
"Maybe. All right. I'll see you in a bit." She kissed him, and then held his face away from her, which she often did, so that she could see him the way she liked to see him, in no one's hands but her own. Harold smiled and walked out the door, rubbing his forehead and nose to relieve the tension there.
Harold made his way toward the northern side, letting his hands drag along some of the tall grass on the path. The path was fairly long; Harold had to walk about 25 acres to reach the creek from the house.
The path was a long grass road that stretched out across the land, ending just at the creek, where there were woods beyond it. More than anything, Harold enjoyed the walk because when the sun was out and blazing, the path was lit and wide, making itself look even larger than it was -- though, of course, it was a great stretch of land, certainly enough for any sane man.
Harold continued on his way, still not in view of the creek. There were hills along the way -- the ones he used to roll down as a child -- some fairly big and steep.
As he continued on his way, Harold saw that the sun was getting brighter, and he could feel the day getting warmer, like an oven heating up slightly. Harold took off his coat and rubbed his right thumb over the Brown U. symbol before holding the coat to his side. He smiled like a man who just woke up from a dream, not a bad dream, certainly not, but one that left him glad that it wasn't real, simply because he liked his life -- his alternative way of living -- even though he was as unsure about it as anything. It was a funny smile, an odd gesture.
Harold walked on slowly, enjoying the walk more than he ever had. As the creek finally came into view, Harold looked concerned, as if something were out-of-place. Harold sped up a bit. Though the creek was still a ways ahead of him -- it was in sight, though -- he couldn't help but notice that the bridge wasn't there. At first he thought it was an optical trick -- maybe he'd see the bridge if he got a bit closer. But then he realized that the bridge wasn't standing: it wasn't a trick at all.
When Harold made it to the spot where the bridge was supposed to be, all that he saw was a black pile of mess. He touched it, but the cool rushing water had been cooling it overnight. Harold ran down the creek and noticed as he went that some bits of debris had gone downstream. But the bulk of what was left of the bridge was back where the bridge once stood.
Harold blinked his eyes several times, and then looked up to the sky and laughed a quiet laugh, letting his arms fall to his sides as he gazed at the now-clear sky. He then looked down at what was left of the bridge, letting his eyes fix on the spot where the bridge once was.
After a few moments, Harold undressed slowly, until after a while he was completely naked, completely unprotected. He then jumped into the creek without giving it any thought, doing almost a complete belly flop as he hit the water, and the current sucked him downstream.
Harold was surprised that the current was strong enough. After all, he was nearly 150 pounds, and it wouldn't seem likely for a grown man to be sucked down a creek. But he was, and he laughed and cheered and whistled to himself as he went, overjoyed beyond his own control.
As he reached a narrow part of the creek downstream, he remembered what he did as a child to abort the ride. He swung his body around by rolling his hips side to side -- like a belly dancer would -- and then proceeded to spread his arms out so as to grab one side of the creek wall.
After a few moments, Harold caught hold of a root that had stopped growing just at the creek's edge, and then he pulled his naked body out of the water. Harold heaved and huffed some, smiling the whole time, of course. He then stood up, unashamed of his nakedness, like Adam before the fall, and proceeded to run back towards the hills, letting his naked body warm and dry in the sun and breeze. The hair on his body was waving in the wind, and the curly locks on his head bounced as he hopped down the great grassy path. When he came to one of the steeper hills, he rolled down it, and then he went back up so that he could roll down it again, all the while laughing uncontrollably. He was young again; he was bent on having fun, happy with what he was feeling and what he was doing.
Claire came towards the hills not long after. She stopped about 10 feet short of where Harold lay on the top of a grassy mound, a spot where the sun shone down unrelentingly. She was shocked, unsure of what to think or say. Harold felt her blank expression staring at him, so he put a hand over his brow to shade his eyes, and then he looked at her and smiled like he had when he was a child.
"Care to join me, Claire?"
She was still blank, still unaware of what she was looking at.
"I don't know what I want, Claire -- I may never know -- but I like how I feel right now --"
"Good -- that's good to hear --"
"Yes, I think so."
"Well, why not! You sure look happy!" Claire then started to slowly undress, letting her clothes fall gently. After she was completely naked, she climbed up the hill and lay next to her husband, a bit more aware of what was going on, though still a bit struck by it.
"Boy, you are a mess -- a real mess!" She then laughed out loud and placed her head in the space between his head and collarbone -- all the while smiling, of course.
By C.M. Tisdale
Harold placed his pail on the front porch and wiped the sweat from his brow, watching the day thin out with a tired kind of relief. The sunset was purple, and there was a tinge of orange that served as a fiery lining for the massive violet marks in the sky. Harold had done what he set out to do that month: build a small bridge over the creek on his father's land, land which now belonged to Harold.
The creek on the land was no grand thing, no Mississippi. Though it was typically small and slender during the year, it regularly passed at four and a half feet deep and five feet wide, making it somewhat of a small river, enough to drown a bad swimmer.
The creek ran along the northern side of the land. Harold, who used to swim in the creek -- against his mother's wishes, of course -- had admired the creek ever since he was five, when he first fell in and was sucked down its current. He was small enough then to be dragged down the length of the creek, but instead of feeling scared and hesitant to return to the creek's cool and swift water, Harold made a habit of disobeying his mother in the pursuit of a mindless thrill -- though, of course, Harold would have begged to differ on that issue.
Harold was free in those days, days that often saw him climb dozens of tall, rough-looking trees, ride the creek until he thought he might wrinkle up like a prune, and then roll down the grassy hills on the other side of the land, all before eating quickly -- which he was prone to do, for fear that he might miss something, anything -- and then dropping like an anvil into a deep sleep.
But Harold changed, much like many people change. He grew up, and then -- without thinking much about it -- he decided that he'd go away to school. He then decided that he'd go to law school not long after, something that didn't disappoint his parents, and that he'd marry a woman, a fine woman, and then be -- as his father was prone to say -- "as utterly constructive, without fail, as one could be."
But plans, as many people can attest to, can fall off as easily as a leaf on a ledge, and glide unpredictably off into some spot where they get lost among other dreams and ambitions and false hopes. But, of course, only Harold knew that what he was doing was actually false, and that what he thought he was meant to do was actually something displeasing to him.
What he really wanted he still didn't know, and he needed badly to discover it, no matter if that meant exhausting his options and maybe even throwing away most anything he had already achieved.
II.
The bridge was made of a fine pine, which smelled sweet and strong, though not too intoxicating. Though the cool, fresh air that normally breezed across the land mixed in for nice effect, the hint of pine that carried strongly for a while was nice itself.
The bridge easily cleared the creek at nearly eight feet in length, enough to safely carry anyone and anything across. Though the bridge was nice to look at, and certainly nice to smell, and placed in a good spot -- dead center of the creek, to be exact -- Harold couldn't help but laugh when he first completed it. He put one hand on it, and then he proceeded to laugh a deep and droning laugh, and that laugh -- which, unknown Harold, sounded just like his father's -- echoed through the air and through the tops of the trees until it faded dully, causing some birds to scatter and then settle with an obvious uneasiness.
This, if Harold would have fully realized it, was his way of clearing the air, and getting one last shot at his father. It seemed strange to Harold that he had done something this important for his father: it was in his father's last wishes -- Make nice small bridge over the creek on the northern side.
The fact that his father was gone now couldn't be dissolved; it was a fact, a pure and simple notion that couldn't be destroyed or even broken. Harold had to live with the reality that his father -- who never took the time to know his son, and ultimately never took the time to admit it -- had remained elusive.
So the bridge was done, and there was no way, at least according to Harold, that this bridge could be as worthless as his father's attempts, or lack thereof, at knowing his son. The bridge would be a vibrant symbol on the land, and it would certainly be used, maybe just to spite the old man, if not to be enjoyed.
III.
Harold took the pail off the porch and poured it out, waiting for the water to settle and disappear into the mud and grass in front of the porch. When he seemed satisfied with what he had done outside, he turned toward the door and went inside, strolling slowly like a tired man who just did something he never thought he could.
Harold went upstairs, yawning all the way to the top step, and then he went quietly into his bedroom.
Claire was already asleep; she had to have been tired, too, he thought, what with all of the work she had to do that day. Actually, Harold felt guilty being outside those two weeks. He had the breeze, which cooled the sweat on his back, and the smell of pine; she got the job that was the house; it almost made him want to hit himself for not telling her that the bridge was not-so-great, that it was something that paled in comparison to making over that worn-down house on what used to be his father's land. After all, the house was part of the land, and it belonged to the both of them. He should have mixed things up a bit more.
Harold sat down on the bed and undressed quietly, letting his clothes gently come off with care, and then he pulled the covers over softly so that they came to his neck; he crossed his arms like an embalmed king -- which he was prone to do -- and counted back from five. He was asleep on 3.
IV.
The morning was cool -- it had rained that night, something Harold and Claire didn't know until now. The ground was moist from recent -- possibly heavy -- rain, rain that woke neither one of them. There was a swirling breeze in the air, something not uncommon for the land, especially in the morning after a thunderstorm. The sky was slightly cloudy, but the sun was out and warming the porch and the front of the house.
Harold ate his breakfast and decided to walk down to the bridge, maybe decide whether the bridge was satisfactory; he swore to himself, even before he started building, that he wouldn't force himself to achieve perfection, so he'd stick with anything good enough, anything suitable for the land. His last look at the bridge was in the late afternoon, just before it started to darken and the sun began to set in its violet and gold. He remembered being happy with it, happy with the two weeks he had invested into the project.
Harold had some time, at least until he found a job; Claire was still making the quilts, and she was a devoted housewife, as always -- though Harold would have been completely satisfied if she decided to do something else, maybe choose a career of some kind. But Harold wasn't too worried; he knew he'd find a job and that things would work out; that's kind of how he got to the land, that's what drove him, his unflagging optimism.
But he just wanted peace, and a bit of happiness mixed in, for his family.
Harold pushed his chair away and stepped to the side, placing his napkin on the table. He finished chewing, and then kissed his wife firmly on the cheek. He didn't know why he kissed her that way; he'd be back in a short while, maybe not long at all. But he guessed that he needed to kiss her that way.
"Something wrong?" Claire asked.
"Nothing's wrong.... What, you didn't like the kiss?" Harold chuckled, hoping she might smile a bit.
"You just don't look all that great, that's all."
"I'm fine. Look, my mother is supposed to call today, maybe pretty soon. Don't hurt yourself running out to find me. Just take a message -- I'll call her back when I can." Harold put on his hat and coat -- in case the morning air was more brisk than he thought -- and moved towards the door, trying not to upset Claire with another odd gesture or look.
"You'll be at the bridge, right? You know, I'm coming down there in a little while to see your work. I'll bet it's lovely..." Harold turned around, feeling comfortable enough to respond.
"Yeah, I'll probably be at the bridge for a while. Maybe it needs some more work, I'm not sure.... I'd like to hear your input, though. But I'm glad it's about over. I kept a promise, and I can live with that. It isn't perfect -- but maybe the old man, wherever he is, can live with that --"
"Maybe. All right. I'll see you in a bit." She kissed him, and then held his face away from her, which she often did, so that she could see him the way she liked to see him, in no one's hands but her own. Harold smiled and walked out the door, rubbing his forehead and nose to relieve the tension there.
Harold made his way toward the northern side, letting his hands drag along some of the tall grass on the path. The path was fairly long; Harold had to walk about 25 acres to reach the creek from the house.
The path was a long grass road that stretched out across the land, ending just at the creek, where there were woods beyond it. More than anything, Harold enjoyed the walk because when the sun was out and blazing, the path was lit and wide, making itself look even larger than it was -- though, of course, it was a great stretch of land, certainly enough for any sane man.
Harold continued on his way, still not in view of the creek. There were hills along the way -- the ones he used to roll down as a child -- some fairly big and steep.
As he continued on his way, Harold saw that the sun was getting brighter, and he could feel the day getting warmer, like an oven heating up slightly. Harold took off his coat and rubbed his right thumb over the Brown U. symbol before holding the coat to his side. He smiled like a man who just woke up from a dream, not a bad dream, certainly not, but one that left him glad that it wasn't real, simply because he liked his life -- his alternative way of living -- even though he was as unsure about it as anything. It was a funny smile, an odd gesture.
Harold walked on slowly, enjoying the walk more than he ever had. As the creek finally came into view, Harold looked concerned, as if something were out-of-place. Harold sped up a bit. Though the creek was still a ways ahead of him -- it was in sight, though -- he couldn't help but notice that the bridge wasn't there. At first he thought it was an optical trick -- maybe he'd see the bridge if he got a bit closer. But then he realized that the bridge wasn't standing: it wasn't a trick at all.
When Harold made it to the spot where the bridge was supposed to be, all that he saw was a black pile of mess. He touched it, but the cool rushing water had been cooling it overnight. Harold ran down the creek and noticed as he went that some bits of debris had gone downstream. But the bulk of what was left of the bridge was back where the bridge once stood.
Harold blinked his eyes several times, and then looked up to the sky and laughed a quiet laugh, letting his arms fall to his sides as he gazed at the now-clear sky. He then looked down at what was left of the bridge, letting his eyes fix on the spot where the bridge once was.
After a few moments, Harold undressed slowly, until after a while he was completely naked, completely unprotected. He then jumped into the creek without giving it any thought, doing almost a complete belly flop as he hit the water, and the current sucked him downstream.
Harold was surprised that the current was strong enough. After all, he was nearly 150 pounds, and it wouldn't seem likely for a grown man to be sucked down a creek. But he was, and he laughed and cheered and whistled to himself as he went, overjoyed beyond his own control.
As he reached a narrow part of the creek downstream, he remembered what he did as a child to abort the ride. He swung his body around by rolling his hips side to side -- like a belly dancer would -- and then proceeded to spread his arms out so as to grab one side of the creek wall.
After a few moments, Harold caught hold of a root that had stopped growing just at the creek's edge, and then he pulled his naked body out of the water. Harold heaved and huffed some, smiling the whole time, of course. He then stood up, unashamed of his nakedness, like Adam before the fall, and proceeded to run back towards the hills, letting his naked body warm and dry in the sun and breeze. The hair on his body was waving in the wind, and the curly locks on his head bounced as he hopped down the great grassy path. When he came to one of the steeper hills, he rolled down it, and then he went back up so that he could roll down it again, all the while laughing uncontrollably. He was young again; he was bent on having fun, happy with what he was feeling and what he was doing.
Claire came towards the hills not long after. She stopped about 10 feet short of where Harold lay on the top of a grassy mound, a spot where the sun shone down unrelentingly. She was shocked, unsure of what to think or say. Harold felt her blank expression staring at him, so he put a hand over his brow to shade his eyes, and then he looked at her and smiled like he had when he was a child.
"Care to join me, Claire?"
She was still blank, still unaware of what she was looking at.
"I don't know what I want, Claire -- I may never know -- but I like how I feel right now --"
"Good -- that's good to hear --"
"Yes, I think so."
"Well, why not! You sure look happy!" Claire then started to slowly undress, letting her clothes fall gently. After she was completely naked, she climbed up the hill and lay next to her husband, a bit more aware of what was going on, though still a bit struck by it.
"Boy, you are a mess -- a real mess!" She then laughed out loud and placed her head in the space between his head and collarbone -- all the while smiling, of course.