In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

THAT'S HOW STRONG MY LOVE IS / Mark Jarman //T T E LIKES TO POUND on me," mutters the woman from the X. -L next table, staring past Hank into some blurred distance of her own making, into her thick drunk history. And Hank is on the wagon, sipping warm Canada Dry, squinting to follow the hockey game, trying to ignore the reverberating bar crowd, to ignore this irritating woman at the table beside his. He is forced to converse with his friend Mohawk in whispered asides—how to rid themselves of her? "My son." Her fingers at her neck playing with a crucifix. She turns to face their table. "He put me in emergency twice this year." The snowy screen blinks from a high corner: Canucks and the Habs tied. Hank's money, two hundred dollars, riding on Vancouver. The ghostly players drift on the ice, shadowed, the sound a murmur, punctuated by whistles, bodychecks bashing the boards. Receiving no response from Hank, the woman leans the back of her head against the whitewashed wall. Hank looks at Mohawk's strawyellow hair, lowered over a steaming bowl of house chili. Two sleek young men pass holding hands. Cowboy shirts: long white fringes swinging from the black silk, fancy red embroidery, the smell of poppers on them. "Jesus," growls Mohawk, glancing at them with a mouthful of hot chili, shaking his head in disgust. "Old Roy Rogers must be rolling in his grave." His green eyes shadowed under a fringe of blond hair. "Is Roy Rogers dead?" asks the woman, overhearing. "I knew Trigger was; I believe Roy had him stuffed and put in his basement." The bar groans as Lafleur slips the puck under the pads of Hanlon, the Vancouver goaltender. "Shit," says Hank. "They scored a goal and I missed it." The woman swivels at her lone table to see what Hank is excited by. She peers up at the screen. "Hockey still? Lordy, lordy, it's the first day of spring." "Yeah, yeah, spring. "Tomorrow is Sunday. When will he settle down?" "What the hell is she talking about?" whispers Mohawk, shoveling runny chili between his lips with a plastic spoon. The woman chatters while Hank wonders why she had to sit beside them, why did he come here to stare at women, at his hands, at the dealers in their nightwatch toques squeezing through the maze of cramped pine tables to get to their imported beer. The scented cigarette smoke, the pocked choruses tugging at sleeves, buying and selling 220 · The Missouri Review Colombian, junk, Flight 714's, phenobarbitol, wading the Maritime atmosphere of ship's paintings, knots and navigating lanterns, the vermillion exit sign a small globe, floating, flashing in the azure haze. Puzzled, the hovering manager glances at the woman, at Hank, at the woman again. He cracks his knuckles loudly, rubs the soft hands protruding like fish from the stiff cuffs of his suit. "Is the Bitterroot Hotel still in Juan de Fuca?" The woman leaning to question Hank. "I don't know. Never heard of it." The insect buzzing of the electric clock. Without asking, the woman lifts Mohawk's cold draught and dips at the froth, a chalice brimming with gold. Hank gazes thirstily, notes the throat swallowing, the lipstick left on glass. "I think she's been cut off," he hisses to Mohawk. "The Bitterroot was a big place, believe you me." Raising eyebrows, Hank and Mohawk exchange looks, Mohawk pulling on a Players, the smoldering cigarette an extension of his lip, its smoke laying a white scar on his face. "700 people," the woman insists, stabbing a wrinkled finger and heaving forward in her creaking seat. Mohawk tears at a hunk of French bread with his teeth, pissed off because she's drinking his beer, stares at Hank. Hank shrugs: what can I do? The bass line buzzes, drags thudding. Big Kahoona, the bar manager, paces nervously behind the old-fashioned draught taps. Hank is reminded of a losing hockey coach prowling the bench. "Hank. Are you hungover today?" "Is the Pope Polish?" "Not too hot a party." "Never any women, someone drinks my booze. Why dö we bother...

pdf

Share