One Lane Bridge: A Novel Page 2

  “No, that’s fine. It’s not that important.”

  The man was about to say something when he was interrupted by a voice from somewhere farther back in the house. “Paul. Paul! Who is it?”

  “That’s my wife,” the farmer—Paul, as J. D. was putting all this together—explained. “She’s bedridden.” Then he raised his voice and answered back, “A visitor, Ada. A man with car trouble.” He looked at J. D. and said, “She’s sick. We’ve made her a bed in the parlor. She don’t go out anymore. Maybe never will.”

  “Who is it, Paul?” the voice called again.

  Paul looked at J. D. and asked, “Who do I tell her it is? You got a name?”

  “John David Wickman,” he said, not sure why he was being so formal with his answer.

  Paul hollered back, “His name is John. He’s from town, and he needs water for his automobile.”

  “Tell him to come in. I never get to see anybody anymore.”

  “She’s sick, but she’s also lonesome. Nobody much comes around. Would you like to go in and see her?”

  J. D. said, “Sure, I’ll go in and see her,” and followed Paul through hanging beads in a doorway that opened into a modest dining room and then through a wider doorway that became the living room or parlor. All the shades were pulled, and J. D. could just barely make out the shape of a couple of chairs, a sofa, and, over near the front door, a daybed with a figure lying on it. He assumed this was Ada, Paul’s wife. As he came closer he could see the outline of a frail, small body. Her skin was pale and yellowed, and her hair was long and stringy and matted around her forehead. He could smell sickness in the room, and the air became difficult to breathe. Ada reached out her hand and said in a weak voice, “I heard you knock. What’s your name again?”

  “John,” J. D. said. He was surprised at how foreign his given name sounded rolling off his tongue. Only a few teachers in high school had ever called him that.

  “John. Sit down, John. There’s a chair right there.”

  J. D. stumbled in the near-dark room and felt a straight chair behind him. He sat down while Paul stood in the center of the room. J. D. picked up the conversation to fill the awkward silence.

  “I had a little car trouble, and your husband is helping me out. I appreciate your hospitality.”

  “Paul will help you. He’s good help. He’s a good man. He keeps me alive every day.”

  “I see. And your name is Ada? Is that right?”

  “Ada Clem. And this is my husband, Paul. Have you met him?”

  As J. D. was answering, “Yes, ma’am, I have,” Paul interjected, “She forgets. Sometimes right in the middle of a thought. She knows you one minute, and the next she don’t.”

  “I see,” J. D. repeated nervously. “Well, Mrs. Clem, I guess I better start back to town. I’ll get your husband to give me a hand, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Ada held out her arm from her bed again as if reaching for something. J. D.’s first instinct was to step toward her and shake her hand, but then on closer inspection it looked as if even a gentle squeeze could break every fragile bone. She peered up at him with watery eyes and said in a faltering voice, “Will you get me something in town, John?”

  “Sure. If I can.”

  “Would you get me a Dixie Cup of ice cream? I love store-bought ice cream. You know what I mean in a Dixie Cup?”

  “Yes ma’am, I know.”

  “Ada.” Paul spoke gently and firmly. “This gentleman ain’t comin’ back out here. He’s just passing by.”

  “Well, he’ll have to come back to bring me my Dixie Cup, won’t he?”

  “We gotta go now, Ada. This man has to get home for supper.”

  Maybe it was the word supper that turned J. D.’s attention to the smell of something frying in the kitchen, or maybe it was the smell itself that caused him to look toward the doorway with the hanging colored beads. Either way, it was the tension breaker that gave him the opportunity to stand and say, “Good evening, Mrs. Clem. It was nice to meet you, and I hope you’re feeling better soon.”

  The feeble voice from the daybed in the ever-growing darkness said, “Good-bye, sir. It was good making your acquaintance.”

  Paul led the way, this time toward the kitchen and the good smell of something simmering on the stove. As J. D. pushed through the beads, he could just barely hear music, apparently coming from a radio. But the sight that stopped him was of someone standing at the stove, flipping bread with a spatula into a skillet. The “someone” was small and female, and from the back he couldn’t determine her age. Her hair was long and pulled straight back from her head. She was wearing a thin, light-green dress and was humming with the music from the radio as if unaware of anyone else in the house.

  “John, this is my daughter, Lizzie. Lizzie, honey, this is Mr. Wickerman.”

  “Wickman,” J. D. corrected as Lizzie turned around and said, “Hi.”

  J. D. estimated this pretty young girl to be fourteen years old, but her eyes looked so much older. And although she seemed friendly and bright, he was at a loss as to what else to say to her. His head was still spinning from the conversation he’d just had with her mother.

  “John, would you like to stay for supper?” Paul asked.

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t. I just ate before I left home. And I really do need to get back. My wife will be wondering where I am.”

  Lizzie spoke over her shoulder. “We ain’t got much. We’re having fried bread and applesauce. You like fried bread?”

  “Ah, sure. But I’m not hungry, really.”

  “Is that your car down on the road?” Lizzie asked, then added before he had time to answer, “It sure is a pretty one.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Can I go for a ride sometime?”

  “Lizzie, Mr. Wickerman is just passing by. He don’t have time for that.”

  J. D. fumbled again for the right parting word. “It was good to meet you, Lizzie. I hope to see you again sometime.”

  “John, you wait here while I draw that bucket of water, and then I’ll walk down with you to your car.”

  As the back door closed, J. D. and Lizzie were left in the room alone. He didn’t know what to say to a fourteen-year-old, so he decided to say nothing. But as she shoveled more butter-battered bread into the skillet, she broke the silence for him.

  “Did you come out here to see my mamma?”

  “No, I….”

  “’Cause if you did, I don’t want you gettin’ her hopes up if you really can’t help her. We’ve had other people out here who claimed they could help her and never did. She just gets sicker, and my daddy gets sadder. So if you’re one of those …”

  Her words trailed off with the sizzling from the stovetop. He could hear tears in her voice—but more than that, anger.

  “Who tried to help her, Lizzie? Doctors?”

  “No. Not real doctors. But medicine people. People who have all kinds of cures that never work.”

  There were so many things to ask, but he sensed the girl was upset over things she didn’t really understand. He didn’t want to push buttons she didn’t have the maturity to handle. He nearly asked, “What are you cooking?” before remembering she’d already told him.

  J. D. could only imagine that Lizzie was frying bread because there was nothing else in the house for supper. The words stumbled awkwardly out of his mouth.

  “Lizzie, I, ah … I own a restaurant. We … we have lots of food there …”

  “We’ve got food, Mr. Wickerman. That’s what I’m doing now is fixing supper.”

  “But if there’s anything you need … I mean … if you need something …”

  “We’re doing fine, Mr. Wickerman. Me and Daddy and Mamma, we like fried bread.”

  The door opened, and Paul stuck his head in and said, “Got your water, John. Let’s go get this contraption started.”

  John turned and started toward the door. Lizzie had her back to him, intent on what she was doing at the stove. J. D. recognize
d the music on the radio—traditional country music. Ernest Tubb or Eddy Arnold or one of those older guys. The sweet smell of bread warmed the chilly, twilight-tinged kitchen. He decided against saying good-bye to the girl, wondering if he’d offended her. He quietly slipped through the back door and out into the dirt yard, following Paul, who was a good twenty yards ahead of him with a two-gallon bucket of water in his hand.

  As they approached the green TR3, Paul whistled and said, “Wow. Now that’s a dandy-lookin’ machine. Never seen one of those. What do you call it?”

  “Triumph. English made. Little banged up. Needs a little work, but it runs pretty good.”

  “Well, here, I’ll let you put the water in. I might pour it in the wrong hole.”

  They laughed, and J. D. got in the driver’s seat and started the engine just in case it hadn’t cooled down enough. He remembered all too well the first car he ever had while still in high school. This same thing had happened to him and his friend Jack. They had pulled into a service station and got a water hose—and in their youthful ignorance, filled the steaming radiator with the motor off and busted the block in the engine. His father never got over it. So while J. D. filled the radiator, this time with the motor purring, Paul stood off to the side, watching intently with his hands in his pockets. J. D. spoke to him without turning.

  “Mr. Clem, has a doctor seen your wife?”

  “Doctors cost a lot of money, son. And I don’t know what they can do for her.”

  “Well, I don’t either. But shouldn’t someone see her?”

  “There’s been folks here to see her, but nobody can help.”

  J. D. turned and looked the farmer in the face and saw the fear in his eyes. “Paul, I’ll pay for a doctor if you’ll let me bring one out. And do you need food?”

  Paul Clem’s face froze, and his eyes went from sad to indignant. J. D. knew he had crossed the line, but it was too late to retract his words.

  “We’re doin’ just fine, Mr. Wickerman. We have food on the table, and we don’t need any doctor. I ain’t on relief and never have been. Good day, sir, and it was pleasant meetin’ you.”

  “Mr. Clem, I’m sorry if I offended you. I never meant to imply that you were not a good provider. I just thought … I just wanted you to know that I was willing to help in any way I could.”

  Halfway through his last sentence, he found himself talking to the back of a figure walking slowly but determinedly up the dirt lane toward the rundown farmhouse. And as J. D. stood swallowing bitter words he wished he had never spoken, he looked farther up the hill and saw the silhouette of Lizzie Clem against the nearly nighttime sky. She was waiting for her daddy to come to supper.

  J. D. slammed the hood, then the car door, and turned the Triumph sharply around in the road to head back across the one lane bridge toward town. He now had his daughter, his mother, his business, and a family of strangers vying for time and space in his overworked and troubled conscience. He hadn’t prayed in years and wasn’t real sure he still remembered how. But he felt an overwhelming need for some sort of spiritual comfort … or maybe he was just tired. Getting these people named Clem off his mind was not going to be easy.

  Chapter Three

  It was after nine when J. D. got home. Karlie was in the den with cotton stuffed between each toe, painting her nails and watching TV. She didn’t look up when he sat down heavily in his chair next to her.

  “Angela called,” she said. “She’s fine. I told her we wouldn’t call anymore tonight and if she still wanted to, we’d come get her for the weekend. But she’s doing much better. Said to tell you hi.”

  J. D. listened but didn’t react. He was glad that things were better and glad not to have to talk to her tonight. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. His mind was full of a family he had left somewhere out past 724 just beyond the one lane bridge. They were hungry and one was sick and at least one was offended and maybe two of them angry. He had made a mess of trying to help, and he was feeling guiltier by the minute. He suspected Karlie could sense his uneasiness, and his suspicions were confirmed when she asked, “What’s wrong?”

  His first instinct was to say, “Nothing. I’m just tired,” but he thought of how irritated he became when she would say that to him, so he decided to tell her what had happened while he was out for his “peaceful” ride in the country. When he finished, she looked at him with those eyes that always understood exactly what he was feeling. And then she offered the perfect solution.

  “Go to bed. Get some rest. And tomorrow after we go see your mother, we’ll take some groceries out, and if the old man gets mad, he’ll just have to get over it.”

  J. D., finding no fault with that decision, smiled in agreement. Then he picked up the newspaper from the end table by the sofa and headed upstairs. If only going to sleep were as easy as climbing into bed, he would have found the relief he so needed. At 3:00 a.m. he was still staring at the shadows on the wall and the lights from the street. None of the thoughts would settle down in his mind. They kept fighting for position in his line of worry. Angela, in a strange city with strange people, and frightened. His mother, living in less-than-desirable surroundings in a nursing home that did its best to make her comfortable but couldn’t begin to feel like home. Someone stealing from them at the restaurant almost daily. And those poor people, the Clems, living in squalor with sickness and death in the next room, eating what was available and cheap and enjoying barely the necessities of life.

  He didn’t deserve to sleep.

  Karlie was dressed when J. D. finally opened his eyes. As she was going out the bedroom door, she said, “I’m going to stop in at the restaurant downtown for just a few minutes. See how everything is going. Let’s decide before the day is over if we want to confront them or if we want to plant the bills tonight in the cashbox. I will be okay with whatever we decide.”

  J. D. had to smile at her sincerity. “Me, too,” he said. “Then where are you going?”

  “I’ll meet you at Maple Manor at ten o’clock. We’ll have coffee with your mother, and then we’ll stop by Kroger and get some food and head out to the country. Is that still what you want to do?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Say so if it’s not. Have you changed your mind?”

  “No.”

  “Something’s up. What is it?”

  “Let’s switch the order around. Let’s take the groceries out there first and then go see Mom.”

  “Okay by me, but she’ll call a dozen times, you know.”

  “She’ll be all right. I just need to get this thing off my mind. Meet me at Kroger at ten.”

  “You’re the boss,” she said as she bent over the bed and kissed him good-bye.

  He could smell the coffee she had brewing for him in the kitchen. He could see the sun pushing past the open curtains at each bedroom window. But he couldn’t feel the shower spray hitting him in the face, and if he didn’t feel that pretty soon, he might still be lying there at noon. He threw the covers back and jumped to his feet. He had to shake yesterday from his head in order to face today.

  Karlie’s van was filled with plastic bags of every kind of food imaginable. They had bought bread and milk and sugar and salt and flour and all kinds of meat—things that every household needs. But they had also filled other bags with candy and a cake and a couple of pies and potato chips and pretzels and Cokes. And, of course, he had Ada’s ice cream. He couldn’t find any Dixie Cups, but he found individual servings in plastic cups that would have to suffice.

  They drove mostly in silence, but after a few twists and turns, Karlie began to tease him.

  “How did you ever get on this road?”

  “I told you. I just drive till I get lost.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly got me lost, big boy. I have no idea where I am. Had you ever been on this road before?”

  “I don’t think so. I try to find a new one every time I take one of those mind-clearing excursions. And this time, I think I outdid myself.”


  Karlie looked at him and laughed. “I don’t mean to sound like a kid on vacation, but how much farther is it?”

  “If memory serves, we’re about there. Just around that next bend is the one lane bridge, and then just over the bridge is the lane that goes up to the …”

  His words trailed off about the same time their van came to a slow stop in the middle of the road.

  “What’s wrong, honey? You know you’ve stopped in the middle of the road, right?”

  J. D. was staring straight ahead in a sudden empty stupor. His mind was trying to find reason and rationale, but the blood rushing in his head was rendering him unable to think.

  “J. D., what’s wrong? Are you all right?”

  He pointed a good fifteen seconds before he finally spoke, and what he said sent chills up Karlie’s spine and neck.

  “Karlie, the one lane bridge is gone.”

  “What?”

  “The one lane bridge. It’s not here.”

  “Maybe it’s down the road a little ways.”

  “No. It was here. Right here where this two lane bridge is. Except when it was a one lane bridge it had high steel sides and cables running from the top of it down into the ground. This isn’t the same bridge. I mean, the bridge I drove over … it was one of those bridges where you’d have to sit and wait if someone was crossing from the other side. The steel bridge is gone, and it’s two lanes now.”

  “J. D., it has to be on down the road. You’ve only been here once before. You can’t possibly know the road this well.”

  “Believe me, I know it. The bridge is gone.”

  “Honey, you’re scaring me. Now stop it. And look at you. You’re shaking.”

  J. D. got out of the car and walked to the bridge. Karlie followed him. They stood in silence by the cement siding that braced the two lane bridge. He stared below at the river while she stared at him. She was about to speak when they both had to jump back from a truck that whizzed by, horn blaring.

  “J. D., be reasonable. That bridge did not disappear overnight. We are either on the wrong road or it’s farther on. A bridge can’t get up and move.”