by Cathy Lamb
Mr. Coddler, with the feather in his hat, said, “I’ll let Toran know that you need to be kept at home for the duration.”
Bridget said, “That’s not necessary. I won’t come in again.”
I said, “Do call Toran, Mr. Coddler. He’s helped you with your fields many times, hasn’t he? I’m sure he’ll be ever so happy to help you again after I tell him how rudely you’ve treated his sister.”
He paled, blinked, and his face sagged.
“You’re a closed-minded old man and have lost your compassion.”
He said, flustered, “I am appalled! I never—”
“You’ve never what? Offered compassion or care to anyone? That’s abundantly clear.” I said this loudly.
There were other people in the café. None of them said anything. None of them spoke up for us. Laddy was still red, but there was something else in her eyes. Maybe tears. Bridget was leaning heavily on me, her skin a ghastly white. Holly kneaded her fingers together, her two friends stunned. Mrs. Thurston appeared ready to pop, like a can of worms under pressure.
“You cannot get AIDS from being in a restaurant with someone who has it,” I announced to those illiterate idiots. “You cannot get AIDS from hugging someone or being their friend. You cannot get AIDS when you’re having a conversation about the weather. But you can choose to stay uneducated and ignorant and cruel your whole life, which is obviously how you people have chosen to be. That you would choose to be this mean to one of your own is shameful.”
I saw jaws drop. I think I saw guilt on a few faces.
“Shame on you.”
They were shocked. They hardly moved. Perhaps it was the thought of getting AIDS through the air. Or perhaps it was my last three words.
No matter. What did I care what they thought?
So I said it again, “Shame on you.”
Bridget smiled weakly and said, “Good-bye everyone. Have a nice day.”
I helped Bridget back to the car. No one stopped to help us. She cried silently all the way home.
I raged against AIDS at dusk that night as I stomped across the hills behind my house and down to the ocean, unusually frothy and noisy that evening. I raged against it as the pounding waves dissolved my footprints behind me. I raged against it as the sun went down, the colors muted, the fog dense, gray and darker gray. I threw rocks into that thudding, churning ocean until my arm hurt.
I raged.
My mother called. She had broken her foot on the stairs at her university in South Africa. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to go to her, to help, but I couldn’t leave.
“Charlotte, my students are all helping me. You stay there and don’t move. I’ve read all your letters, twice. You tell Bridget I love her, I’ve always loved her, that poor woman. Women must stick together. You stick with Bridget.”
I stayed. I felt horrible about my mother, but she was right. I needed to stick with Bridget.
Dear Charlotte,
Once again, I will say to you that I am extremely saddened to hear about Bridget’s AIDS diagnosis. I know that the two of you are the best of friends.
I am also sorry about the response of some of the people of the village. We cannot invite people to leave town because of a lack of intellectual prowess, unfortunately. I wanted to let you know, and Toran, too, that I will do all I can to protect dearest Bridget, so undeserving of this, the poor thing, that lovely girl.
Life can be terribly cruel, can it not?
Your rights are thus: You may go anywhere in town with Bridget that you wish, including cafés and bars and other restaurants, despite the lunatics who are protesting otherwise.
Don’t go to Lizzie’s Café. Honestly, more people get sick eating there than they do from the flu. She’s only been in business a year, and she’ll be out of business in a month, but this is not a risk Bridget should take with her health.
If you have any trouble, get to a phone, and I will be there for you with my men. (And Officer Mary Adele, a new hire, tough lady she is.) I will never accept discrimination of any kind in St. Ambrose, in particular against the needy or ill.
For a personal story: My mother was Jewish, killed in the camps in the war. We later learned she lived three years in Dachau, a direct recipient of the Nazi’s torture.
I cannot write of this further. I apologize for the smearing of the ink. Those are tears that never quite stop when I think of my brave mother. My father got me out of Germany as a young boy. Being half Jewish, I was at risk. I was blond, though, and that helped. We escaped, and my father, being a Christian, did not have a problem. Lost everything, he did, but we got out alive.
Twice he went back into Germany to get my mother. One time he was beaten by the Nazis but managed to get out again. Missing two fingers on his left hand and had a limp the rest of his life, courtesy of those monsters.
I wanted to tell you so you would understand why I believe that discrimination and bigotry of any kind is wrong, in all circumstances.
I am behind you, Bridget, and Toran. I will defend you all. I will stand in your father’s place.
Yours,
Chief Constable Ben Harris
A friend of your parents, your father the best of bagpipers. He was my best friend. I will be the father that you, Toran, and Bridget need now, in his honor.
Dear St. Ambrose Ladies’ Gab, Garden, and Gobble Group,
We must take immediate action. The way that Laddy treated Bridget on Thursday in her café was deplorable. She kicked Bridget out. My pigs are far better behaved!
I will not be going to Laddy’s again, and I told her that yesterday. She told me that she didn’t care, and I said, I’m glad you don’t care because you are a scared nit, and she said you are a pig-loving hustler, and I told her that she owed Bridget an apology for being herself, a petty and spiteful overcooked woman, and she said that Bridget needed to be quarantined. I told her that she needed to be quarantined for improper obnoxiousness.
My pigs are smarter than Laddy is. (I told her that, too.)
St. Ambrose Ladies’ Gab, Garden, and Gobble Group, at Charlotte’s house next time.
I’ll be killing Frieda so we’ll have ham and potatoes. I will miss her.
Sign this note and pass it on. Do not pass it on to Lorna.
Olive
Ladies of Gabbing and Gobbling,
I will not be going to Laddy’s again, either. I already heard about what happened. One of my patients was there at the time, and I asked her why she didn’t speak up for Bridget and she started to cry.
People in town are being paranoid and hysterical. I’ve had many calls already to my office. One woman wanted to know if she could get AIDS from Bridget if Bridget’s “air cells” didn’t leave St. Ambrose. Someone else wanted to know if the whole village would be infected and would we have to live under a giant plastic bubble. A man called and asked if Bridget could give him AIDS if he touched the same door handle as her.
I’ll get on the agenda to speak at the next town meeting.
I’ll be bringing homemade cock-a-leekie soup with prunes that I’ll buy at Trudy’s Market. A pump up for the digestion system.
On another note, I need ideas for fall flowers. I need to look at bright colors after hours of using knives on people and all that blood. Blood everywhere sometimes. People have a lot of blood. What are your suggestions?
Kenna
Hey wild ladies and Hallelujah!
Olive,
Please don’t kill Frieda.
She is my favorite pig of yours.
Ex-husband was not pleased that we let Hallelujah loose in his house.
I told him to pay up child support, on time, every time, or we’d do it again, and this time we’d use one of your horses.
I received a check today. Hallelujah!
Rowena
PS I like Laddy about as much as I like Lorna. Why is she in Gardeners Who Gobble Gab Club with us? What is our name again? I can’t remember. Don’t send this note to Lorna.
Ladys,
I come to Garden Ladys Gobbling Giblet Club at Charlotte’s. I bring Papri Chaat with potatoes and the yum yogurt for Bridget. It heals. She need heals.
Chief Constable Benny Harris drives me up the road to Charlotte’s, but thank you for saying you come get me for the vacation to Charlotte’s.
Love and joy to you.
Gitanjali
Hello, everyone.
I know what my Aunt Laddy did to Bridget. I am so sorry. I will apologize properly to Bridget.
May I still come to Gardening and Gobbling Gang?
Malvina
Malvina,
Yes, silly lady. Bring a salad. I’m killing Frieda, despite internal protests that I not. She will be delicious.
Olive.
“Who do you think killed Angus, Bridget?”
Bridget put her feet up on a chair in the kitchen. We were making highland toffee cookies. A sliver of anger rushed through her face, then it softened, as if the energy for anger was too much.
“I don’t know. He may have run off.” Silver Cat jumped on her lap.
“I don’t think he ran off. My guess is someone killed him.” I thought of Father Cruickshank. Who would have killed him? There were other victims. Fathers, brothers, sisters, husbands, mothers—all would have wanted revenge. “He deserved it.”
“Yes, he did. Everyone who hurts children like that deserves it.”
“Who do you think could have done it?” I looked right at her, and she held my gaze.
“I didn’t.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did, nor would I tell.”
“I know.” She looked outside. Toran and three other men were on tractors in the distance.
“I have wondered the same thing,” I said. “He could have done it.”
“Yes. He could have.”
“Excellent move.”
“I feel the same.”
“Anyone else you suspect?”
“My parents.”
“Because of the timing.”
“Yes. That was suspicious.”
“Damning, actually, given the circumstances.”
“Yes.” We sat in silence.
“I love Silver Cat,” Bridget said. “She never leaves me. I can’t believe that she looks identical to the one Father Cruickshank shot.”
“Think she’s a grandcat?”
“Could be. I hope her grandma clawed Father Cruickshank’s eyes out.”
The nastiness continued.
Someone threw bricks through Toran’s front window in the middle of the night, sending shattered glass everywhere. He got up so fast, I went flying off his chest. He was out the bedroom door practically before I’d landed.
Toran found out later, from Pherson, that the bricks were thrown by a man who lived about ten miles away. The man talked about it at the pub as he drank. “Threw bricks through the window to show ’em we don’t need an AIDS drug addict in our village. She needs to head on out or we’ll take her out, even if she is Bridget Ramsay. She’s got to go.”
Toran, Pherson, Stanley I, and Stanley II and I went to the man’s house late that night. We built a wall of bricks—mortar between them—in front of his door so he couldn’t get out of his house.
Someone slashed the tires of one of Toran’s tractors. It was rumored to be a young, obnoxious man named Inek. Toran saw him in town, walked straight up, and said, “Do you not like my tractor?”
The boy stumbled, mumbled. Toran asked him to apologize, and the boy said, his voice shaking, “Keep your sick sister away from the rest of us.”
“Okay, lad,” Toran said. Then in old Scottish form, Toran and Pherson packed him into Toran’s truck and drove him ten miles out of town. “You won’t get infected out here, Inek.” They left him.
Toran was shunned by a few people he had known all of his life, which was the most hurtful. They avoided him in town, the pub, everywhere. They thought they would catch AIDS if they associated with him, as he may have been infected by Bridget.
His best friends, however, did not, starting with Pherson. Pherson was no more afraid than we were. They were smart, measured, learned men.
Toran Ramsay inspired true friendship. He was loyal to his friends, and most of them were loyal to him. I knew that the people who walked away from him now would never be allowed inside his life again.
“I am finding who my true friends are and who aren’t, Charlotte.” His voice was heavy, shoulders back, strong and hard, but he was hurting.
I nodded. “Yes, you are.”
“The true friends, they are my brothers. In another clan, but Scotsman brothers.” He sighed. “I was right about many of my friends—who would stick with me, who wouldn’t. Yet there are people I would have guessed were not true friends who have been. And there are men who I thought were true friends who have backed away.”
I hugged him tight. He hugged me back. I felt him shudder and I was instantly furious. Who were these harsh, judgmental people who would hurt sweet Bridget and Toran, people they had known their whole lives? How dare they make Toran shudder and Bridget cry.
“People can be very disappointing,” I said, blinking rapidly.
“That they can, luv, that they can. But you, you have never disappointed. You have always been the truest of all the trues.”
I kissed the bottom of his chin. He tilted his head down and gave me a proper Scottish kiss.
“Give me another kiss, Charlotte. I do believe I need one more . . . and another one . . . a third for tomorrow . . . a fourth because I cannot resist you. Shall we take a nap?”
I thought about kissing that night.
Some kisses on the cheeks are between friends, an air-kiss, very shallow, a casual greeting. Women air-kiss other women whom they hate all the time.
Then there are kisses on the cheek, in affection and friendship and love. Mother to daughter. Father to son. Sister to sister. Man to woman.
There are passionate kisses, and kisses that one person wishes would be more passionate. There are kisses that are light and fleeting, a tease, a whisper, a wish, a promise for more. There are kisses that have been given to the same person for decades, and others that have one chance and one chance only.
There are kisses that fill loneliness, that comfort and soothe, that are fun and funny.
Then there are passionate and lusty kisses, like the ones I share with Toran, that reach all the way to my heart. I love him with all that I am.
On Wednesday night someone set fire to one of Toran’s barns. He, and the other men who worked for him, tried frantically to put it out as best they could, but in the end, as the fire engines and firefighters raced toward us, nothing helped. I stood outside, a hose in my hand, as the roof caved in
Toran came running, grabbed me with one arm, and pulled me away as the sparks flew, the wood split, the flames took hold, and debris careened through the black night.
“Are you all right, my luv?” Toran asked, panting, sweating, on top of me.
“Yes, yes. Are you?” Our hair was singed.
The walls of the barn collapsed behind us, and Toran picked me up again and shoved me in front of him as we ran, the wood transformed into mini torpedoes, the fire scorching hot. The barn burned to the ground, gas cans exploding, which sent another round of objects spinning through the night. When the flames died down some and the explosions stopped, Toran, the employees, and the firefighters did their best to contain the fire with multiple hoses. The barn was a black, charred, crackling mess. I was so glad he did not have animals.
Bridget watched from her window, too weakened to move.
Later, when I comforted her, the black smoke billowing into the sky, the acrid smell invading the house like living hate, she cried.
“I cause him pain all the time. I do, Charlotte.” She wiped her wet face with the tissue I gave her.
“No, he loves you.”
I crawled into bed with her and rocked her, the scars on her arms reflected by the moon’s beams. “I
have caused him pain and trouble. I am pain and trouble.”
“Bridget, please—”
“Don’t tell me I’m not.”
“I won’t. You’re a pain in the ass and you are trouble on wheels.”
“I know, I know!” she said, wiping her face again.
“And if you keep whining and being pathetic, I will continue to be sarcastic when needed, as that self-pitying crap is irritating.”
“Oh. Argh. I sounded self-pitying then? Can’t do that. I won’t do that. No one likes a whiner.” She took a shuddery breath. “Okay. Whew. Let’s start over.”
“Fair enough.”
“Those assholes burned down our barn!”
“They did.”
“I should get up and set fire to them and their skinny arses!”
“You should.”
“I curse them from here to hell and hope that snakes crawl up their buttocks and lodge there indefinitely.”
“A righteous punishment.”
“I hope they get lice.”
“Also righteous.”
“I hope they never have a lover again in their lives. Enforced abstinence.”
“They deserve nothing more.”
We did the Clan TorBridgePherLotte handshake and said, “May our enemies rot in the fires of hell.”
“I’ll make Bonnie Prince Charlie chicken tomorrow to make it up to him,” Bridget said.
“I’ll eat it.”
“And we’ll have some Scotch.”
“I’ll drink it.”
“And we’ll play poker.”
“I’ll try to win.”
“You won’t.” Bridget shook her head sadly. “But you’ll try. Try as you might.”
“I’ll try.”
She couldn’t stay awake any longer, too weak. When I had her covered, I headed back outside. The engines and firefighters were still there, as was Pherson, Stanley I, Stanley II, Ben Harris, and three of his officers.
I saw Toran in the shadows, directing, leading.
