Mona’s body crumpled into itself as she sank back onto the bench, and her stomach and chest clenched up into an eddy of nausea. Dizzy, disoriented, she let her head fall between her knees, then jerked up and lurched through the door and to the bathroom at the back of the store. She made it to the toilet just before her insides emptied out in a series of gagging heaves.
7
FRANK HAD ALWAYS KNOWN THE PRINCIPLES of recovery, of course—like getting enough rest, and eating properly—but he’d never thought those rules applied to him. He’d broken his arm skiing two years ago, and after a couple of days, had gone back out on the slopes with the cast on. What the hell, that was no big deal.
But this morning, when he’d gotten up, he’d been stiff and sore all over. Was it because of the accident, or because he was fifty? Was this the beginning of the end?
Frank sat down at the table to drink his coffee and finish his onion bagel with cream cheese. The fire was burning in the wood-stove, and his flannel shirt and jeans were hanging above it. They’d gotten soaked yesterday when he’d toppled into a snowdrift. He’d stuck his cane into a pile of snow and lost his balance when it sank through the crust. He hadn’t gotten hurt, but now his shoulder ached and his chest throbbed, and his ankle felt like a red-hot water balloon about to pop. Frank was not accustomed to pain.
“Good morning, this is Jared Burnside,” came the sing-song-y voice from the radio, “bringing you the Eye on the Sky from the Fairbanks Museum in St. Johnsbury. After the big storm over the weekend that brought down the historic covered bridge at Wild Mountain, we’ve had nothing but sunny skies and warmer-than-usual temperatures in the VPR listening region. Another sunny day today, with temperatures in the sixties, but don’t plant your tomatoes yet—we’re in for more snow tomorrow.”
So. The bridge had come down. He paused, recalling the chaotic scene of yesterday. It must have happened just after he’d left.
He poured himself another cup of coffee, hobbled over to the woodstove, opened the door, and looked in. The fire was down to embers. He took kindling out of the basket and threw it on the fire, then added the last log from the pile beside the Franklin stove. Frank loved this stove, a big black contraption that dominated the small room. It was one of the original 1950s models, with four burners on top and a side compartment for baking. One summer, Patsy had baked a loaf of bread almost every day.
He sank down onto the couch with a sigh, and propped his foot up on a pillow. He could almost taste those delicate popovers she used to make, fresh and warm from the oven and dripping with butter. He stared at the fire through the glass door.
From outside the window came a spinning of wheels in mud, then the slam of a car door, and from the porch, a loud thump. The front door opened. “Hi, Dad!” Erica stomped the snow off her feet, unwound a long black-and-white scarf, shook the moisture off her curly black hair, and looked around the room with a combination of mirth and consternation. Frank’s little cabin, so serene a few minutes ago, was now bursting with frenetic energy.
“Look who’s here.” Frank got up, limped over to the door, and started to envelop her in a big hug when he remembered the ribs. He embraced her tentatively.
She threw her jacket on the daybed. “I’ve been in the car for hours! I had to take a detour around Manchester, since the interstate is flooded and they’ve blocked off a whole section. Then I had to weave in and out of these little towns where half the roads there are flooded, too.” She flopped down onto the couch and lay back on his leg pillow.
“Yes. They’re saying the storm hit most of Vermont and New Hampshire.” Frank sat down on a chair at the table. “So, what brings you here?”
“Well, gosh, when I talked to you on the phone, you sounded so weird and drugged, and I know how incompetent you are when it comes to practical living, and then I heard on the news about the bridge being hit, and the floods, and I had to wait ’til today to get some time off, but gee, Dad—”
She’d been worried about him. Frank’s eyes welled up. “Thanks, baby.”
She winced. He’d forgotten that she didn’t like him to call her baby.
Erica was twenty-six, and had been living in Boston for two years since she’d finished her degree in social work. She’d had a serious boyfriend for a while, a young doctor—and in that year, Frank hadn’t seen her so much—but since that had ended, for whatever mysterious reason, he’d seen more of her. When he was in New York, she came down once a month, and he took her out to dinner and a play, or they’d go to the Chelsea Pier gym and climb the rock wall. She liked cycling, too, as did he, and they’d done some mountain biking in upstate New York and western Massachusetts. Yes, he had made mistakes with Patsy, Erica’s mother—and with Erica, too, when she was younger—but for the past few years, they’d been enjoying a new closeness, a comfortable companionship. And, like him, Erica loved the cabin.
“I’m fine,” he said, straightening up and recovering his hearty tone of voice. “Taking it easy. Got some work done, and I think I’ll stay up here for a while.”
She screwed up her nose. “Your face is all purple.”
“Well, I got a little banged up.” She was a little critical, but he didn’t need sympathy. Maybe she’d get some wood from the wood-pile, help with the cooking. . . .
Erica took off her shoes and lifted a large black suitcase and red canvas tote bag onto the daybed. “I met some reporter at Mona’s Store,” she said, “and he was telling me about the bridge falling down. He says everyone is talking about it, and they’re fighting about whether to build a new one.”
“You just arrived, and you know more about it than I do.”
“Well, he was kind of cute, so I got talking to him.”
She rummaged through her bags, picked out a sweater and a pair of jeans, and went into the bathroom. He heard the whoosh of the shower.
Frank opened his computer and searched for news about Questwander and Feral Journeys. Did anyone know about this deal he was working on? Any hints of mergers in the adventure business? There were only a couple of references to the two companies—just reviews of the trips they’d done. He checked his email. Questwander was still excited about the merger, and they loved his ideas. Good. The shower ran on and on, and now he had to pee. He thumped on the bathroom door. “Are you almost done in there?”
“Not yet!”
He sat back down, but it didn’t help his bladder. “Erica?”
“Just a minute!”
He couldn’t wait any longer. He hopped over to the front door, slipped on his mud shoes, and went outside. Taking his cane, Frank was more careful this time, maneuvering through the piles of ice and slush to the edge of the woods, where he unzipped and relieved himself.
As he paused beneath the dense canopy of hemlock bows, the cool silence of the woods was broken only by the plaintive screech of an owl in the distance, and for the first time in a while, he sensed a feeling of gratitude—a feeling that seemed to rise out of the wet snow, the smell of the pine woods, and the last rays of the sun, something akin to prayer. Thank God for the snow, for the quiet, for Erica, his only family, and for his cabin in Vermont.
8
MONA STEPPED OUT ONTO THE PORCH and into sunshine that hit her with a fierce beauty, bright and clear, as if to throw in her face the fact that everything else was not clear. Everything was in turmoil. Down at the river, a big hole of empty sky, brilliant and blue, engulfed the world with nothingness. The bridge had simply been erased from the world. Just like when her mother died and everything else was still here…as if the earth could gobble her up and dispense with this life that had made the world what it was.
Ice piles, covered with snow and strewn with torn roots and branches, lay on the riverbed, and the roof of the crumpled bridge squatted in the middle like a piece of scrap metal at the junkyard. Mona averted her eyes, staring up at the cruel sky.
Heather was sitting on the bench, her pale hair a fluffy cape over her red coat, legs in striped leggings splayed ou
t beneath her, one foot in a weathered hiking boot tapping out a rhythm on the deck. She looked up at Mona and grimaced, opening her hand toward the river. “Almost like somebody’s house got squashed.”
“Yeah.” Mona sat down beside her. Heather understood. Mona buttoned up her lumber jacket, breathed in, and let out a sigh that rippled through her body in choppy waves.
Heather leaned over and put her arm around her. “Hard times.”
Mona started to shake. “What’s the matter with me?” she said, choking back a sob. “It’s not like one of my nephews got knocked down. It’s just a bridge. But my God, it’s been there for more than a hundred and thirty years.”
“Yeah.” Heather squeezed her shoulder.
Mona was not accustomed to sympathy. In her family, you put up or shut up, and she was always the toughest of the lot. If anything happened, you’d come to Mona, and she’d fix it or give you a kick in the ass to get you back on your feet. “Okay, Heather,” she said, straightening up, “that’s enough of the pity party. You know me. I don’t do setbacks.” She punched the air with her fist. “I’m going to kick my ass into gear, and get that bridge restored.”
“Hear, hear!” Heather smiled and raised her fist.
“Hey, Mona,” came a friendly voice from the stairway, “let me take you away from all this.” Frank MacFarland stood in front of her in a mustard-colored canvas jacket, leaning on a flowered cane and smiling down at her. The contusion on his face was swollen and purple, making his smile look slightly grotesque.
“Where to, Frank?” she asked, in a voice that sounded, even to her, like she was trying too hard to be a good sport. “Paris or Indonesia?”
“How about Wild Mountain?”
“To the right, to the right,” a voice boomed. Cappy Gold, in a yellow slicker and Ray-Ban sunglasses that made him look like Brad Pitt, stood on an ice boulder at the river’s edge, giving directions through a bullhorn.
Mona glowered. All these people from every-which-where converging on her store, demanding to use the bathroom, asking for interviews, Cappy yelling through his bullhorn, engineers giving everyone false hope. . . . “Yeah,” she said, “I’d like to get out of here for a while.” She stood up and glanced down at the river as the two teams maneuvered the giant chain. Above the din, metal clanged against metal.
“Sounds like a chain gang,” said Heather.
Frank shook his head. “I can’t believe they think they’re going to get that bridge back up with a chain.” He turned and shambled toward the stairs, his jeans bunched above the bulky Ace bandage wrapped around his ankle.
Mona started to follow him, then hesitated. “Maybe I should drive.”
Frank turned around, straightened up, and expanded his chest. “I have amazing powers of regeneration,” he said, managing to convey an air of rock-solid strength in spite of the ridiculous purple bruise, the bandaged ankle, and the flowered cane. “Anyway, Old Faithful is automatic, so I don’t need my left foot.” He headed toward the blue BMW parked in front of the store.
Mona looked at Heather, who winked and raised her fist again. Mona shrugged and started down the stairs, where she almost collided with Pauline Perry, Edson’s petite blonde wife. On seeing Mona, Pauline broke into tears and put her arms around her. “Mona, Mona, what a shame, what a shame,” she cried. “What will we do without the bridge?”
“Yeah, I know.” Mona gently unhooked herself from Pauline. “Go inside, have some turkey soup.” Pauline nodded, sniffed, and opened the door.
Mona stepped over puddles in the parking lot and made her way to the car, where Frank was holding open the passenger-side door. She bent down to get in, but the front seat was littered with fast-food wrappers, paper coffee cups, and an array of colored socks. On the back seat, a pair of ski boots and three snowshoes were piled together, and two file boxes overflowed with papers and manila folders. A green turtleneck jersey was partially stuffed into one of them, and a violin case was wedged into the middle of it all.
Frank hastily picked up the socks and trash, and tossed them onto the floor of the back seat. He smiled at her. “My little dining room.”
She sat down and closed the door. He was a slob, but maybe that was better than Johnny O., that compulsive neatnik. In Johnny O.’s Range Rover, everything had to be so perfect you were barely allowed to breathe. Once, when she’d put her feet up on the dashboard, it had unleashed a tirade from Johnny, a volcano spewing fire and ash which, as usual, burned and smothered her. She’d had to keep a hard crust between Johnny and herself.
Frank eased himself into the driver’s seat and started the car. They headed north on River Road. Mona frowned. “But—” and then her stomach clenched. Normally, they would take the bridge. The bridge wasn’t there anymore.
“Has it been rough today?”
“Just multiply that scene with Pauline by about fifty,” she said. “That’s been my day. That, and a bunch of reporters.” But hey. He had asked her about her day. When was the last time a man had done that? Mona smiled. Frank’s bushy eyebrows, mustache, and beard were darker than his graying hair, and his nose turned up a bit. There was something sweet and ingenuous about Frank. And, in spite of the mess, there was a pleasant, earthy smell, some combination of wool and beard and old boots, a relaxed maleness, permeating the car.
Frank fiddled with the CD player and put in a disc. A guitar-flute duet with a bossa nova beat came on, and he hummed softly in an amiable baritone. The bruise was on the other side of his face, so his smile was charming again. “You have kids, right?”
“No. I never had kids. Just nieces and nephews.”
“So, do you want to have children?”
She laughed. “How old do you think I am?”
He looked at her in surprise, as if he really thought she was young enough to have kids. “About thirty-eight?”
“Just add ten years, and you’re right. Forty-eight.”
“Well, you’re extremely youthful.”
“Thanks. Cutting loose from a lousy husband probably subtracted a few years.”
“Not such a happy divorce?”
“Not. But he’s back in New Hampshire now,” she said, crossing her fingers, “and I don’t have to deal with him.”
“Not such a nice guy, huh?”
“No.” She pursed her lips and frowned. Was he prying? But why had she brought up Johnny O.? She was not one of these people who sat around analyzing her divorce with every Tom, Dick, or Harry. She shifted in her seat and looked out at the trees, where water was dripping from the branches and melting snow piles on the verge. “I heard the temperature was dropping,” she said, “but it sure doesn’t look like it.”
“No, it looks pretty warm. If it melts too fast, they can’t do that chain maneuver on the bridge. The worst scenario would be a flood.”
“A flood. That’s all we need now, another disaster.” She felt her body working itself into that state of stress that made her start snapping at people. Heather had once told her that where men were concerned, she wore a coat of armor. Maybe she was being a little defensive, and Frank wasn’t trying to pry into her private life. He was humming along to the music, and, thankfully, not trying to talk.
Mona leaned back and closed her eyes, breathing in, breathing out, listening to the soothing music and feeling the sun and shadows flicking across her face as the trees beside the road came and went. Through half-closed lids, she saw the sap buckets hanging from the maple trunks, and a pungent-sweet smell flashed into her senses—the boiling of syrup in the sugarhouse, Dad, Edson Perry’s dad, Charlie, her brothers.
“It’s funny,” Frank said. “I’ve seen you at the store for years, but I’ve never talked to you alone.”
She pulled down the visor against the glare and glanced at him. “Usually, I’m joined at the hip to that store. But since this all happened with the bridge, I’m totally out of sync.”
“You’ve been knocked off your pilings, too. I know how that feels.”
They
lapsed into silence again, and Mona saw the white-capped top of Wild Mountain rising immaculate against the blue sky. Frank turned the wheel and they passed between stands of tall pine trees, then turned onto West Paris Road. The steel frame of the West Paris bridge came into sight.
She raised her chin and sniffed. “Just look at those rusty beams and trusses.”
“It could use some SOS,” he said agreeably. They were crossing the bridge now, white water rushing and roaring below. “But this bridge is upstream of Wild Mountain. I wonder why the ice jam didn’t hit it first.”
“It’s about six feet higher than our bridge,” she said. “And it’s much newer. But not better. The old plank-lattice construction was a good way to build.”
“Plank-lattice?”
“The covered bridge was built entirely of planks, all balanced in a latticework design so that it didn’t need heavy timbers. They used wooden pegs to fasten it together.”
“Cool,” he said. “And it’s also more picturesque. Makes you think of old Vermont, horses clippity-clopping along. This steel bridge gives a whole different feel to the landscape.”
Mona smiled. He got it. Then a deep sadness came over her, and she deflated, sinking into a slump. Her bridge was down, lying in the river, crushed like a heap of trash at the dump. Was this how it was going to be now? Every little thing was going to startle her with a reminder that the bridge was gone. Like when her mother had been in the nursing home, and she’d come home from work and think, I’ve got to ask Mom about that recipe for stuffed peppers, and then remember the empty shell of a body in the bed where Mom used to be.
They drove up the north side of Wild Mountain, into the cold shade of pine and hemlock and past the new houses on their little acres carved out of the woods. Around a bend, a massive log cabin jutted out into the sunlight, a porch extending the length of the front. A crowded jumble of antlers, moose heads, and five-point bucks bedecked the porch, and from a tree in the yard hung the carcass of a red fox.
Wild Mountain Page 5
