There was Charlie, in front of the barn and blatant sign, in his overalls and leaning on a hoe, a stooped-over American Gothic, his pointy beard almost touching his knees. Beside him, as if from another era, a cyclist in turquoise spandex and turquoise helmet, with a paunch bulging through the spandex, and a short beard below the helmet. Frank. Towering over Charlie, Frank was balancing his bike on the mud with one hand and waving the other as he talked. Charlie looked bewildered, as if stupefied by this materialization of an alien being. She laughed. Why was Frank talking to Charlie Perry?
Mona continued on River Road to the Mountain View bridge, then turned onto Mountain Road, lowering the gears as she drove around the curves, sun reflecting off snow, intense patches of light among the pines. At the upper trail, she pulled over, stopped, took a grocery bag from behind the seat, and stepped out.
She stuffed the bag into her backpack, put the pack on her back, and started up the trail. Her boots sank in and through the crusty snow, almost up to her socks. Why hadn’t she brought snowshoes? Even though there was hardly any snow left in the valley, she should have known it couldn’t have melted so fast up here. Probably because she’d been “knocked off her pilings,” as Frank had said.
She stopped at the white pine where a metal box was fastened at eye level. She put down her backpack and took out a carton of milk, a loaf of bread, two oranges, and a jar of peanut butter. She untied the fastener and placed the items in the box—just big enough. The fastener made it secure from deer and bears. At least now, she knew that Gus would be getting some sustenance. He never came into the store, claiming that he lived off the land, but he was so thin, and she was skeptical about how much he actually did eat. Gus, no matter how odd, was part of the community, and he had to be cared for. What else is life for, her mother used to say, if not to care for each other?
A crow cackled somewhere, and Gus’s face appeared from behind a snow-covered shrub. He took the groceries out of the box, placed them in a makeshift pack, and smiled at Mona. “We’re working on the bridge.”
“We?”
“Anu and I.” And then he disappeared.
She stood and felt the silence, the smell of early spring sunshine on snow, the beginning of new growth in the pines. There was something magical, something spiritual about this place, this part of the mountain. Maybe Gus was right, and Anu, whoever she was, was a presence here, a wavelength only he could perceive.
When she pulled into the parking lot, Sierra and another teenaged girl were waiting outside the store. Mona hopped out of the truck and opened the door. “No school today?”
Sierra hooked her thumbs into her jeans loops, and she and the other girl exchanged a glance. “Well.” Sierra looked at the ground. “I had cramps, and Grace had to help me, since my mom is working.”
“And besides, we’re both eighteen,” said Grace, a dark girl with short, spiky black hair and more ear, nose, lip, and eyebrow rings than Mona had ever seen on one person.
“Yeah.” Should she call Sierra’s mom tonight, or was this none of her business? She shrugged and went back to the truck to unload the paper towels, toilet paper, and other paper products. When she came back in with her arms full, Sierra and Grace were standing at the counter, which was piled with two large bags of barbeque Doritos, one of them open, a six-pack of Mountain Dew, three pints of Ben & Jerry’s chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, a bag of gummy bear candy, and a box of Tampax.
The girls were eating the chips and singing short, sing-song-y verses that ended alternately with a “me!” or a “you!” Hum hum hum me!” with a hop and a bumping of hips. Hum hum hum “you!” with another hip bump and a cascade of giggles. Mona waited for the performance to end.
Sierra stopped dancing first, and screwed up her face at Mona. “Who’s that weird guy down by the bridge?”
“What guy?”
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” She swallowed and wiped her hand across her mouth. “He was prowling around down by the road, and then when you showed up, he was down at the bridge.”
“What did he look like?”
“Weird.”
“Definitely weird,” agreed Grace, looking at Mona with brown eyes that were so heavily lined she looked like a raccoon. “I mean old. Like you. And in this big black tent kind of coat.”
“A cape?”
“Yeah!” they said together.
13
WHEN THE GIRLS LEFT, Mona continued with her unpacking: emptying out the boxes of paper towels, napkins, toilet paper, tissues, and sanitary products, stacking them on the shelves in the back room, putting some on the store shelves. There was something satisfying about putting things in place, getting things in order—at least to have some sense of routine in the chaos that had surrounded her since the bridge had fallen.
And now—Johnny O. in town? Could it be true? Mona went to the window and looked down toward the bridge. No sign of him. If he was there, she wouldn’t satisfy him by going out onto the porch, where he could see that she was looking for him. She straightened out the cigarette rack and the gum and candy racks that she’d already straightened, and picked up her accounts book, but she’d already added and subtracted everything that needed to be added and subtracted, and now there was no one else here and nothing to do.
She grabbed a rag from behind the deli counter, went to the window, and wiped the dust from the salsa jars. Why people weren’t buying salsa this year was a mystery, since last year she couldn’t keep enough of it on the shelves. She gazed out the window. No ominous shapes walking along the bank or disappearing behind rocks. Maybe it hadn’t been Johnny, and whoever it was had left.
The sky loomed gray and humid, and the remains of the bridge lay scattered on the riverbed. Normally, she’d look down and see the cars emerging. Mona knew almost everybody’s car, and most of the time, she could even guess what they were going to buy. There’s Bea Vargas, she’d say to herself, in the little red Honda, coming for her weekly loaf of bread, her pint of milk, and anything green and leafy. Or there’s Pauline Perry in her beat-up Chevy pickup, out of Pampers again. Or Heather in her Subaru wagon, needing more pasta, more bread, more everything for Eli, who ate like a horse and was skinny as a wild coyote.
Now nobody came across the bridge, because there was no bridge. If they wanted to get here from the west, they had to go all the way around through West Paris, and most of them wouldn’t take the time. Except Charlie Perry, creature of habit, and most of his family. Luckily, Bea lived on this side of the river, because if she couldn’t get here, she’d be devastated.
Mona went back to the counter and reached underneath for the Windex, then came back and wiped the dusty window with her rag. This window and this store had been in this spot almost as long as the covered bridge: a hundred years or more. A hundred years ago, the store had been owned by the LaDue family. Hatsy LaDue had probably stood right here where Mona stood now. Hatsy, who had still been alive when Mona was a kid, would have heard the hollow knocking of horses’ hooves and the clatter of wagon wheels, and she would have seen her neighbors, or the milkman, or the vegetable man, coming through the bridge. And she, too, would have known what they were going to buy or sell.
The bridge would have been almost new then, because it had been built only about forty years earlier—in 1853, when her ancestor Luc Cavalier had worked on it.
The bell jangled, the door opened, and Mona stepped behind the counter.
In the doorway stood Johnny O. Duval. “Hello, beautiful.”
“Ha, ha.”
“Hey, do you think I’m kidding? You look awesome, Mona.” Johnny’s black hair was now shaved in a military style, and his beard was cut close. His pale skin and blue eyes with fine features—that black Irish look she used to love—had aged into a craggy, gnarled visage, and there were streaks of gray in his beard. He had aged more than ten years.
“What are you doing here, Johnny?”
He unfastened the bulky, ridiculous-looking cape and to
ok it off with a flourish, spreading himself and his presence into the room. Under the cape, a hunting rifle hung by a strap over his shoulder. “I came to see you,” he said, taking a step closer. He held the butt of the gun proudly, like some ancient woodsman home from the hunt.
Mona stepped back, wedging herself up against the counter beneath the cash register.
The bell jangled again, thank God, and in came Charlie Perry.
“Hi, Charlie!” Mona almost shouted.
“Mona,” Charlie Perry muttered, and nodded his head, his long beard bobbing. His overalls were weathered and more stained than usual today, and as he started to hurtle past her, the powerful aroma of cow manure accompanied him. Then he saw Johnny, and stopped. “John.” His eyes shifted from Johnny to Mona and back. “Long time no see, buddy.”
“Yes, hello, Charlie.” Johnny’s eyes flashed anger or impatience at being interrupted.
“How’s the music business?” Charlie asked.
“It’s awesome, man.” Johnny’s eyes lit up at this. Johnny had been a music promoter trying to make it big for years. “I’ve got three bands that I’m booking all over the country. The latest one I just landed…” He paused for dramatic effect and to build suspense, and his eyes widened. “Nasty Wilson!” he proclaimed as if he’d just picked the ripest plum from the tree, and everyone should be impressed by this name.
“Never heard of ’em,” Charlie said, and headed back to the deli.
A few other customers came in as Johnny stood cradling his gun and staring at Mona, occasioning curious looks. Mona bit her lip and dropped someone’s change, then a receipt, then a bottle of milk in a glass bottle that thankfully didn’t break. Why was he hanging about? And why couldn’t she just tell him to leave? Yes, she would tell him to go. He was making her nervous.
Charlie came back with a six-pack of Bud and a roast beef sandwich from the cooler and put them down on the counter.
“Splurging today?” she said. Usually he bought canned chili and crackers for his lunch.
“Yup.”
“Cigarettes?”
“Yup.”
She took a package of Marlboro Lights from the rack, lay them on the counter, and rang up the total.
“Smoking.” Johnny spoke from his corner. “Really bad for you, man.”
Charlie, his eyes dark and fiery, looked at Johnny, but didn’t respond. He turned to Mona. “Seen Edson today?”
“No, why?”
“We got a petition to put in here.”
“A petition? About what?”
“We think the town has just about had it with that dyke on the select board, and we’re letting people express their opinions on it.”
“You mean Roz?” She bristled.
“Yup.”
“But why, Charlie? Because she’s a lesbian?”
“Yup. This town needs to stand up for something, and we need Montpelier to know that we’re against gay marriage.” His jaw was set, and his eyes gleamed an icy blue as he glared at his six-pack. “We’ve had enough of these dykes coming here and running things and then demanding to marry each other.”
Mona felt her whole body tense, but just as she was about to sling a comeback, she looked at him, and her shoulders deflated. How could she argue with Charlie Perry? When she was a child, he had been an almost mythical figure. Straight and tall, he’d been a handsome man. He’d invite all the kids to the farm, show them how to call the hogs and the cows, chuckle when the animals came running, and give them maple syrup popsicles. And in those days, when his wife Elva was still alive, the farm had been neat and tidy, not run-down like it was now. How could she fight him, now that he’d descended into this pitiful state? Then again, how could she remain silent, when her oldest friend was being maligned? She clenched her fists and turned her head, as if the answer would come from between the cereal and the candy racks.
Johnny O. cleared his throat. “Hey, people should be allowed to marry whoever they want.” He ignored the malevolent look Charlie gave him. “Why should the government step in and say who you can marry? And why have laws about marriage at all? Let’s get the government off our backs.” He cradled his gun and smiled at Mona, who felt a surge of gratitude and confusion. Johnny used to be a conservative Christian and stridently anti-gay. He’d resented her friendship with Roz, and had continually made malicious remarks about her. He’d effectively cut her off from that friendship for years, and that was one of the reasons she’d felt so liberated when they separated: she could have her friends back. What was this change of heart? Or was it a change of heart? Johnny always had the capacity to worm his way into people’s affections by saying what they wanted to hear.
The door opened again, and Edson, Charlie’s son, came in. Edson was as large and broad as his father was humped and shriveled. “I got it, Dad,” he said, and slapped a clipboard down on the counter. Clipped to it was a petition with the title TAKE BACK WILD MOUNTAIN, then a statement:
We, the citizens of Wild Mountain, Vermont, believe in the value of family and the sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman. The chairman of the select board, as evidenced in many verbal opinions and in her political activities, does not represent our values. We demand the resignation of Roz Allingworth.
There were fifty lines below it for signatures, and several sheets of paper tacked behind the first. Edson looked at Mona with a smug grin, assuming her approval.
Mona gasped. They really wanted to kick Roz out. Roz, who had been working for the bridge restoration as well as for gay marriage. Charlie probably thought he could kill two birds with one stone by getting rid of her. He arranged the clipboard in the center of the counter.
“No, thanks,” she said.
“What?” Edson looked incredulous. “What do you mean, no thanks?” As if he didn’t know Roz was her friend, or, in his delusion, thought that his moral stance was so infallible that she would see it that way, too.
“I mean I don’t want that petition here.”
“But we always put petitions here.”
“Not this one. This isn’t a public space.”
Edson looked bewildered, and Charlie’s eyes squeezed into slits as he stared at Mona. He picked up the petition and moved toward the door. “Okay, Ed, let’s go. We’ll tack it up outside the hotel.”
As they left, Johnny pulled his cape back on and gave her a knowing look. “Don’t worry, Mouse, I’ll take care of it.” He watched from the door until the two men were some distance away, then left. Mouse. The nickname he used to call her. And she had actually liked it. How could she have liked that name, clearly meant to diminish her, to make her believe that she was weak and helpless, that she needed him to protect her? And what was he going to do now, following Charlie and Edson with that gun?
In the afternoon, the store was quiet again, and Sierra came in for her after-school job—though of course, she hadn’t been at school today. Her chestnut-colored hair was plaited into tiny corn-rows, and her eyes were lined with heavy purple streaks.
“Feeling better?” Mona asked.
“Oh, yup, thanks.” Sierra went back to the deli.
“Can you watch the cash register for a while, please?” Mona called back. “I’m going out for an hour.”
Sierra came up to the front with a smile. She liked this job better than the deli, and she could easily do both today.
Mona went out the back door, got into her truck, and headed out on River Road.
14
FRANK WOKE UP ON THE DAYBED, since Erica had talked him into surrendering the bedroom, and emitted a loud groan. Not so sore today, but plenty stiff. Slowly, he turned over and got up. No point in staying in bed. It’d be better once he got moving. He made coffee and took some Ibuprofen with his first cup, then started the shower. The hot water helped, and by the time he was dressed in his jeans and flannel shirt, he was ready to tackle the day. He stoked the fire, added a log, and stepped out onto the porch with his coffee. The sun was shining, and the day was warm and clear.
All the snow had melted, except at the top of Wild Mountain, where the peak rose white like an elegant ice cream cone. Another warm snap, and a perfect day for a bike ride with Erica.
He sat down on the rocker, sipped his coffee, and gazed over at Wild. What did Mona think of him? It was hard to tell with her. She was so open and breezy at times, but then something would clamp shut, and she’d become an enigma. She had wanted him to come into her house, he was sure of it, and it felt like they were just about to make love, but then she had hesitated. And said, “Well.” What did “well” mean? Did she have another lover? Was there something between her and Cappy Gold?
Frank rocked and watched a gray cloud above the mountain, its underside bright silver. The silver lining. He had to conquer Mona’s ambivalence. Maybe with the bridge issue. Yes. He felt a surge of energy. This would be a personal challenge. He’d get that covered bridge rebuilt. Like Hercules and his labors, this would be Frank’s task, and he’d prove his worth to Mona.
He stood up, stepped back into the house, went to his laptop, and googled covered bridge restoration grants. When he glanced at the clock, it was almost eleven, and Erica wasn’t up yet. He tiptoed to the bedroom door, slowly turned the handle to keep down the clicking noise, and opened it a crack. The bed was empty. It hadn’t even been slept in. He flung wide the door. “What the—?”
Where was she? She’d probably gone off with that reporter, and they’d gone out drinking, and stayed too late—the roads had probably iced up, and they’d driven into a tree, and now she was lying in a hospital, injured, maimed, or worse. “Oh, God!” he moaned. He rushed back to the main room and called her cell phone. Her voice came all in one breath, in a monotone that she must have thought was cool. “This is Erica, leave a message.”
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