***
Blanche snuggled against Harry’s arm, her head resting in the crook of it. He felt the weight of her body pushed against him, so unlike Emily’s in their last months together. Lying at his side during her illness, Emily was like a wish, something fragile that he might damage if he wasn’t careful. In the last days, before she finally died, even touching her face with his lips had seemed to hurt her. Finally, and although Emily would never ask it, he had started sleeping in the chair beside her bed, his hand resting near hers. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to hold a woman who could be held. Blanche had those runner’s legs, and she seemed to need someone to embrace her, as Harry did. After dinner, when he asked if she wanted to sit out on the chilly patio and watch the stars, she had smiled and said, “Don’t you have a warmer place we can go?” She had put her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, kissing his face and then his lips. What surprised Harry was how they seemed to fit so easily, Blanche’s body into his body, her thoughts into his head. And they had gone into his bedroom and he had pulled the blinds and turned to see her taking off her jeans, her sweater, her bra, her panties, as if undressing in front of him was the most natural thing in the world. She had turned to him, fully naked and unashamed. Making love to her was as easy and right as he could hope for, and when it was over, he knew what it was he had been feeling in his heart for a lot of months. All those mornings when he came to the café for breakfast, the first customer to make the bell ring, she would step up to the counter where he was sitting on one of the four stools. And a wave of comfort always washed over him then. He never doubted she would be there, a pot of coffee in her hand and wisps of hair already beginning to fall at the sides of her face. And there were those nights when he followed her in his pickup as she ran along the twisting road, tired from a full day’s work and yet still able to hit that fast stride across the bridge. Blanche, running beneath the stars. Dependability. Comfort. Companionship. And love. Something he never thought he’d feel again for a woman other than Emily. But Harry knew now that love was a soldier. It can invade the human heart. Build canopies through jungles. Scale castle walls. Cross moats. Love can probably walk on water.
“Harry?” Blanche asked. “You ever do anything in your life that you’re sorry for?”
“Every day,” he said. He leaned over and pressed his lips to her face. She smelled clean, the way a river smells in the spring. When summer came, he would take her in his canoe all the way to Mattagash Falls. They could fill a basket with food. Maybe take sleeping bags. Spend a night under the stars.
“Seriously,” said Blanche. “I mean something really important. You got any big regrets?”
Harry curved his arm upward so that his hand could touch her hair. He made small circles, caressing her temples with the tips of his fingers.
“I can’t remember,” he said. It wasn’t true. He had always regretted being unable to tell Emily of his nightmares before she became too ill to listen. Those last days between them were too important, with other things to talk about, like how Harry could raise their eleven-year-old daughter on his own. Emily had wanted to leave as much of herself behind as possible. That way, Angie would know where to look for her mother when she was grown and had questions. When Emily knew for certain that her time was brief, she had begun scribbling in a red journal. Harry had never read it. He found it in the bottom drawer of their bedroom dresser a year after she died. When Angie turned twenty-one, Harry gave her the journal. Then he went back into the bedroom and cleaned the rest of Emily’s clothing from closets and drawers, put it all in boxes, and drove it down to the community center. He figured the time had come, for Angie’s sake if not his own. It hurts, Daddy, to see all her things still in place, as if she’s coming back one day. That past summer, it had been twenty-six years since Emily disappeared from the world. Angie would be thirty-seven on her next birthday.
“I wish I’d been better at the divorce,” Blanche said, and Harry was grateful to have her there beside him. He knew most men would find it difficult to understand, maybe even believe, but she was the first woman he’d made love to since Emily died. “I let the kids see too much fighting before I finally threw in the towel.” She turned over on her side, lining her body against his, her arm thrown against his chest.
“You’re a human being,” said Harry. “And you know what they say about us humans. We make mistakes. But if we’re smart, we learn from them.”
He had learned, hadn’t he? He often asked himself this question on those sleepless nights, those nights of the terrified faces, the hollowed eyes peering at him from the shadows of the bedroom, the voices whispering him awake. Corporal Wallace McGee from Philadelphia was a frequent visitor. Wally had looked up to Sergeant Harold Plunkett, his superior, even though Harry was only twenty-four himself, three months shy of his next birthday. Wally was twenty-two and the platoon’s point man. His fellow soldiers knew he was cautious in finding trip wires and booby traps, and that meant they might live to go home again. It was a night before the boat would go out on morning patrol, a sticky night in June of 1968. Wally had been distant all that day, barely speaking. Harry knew his mind was on a place beyond the Mekong Delta, that place a man either sees or he doesn’t. “Something wrong, Corporal?” he had asked. And that’s when Wally McGee had turned to him and said, “Sarge, do you believe that when your time is up, it’s up?” And Harry had laughed. He didn’t want any of his men giving in to this sense of defeat, especially a good man like Wally. “I believe in mistakes,” said Harry, “and being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” But Wally wasn’t dissuaded by this. “I need to tell you something, Sarge,” he said. “In case anything happens to me.” And so Harry had looked at the boy and said, “Get that nonsense out of your head, Corporal. Keep your mind on seeing that girlfriend again, that pretty one you told me about.” Harry was about to add that he understood, to confess that there were nights when thoughts of Emily were so strong he almost couldn’t sleep, couldn’t talk, couldn’t even breathe. Emily, and a spot along the Mattagash River where the fucking birches grew thick and the kingfishers fished and the sun shone yellow on a clear blue water with no poisonous snakes, no floating sampans loaded with VC. But before Harry could say any of that stuff, Wally McGee had made his own confession. “That’s just it, Sarge,” Wally said. “There is no girl. There’s never gonna be one. When I enlisted, there was this guy I met at basic. I don’t know how he knew what I was feeling inside, but he did. He helped me to understand why I didn’t care if I ever dated a girl again in my life.” And that’s when Sergeant Harold Plunkett had told Corporal Wallace McGee to shut the fuck up. That’s even how he said it. “Shut the fuck up, Corporal. It’s all bullshit anyway. Hell, you’re the best man I got. How can you sit there and tell me you’re a queer?” And that’s when Wally McGee had punched Harry’s arm, all grins. “Shit, you believed that stuff, Sarge? Man, you are some gullible. Hey, I got a sampan dealership in Philly I want to sell you.” Then Wally had picked up his rifle and started cleaning it. As Harry watched, all of that manhood he admired in the young corporal was back. It was back and filling up any weak places that had allowed him to speak his heart. And Harry could see that Wally McGee had perfected this role, this act, this protective cover he had put up around himself. At least, Harry could see it now. But he didn’t see it that night as the jungle closed in around them and the river ran dark and shimmering under a full moon. All he wanted then was to go home to Emily. And he wanted to believe that strong and masculine young men like Corporal Wallace McGee were what they presented to the world, just as Harry wanted to believe that the United States of America was what it presented to the world. It was all about democracy, and he still believed that when the helicopter, that metallic Freedom Bird, lifted him up out of the muck, the blood and the feces, the sweat of fear, and soared him over the dead and dying bodies below. He was lifted out of the insanity with a hole in his side that would eventually heal and a bi
gger one in his soul that would never heal. What did he regret most in his life, Blanche had asked him, what act? That he didn’t know how to comfort Corporal Wallace McGee. That he was too scared to give up any of his own manhood at that fragile moment in time. He had wanted to tell Emily about what happened as morning was breaking some forty summers ago, at a spot halfway around the globe. He wanted to tell her all about Wally and what the boy had done as dawn crept over the jungle, bringing with it the dark, moving shapes of small men who blended into the trees, men with arms that could look like unmoving branches, fingers like vines, eyes like fireflies. Men who became the jungle because it was their mother. He wanted to tell Emily this so that maybe Wally would disappear from the nightmares that lived inside Harry’s head.
“Hey, you, what are you thinking?” he heard Blanche ask. Her body had melted into his, soft and warm. She was part of him now.
“Oh, nothing,” Harry answered.
***
Tommy Gifford’s dog lifted its nose into the air and sniffed, using those thousands more receptors than humans have for smell, using the keen olfactory sense its ancestors had given it down through the ages. The wind was bringing the dog an important message. Its brain was picking up the smells in layers until it had an answer as to what was nearby. Cologne. Body sweat. Cigarette smoke. That’s when he knew for certain that the man was standing at the end of the bridge again. The dog’s life was now mostly smell. For the first year, he had truly believed that each human being who appeared would be the one who would untie the rope. That was the year of the fast-wagging tail and happy eyes. Gradually, when the humans only tossed their table scraps on the ground beside his doghouse, a few stopping to pat him on the head, he grew to understand that these visits were not about him, not about his heart anyway. They were about his stomach and keeping him alive. The tail became cautious in the second year, wagging slowly as the eyes looked for a sign that maybe that day would be different. Someone would undo the rope and he would be free to run. In the third year, the dog had given up on the humans. But at night, cramped inside his house, mosquitoes vying for a spot beneath the hairs on his rump, he still dreamed of running. He would scale the bank along the creek, then burst out across that open field he had seen once, the day his rope broke and he made a run for freedom. But they had caught him and brought him back. The rope was replaced by a steel chain and the reality of running, that notion of using the legs to propel the body forward, seeped into the dog’s subconscious mind and became the stuff that dreams are made on. This is why, when the man first stopped to touch him and later feed him, it meant little to the dog. Only when the man undid the chain and walked him, let him feel his legs moving again, did the dog sense a change in its heart. He began to believe, as dogs are quite able to do, that he would soon be free. Each time he saw the man walking toward him, he felt his tail wagging as it did in the old way. That’s when the dog would stand on its back legs, learning happiness again.
“Look what I got for you, boy,” said Billy. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a doggy bag from the Golden Dragon. In it were some chunks of meat left over from the spare ribs he and Buck couldn’t finish, along with a few greasy bones. As Billy stood, watching the dog gulp down the pieces of meat, he was overwhelmed with sadness, and it was not just for the dog, but for his own captive way of life that was dragging him along, the chain pulling him closer to the edge of that cliff.
***
The half-moon had now risen well above the camel hump in the mountain behind the river. What Mattagash didn’t see as it slept was a midnight blue Cadillac Deville that paused before the welcome sign, its yellow lights staring at the lettering as the occupants of the car commented on the artwork.
“It’s like a big cow,” said Raul Delgato.
“It’s a moose, are you fucking blind?” asked Jorge Delgato.
Nature lesson over, the Cadillac moved on toward the belly of town, carrying with it the Delgato cousins of Portland, Maine. It drove slowly past Blanche’s house. Next was Lydia Hatch’s, where her grandson Owl lay asleep across the end of Lydia’s bed, his cowlick pushed against the pillow, a wet thumb thrust into his mouth. It passed the old McKinnon homestead where Amy Joy Lawler was deep into her dreams. The old school was next, and then the Hart house, and Sheriff Ray’s ranch-style. It rolled past Cell Phone Hill, which glistened with frost, and then Roderick and Edna’s house, where even the twins were asleep in their identical bunks. At Orville and Meg’s house, the retired mail car was pulled up close to the front porch.
The Cadillac and its yellow headlights paused at the lower end of the one-way bridge, as if the Caddy itself was uncertain about crossing such a narrow structure. Then the midnight blue car went forward slowly, its front tires inching up onto the bridge and following its two streams of light as it made its way across, not seeing or even thinking of the rushing river below. Its back tires came off the upper end of the bridge and the car sped up a bit, as if relief were pushing the gas pedal. Maybe this is why Jorge and Raul Delgato didn’t see the darkened mailbox with Thunder #46 written on it. Nor did they bother to look down on the flat by the river. If they had, they would have seen a small window of light shining forth from Billy Thunder’s camper, the only light still on in Mattagash. What they were looking for in each passing yard was the classic white Mustang, hoping it might be parked in some driveway, its uniqueness announcing itself to the world.
Neither man felt the eyes of Tommy’s chained dog or saw its warm breath coming in cloudy puffs from the doghouse as it watched from the end of its tether. The car rolled past the mailbox that had Gifford #47 painted on its side. It then slowed for Florence Walker’s sandwich board sign, pulling to a stop and idling, the gray exhaust fanning out from the muffler as the Delgato cousins studied the Word for the Week.
“That’s a good word,” said Jorge. He lifted the fifth of Bacardi from between his legs and drank from it, a quick snort. Then he reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and beat one out. He looked over at Raul, who was still studying the definition on the sign.
“For fuck’s sake,” said Jorge. “Stubborn. Unwilling to cooperate. What part of it don’t you get?” Two years older and two years smarter is how Jorge saw his relationship with his cousin.
“You’re the one who is cantankerous,” said Raul. “You promised me there would be no gun. The Typhoon Cousins, remember?”
“We’re too far from civilization not to have a gun,” said Jorge. He reached beneath his seat and pulled out a Beretta 92FS, with a silencer attached to the threaded barrel. They were four hours into the journey up to Mattagash before he had revealed to Raul that the Beretta was riding with them.
“What if Thunder’s not alone?” Raul asked, and saw his cousin shrug off the thought.
“I got plenty of bullets,” said Jorge.
Raul shook his head, but at least this gun was registered to Jorge himself. It was Raul who had gone to jail over the last registered gun, and that had been for a mere robbery. He put the car back in gear and it went on, pausing at the sign that said Dump. Jorge nodded at the gravel road running behind the sign.
“Pull in here so I can take a piss,” he said.
“But what if someone sees us?” asked Raul.
“Do you see anyone around, even a Big Foot?” asked Jorge. “There’s more fucking traffic on Mars.”
Raul put his blinker on, indicating a right turn. Jorge stared over at his cousin’s face.
“A fucking blinker?” he asked. “Do you think that moose on the sign is following us?”
“It’s just habit,” said Raul.
The Cadillac rolled slowly down Dump Road, over gravel that crunched beneath its tires. Glistening spruce and pines grew close to the roadside, hugging the ditches with their branches which moved in the wind. Beyond and above the trees, the night was filled with pinpoints of flickering stars and the white half-moon.
“Dude, this is one spooky place,” said Raul. He wished now they had put the Typhoon baseball bat in the front seat and not in the trunk. And maybe the Beretta wasn’t such a bad idea.
“Pull over right here,” Jorge said, and pointed to a wide berth in the road. “Or get ready to be sprayed.”
Raul quickly pulled the car to the side of the road and put it in park. He reached for his own cigarette and lit it. His lighter snapped shut in the darkness with a heavy click, as if a trapdoor had closed. He looked over at Jorge, who was searching for the door handle.
“What if we don’t find him?” Raul asked. Jorge stopped patting the side of his door and looked back at his cousin. As Raul drew on his cigarette, Jorge saw his features well, the tight jawline, the eyes, saw that his cousin was actually afraid. He smiled.
“Spoken like a true city boy,” said Jorge. “We could find a fucking pimple in a town this small. That Mustang is a sitting duck. It’s your fault we didn’t get up here before dark.” He went back at the door, groping about until he found the handle. The door opened and light flooded the car. Raul watched as Jorge moved his heavy body forward in the seat so that he could lean over enough to get his right leg out. He rested there, his breathing strained.
“Dude, you need to go on a fucking diet,” said Raul. “Not yet forty and you walk like Grandpa Delgato.”
With a great grunt, Jorge lifted himself from the car. He shook his arms to straighten his trench coat, then turned and gazed back into the car at his cousin.
“If an Amtrak train comes along, be sure to get out of its way,” said Jorge, and slammed the door. Raul smiled. He reached for the bottle Jorge had left on the seat. It would be a good story to tell in the bars back in Portland, how they even crossed a fucking one-way bridge after they saw a moose on a welcome sign. He got out of the car, the bottle still in his hand. Jorge was standing a few feet away, his back to him. Raul heard the sound of pants unzipping and then a heavy stream of urine being released. No one would want to be sprayed by Jorge Delgato. That would be like being sprayed with a fire hose. Maybe even pissed on a by a moose. He took a long hit off the bottle before recapping it. Above his head, the sky over Mattagash was flickering with stars.
The One-Way Bridge Page 17
