Harry heard the ravens again, a flock of them, distant and excited. Maybe they saw a carcass on the roadside. Ravens tell other ravens where the food is. They invite each other over all the time. Pruk-pruk-pruk. He knew sweat was forming on his forehead. His subconscious mind was telling his conscious mind this fact, was informing it. Coop-coop-coop. He was falling upward to the sound of the ravens, coming closer to waking. He even knew at this point that Blanche was asleep in bed beside him. But his mind was still in that other place where not even ravens can follow. Some things heal with time, Corporal. Here are facts you don’t know, you being gone for all these years. The mangrove forests are almost like they were before we dropped all that shit on them. They’re different, but they’re thriving. And the Crow Pheasant is back again, hiding and stalking. Can you believe how strong nature is? Did you know she wants to live that much? Why can’t people come back like forests, Wally? Why do people have to stay dead?
When Harry opened his eyes, he heard the ravens along the trees now on this side of the river. Maybe a coyote killed a deer during the night. There was always something dying so that something else could live. He glanced around the bedroom, a quick search as he always did. Then he looked over at Blanche, who was staring up at him, her eyes sleepy and loving. Harry took a deep breath. This time it was Agent Orange and the Crow Pheasant. Sometimes, it was the old Papa-san, his eyes glossy with pain. Other times, it was the village of faces they had come upon during one patrol, everything dead—women, children, even the dogs and chickens. Sometimes, it was the jungle itself, its dark and murky mysteries, its lush and green surprises, the sounds of plants and creatures within it growing, living, dying, feeding off each other, fighting for those thin strands of sunlight. Who knew, when the dreams came, what they might bring? Sometimes, it was that first VC Harry killed, a month after he was deployed to Vietnam. For a lot of years, the nightmares and flashbacks had become so rare that Sergeant Harold Plunkett thought he might be free of them at last. But in the past few days, they were coming back with more and more frequency, and Wally seemed to be the one bringing them, as if he were carrying them in a knapsack on his back. Like Ed Lawler’s ghost over at the old school, Corporal Wally McGee was getting around. He was back in uniform and stalking through the jungle of Harry’s subconscious mind. Don’t you have anyone to talk to? Billy Thunder had asked that day he came to get the Mustang fixed. Well, Harry had a lot of people.
He felt Blanche move next to him, pushing her body closer, letting it curve into his. She was now a part of him that he’d been missing for so long. He felt her fingers touching his face, tracing the line of his cheekbone.
“Who’s Wally?” she asked. “Who’s the corporal you were talking to?”
Harry felt the weight of his body drawing him downward. Mekong Delta. June 1968. A sticky night that was building toward a muggy dawn. Shit, you believed that stuff, Sarge? Hey, I got a sampan dealership in Philly I want to sell you.
Harry looked down at Blanche.
“Did you promise to make breakfast at your house?” he asked. “Or was that one of those night-before lies?”
***
Billy slept with the dog at his side. Sun was now leaking through the window of the camper, so he threw one arm over his eyes to keep it out. It was far too early for him to get up, what with no job and no reason beyond coffee. He and the dog had had a busy night. First of all, Billy figured Tommy Gifford wouldn’t think to look for the animal until he tossed his supper scraps on the ground. And maybe not even then. Billy could return the dog long before that. It wasn’t really stealing; it was only borrowing. And when it didn’t bark at everything that moved, Tommy would appreciate that. So Billy had taken the dog the night before, on his way back from meeting Meg on the bridge. He brought it into his camper and then poured himself a glass of Jack Daniels. When his glass was empty, he had poured another. And why the hell not on a Saturday night? While the dog lay on the bed chewing on a new rawhide bone, Billy sat at the table and took out a yellow legal pad. He found a pen. Before he started to write, he finished the Jack and poured himself a third glass. No ice. He liked his Jack like his women, straight-up and honest. And who was counting if he had a couple more shots as he wrote a letter to Tommy Gifford?
With sun now coming in at him from all angles of the camper’s windows, Billy gave up and opened his eyes. The letter for Tommy was still on the table, and he smiled, remembering how drunk he was the night before when he wrote it. He would tear it up before he returned the dog to its chain. Sober, he realized there was no place in his life for a pet. He had no home of his own and no steady job. He lay then with the dog beside him on the narrow bed, its paws on his chest. When it whined, Billy reached for a folded blanket on the foot of his bed and covered it. The animal’s body heat felt good against his side. He pulled his arm in closer, hugging the dog to him. He felt it relax. Billy was good with animals because he could think like them. He knew they had deep emotions. When he first saw the dog chained in Tommy’s yard, he imagined himself in its place. And that’s how he knew how the dog felt. He knew that after a time, as the years passed, the dog began to see the chain as a part of its body, an extension that had grown there, another tail, another mystery of life for it to ponder. And that’s when Billy had written the letter, drunk on Jack and sentimental as a girl.
Dear Tommy Gifford. Thank you for the table scraps and for the doghouse with a leak in its roof. This note is to tell you that I am leaving. I would have liked to be the pick of the litter, the pup that got a good family. Call me crazy, but I think the legs I was born with were meant to run. Please don’t come looking for me. And please get a stuffed dog if all you want is something to tie to your house.
In school, when Billy was still bright with promise, his English teacher encouraged him to write poems and stories. That seemed like several lifetimes ago now, and that was too many lifetimes for someone still not thirty years old. After Billy brushed his teeth, he would tear up the letter. He would get the dog back to Tommy’s in a matter of minutes. And he would come back to the camper for a good long nap. It was far too early to take on the world.
***
It was on his way back from church that Sheriff Ray Monihan Sr. decided to turn right on Dump Road and follow it to its end, see if any mischief had taken place there during the night. It had been a busy week, ever since the full harvest moon that past Friday night. People went a little crazy under the full moon, and a harvest moon was an extra dollop of nuttiness. But even with no moon, the dump had become a hot spot where habitual drinkers liked to stop and toss out their bottles. At first this worked fine since the Women’s Committee held a monthly bottle drive and appreciated the windfall. But then some of the younger boys, ruffians like the Plunkett twins, started hanging out there afternoons after school. Their favorite trick was to stand empty beer bottles up on rocks and throw stones to break them. Even those dark-skinned Florida granddaughters of Sal Gifford would turn up to break bottles right along with the boys. As town sheriff, Ray Monihan had warned the youngsters, but, being youngsters, they’d ignored him. And that wasn’t the only disrespect. Behind his back they called him “sheriff without a cell phone.” This was because Andy Griffith had been called “sheriff without a gun” on Ray’s favorite television show. Sometimes, Ray would find Mayberry Sheriff written in the dust of his car door or across the trunk, by a finger belonging to some prankster.
Ray was looking up at the blue sky that seemed to be held up by the tips of evergreens and wondering if it might snow that night when he saw something large and dark lying in the road in front of him. It looked a lot like a body. Maybe a large man. His first thought was that it was another prank. They’d played a lot of tricks on him that past summer alone, as if he were Barney Fife or something. There had been a woman’s purse sitting in the road so Ray stopped the sheriff’s car and got out to retrieve it. When he was six feet from it, the purse bounded into the woods. Ray could
hear the giggles and grunts, along with branches and twigs snapping, as the scalawags ran for cover. Tying a rope to a purse and baiting passersby. Ray’s own generation knew that trick and yet he’d fallen for it several times over the past few years, once with a hammer and again with a brown teddy bear. His biggest scare had been a practical joke that still steamed him when he thought back to it. He had come upon what looked like a child in a blue dress lying dead in the road, struck by some heartless hit-and-run driver. Ray had braked the car so fast he felt his dentures move forward in his mouth. Racing to the victim’s side, he discovered it was only somebody’s old walking doll plastered with red ketchup.
So, on that cold Sunday morning of bright blue sky, Ray supposed that what looked like a large body lying on the road meant that the kids had graduated to bigger jokes. They probably used an old pair of their father’s work pants, a worn-out coat, some straw, and a lot of imagination. Instead of anger, he felt a certain pride that Mattagash youth could be so creative, for it certainly did look like a real body. Ray slowed the car to a crawl. Pulling alongside the motionless heap, he braked and opened his door for a closer examination. And that’s when Sheriff Ray Monihan realized that what looked like the dead body of a big man was, in fact, the dead body of a big man. The face and hands were the only exposed flesh and they were grayish-blue, as if a layer of tinted glass covered the skin. The eyes were open and staring upward, the eyeballs like frosted marbles.
Ray Monihan shut the door to his car and leaned back in his seat. He had to calm himself so he could think. Had Andy Griffith ever come upon a dead body? No, he hadn’t. Even that bungling fool Barney Fife hadn’t, and that’s because Mayberry wasn’t the kind of place that would allow dead bodies. Andy never even got called to a home where an elderly man or woman had expired, as Ray Monihan had. Nobody seemed to age in Mayberry, much less die.
Ray slowly opened the car door so he could get a better look, make sure he saw what he thought he saw. Grayish-blue skin, marble eyes, big man over two hundred pounds, black overcoat, black shoes. This time he noticed a Bacardi bottle that lay a few feet away, the morning sun reflecting from its green glass. Ray shut the door again. He felt his breath grating inside his chest, that feeling of hyperventilation coming on.
“Stay calm,” Ray told himself. He knew he had to call an ambulance as his first move. But even if he wasn’t the sheriff without a cell phone, even if he owned one, he would still have to drive to Cell Phone Hill to get it to work since Mattagash had no reception for cell phones. His house was on the other side of the bridge. He didn’t want to leave the body alone to drive home and make the call. Find a nearby house with a telephone!
Ray Monihan drove forward fifty feet so as not to run over the body and kill it again. Then he spun his car around in the road, a genuine cop turn. He wouldn’t use the blue light, let alone the siren. If he did, all of Mattagash would jump into their cars and pickups and follow him, wanting to know what the trouble was. A thought occurred to him. What if the body was grayish-blue but alive? All the more reason to keep things quiet until he could get a Watertown ambulance to come roaring up Dump Road with its red light blaring. Then and only then would he call the Watertown Police Department for reinforcements. After all, Watertown had had a dozen dead bodies already, not to mention a couple of flashers. Other than the natural deaths of a few elderly folk, this was Ray Monihan’s first genuine 10-54. Possible dead body. In truth, Ray knew that the man lying in the road was a definite dead body. But he didn’t know the code for that.
The sheriff’s car cut a wide arc around the body and then sped off. At the mouth of Dump Road, Ray braked, wondering at which house he could stop to make a call. It would have to be one whose owner was small-mouthed enough to keep a 10-54 to himself. That’s when he saw Orville Craft’s car coming. It was just passing Henry Plunkett’s house and looking like it was out of a job now that Orville was retired. Ray put the sheriff’s car in park. He jumped out, waving both arms.
***
Orville had felt a loneliness all morning, it being Sunday. There was never mail to deliver on a Sunday, and still, each Sunday he would feel that itch to get back on the job. Monday always came around with its letters and packages and stamps. He always had Monday to count on in the past, but now Monday didn’t belong to him anymore. What had he been thinking of that he retired sooner than he had to? Why didn’t he wait until, bony and half-blind, unable to see the white line in the road ahead of him, the villagers had come with torches and pitchforks to force him out of the job as mailman?
So Orville had finished his breakfast and, nothing but time on his hands, decided to take a ride. Meg had been reading a magazine and giving him sweet looks over the top of it, and he was thinking what a lucky man he was after all, until the loneliness hit him. “Why don’t you go for a drive,” Meg said. “It’ll do you good. I’m cozy right here on the sofa.” So he had gone, past all the mailboxes that he could identify blindfolded just by the sound of their opening doors. He didn’t mind the regulation-shaped boxes along the road that had been made pretty. There was Rita Plunkett’s, with a painted red cardinal sitting among white cherry blossoms. Verna’s, with its lighthouse scene from the ocean. Gretchen’s had all those painted violets winding around its borders. And no one in town had quite figured out what was on Lydia Hatch’s box since she had turned Owl loose on it with a brush and a can of paint. Some days, Orville saw birds and flowers, other days spiders and snakes. But most were plain silver mailboxes with plain red flags, and that was enough. What he had learned about mailboxes was that a bill from J. C. Penney or a notice from the bank went inside the fancy ones as easily as into the plain old silver ones.
Orville had driven past the widows and divorcees he’d no longer have as clients. He turned at Buck Fennelson’s house before he ran out of tarred road. On his way back, he passed the trailer park. He passed Harry Plunkett’s house, where it sat high on the bank of the river, paying no mind to the mailbox that no longer concerned him. He passed Blanche’s Cafe, which was busy with its usual after-church breakfast crowd. He passed Rita and Henry’s house, and that’s when he saw Sheriff Ray Monihan standing at the mouth of Dump Road. Ray was wearing his official sheriff’s jacket and waving both arms like he was Raggedy Andy.
Orville pulled his car over and put it in park. He slid his window down. Ray came around the car and peered in at him.
“Keep calm,” said Ray. “For God’s sake, don’t panic.”
“Okay,” said Orville. “What is it?”
“Keep your wits about you,” said Ray.
“Well, I don’t have a reason to lose them,” said Orville. “Do I?”
Ray took a deep breath.
“There’s a dead body lying on Dump Road,” he said. “A big man I’ve never seen before. You need to go telephone an ambulance. But don’t let anyone else know until we get that body out of here.”
The tingling Orville felt now was on the nape of his neck. He saw Ray Monihan step back from the mail car, only it wasn’t a mail car anymore. It was just a car, and that’s something else Orville had felt on his morning drive. He could sense the pride gone out of his vehicle, as if, like an aging horse that knows it can no longer pull the cart, it’s ready for the bullet. He threw the car into gear and clamped down hard on the accelerator pedal. Employed once again, the Ford Taurus tore off from the sign that said Dump Road faster than Orville intended it to. It flew past cantankerous and took the curve before the bridge in what would be considered dangerous driving by anyone over thirteen. Orville hoped with all his heart that, this early on a Sunday, no other vehicle would be approaching the other end of the bridge. To hell with bridge protocol, for Orville doubted he could stop at that speed. But the bridge was clear, and he crossed so fast the rails were a blur.
His own house was the logical place to make the call, given it sat not far below the bridge. He hoped Meg was asleep on the sofa, using a lazy Sunday to finis
h her magazine. He didn’t want to think the worst of Meg, especially not then—twice a month, two times in thirty days—but he was afraid she’d get on the phone to her niece Lillian about the emergency call Orville had just made for an ambulance. And Lillian would call Rita. Who would call Verna. Who would call Dorrie. Who would then get on her direct line to Fox News. By this time, the body would be given a name and even a reason for being dead. He slowed the car when he saw his own mailbox up ahead. A small red car sat in their driveway, one that belonged to none other than Meg’s niece. Even if he could trust Meg and Lillian to be mum for an hour, they were probably on the computer right then, shopping for frying pans and necklaces, and taking up the one phone line into the house. Then Orville remembered his cell phone, still safely in his glove compartment, and the fact that Cell Phone Hill was less than a quarter mile past his house. Orville hit the gas and hoped Meg didn’t bother to look out and see his car flying by.
It was still too early for any lovers or adulterers, thieves and scoundrels, or folks running for elected office to be up on Cell Phone Hill, so Orville had the place to himself. He parked in the circular space at the top, then rummaged in the glove compartment until he found his cell phone. He beeped it on and was relieved to see that it was still charged. He had only used the phone a few times, such as when he had to call Edwin Beecher about a postal question. Did Ray Monihan tell him to dial 9-1-1? No, he hadn’t. He told him to dial the ambulance directly. Orville thought fast and figured that Ray hadn’t wanted those women with police scanners listening in on this important call. No problem, he would dial the Watertown Ambulance Service directly, and at the next town meeting, he would mention again how it might be time that Mattagash got its own ambulance. What was the number? He had stored it in his speed-dial feature after Ray Monihan suggested he do so, given that Orville came across all sorts of emergencies and near-emergencies while on his deliveries, from a genuine car wreck to cows running amok and chickens roosting in a mailbox.
The One-Way Bridge Page 19
