The One-Way Bridge

by Cathie Pelletier

  Harry was trying to remember if he had even gone to his graduation dance. Yes, he had, but he had no date that night. He had preferred to go alone rather than be stuck with some silly girl he didn’t care much for in the first place. He would have asked Sandra Henley, since she was smart and fun, but she had started dating a boy from St. Leonard. So Harry and a few of the guys had spent most of that night behind the gym drinking too much beer and chasing it with tequila. But they had popped in and out all evening, sometimes to listen to music being played on the record player, other times to grab another plate of food. He’d been sick that night for the first time, drunk on Jose Cuervo and puking off his mother’s front porch.

  “I was going to ask Meg to dance?” Harry said. He knew for certain he would never do such a thing. Meg was nice enough, but she was too tall and loud for him. And if there was one dance Harry Plunkett wouldn’t be dancing, it would be something called The Mashed Potato.

  “The front of the stage was decorated with pine boughs,” Orville said. “Meg was standing by the punch bowl, at the table under the basket hoop at the back of the gym. There were blue and white streamers wrapped around both hoops.”

  As Orville described that night, Harry remembered it. The school was still new and bustling. Blue and white had been their class colors. The fir boughs pinned along the front of the stage smelled fresh from the forest. The table with the punch bowl and snacks was placed at the back of the gym so that blackflies and June bugs fluttering through the open front doors would have to travel to get to the food. What had been their class motto? Finished, Yet Beginning, the cardboard letters covered in aluminum foil and pinned to the curtain on the stage. Behind the food table was the back door exit.

  “What did I do when you cut me off?” asked Harry.

  “You just kept going,” said Orville. “You hit the exit door and never looked back.”

  Harry smiled, knowing Orville couldn’t see him. He’d probably come inside to use the bathroom. Then he had taken the shorter route back to where the guys were gathered behind the gym with a cooler of beer. He was probably half drunk by then. But not drunk enough that he’d ask Meg Hart to dance.

  “So that’s why you been such a prick all these years?” Harry asked. He turned to look at Orville then and could see his features well enough, with light from the half-moon and now a sky filling up with stars. “What does Meg say about this?”

  “She didn’t see you coming,” said Orville. “But I think she likes it when I tease her about cutting you off at the pass.”

  Harry thought about dancing with Meg. Would he feel like a blue and white streamer, whirled and twirled and dipped until all the stretch was gone out of him? Worse yet, would he be mashed like a potato before it was over? Even Meg’s hairdos back then were menacing. Should he tell Orville Craft the truth?

  “That was a nice pond behind your cabin,” said Harry, which was the truth, “until you turned it into Disneyland.”

  Orville allowed himself some well-deserved satisfaction. He had told Ray Monihan this and Ray had doubted it. There’s trout all over northern Maine. Harry don’t need to fish in your pond.

  “I need to start thinning out those trout,” said Orville. “Either that or put them all on a diet. Feel free to help me out.”

  “Okay,” said Harry. “I’ll make a visit when the season’s back.”

  A cold wind rolled off the end of the bridge, a whistling kind of wind that caught its sound in the girders below.

  “I think I’ll take a nap,” said Orville. “I’m glad I got those two blankets.”

  ***

  When Edna arrived, Bertina was sitting in her beanbag chair and smoking a cigarette. Since no imaginary furniture had arrived from Florida, her lamp still sat on the floor, its yellow bulb bathing the room in deep amber. It was the kind of bulb Edna used as a porch light.

  “You should have come to the bridge today,” Edna said. She threw her purse on the sofa and sat next to it. “There was so much excitement, I don’t know where to start.”

  “I had enough excitement for one lifetime,” said Bertina.

  Juanita, the youngest of the nieces, appeared from out of her bedroom. She came to Bertina and leaned down over the beanbag chair to hug her mother.

  “Night, Mama,” said Juanita.

  Bertina pushed her daughter’s dark hair back from her face. Valencia appeared next in the doorway, wearing what looked like baby doll pajamas.

  “Good night, Mama,” she said.

  “Honey, put one of my sweaters on over those jammies,” said Bertina. “You must be cold.”

  The girls said good night to Edna and disappeared into their bedroom. Edna felt guilt now. She could have taken them shopping since they’d moved to Mattagash, given them some money to splurge.

  “Why didn’t you plug in Venice?” she asked. The velvet painting was unlit, all the buildings black with night. From what she’d heard about Italians, they didn’t go to bed that early. Some of them partied all night long.

  “A bulb burned out,” said Bertina. “Apparently, it’s like a set of Christmas lights. When one goes out, they all go.”

  Edna looked at the outline of a gondola. Venice had shut down, like one of those blackouts that happen in places like New York City and everyone sleeps in subways and staircases and on rooftops, and nine months later a lot of babies are born.

  “Did you hear about the dead body?” she asked.

  “I lived in Miami,” said Bertina. “You have to step over dead bodies just to take out the trash.”

  “Well, it’s big news up here,” said Edna. “Roderick says whoever the man was, he was a Hispanic.” She let this news settle like dust. Bertina was putting her cigarette out, the brown afghan falling from her lap. She stopped stubbing and looked over at Edna, studied her face.

  “Oh, I get it,” said Bertina. “Hispanic? So it’s all over town that he’s my ex-husband? Well, you can tell Roderick and Mama Sal and all the big-mouthed bitches in this town that my ex-husbands are alive and well. Unfortunately.”

  “No one has said that,” said Edna. “Only that he was a Hispanic.” This was a lie. It was all over town that possibly, possibly and maybe even likely, that dead body had once been married to Bertina Castellano del Arroyo, which was the name Bertina had used on the most recent birthday and Christmas cards sent home to Mattagash. If it was just gossip, it would soon disappear, nothing to anchor it. Edna figured gossip was like a leftover party balloon. It rises into the sky and hovers there. Maybe it even bounces against the floor of heaven.

  “Oh, I don’t care,” said Bertina. “Let them gossip.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” said Edna. “I came to talk to you.”

  “You want advice on how to get a divorce,” said Bertina. “I’ve been ignoring your hints. I don’t need Mama Sal on my case any more than she is now.”

  Edna was about to protest, to tell her sister that she’d come to call off the dogs of divorce. There were percentages floating about in the universe that had convinced her she should stay in the safe nest of her marriage. Otherwise, she might end up living in a house on the ocean that she could paint only white. But before she could say anything, the phone rang. Bertina reached out and grabbed the receiver. She leaned toward Edna, the phone cradled against her breast so the caller wouldn’t hear.

  “Do you think I like living here like this?” Bertina asked, her voice a whisper. “Well, I don’t. And I’ll tell you the truth for a change. It was Ricardo who walked out on me. Now I’ll give you some advice, since you been asking for it. Happiness is like them plants you been yapping about. Sometimes it’s growing right in your own backyard and you don’t even know it.”

  Edna couldn’t speak, even if she wanted to. If she had hoped to gloat, waiting for this day to arrive as she lived for years in Bertina’s shadow, this would be the time to do it. Instead, she
took Bertina’s hand and lifted the fingers with their perfectly painted nails up to her lips, left a warm kiss there.

  Bertina smiled. Then she put the phone to her ear.

  “She’s on her way home, Mama Sal,” Bertina said. “You can go off-duty now.”

  ***

  If he had been given a choice, Billy Thunder would have called for the secret meeting to be held at Buck’s house. There was no reason for women to be driving to the end of the tarred road that evening. A few vehicles pulled up in Buck’s yard would go unnoticed. But given the deadlock on the bridge, and given he wanted Orville Craft to be at the meeting, Billy soon saw the genius in holding it right out in public. If anyone did come to the bridge that late, it would appear that a few men had stopped to chat in the open air and smoke a cigarette, if they were smoking men. So when he had the change of heart inside his camper, the dog staring at him and wagging its tail, he had made the four phone calls that needed to be made. He told the men only that it was of utmost importance that they be on the middle of the bridge at 9 p.m. sharp. And they were not to tell their wives. Nine o’clock was late for a working man on a Sunday night and Billy knew it. But he had no choice. Once the bridge became free again, he was heading south. He knew Buck would drive him as far as Watertown in the morning. From Watertown he could catch a Greyhound to Portland, even if it took him three months to get there. He assumed a company named Greyhound would sell him a ticket for his dog. If not, he’d rent a car, and even return it when he got to Portland.

  Billy left the dog chewing on what was left of its rawhide bone. Then he made his way up the grass road to the bridge. At Orville’s car, he rapped on the window.

  “There’s a meeting in three minutes,” said Billy. “You need to be there.”

  Orville, who had been sleeping in the backseat, warm beneath the blankets Meg’s niece had brought him, got out of the car. He straightened his jacket and slacks.

  “What’s this about, Thunder?” he asked.

  “The others will be here soon,” Billy said. “I’ll tell you then.”

  Billy went over to Harry’s pickup and knocked on the window. Harry wound it down.

  “I’m holding a meeting in two minutes,” said Billy. “Got an issue that needs to be resolved with some of the guys.”

  “This would be the place to resolve an issue,” said Harry.

  “Do you mind if it’s private?”

  “Nope,” said Harry. “I’ll listen to the owls.”

  Billy nodded. He liked Harry Plunkett and wished he had gotten to know him better. If he hadn’t been leaving town in the morning, if he had been staying on in Mattagash, he was pretty sure he and Harry might even become buddies.

  Porter Hart was the first to arrive, parking his vehicle at the lower end of the bridge since he and Lillian lived not far from the old school, a few houses up from the welcome sign.

  “What’s going on?” Porter asked.

  “Some kind of meeting,” Orville said.

  “Wasn’t the full moon last week?” asked Porter. “This whole town has gone to hell in a hand basket.”

  The others arrived right on time and from both ends of the bridge. Booster Mullins, married to Dorrie. Christopher Harris, originally from Watertown and married to Gretchen. Phillip Craft, married to Verna, who owned the Hair Today salon and fainted several times a year. And Porter Hart, married to Meg’s niece, Lillian.

  “What the hell is this about?” asked Booster.

  Billy flicked his cigarette butt out over the railing of the bridge. He hoped he was making the right decision by inviting these men to a meeting. If not, and they turned on him, he would meet up with George Delgato somewhere downstream.

  “I do something now and then that I’m not proud of,” he said, “when I need some money in my pocket.” He hadn’t realized until then that a lot of emotion was riding behind his words. Maybe it was connected to those memories of his mother that were coming to him lately.

  “We all need money,” said Porter Hart.

  “I’m gonna tell you men the truth,” said Billy.

  “We’ll freeze to death if you don’t do it soon,” said Booster.

  “It’s about your wives,” said Billy. Seeing Chris Harris’s strained face, he added, “No, not that. They’re all too old for me. No offense.”

  “Thunder, for crying out loud,” said Orville. “What is it?”

  “You’re not selling them stuff, are you?” asked Phillip Craft. He had heard rumors of Billy Thunder’s business clients.

  “Sort of,” said Billy.

  “Holy shit,” said Booster Mullins. “Is Dorrie smoking pot?”

  Billy smiled, knowing the best thing for Mattagash would be if Dorrie Mullins got stoned now and then.

  “I’m selling them these,” Billy said and pulled a bottle of the bad Viagra out of his jacket pocket. “This is Viagra that don’t work. It’s made in some shitty factory in the Philippines. I started selling these pills when I heard some ladies talking in a bar back in Portland. They were all pretty unhappy that they were getting nailed a few times a month by their old men. One of them said she wished there were fake pills she could slip into her husband’s bottle and that she’d pay good money for them. So that’s how I come up with this idea. I got on the Internet and sure enough, a lot of people were complaining about bad pills they bought from an Asian company. So I placed an order to that same company.”

  The men were listening hard, trying to understand.

  “What’s this got to do with us?” asked Booster. Then, as if a single thought passed over them at once, they understood. Perhaps they were remembering the last time they had taken the little blue pill and nothing big happened.

  “Damn,” said Christopher.

  “Son of a bitch,” said Booster.

  “But,” said Orville.

  “Meg just bought her first supply last night,” Billy said and wished Orville’s face hadn’t gone so sad.

  “Are you gonna keep selling them?” asked Phillip.

  Billy shook his head.

  “That’s why I’m telling you,” he said. “But you guys have to start thinking for yourselves. The reason your wives are smarter than all of you has nothing to do with brains. It has to do with sociability.”

  “What?” asked Christopher.

  “Sociability,” said Booster, “the tendency to associate or mingle with companions.” It had been on Florence’s sign that past summer.

  “They gather at Blanche’s almost every day,” Billy said. “They telephone each other. They send emails and instant messages right over the tops of your heads. They’re a well-organized unit, and unless you men come together as a thinking man’s army, they’re gonna whip you at every turn in the road.”

  “What do we do?” asked Orville.

  “For starters,” said Billy, “you can get the real thing from me and switch the bad pills with good ones. Your women will think you’re back to operating all on your own. And since I already made good money from your wives, I’m gonna leave you guys with a big supply of real pills. For free. And then I’m outta the pill business for good.”

  “It’s a deal,” said Phillip.

  “Damn right,” said Christopher.

  “Now what’s the word to remember?” Billy asked.

  “Sociability.” Even Orville spoke the word, now that he was finally part of a group. Bonded males. Billy saw them smile, one at a time, until all five men were happy again. They were peers, compadres, homeboys, soldiers in the same war, teammates, associates. Hell, they were the Boys on the Bridge.

  ***

  As Edna drove Myrtle’s car back down the road, she thought of all those pretty dresses and pants and blouses that could be bought for a dollar or two at the Good Shepard store in Watertown. Next week, she’d buy an entire box full, all usable clothing, and she’d drive it o
ver to Bertina’s girls. She passed Harry Plunkett’s pretty little house up on its hill and remembered how Emily was always the first to set her flowers out in the spring. When she passed the sign that said Dump Road, she shuddered to think that a dead body had been lying there all night. She passed Florence Walker’s house and wondered what the D word would be the next day when the town woke up. No one knew how Florence managed it, but those vocabulary words seemed to turn up all by themselves, bright and early on Monday mornings. Once, Edna had asked Florence, “When do you put up the new word?” And Florence had answered, “When the time is right.”

  Edna parked Myrtle’s car on the grassy edge of the road, where so many other vehicles were waiting like lost dogs for the bridge to clear and their owners to come fetch them. She put the keys back under the floor mat and got out. The stars over Mattagash were bright pinpoints, sparkling white, so much smaller than the swirling yellow stars Van Gogh had painted. But then, no stars were ever that yellow except in Van Gogh’s own mind. Edna didn’t want to be the kind of artist who has to go crazy for the sake of art. Maybe Pablo Picasso and others had lots of affairs and left their families, but she didn’t have to do the same. Instead, she’d be the modest kind, like Grandma Moses. Things were changing, and she could feel that change in the air, like snow. Just before Christmas, the days would start to grow longer again. The earth would tip back toward that yellow sun, and as it did, it would pull her SAD with it. Before she knew it, the calendar in her kitchen would be turned to May, and the mountain behind her house would be loaded with wild cherry buds. Summer would come next, all buttery yellow and grass green. The dog days would be back in August. In October, all over again, the leaves would burst to autumn colors and everyone would be guessing what day the first snow might come. She and Roderick didn’t have to drive to the ocean, to that place called Downeast, for a second honeymoon. They could stay right there in Mattagash, in their own comfortable home. Come spring, she would paint the house. She was already tired of the pale green. And she would plant so many flowers that everyone would come to admire them, tons of flowers like the French artist Claude Monet had in his garden. She would set up her easel in the midst of daisies and hollyhocks and sunflowers. People would visit and ask questions about the flowers. And she would say things that she learned from her book. She’d say, “My work, like Monet’s, indicates that there is a reciprocal relationship between gardening and painting.” She had looked up the word reciprocal and written it down in her notebook of words. That which is given or done in return. It seemed to Edna that maybe marriage is like Monet and his garden. It’s reciprocal.