The Other Side of the Bridge

by Mary Lawson

  “Chickenshit, man.”

  Ian couldn’t assess his tone. He didn’t know if he was welcome or not. Until a week ago he wouldn’t have given the matter a thought: he’d have tied the canoe to the Queen Mary and climbed in. His rod was still where he’d left it, sticking out over the stern. Was that a good sign? Maybe Pete hadn’t even noticed it.

  “You reckon he’s still down there, eh?” Ian said.

  “Yup.”

  “Still think he’s a muskie?”

  “Yup.”

  “You actually seen him?”

  “Nope.”

  Ian slid the canoe back and forth with his paddle. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. An invitation? Pete to say, “Aren’t you gonna fish?” Whatever it was, it didn’t come.

  “Good luck,” he said finally.

  Pete looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “Thanks.”

  His father was in the kitchen when he got home, eating a hunk of cheese straight from the fridge.

  “Hi,” Ian said, grateful that he was back. “How did it go?”

  “A bouncing baby boy.”

  “Are the proud parents happy?”

  “Not specially. They’ve got nine already.”

  “Good grief.”

  The fridge was wide open. The Irish stew Mrs. Tuttle had left for them was on a shelf beside a very large jar containing one dill pickle.

  “We could heat that up,” Ian said, nodding at the stew. She made a double dose of it every Friday to see them through the weekend. Sometimes she called it something else—a casserole, that was her new word for it—but it was always the same stew.

  “We could,” his father agreed. “Are you that hungry?”

  “Not really.”

  “Me neither. Have some cheese.” His father cut another hunk of cheese and handed it to him, then studied him for a moment. “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah. Well, sort of. I broke up with Cathy.”

  “Oh. That’s…. too bad.” He didn’t say, “Again?” which was nice of him. He was good about things like that.

  “Yeah. It wasn’t…. going anywhere. We don’t have enough in common.”

  His father nodded. The absence of Ian’s mother drifted into the room.

  “Plus there’s something wrong with Pete,” Ian said quickly. “Not wrong, exactly. Strange. I don’t know what it is.”

  His father said, “This is a tough time for him, you know. It’s always difficult having a foot in both camps, but when there’s trouble between the camps it’s really hard.”

  “I guess.” Though it seemed to him that if you’d been friends for the whole of your life you were entitled not to be seen as part of a camp. He wished he and Pete could talk about it, properly, get it out in the open, but that would never happen. Their relationship was based on things not said, and the more important something was, the less likely they were to discuss it.

  “What does his grandfather think about it all? Jim Lightfoot being arrested and everything?” Ian knew his father had a lot of respect for the old man, and guessed they would have talked.

  “Joe? He’s very concerned. Concerned about Jim and concerned about the damage to relations between the town and the reserve.”

  “Have you seen Jim?”

  His father nodded. “Saw him this morning. He’s not in great shape. He’s an outdoors kind of guy. Being locked up is pretty much a death sentence for him.”

  “What’ll happen to him?”

  “He’ll be shipped down to the district jail in Haileybury. I think he’s going on Monday. They’ve got a presiding judge there.”

  “Who will find him guilty of murder,” Ian said bitterly. “In spite of the fact that the logger must have started it. Jim wouldn’t pick a fight.”

  “His case will be put to the court,” his father said.

  “By who?”

  “The court appoints a defense lawyer.”

  “Oh, right! The court appoints him. Some white guy straight from college who can’t get a job anywhere else.”

  “You’re judging them in advance, Ian. You’re doing exactly what you’re accusing them of doing. Making assumptions based on prejudice.”

  “I’m making assumptions based on Gerry Moynihan and a million guys just like him.”

  “Gerry’s not all bad. He’s just a product of his upbringing.”

  “Yeah, well, his upbringing stinks.”

  His father sighed.

  The cheese needed something to go with it. Ian opened the cupboard beside the fridge and took out a box of crackers. “Want one?”

  They ate side by side, looking into the fridge. Ian’s anger slowly subsided. He knew it wasn’t fair to take it out on his father. He would be using his influence to do all that he could for Jim.

  “We need a dog,” he said after a while.

  “You’re thinking of the stew?”

  “Yeah. She’s getting worse. Mrs. Tuttle, I mean.”

  “Oh, well. She does her best,” his father said.

  “No, she doesn’t, Dad.” His father was always making excuses for people. Maybe it was a nice fault, but it was irritating nonetheless.

  The fridge hummed at them. Outside the wind was picking up. A volley of fat raindrops splattered against the kitchen window. Ian liked the sound: the combination of wind and rain always made the house feel safe.

  “Seriously,” he said. “I’d like a dog.”

  “So would I,” his father said musingly. “Maybe we should get one.”

  They had had a dog once, an Irish setter called Molly who’d accompanied his father on his rounds for years and who was so much a part of the family that when she died they hadn’t been able to bear the thought of getting another, because it wouldn’t be her. But maybe now the time had come. In fact, Ian saw all at once that it would be perfect. A dog, padding gently around the house, accompanying his father on his rounds, lying at his feet in the evenings. He felt a huge lift of spirits at the thought.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s get one.”

  “All right. We will.”

  Ian took out the jar of dill pickle in celebration. He unscrewed the lid, picked out the pickle with his fingers, stuck the end of it in his mouth, poured the vinegar down the sink. The smell of it wafted up like ether. He bit the pickle in half and passed the other half to his father.

  “Another Irish setter, do you think? To go with the stew?”

  His father nodded around the pickle.

  The pickle required more cheese and the cheese required more crackers. They ate absently; both lost in thought, crumbs trickling down onto the floor. The various events of the day scrolled backward through Ian’s mind.

  “Did you know Arthur Dunn had a brother?”

  “Yes,” his father said. “Jack. No, Jake. Why?”

  “He came today. Rolled up in an amazing Cadillac.”

  “Did he really? I haven’t seen him for years.” He took the box of crackers from Ian and reached into it. It was empty. He put it down and opened the bread bin and took out the bread.

  “He’s not much like Arthur, is he?” Ian said, getting the butter out of the fridge.

  “We might as well sit down,” his father said. “No, he’s a different kettle of fish altogether. I always preferred Arthur, to tell you the truth.”

  They sat down, bread, butter, and cheese between them.

  “He’s lame,” Ian said. “Was it polio?”

  “No, an accident. He fell off a bridge. It was a miracle he didn’t break his back.”

  They finished the cheese. Ian got up and opened the cupboard again and started moving jars around.

  “Where’s the honey?”

  “I believe I may have finished it at breakfast.”

  “The jar was half full, Dad. What did you do, eat it with a spoon?”

  “Have some jam.”

  “You’re going to get fat,” Ian said.

  “I’m looking forward to it.” His father leaned back and patted his paunch fo
ndly. In truth, there wasn’t all that much of it yet.

  “That reminds me,” Ian said. “I want a picture of you.”

  “What for?”

  “To take with me. You know, to throw darts at when I’m away.”

  “There are lots lying around,” his father said vaguely.

  “Yeah, but they’re old. And they all have…they’re all out of date. I want an up-to-date one.”

  There was silence. His father looked at him. He said gently, “You have to forgive her, Ian.”

  “What?” As if he didn’t know.

  “You have to forgive her.”

  On Sunday morning when he woke up he realized that far from having days and days to prepare for the chemistry exam he now had somewhat less than thirty hours. He skipped church and studied all day. He was good at cramming, even enjoyed it to a degree; there was a kind of masochistic pleasure to be found in concentrating so hard for so long. He took an hour off for supper and then worked till midnight. He got up at six, had breakfast, and started in again. By half past ten in the morning he’d finished. The entire chemistry textbook, a whole year’s work, was now inside his head, and provided it didn’t all fall out between now and the exam, he’d be fine.

  He decided to go out and get some air; it would help to consolidate the seething mass of facts inside his head. Then he’d have a sandwich and go and take the exam.

  Downstairs, patients were trooping in. Monday was always a busy day for his father (people, the considerate ones, anyway, saved up their illnesses over the weekend) and the waiting room was jammed. Apart from six or seven adults there seemed to be about a dozen babies and every one of them was howling. More were on the way. As he passed the patients’ entrance Mrs. Aaronovitch, the wife of the chemistry teacher, came in with her little girl in tow and the little girl was howling too. She was covered in red blotchy spots and looked sick as a dog. This place is a nightmare, Ian thought, nodding at Mrs. Aaronovitch and heading for the door.

  On the doorstep he paused. Red blotchy spots. He turned on his heel and went back in and caught up with Mrs. Aaronovitch just as she was about to go into the waiting room.

  He said, “Excuse me, Mrs. Aaronovitch, would you mind waiting in the living room?”

  She turned and looked at him in surprise.

  Ian said, “Just in case your daughter’s got something infectious.” He smiled reassuringly at both of them and gestured to the living room across the hall. The little girl stopped howling, which was a relief. Her eyes were so red it hurt even to look at them.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Aaronovitch said. “Oh, goodness, Ian! Of course!”

  “Just in case,” Ian said. “What with all the babies in there.” He led them into the living room and moved a couple of books off the sofa. “Have a seat. I’ll go and tell my father you’re here.”

  The little girl croaked something to her mother.

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Aaronovitch said. “She wonders if she could have a drink. Could she have some water?”

  “I’ll ask my dad,” Ian said to the child. “I think he’ll want to take your temperature first, but then you can probably have one, okay?”

  He went through the waiting room, stepping over babies and smiling vaguely at people without meeting their eyes so they wouldn’t try to start a conversation with him. Mr. Harper, who owned Harper’s Restaurant and who according to Ian’s father had the highest blood pressure on the planet, came out just as he was about to knock on the door. Ian stood aside to let him pass and then stepped in and closed the door behind him. He said, “Mrs. Aaronovitch’s kid has a red blotchy rash. Very red eyes. She looks really sick. I’ve put her in the living room. It’s crawling with babies out there.”

  His father passed his hand over his face. He looked beat already and the morning wasn’t half over. He said, “Thank you. Good thinking.”

  “Where’s Margie?” Ian said, looking around.

  “She has the flu.”

  “She sure picked a good day, this place is a madhouse. Oh, the Aaronovitch kid’s thirsty. Can she have a drink or do you want to take her temperature first?”

  His father sighed and looked at his watch. “Are you off to your exam?”

  “It’s not until one. I was just having a break.”

  His father looked at him consideringly. Ian said quickly, “I was going out for some air.”

  “Oh. Okay, fair enough.”

  Which instantly made him feel guilty, of course. He said resignedly, “What did you want me to do?”

  “No, no. Off you go.”

  “If you just want me to take her temperature or something…”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Dad…!”

  “Okay. Thank you,” his father said, capitulating fast. “And while you’re doing it, check the inside of her mouth. If there are white spots it’s measles, in which case tell her mother to take her home and give her half an aspirin mashed up with jam. Tell her I’ll come as soon as I’ve finished here. If there are no white spots I’ll see her in the living room.”

  “Okay.”

  “Wash your hands.”

  He washed his hands at the sink in the corner and his father gave him a thermometer. “I owe you,” his father said.

  “I want a camera.”

  His father smiled.

  “Can she have a drink afterward?”

  “Small sips.”

  Ian opened the door and it hit a baby squarely in the seat and sent it sprawling. It had been yelling already but now it really roared. Nancy Scholtz, who had been a year ahead of Ian in school and got pregnant at fifteen and now had three kids but still no brains, got up to collect it and smiled winningly at him. He resisted the impulse to say Nancy, keep your kid out of the doorway, are you dumb or what? because, of course, she was.

  He went back to the living room. “Okay,” he said to the little girl, squatting down in front of her. “My dad said I should take your temperature and then you can have a drink. But first he wants me to look inside your mouth. Could you open your mouth for me?” She did, and he carefully turned her cheek inside out. White spots.

  “Well, there you go!” he said, as if it were really good news. “You’ve got measles.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Aaronovitch said. Ian smiled at her in commiseration.

  He shook down the thermometer and said to the child, “So what that means is, after I’ve taken your temperature I’ll get you a drink and then you and your mum can go home, and my dad will come and see you there later this morning. That’s good, eh? You won’t have to sit here anymore.”

  She looked at him dully. She obviously just wished he would leave her alone. He said gently, “I’m going to put this thermometer under your tongue to see how hot it is in there, okay? It has to stay there for two minutes. You can time it for me—I’ll give you my watch….” He slid the thermometer under her tongue. “Don’t bite it, okay? Just close your mouth around it. That’s good, keep it like that.” He undid his watch and gave it to her. Was she old enough to know what a second hand was? “See the hand that’s moving quite fast? When it’s gone all the way around twice, we’re done.”

  They watched the hand go around.

  “Don’t you have an exam today, Ian?” Mrs. Aaronovitch said, keeping her voice low so as not to distract her daughter.

  “Yeah.” He grimaced at her. “Chemistry. The last one.”

  “Well, this is good of you.”

  “That’s okay. Makes a break. Dad will go and see her as soon as he finishes here. He says to give her half an aspirin mashed up with jam.”

  “It was her birthday Saturday,” Mrs. Aaronovitch said. “She had a party. She didn’t look very well then, but I thought it was the excitement.”

  “Oh, boy,” Ian said. It was his father he was thinking of, more than the kids. “Maybe you’d better tell my father who was there.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  The little girl was holding his watch and the thermometer out to him.

 
“Wow!” Ian said, but quietly, because she looked as if a loud noise would make her head fall off. “One hundred and four degrees! That’s impressive!”

  He might have been mistaken, but he thought she almost smiled.

  He went down to the lake and sat on the dock for a while, staring into the water and not thinking about anything much. Around noon his father came down.

  “I’m off to see the Aaronovitch child,” he said. “Thanks for your help this morning.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I guess you’ll be gone by the time I get back.”

  “Yeah, we’re all going out to Low Down. I’m not sure when it starts. I probably won’t be in for supper.”

  “That’s fine. Have fun. By the way, I heard some news this morning that will interest you. I had a call from Gerry Moynihan. Jim Lightfoot escaped from jail last night.”

  Ian looked up at him. “You’re kidding!”

  “Gerry went in this morning to give him his breakfast and the jail was empty.”

  “How did he get out?” Ian said. “Does Gerry know?”

  “Oh, yes, he knows. Hard to miss it. They cut a hole in the roof.”

  “The roof?” Ian gave a hoot of laughter. “That’s great!”

  “It may not end up being so great. The RCMP are involved now. As far as they’re concerned, a suspected murderer is on the loose.”

  “They’ll never get him. He’ll have lit off into the woods.”

  “Of course. But they’ll be all over the reserve, looking for whoever was involved. Things are going to be pretty unpleasant.”

  Ian thought about Pete, wondering if he would have been in on it. More than likely. “I still think it’s great,” he said.

  He was half expecting Pete not to turn up for the exam, but he was there, not even late this time, waiting in the hall with everyone else.

  “How are things?” Ian said cautiously, leaning against the wall beside him.

  “Not too bad.”

  “I heard about the jailbreak.”

  Pete looked at him. “Me too.”

  “The Mounties there yet?”

  “They’re everywhere, man. Comin’ out of the woodwork, crawlin’ up the walls, you can’t go for a crap without finding a Mountie in there, sniffin’ around.”