Natural Bridges

by Debbie Lynn McCampbell

  As we passed through the lobby, Momma asked, “Hazel, did you get your matches? You didn’t leave them in Mother’s chair, did you?”

  “Got them right here,” Hazel said.

  “Good. Fern, did you put the cap back on the pen?”

  “Yes, Momma.”

  “It’s in her drawer?”

  “Yes, Momma.”

  Mossie Greene sat by the entrance in her wheelchair, chewing her tongue. Hazel said hello to her.

  “Bye, Mossie,” said Birdie.

  “Bye, Patty,” said Mossie.

  “Come on, Bird.” I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and took her hand. “We’ll see them tomorrow.”

  13. More Sinners

  Wednesday morning, I was relieved to get back down to the station. So much had been going on at home, with all the changes. Florabelle had been down at the house for breakfast, for her first visit back, and she was going with Momma and Birdie down to the nursing home. Jason had dropped her off at 6:00 a.m. on his way to work, and Birdie, anticipating their visit, had been up since 5:30, waiting to present their wedding photo album.

  Florabelle had thumbed though the pictures, commented on the fact that the film made her look tan, cast it aside, and went right over to a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs. Jason didn’t even glance at the album, just poured himself a cup of coffee and left. I could tell Birdie was upset. She had gone to the extent of writing their names and had drawn two bells with glue and silver glitter on the front cover. She had created a precious piece of art, and all Florabelle had done was eat a piece of bacon.

  I was sweeping the garage floor when Clem got in. He always went to the bank first thing to make a deposit from the previous day’s earnings. I always came straight in, cleaned up, checked the supplies, reviewed order requests, then opened the station at eight sharp.

  “How’s your Grandma?” Clem asked. He carried with him a twelve-pack of toilet paper and several rolls of paper towels.

  “Settling in,” I said, grabbing the paper. It was also my job to stock the rest rooms. “What’s worse is how Momma’s doing. Florabelle and Grandma moving out in one week’s time. She’s so used to taking care of everybody.”

  Clem eyed me. “Well, it takes a while.”

  “I know.”

  “Lord only knows when I get that old what my kids will do with me.” Clem laughed. “They may just have me put to sleep like an old hound.”

  “Oh, Clem, you’re never going to get old. You’ll live forever just to spite us all.”

  “Maybe so, maybe so.” He was grinning and shaking his head, then he looked up at me again. “And what about you? You going to get old in this station working for me? I keep telling you, a young lady with your handy talents, you ought to get out there in the world and become something, join one of them Four H clubs and do something with them hands of yours. Design some pretty dresses and make us all famous.”

  “I use my hands plenty around here,” I said, bending over the dustpan.

  “Changing oil filters never made anybody famous.”

  “Neither did threading a needle.”

  “What about Betsy Ross? Wasn’t she a seamstress?”

  “Move your feet, Clem,” I said, sweeping right where he was standing.

  Clem grinned at me; he knew when to quit. He was always getting on to me about starting up a career of some sort.

  Clem opened the register, counted the silver, slammed the door shut. “Some fella came by here yesterday, looking for you.”

  “Oh, yeah? One of the Crabtree brothers? Jason was over this morning to drop off Florabelle.”

  “No, I didn’t recognize him. Tall, blond guy. About your age. Says you told him where he could fish?”

  I stopped sweeping, gripped the broom handle. My knuckles turned red.

  “You know him?” asked Clem.

  “Uh, yes. What did he say … what did you tell him?”

  “I told him you were off for a couple of days taking care of family matters, that you’d be back today.”

  “Today?”

  “Yeah, today. What? Something wrong with him?”

  “Oh, no. Today’s fine. It’s fine.”

  I saw Clem stare at me funny; I felt myself flush. “I’ll go do the bathrooms now,” I said. I reached for my purse underneath the counter, took a roll of toilet paper from the package, and headed to the women’s room. Once inside, I emptied out my purse and rummaged for makeup. All I had was a tube of lipstick so I dabbed a little on my cheeks and lips, puckered at the mirror, finger-combed my hair.

  I wasn’t wearing any earrings and searched my purse for some. All I found was a pair of lime green turtle clip-ons, a pair of Birdie’s. Whenever we went anywhere, she could only stand to wear them for a few minutes, then she’d pull them off and give them to me to hold. I clipped them on my ears, tucked my hair behind them. They looked silly; I grinned at myself. At least it was some color, and from a distance, no one would be able to tell they were turtles.

  I loaded the dispensers, wiped the counter and toilet seat, checked the level on the Thousand and One Flushes, and locked the door behind me. Then I opened up the men’s room with the key, and the air that hit me was foul. I quickly checked the paper stock, closed the door.

  When I walked back in the station, Clem was still looking at me funny. “What’s that on your ears?” he asked.

  “Jewelry. Where’s the Lysol? The men’s room smells.”

  “Sure is green, bold enough to blind you.”

  “Lysol?”

  “No, them earrings. That fluorescent stuff is in now, ain’t it? My granddaughter wears those neon colors all the time, gives us all headaches.”

  “We got to do something about that bathroom. Water gets in around the door, and mildew just musters in there.”

  “I’ll remember to seal it. Get on out there, now, we got a customer.”

  It was Brother Brewer, a retired minister, who came in once a week to fill his convertible Mustang. I loved his car; it was a Sixty-six, straight-six cylinder, two hundred engine. It was the original color, honey gold, with a white top, and pony interior. Once, I had rebuilt the carburetor in it. Whenever I filled the tank, I was careful not to let the cap drop down and hit the chrome fender. I respected the car more than some folks respected its owner.

  Brother Brewer, at eighty-eight years old, still enjoyed hot-rodding around with the top down, but he did take real good care of his car. He also had an old Hudson parked in his barn that didn’t run, but he washed it every Saturday.

  He was a funny old guy, always pretending to be so reverent, but everyone knew he was ornery. Florabelle and I, a few years back, got a notion to set him up with Grandma, but Momma and Hazel had a fit. Hazel, who always flirted with him, said he was an old playboy. I didn’t believe that, but I could see the signs of mischief. In spite of his ways, though, he and I were pretty good pals.

  “Good morning, Miss Fern,” he called, waving out the top of his car.

  “Morning, Brother Brewer. Fill her up?”

  “You bet ya. She’s thirsty again.”

  “Well, all that sporting around you do, takes a lot of petroleum.” I winked at him.

  “Well, a man of God has got to spread the Word in style.” He winked back.

  We had this same little conversation, or something very similar to it, every week.

  “You look mighty sharp today, Fern, a little color in your cheeks. Those are some fancy earrings, too. How’s the family? Is Florabelle a Momma yet?”

  “No, she’s got about another month or so. Want your fluids checked?” I always liked any opportunity to tinker with his car.

  “Steering’s okay, but go ahead and check the transmission fluid and the oil if you want,” he yelled from behind the wheel.

  Brewer never got out of his car. He would even hold up cars at intersections, chatting with pedestrians, from the driver’s seat. He was always going or coming. Forever in transit. I don’t remember ever seeing his legs. Birdie once
asked me if he had any.

  I checked the dip stick, peered in. “You’re about a quart low. Now start your car up.” I waited for him to turn the engine over and removed the dip stick for the transmission fluid. “You’re okay. Just a minute, I’ll get your oil fixed up.”

  I walked inside, and Clem asked, “Where’s he headed today?”

  “Didn’t say. Is thirty weight okay for him? We’re out of forty.”

  “Yeah, don’t pour in the whole quart, though. Ask him where he’s headed.”

  I positioned the funnel, opened the can, and as it was pouring, I said, “So, Brother Brewer, what’s on your calendar for today?”

  “Just around and about, Fern,” Brewer stretched his arms way above his head, faked a yawn. “Got some errands to run this morning, then thought I’d visit an old friend in Stanton this afternoon.”

  “That’ll be nice.” I wiped my hands, lowered the hood. “You want this on your credit?”

  “Better pay cash, today. I don’t want that bill creeping up on me.” He handed me the money.

  “You drive safely,” I said. I wasn’t really sure whether or not he still had a valid driver’s license. We all wondered. He could be a real menace on the road; he never signaled.

  “Sure will,” he said, starting his car. “Fern, I heard about Esther. You give her my best. Peaceful Pastures is a good home; they’ll treat her nice.”

  “Thanks, Brother Brewer,” I said. “She’ll appreciate that.”

  He tooted his horn as he drove away. His silver hair, combed forward and sprayed into place, blew up and over his forehead in one matted section, clinging by the roots, to the back of his neck. In motion, he looked bald. He was so tall that I imagined he rode with the top down because he had no other choice. What a car, I thought. What a character.

  As soon as Brewer was out of view, Clem stepped out. “So where did he say he was going?”

  “Why are you so hell-bent on knowing where he’s going?”

  “What did he say?”

  “He’s going to see a friend in Stanton. Satisfied?” I smiled, shook my head at Clem.

  “Just what I thought!” said Clem, slapping his leg, proclaiming victory.

  “Thought what?”

  “I knew it. He’s got something going with Mrs. Prettyman’s daughter, Patty. She teaches kindergarten in Pilotview.”

  “Clem, you’re out of your gourd. Patty Prettyman graduated from high school with me; she’s a quarter of his age. Where did you hear rubbish like that?”

  “Lonnie goes to school there where Patty teaches. She sees Brewer there in his Mustang after school every day.”

  “So maybe he’s there to see someone else.”

  “Lonnie said Patty gets in the car with him and they drive off together.”

  “You’re going to listen to your eight-year-old granddaughter’s account? Clem, come on.” Lonnie sometimes played with Birdie, and I had heard some of her wild fibs. She was rather spoiled, taking a bus into Pilotview to go to a year-round school with the city kids, and she was always bragging or blowing smoke.

  “I know, she tells stories, but not this time.”

  “Well, I don’t know.” I put Brewer’s money in the drawer, banged it shut. “Even if, what’s the big deal? To each his own.” Patty Prettyman had a reputation at my high school, for being fast with the guys. She’d slept with a few of the teachers, too, we’d heard. I decided not to mention this to Clem.

  Clem stared at me, wide-eyed. “You ought to hang your head in shame, Fern.”

  “What?”

  “Well, Brewer’s a minister.”

  “Was one. But, so what?”

  “Well, he can’t be running around like that, romancing a …”

  “Clem, he’s a minister, not a priest.” I made a note to myself, just then, that Brewer must indeed have legs.

  “Fern, Patty’s a married woman. She’s Patty Greene. She married Larry Greene, that singer over at the Outpost. He’s got a rich old momma up at Peaceful Pastures where your Grandma is. Rumor is, Patty married him for the family money. But she runs with Brewer.”

  “Mossie Greene?” I asked.

  “Yeah, poor old widow. She’s been senile for a few years now. Alzheimer’s.”

  “I know her,” I said. “That’s Grandma’s roommate.”

  “Tragedy.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Mossie’s husband. Shot himself. It made her crack.”

  “Clem, let’s go fix the bathroom doors.” I didn’t want to talk about the old, the dying, the doomed, nor the done unto anymore. This whole town was due for some serious penance.

  14. Sorting Screws

  Clem left for lunch at eleven-thirty; when he came back, my shift would be over. Half-days were enough with everything else going on at home, and the money was good. He paid me six-fifty an hour, for four hours, five days a week.

  I was sitting in the garage sorting screws when I heard a horn. I turned, expecting to see Clem, who always honked when he came and went, and saw a purple jeep. Cross-legged, I felt my knees lock. The door to the jeep opened, and the driver stepped out and walked towards the garage. The crick in my knees grew dull.

  “Hello, Fern,” he said, smiling down at me. “Do you remember me? I was in the other day for gas. I don’t know if I told you my name though. John Culler.” He extended his right hand for me to shake.

  “I remember you.” I offered my hand, noticed the grease on my fingers, drew back.

  But he kept his hand out there. “My friends just call me Culler.”

  “Culler, then,” I said. I held out my hand, left it out there this time. “You mind helping me up? My knees have buckled.”

  “Sure,” he said. But instead of taking my hand, he walked behind me, grabbed under my arms, and lifted me up.

  He did it so fast, just hoisted me straight up, that it startled me. I hoped he didn’t notice I was sweating. My first few steps were awkward, due to my knee cramp. I leaped over my pile of screws, hobbled over to the workbench and got a shop rag. “Here,” I said, offering it to him. “Wipe your hands; I’m all a mess.”

  “I’m okay. You shouldn’t sit so long in one position like that.”

  I could have told him that I spent most of my life in one position, the wrong one, mostly. But I stayed quiet and wiped my own hands.

  “Take a few deep knee-bends. It will loosen you up.”

  After three or four bends, I asked, “You need some gas?”

  “No, actually, I came back to take you up on that offer to show me some good fishing spots. I’m all settled in my dorm now and have some extra time on my hands before school starts next week.” He looked around the garage as he talked. “I wondered if you could give me some pointers.”

  The way his eyes shifted around the place made me nervous. I hoped he wasn’t going to ask to use the men’s room since I hadn’t cleaned it up yet.

  I pulled a pen out of my front pocket. “The gorge is good fishing, but there are some hidden ponds scattered here and there where the catfish are great. We, I mean Clem and I, Clem’s the owner here, we always say those spots are exclusive. Members only.” I smiled. “But, I’ll draw you a map to some of them.” I led him into the station.

  “What was that bridge you were talking about?”

  “The Natural Bridge? That’s a state park. You can’t fish in the park. Law prohibits it. But there are some good lakes the river feeds into, near Slade. Back on 15.”

  “How far’s that?”

  “About a half-hour back. Towards your direction.”

  “Can you show me?”

  “Sure. Take a look at this map.” I unfolded a state map from behind the counter and began drawing circles around areas, the exclusive ones I’d mentioned.

  Culler studied the map a while, intent. Then he said, “I have an idea. Would you maybe want to ride along with me? Do some fishing? I’d never be able to find my way around here, and it would be nice to have the company.”


  “No, I can’t.” Where was Clem, I wondered; what was taking him so long? I folded up the map and starting fanning myself. It was so hot in the station.

  “Is there any time this week you could go?” he asked.

  His blue eyes were eager, tempting me like two spring-water ponds. Hook, line, and sinker. I was in deep, and I wanted to go with him. “I have to work,” I said.

  “All week? What about this weekend?”

  “I have things to do at home.”

  “Oh.” His face got serious again. “You’re married?”

  “No, it’s not that, I mean family. Sisters.” I knew that Momma, Birdie, and Florabelle would be at the nursing home all day, and Daddy would be working. But for some reason, I was always compelled to refuse any offers, as few and as far between as they came, other than work. Declining invitations was a habit, automatic. And I was afraid.

  Culler looked hurt and sat down in one of the customer waiting chairs. “How about if we find some place close, just for a few hours?”

  I stared at him sitting there, with his head bowed, arms folded. I expected his lower lip to protrude any minute. “I don’t know you,” I said, frowning.

  Culler looked up. “So, I don’t know anyone around here, yet. Give me a chance. I’m safe.” He smiled.

  There was a honk. It was Clem. He got out of his truck, drinking an Ale 8. He always stopped at the Ale 8 machine in front of the funeral home and bought himself a pop to bring back to work. When he came in the station, he nodded a hello at Culler, looked at me, hesitated a moment, took a swig of his pop, then said, “Get the hell out of here, Fern. Go on; I’m through with you for the day.” He waved me out of the station.

  “I was just asking her to show me some good fishing holes,” Culler told Clem. He looked nervous, not sensing Clem’s teasing.

  “She knows all the spots,” said Clem. “Ought to see her bait her hook. Keener than any of us. Fern, why don’t you take him to that pond behind the post office? My brother’s been lucky over there past two days.”

  “I was sorting screws,” I said.

  Clem ignored me, spoke to Culler. “My brother caught a seventeen-inch bass up there just yesterday. Should have seen him, biggest one I’ve seen all summer.” Clem gestured with his hands. “His wife took his picture, stuck it on the fridge, wrote underneath it, ‘the big ass with the big bass!’” He threw his head back laughing, coughed on his drink.