Natural Bridges

by Debbie Lynn McCampbell

  Culler grinned, starting to see through Clem, probably. “Is that close by?”

  “Pond’s right up the road a bit,” said Clem. “Take you ten minutes to get there. Now, get on out of here, Fern. Your shift’s up and you’re costing me overtime.” He winked at Culler.

  I was trapped now, had run out of outs. A line from some poem entered my head: who would a’ fishing go. Or was it a song? Mr. Frog went a’ courtin’ and he did ride, uh-hum, uh-hum. Or was it a’ fishing? There was an Old Man Who Lived In the Sea. Or was it Under the Sea? Did he even fish? My mind wandered off.

  Clem broke my spell. “Fern, go on; take the boy fishing.”

  “I’ll want to change,” I said. “Out of these coveralls.”

  “That’s fine,” said Culler. “Where do you live? I’ll follow you home, then we’ll leave one car and go from there.” He was excited, walked around in circles.

  “I only live up the road. I walk.”

  “Then I’ll drive you home.”

  “No,” I said, too quickly.

  Clem sensed my discomfort. “What’s your name, buddy?” he asked Culler.

  “Culler. John Culler.”

  “Clem Proffit,” I said, “my boss.” I nodded at Clem.

  They shook hands.

  “Culler, my suggestion to you would be to go on down the road and get some bait, then come back and meet Fern here. You know women; they take so long to get ready. Save you some time. A mile or two up the road on the right, you’ll see a fish camp. Flynn’s. Ask for Grover. Tell him Clem sent you; he’ll give a good deal.”

  “Is that all right with you, Fern?” asked Culler.

  “Fine.”

  “Hey, thanks a lot,” Culler told Clem.

  Clem nodded.

  When he was out of sight, Clem said, “A little fun ain’t going to hurt you.”

  “I just don’t have the time, Clem.”

  “Now you know that ain’t what you mean.”

  “Oh? What do I mean, Clem?” I was afraid of his answer; he knew me too well.

  Clem nodded in the direction of Culler, who had just started up his jeep. “You tell me,” he said.

  I watched the purple jeep disappear in the dust, down the road. I had imagined this, fishing with Culler, only a few days ago, on the way to the Peaceful Pastures. Now I had the chance, a real chance to do something that deep down, I really wanted. “Finish up those screws,” I said to Clem. “They’re sorted by size.”

  15. Slow and Steady

  Half an hour later, I was wearing jeans and a red bandanna print tank top, sitting in the bucket seat of the jeep, holding a large army-green tackle box as I would a purse, on my lap, hands folded over it. It was a bumpy ride; my stomach already ached from nerves. The jeep reeked of worms. “Is this an AMC?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” shouted Culler over the wind. “It’s a converted mail truck. The government auctions them off every so often when they get new models. I got a great deal.”

  “It needs new shocks,” I said.

  “I think you’re right. It was a rough ride up here from Orlando. All that weight.”

  “That’s where you’re from?”

  “All my life. Not many people can say they were born in Florida. Did you know that?”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “My Dad lived in Kentucky growing up. He came down to work for NASA with the start of the Apollo system. Met my mom there, then my sister and I were born, so they just decided to settle there. Twenty-five years ago.” Culler turned to me and smiled. “Too much wind?”

  “No. Your dad, is he an astronaut?”

  Culler chuckled. “He’s an engineer.”

  “Is that why you’re in college, then, to be an engineer?” I had to shout over the wind. The air whipping through the jeep was invigorating. This must be what it feels like riding in a convertible, I thought. This must be what rejuvenates Brother Brewer. The fresh air whisking across his face all day long must be what kept him vital.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am majoring in engineering. But not in Aeronautics.” Culler shook his head. “I want to be an architect.”

  “Design houses?”

  “Houses, yes, but mostly buildings, more industrial and corporate.”

  “Oh, corporate,” I said, fiddling with my tackle box handle.

  “What about you? Born here in Kentucky? Don’t they call you guys briars?”

  “No. Just moved here three years ago. Came from Ohio. Not many folks go from buckeyedom to briarhood. Did you know that?”

  Culler laughed. “No, I guess I didn’t.”

  “So you’re at Transy?”

  “No, U of K. I’ve been two years to the University of Central Florida, but they are more known for their computer science and electrical engineering programs. University of Kentucky is more reputable for architecture.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  He looked over at me again. “So I transferred. It’s worked out really well because my younger sister is just starting her first year at Transylvania, so we’re both in Lexington. It’s nice that we’re both up here.”

  “That is nice,” I said. “Was she with you the other day?”

  “At the station, you mean?”

  I nodded.

  “Yes.” Culler paused. “She was the one in the backseat. Her name’s Connie.”

  “In the backseat,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Connie.”

  “That’s right.”

  We rode in silence a few moments, then I said, “Turn right up here. Slow down, though, watch for potholes. Pavement ends.”

  Culler slowed the jeep. “Right here?”

  “Yes, keep it steady. The pond’s at the bottom of the road. This thing front-wheel drive?”

  “I think so,” said Culler, concentrating on the road.

  “Go slow,” I said.

  “That’s right,” said Culler, leaning forward.

  “Who was in the front?” I asked.

  “Front of what?” Culler kept his eyes fixed ahead of him.

  “The front seat. Was that your girlfriend in the front seat?”

  “Leslie? Yeah, I guess she’s my girlfriend. At home, anyway. I don’t know what’s going to happen with me being away, though.” He shifted into first. “I can see the pond now. Where do I park?”

  “Just stop anywhere; we’ll walk down. Watch those tree roots, though. They’ll rip your tires right up. Is she planning to come up here to school, too?”

  “Who?” Culler drove a little farther down the ravine, parked, pulled up the emergency brake.

  “Leslie.”

  “Oh, she talks about it, but I doubt she’ll leave her friends and sorority and all that. Girls need that stuff.” Culler got out the jeep and walked around to my side to offer me help getting out.

  I didn’t need help and didn’t pretend to. I climbed out.

  “That sure was a rough ride,” said Culler, opening the back.

  “From Florida?”

  “No, down to this ravine. Those bumps probably did a number on my suspension, huh?”

  “You need a four-wheeler most places around here.”

  “You seem to know a lot about cars.”

  “You seem to know a lot about girls.”

  Culler grinned. “Not all of them. You hungry?” He handed me a brown paper sack. “When I went for the bait, I picked up some sandwiches, too.”

  “You didn’t buy sandwiches from Flynn’s Fish Camp, did you?”

  “No. He did have a deal on the Night Crawler and Swiss on rye, though.” He laughed. “I got subs and potato salad from some little grocery nearby.”

  “Mac’s.” I trusted Mac’s food.

  We walked down a few yards to the bank of the pond. I watched as Culler spread a blanket over a grassy patch and began unpacking the sack. He’d remembered the condiments, napkins, plastic silverware. I tried not to let on that I was impressed. College must make all the difference in the world, I
thought. If it were up to Jason to get Florabelle lunch, she would be eating night crawlers.

  I sat down on the blanket and crossed my legs.

  “You better not sit like that again, you’ll get those spasms again like you did sitting there sorting your nails.” He winked, cut a turkey sub in two.

  I shifted, straighten out my legs and lay on my stomach. “Those were screws,” I corrected, waited as he got lunch all set. The breeze off the pond felt good. Even so, the humidity was bad, and my hair was sticking to the back of my neck. I reached over the edge of the blanket and plucked a long weed, gathered up my hair in a knot, and weaved the grass through it to hold it up.

  “Here,” said Culler, handing me a plate. “We’ll split this one, and if you’re still hungry, there’s another. I like your earrings. Those are turtles, aren’t they?”

  I felt my face go red. I had forgotten to switch earrings when I’d gone home to change clothes.

  “You remember the story of the tortoise and the hare?” asked Culler, mouth full.

  “I think so, didn’t they race?” I reached for my ears, spun the earrings to make sure the turtles were upright.

  “Yes, and the tortoise wins. Slow and Steady Wins the Race.” Culler took a bite of his sandwich, lay down on the blanket next to me.

  “We should catch something with that bait,” I said. “Flynn’s worms are the finest.” We touched slightly at the knees. I could feel my whole body go warmer all of a sudden.

  “So this fishing spot is for members only?” Culler grinned.

  “Not really. It’s public property. We just joke like that,” I said, sitting up. I gathered my legs up underneath me. “This is Toad’s Pond.”

  Culler leaned up on one side, balanced on his elbow. “You seem to know all the secrets here.”

  “I do,” I said, fixing myself another scoop of the potato salad. “And I take delight in keeping them.”

  “You say you’ve lived up here three years?”

  “That’s long enough.”

  “Were you born in Ohio?”

  “Franklin.”

  “Did you go to school there?”

  “I graduated from Carlisle High.”

  “No college?”

  “No college.” I took the last bite of my sandwich, leaned up, wadded the wax paper into a ball, threw it through the open window of the jeep.

  Culler looked at the jeep a moment, turned back to me. “You think you’ll go to college? There’s a lot of good ones here in Kentucky. Perhaps you could get in on a basketball scholarship with that kind of hook.”

  “Speaking of hook, are we going to fish?” I didn’t want to talk about school and careers, things of no concern to me.

  “Sure, we’ll fish. You just seem pretty smart. I think you’d like school.”

  “Maybe so,” I said, rising to my feet. “I just don’t think college is the right thing for me. I have a pretty full schedule.”

  “Tell me,” said Culler, squinting up at me.

  “Tell you what?”

  “What is it that you do? What takes up all your time?”

  “Besides Clem’s?”

  “Besides Clem’s.”

  “I work a lot at home.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Taking care of things.”

  “Big family?”

  “We’re growing. My sister’s expecting a baby real soon.”

  “Babies are fun.”

  “You have one?”

  “No, relatives. They’re fun to play with.”

  “We’ll see.” I sat down on a log near the water and begin to prepare my tackle. “You about ready?”

  “Yes,” said Culler, but still lying on his side, watching me.

  “Why don’t you get your rod ready,” I suggested, not looking at him, but sensing his stare. He had rented two from Flynn. I had my own, a Shimono, but I decided not to bring it. Maybe next time.

  Finally, he rolled over and climbed to his feet. As he passed by me, he patted the top of my head. He walked back up to the jeep and was there for quite some time. I fixed a couple of lures, as a backup in case the fish weren’t going for the worms.

  When Culler returned with his fishing rod, he sat down beside me and handed me the worms. “Here,” he said, “I hear you are the expert.”

  Hesitating at first, I prepared his tackle. Then we both cast.

  For nearly ten minutes, we sat in silence, watching our lines, holding them steady, waiting. It felt odd to be sitting here with anyone other than Clem. Sometimes I would take Birdie fishing, but mostly just in the pond behind our house, for minnows or guppies. Never out here. I stole a look over at Culler. He seemed to be enjoying himself. I felt fairly comfortable with him, and he looked like he knew what he was doing. I was trying not to feel guilty for not being at the nursing home, visiting Grandma. We’d only be a few hours, I told myself.

  Then I saw my cork go under and hold. I began reeling in furiously. When I had it up out of the water, Culler gave a loud cheer.

  “Look at that, is that about a foot?”

  “Not even,” I said. “It’s got to be over twelve to keep.” I unhooked the bass, wiggling in my grip, tossed him back.

  “Well, that’s a start,” said Culler, gently, as if he thought my feelings were hurt.

  “We’ll get some,” I said, getting ready to cast again. A worm struggled between my fingers. “Just takes time.”

  “Slow and steady,” said Culler.

  I had the worm on the hook and leaned to cast. My left arm back, I went to throw the rod forward, but in trying to follow through, I realized I had caught it on something. I heard a gasp and a cough.

  Culler was holding the back of this neck, and blood trickled from where the hook had gone in. The line was wound tight around his neck, and he choked for air.

  I had hooked him.

  Culler’s breathing was convulsive for the next few seconds while I sifted through my tackle box for a small enough knife to cut the line loose, but not his throat. Finally, I found a razor blade.

  “Hold your breath,” I said. “Be real still.” I pressed against his neck with one finger, pulled the line as far from his skin as I could, and cut the line. Dark blood pooled in his cupped hand and dripped to the ground beneath him.

  Culler heaved in air, then started panting, trying to catch his breath. I had barely nicked the skin below his ear, where blood slowly dribbled. But the place where the hook had entered the back of his neck was now bleeding profusely. The hook was still lodged.

  “We’re going to have to get this hook out,” I said. “It’s in deep.” My hands were shaking from jangled nerves and humiliation.

  “Shouldn’t we go to the hospital?” Culler looked scared. His face had gone pale and his labored breathing continued.

  “Closest one’s in Lexington. There’s a doctor in town, but he only makes house calls.” I rummaged through my tackle box and pulled out a little first-aid packet that I always carried. “Here’s some tonic,” I said, unscrewing the cap. “Special remedy to clean the wound.” I dabbed the concoction around both cuts.

  Culler hissed, gritted his teeth, with the stinging. “What is that stuff?”

  “Mostly iodine. A little soap and water.”

  “It burns.”

  “It disinfects.”

  “Drive me back into town and call that doctor,” he said desperately.

  I studied the gash where the hook rested. The skin was swelling. “When’s the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

  “Just had one. Required for entering school.” Culler grimaced. He took my hand and squeezed it hard. “You got to get me to the doctor, Fern.”

  “I’ll drive you back to the station. We’ll call the doctor from there.” I dabbed some more at the cut with a left-over napkin from lunch. The napkin absorbed a large amount of blood almost instantly. This guy may bleed to death out here, I thought, and it would be my fault.

  I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. �
��This hook has to come out soon.” I handed Culler a roll of smelling salts. “Hold on to this. If you feel faint, sniff it. We’d better hurry.” I took off my shoes and gave him one of my socks to hold on his neck to stop the bleeding.

  Then as fast as I could, I gathered up all our stuff, ran back down to the bank and helped Culler to the jeep. “You’re going to have to sit up,” I said, situating him in the front passenger seat. “If you lie down or sit back against the headrest, you’re going to drive that hook in deeper.”

  “Drive slowly,” he said softly.

  “Slow and steady,” I said and gave his shoulder a pat for reassurance.

  16. More Needles

  It was an effort to get the jeep up the ravine, back out onto the road. I put the seatbelt around Culler’s waist but folded the shoulder strap down to keep it from rubbing his neck. Once on 15, I drove as fast as the roads would let me. I paid careful attention not to hit any bumps that might imbed the hook even further.

  Pulling to a stop at the station, I squealed the brakes. Clem was standing up on a ladder, hosing down the front sign, and I missed hitting the ladder by only a foot or two. He dropped the hose and glared down at me. “What on heaven’s earth are doing coming through here like a bat out of hell? Slow down, or you’re gonna hurt somebody!” he shouted.

  “I already have.” I jumped out of the jeep and ran around to Culler’s side. “I hooked him, Clem. Help me out here.”

  “You what?”

  “There’s a fishhook lodged in his neck. He’s losing blood. Call Dr. Glenn and help me get him inside.”

  Clem climbed down from the ladder, ran, turned off the water hose. We walked Culler into the station and sat him down in a chair. I gathered some clean rags from the garage and hurried around back to the men’s room and wet them down with warm water. When I returned to the station, Clem said, “Dr. Glenn is delivering a baby in Bowen. His wife said she’d try calling Dr. Erikson.”

  “Clem, Dr. Erikson is a retired racehorse doctor.”

  “Well, Fern, that’s all we got right close.” He hung up the receiver, walked over to Culler, studied his condition.