Bridge to Terabithia

by Katherine Paterson

  After lunch, they trotted through the drizzle to the Smithsonian to see the dinosaurs and the Indians. There they came upon a display case holding a miniature scene of Indians disguised in buffalo skins scaring a herd of buffalo into stampeding over a cliff to their death with more Indians waiting below to butcher and skin them. It was a three-dimensional nightmare version of some of his own drawings. He felt a frightening sense of kinship with it.

  “Fascinating, isn’t it?” Miss Edmunds said, her hair brushing his cheek as she leaned over to look at it.

  He touched his cheek. “Yes’m.” To himself he said, I don’t think I like it, but he could hardly pull himself away.

  When they came out of the building, it was into brilliant spring sunshine. Jess blinked his eyes against the glare and the glisten.

  “Wow!” Miss Edmunds said. “A miracle! Behold the sun! I was beginning to think she had gone into a cave and vowed never to return, like the Japanese myth.”

  He felt good again. All the way home in the sunshine Miss Edmunds told funny stories about going to college one year in Japan, where all the boys had been shorter than she, and she hadn’t known how to use the toilets.

  He relaxed. He had so much to tell Leslie and ask her. It didn’t matter how angry his mother was. She’d get over it. And it was worth it. This one perfect day of his life was worth anything he had to pay.

  One dip in the road before the old Perkins place, he said, “Just let me out at the road, Miss Edmunds. Don’t try to turn in. You might get stuck in the mud.”

  “OK, Jess,” she said. She pulled over at his road. “Thank you for a beautiful day.”

  The western sun danced on the windshield dazzling his eyes. He turned and looked Miss Edmunds full in the face. “No, ma’am.” His voice sounded squeaky and strange. He cleared his throat. “No ma’am, thank you. Well—” He hated to leave without being able to really thank her, but the words were not coming for him now. Later, of course, they would, when he was lying in bed or sitting in the castle. “Well—” He opened the door and got out. “See you next Friday.”

  She nodded, smiling. “See you.”

  He watched the car go out of sight and then turned and ran with all his might to the house, the joy jiggling inside of him so hard that he wouldn’t have been surprised if his feet had just taken off from the ground the way they sometimes did in dreams and floated him right over the roof.

  He was all the way into the kitchen before he realized that something was wrong. His dad’s pickup had been outside the door, but he hadn’t taken it in until he came into the room and found them all sitting there: his parents and the little girls at the kitchen table and Ellie and Brenda on the couch. Not eating. There was no food on the table. Not watching TV. It wasn’t even turned on. He stood unmoving for a second while they stared at him.

  Suddenly his mother let out a great shuddering sob. “O my God. O my God.” She said it over and over, her head down on her arms. His father moved to put his arm around her awkwardly, but he didn’t take his eyes off Jess.

  “I tolja he just gone off somewhere,” May Belle said quietly and stubbornly as though she had repeated it often and no one had believed her.

  He squinted his eyes as though trying to peer down a dark drain pipe. He didn’t even know what question to ask them. “What—?” he tried to begin.

  Brenda’s pouting voice broke in, “Your girl friend’s dead, and Momma thought you was dead, too.”

  ELEVEN

  No!

  Something whirled around inside Jess’s head. He opened his mouth, but it was dry and no words came out. He jerked his head from one face to the next for someone to help him.

  Finally his father spoke, his big rough hand stroking his wife’s hair and his eyes downcast watching the motion. “They found the Burke girl this morning down in the creek.”

  “No,” he said, finding his voice. “Leslie wouldn’t drown. She could swim real good.”

  “That old rope you kids been swinging on broke.” His father went quietly and relentlessly on. “They think she musta hit her head on something when she fell.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “No.”

  His father looked up. “I’m real sorry, boy.”

  “No!” Jess was yelling now. “I don’t believe you. You’re lying to me!” He looked around again wildly for someone to agree. But they all had their heads down except May Belle, whose eyes were wide with terror. But, Leslie, what if you die?

  “No,” he said straight at May Belle. “It’s a lie. Leslie ain’t dead.” He turned around and ran out the door, letting the screen bang sharply against the house. He ran down the gravel to the main road and then started running west away from Washington and Millsburg—and the old Perkins place. An approaching car beeped and swerved and beeped again, but he hardly noticed.

  Leslie—dead—girl friend—rope—broke—fell—you—you—you. The words exploded in his head like corn against the sides of the popper. God—dead—you—Leslie—dead—you. He ran until he was stumbling but he kept on, afraid to stop. Knowing somehow that running was the only thing that could keep Leslie from being dead. It was up to him. He had to keep going.

  Behind him came the baripity of the pickup, but he couldn’t turn around. He tried to run faster, but his father passed him and stopped the pickup just ahead, then jumped out and ran back. He picked Jess up in his arms as though he were a baby. For the first few seconds Jess kicked and struggled against the strong arms. Then Jess gave himself over to the numbness that was buzzing to be let out from a corner of his brain.

  He leaned his weight upon the door of the pickup and let his head thud-thud against the window. His father drove stiffly without speaking, though once he cleared his throat as though he were going to say something, but he glanced at Jess and closed his mouth.

  When they pulled up at his house, his father sat quietly, and Jess could feel the man’s uncertainty, so he opened the door and got out, and with the numbness flooding through him, went in and lay down on his bed.

  He was awake, jerked suddenly into consciousness in the black stillness of the house. He sat up, stiff and shivering, although he was fully dressed from his windbreaker down to his sneakers. He could hear the breathing of the little girls in the next bed, strangely loud and uneven in the quiet. Some dream must have awakened him, but he could not remember it. He could only remember the mood of dread it had brought with it. Through the curtainless window he could see the lopsided moon with hundreds of stars dancing in bright attendance.

  It came into his mind that someone had told him that Leslie was dead. But he knew now that that had been part of the dreadful dream. Leslie could not die any more than he himself could die. But the words turned over uneasily in his mind like leaves stirred up by a cold wind. If he got up now and went down to the old Perkins place and knocked on the door, Leslie would come to open it, P.T. jumping at her heels like a star around the moon. It was a beautiful night. Perhaps they could run over the hill and across the fields to the stream and swing themselves into Terabithia.

  They had never been there in the dark. But there was enough moon for them to find their way into the castle, and he could tell her about his day in Washington. And apologize. It had been so dumb of him not to ask if Leslie could go, too. He and Leslie and Miss Edmunds could have had a wonderful day—different, of course, from the day he and Miss Edmunds had had, but still good, still perfect. Miss Edmunds and Leslie liked each other a lot. It would have been fun to have Leslie along. I’m really sorry, Leslie. He took off his jacket and sneakers, and crawled under the covers. I was dumb not to think of asking.

  S’OK, Leslie would say. I’ve been to Washington thousands of times.

  Did you ever see the buffalo hunt?

  Somehow it was the one thing in all Washington that Leslie had never seen, and so he could tell her about it, describing the tiny beasts hurtling to destruction.

  His stomach felt suddenly cold. It had something to do with the buffalo, with f
alling, with death. With the reason he had not remembered to ask if Leslie could go with them to Washington today.

  You know something weird?

  What? Leslie asked.

  I was scared to come to Terabithia this morning.

  The coldness threatened to spread up from his stomach. He turned over and lay on it. Perhaps it would be better not to think about Leslie right now. He would go to see her the first thing in the morning and explain everything. He could explain it better in the daytime when he had shaken off the effects of his unremembered nightmare.

  He put his mind to remembering the day in Washington, working on details of pictures and statues, dredging up the sound of Miss Edmunds’ voice, recalling his own exact words and her exact answers. Occasionally into the corner of his mind’s vision would come a sensation of falling, but he pushed it away with the view of another picture or the sound of another conversation. Tomorrow he must share it all with Leslie.

  The next thing he was aware of was the sun streaming through the window. The little girls’ bed was only rumpled covers, and there was movement and quiet talking from the kitchen.

  Lord! Poor Miss Bessie. He’d forgotten all about her last night, and now it must be late. He felt for his sneakers and shoved his feet over the heels without tying the laces.

  His mother looked up quickly from the stove at the sound of him. Her face was set for a question, but she just nodded her head at him.

  The coldness began to come back. “I forgot Miss Bessie.”

  “Your daddy’s milking her.”

  “I forgot last night, too.”

  She kept nodding her head. “Your daddy did it for you.” But it wasn’t an accusation. “You feel like some breakfast?”

  Maybe that was why his stomach felt so odd. He hadn’t had anything to eat since the ice cream Miss Edmunds had bought them at Millsburg on the way home. Brenda and Ellie stared up at him from the table. The little girls turned from their cartoon show at the TV to look at him and then turned quickly back.

  He sat down on the bench. His mother put a plateful of pancakes in front of him. He couldn’t remember the last time she had made pancakes. He doused them with syrup and began to eat. They tasted marvelous.

  “You don’t even care. Do you?” Brenda was watching him from across the table.

  He looked at her puzzled, his mouth full.

  “If Jimmy Dicks died, I wouldn’t be able to eat a bite.”

  The coldness curled up inside of him and flopped over.

  “Will you shut your mouth, Brenda Aarons?” His mother sprang forward, the pancake turner held threateningly high.

  “Well, Momma, he’s just sitting there eating pancakes like nothing happened. I’d be crying my eyes out.”

  Ellie was looking first at Mrs. Aarons and then at Brenda. “Boys ain’t supposed to cry at times like this. Are they, Momma?”

  “Well, it don’t seem right for him to be sitting there eating like a brood sow.”

  “I’m telling you, Brenda, if you don’t shut your mouth….”

  He could hear them talking but they were farther away than the memory of the dream. He ate and he chewed and he swallowed, and when his mother put three more pancakes on his plate, he ate them, too.

  His father came in with the milk. He poured it carefully into the empty cider jugs and put them into the refrigerator. Then he washed his hands at the sink and came to the table. As he passed Jess, he put his hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder. He wasn’t angry about the milking.

  Jess was only dimly aware that his parents were looking at each other and then at him. Mrs. Aarons gave Brenda a hard look and gave Mr. Aarons a look which was to say that Brenda was to be kept quiet, but Jess was only thinking of how good the pancakes had been and hoping his mother would put down some more in front of him. He knew somehow that he shouldn’t ask for more, but he was disappointed that she didn’t give him any. He thought, then, that he should get up and leave the table, but he wasn’t sure where he was supposed to go or what he was supposed to do.

  “Your mother and I thought we ought to go down to the neighbors and pay respects.” His father cleared his throat. “I think it would be fitting for you to come, too.” He stopped again. “Seeing’s you was the one that really knowed the little girl.”

  Jess tried to understand what his father was saying to him, but he felt stupid. “What little girl?” He mumbled it, knowing it was the wrong thing to ask. Ellie and Brenda both gasped.

  His father leaned down the table and put his big hand on top of Jess’s hand. He gave his wife a quick, troubled look. But she just stood there, her eyes full of pain, saying nothing.

  “Your friend Leslie is dead, Jesse. You need to understand that.”

  Jess slid his hand out from under his father’s. He got up from the table.

  “I know it ain’t a easy thing—” Jess could hear his father speaking as he went into the bedroom. He came back out with his windbreaker on.

  “You ready to go now?” His father got up quickly. His mother took off her apron and patted her hair.

  May Belle jumped up from the rug. “I wanta go, too,” she said. “I never seen a dead person before.”

  “No!” May Belle sat down again as though slapped down by her mother’s voice.

  “We don’t even know where she’s laid out at, May Belle,” Mr. Aarons said more gently.

  TWELVE

  Stranded

  They walked slowly across the field and down the hill to the old Perkins place. There were four or five cars parked outside. His father raised the knocker. Jess could hear P.T. barking from the back of the house and rushing to the door.

  “Hush, P.T.,” a voice which Jess did not know said. “Down.” The door was opened by a man who was half leaning over to hold the dog back. At the sight of Jess, P.T. snatched himself loose and leapt joyfully upon the boy. Jess picked him up and rubbed the back of the dog’s neck as he used to when P.T. was a tiny puppy.

  “I see he knows you,” the strange man said with a funny half smile on his face. “Come in, won’t you.” He stood back for the three of them to enter.

  They went into the golden room, and it was just the same, except more beautiful because the sun was pouring through the south windows. Four or five people Jess had never seen before were sitting about, whispering some, but mostly not talking at all. There was no place to sit down, but the strange man was bringing chairs from the dining room. The three of them sat down stiffly and waited, not knowing what to wait for.

  An older woman got up slowly from the couch and came over to Jess’s mother. Her eyes were red under her perfectly white hair. “I’m Leslie’s grandmother,” she said, putting out her hand.

  His mother took it awkwardly. “Miz Aarons,” she said in a low voice. “From up the hill.”

  Leslie’s grandmother shook his mother’s and then his father’s hands. “Thank you for coming,” she said. Then she turned to Jess. “You must be Jess,” she said. Jess nodded. “Leslie—” Her eyes filled up with tears. “Leslie told me about you.”

  For a minute Jess thought she was going to say something else. He didn’t want to look at her, so he gave himself over to rubbing P.T., who was hanging across his lap. “I’m sorry—” Her voice broke. “I can’t bear it.” The man who had opened the door came up and put his arm around her. As he was leading her out of the room, Jess could hear her crying.

  He was glad she was gone. There was something weird about a woman like that crying. It was as if the lady who talked about Polident on TV had suddenly burst into tears. It didn’t fit. He looked around at the room full of red-eyed adults. Look at me, he wanted to say to them. I’m not crying. A part of him stepped back and examined this thought. He was the only person his age he knew whose best friend had died. It made him important. The kids at school Monday would probably whisper around him and treat him with respect—the way they’d all treated Billy Joe Weems last year after his father had been killed in a car crash. He wouldn’t have to tal
k to anybody if he didn’t want to, and all the teachers would be especially nice to him. Momma would even make the girls be nice to him.

  He had a sudden desire to see Leslie laid out. He wondered if she were back in the library or in Millsburg at one of the funeral parlors. Would they bury her in blue jeans? Or maybe that blue jumper and the flowery blouse she’d worn Easter. That would be nice. People might snicker at the blue jeans, and he didn’t want anyone to snicker at Leslie when she was dead.

  Bill came into the room. P.T. slid off Jess’s lap and went to him. The man leaned down and rubbed the dog’s back. Jess stood up.

  “Jess.” Bill came over to him and put his arms around him as though he had been Leslie instead of himself. Bill held him close, so that a button on his sweater was pressing painfully into Jess’s forehead, but as uncomfortable as he was, Jess didn’t move. He could feel Bill’s body shaking, and he was afraid that if he looked up he would see Bill crying, too. He didn’t want to see Bill crying. He wanted to get out of this house. It was smothering him. Why wasn’t Leslie here to help him out of this? Why didn’t she come running in and make everyone laugh again? You think it’s so great to die and make everyone cry and carry on. Well, it ain’t.

  “She loved you, you know.” He could tell from Bill’s voice that he was crying. “She told me once that if it weren’t for you…” His voice broke completely. “Thank you,” he said a moment later. “Thank you for being such a wonderful friend to her.”

  Bill didn’t sound like himself. He sounded like someone in an old mushy movie. The kind of person Leslie and Jess would laugh at and imitate later. Boo-hooooooo, you were such a wonderful friend to her. He couldn’t help moving back, just enough to get his forehead off the stupid button. To his relief, Bill let go. He heard his father ask Bill quietly over his head about “the service.”

  And Bill answering quietly almost in his regular voice that they had decided to have the body cremated and were going to take the ashes to his family home in Pennsylvania tomorrow.