Two days later she walked slowly along a winding road in the high country near Thekkady. Dhiren seemed far back. Twenty-five years had passed since that day of blood and fear in the dust now covering her feet. The afternoon breeze lifted her hair while she sat quietly on a log and remembered her warrior-poet, remembered him and the way he touched her, remembered him running for the trees. That evening she visited an old woman named Sudhana. They ate simple food and talked of other times.
Chitra Dhavale rode with Jellie to the airport in Madras. “I’ll miss you, Jellie, but I am glad you are going back. It’s the right thing.”
“What a strange, messy life it’s been, Chitra. Irresponsible, too.” Jellie had tears in her eyes. They were standing near the gate to Jellie’s plane.
Chitra put her arms around her and said, “Yes… strange and messy… and irresponsible in some ways, I suppose. All of that… and quite wonderful also when you think about it, depending on who’s doing the measuring and by what standards. But you at least know what it’s like to come into high plumage and catch the southern winds. Most of us don’t and never will. It’s a lucky person who can have a single great love in her life. You’ve had two. One when you were a girl, and the other when you became a woman.”
Jellie smiled then. “And one was a warrior-poet and the other is a motorcycle man. God help us all.” They laughed together while she dried her tears, and forty minutes later Air India lifted off. Chitra Dhavale watched morning light flash from the 747’s wings as it turned toward South Dakota.
Jellie had not told Michael she was returning and rode the airport limo by herself from Rapid City through the Black Hills. On the front porch of the cabin in White Bear Canyon was a disassembled motorcycle, the Shadow II. Michael had found it six months before at a convention of motorcycle enthusiasts and was rebuilding it. It would never take the place of the old Shadow destroyed in the accident, he knew that. The original was a symbol of his youth, and when it was gone, some boyish part of him went with it. He mourned both the losses.
The cabin was empty. But she could smell traces of pipe smoke. Her father’s suitcase was in the spare bedroom. Michael had said Leonard Markham was planning on visiting him to fish the trout. Packages of fly line lay on the kitchen table along with lures, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and Michael’s beat-up cap with its Real Men Don’t Bond logo. She’d given the cap to him as a birthday present just after his accident. When she’d handed him the sack containing the cap, she’d said, “This is in no way capitulation to the good ol’ boy in you. Understand that. I just thought you’d like it.”
She stood quietly, looking around. It felt a little strange, but also familiar in good ways. Casserole lay on Michael’s desk, old but doing fine apparently. Jellie walked over and petted her. The cat stretched and yawned. Out back, Malachi was barking at something.
Michael’s first novel, Traveling with Pythagoras, lay on the desk. He’d written it from the viewpoint of Pythagoras’ mother, who, legend had it, accompanied her mystic son on his journeys through Egypt and Babylonia. It had done pretty well for a first novel, thirty thousand copies. She picked it up and read the inscription on the title page: “For Leonard Markham, who gave me a woman to love.” Beside it lay Michael’s second book, a nonfiction work dealing with philosophical issues in applied mathematics, The Algebras of Illusion.
Underneath the books was a manuscript. She stared at the cover page— The Tiger of Morning—then laid the books on top of it again. She knew Michael carried a low, burning, and unspoken sense that he could never replace Dhiren. Maybe this was his way of getting it out of his system. Jellie figured he’d tell her about the manuscript when he was ready.
She opened the back screen door and looked out through the trees toward the trout stream fifty yards away. Her father was bent down along the shore, fussing with his tackle. Michael, wearing sunglasses, and the sleeves of his blue denim shirt rolled to the elbow, was wading deep water that surged around him, cigar clenched in his teeth, favoring the leg he’d injured in the motorcycle accident. He was fifty-three, and the leg was going to give him trouble the rest of his life. She held her breath for an instant when he stumbled and nearly fell, but he caught himself on a boulder in midstream.
He straightened up and began his backcasts. Jellie Markham leaned against the door frame and watched him, remembering what Chitra had said about high plumage and southern winds, about warrior-poets and motorcycle men. And she smiled, shook her head, and began laughing softly to herself. “God help us all.” She changed out of her India clothing and walked down toward the stream in an old sweater, jeans, and hiking boots. Malachi saw her and came running, bouncing and barking. Leonard Markham heard the dog and looked up, put his hand high above his head, and waved to her. Behind him, water sprayed jewellike off Michael Tillman’s fly line as he reached back in the last sunlight of a blue, mountain evening.
Acknowledgment
Thanks to the usual suspects—Georgia Ann, Rachael, Carol, Shirley, Gary and Kathe, Susan, J.R., Linda, Mike, Bill, and Pam—who are kind enough to read various drafts of what I write and offer comment. And thanks also to Maureen Egen and the rest of the folks at Warner Books for their patience with a wandering man. The standard disclaimer is in effect: my work is better because of these people, the weaknesses are mine. And, of course, thanks to the Aaron Priest Literary Agency and all the readers out there who make this curious, reclusive life of words and imagination possible.
RJW
Cedar Falls, Iowa
January 28, 1993
AN OUTPOURING OF PRAISE FOR ROBERT JAMES WALLER AND HIS FIRST NOVEL THE COAST-TO-COAST #1 BESTSELLER AND WINNER OF THE 1993 ABBY AWARD
THE BRIDGES OF MADISON COUNTY
“EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE COMES A MAGICAL STORY, AN EXQUISITE
JEWEL OF A BOOK, A PIECE OF FICTION THAT MORE THAN MAKES UP FOR
ALL THE ORDINARY BOOKS ONE USUALLY READS. SUCH A BOOK IS THE
BRIDGES OF MADISON COUNTY.”—Indianapolis News
“VIVIDLY ROMANTIC…
WALLER IS AN AMAZING STORYTELLER.”—Washington Post
“IF YOU BELIEVE IN FATE…. IF YOU’RE A ROMANTIC… YOU WILL FIND
THIS LOVE STORY AN OASIS OF JOY.”—Kansas City Star
“THIS HAUNTING FIRST NOVEL IS A MEMORABLE, MAGICAL READ…
AN UNFORGETTABLE STORY.”—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“ONE FROM THE HEARTLAND: ROBERT JAMES WALLER’S RUSTIC
LOVE STORY IS REACHING OUT AND TOUCHING PEOPLE.”—People
“IT GLOWS…. BRIDGES PROVES THAT WONDROUS THINGS CAN
BE WROUGHT BY CHANCE AND CANDLELIGHT.”—Miami Herald
“BRIDGES REMINDS US LOVE CAN EQUAL HOPE…. IT TELLS US THINGS
WE ALREADY KNEW DEEP IN OUR HEARTS.”—Los Angeles Daily News
Slow Waltz in Cedar Bend Page 16
