The Last Bridge (5 page)

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the voice replied, coming from the direction of my mother’s bureau. His body may have been across the room but his voice resonated inside me, deep down, way past the well of liquor, beyond the granite resolve and the cold clench of denial. In spite of my best efforts to kill it, his voice still lived in me.

My hands trembled as I felt my stomach push against my chest.
I searched for breath, taking in whatever air I could in short, helpless gasps. Wild memories fluttered through my mind like summer kites. I clenched my fists and felt my toes curling.

Get in there. Get back
.

Before I knew what was happening, I was on the floor with my head in my hands, consumed by an overwhelming desire to cry. I took a breath and felt a rush of tears for the first time in many years.

He was in the room. I heard the click of his lighter and the flash of flame as he lit a cigarette, and then I saw the burning ember flickering near his face like a firefly trying to catch him. I imagined him leaning against the bureau watching me cry, and feeling nothing, not even pity.

“I should have told you we moved back,” he said, coming closer to either me or the door. I hoped it was the door. “I lost track of you.”

“I’m in New York now,” I said, wondering how I was going to manage all of the snot that was coming out of my nose. I sniffled and tried to make him out in the dark. “You came alone?”

“Of course,” he said, as I felt him closing in. I looked up at his shadow and shielded my eyes from the glare of the open door. From what I could make of his face, he appeared to be half smiling. “Sorry about your mom,” he said as he headed for the doorway, stopping to give me a Kleenex. His hand was still covered in freckles.

“Yeah,” I said, hiccuping from the force of my crying. I reluctantly took the Kleenex and turned away.

“Please,” I begged, but could not finish, unsure of what I would ask for. Please leave me alone, please don’t speak, please go.

“I don’t suppose you’d …” he said with his back to me.

“No … I’m leaving as soon as everything’s settled.”

“Suit yourself,” he whispered, as he left quietly through the door.

I
T WAS THE FIRST
warm day after a brutal winter. I was coming up the long dirt driveway after my best friend, Nell, dropped me off from school. She had turned sixteen earlier that year and was the only one at our high school who had her own car.

Coming home was the worst part of the day. I dreaded the thought of walking into the house and seeing my father stretched out on the couch in a drunken haze. My mother was often at the store, where she spent an increasing amount of time shopping the sales. What had started as a weekly chore had turned into a daily ritual, with my mother scouring the three grocery stores within a twenty-mile radius looking for the best deals. She was proud of getting something for nothing. She made making do an art form.

Wendy usually stayed after school for orchestra practice. She was first-chair clarinet and the fund-raising captain, and took her responsibilities to the ensemble seriously. She had broken the school record by raising more than four hundred dollars in candy sales for the trip to the state finals in the fall, which was no small feat considering my mother refused to buy any. “Why would I spend $2.50 on a chocolate bar when I could get a whole sack at Kroger for $1.99?”

Although she loved the discipline of classical music, Wendy had the style of a band slut. At recitals, she wore her long black skirt as tight and as short as the regulation would allow. Mom said we
should be grateful orchestra season didn’t go into the summer or Wendy would wear a white tube top instead of a blouse.

Jared was the jock of the family and found a sport to excel in for every season. Early spring meant the end of basketball and the beginning of baseball season. Jared was seldom home before dinner, and regularly barreled through the door dragging his equipment bag just as we were sitting down to eat. It was hard to tell what bothered my father more about Jared—his athleticism or the way he never seemed to care if he was holding up dinner. Whatever it was, it made for many tense meals.

Jared had grown immune to Dad and ignored his harsh words. He was heading into his last semester of high school and counting the days before he would be released from my father’s fury. Jared’s dedication to sports had paid off. He was heading to Penn State on a football scholarship in the fall.

My extracurricular activity was avoiding Dad at all costs. One didn’t go out for this sport as much as get drafted for it. Dad didn’t do much in the way of work; he farmed the small parcel of land we didn’t lease, collected rent, and occasionally got odd jobs repairing farm equipment. He was good with his hands. Whatever he touched bended to his will: crops grew, dead machines turned over, skin bruised.

Every day as I came up the drive I looked for signs as to what I could expect. Was his truck in the garage? Were the barn doors open? Were there tractors in the yard with their hoods up? These were indications that he might be working and sober. If everything was closed up, then the drinking had started. Then the question was, when? Early in the day usually meant he would be passed out on the couch. If he had started at lunch he would be hungry for company.

And that could mean so many things.

I waved good-bye to Nell and started for the house. The sun was sitting high in the sky and there was a cool, soothing breeze coming off the fields tickling the hairs on the back of my neck. It had been a good day. In school I had gotten an A on an art project,
and on the way home, Nell told me she got her father to agree to give me driving lessons that weekend. I was about to turn seventeen and didn’t want to wait any longer. The thought of getting my license made me giddy, like hearing the first three numbers on your lottery ticket announced during the daily drawing. With a license, all I needed were keys and I could get out of Wilton, forever.

As I slowly walked toward the house, lingering by my mother’s flower beds budding with crocuses, I saw my father and another man sitting on the porch gliding on the swing, drinking beer, and talking. My father waved me over.

“Cat, you remember Addison, Jared Watkins’s son.” They stood together as the swing bumped the backs of their knees on its return ride. They laughed and stepped toward the railing and me.

Jared Watkins was my mother and father’s oldest friend. Jared and my dad were boyhood friends who grew up next door to each other. A couple of years before I was born, Jared moved to California, where he married his wife, Barbara, and had a son, Addison. Every year until I was eleven, the Watkins family came to visit Jared’s mother, who still lived in his childhood home. I saw Addison on their last visit five years ago.

I looked up, shielding my eyes from the afternoon sun, and shrugged.

My father slapped Addison on the back. “She was young the last time she saw you. Don’t take it personal.”

He had changed.

This was not the greasy redhead with hair that hung in clumps around his pimply face who chased me around the yard shouting, “Fatty, fatty two by four can’t get through the bathroom door.” I was eleven and fat, which Addison pointed out every chance he could. He claimed I deserved it because I had told him his driving sucked. He had just gotten a license and had insisted on taking Jared, Wendy, and me for a ride in his dad’s Caddy. We didn’t get off the property before he swerved into a ditch and had to get Dad to pull us out.

Dad loved having the chance to tow Jared’s big-ass car with his 1969 red Ford pickup. He seized any opportunity to show Jared up.

“Well, look who’s pulling who out of the ditch now,” Dad said, beaming proudly.

When confronted with what happened, Addison looked at me and said it was because he was carrying too big of a load in the car.

“The only load you’re carrying is the pus in that pimple face of yours,” I said.

That’s when the chasing started.

We didn’t see the Watkins family again after that visit. Something happened that no one talked about. I didn’t care enough to find out more. No more Addison meant one less annoying person in my life, and that was fine by me.

Addison the pimply faced teenager had morphed into a broad-shouldered man with wavy rust-colored hair. He was as tall as my six-foot-three-inch father, but leaner. He wore a faded denim shirt over a thermal undershirt with the sleeves pushed up to reveal deeply tanned muscular arms. His jeans hung loosely around his slim waist, and in spite of the chill, he wore no jacket or gloves. What he did wear was a smile so inviting it made me want to smile back. Every time.

“I hope your driving has gotten better,” I said, struggling not to make eye contact. I could feel the heat of his smile.

“You might be happy to know both my driving and manners have improved.”

He remembered.

“How nice for you,” I said, as I walked up the porch stairs and grabbed the screen door. I tried to subtly catch a glimpse of him but he caught my eye and smiled that goddamned smile again. I felt a rush of blood to my cheeks and darted for the stairs to my bedroom.

Wendy was in our room as I jumped from the doorway to my bed against the wall. She was fussing in the closet, pulling out clothes and throwing them in outfit combinations on her bed.

“Did you see him?”

“Yeah, how long is he staying?”

“How about forever!” She threw herself on my bed and hugged my leg dramatically.

“Christ, you act like you’ve never seen a guy before!” I pushed her off me.

“Oh, I’ve seen guys, but this is a man.”

We laughed. “Is that all you think about?”

She looked up at the ceiling and thought for a moment. “Yup—that’s pretty much it. That and orchestra. So help me figure out what I should wear!”

“For what?”

“Dinner. I want to look like this is something I usually wear but still be sexy.”

“Wendy, you’re fourteen; sexy should not be your main objective. Try for cute.”

I pulled off my school uniform and slid on a ratty pair of jeans and a ripped flannel shirt that used to belong to Jared.

“What are you going for—farmhand?”

“Not going for anything, Wendy. I’m not doing anything that would keep me in Wilton.”

“Addison’s not from here,” she said.

“He came back, didn’t he?”

Wendy slipped on a tight black V-necked sweater that used to be Mom’s before she accidentally shrunk it. She found it tight in all the right places as she ogled herself in the mirror. Wendy had developed early and had Mom’s build, with long shapely legs and full round breasts that defied gravity. I was more like Dad, with stockier limbs and a broader chest. Wendy’s hair was darker than my chestnut color and thicker, with a natural curl. She wore it long and layered, while mine was shoulder length and blunt.

“So did you get his story?” I asked, as she slipped on a pair of blue jeans with the knees fashionably cut and frayed.

“Dad says his father sent him to fix up his grandma’s place.
Since she died the house has been rented and gotten run-down. How do I look?”

“How old is he?”

“Mom said twenty-one. Cat, the outfit?” She snapped her fingers in my face as if waking me from a trance. The pants were so tight I could almost see the outline of the beauty mark she had on her left cheek.

“Where did you get those jeans?”

“Daddy bought them for me.”

“Has Mom seen them?”

“She will soon.”

“She’s going to hate that outfit.”

“Yeah, well, what’s she going to do about it?”

She had a point. My mother had no jurisdiction over Wendy. Dad favored her so intensely that people often commented that Wendy was more like his wife than my mother was. As for me, aside from the fact that I didn’t have the figure or the desire to dress like Wendy, I was certain one disapproving word or look from my mother would result in an immediate beating from my father.

At dinner Wendy took my regular spot, which was next to Addison, who was sitting where Jared usually sat. Jared had called and said he would be late and not to hold dinner. Rather than ask Wendy to move, Mom had me sit in her seat, which ended up being directly across from Addison. Dad was in good spirits, regaling everyone with his favorite stories of his youth and charming us with kind words and affectionate looks. No one could be nicer than Dad when he wanted to be.

“Everything was different then. We had a lot of plans. Did your dad ever tell you I was his partner in the driving school? The one he sold for a fortune?” Dad looked at some fixed point above Addison’s head as he chewed, his face relaxed into a distant memory—whether it was a good or bad one was hard to tell.

“Remember, don’t let business get in the way of friendship. And
don’t let anything get in the way of business.” He spoke finally as he looked at my mother, whose head remained down and focused on her food.

“We had big dreams,” he said, shaking his head and laughing to himself. “We actually thought we could do better than this. That we could see the world. Well, your dad did. He got out and I got…” He looked at Mom, who was pushing her potatoes from one side of the plate to the other. “Poor Moo. I was her consolation prize. Your father meant the world to her.” He exaggerated the word
world
. My mother dropped her fork and bristled at hearing my father call her Moo.

Moo was my mother’s family’s nickname for her; it was short for Moonbeam, which was what her daddy used to call her. Aside from my father, who usually called her Moo before he hit her, the only other person I ever heard call her that was Addison’s father, Jared.

Everyone froze at the sudden change in my father’s voice. The sunny tone was replaced by the brooding baritone of bad weather. After a few moments of my father staring intently at my mother as if he were measuring her for a coffin, the storm passed. “Eat up, girls,” he said, reaching over and touching my hair and face. “Isn’t she beautiful?” he said to Addison.

“Yes,” Addison replied, looking at me.

“No!” Dad said. “I’m talking about Wendy.”