The Last Bridge (7 page)

I should have handed it back and kept walking.

Instead I reached in and pulled out a square object and slid the bag’s handle over my hand. It was wrapped in tissue paper with a long curly ribbon dripping off it like spun sugar.

I slid the ribbon off the edges and slowly tore the tissue, which revealed gilt-edged pages. The wrapping floated away, uncovering a larger version of my black sketchbook only covered in red leather with gold-embossed leaves on each corner. Inside the cover was red
wavy satin, and each page was smooth, cool, and white, with the faint edge of gold. On the first blank page, Addison had written:

He knew.

I wanted to die.

“There’s more.” He pointed at the bag.

I took a deep breath and rummaged through the bag and found a bundle of pens, just like the one I dropped when he picked me up.

“I know you have your own book but I thought this was—”

“Beautiful,” I said. My voice cracked. I willed my body to stay still as my insides collapsed and expanded in rushes of opposite emotion, like an umbrella opening and closing inside me.

He smiled. “You like it?”

I nodded. I knew I should say something. A thank-you, at least, but I was afraid. My hands shook as I held the book and the pens and felt the bag brushing against my leg. I should have given it back. As lovely as it was, it was one more thing I would have to hide. I should have said, “Thanks, but no thanks,” but I didn’t. I stood stone silent and hugged it to my chest.

Addison put the truck in gear and threw the parking brake. He opened the passenger door and patted the seat.

“I won’t bite. I promise.”

I climbed in slowly, afraid I might lose my footing and fall away forever.

“Don’t even think of giving it back,” he said. “I don’t want you to feel…”

I looked at him.

“Obligated,” he said, as if he were reading my mind.

I closed my eyes and felt the smooth cover of the book in my hands.

“Think of it as an investment in your future.”

“My future?” I said.

“You’re an artist.”

I laughed. “It’s a stupid comic.”

“Not stupid at all.” He reached across my lap, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a pile of scrap paper. “I went back to the woods this morning to make sure I got everything.” He handed it all to me. There were half-pages of panels, detailed sketches of the Hand. There was even one notebook page titled “The Secret Treasure—What Is It?”

“You read all of these?”

He didn’t have to answer. Of course he had—the book, the pens—he had read every word. He saw something I would have never shared with him or anyone.

“Please …” I said, pleading for what I don’t know.

Addison leaned toward me as if he were going to kiss me and reached his hand across my chest to grab the door handle.

“It sticks if you don’t slam it.” He opened and closed my door as his cheek brushed my shoulder. I flinched.

“I don’t like to be touched,” I blurted before I could censor myself.

“That’s too bad,” he said, as he sat back in his seat. “Touching can be nice.”

We sat in silence for a few moments. I felt that rush of shame again as I tried to stay in the moment, tried to feel the vibration of the motor rumbling under my thighs, the pull of his eyes on me, the smoothness of the sketchbook in my lap, and the sharp edges of my scraps he had rescued in the woods. I tried to stay in the moment, to not escape to someplace in my head where this was not happening and I was safe and alone.

“I wouldn’t have read them if I had known how you felt.”

I hung my head, wishing I could fold into myself and slip into the glove compartment.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of. Your sketches are …”

I bowed my head and began to cry. Addison handed me his yellow bandanna from his back pocket. This time I took it.

“It’s okay,” he said, as he put his hand on top of mine, which were folded in my lap. His palm was dry and warm and covered my fingers like a blanket. We sat like that until the setting sun glowed through the windshield, blinding us. Addison released the parking brake and shifted gears.

He took the long way through town and around the duck pond. In the few weeks he had been with us, spring had announced its arrival with cool days that were slowly wearing away the memory of another harsh Ohio winter. We cracked the windows to get some of the sweet air.

“Tell me about ‘Kat’s Eye,’” he said, as if he were asking me about the weather.

Maybe it was the light or the sketchbook, but I felt a small shift inside me. The memory of his hand lingered, along with a general feeling of unease at being so near him. This was not fear, though I knew the discomfort of that; this was different. Instead of fighting the urge to turn away, I was resisting the desire to slide as close to him as possible.

“Jared shared his comics with me,” I said, my voice sounding queer, like I was speaking in a different language. I had never heard myself tell this story. “Before I learned about comics, I drew picture books when I was little. My mom says she saved them.”

“Kitty Kat—is she you?”

“Me? No. She’s beautiful and brave.”

“But she has your name.”

“She spells it with a
K.”

“Anything else is just coincidence?” he said as he turned in to the Sally’s Sweet Shoppe parking lot.

“Yup,” I said, smiling as I felt my toes wiggling, signaling a laugh was on its way.

“You like root beer floats?”

I nodded.

Addison slid out of the car and glided into the shop as the welcome bell signaled another customer. He chatted with Sally and
made her laugh so hard she reached over the counter and playfully slapped him.

He came out a few minutes later with huge bubbling floats. I took a sip and put my head back and closed my eyes. The dark molasses flavor mixed with the sweet vanilla coolness was delicious.

I opened my eyes. Addison was studying my face. “You’re lovely when you’re smiling,” he said, as I felt that warm rush again and turned away.

“Let’s drive to the duck pond and finish these.”

We parked and got out of the truck. Addison jumped up on the hood while I held our floats. He took them as I climbed up next to him, slipping and spilling the drinks in his lap. He slid off the hood and pulled me with him as we both fell to the ground laughing.

“Oh my God, are you all right?” I said, helping him up. He had root beer all over him, and without thinking, I started blotting it off with my napkins. I accidentally grazed his crotch with my hand and felt a wave of panic so strong I was sure I would go into cardiac arrest.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. We looked at each other in unison and started laughing again. “Want to try again?” I said, pointing to the hood.

“Nah. I’m not sure I’m capable of falling for you twice.”

“That’s funny,” I replied, “I’m not going to fall for you even once.”

“We’ll see,” he said.

We got back in the car and sat quietly, watching the sun go down across the field behind the pond.

“You’re okay,” he said, nudging me, “not half as snotty as I thought.”

“Thanks,” I said, “I wish I could say the same about you.”

He threw his head back and laughed so hard I thought it would echo. The skin around his eyes and mouth wrinkled like a nicely worn trail.

“Will you show me more?” He pointed to the bag where I had put the sketchbook and scraps.

“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging.

“I think you will.”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t make me tickle you,” he said, waving his fingers in front of me.

“Okay, okay, just don’t touch me!” I said as he reached over and tickled me until I got hiccups.

“C
AT
.”

Jared stood in the doorway where Addison had been a few hours before. I was still on the floor with my knees to my chest and my head buried in my hands. My mouth was dry with no lingering taste of beer. My throbbing head would soon evolve into a massive hangover. My cheeks were crusty from crying.

I don’t know how long I had been lost in memory. The coats on the bed were gone.

“Have you returned to the land of the living?” Jared’s thin frame was backlit against the pale rose-print wallpaper that lined the upstairs hall. He leaned casually against the doorway, wiping his hands with a dish towel.

“Mom’s dead,” I said as I reawakened to reality.

Jared turned on the lamp on the side table and sat on the bed next to me. His calf brushed against my shoulder. I felt the heat of him and wanted to rest against his leg for a few moments. It wouldn’t mean I needed him. It would feel so nice.

His leg began to twitch, repelling the possibility. I pulled away.

I had gone too far back in my memory to the days when I knew he would protect me. It made me thirsty.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” I said as I squinted from the glare of light. “What time is it?”

“Midnight.”

Jared stood up. On his left hand I noticed a gold wedding band and wondered why I hadn’t seen it before. I guess he married the woman in the Jag—what was her name? It was a street in New York. Broadway, no, Madison.

“Everybody gone?”

Did they have any kids?

“Just about. Andrew and Hal said to say good-bye. Andrew said to call if you need anything. He seems to think you’re friends.”

“Why?”

“Maybe it’s your charm. You have a tendency to be overly warm to people.” Jared made a pistol from his index finger and thumb and pointed it at me, punctuating his sarcasm.

“I used to be nice,” I said.

“And that would have been … when?”

“Funny, Jared. Ever think of taking your act on the road?”

Jared swept his arm across the bedspread, feeling for something. He lifted the pillows and patted them. I wondered if he was going to strip the sheets.

“What are you looking for?” I said, scooting away from the bed. Sooner or later I would have to try to stand up. I was holding off as long as I could.

“Addison called. He left his lighter. Said he’s pretty sure he left it in here.”

There it was, his name, spoken aloud. The sound of it as something other than a voice in my head made me feel that rush again. I had to get up. I pushed myself to a crawling position. I couldn’t have Jared, the memory of Addison, and myself in the same room at the same time with no escape. I reached for the bed to steady myself.

“You do this every night?” Jared said.

“What?”

“Drink till you pass out?”

“I didn’t pass out.”

“Tell that to Addison.”

“What does that mean?” I eased myself down on the bed and experimented with keeping my head up.

“He’s the one who carried you upstairs.”

“When?”

“You dropped your beer and hit the floor. Wendy and I told everyone you were tired and hadn’t eaten.”

“I was tired, and I haven’t eaten.”

“Whatever,” he said. He was looking under the bed. “Addison carried you up here and put you on the bed. As usual I cleaned up the mess.”

I resisted the urge to say, “What’s that supposed to mean?” His fixation on the bed was starting to annoy me. Addison told him he left his lighter in my parents’ bedroom, and Jared assumed he left it in the bed.

“Try the dresser. Christ, what do you think we were doing?”

“When it comes to you and Addison, it’s hard to say.” He walked over to the dresser and found the lighter. He tossed it in the air as he headed for the door.

“So you haven’t kept in touch with him?” he said; the edge had left his voice.

I shook my head.

“Were you happy to see him?”

We locked eyes for a moment. I shrugged. If I had the rest of my life, I’m not sure I could find an adequate answer.

“Were you happy to see me?” His voice cracked with exposure.

“Define
happy.”

“Jared!” Wendy called from downstairs. Jared’s eyes fixed on me as if I were a map he was trying to decipher.

“I don’t drink that much,” I said.

“He’s living at his grandma’s place.” Jared answered as if I had asked. “He’s been back awhile.”

I reached for my cigarettes that were on my mother’s nightstand.

“Jared!” Wendy called again. I searched for a match.

“Just a sec,” he shouted back as he glided toward me, flipping open Addison’s Zippo lighter. He tripped the flame as I guided his hand toward the cigarette. I felt the smooth ridges of his knuckles and the bump of a vein that could be traced all the way to his heart.

“He’s got a kid.” His tone was cool, like the drag of menthol filling my lungs. I let go of his hand as I pulled on the cigarette and thanked the god of lung cancer for giving me something to steady myself.

“I know,” I said.

A
DDISON STARTED
meeting me after school a couple of times a week. He introduced himself to Nell and charmed her in a way that made her blush every time he said hello. She gave up her time with me easily on the condition I told her everything.

Until Addison, I was not interested in boys. In fact, I had never been on a date. Nell had more luck and went out with anyone who asked. Unfortunately, the boys who liked her were not the ones she liked. Still, she said, a girl couldn’t be too picky and attention was attention.

I didn’t think I was missing anything. Nell often told me about the guys she went out with and their roaming hands and slippery kisses. It sounded clinical to me, like she was getting a medical procedure rather than having fun.

It would be a lie to say I had never been touched by a man. But the truth would be worse. So I found a place to live between a lie and the truth. Until Addison, I got along just fine.

In a short time I had gone from living deep within myself to seeking the company of another person. I wanted to hear his voice before he spoke, feel his hand on my arm before we touched. I wanted to be with him all the time. When I saw his truck in front of the school, I knew what it felt like to be happy.

Those days were like a long, slow drunk.