My Very Best Friend

by Cathy Lamb

  By the next day all of them came to school with bashed-up faces. Same when it happened to Bridget. Two of the boys grabbed her, and she screamed and kicked and they laughed. Pherson jumped in on that fight, and those kids were mincemeat when Pherson and Toran were done, blood and teeth everywhere.

  None of the boys bothered us again.

  “Locked up tight,” Gowan said, smashing one fist against the other. “Tight!”

  “I remember when we were kids, you were in love with Bridget, Gowan,” I said. “You always chased her and wrote her love notes.”

  Gowan flushed.

  “I’m so glad she didn’t end up with you. It would be like living with nuclear waste.”

  Toran’s jaw clenched, then his voice became low and slow, as if he was thinking. “What do you mean?”

  “We don’t want to get the sickness that God gave her for being a sinner,” Baen said.

  “A sinner?” Toran asked.

  Hmmm. Now, that was surprising. I had expected Toran to swing his fist at that exact second. I was incorrect in that assumption. “We’re all sinners, but there are only two people here without brains.” I held up two fingers, then pointed them at Baen and Gowan.

  They glowered at me.

  “Fact is,” Gowan said, his small mouth opening to form a black O, “we’re afraid you two are going to get sick and then give it to us. That’s why we’re not reaching out a hand to shake. We’re letting air between us.”

  “She was always wild,” Baen said. “We know where she went when she was but sixteen. Had a baby, she did. Didn’t even know the father, that’s what Father Cruickshank said. He prayed for her. Then she went crazy and had to be locked up, and now she’s gone ahead and given herself the AIDS gay drugs disease and she’s going to give it to us. She shouldn’t go to the village—”

  “Bridget will go to the village whenever she wants,” I told them. “She is not contagious. You believe she is because you are uneducated and unintelligent, slow to process truth, easily led by your natural inclination toward a caveman style of thinking.”

  “I am not an . . . uneducated and not that . . .” Gowan had already forgotten the word. “Not that other word.”

  “Don’t insult me, young woman.” Baen shook his finger, his fleshy face reddening like an infection. “If she goes to town, then I’m not responsible for my actions, because I will protect other Scots from this fornication and disease and sin.”

  “I think your mind is diseased.” I knew what was coming from Toran. I could feel it. “Some people’s minds are filled with filth. It’s the same thing as a disease, although without the bacteria.”

  “My sister is a wonderful person,” Toran said, fury practically humming off of him. “She is not contagious. She is sick, and you will not do anything to upset her at any time.”

  “I will upset her if need be. She is to stay out of St. Ambrose,” Gowan said, pointing at us. “We don’t need the likes of her in the village!”

  “Have you had a head injury that could explain your mild retardation, your inability to assess a situation, and your poor understanding of basic medical information?” I asked. “Where is your brain, and does your brain work properly?”

  Gowan was again baffled. “Yes.” He tapped his head. “It’s right here and it works, dummy.”

  “I will drag her out if I have to, Toran!” Baen said, chest out. “Don’t make me do what I don’t want to do!”

  Whew. Toran’s temper had soared straight up and imploded. It was impressive. He hit fast. Boom, boom. Baen and Gowan were on the ground before they knew what happened.

  “That was spectacular, Toran,” I said. “Two at once. So fast, I could hardly see you.”

  “Thank you, luv. Looks like he’s going to give it a go again.”

  Baen stumbled up, swearing, and took an awkward swing at Toran, his belly jiggling. Toran hit him again. Down he went. Gowan struggled up, calling Toran a “donkey’s ass,” and back down he went. Straight back. Blood streaming from both their noses.

  “I’m turned on, baby,” I said.

  “A state I particularly like you to be in.”

  When both men teetered up together, I jumped on Gowan’s back, squeezing his thick neck with my arms and distracted him while Toran took care of Baen once again, who made a sound like a punched pig. When Toran was free, I jumped off Gowan. Toran hit him, and we had two piggy men flat on the ground, moaning.

  “Well done, Toran. I see the warrior in you. If only you were in your kilt.” I had seen him in a kilt. I had peeked under it to find out if he was going commando. He was not.

  “Thank you, luv. Next time I’ll wear it.” He nodded at me, then leaned over both groaning, moaning, bleeding men and said, “Keep off my property. Never again come near my home. Never again talk to me. If you come near Bridget, or Charlotte, I will kill you.”

  Gowan spit out a tooth. “You lost me a tooth!” His tongue roamed around his trash pit mouth again. “Two! It’s two out now.”

  “You can count, Gowan!” I declared.

  “I can count. I just did.”

  Baen groaned, coughed, groaned. “You broke my nose, Toran. I’ll get the chief after you for this.”

  “Get off my land now or I will bury you on it today.” Toran crossed his arms. “You are a disgrace to all Scotsmen. Your clan has always been a drain on the other clans.”

  “I am not a disgrace,” Baen whispered, through his swollen mouth.

  “Yes, you are,” I said. “All men who are high on ignorant arrogance and monstrous behaviors are a disgrace to Scotland. That would be you.”

  Toran said, “Leave now.”

  They pulled their sorry selves up and headed for their truck, stumbling.

  It would not be the end of them, or others, I knew it.

  When they were gone, I wrapped my arms around Toran.

  “If they come near Bridget, I will kill them.”

  I nodded.

  In the back of my head, I wondered if he had already killed a man. . . .

  15

  “Charlotte?”

  “Yes?”

  “Let’s have some fun before I die. Like we used to do.”

  “I’m up for fun.”

  “You and I, and Toran and Pherson, too.”

  “The Kings and Queens.”

  “Yes. Clan TorBridgePherLotte.”

  I put my forehead on hers, and our tears ran together. Then we did one of our famous handshakes and chants. Shake, twist, clap twice, pull back. “May all our adventures end in peace.”

  “You want to what?” Toran asked.

  “I want us to go to the fort, like we used to,” Bridget said. “The four of us.”

  “It’s ten o’clock at night,” I said. “Aren’t you tired?”

  “I took a long nap.”

  She looked pale, and way too thin, but excited. “What do you say, Pherson?”

  Pherson looked drawn, his thick black hair a mess. I knew that watching Bridget die was excruciating. He stared at her with those dark brown eyes, at her smile, her delicate hands as they swept through the air. “I say, let’s go.”

  We went.

  We built the fort when we were children. We dragged up saws, hammers, nails, and old slats of wood that my father had in the yard. It had taken a couple of weeks, but we’d done it.

  My father had climbed up the hill and given us advice, but he had wisely let us do most of it ourselves. We found a flat spot and nailed a wood floor down on a frame. We built walls and a flat roof with a support beam. My dad showed us how to make a door. We put blue plastic over the top of it when it rained.

  We brought wood boxes and put games and cards in them and played for hours. We ate brownies, Tartan toffee bars, and Kilted Meringues my mother made us. We were Clan TorBridgePherLotte, kings and queens, battlers of two-headed dragons and evil sorcerers.

  That night we brought wine, grapes, crackers, and cheese. We brought poker chips, two lanterns, candles, chairs, and a camp t
able we popped up.

  We drove most of the way there, in Toran’s truck, so Bridget wouldn’t have to walk far. Pherson and Toran helped her, and when she faltered, Pherson swept her up in his arms and carried her the rest of the way, her blond hair swinging.

  We lit the candles and turned on the lanterns. We played poker. We drank too much wine. We laughed and sang songs, many of them drinking songs from our childhood.

  We held our fists together and shouted, “Clan TorBridgePherLotte unite!” And “Activate our magical powers!”

  We drank more wine and played more poker.

  The candles dimmed.

  “Thank you,” Bridget told us.

  Toran teared up and studied the door.

  Pherson said, “Anything for you, luv.”

  I couldn’t say anything, so I held her hand.

  Bridget won at poker. She announced, “Beat your arses, now, didn’t I?”

  “Charlotte, let’s go into the village. We’ll have tea and cakes at Laddy’s Café. Remember we used to love it there.”

  Bridget and I were shoulder to shoulder in her bed. We’d both been reading. I was reading a biography of the incomparable Rachel Carson. She was reading a book on how to get better at poker.

  “I used to daydream about the tea and miniature pink cakes at Laddy’s and how your mother would take us there.”

  “Delicious. Do you have enough energy to go?”

  “I think I’d do anything for her Scottish pear and cherry tart. I’ll muster up my muscles and we’ll go.” She patted her legs. “Come on, muscles! Give it a go.”

  I drove into the village. I knew it was exhausting for Bridget, but if she wanted Scottish pear and cherry tarts, we’d get them. I held my breath and swallowed hard, wondering what Bridget’s reception would be. Surely people would be polite. Baen and Gowan’s visit had me worried. We had not told Bridget what had happened.

  It was rather crowded that day in the village, as there was some sort of event at the university, but I managed to pull into a space about a block from Laddy’s Café and opened the door for Bridget. She was thin and fragile. I grabbed her elbow, as I didn’t want her to lose her footing on the cobblestone streets.

  “Thanks, Charlotte, you old lass.”

  We laughed. “Come along, then, other old lass.”

  The bells of the church rang and the scent of croissants wafted toward us. In the distance I could see the ruins of the cathedral and the gravestones. I tried to stop thinking about the gravestones.

  Bridget inched along beside me, my hand around her waist for balance, and said hello to several people. She seemed excited to see them, smiling, happy.

  A man with blond curly hair saw Bridget and quickly crossed the street after she said to him, “Hello there, John.” He said, “Good day, Bridget. Right. Yes. Pleasure to see you . . . uh . . . bye now.” He darted off.

  A mother with three children, named Claudine, whom Bridget and I had gone to school with, said, “Why, hello, Bridget. Must run. The children are late for their lessons.” She practically dragged the children away.

  I tightened my arm around Bridget’s waist, my anger on low simmer.

  “I thought this might happen,” she said. “I had the fanciful hope that they wouldn’t find out. I wish they knew that AIDS cannot jump from person to person like a frog. As I will endeavor not to have sex with anyone in the middle of the square or force anyone to shoot drugs up their arms with me in front of the chemist’s, I think they’ll be safe.”

  “They’re not being rational.” I felt my face flush as a man with a teenage boy firmly took his son by the shoulder and steered him away, after Bridget said, “Hello, Graeme.”

  “Run away,” Bridget whispered. “When I speak, one of my words might catch up with you and it’ll turn into full-blown AIDS by teatime.”

  She tried to be offhand, but I heard that crackling hurt.

  I was relieved to reach the tea shop.

  “Hello, do you have a table for two?” I asked the teenage girl at the front desk.

  “Yes, right this way, ladies.” She smiled, turned, and led us to a table by the windows. The shop was half full, mostly with women. I heard the whispers, which sounded like tiny threats, and felt the stares, which felt like larger threats.

  “Hello, Mrs. Thurston,” Bridget said, so gently, her voice soft as we passed a table.

  Mrs. Thurston, a shriveled bird, did not bother to reply, her face shocked, angry.

  “Mr. Coddler,” Bridget said, to a potbellied man wearing a hat. The hat had a white feather in the band. His face twisted, and he deliberately turned to the side.

  “Hello, Holly, a pleasure to see you,” she said to a woman in her thirties who was sitting with two other women. I recognized all three of them. We had gone to school with them until I left for Seattle. They stuttered out a hello, and “Nice to see you again, Bridget . . . hello, Charlotte . . . how are you?” then quickly, as if Bridget’s disease would smother them, they shifted away.

  I saw the brokenness on Bridget’s face, and I regretted bringing her to town. I helped her into a chair. “Thank you,” she said to the girl. The girl smiled and said, “Laddy will be out in a minute.”

  “You remember that Laddy is Lorna’s sister, right, Bridget?”

  “Yes. Laddy’s kids couldn’t stand her. Moved away as soon as they could and never moved back to visit her. The woman can bake, but she’s a spitting spider.”

  “They moved to get away from their mother and their aunt. Gargoyle women.”

  We put the napkins on our laps, and Bridget and I started chatting about how much the village had changed; how we had run through the streets together, our ribbons flying; how we had brought a few coins to Sandra’s Scones and Treats Bakery for a treat; how we’d pretended that there were ghosts living at the same time we were. We talked quickly so the tears building in Bridget’s eyes wouldn’t spill over and fall out.

  I felt ill. I thought my anger might eat me alive. It hurt to sit there watching her hurt.

  There was a flurry of activity by the door to the kitchen. Mrs. Thurston stood up, wriggling with indignation, then whispered to Laddy, stabbing her finger at us.

  Laddy hustled over, her face scrunched up, red. She was a stout woman, firm in her stomach rolls, her hair graying and pulled on top of her head like a ball of gray rope. She had been a stern woman when we were younger, and her three children were all rebels. Who would want to live with that? It would cause rebellion in a saint.

  “Bridget, Charlotte.” She was panting.

  “Hello, Laddy,” Bridget said.

  Laddy put her fists on her hips. “I’m sorry, Bridget, you must leave immediately. Immediately!”

  Bridget—tiny, thin Bridget—swayed in her chair.

  “Are you kidding me?” I asked.

  “No, this is no joke. Not a one! Bridget must leave this establishment right this very second. Come along, now. Out you two go.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because of the AIDS. I can’t have her infecting other people.”

  “She can’t infect other people,” I said.

  “Yes, she can!” Laddy’s chins trembled. “And I won’t have my customers infected.”

  “You can’t be that intellectually challenged.” I studied her. “Surely.”

  Her face flushed, her eyes bulged. “I’m not intellectually challenged, you impertinent girl. Daughter of your mother, an outspoken, irrational woman if I ever met one—”

  “Don’t talk poorly about my mother,” I said to her, standing, my voice low. “Don’t you dare.”

  “I’ll dare as I see fit, and I see fit for Bridget to leave. Don’t touch a thing. We’ll have to throw out the dishes and the silver. I’ll send a bill to Toran.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” I said. “Because if you had a brain cell, you would know that AIDS can’t be caught through forks and teacups.”

  Bridget put a hand on my arm. “Charlotte, it’s all right. Let�
�s go. Thank you, Laddy, for making delicious desserts. I have remembered them fondly over the years.”

  Laddy seemed taken aback by Bridget’s gentleness.

  “Why . . . why . . .”

  “I loved the scones, the chiffon cookies, and your apple tart was the best I’ve ever had. Those were my favorites. You’re a talented chef, and my brother and I, and Charlotte and Pherson, when we were children, we always came here for your pastries and looked forward to it.”

  “Well . . . I . . .”

  “We’ll leave. I’m sorry to have upset you,” Bridget said. She tried to stand, she wobbled, and I grabbed her. “Please don’t worry, though. You can’t possibly get AIDS from me. Send me the bill for the items and I’ll pay you.”

  “I’ll do that,” Laddy said, but some of the anger seemed to deflate out of her. “Yes, I will. Directly.”

  I glared at her, told her she was a “fat, prehistoric, bleating cow,” and we turned to leave. I propped Bridget up, my arm around her skinny waist. Mr. Coddler, Mrs. Thurston, and Holly glared. Mrs. Thurston said, “Stay out in the country, Bridget. We can’t have this spreading to our bodies. The children. Think of the children. And the elderly.”

  Bridget said, “I’m sorry I frightened you, Mrs. Thurston. There’s nothing to be frightened of, though.”

  I said, “Mrs. Thurston, I studied cells in petri dishes for years. May I say that you remind me of chlamydia?”

  Mrs. Thurston made a choking sound in her throat.

  “You know what chlamydia is, don’t you?”

  Holly said to Bridget, “I’m sorry, Bridget, but you’re contagious. Henson and I are trying to have children and I can’t take a chance on the baby.”

  Bridget said, a slight smile on her face, “Your baby will be fine, Holly. Healthy as can be.”

  I said, “Holly, I remember you from when we were kids. You were a tattling, nosy, irritating girl, and I see that you’ve grown up to be the same. I’m surprised a man is willing to have sex with you.”

  She gasped, and I gasped back, imitating her.