by Cathy Lamb
He had lost his barn. This was a direct attack on him, and on Bridget, sweet Bridget.
My fury flamed as high, and as burning hot, as that fire.
The next evening Chief Constable Ben Harris and two other officers came to Toran’s home. They had found out who had burned the barn down. Two brothers named Ennis and Ewan Matharnach. They were cousins of Baen and Gowan.
That figured.
“Arrested, in jail currently, will be prosecuted,” the chief said. “They’ll be in jail for a long time.”
“And I will take them to court for the damages,” Toran said.
“They don’t have any money, Toran,” the chief said. “They do have, however, land.”
Toran crossed his arms over his chest. “Looks like I have acquired more land.”
“Looks like it,” the chief agreed.
Clan TorBridgePherLotte had Bonnie Prince Charlie chicken and Cloutie Dumpling parfait with whip cream and Scottish Scotch the next night.
We played poker.
Bridget was wrong. I won. I have, after all, studied the game, too.
We went to bed early, the charred scent from the burned barn still drifting in and out of the Scottish winds.
Toran came upstairs with the newspaper two days later, dawn barely gone. He climbed into bed with me and said, “Editorial written by Chief Constable Ben Harris. Look.”
I scooted closer to him, the silk of my purple nightie wrapped around my legs.
ST. AMBROSE DAILY NEWS
A LETTER FROM CHIEF CONSTABLE
BEN HARRIS
To the people of the village of St. Ambrose,
I want to be clear with all of you about the law, specifically how it relates to Bridget Ramsay.
Ms. Ramsay is a citizen of this grand country. She was born here in St. Ambrose, as was her brother, Toran, who employs many people in the village.
Because Bridget has AIDS, she has been shunned from many businesses and has been harassed and ridiculed.
Bricks have been thrown through the windows of her and Toran’s house. Toran’s tractor tires have been slashed. His barn was set on fire two nights ago. That was arson, pure and simple. The perpetrators are in jail and will stay there for years.
There will no discrimination in this town. There will be no more harassment or intimidation. You will not attack, in any way, one of our own.
Some of you have made a member of our community unwelcome. You have made her feel unsafe. You have disrespected the Ramsay family. You have disrespected this village and the values and ethics of Scotland.
That a few of you have excluded her from your bars and restaurants indicates an ignorance I can hardly comprehend. We all know which bars and restaurants have blatantly excluded Bridget. You, friends, are free to choose not to patronize those places anymore. I hope that you will do so.
For those of you who have been kind to her, well done. You have been true Scots, a proud example of who we all aspire to be. Thank you for your compassion, loyalty, and friendship.
I will, once again, hand out flyers I have made detailing what HIV and AIDS is and how it’s transmitted. This time, read them.
There is no way—I repeat, there is no possible way—that you can catch AIDS from Bridget. Do not buy into unfounded fears, allegations, and general, unattractive panic. You are safe. We are safe.
But let me be very clear, friends. If anyone causes more trouble for Toran or Bridget Ramsay, if there are any more crimes committed, I will take action again. I will arrest you. I will have you prosecuted under the laws of this land. You will go to jail.
Thank you for your time, and have a pleasant day.
Chief Constable Ben Harris
“True friend,” Toran said to me.
“Yes. To my parents and now to us, as he promised.”
We entwined our fingers.
When word got out that Bridget had AIDS, one of our grocery stores cancelled their order for potatoes. It was a large order. I drove out to see the president of that company so I could explain that Bridget’s breath on a potato was not going to get the potato sick with AIDS. I didn’t explain it exactly like that, but I was clear about how AIDS was transmitted. I found out he was interested in cooking. We had much to discuss, including how to delicately spice clapshot and smoked mackerel.
In the end, he put his order back in and we shook hands, and I promised to send him three of my mother’s recipes.
This event happened two more times. I explained to the grocers that Bridget would not be having sex with the apples and then sending the apples on for customers to eat. I also explained that she would not be injecting herself with a needle and then plunging the needle into a potato to get the potato stoned.
I didn’t explain it exactly like that to the men, but I was, once again, clear on how AIDS was transmitted. One of the grocers and I played chess for three hours. The other grocer and I found common ground over a love of cats. I told him about the cat sanctuary and their yurts in Kalispell. He was fascinated.
Both grocery stores reinstated their orders.
When Toran found out, he hugged me, then swore at people’s ignorance.
“We have to make sure that Bridget doesn’t have any fruit or potato orgies,” I said, “or we’re going to have a problem.”
“You are so damn funny, Charlotte.” He dropped a kiss on my lips and I kissed him right back.
I brought Bridget over to my house so we could make leek and potato soup together, one of her favorites, and homemade white rolls. I brought the ingredients to the table so she didn’t have to stand. Later, we crawled underneath the dining room table to look at the Scientist Bridget and Scientist Charlotte signatures in the red heart. I handed her a pen. “Draw something.”
She drew Queen Charlotte and Queen Bridget with our crowns, capes, and swords. It was like watching art magic.
I already missed her. That is a harsh place to be: missing someone who is dying when they are still living. You feel like you’re on the edge of a cliff, and when you fall off the cliff you’re falling into jagged, ripping pain. You know it’s coming. You can’t stop it. You can only be as brave as you possibly can be.
That’s what I was trying to do. I was trying to be as brave as I possibly could be.
Lorna and Laddy put up a petition in Laddy’s Café, then both scurried around town asking people to sign two other copies. I heard about it through an indignant Rowena. The petition was to keep Bridget out of the village for the “safety and health of the good people of St. Ambrose.”
I thought Toran was going to combust and explode.
I headed to Lorna’s house and banged on the door. She opened it up, her tight face squished.
“Charlotte,” she said. “I’m busy today. Important matters. Can’t chitchat.”
“Why, Lorna?” I was so mad, I almost kicked her. I stuck my foot in the door before she shut it. “Why a petition?”
“Because Bridget has the AIDS sickness and we could all get it.” She leaned toward me, shaking a finger. “Like the flu. Through the air. Person to person at the grocery store, the tea shop. She should be quarantined. We quarantine people here in Scotland with malaria and diphtheria and the black plague, why not the AIDS? You know what they say about the AIDS and what it stands for? All I Did Was Drugs and Sex.”
“I was right,” I said, vindicated by my earlier analysis. “Your IQ is on the low side.”
“It is not! I had high marks in school. But you listen here, Charlotte, Bridget could infect us. One cough, a sneeze, and all of St. Ambrose could come down with this AIDS and HIVE, too. We could get HIVE! We have too many vulnerable, innocent children here, and we have old people, poor dears, and I don’t want them coming down with the AIDS or the HIVE. This is my duty and responsibility, under God—”
“It is your duty to treat people with kindness and respect and to attempt to navigate life with a modicum of intelligence and knowledge that makes rational analysis a priority in your thoughts and behavior.”
She seemed confused, so I clarified. “It’s your duty not to be a dumb cow.”
“Well! I don’t understand what you blathered on about, but how dare you let Bridget contaminate my sister’s café! Using the glasses and possibly starting an epidemic here in St. Ambrose. I don’t think you understand Scotland, Charlotte. You are exceedingly American, after all. Pushy. Your mother was always too fancy-dancy for her own good, too. Too much pride. Those articles she wrote in the paper, getting the women all frothed up. Women’s lib! Women’s rights! Feminist thoughts! Ridiculous. Always dressed up. Skinny! Everyone loved her garden, but I thought it was like her, fancy-dancy! And all that art. In a garden. Not planned out well, if you ask me. Not organized.”
“My mother’s garden was beautiful. She was never fancy-dancy. She is a woman who believes in other women and treating people as humans who have worth. Her articles were meant for women like you, Lorna, to wake up whatever part of you is still peeking out from underneath your crushing lack of mental capacity, personal absurdity, prehistoric mind-set, and your sanctimonious arrogance that make you so ignorant you don’t even know you’re ignorant.”
“Why, you! I won’t listen to this nonsense a moment longer. I have important matters to attend to. Keep Bridget out of town. I will give you the petition directly. If she doesn’t follow it, I’ll have her arrested.”
“You remind me of space trash, flying around, doing nothing except polluting.”
“There is no such thing as space trash, and I am not it, anyhow.”
“Keep away from Bridget. Do not come near her. Stop the petition.”
“I’ll do as I please.”
“Then, Lorna,” I said, “I will do as I please, too, and you won’t like it. In the end, you will lose.”
“Ha. Go and drink some tea, Charlotte! You’re exactly like your mother. Fancy-dancy!”
She slammed the door. My foot was out in the nick of time.
I wanted to strangle Lorna and Laddy.
Dear St. Ambrose Ladies’ Gab, Garden, and Gobble Group,
I would like to suggest that we sign our own petition and kick Lorna out of St. Ambrose
Ladies’ Gab, Garden, and Gobble Group. Who is with me?
Please sign this note and pass it on to the next person. (But not Lorna.)
Olive
I noticed that everyone had signed Olive’s petition, even Malvina. Lorna had been kicked out.
Quarantined.
I was trying to follow Bridget in terms of what she wanted to talk about. Now and then she cried. She cried from grief and from feeling ill, but she was remarkably courageous and upbeat, too. She was happy, often. She laughed. She was strong. If she wanted to talk, I listened.
We lay on top of the picnic table in my garden one afternoon after I had worked on the books for Toran. We watched the branches of the oak, spread out like an umbrella, as old as time, maybe older, way above us. Silver Cat came and lay on her chest. Bridget petted her.
I waited, we rested, and I wondered what she was thinking about. Her imminent death? What the last days of her life would be like? Would it be painful? Would she be able to stand how debilitating it would be?
“I wish I had had a chance to play with Pherson’s balls.”
“What?” I turned to her.
“I wish I had had the chance to play with Pherson’s balls.” She groaned. “And everything else on that man.”
“His balls?”
“Yes. Pherson has big balls. I mean, the man is hung like a bull.”
“How do you know?”
“I spied on him and Toran when they went skinny-dipping in the ocean one time when I was a teenager. And I saw.” She looked wistful. “If only I had been with Pherson from the start. My life would have been totally different.”
“Yes, you would have had Pherson’s balls to knock around.”
“Knock around balls,” she mused. “I could have knocked Pherson’s balls. What do you think of Toran’s equipment?”
“I’m not going to confirm or deny that Toran has incredibly full balls, and I think he needs a ball jock. Nor will I comment on the effectiveness of his missile.”
We laughed.
“Okay, Charlotte. Glad you enjoy them.”
“I do. No wonder they think about sex all the time with all their gear on the exterior and right between their legs. I look at Toran’s balls and I think, how do you ever stop thinking about something that’s hanging off you like that? We’re tucked up and private, polite and neat, but they’re sticking out, swinging along, jangling about.”
“Proud and bouncy.”
“Yes, proud and bouncy and so easily stimulated. There is little I can think of in science that is as easily stimulated as men’s gear and reproductive weaponry.”
“But I think their prominent and proud pistols are a Scottish thing. Genetic. Must have something to do with the air flowing down from the Highlands.”
“Big ball air.”
“Yes. Indeed. Big ball air.”
We found ourselves so amusing.
We would need our sense of humor and amusement of ourselves to battle what was coming next, yes, we would.
Silver Cat licked Bridget’s face.
It is a sad, tormenting event in life when you are watching someone you love die. You know they’re leaving. You know that train is coming. You don’t know exactly when the train will arrive, but you know it’s on its way. You can hear the whistle echoing in the distance, out over the sea. You can see the steam above the straight line of the horizon. A bare puff, but it’s there. Each day the train chugs closer, the puff of steam rises higher, the whistle becomes more strident.
You want to stop the train. You want to delay it at another station. You want the train to go off the tracks, make a U-turn, and return to where it came from. You want the train to disappear. You want a miracle.
There is no miracle.
You deny this is happening. You are angry. You beg. You grovel. You try to bargain with the train’s engineer. It doesn’t work.
The train is coming, and you finally realize the only thing you can do is love the person as much as you can before they climb aboard and the doors shut behind them.
So you do.
When the train arrives, your beloved hops on. They turn around once, waving, smiling, young and healthy now, and begin their next journey.
You want to get on the train, too, but the engineer won’t let you. He is gentle but insistent. It is their time, not yours. He will take care of them now.
The whistle blows, the wheels lurch forward, the engine groans, the puff of steam rises into the sky, into heaven. You wave to your loved one, and they wave back, blow kisses.
You watch, broken and crying, on your knees, hands outstretched, until the train is too small to see anymore. The whistle is silent now, the puff of steam evaporates, the earth stops rumbling. You watch until you can’t see anything any longer, even the tracks, the station, all of it gone, and you are alone, still on your knees.
Alone.
Alone.
The train is gone.
Bridget asked for two people to come and see her at the same time. One was the reporter Carston Chit, and the other was Chief Constable Ben Harris. Toran and I sat in on the conversations.
Ben and Carston brought along tape recorders. She told them what happened with Angus Cruickshank in his quarters, in a shed, in the basement of St. Cecilia’s. Toran had to lean over several times, his head in his hands, then pace the room, his fury a living, pulsing landslide of hate.
She told them about her baby being taken from her at Our Lady of Peace, A Home for Unwed Mothers, despite her objections. She told them about being forced into the insane asylum by her father, and Angus, who had convinced her father she was crazy because she wouldn’t stop screaming about her baby being taken away and her “blatant devil lies.” She told how the insane asylum had made her feel insane, the drugs they’d forced her to take, the shots they’d stuck in her.
&nbs
p; She told them how Father Cruickshank had told her he would kill Toran if she told.
It was an incredibly difficult story for Ben to hear. She had to stop twice for Ben to compose himself. Ben keeps the law upheld in St. Ambrose, but he has a soft heart. “I’ll do this, straight away,” he said, his voice thickened by tears. “Have to get myself together, pull my bootstraps up. Chin up, now. Here we go again, poor dear. I apologize for the delay.”
As Bridget said, “I want it to be official, what Angus Cruickshank did to me, so if another girl comes forward, she’ll have my story behind her, too, and people will be more likely to believe her with the two of us. Then he will be prosecuted and jailed. But I hope he’s dead and I hope he suffered before he died.”
Carston Chit, a young, eager man with horn-rimmed glasses, nodded. “After what I’ve learned, what I continue to learn, that would be a just punishment.”
Later, Bridget told me she needed to talk to Kenna, too. Kenna came over and Bridget told her what she wanted. Kenna nodded.
“You will be famous, Charlotte.”
“That’s silly, Grandma.”
“You will be.”
“What will I do?” We were making bread together—flour, salt, yeast, kneading, waiting for it to rise. Kneading again.
“You will be a storyteller. It’s who you’re destined to be.”
“And a scientist.” I patted my hands together, the flour billowing.
She smiled. “That, too.”
“And a gardener. I like flowers, like you and my mum.”
“I’m seeing it, child.” Her face creased. She was confused by her vision. “But you’ll be behind whales. On an island. There will be a lot of cats in sweaters.” She groaned. “Scottish Second Sight. ’Twill be the end of my blinking mind.”