My Very Best Friend

by Cathy Lamb

  Bridget did not wake up until noon the next day. She felt ill, nauseated, and had a fever of 101.

  She said it was “headbangingly fun” and “totally worth it.”

  I heard the train’s whistle.

  Most people in the village were at the meeting to discuss quarantining Bridget. Hysteria travels fast. So does panic, ignorance, general stupidity, a lack of education, a need to spread gossip, and a general desire to get freaked out about something.

  Toran called a friend who called two friends. Two doctors from London were now coming to speak at the meeting. Both were AIDS specialists. Kenna would also speak, as everyone in the village knew her.

  Toran and I went to the meeting. We sat with Pherson and about ten of Toran’s and Pherson’s best friends, including Stanley I and Stanley II. Also sitting near us was Olive Oliver and her husband, Reginald. They were both wearing knitted snake scarves. The snakes had friendly eyes. That was probably intentional.

  The rest of the Gardening, Gabbing, and Drinking group was nearby, as were many of the people who worked for Toran. Gitanjali sat next to Ben Harris. She looked tiny and fragile next to him.

  Olive said to me, “I may have to cut Lorna’s tongue out tonight. Look, I brought my gardening scissors.” She then pulled out clippers, the long ones, from a huge flowered bag.

  “Intimidating,” I said.

  “I think I’ll wave them in the air when she stands up, the old stiff bottom.”

  Lorna arrived, shoulders back, her bottom imperious, as bottoms can sometimes be. She strode down the aisle, indignant, followed by Laddy, self-righteous. Baen and Gowan were there, too, lockjawed, cavemanlike, ready to fling their fat fists around, but probably not at Toran, the nose smasher, again. Their noses were definitely still bumped, and moved to the side.

  The town mood was anxious and angry, the division between those who defended Bridget and those that wanted her quarantined in the Arctic firing off at each other. Those that wanted her quarantined—like Mr. Coddler and Mrs. Thurston—were near hysterical, sure they could catch AIDS if a butterfly landed in the proximity of Bridget, then flew and landed on the roof of their home.

  I thought of what had been said and done these past weeks, from one person to another. Two bar fights, with both Stanley I and Stanley II taking our side; one fight at the local school, Rowena took our side that time; tempers flaring in the grocery store (Kenna); and even a smackdown in the ruins of the cathedral between one of Toran’s friends, Athol, who defended Bridget, and a man named Lennox, who would never be Toran’s friend again. There were relationships in this town that would not heal.

  Mayor Niall MacBay went through boring business first. Honestly, it could put you to sleep.

  “And now we will invite Dr. Takamoto and Dr. Hirsch to stand and talk with us about AIDS, along with our own Dr. Kenna Thorburn, as we are sorely in need of an education.” Mayor MacBay glared at the people in the rows, taking time with Lorna, who was still huffing; Laddy, who was sanctimoniously angry; Baen, hoping for a fight; and Gowan, too dim to realize he was a fool with brain cells that would not show up in a petri dish even if they were dug out of his skull.

  Toran and Pherson had gone to school with Mayor MacBay. He was blond, giant sized, and had six daughters and a wife who had had a traumatic brain injury and was loving but couldn’t remember a thing.

  Both doctors, serious, intent, spoke. This is what HIV is. This is what AIDS is. This is what happens to the body when you have it. AIDS is contracted through sex, needles, blood transfusions—although they were working on that—and can be transmitted from mother to baby. No one in the room was even remotely threatened by AIDS from Bridget Ramsay. There is no evidence that it is contagious in daily life.

  You are safe.

  You are safe.

  You are safe.

  Kenna addressed the crowd, and she said the same thing, only she added the personal. “Most of us have known Bridget Ramsay for years. We know Toran. She’s our friend and neighbor. We need to treat her with kindness and care. . . .”

  The doctors took time for questions.

  Could they get AIDS by touching Bridget, Mrs. Thurston wanted to know, though that question had been answered ad nauseam. Can the virus hop from skin to skin?

  “No,” Kenna said, authoritative and impressive up there.

  “Not unless you’re hopping like a frog at the time,” Stanley II drawled. “Then, watch out!”

  What if they touched someone who had touched Bridget? Mr. Coddler asked. Could they get it then?

  “No.”

  “Only if you had Chinese food for lunch,” Stanley I drawled. “The noodles make your cerebellum more vulnerable to the virus, Coddler.”

  Was AIDS floating around in the air because of Bridget? Gowan asked. Is it catchable through the air?

  “No.”

  “You won’t get it from the air,” Rowena called out, “but you might get it if you did three cartwheels in a row.”

  “Bridget Ramsay should be quarantined,” Lorna said, standing up, shaking her fist, “Quarantined! She should never, ever be allowed in St. Ambrose again! She has chosen her own death. She has indulged in sinful behavior, a common harlot, and now she’s being punished, rightly so. The AIDS is a curse upon this earth, sent to people who are not walking on God’s road.”

  There was a loud rumble of derisive anger, but a number of people clapped in support.

  “You should be quarantined,” Olive shouted. She stood, held up her garden clippers, and cut the air three times. I gently pushed her back down.

  Bridget should not be quarantined, the doctors said, speaking over the noise. Remember what we said about how a person can be infected with AIDS. You will not get it from her.

  Someone had heard that a sliced onion could catch bacteria and germs. Should they cut up onions and put them in their homes? Should they wear garlic around their necks? Would it work the same? Why, my aunt Dee did it and she died at 101, or was it 91? It was 101. Garlic works!

  Olive stood, pushing her snake scarf to the side as she cut the air again with her clippers, and shouted, “Garlic won’t work, but a rabbit’s foot stuck in your ear would.”

  This is a new disease, a few villagers said. You doctors can’t possibly know what you’re talking about. What are you hiding from us? Is this a government conspiracy?

  They were not hiding anything. There was no government conspiracy.

  Couldn’t they get the disease if Bridget ate in a restaurant and the plate wasn’t thrown out? What about a drinking fountain? Could they get it then?

  “No,” Malvina called out, “but if she thinks of an elephant the same time you do, you will get infected.”

  My jaw dropped. A hush filled the room, then laughter. Was that silent Malvina?

  I snuck a peek. She looked proud of herself. Good for her.

  You are safe.

  You are safe.

  You are safe.

  Gowan barked in his throat, then said, “You don’t know nothing.”

  Baen said, “Lies, I think it all is. Lies.”

  “I’m glad you’re thinking,” Stanley I said.

  “We weren’t sure if there was much going on in there,” Stanley II said.

  “A lot of hot air,” they said together.

  Gowan glared at them. Olive stood again and clicked her clippers. I gently pushed her down.

  As the doctors calmly, patiently, answered the questions, I felt the mood shift. Information takes away fear. Learning creates knowledge. There were still people in there who didn’t believe that Bridget was not going to contaminate the entire village by breathing or smiling or brushing her hair on Tuesday at eight, but I felt the relief, the minds of rational people kicking in.

  Lorna’s, Laddy’s, Baen’s, and Gowan’s minds stayed the same: Locked down. Rigid. They thought what they thought and they weren’t thinking any different. I can’t stand people like this.

  “I still don’t think that Bridget Ramsay shou
ld be allowed in the village,” Lorna said, standing, quivering, her butt making its presence known again. “Here’s my petition!” She waved the petition. “My petition is signed by all the people in this village who believe in protecting one another. This is a moral issue. We cannot condone her illicit, immoral behavior.”

  Pherson swore. Toran tensed. I thought Toran was going to lose it. I put my hand on his thigh.

  “All this hocus pocus medical advice,” Laddy said, standing by her sister. “This is catchable!”

  “Your fears are irrational and not based in medical science,” Kenna said.

  “Science doesn’t know everything. They’re guessing! It’s a guess! This could be contagious. It could be an epidemic.”

  Baen, beetle faced, spittle flying from his gnarly mouth, yelled, “This is the disease of the gays and the drug addicts. All who say quarantine Bridget, all for keeping St. Ambrose safe from a demonic disease, raise your hands.”

  Gowan stood with his father, still the angry boy who never got his chance with the girl of his dreams. He would take his frustration out tonight. “I want Bridget to stay out of the village! This is from the devil!”

  That about did it for everyone. People stood and yelled and said inflammatory, rude things that would probably not be forgiven for generations. Things to do with others being stupid beyond belief, wooden-headed, and willing to sacrifice the lives of innocent women and children, and can pets catch AIDS, too? What if Bridget gave it to the cats? Could a cat give it to a person? Do rats have AIDS?

  Pherson stood and told everyone to sit down and shut up, which quieted people down. He was, like Toran, a Scotsman, tough, ready to fight, and he was pissed off. He spoke, with furious tears in his eyes, about how Bridget didn’t deserve their scorn, how their fears were unjustified, their cruelty shocking.

  Gitanjali, graceful and elegant, in a pink dress, her black hair in a ponytail, stood next and said, with soft gentleness, “My friend Bridget, beautiful woman in her heart. No one here judge. I not afraid of this AIDS. What I afraid of is I do not see love and kindness in room here. That is all. Thank you, friends.” She sat down.

  Some people have a way of wrapping things up with more kindness than me.

  I stood and said that Bridget and I had been best friends forever and I was not the slightest bit concerned about catching AIDS. “If you are worried about catching AIDS from Bridget, you should also be worried that a comet with a leprechaun riding on top of it is going to land on your head, as that is about equal to your chance of getting AIDS from her.” I did discuss cellular biology in terms of AIDS, briefly, to strengthen my argument.

  When I was done, Toran stood and walked to the front of the room. He turned and waited until everyone sat down and was quiet. Mayor MacBay stood one step behind him, as did Chief Constable Ben Harris. Toran was calm. Controlled. Towering and strong jawed. I loved him more than ever. I wanted to see him naked.

  “I want to thank everyone here who came today to this meeting, to listen, and to learn. I’d like to thank the doctors here, too. I won’t go over the medical information, the irrefutable proof that you will not get AIDS from Bridget. I will, however, talk about Bridget.” He stopped, collected himself.

  “My sister, Bridget, is the kindest woman I have ever known. She was kind when we were growing up with a father who was not often kind to her. She was kind to all of you. She was kind to our mother. She was kind to her best friends, Charlotte and Pherson.” He stopped and looked around the room. “She’s even kind about all of you now. She knows about the petition. She knows many of you don’t want her in town. She is unbearably hurt by your rejection, yet she told me, yesterday, ‘I’m not angry at them at all.’

  “She is ill. She is suffering. There are people in this town who are making her life worse, but she isn’t angry at you. She has a giving, forgiving, angelic spirit.” He paused, took a deep breath, and I could see that simmering anger. “I, however, do not. How dare you demand that my sister stays away from the village of her birth. How dare you slash the tires of our tractors. How dare you throw bricks through our windows and burn down one of my barns. How dare you threaten us.” He glared at Baen and Gowan. “How dare you say the horrible things you have about my sister. Your lack of compassion and understanding has stunned me. It’s hurt Bridget, worst of all. You shouldn’t even be calling yourself a Scot. Bridget didn’t deserve to get AIDS. No one does.”

  No one moved. No one shifted.

  “Bridget is dying. She has little time left. She has endured more in one lifetime than any one person should ever have to endure. If I told you what Bridget has been through, and I won’t, because it is her story to tell, not mine, most of you, those of you with a heart, would be shocked.

  “Bridget told me to tell all of you . . .” He wiped his eyes, which made me cry, and I am not a quiet crier, so I grabbed my tissues. “She told me to tell all of you not to worry. She doesn’t want to upset any of you, doesn’t want to bring any worry to your lives, so she says she will not come into the village again. Yes, for you, she is doing that. She is banning herself from a village she loves, from a castle she loved to play in as a kid, from a cathedral she ran around, from shops she loved to visit, from the pubs and bookstores and cafés”—he glared at Laddy and Lorna—“because of your undeserved hatred and inexplicable fear of her.

  “Bridget is the same woman whom you all knew when she was a girl. The same girl with a bright smile who is a talented artist. I’m sorry that at the end of her life, so many people here, who have known her for years, are willing to easily, without any remorse, condemn her, harshly judge her, and make the last part of her life worse than it already is.”

  He stopped talking, scanned the room. Some people bent their heads in shame, in sorrow. Others looked away. His friends, his true friends, looked him straight in the eye.

  “If any of you do anything to harm Bridget, or to bring her more grief, I swear to you, you will regret it. With everything that I have, I will make you regret it.” His voice softened. “To our friends, and I have found out these past weeks who they are, I thank you. Your friendship has meant everything to us. Your kindness will never be forgotten. You may go ahead and take a vote, if you want, to ban Bridget from the village, to quarantine her. Go ahead, if it makes you feel better. The result makes no difference to me.

  “I, however, will spend the rest of the time that Bridget has laughing and talking, and grateful for every minute of every day that I have with her.”

  I could hear people crying.

  Toran sat back down.

  The meeting abruptly ended when Olive Oliver stood, her husband proud beside her, in their matching friendly snake scarves and declared, “We have all the information we need, from reputable doctors. Bridget is welcome in the village. She is not contagious. Stand with me if you believe the same.” She held those giant cutting shears up in her hand victoriously and waved them.

  Rowena stood up and said, “I’m with Bridget,” and so did Gitanjali and Malvina. Malvina glared at her mother.

  I watched as people stood from their seats. Almost everyone. The doctors on stage, including Kenna, stood, too.

  Lorna and Laddy had bright red, squished-up faces. They did not lift their jiggly, imperialistic bottoms from their seats. Baen and Gowan glowered, like bacteria.

  When everyone sat back down, Olive said, clicking her gardening shears together with both hands, “Now I want to take a vote on Lorna, Laddy, Baen, and Gowan. Stand up if you think these people should be banned from the village. Quarantined!”

  I couldn’t help myself. I stood up. Most of the other people did, too.

  Too bad for them.

  Olive cut through the air with her clippers three times. “The vote passes! You four are now quarantined!”

  I kissed Toran on the cheek in the car, then on the mouth. “I love you, Toran Ramsay.”

  “I love you, too, Charlotte. Always have, always will.”

  He sighed, his shoulders t
ight. We held hands all the way home.

  We checked on Bridget, who was asleep, then we made love in front of the fireplace. We ate lemon squares, a recipe from my mother’s Georgian mother, together.

  On Saturday, Bridget said, “Clan TorBridgePherLotte must reenact our King Toran, Queen Bridget, King Pherson, and Queen Charlotte roles.” She tapped Toran’s dining room table with her knuckles.

  “You’re kidding,” Toran said.

  “No, I’m not. Let’s do it,” Bridget said.

  I looked at Bridget. For an inexplicable reason she was having a fine day, I could tell. She had eaten and she’d slept well last night.

  “Fair Queen Bridget, I don’t have my crown,” I said.

  “I know where it is.”

  “I don’t have my sword,” King Toran said.

  “I’ll get it,” Queen Bridget said.

  “I’ll want to rescue you with my cape on,” King Pherson said.

  “I’ll let you. I’ll tie the cape.”

  “I’m in,” I said.

  “Can I rescue you, Charlotte?” King Toran asked me.

  “I’ll rescue you. I am a feminist and do not need a man to rescue me.”

  “What if I say please?” King Toran said.

  I sighed dramatically. “If you must.”

  King Toran smiled, slow, easy, sexy. Biologically we clearly had cells in love.

  “Thank you, Queen Charlotte.” He stood up and bowed. “I am at your service.”

  Baby, I would like to service you.

  We trooped upstairs, Bridget swaying some, so I put an arm around her waist. She knelt, slow and careful, and opened her hope chest. “All here,” she announced. “Come along, kings and Queen Charlotte, get your royal clothing.”

  It was like opening a box of royal memories.

  We each put on our metal, sparkly gold crowns with plastic jewels that my mother had bought us. We pulled on four sheets—two pink, two blue, with a few holes—that we used as capes. We wrapped gold belts around our waists, made from shiny fabric my mother had let us cut apart. The gold was fraying but still bright.