A Narrow Bridge

by J. J. Gesher

Finding your child in a hospital bed was one thing, but discovering that he was a junkie who tempted death repeatedly was nearly incomprehensible. Very little of that night was ordered in her head. It was a random jumble of doctors and social services.

  She did remember the young social worker who sat with her in the hallway. She kept saying that alcohol and drug abuse was a disease, a fatal illness. She said that it was important for Hava to understand that chronic heroin addiction ended in one of three ways: prison, madness, or death.

  Hava sat by Jacob’s bed throughout the night, praying that none of those alternatives would claim her only son. In the morning, when she was sure he would live, she called her husband and told him that if he did not arrange for the best possible rehab for Jacob, she would no longer be his wife.

  CHAPTER 29

  Jacob wasn’t sure why he woke from sleep. Not the usual reasons. No voice had been calling him from his subconscious. No vague memory of smell and touch prodded him awake. He was fully alert and didn’t know why. He closed his eyes and concentrated on a rasp of whispered voices in the dead of night—conspiratorial and unfamiliar. The sound of breaking glass came from inside the chapel.

  Jacob slipped from the safety of his woolen cocoon. The night air wicked away any remnant of comfort. He fumbled into pants, a flannel shirt, and shoes. He reached for the hunting rifle on the closet’s top shelf. He stood perfectly still, head cocked to the side.

  Soundlessly, Jacob moved toward the voices. He stopped outside the sanctuary to take in the sounds: loud thuds, breaking glass, and drunken laughter. He cautiously moved up the stairs, the weight of the rifle heavy in his hands. In the chapel, the moonlight illuminated the broken pews, a shattered stained-glass window, a spray-painted devil’s pentagram over the mural of Jesus, and two men, one covered in tattoos, the other clearly a tweaker, a meth addict, with rotting teeth, and open sores on his face and arms.

  Jacob stood unseen in the shadows.

  The tatted guy was the leader. He was thick limbed with a shaved head and a bull neck; his arms and chest said he lifted weights daily. He read dangerous. Every inch of visible skin, from wrist to jawline, was covered in ink. Even from a distance Jacob could make out a fanged rattlesnake in strike mode. The snake wound its way up his arm and to the back of his shaved head, where it spit out a black swastika, like some giant poisonous spider ready to sting. He wielded a baseball bat. The broken glass and pews were his doing.

  Tweaker was pissing on the steps to the pulpit. His urine smelled foul, like something had crawled inside him and died. The air smelled bitter, like chemicals.

  Jacob was hyper-aware of his own body. He could hear his legs brush against each other as he moved forward. He could taste his own fear as he shifted the rifle into ready position and slipped off the safety. Mo’s words echoed in his head: “Never pull a gun unless you are prepared to use it.”

  His hands shook, and his heart pounded. If he pointed his weapon, the incident could easily escalate. He decided to back out slowly and call the police. That was when Tweaker reached for a rusty metal container. As he splashed the contents on the wooden pews and lectern, Jacob recognized the distinct smell of kerosene. If he didn’t stop them, the church would go up in flames.

  Jacob placed the rifle out of sight, leaning it against the last row of pews, and stepped out of the shadows. “You need to leave.”

  The vandals stopped mid-action.

  Swastika spoke. “Who the fuck are you?” The man moved toward him.

  Jacob’s body tensed for physical confrontation. He maintained eye contact with Swastika, but he could see Tweaker puff up his chest and close in.

  A sane man would have run for help. Jacob didn’t. In that instant he was sure he would die. That was what he wanted. He had known for months there was nothing to live for. He would let someone else do the job for him—his version of suicide by cop.

  Jacob planted his feet. “This is a house of God. Get out.”

  Swastika flashed a mock smile and touched his chest in sarcastic apology. “If we knew it was a white church, we woulda minded our manners.”

  “You’re an asshole,” Jacob growled. “Get the fuck out.”

  Swastika’s grip tightened around the bat. “This prick doesn’t know how to show respect. Come on, nigger lover. Let’s play.”

  He swung the bat at Jacob. He should have stood there and welcomed the blow, but his arms instinctively moved to protect his head. Swastika checked his swing when Jacob cowered, then changed position and violently shoved the end of the bat into Jacob’s gut. As he doubled over, Swastika smashed the bat into his face. Jacob gushed blood from his nose. He stumbled, reeling backward from the force of the impact. He tried to stop himself, but the momentum took him down. Stunned, he watched his blood drip on the floor.

  Jacob heard the sound of Tweaker’s kick before he felt it. The steel-tipped work boot landed in his ribs. Excruciating pain. He started to lose consciousness. Through the haze of battered submission, and against his will, the instinct to survive took over. Live, goddamn it. Live. Jacob saw the rifle he’d placed against the back of the pew. He’d have only one chance to use it.

  Tweaker stood over him. “Get up and talk to me with respect.” They were intent on shaming him until the end.

  Jacob pulled himself up, using the pew as leverage. As his hand cleared the back of the pew, he grabbed the rifle and spun toward his attackers, pointing the barrel at Swastika’s chest.

  The room erupted. Tweaker lunged for his legs and Swastika closed in. Jacob lurched to the left, and his rifle discharged. The sound of the shot shocked all of them, giving Jacob a nanosecond to steady the weapon on Swastika’s heart.

  The man held his hands up in a take-it-easy stance. “You don’t look too familiar with that rifle, buddy.”

  Jacob stood his ground.

  When Tweaker took a step closer, Jacob switched his aim. In that instant of hesitation, Swastika charged. Jacob flipped the rifle from Tweaker back to Swastika and pulled the trigger. Swastika shrieked in pain. He fell to the floor holding his shattered leg.

  Jacob pointed the gun at Tweaker. “Don’t move.”

  Mo awoke for the second time that night to use the bathroom. Damn prostate. As he returned to the warmth of his bed, he heard a gunshot. His body tensed. There was no mistaking that sound, and it came from across the street. He looked out his window and saw a light on in the chapel and a beat-up truck near the entrance. He heard a second gunshot. He unlocked the aluminum box underneath his bed, took out his shotgun, and ran across the street as quickly as his seventy-year-old body could take him.

  Mo swung open the chapel doors to a sight he could never have imagined: Jacob was pointing the old hunting rifle at two skinheads. One of the men clutched his leg, trying to stop the flow of blood. The church was in shambles—pews destroyed, stained glass in shards, murals defaced. The distinct smell of kerosene mixed with urine, blood, and gunpowder hung in the air.

  Mo immediately took charge. “What the hell is going on here?”

  He took the rifle from Jacob’s trembling hands, all the while keeping his own shotgun pointed at the intruders.

  Mo ordered Jacob, “Go over to Pastor Johnson’s office and call the police.”

  Jacob tried to move, but his legs wouldn’t obey. As adrenaline ebbed, his body registered the blows of bat, the impact of boot.

  Mo brought his shotgun closer to Tweaker’s chest. “You boys should know that I was a US Marine, and I ain’t afraid to pull a trigger.”

  When Rosie heard the gunshots and saw the light in the chapel, she called the police. Within minutes, she heard sirens. Throwing on clothes, she ran outside. A patrol car arrived at the same time as the paramedics. She waited with them, shivering in the cool night air, until one of the officers gave an all clear.

  When Rosie entered the church, she was relieved to see Mo standing calmly to the side. Jacob was soaked in sweat, and the blood from his nose was smeared on his shirt. The police had c
uffed the intruders, and one of the paramedics had tended to the wounded vandal. The other medic was examining Jacob while a police officer peppered him with questions.

  Although the medic declared him unharmed, Jacob couldn’t narrate the chain of events, as if his sequencing switch was turned off.

  Mo intervened. “Why don’t you officers come back tomorrow? Jacob will be happy to answer your questions when he’s feelin’ better.”

  Mo surveyed the damage. “We can put this place back together. Nothin’ so bad we can’t clean it or fix it.”

  Jacob walked mechanically toward the basement stairs.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Mo asked. He continued even though Jacob didn’t respond. “Go back to bed. That’s what I’m gonna do.”

  CHAPTER 30

  With only the light of the moon coming through the tiny window in the caretaker’s room, Jacob stood at the sink and washed his battered face. He heard a soft knock. He opened the door to Rosie, her face full of concern. He moved away from the door, giving her room to enter.

  “You all right?”

  The words hung in the air. Jacob stood stone-still, head down, shoulders slumped. “I shot a man.”

  “Why are you ashamed?” Rosie asked. “I’m grateful for what you did.”

  Jacob blinked rapidly. “I had every intention of killing that man…at the last second, I changed my mind.”

  Rosie responded matter of factly, “Then you didn’t have every intention.”

  His thoughts twisted and swirled. Was he coward or hero?

  The assault on Jacob’s nose sent a small dribble of blood slowly down his mouth. He held a washcloth in his hand, so disconnected that he didn’t clean his face.

  “The medic said he’ll be fine…unfortunately,” she continued. She pointed to his face. “That looks like it hurts.” Jacob shrugged.

  “Sit down,” she ordered. He sat like an obedient child. Rosie took the washcloth from his hand and rinsed it in the sink. She gently wiped the blood from his face. He winced but allowed her to touch him.

  A tremor went through his body. “It was the sound of the rifle.” He said the word “sound” with loathing. “The sound…made me think of my life before.” It was as close to the truth as he could venture.

  Rosie sat down next to him on the narrow cot, their legs touching. He longed to tell her that it wasn’t the rifle he was hearing. He wanted to explain. He wanted the words to come out of his mouth in a verbal purge of personal horror: my family—my whole family—was killed in front of me. My wife and children died, and I couldn’t stop it. But his mouth didn’t form the words. The thoughts filled every cell of his body, but the words stayed trapped in his chest.

  He closed his eyes to dodge Rosie’s judgment. She touched his shoulder in compassion.

  Eyes still closed, Jacob visited the fantasy of rescuing his family. Moments before the explosion he raced onto the bus and demanded that they leave. He picked up Sarah and forced Miriam, Yossi, and Julia to get off the bus.

  In his fantasy, the bus still exploded, but his family was safe.

  In his fantasy, he comforted them and they clung to one another.

  In his fantasy, they lived.

  He opened his eyes and looked at Rosie. “When I was real…before I came here…what if…” he mumbled, the pain obstructing his words.

  Rosie acknowledged his urgent desperation. She spoke to him soothingly. “You’re real now. You protected us. You’re a good person.”

  “I don’t know what kind of person I am,” he erupted. “I’m made up. No beginning, no end.”

  As quickly as the anger appeared, it was replaced by sorrow. Vulnerable, childlike, Jacob sat on the cot with his hands open in front of him, imploring. His long-buried despair surfaced. He cried—desolate, inconsolable. Rosie held him, quieting and comforting him as she would a tearful child.

  Rosie kissed his damp cheeks, his forehead. “Shhh, it’ll be okay. You’ll figure it out. You’re a good man. A good man.”

  Rosie held Jacob as tears flooded his face. She again kissed his forehead, his cheeks, repeating over and over, “You’re a good man.”

  Jacob turned his head as she kissed his cheek. Her lips landed on the corner of his mouth. He should not have kissed her back full on the mouth, but he did. Rosie pulled away, and he could tell she was embarrassed. But when she looked up, he held her gaze. Gently, his hand held the back of her head. He drew her face to his. He kissed her again. Her body welcomed him. Rosie would have no idea that while making love to her, Jacob had summoned the essence of Julia.

  When they finally separated on the tiny cot, Rosie rested her head on Jacob’s chest. He mindlessly traced the curve of her back. She savored the moment—she didn’t realize how much she’d missed this feeling of being held and cherished. Jacob’s face was swollen and red where he had taken punches, but within moments, he was asleep.

  Rosie woke up when first daylight filtered through the small basement window. Her thoughts were muddled. She looked at Jacob, his face in sleep so different than it was last night. Yes, the connection had felt right—good, in fact—but she questioned her judgment. Her loneliness had caused her to act on impulse. In the intensity of the moment, she’d lost her self-awareness, switching off her analytical voice to become a physical being, a body with needs. In the light of day, her recklessness was replaced by shame. If she left now, no one would ever know she’d been there. She could forget that physical desire ever happened. She pulled her tangled clothes from the floor and dressed in silence.

  Mo had finally given up on sleep—too much commotion. He showered and dressed. The reflection in the mirror over his dresser pleased him. He was damn proud of himself for the way he handled the situation last night. Not bad for an old man. He was about to put on some coffee when he heard the front door open and footsteps quietly climb the staircase. He heard Rosie’s gentle step in the hallway and the bedroom door shutting behind her. Clearly, she’d been out all night.

  Rosie came downstairs a little later than usual. Mo and Langston were already deep into their cereal bowls.

  “Hey, Mom,” Langston said, “Uncle Mo told me what happened last night.”

  “Yep, there was quite a bit of excitement.”

  “If I’d have been there, I would have karate chopped them,” he said, shoveling a last spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

  “That woulda finished ’em off,” Mo agreed.

  Rosie looked out the kitchen window toward the church. Mo waited till Langston finished his breakfast and went upstairs to retrieve his backpack.

  As he rinsed the cereal bowls, Mo began his interrogation: “What are you doin’ with Jacob?”

  “We’ve been talking.”

  “Nothin’ more?”

  Rosie’s hackles went up. “What does that mean?”

  “I thought you didn’t like him.”

  “Then why is it your job to say I do?”

  Mo tried another tactic. “Look, he’s a fine person. I like him, I do. But you know how it is in this town. People will start flappin’ their lips about you.”

  Rosie’s voice trailed off as she walked up the stairs. “Judge not, lest you be judged. Condemn not, lest you be condemned.”

  Mo called after her, “You don’t have to go all biblical on me. I’m tryin’ to help you here.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Rosie welcomed the distraction of Brent High School after the violence at First Baptist. The incident had not yet been reported on local television, so she was able to block out her confusion over the night with Jacob and concentrate on school. She found a note in her teacher’s box on folded paper:

  Dear Mrs. Yarber,

  I don’t care what my grandmother says.

  I need your help.

  Hansom

  This presented a problem: the guardian said no, but the student said yes.

  The registrar’s desk was at the back of the school’s main office. Rosie approached the prehistoric woman who safeguard
ed all school records. She was eating some kind of Tupperware lunch that reeked of broccoli. Rosie’s stomach turned.

  “Lydia, could you tell me when Hansom Willis turns eighteen?”

  Rosie waited patiently as the woman wiped her mouth and punched the request into her computer.

  “Three weeks from today,” she said with half hiccup, half burp.

  Hansom would technically be an adult in three weeks, so as of then it wouldn’t matter what his grandmother wanted.

  Rosie spoke as she walked into Kala’s office: “Tell me I’m interfering and I should mind my own damn business.”

  Kala looked over the top of her glasses. “Does your scathing self-assessment have anything to do with me?”

  Rosie bulldozed to her point. “If a kid lets me know that he wants my help for an elective medical treatment, but the guardian says no, and I find out that the kid turns eighteen in three weeks—what do you suggest I do?”

  “Who is it?”

  “The Willis kid. I contacted his grandmother about getting him some help for his skin. She turned me down—rather rudely, I might add. He left me this note today.”

  Rosie handed Kala the note. She read it quickly and gave it back. “Wait until the day after he turns eighteen and offer help again.”

  Kala returned to her work.

  “That’s what I thought. But I need to get him to a doctor who will treat him pro bono. The kid has no money.”

  “So this is about me?” Kala teased.

  “It’s more about your husband.”

  Kala smiled. “Okay, you’re right. You’re an interfering biddy and you should mind your own business.” Kala’s Bombay accent made the whole exchange comical, but Rosie knew she’d get what she wanted. Kala would persuade her husband to treat Hansom without charge.

  Mo and Jacob were cleaning the church. They swept up the broken stained glass and covered them with sheets of plywood. They worked silently, each engrossed in his thoughts. A chaotic battle raged in Jacob—guilt for betraying Julia, affection for Rosie, and disgust with his carnal needs.