“What the hell?” Billy said. Cars and pickups and people lined the entire length, as well as the road leading up to each end. Half of them were facing the lower end of the bridge and half were facing the upper end. It must be an accident of some kind. In the middle of the bridge, Orville Craft’s car sat staring at Harry Plunkett’s pickup truck. Billy left the Mustang sitting where it was. In less than a minute, he had climbed the hill and was now pushing his way to the center of the bridge.
“Got a cigarette, Billy?” someone asked, and he looked to see one of Roderick’s twins. Roddy or Ricky, he had no idea.
“You’re too young to smoke,” said Billy. He saw Harry Plunkett leaning against his truck, drinking a soft drink. Orville Craft peered out from inside his locked car as Billy walked past.
“What’s going on?” Billy asked Little Lucy, who was talking to a guy wearing a white uniform. Billy hoped to ask Lucy out on a date soon, but he figured her mother, Big Lucy, would want a top on the Mustang before she let her daughter go.
“The sheriff found a dead body on Dump Road,” said Little Lucy. “This guy has come to get it with the ambulance. But Orville and Harry met midway, and neither one will back up. So the sheriff and some of the guys went to get the body on a stretcher.”
“Whoa,” said Billy. “I slept through all that?”
“Here they come!” Lillian Hart shouted.
The sheriff’s car was leading the five volunteer pallbearers who carried, shoulder-high, the stretcher with the dead body. The body itself was covered with a blue tarp Tommy Gifford had been using to protect his canoe. Bringing up the important rear and moving slowly so the walking men could set their own pace was the red fire truck with Frank Finley hanging on to the back ladder. A naughty finger had scrawled Frank Sucks Hose in the dust of the front door panel. The delegation rounded the small curve that led to the bridge. Seeing the strange sight, Tommy Gifford’s chained dog went crazy barking at the end of its tether. Ray Monihan stopped his car, put it in park, and got out.
“People, move back so we can pass!” Ray shouted. The spectators, men and women and children, pushed back to the railings of the bridge and created a pathway.
“He’s getting heavy, Ray,” said Phillip Craft.
“This boy didn’t miss too many meals,” said Tommy. He grunted as he got a better hold on his side of the stretcher.
When Harry saw the pallbearers, he got into his pickup and closed the door. He’d seen enough dead bodies. The crowd could have this one. So he sat and read that week’s paper as the men carried the stretcher onto the narrow bridge. They walked it past gawking faces and wide eyes and hands that reached out here and there to touch the blue tarp, ensuring that the story they told their grandchildren one day would be all the more historic. When the pallbearers reached Orville’s car and Harry’s pickup, the vehicles had taken up most of the passageway. They eased the stretcher over toward the upper railing so they could pass. Ray was ahead, moving people out, shooing them back. Curious, Orville leaned forward in his seat to watch.
“Hold still for a second,” said Dorrie Mullins, who had appeared with a video camera held up to one eye. Then, “Turn him a little to the left.”
“Put that camera away!” the sheriff yelled.
And that’s when Roddy, or maybe it was Ricky, grabbed the end of the blue tarp and yanked it off the dead body. George Delgato, better known as Jorge, emerged in all his glory, the blue-gray skin, the eyes like frosted marbles, the gray-white lips. Dorrie stopped filming. There were gasps. Screams erupted. Billy Thunder could only stare at the rigid corpse, his own face expressionless.
There would be a debate for years as to what happened next and why. Some said that if Roddy Plunkett—or maybe it was his twin, Ricky—hadn’t pulled off the tarp, it wouldn’t have happened in the first place, since that one action put Buck Fennelson face to face with a dead man. That’s when Buck panicked and dropped his hold on the stretcher, up at the important front end. Others accused Dorrie Mullins who, filming as she was, accidentally tripped Kenny Barker. There were even those who said it was Orville Craft’s fault. When Mickey Hart put a hand onto the hood of the mail car to steady himself, Orville feared it might scratch his paint job. So he had tooted the horn, startling Mickey. Whoever caused it to happen didn’t matter as much as what they caused to happen. Once Buck dropped his hold on the upper end and Kenny Barker, who was in line behind Buck, tripped and went reeling to his knees on the bridge, the whole team lost its equilibrium. They veered dangerously to the right and George Delgato’s body, being big and heavy, pulled them off-balance. Given all these factors, there was no place the body could go but over the railing of the bridge and into the river.
For a few frozen seconds, as if waiting in unison for the splash that finally did come from below, no one spoke. Then, as if thinking the thought en masse, everyone rushed to the lower side of the bridge and looked down. George Delgato’s body did, indeed, float for a few seconds until the strong river current pulled it under, the flap of the black trench coat finally disappearing beneath the surface.
14
SUNDAY AFTERNOON,
2:00 TO 5:00 P.M.
For over two hours, Ray Monihan and his un-deputized manpower searched for but could not find the body of George Delgato. Their canoes motored the circumference of the island where the river liked to carry dead logs and ice floes in the spring, and the occasional city trash thrown away by tourists. Ray and his men then followed the river three miles down to the Mattagash town sign, the one with the moose on it, a moose that seemed to see and know all things. But no body. As if anxious to get out of town, Jorge Delgato had gone undercover. The Watertown Police Department had been called, since it appeared that the dead body was no longer under Mattagash jurisdiction but was now a matter for the state police. A group of St. Leonard men were already in canoes and boats, loaded with nets and searching the river downward, where they were met by men in canoes and boats from Watertown, searching upward.
Sheriff Ray Monihan had lost his dead body. And by the time he got back to the Mattagash bridge, where the crowd had grown more impatient by the minute, he had lost control of the spectators. Some folks were still braving the outdoor cold, a plein air gathering. Others, mostly women, waited in their autos, motors on and heaters running. Orville Craft was still in his car, all the doors locked. Harry was sitting on the tailgate of his pickup truck, showing a magic trick to the boys who had gathered around him. Orville had listened to the excitement of the kids as Harry made a coin disappear into his elbow, then tied a knot in a rope without removing his hands from either end. Once, Harry even counted eleven fingers on his hands as the boys stared, fascinated. He only has ten fingers, you little fools, Orville thought. Then he was forced to watch as Harry made a match disappear inside a handkerchief.
Ray Monihan had already sighed so many times that day, ever since he found the body, that he had no energy for another one. But he certainly felt like sighing when he saw all the angry faces waiting for him to do something about the gridlock. And to make matters worse, Frank Finley was on the wrong side of the river with the St. Leonard fire truck.
“What if a house catches on fire?” Frank asked, three times in one minute.
“Call Watertown and tell them to cover for you,” Ray said, as Frank followed him onto the bridge. There had been one fire in five years and it had to do with cheese bursting to flame atop some nachos in Verna Craft’s oven. But Frank Finley was on call in his sleep.
Dorrie met the sheriff first.
“It’s so cold out here it could snow,” said Dorrie. “People want to go home and have a warm supper.”
“Then go home, Dorrie, and have your supper by all means,” said Ray. “Your vehicle is on the same side of the river as your house.”
Ray made his way to the middle of the bridge where he stopped and leaned down to Orville’s window. He rapped on the glass.
“Any chance you’re ready to back up?” Ray asked. “I can get Tommy to pull you with his truck.”
“No, but I’m ready to go ahead,” said Orville. “He can push me if he wants.”
“Doesn’t Orville have to go to the bathroom?” Roddy Plunkett asked the sheriff.
“Maybe he’s wearing Depends,” said Ricky.
“What about flipping a coin?” asked Ray. “You can pick first for heads or tails.”
“I don’t like the fifty-fifty odds,” said Orville. It was true. Where Harry was concerned, luck seemed to pile up on his side.
Ray found Harry sitting on the tailgate of his pickup truck. He didn’t know who was the more stubborn of the two, just that they were both being very cantankerous. Before Ray could say anything, Harry looked up at him and grinned.
“The pot is now at twelve hundred bucks, Ray,” he said. “The only ones betting on Orville are the women, and that’s cause Dorrie sent word to Blanche.”
That’s when Harry saw her, the cascading hair, the sure walk she had. Blanche was wearing a green winter jacket and gloves and her faded jeans, slowly making her way across the bridge, past cars and trucks and people, until she reached Harry.
“I had no idea so much could happen while I was taking a bubble bath,” said Blanche. She looked over at Orville, who nodded hello from inside his car.
“I might have to break our date tonight,” Harry told Blanche.
“So, what’s the story?” she asked.
“I was on the bridge first,” said Harry. “But Orville won’t back up.”
Blanche went past Harry’s pickup and over to Orville’s car. She leaned down to his window.
“Hi, Blanche,” said Orville. He had always liked Blanche. She made the best blueberry pie north of Bangor.
“Hi, Orville. You’re not going to back up?”
“No,” said Orville. “I can’t do it, Blanche.”
“I understand,” said Blanche. “You gotta do what you gotta do.”
She went back over to Harry.
“Are you going to back up?” Blanche asked. Harry shook his head.
“If I’m not at your place by 8 p.m., consider the date canceled, okay?”
“Okay,” said Blanche. “Guess it’ll be a rain check.”
Harry smiled. This was one of the reasons he knew he could love Blanche Tyler. She thought like him. They both knew Dorrie Mullins was standing a few feet away, waiting for a victory that would never come. He watched as the green jacket disappeared back into the cars and faces at the lower end of the bridge.
“Okay, people, I want you to get into your vehicles,” Ray was now instructing the crowd. “Then, one at a time and in an orderly fashion, I want you to back off the bridge. You can leave your autos in the field or at a friend’s house. I’ll give anyone a ride home if they live above the bridge. And I’ll voucher you can find a friend to drive you home if you live below the bridge. Let’s let these two men work this out.”
A wave of protest shot across the bridge, coming from both ends and meeting in the middle. Even Orville was shocked. He had expected they would all back up so Tommy Gifford could come with his huge tires and pull Orville off the bridge. Harry would win.
Bobby Fennelson approached Ray, who was now in the process of instructing drivers to be careful as they reversed their vehicles.
“Don’t back on anyone’s toes, try not to bump into the bridge, and don’t take any wooden nickels,” Ray told them, hoping some levity might help.
“I wanna drive my truck home tonight,” said Bobby. He was wearing his black cowboy hat. There was always more swagger in Bobby when he wore the Stetson than when he wore his sensible P. J. Irvine cap with the visor. “Now get those two old fuckers off the bridge, Ray.”
“You’re gonna have a heart attack, Bobby, if you don’t slow down,” said Ray.
“Listen to me,” said Bobby. “Maybe Andy Griffith would’ve left two guys on a bridge to work stuff out. But he lived in Mayberry, and that ain’t a real town, Ray. This is Mattagash. People have real needs here.”
Sheriff Ray Monihan saw Dorrie approaching cars, talking to the drivers, and realized that she was in the midst of forming a protest group. So he let his traffic directing be for the moment and strode back to where he’d parked the sheriff car. In less than a minute, he was standing again in the middle of the bridge.
“I said to go home,” Ray told his constituents. These were the people who voted every two years as to who should be the town’s sheriff. Ray knew it was possible that the box next to his name would never see another X marked on it. “This situation will be resolved by morning.”
Sheriff Ray Monihan raised his revolver and held it in the air over his head. Even Harry was surprised.
“I’m the sheriff without a cell phone, remember?” said Ray. “I’m not the sheriff without a gun.”
Bobby Fennelson kicked the back tire of Orville’s car.
“Ray, you are so full of shit,” he said. “You don’t have the balls to—” A bullet whizzed four feet above Bobby’s cowboy hat. Ray figured it would probably come to earth somewhere near the camel hump on the back mountain. But for once there was silence, a stunned silence, but silence nonetheless. Then, Bobby straightened his cowboy hat.
“I guess I’ll walk home and put a pizza in the oven,” he said.
“See you tomorrow,” said Ray.
Bobby Fennelson walked on across the bridge and off the lower end, headed in the direction of his house.
“He’s not such a hothead,” said Ray, “once you explain things to him.”
As Harry and Orville watched, the crowd retreated, like an army recoiling itself. One by one, car engines roared to life. Frank Finley parked the fire truck in the field and hitched a ride back to St. Leonard with the ambulance driver. Little Lucy walked across the bridge and used Gretchen’s car to drive home. Gretchen, in turn, used Lucy’s car. Neighbor rode or walked with neighbor. Finally, there was just Ray and Harry and Orville left.
“I hope you two are off this bridge by the time Dorrie becomes sheriff,” Ray said.
***
With everyone gone but his nemesis, that being a word Orville had learned from Florence fifteen weeks earlier, he saw no reason to remain in the car. He reached for his gloves and got out. Harry was back in his truck now and reading the rest of the weekly paper. Orville stood looking out over the bridge, breathing in the river air, and thinking how quiet the world had grown. In grandfather Dwight Craft’s day, all communication would have shut down if the ferryboat hadn’t been operating. Orville supposed someone could stand on one side of the bank and shout across the river news of a death or a baby being born. Or if a man had a canoe and an important need to cross the river, that could happen. But it would be a slow communication. Nowadays, those emails and instant messages jumped that river as if it were tinier than a mud puddle. That’s when Orville heard Billy Thunder firing up the Mustang down on the flat by the birch trees.
The Mustang’s tires hit the upper end of the bridge and the car rolled toward Orville’s back bumper, where it stopped. Billy got out and slammed the door. He was wearing the earmuffs, which he took off. The bulky ski suit he borrowed from Buck lay folded on the passenger seat, as if Buck were still in it. In the backseat lay the personal items Billy could pack in a hurry. He walked over and stood next to Orville.
“Okay, I think understand this,” said Billy. “I think it has to do with being as stubborn as our ancestors. But I need to get across this bridge. You and Harry can drive right back on once you let me pass. No one will ever know.”
“Is this another one of Harry’s magic tricks?” asked Orville.
“It’s a family emergency down in Portland,” Billy said, and it was not even a full lie. That the Delgatos had been in town looking for him the night before was obvious, and it was somethin
g he had never believed would happen. Raul must be back in Portland by now. If the cops knocked on his door, would he tell them about the brown boxes shipped north?
“I guess you weren’t told,” said Orville. “The keys to my car are in the river.”
“Fuck,” said Billy. He walked over to Harry’s truck and rapped on the window. Harry cranked his window down.
“Don’t even ask,” said Harry.
And that’s when they heard the commotion. Harry turned in his seat to look at the lower end of the bridge. Meg Craft was carrying a cake and followed by a half dozen women. Myrtle. Gretchen. Edna. Even Blanche was with them. In their arms were sacks and bags and plastic containers. Cars were now arriving again at the upper end of the bridge and more women were getting out, all carrying items. Little Lucy, Big Lucy, Verna. Meg’s niece, Lillian, carried two folded blankets. Big Lucy had a lawn chair. In unison, the group began to sing.
“For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow.”
“Oh shit,” said Billy. “Here comes Orville’s retirement party.”
Harry shook his head. There were two things he had promised himself he’d never be ambushed by again. The first was the Viet Cong, and the second was a group of women carrying a cake.
“See ya,” said Billy, and hurried past Orville, who was grinning. Billy jumped into the Mustang, not bothering to open the door this time. He backed off the bridge as Tommy Gifford was pulling into his yard. Billy was thinking of going back to the camper to wait it out, just him and Miss October, when for some inexplicable reason, he drove the Mustang over to Tommy’s house. The chained dog let off its usual volley of barks, especially when it saw Billy getting out of the Mustang. Tommy jumped down from his chariot-on-wheels, his feet hitting the ground hard. There had been another of those bets going around Blanche’s Café, what month it would be that Tommy broke an ankle. The stakes rose when he won five grand with a lottery ticket and was now drinking more than usual.
The One-Way Bridge Page 22