by Jacquie Gee
“How did it go,” I stammer, my cheeks blooming, as he shifts again, and so does his apron. I get a little more glimpse of what the audience of the calendar did, and my heart strums wildly. “The show, I mean—how did it go—” I divert my eyes away.
“I brought the house down. You’da loved it.” He smiles big. All of the tension of the evening melts away.
“Sad, I missed it.”
“That’s all right. We’ve got that private appointment booked for later.”
“We do?”
He raises a pair of haughty brows. “Yeah, of course. But only if you’re a good girl.”
“Oh well, I guess that’s the end of that.”
He laughs.
He settles himself and fixes his apron, rearranging the chains about his waist.
“Are you sure you wanna do this with me?” I slide an apprehensive look his way.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” He stares deeply back at me, keys to the locks he just secured, clenched in his teeth. “Though I do wish I’d put some more clothes on first.”
Chapter 50
An hour and a half later, almost every member of our tiny community—all who are able—have chained themselves to various parts of the bridge surrounding Trent and me—including my crazy-willed, daredevil mother, and my once-terrified-of-her-own shadow Aunt Penny.
I’m worried to death that Mom’s gonna forget where she is and tumble off the side of the narrow beam, one below me, and fall into the river. Though, if all accounts are correct, Aunt Penny’s tied her down pretty well, so well, she can scarcely move. They sit back to back, perched precariously on the beams closest to the river bank just below Trent and me, and to our left. Due to the angle, we can't see them very well, but we can hear them.
“You all right down there, Mom?” I lean over and holler.
“Never better,” Mom shouts back. “It’s been years since I felt so alive!” Her frail voice flutters and I worry she may have teetered a little off balance leaning out to answer me. My heart skids a bit. The sooner we get down from here the better.
“I’ll second that!” Aunt Penny shouts, though there’s a stutter in her voice, too, which makes me think, maybe it’s just the wind, or the sound traveling through the structure of the bridge. What’s left of it.
Maybe I sound that way too to them, who knows. Whatever it is, it’s unsettling.
A handful of reporters mill around the base of the bridge and pace the barge below. Most of them, however, have given up and gone home. Hopefully the more aggressive ones.
From time to time, they flash their camera lights on us to do a bit more coverage, but for the most part, they’re quiet. We’re out here on our own now, waiting for some response from the government as it’s claimed responsibility now. I guess we’ll be out here until the government becomes embarrassed enough, under all this media heat, to end this. It’s all up to the reporters now. So, although I no longer want to talk to them, we need to, so they continue to shed light on our cause.
“I could stay here all night,” Aunt Penny adds.
“Me too,” Mom says.
“And stay we will,” another weak voice fizzles up through the darkness. One I recognize, not as Mom or Aunt Penny’s.
“Who was that?” I say to Trent, my head snapping in that direction. “Is that who I think that was?”
"Yeah." Trent cranks his head around to verify. "It is. Vera Williams." He nods back at me. He can see better from his position.
“What is she doing here?"
"Supporting the cause," Vera answers. Her voice is shaky, intimidated. And well it should be after all she’s done. “I felt it’s the least I can do, after, well…everything.”
She has some nerve being out here.
“Well, look who has a conscience,” Trent leans over, whispering.
“I refuse to give her that much credit,” I snap.
“I don’t blame you for being angry with me. I’d be angry too,” her voice shudders, “but I did some soul-searching and realized you’re right… the bridge is an investment in my future as much as it is everyone else’s around here. Without the bridge, there is no bank.”
“And we can’t have that, now can we,” Aunt Penny jeers.
I say nothing, refusing to acknowledge her and her self-serving revelation.
“Happy you could finally join us, Vera.” My mother frail voice breaks through the darkness. Apparently, she's taking the high road on this one. “I hope you don’t fall.” There's the mother I know.
All is right with the world again.
The Wind picks up off the bay, fluttering down the river and through the rafters, causing parts of the old broken structure to creak. I look up, somewhat frightened. Maybe it isn’t smart, us all being out here, chained to it, now it’s been half destroyed.
I shiver, rubbing my arms to warm them. There’s a hint of September chill in the air. I could use a sweater. I feel for Trent over there in just an apron. What a dedicated soul he is.
I glance down, accidentally shifting off balance, jerking against my chains, scaring myself, and have to catch my breath.
“You all right?” Trent’s head whirls in my direction.
“Fine. Just silly,” I say.
A cameraman turns his light in our direction, catching the angle of Trent’s face.
“Hey,” A reporter looks up. “Don’t I know you?”
Another reporter’s head pops through the hole in the bridge’s floor. He peers down at Trent from above.
“It’s him,” the first report says. “You’re him.” He snaps his fingers, remembering. “You’re that guy!”
The second reporter’s eyes flash. He drops his head and looks something up on his phone.
“You’re the Baconator?” the first reporter confirms. “That guy from the Magic Michael show?”
“Yeah. What of it?” Trent shields his face, trapping his apron on his lap, before it gives them a show.
“Throw the cameras over here, guys!” the first reporter shouts. All at once there’s more than enough camera lights streaming on Trent. The camera crew in the boat below circles the water to get a better shot.
“No, it’s more than that.” The second reporter zeros in on Trent from above. “I was right. It is you.” He holds down his phone for us to see, checking his likeness. “You’re him. That guy. That famous footballer that went missing!” I glance at his phone, at the calendar spread photo, then at a second picture of Trent as a footballer, his official team photo from back in the day. “You’re that guy!” The reporter grins. “That famous footballer from Australia that fell from grace.”
My stomach sinks to my knees.
Trent hangs his head, and I feel the tension mounting in every fiber of his being. The corners of his mouth pull down in a painful grimace. “Let’s just give it a rest, okay?” He looks up at him, but the reporter won’t let go of it. He’s like a dog with a bone.
“You’re the one whose whole family died in that train wreck,” he shouts, loud enough for all to hear. “The one that had a promising future and just walked away. So, this is where you’ve been hiding out all these years? Right here in Heartland Cove?”
Heads turn, townspeople as well as reporters. Mouths fall agape.
“I’m not hiding from anything,” Trent mumbles.
“Funny, you’re here, chained to a bridge.”
Every resident of Heartland Cove now stares. Trent crumbles under the weight of their gazes.
“This is incredible!” The reporter claps his head. “You have no idea.” He becomes all giddy, like a long, lost fan. “I used to cover sports. Loved rugby. I followed your every move. Covered your career from the beginning to end. —"
“That’s nice—”
“It’s such an honor to meet you.”
“Thanks.”
“Why’d you walk out?”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“But you have to. That’s the bigger
story—”
“No, it’s not,” I snap.
“Oh, yes, it is.” The reporter hunkers down, pulls out his microphone. “The heck with the bridge. I wanna know what happened to rugby’s biggest upcoming star. Jerry, come over here, get the picture.” He hollers over his shoulder to his photographer. “You don’t mind, do you?” The camera clicks. “Why’d you leave football—”
“He said he didn’t want to talk about it!” I shield my eyes from the light.
Trent throws up his hands to cover his face as the pictures click.
“I could never understand why you just up and left. I mean, I know the tragedy and all, but still, why not just take a leave. How you could walk away from all that? Just to end up here, in the armpit of the—”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it!” Trent grits his teeth.
Trent has a look about him I’ve never seen. I swear, if he weren't chained to this bridge right now, he’d have that reporter by the throat. I don’t know how to rescue him from this, and I feel immensely guilty for making him a part of this. If he hadn’t been here, they would never have found him.
Trent shifts uneasily in his chains.
“Ex famous footballer turned activist.” The reporter pulls back and begins his story. He finishes the spot and pops to a stand. “Thanks man,” he says down to Trent. “This is gonna make a great headline: Famous Australian footballer found holed up in small town Heartland Cove. Defender of the Cause. No, wait! Maybe the People.” He spreads his hands across the air like he’s envisioning the headline. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Nash. You just skyrocketed my career from junior reporter to top editor.” He jubilantly side-skips away.
Trent fights back a team of emotions that all catch in his throat and grind in his jaw. He swallows them down and lets out a frustrated growl as camera lights from all over now, streak the sides of his face as more and more reporters fight to cover the new story.
“We have to stop him. We have to go after that reporter!” I lunge forward, railing against my constraints.
“No.” Trent calms me. “It’s too late.” He exhales. “It won’t do any good, the story’s out now. It is what it is.”
I lower my head. I feel like I’m going to be sick. His support of me has cost him everything, his past, his future, his privacy. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper above the click and flash of cameras. “So very sorry—”
“It’s not your fault.” He raises a hand to his eyes. “It was bound to happen.”
“But if you hadn’t been out here, fighting for this bridge…”
“I'd never have met you." His gaze meets my eyes. His serious green eyes drinking me in like lemonade on a hot day, a soothing bend to his smile. “To be honest, I’m surprised the truth didn’t come out earlier, when the calendar went viral. I was half expecting it to."
That’s why he was so upset. It wasn’t the photo, it was the threat of this…
“I could stop it; I could have the pictures take it down—"
“Like I said, it’s too late for that.” He grins. “It’d be like closing the gate after the horse is already out. Besides, it’s time I came clean anyway. To the world and meself.” His eyes travel off to some distance place only he can see. “I owe it to my family that much. In a way, this is rather freeing.” His gaze returns. A small smile plays on his lips.
“You’re not upset.”
He shrugs. “I’m upset. But not with you.”
“You’re sure?”
His eyes sparkle. “How could I ever be upset with you?”
“Don’t worry, mate,” Bernie Bates speaks up from where he’s chained below us. “Ain’t gonna change nothing for you ’round here.” He nods. “Might need an autograph or two, but that’ll be it.”
Trent laughs. “You got it, Mate.”
“I’ll take one, too!” Mr. Leprise hollers.
“What’s a footballer,” Sal chirps.
“See that’s what I love about this place. Total anonymity.” Trent’s interrupted by the whip of blades and the howl of wind. An engine growls directly over us, then something ominous drops from the sky. It causes such a force of wind it twists our hair in the air and tugs at our clothes, stealing away our breath. “Helicopters!” Trent shouts, when a light hits us, stronger and more searing than the rest.
“What is this? What’s happening?” I bend my neck away from it, raising a hand and straining to see.
The engine roar gets louder.
"Mom? You okay?" I shout down to her, still unsure of what's going on. Grass cuttings and leaves whip up, twirling past our faces as whatever it is, moves in closer.
“I’m fine!” Mom hollers back above the commotion.
Police car sirens wail as police cars swarm the bridge.
I gasp, as the nose of a rescue helicopter drops down in front of us, just above the surface of the river. The big bug-eyed monster flutters even with our faces. Someone’s called in the coast guard, the CCGA. My heart startles as they hover in closer. Trent and I share terrified looks.
“This is Officer Lancaster of the CCG—Canada Coast Guard—Search and Rescue division,” a voice shouts above the whip of the blades. A man in uniform appears on the rails, waving. Two others, dressed in rescue gear, step out onto the side rail, as well. “We’ve been asked to help you good people get down from here tonight. Your protest is over. You’ve won for now.”
We’ve what?
Cameramen start shooting coverage as the two men dressed in armed-forces garments drop out of the sides of the copter on long retractable cables.
“The police have asked us to make sure you get evacuated safely. Is there a Miss Lane out there?” he shouts over the whirling bird.
“Me, that’s me,” I answer weakly.
“I’m to tell you, the Premier of Ontario ordered this rescue, himself. And that there's to be a full investigation into this incident, within the coming week!"
The crowd applauds and shouts.
"Someone from his office with be out to hear your concerns next week!" he shouts above their excitement.
“Atta, girl.” Trent grins, nodding my way.
The crowd whips up into cheers, hooting and hollering loud.
“Until then,” the officer shouts over them. “It’s our job to get off this bridge. Everybody ready?”
The crowd shouts again.
“Good. Those of you perched here in the middle of the bridge," he points to Trent and myself, Aunt Penny, and Mom. "We'll be plucking you off first. You'll be exiting the bridge with the assistance of SAR tonight." He points to the men in uniform, swinging down from the copter on the cables. "Then, we’ll be moving onto the rest.”
“Is there anyone else out there who feels unsafe, and doesn’t think they can get down from their positions themselves?”
Every arm in the community shoots up.
I scowl down at Mrs. Peterson’s, who I now see is tied to the smallest beam, in the safest place at the side of the bridge, nearest the bank. “If they’re going to blow taxpayer’s money, why not have a little fun?” She shrugs.
Chapter 51
We all assemble around Aunt Penny’s kitchen table the next morning—Trent, Aunt Penny, Trudy, Mom and me. Aunt Penny and Trudy have been busy counting the money, tallying the proceeds from yesterday’s event.
Without the threat of the trumped-up taxes, all the money we raised can now go straight to bridge repair. The community has agreed that’s where it should go.
"Here's some more!" Mom races in dumping an apron full of loonies and toonies onto the table. The odd bill flutters out, as well.
“Where did this come from?”
“The donation jar. Outside the bathrooms. I just remembered. I thought it was a good idea to place one there.”
“Looks like it was!" I look down and the pile of bills and coins.
“Oh, and there’s this.” She adds another stack of receipts to the table. “IOUs,” she announces.
“We can’t accept those. C
an we?” I defer to Aunt Penny.
“I don’t see why not. They’re signed, aren’t they?” She checks each one. “They’re legal tender, just like a pledge. Every little bit helps.” She scoops them up and begins to tally those sums as well.
“Is that all of it?” Trudy asks. Everyone nods, and she busily goes about calculating the total. “Between the Potato Festival Event, the calendar proceeds, minus our expenses,” she quirks her mouth to one side as the old calculating machine she’s using runs up a tape, “it looks like we’ve netted six hundred thousand ninety-three dollars and sixty-seven cents.” She grins. “That’ll never be enough, right?” She looks to Trent, whose face falls.
“To what? Fix that whole bridge.”
“Not enough?” Trudy sours.
"Not by far. Maybe enough to fix the gouge that happened before, but we're looking at least a million now, I’d think.”
He and Bernie share an agreeable look.
“We’ve got close to another seven thousand in pledges here.” Aunt Penny looks up.
“Which we’ll likely never collect on,” Trent says. “Amazing how generous people are when it’s only paper.”
"I can tap out my savings account." Mother straightens. She must be lost, again. She has no savings, let alone that kind of money.
I look at her perplexed.
Her expression falters, her skin tightens. “It’s okay, Mom.” I pat her hand.
A collective sigh floats through the kitchen. Even if we are successful in making our point to the Premier and maintain ownership of the bridge, we’ll never be able to afford to fix it. And the longer the bridge is out of commission, the longer Mom’s business and everyone else’s around here, is in jeopardy.
Lines score Trent’s forehead. He turns his back and starts to pace. “If nothing else, we need to take Jebson down. We need to expose him for the slimebag he is, and end his taxpayer-supported journey to Parliament.”
“Agreed.” Mom wrings her hands. She must be back again.
I try to look hopeful, but inside the tight knot in my stomach twists. How are we ever going to convince a government official that one of their own acted criminally on their behalf, let alone stop the highway initiative, that he is no doubt, in favor of. Worst of all, we still haven’t found the deed. There’s no proving the bridge is ours without it. And I can’t definitively link Jebson to the property damage. I lied about having evidence. And there's the looming question of what Mom said to that Ministry man.