One Lane Bridge: A Novel

by Reid, Don

  He spent the best part of the night on the patio, looking at the stars and dozing. It wasn’t until 2:00 a.m., time for Lizzie’s pill, that he got up and went to bed. He was sure Karlie heard him, but she never said a word.

  Saturday morning in the Wickman household was pretty much like any weekday morning. Karlie and J. D. got up at the same time and usually went to different restaurants around nine. This Saturday Karlie was going downtown, and he was going to the west end. All this had been planned earlier in the week. Little else was discussed over the breakfast table. As she was clearing the table she did finally say, “Have you talked to Jack lately?”

  That was all he needed to confirm what he already knew. But he held his tongue and his temper. Even though he felt betrayed and angry, he knew in his heart Jack and Karlie were doing it for love.

  “He called me yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “And he told me you two had talked and decided I should take a trip with him for a couple of days to a football game, and that maybe then I would come to my senses and forget all about this crazy idea of those people out on Route 814.” J. D. spoke plainly, but the words had a bite to them that didn’t require an angry tone.

  As hard as Karlie tossed the plates into the sink, it was a wonder they didn’t shatter. “J. D., what makes you strike out at me like that? If Jack told you that, and I don’t think he did, it was a good idea either way. Why don’t you leave for a couple of days? You sure aren’t happy here.”

  “If I do, it won’t be with Jack. I’ll be by myself.” This time, he spoke sharply. And he left the table and went upstairs to finish dressing. When he came back down, she had gone.

  Just as he was putting on his sport coat and opening the back door, the phone rang. He looked at the caller ID before answering, sure that it was Karlie. It was a number he didn’t recognize. He picked it up after the second ring.

  “Hello.”

  “J. D.? This is Lavern Justice.”

  “I’ve been waiting on your call. How did things go?”

  “I think we should talk. Where’s a good place, and what’s a good time?”

  “How about the same restaurant at ten? I’ll have the coffee hot and the booth empty.”

  “Sounds good. But make mine decaf this time. That real stuff gives me palpitations. And you make it strong!”

  “Made to order, Ms. Justice. See you at ten.”

  His mood brightened. Maybe he was about to get some information that would answer lingering questions about who Lizzie Clem was and why she was popping up in his life. And if she was real. And if she was alive. And all the other ifs that had kept him awake for the past week. His mind was tired, but he felt he was on the verge of relief.

  J. D. was sitting in the booth, reading the Saturday morning paper, two empty cups in front of him, when the door opened at precisely 10:00 a.m. and the small and erect Lavern came through it with a breeze. She walked briskly to the booth and slid in as he stood to greet her.

  “Sit down. Sit down. You don’t have to stand up for me.”

  She appeared drawn, and with her hair pulled tightly back from her face she looked her age for the first time. She was smiling, but only with her mouth—the smile never reached her eyes. As he sat back down, she sighed heavily and reached for the empty cup. “There’s nothing in here.”

  “It’s coming,” he assured her. He didn’t want to ask her if she had been up all night researching and allude to the fact that she looked less than perky and alert. So he ignored that line of conversation altogether and simply said, “How are you this morning?”

  “Alive, grouchy, and mean as ever.”

  “I hope you have good news … although I’ll admit I’m not sure what I’m expecting.”

  “I have news, but I’m not sure if it’s good. Let me tell you a little about public records. They are reliable if you can find them. They aren’t always easy to locate. This Elizabeth Clem, and I’m only assuming her name is Elizabeth, is a tough nut.”

  “I can’t be sure. Lizzie is all I know.”

  “Birth certificate laws vary from state to state. There were no federal standards in the early twentieth century when Elizabeth was born. I went online first, but to be honest, J. D.—and you probably know this—you can’t always depend on the records you find online for anything. But the NCHS had certain records for live births back then.”

  “Wait a minute. What’s NCHS?”

  “National Center for Health Statistics. That was and is the official standard, but only if the individual states complied. In reality, it took a while for all the states to get in line with their registration. The northeastern states were the first, and it wasn’t until the 1930s that it got real strict. And we’re talking about a birth that took place in rural North Carolina in 1926.”

  “So the bottom line is …”

  “The bottom line is, we could have missed it by four, five, six, seven years.”

  “Did you check all the courthouses in the state?”

  “As well as I could. I checked state records and all the surrounding county records. Today you have a record of every birth, every marriage, every death. Marriage and death records are more accurate and more likely to be recorded. As you can imagine, you could have had a birth back in those days on a farm thirty miles from nowhere without even a doctor in attendance. Ah, here’s the girl with my coffee. But you know, honey, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think I want any right now.”

  The conversation came to a complete halt while Marge filled just J. D.’s cup and set the pot on the table. As soon as she left, Lavern Justice continued.

  “The record of choice in those days and the years earlier was the family Bible. A page from the family Bible is just as binding and legal as a registered birth certificate. Unfortunately, we don’t have that either. You don’t have her family Bible, do you?”

  “No. I don’t even know if there was one.”

  “Can you get one? There might be one in the house.”

  J. D. didn’t want to tell her that he was unable to get to the house the last time he tried. “I’ll see.”

  “If you can, that would be great. Just having that would tell you what you wanted to know. And I guess what you want to know is that this person is real and not a figment of your overworked imagination. Is that what we’re trying to prove here?”

  “I suppose so, Lavern. I’m not real sure anymore.”

  “Anyway, the truth of the matter is that some people have gone through life never needing a birth certificate. They got a job, got married, got a driver’s license, and were never asked for it. Have you ever been asked for your birth certificate?”

  “Come to think of it, no, I haven’t.”

  “And you probably never will be unless you try to get a passport. That’s the one time it usually comes up.”

  “How about a social security card? Don’t you need one to get a number?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then how about a marriage license? “

  “Nope.”

  “I don’t mean do you need a birth certificate to get one. I mean isn’t there some record at the license bureau if she got married?”

  “If she got married. And then, what county or city or small town? It may take you weeks to research all that. And what do you have when you’re through?”

  “I would have proof that this woman lived. Or maybe proof that she died. Okay, let’s say she was born in the mountains with no record of her birth and she never got married, but if she died, there has to be a death certificate.”

  “If she’s dead.” Lavern looked him coldly in the eye. “J. D., I don’t think she’s dead.”

  A chill went through him that even Marge’s coffee couldn’t warm. He felt the hairs on his arms and neck tingle. Lizzie Clem might still be alive and living somewhere in this very town. He put his elbows on the table and his face in both his hands. He could feel his heart beating in his chest and temples, and he had to swallow before he spoke.
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br />   “Have you tried anything as simple as a phone book?”

  “All the major cities in the southeast. Again, it will take weeks to check the entire country. And then they, too, are unreliable at best. You have unlisted numbers and unpublished numbers and, worst of all, cell phones. Do you realize how many people don’t have land lines in their homes anymore?”

  J. D. wanted to say something, but his throat was dry and yielding to the dullness he felt in his brain. He began a sentence, but then thought better of it. “What about …”

  “What about what?”

  “I was just thinking about those pop-ups you get on the computer all time about finding old classmates or old boyfriends. What about those things?”

  “You ever tried it?” she asked.

  “No, I can’t say that I have.”

  “Most of them are games. Remember, it’s the Internet.”

  They sat in silence, deep in thought. J. D. refilled his cup, and Lavern shook off the offer. They listened without hearing the old music that was playing on the sound system in the back office. It was J. D.’s favorite kind of music. The Pied Pipers were singing Johnny Mercer’s “Dream.” Lavern never took her eyes off him.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me,” she said.

  “Yeah. I went back out there yesterday evening. The bridge was gone. I couldn’t get across.”

  “Try again.”

  “Do you want to go with me?”

  “I thought you had to go alone.”

  “So did I, but I was alone and nothing happened. But … I don’t know. Maybe two people who believe will have better luck. I’m willing to try anything.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think so. I don’t feel like the trip. You go. And if you fail again, accept that it was meant to be. The Mission is over.”

  “That’s the very word I thought of, but … it’s not enough. I have to know why. And in order to find that out, I have to know for sure the Clems are real.”

  “J. D. Wickman, you’re a stubborn man. But that’s part of your charm. Don’t ever give it up. As for me, I’m going home. I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

  And she was gone.

  J. D. left shortly after and headed for the bridge. He had driven the van this morning and had transferred the chicken feed and tobacco and books and hoe from the TR3 just in case. Maybe he had hit on something about the faith of two people being stronger than that of one, but without Lavern, there was no way to know. His only chance now was to hope yesterday was an anomaly. Perhaps he would drive right across that one lane bridge the way he had the first time. Yeah, he thought to himself, just like the first time.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  As bad as Friday night had been, the worst of his life, Saturday night wasn’t much better. He and Karlie hardly spoke. The only words exchanged between them were about Angela. She had called and told Karlie what a wonderful time she’d had at the mixer and how glad she was to be back at school. Whatever metamorphosis had taken place in her young heart or mind was certainly welcome. At least his daughter was happy. He only wished he and his wife were. Maybe when all of this was over, things would get back to normal, and they would never have to talk or think about it again. Sadly, he couldn’t imagine a time when he wouldn’t think about it. It was becoming a growing, indelible pain that he feared would be a memory he’d take to his grave. How could he ever forget the pallid and sickly face of Lizzie Clem lying on those yellowed sheets? Or the squint of Paul Clem’s eyes when he said, “You’re a slick one, ain’t you?” These and other images gave way to few moments of rest as he lay in bed, fitfully trying to make sense of it all. He found himself praying, hard and desperately, for a solution—for comfort—for peace of mind. He resigned in his heart that only God could rescue him from the misery and confusion he had been thrust into.

  The phone startled him awake. It was as if the ring was clanging inside his head instead of just next to it. He glanced quickly at the alarm clock on the nightstand: 5:10 a.m. He sat straight up. He thought of his mother—had something happened? He grabbed it and nearly shouted, “Hello.”

  Karlie was awake and asking, “Who is it? Who is it?”

  J. D. waved her off and listened intently. If someone was saying anything on the other end, he certainly couldn’t hear it. He repeated, “Hello? Hello?” each time a little louder than before. And then finally he heard the voice.

  “J. D.,” Lavern Justice said with no apology in her tone for calling at such an hour. “Do you take the Fayetteville paper?”

  “No.”

  “Then go online and call it up. The obits. I’ll talk to you later.”

  The line went dead, and he sat there in bed with his brain scrambled.

  “Who was that?”

  “A woman I know.”

  “A woman? At five o’clock in the morning? What is going on, J. D.?”

  “Nothing. Not what you think, anyway.”

  “What woman?”

  “Her name is Lavern Justice. You don’t know her. She’s an older woman.”

  “And why is she calling my house and my husband at five o’clock in the morning?”

  “You wouldn’t understand. Just let it go.”

  “Let it go, you say. Would you if some man was calling me at home in the middle of the night?”

  “It’s not the middle of the night, Karlie. You just said yourself, it’s five o’clock in the morning. She’s a woman who has been helping me with some research.”

  J. D. said all this while getting out of bed and putting on his pants and shirt.

  He stopped just before leaving the room and looked at his distraught wife, who was now sitting against the headboard with both hands to her mouth. All he could see was the hurt and fear in her eyes.

  “I promise you, honey, there’s no reason to worry. It’s about what’s been going on. Something’s up. I don’t know what, but I need to go to the computer. I’ll tell you all about it later.” He turned and left the room and then ran down the stairs taking two steps at a time. He went to the basement and hit one button that started the whirr and the other one that lit up the screen. All he could think of was that DSL should be faster than this.

  He typed in Fayetteville Observer, and when the home page popped up, he looked for obituaries. He paused just a moment, the cursor hovering over the word. His heart was racing. He took a deep breath and clicked.

  The accounts of all city and surrounding-area deaths were apparently in alphabetical order. He scrolled each one of them. The first was Acord. Then Bell and Bosserman. Friedman. Hanger. He scrolled slowly through to the last one, Walker, and still didn’t see what he was supposed to be looking for. Twenty-one deaths in all, but no Clem. He started from the top again, and this time he scanned each one, looking for a clue. There was nothing until he got to the Ss. And there it was. Elizabeth Clem Stockendale. All the air went out of his chest, and a pain shot between his shoulder blades. He took a deep breath and slowly read every word.

  Elizabeth Clem Stockendale

  Fayetteville—Elizabeth Ann (Clem) Stockendale, 81, of 327 Holyoke Lane, went to see the Lord at 2:25 p.m. on Thursday, September 13, 2007 at her home. She was the widow of Robert Mason Stockendale, who preceded her in death in August of 1952.

  She was born on April 4, 1926 in Norge Springs, North Carolina, a daughter of the late Paul C. and Ada L. Clem.

  Mrs. Stockendale was a teacher in the Missouri school system for forty-one years and retired in 1995. She married Robert Stockendale in the summer of 1947 in West Plains, Missouri, and after his death in 1952 during the Korean Conflict, she attended Warten State Teacher’s College and received her degree in English. She retired to her home state and enjoyed gardening, reading, and her best friend—her dog, Champ.

  In addition to her parents and her husband, she was preceded in death by a brother, Carl Alton Clem, who was aboard the USS Arizona at Pearl Harbor. She is survived by one niece, Lucille Clem Tanner—husband George C. Tanner; two great
nieces, Patsy Boyer and Colleen Hiezer; two great-grand nieces, Linda Boyer and Cathy Boyer; and one great-grand nephew, Lyle Hiezer.

  There will be no visitation or funeral service at the request of the deceased. The body will be cremated.

  He read it all again. And then again. Now he knew why he couldn’t cross over yesterday and the day before. It was all over. He had sat along the road yesterday evening with all those items from the Barn and Farm store in his van and just stared at the spot where the house had been. Something had told him he would never cross over again. He felt that somewhere down deep where you feel fear and anxiety. And these words on a flickering computer monitor explained why. Lizzie was already dead.

  He drew his eyes back to the time of death. 2:25 p.m. Thursday. It must have been just minutes after he left the farmhouse for the last time. Just minutes after he sat in the dusty lane and saw something move past the shades in the upstairs window. Maybe that wasn’t Paul. Maybe it was Lizzie. But he knew this for certain. The medicine had worked. He had saved her life. He didn’t know how it all happened or why, but he did know he couldn’t stop here. He still needed answers. He had to know what was being kept from him. By God Himself. And he knew before he even got up from his chair that he was going to Fayetteville.

  He left the house long before he had to. The drive would only take two hours, but he didn’t want to hang around any longer than necessary. Karlie wasn’t speaking to him at all, and he was in no condition to explain things to her—and even if he were, she was in no condition to hear it. So he drove out of town and stopped for breakfast, mulling it all over in his mind again and again until his temples ached. He drove well below the speed limit all the way, more in tune with his thoughts than with the road.

  He knew his way around Fayetteville a little but not enough to find a house in a residential district. He stopped at a gas station and asked where Holyoke Lane was.