by Reid, Don
4. What are the primary themes of the story? What messages did you discover as you read and thought about the story?
5. What is the greatest surprise in the story? What does this surprise teach you about the characters? About yourself?
6. What role does faith play in J. D.’s story?
7. In what ways do the Clems’ needs affect J. D.’s priorities? How does J. D.’s relationship with the Clems affect his own family?
8. What insights into J. D.’s life do you get from the way he relates to his wife? What does this tell you about the sort of marriage he has?
9. What do you discover about J. D. through his relationship with his daughter, Angela?
10. What role does J. D.’s mother play in his story, and why is it such an important one?
11. What stands out to you about J. D.’s relationship with his best friend, Jack?
12. What is Lavern Justice’s role in this story?
13. How is J. D.’s story a metaphor for faith? In what ways?
14. What does the one lane bridge symbolize?
15. What role does time play in One Lane Bridge? Why is that significant?
16. In what ways is this a story about God’s “mysterious ways”? What does the story teach us about God? About trust?
AN INTERVIEW WITH DON REID
This is your second novel based in small-town America. What is it about small towns that makes them such a great setting for your stories?
I grew up in a small town. I love the big cities for an occasional visit, but I’ve never been tempted to become a part of one. Small towns give you close and personal relationships. You see the same faces on the streets each day. You get to know the people around you and their habits, and they become a part of your daily routine. You know when a baby is born or an old man dies, and you know the families—their needs and their cares. I still love walking the streets of Staunton, Virginia, the small town that I was born in and grew up in. Every person you meet on the sidewalk, every storefront, every corner, and every crossing has a story. Some real, some imagined. But there is always a peace and a drama in every block.
Tell us a bit about the specific inspiration for the protagonist of this novel, J. D. Wickman.
I wanted to write about a typical entrepreneur who was trying to establish himself in business and trying to be a loving husband, a responsible father, a loyal and thoughtful son, a good friend, and a substantial citizen to his hometown. And then this odd thing happens to him and stresses every relationship he has. We never know what’s going to happen in the next minute or how we may react to it. I just wanted to see an everyday guy reacting to an unusual situation. I don’t think he handled it any better or any worse than you or I might. But I wanted to watch him go about his daily life with this on his mind. Sometimes I wasn’t real sure how he would handle it from page to page until each situation manifested itself.
Which of the characters was most difficult for you to write, and why?
Maybe Karlie, J. D.’s wife. She loves him and is worried about him. And at the same time she disapproves of what he keeps inviting by taking those trips to the country. She’s at odds with him at the restaurant and with their daughter, and yet she respects his perspective. She’s the most complicated, the most giving, and the most understanding of all the characters. I always think the woman’s story is going to be the hardest for me to write, and then I find it’s not. But making sure she doesn’t come off one-dimensional is the greatest challenge. Everyone is a mixture of right and wrong in attitude and action. And when writers tend to favor a gender or a race or a role model of some sort and make them forever perfect, I get really annoyed at that.
Which of the characters are you most like?
Oh, I guess I’d have to say J. D. I have to have answers. I’ll go to any extreme to prove myself right or wrong. It’s important to me to know for sure what I’m doing and why I’m doing it, to know what is happening around me and how it will affect me or the people I love. I take my religion on faith, but on worldly issues, I’m afraid I like answers. Just like J. D. If it meant going to the courthouse records or confiding in strangers who might help him solve his problem, he was willing to do it. We even share the same parenting techniques. J. D. and I are pretty soft when it comes to our children. And his moments with his mother were like moments I used to share with mine. And then there’s Champ! Yeah, come to think of it, I guess ole J. D. and I are a lot alike.
What if, anything, surprised you about the story as it evolved?
I knew the plot from the beginning. So there were no surprises there. But what does tend to ambush me from time to time are the reactions of my characters. Until I get into the writing of a scene, I never know for sure just what they’ll say, what inflection they may use—be it humor or sarcasm—or what actual words they may use. I don’t know if they will be defensive or understanding when they are criticized or attacked. I don’t know what their anger threshold is until it’s tested with dialogue or with a particular adverse character. I love this about writing. Sometimes I am just as surprised as the reader when a gentle character suddenly turns harsh or a villainous type comes out with something sweet and endearing. Mary Sue Seymour, my literary agent, said to me just the other day in an email, “Isn’t writing fun?” And, yes, I had to agree. Even when your brain gets tired and weary, it’s still fun to see what’s coming next.
Has your experience as a musician helped you as a novelist?
I think everything that has ever happened to you in life helps you as a novelist. From the most insignificant walk through a park to the most dramatic birth or traumatic death that is close to you, everything is another inroad to what makes you a novelist. I find myself recalling things from my past that I wasn’t even aware of remembering in order to include that feeling in a paragraph. And as far as the music goes, of course there is no better bookmark to the past than a well-remembered and beautiful melody. The right song at the right time creates a mood and a retrospect that no amount of hard thinking could ever achieve. And what are songs if not just short stories that we piece together to make up our lives? I love combining the two: music and novels. Sometimes I’ll put on an album from the period I’m writing in to give me the mood as I writing.
How do you come up with your ideas for your novels?
It all starts as just talking to myself in my head. I go to the track and walk. Usually Chipper, my dog, goes along, and I just think. I think of characters and situations and even conversations between characters. But I never write anything down. Not yet. This process may go on for weeks. If it leaves me, then I figure, good riddance. But if it remains and grows and piques my interest, then I carry it in my head for weeks. After a while, I’ll write down the good ideas I’ve weeded out. Only when I feel sure this is good enough to be a book do I start writing the actual story. Those walks are also very important once I get into the story. That’s where I rehearse the dialogue and the outlines for each chapter. (Chipper thinks I’m talking to him.)
Are you a plotter or a seat-of-the-pants writer? What is it about this approach that appeals to you?
As I’ve noted, I would have to say I’m both. I plot the big picture and then fly by the seat of my pants on the daily stuff. I know there are certain facts I have to get in the story line, but I’m not always sure just where they’ll be. I know there is an end to my means but don’t tie my hands on how I get there. It’s like learning to sing a particular melody and then taking liberties with it and making it your own. I outline but not in the classical way. I have my own homegrown version of how I note what each chapter may reveal. You would need a code to read my notes. And sometimes, after those notes get cold, I wish I knew the code in order to decipher what I wrote.
When did you first know you wanted to be a novelist?
All my life. And I would have started sooner if I’d only had the time. I was in the music business from the time I was a teenager—singing, touring, writing songs, writing stage shows, writing TV shows,
writing comedy routines. All that time I was an ardent reader but just didn’t have the time to pursue writing. Now I do, and I’m loving every minute of it.
What’s next after One Lane Bridge?
I’m going back to Mount Jefferson. The novel before this was called O Little Town, and it was set in Mount Jefferson, Virginia. The next book continues in that town with some of the characters from that book. It’s called The Mulligans of Mt. Jefferson. I love the town and the folks that inhabit it. All I have to do is just walk the streets of my hometown, and I see those characters and their stories just come pouring out. I could write forever about those people who live in my town and in my head.
Also from Don Reid and David C. Cook
CHAPTER
1
From where I’m sitting, I can see where most of it took place. Down Main Street, clear to the end of the block, is where Macalbee’s Five and Dime used to be. Then up this way, in the middle of the block, was the old police station. And if you look clear to the top of the hill, you can see the steeple from the Mason Street Methodist Church. Back then, if you listened carefully, you could hear the bell ring every morning at precisely nine o’clock—it was so dependable people opened their stores to it. And then right down there, of course, is the Crown Theater.
I don’t remember the story from first-hand experience, of course, but I’ve heard it told often enough that it’s almost as if I’d actually been there. It could have happened anywhere. In any town. In any state. But it happened in this town, Mt. Jefferson, and in a state of Christmas bustle like we haven’t seen here in half a century. The sidewalks were overflowing with shoppers and the shoppers were overflowing with packages and snow was blowing and the Salvation Army ringers were ringing and people were filling their kettles. Elvis was on the radio, Ike was in the White House, and the Lord was in his holy temple. It was Christmas 1958.
(
Actually it was two days before Christmas. Tuesday morning. 10:15. And it all started with a knock on the door of Milton Sandridge’s second-floor office, which overlooked the sales floor of Macalbee’s Five and Dime.
“Mr. Sandridge. Mr. Sandridge. It’s urgent, Mr. Sandridge.”
“Come in, Lois.” Milton stood and walked around his desk, as he could tell by his assistant manager’s voice something unusual was in the air.
As she opened the door, the look on her face matched the sound of her words. “We’ve got a shoplifter in aisle three.”
They both turned and looked through the office window that gave an eagle’s-eye view of everything and everybody in the store. Milton counted seven customers in aisle three. A mother with a baby in a stroller, a lone woman with a scarf tied under her chin, a colored woman with two small boys hanging on her coattail, and one teenage girl in jeans and a pea jacket. Milton looked back at Lois, shrugged, raised his eyebrows, and turned up the palms of his hands. She read his question and answered with the precision he always expected from her.
“The girl. Ponytail and dungarees. She’s stuffing her pockets.”
“Is somebody on the doors?”
“Ernest is watching both front doors and Tiny is watching the back.”
“Do they know not to approach her until she hits the sidewalk?”
“They won’t do anything till they hear from me. Or you.”
“Have them stop her on the street. Take someone with you and bring her back to the storeroom and call the cops. You know the routine.”
“Ah, there’s a little more to it this time, I’m afraid.”
“What do you mean?”
“Apparently you didn’t get a good look at her. We know who she is.”
“Lois, it’s two days till Christmas. The store is filling up. We’ve got four people out with the flu and everything I ordered from the Sears catalog this year is late. Just tell me what’s up. Who is she?”
“Millie Franklin.”
“That’s supposed to mean something to me?”
“Rev. Paul Franklin, up at the Methodist Church. His daughter.”
This was the moment the palpitations started. That stuff about Sears and four people out with influenza and the store getting fuller by the minute didn’t hold a candle to this. Millie Franklin. Why hadn’t that name registered the first time he heard it? The season must have dulled his senses. But whatever it was going to take to awaken those senses now was going to have to happen in the next thirty seconds. Something had to be done before Millie got to the sidewalk because once she was there, she was a criminal, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Milton and Lois looked into each other’s eyes and connected for only a second, then turned and squeezed through the office door at the same time and down the back steps running.
When they hit the landing, he said, “You get the back door, and I’ll get the front. Make sure she doesn’t get outside. If you spot her, let me know and I’ll approach her.” Milton knew the responsibility was his, but there was something more than duty to the store in his urgent tone. There was something personal here but no one saw it at the time. No one could see it. Milton was moving too fast for anyone to get a good look at his eyes and the pallor of his skin.
Lois headed for the back of the store and Milton to the front. There, just as he was supposed to be was the janitor Ernest Tolley, dressed in his signature bib overalls, plaid shirt, tie, and dress hat. He turned his head with each customer who entered or exited the front doors like he was an angel guarding the Garden of Eden.
“Has she come this way, Ernest?” Milton asked, his feet never stopping.
“No, sir. I ain’t seen her or I’d a nabbed her.”
“Sit on her if you have to,” Milton said as he walked hurriedly back through the store, checking each wide, wooden-floored aisle. But no Millie. And where was Lois and why wasn’t she covering her half of the store? He was almost at the back door when he saw three figures through the glass, huddled on the sidewalk. Lois and Tiny Grant, the store’s other janitor, stood on either side of Millie Franklin, holding her by the arms. Milton’s palpitations were immediately cured as his heart stopped beating altogether.
Milton looked back to discover that three clerks, curious, frightened, and amazed, had followed him and were standing, staring, and waiting for his next move. It had already gone too far. At least six people knew what had happened. Heaven only knows how many customers had already picked up on the excitement and the whispers. It was too late to do anything except the right thing, the expected thing. He would have to bring her into the storeroom, call the police, and hold her until they questioned her, searched her, and arrested her.
Macalbee’s had strict policies about how such matters were to be handled, which left little room for innovation. Any one of the onlookers could say the wrong word at the wrong time and the home office in Richmond would have wind of it before sun set on another day. That’s how it was with a chain store. Oh, he might not get fired, of course, but Milton didn’t want any negative attention to his managerial style.
Despite the name, Macalbee’s Five and Dime was not a nickel-and-dime operation. It started as a family store in the state’s capital nearly a quarter of a century earlier and had grown steadily throughout the South ever since. The Mt. Jefferson branch was the twenty-third to open, and Milton felt lucky to be part of such a flourishing company. And yet even in this most guarded of moments, standing here with all his employees seeing everything but his private thoughts, he had to admit to himself that Richmond and the revered Macalbee family was not the only reason he was dreading this present situation. The preacher’s kid? Bad enough. But he was more concerned right now with the wrath of her mother.
Milton closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead and inhaled a deep breath that he wished had been full of Chesterfield tar and nicotine. But a cigarette would have to wait. He had some work to do.
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Reid, Don, One Lane Bridge: A Novel