The Other Side of the Bridge

by Mary Lawson

  Jake said thoughtfully, “Though there is the occasional one you might not mind being tied down by, right?” He looked at Ian and raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  Ian smiled uncomfortably. He didn’t like Jake talking about Laura like that.

  “I’ll tell you something,” Jake said. “As you get older—this is your uncle Jake speaking—as you get older, believe it or not, the idea of settling down starts to have a certain appeal. Like the other evening at supper I was looking at Art, sitting there like a sack of cement like he always does, Laura waiting on him hand and foot, and I thought, you know, if you look at it a certain way you could say that my dear dumb ox of a brother has it all.”

  Here was the sum total of what Ian knew about Jake, almost two weeks after he’d arrived at the farm. He was thirty-five. He’d never been married. He’d lived in Toronto, Calgary, San Francisco, New Orleans, New York, and Chicago. He liked New York best and reckoned he’d go back there. He thought Cadillacs were the only cars worth owning. Considering how much he talked, it was remarkable how little he revealed about himself.

  But a couple of days later, he said, “Actually I’ve just split up with someone. We’d been together three or four years, I guess. She was a looker, and nice enough, but you know…” He shrugged. He looked moody, which was unusual. It made Ian wonder if it could have been the girl who had ended things. Maybe that had something to do with why he was here. Maybe he’d come home to lick his wounds.

  Ian was halfway around the point in the canoe when he heard the bell on the dock clanging wildly. It was Saturday evening and he and his father had just finished supper. He turned the canoe around and paddled back fast. Gerry Moynihan was on the dock, jigging impatiently from one foot to the other. “Car accident,” he said, hauling the canoe up on the dock almost before Ian got out of it. “Margie’s arrived but your dad needs you too. Four people hurt pretty bad, ambulance in New Liskeard’s comin’ but it’ll take a while.”

  The two of them were running up to the house. Gerry Moynihan was panting. His paunch heaved up and down as he ran, not quite in sync with the rest of him.

  “Who are they?” Ian said. “From around here?” He could hear screaming now, coming from the house.

  “Tourists. Detroit plates. Going too fast. Bull moose on the road, smacked straight into it. Crushed the car.”

  It was a family, the parents plus two young children. The man was on the examination table and Ian’s father was trying to get a tube down his throat. The mother was on the trestle table on the other side of the room, moaning faintly. Margie was bending over one of the children, a little boy, who was spread out on Dr. Christopherson’s desk. The other child, hardly more than a baby, was the one making the noise—at least it meant his heart and lungs were working. He was on a pile of blankets on the floor. There was a bandage around his head but blood was leaking through it and his face was covered in blood. He was pulling at the bandage and screaming hysterically.

  “Deal with the bleeding,” Ian’s father said, nodding at the child. “Then see if you can calm him down.”

  “Is it okay to pick him up?”

  “Yes, but support his head. Gerry, I need you here.”

  It was after midnight by the time the ambulance had taken the children and their parents off to the hospital. Ian and his father sat in the kitchen, listening to the silence. Ian wondered if the baby’s screams were going to echo in his head for the rest of his life.

  “I think a cup of tea is in order,” Dr. Christopherson said after a long while. “By way of celebration. All four of them should make it.” He heaved himself to his feet. His face looked drawn, the skin sagging with fatigue. He’d been called out twice the previous night and had been working sixteen hours straight. The measles epidemic hadn’t burned itself out yet and weekends meant nothing.

  The little coal of anger, three years old now and lying dormant most of the time, flared up in Ian—amazing how it could still go from barely a glimmer to white-hot rage in a matter of seconds. Anger born of guilt. Anger born of the unjustness of the guilt. In a couple of months’ time his father was going to be alone here. What would he do, on a night like tonight?

  “You need another nurse.”

  “You could be right.” His father set the kettle on the stove. “You did well with that little lad tonight, by the way. You have a real way with them.”

  “You need to advertise for another one right now,” Ian said. “Right now. First thing in the morning.”

  He was so mad, all at once, he was almost shaking.

  His father put a hand on his shoulder. He said quietly, “Ian, things are going to be fine here. You don’t need to worry about me. Things are going to be fine.”

  She had stopped writing to him and he was glad. She had phoned him on his birthday back in May and cried down the phone line so he’d hung up on her. There had been one final letter after that and then nothing. He missed the act of throwing the unopened envelopes away—over the years of her absence he had received one hundred and ninety-two letters from her and the ritual of throwing them away unread had given him great satisfaction—but when they stopped coming, he was glad. He still looked for them in the mailbox, but when they weren’t there, he was glad.

  He had to go to the farm. It was very late but he knew he wouldn’t sleep otherwise; he was still too angry, too stirred up. He waited until his father had gone to bed and then got on his bike. The moon was up, and the night had an eerie brightness. The road looked unreal, insubstantial as a ribbon, as if at any moment it might unstick itself from the ground and lift off into the air. When he got to the woods surrounding the farm he left his bike in its usual place and made his way through the woods on foot. While he was still some way off he saw a light flickering, which meant that Jake—it was sure to be Jake—was still up. Ian felt a surge of irritation. He would have preferred him not to be there, not to be in the house at all. It got in the way of the sense of calm he used to find there.

  When he got close, though, there didn’t seem to be anyone in the kitchen. Ian moved around, trying to see into the corners of the room. He wasn’t taking much care to be quiet so he got a serious fright when he suddenly saw the glow of a cigarette outside the back door. Jake must be standing on the doorstep. In fact, now that he knew he was there, Ian could make out his shape.

  Jake didn’t move, though. The dogs were wandering around—they came up behind Ian waving their tails—so maybe he assumed the noise was them. The cigarette glowed and died a few times and then Ian saw him drop it onto the doorstep, grind it out with his shoe, and brush it over the edge. A moment later Jake turned around and went in.

  He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to go to bed. In the kitchen he lit another cigarette and sat down in an armchair by the fire. It looked as if he could be there awhile. Ian fidgeted. He was about to give up and go home when Laura appeared.

  She didn’t come into the kitchen, just stood in the doorway. She was wearing a dressing gown tied tightly around her waist and was holding it closed at the neck with one hand. Jake smiled at her and said something. She shook her head. She said something—something urgent, it seemed to Ian, because she leaned forward as she spoke.

  Jake tipped his head to one side and made some reply. He looked quite relaxed; whatever Laura had said didn’t worry him. She shook her head again, still clutching the neck of her dressing gown. She was upset about something, Ian was sure of it. Then Jake stood up. He stubbed out his cigarette in a saucer on the table, taking his time over it, mashing the butt into the saucer several times, and then started to cross the kitchen toward her, smiling, as if to reassure her. Laura turned abruptly and left the room.

  For a moment Jake stood where he was, looking at the empty doorway. Then he went back to the chair and sat down. He fished out another cigarette, lit it, and started smoking, his head resting against the back of the chair.

  Ian realized he had been holding his breath. He didn’t know what to make of it. Laura’s posture, th
e way she left so fast when Jake came toward her—it was as if she was really upset with him, or even afraid of him. Though that seemed ridiculous.

  He walked back through the woods to his bike, mulling it over. It made him uneasy. It made him wonder what Jake was playing at. Why, exactly, he was here.

  They’d been fishing for a couple of hours when Pete suddenly said, “Oh, nearly forgot.” He reached under his seat and hauled out a small shoe box from among the clutter of fishing tackle and beer bottles. The box was the flimsy sort they put moccasins in to sell to tourists at the trading post. It was soggy along the bottom from lying in bilge water and looked in danger of disintegrating. Ian wedged the handle of his fishing rod into a hole in the Queen Mary’s floorboards, took the box, one hand underneath it to stop it from falling apart, and opened it. Inside, crouched down among some dead grass and a little pebbled heap of dung was a very small gray rabbit.

  “Wow!” Ian said. “Is he ever cute! Where’d you find him?”

  “Near the trapline.”

  “He’s tiny! Are you sure he’s old enough to leave his mother?”

  Pete stuck a minnow on his hook and dropped it overboard. “We ate her last night, man, so it’s kind of an academic question.”

  “Oh,” Ian said. He stroked the rabbit gently behind the ears. Its fur was so soft he could scarcely feel it. The rabbit quivered and flattened itself against the floor of the box. “Poor thing,” he said. “This isn’t a big enough box, either.”

  “What are you talking about?” Pete said. “It’s a perfect fit.”

  “He doesn’t even have room to turn around,” Ian said. “I thought you guys were supposed to have this special thing with animals. A respectful relationship. Like, asking their forgiveness before shooting them, that sort of thing.”

  Pete gave him a look. He reached out and took the box, one hand still holding the jig over the side of the boat. He put his head down to the box and said, “Hey, wabbit, forgive me, man. I’m sorry I had to eat your mum and stuff you in a shoe box.”

  He handed the box back to Ian. “There you go. He feels better about everything now.” He bobbed the jig up and down in the water.

  Back at home Ian went up to the attic and rummaged around in the clutter. There wasn’t anything perfect but he found a box that would do. It was nearly as flimsy as the shoe box and the sides weren’t as tall as he would have liked, but the rabbit didn’t look like much of an escape artist and at least it would have room to roam around a bit. He took the box outside, put a saucer of water at one end, covered the bottom with a thick layer of grass and leaves, and decanted the rabbit into it. It looked even smaller in there. It flattened itself down and closed its eyes as if it were praying for a speedy end. He was sorry he’d asked for it. March would love it, if it lasted long enough to give it to him, but he’d probably cuddle it to death within a couple of hours. Killed by love. Well, maybe it was better than being eaten.

  He decided to delay giving it to March for a few days, though. He’d let it have a little peace before its next adventure; it would be a shame for both the boy and the rabbit if it died on the spot. He would put the box around the back of the house where it would get the morning sun but wouldn’t bake in the afternoon. In the meantime, he’d get some chicken wire and work out how to make a run for it. It would need to be a big one, with a hutch the rabbit could hide in. March could help him make it.

  “We’re going to have a zoo,” his father said later that evening. Ian had brought him out to admire the rabbit. “I had a call from Ernie Schwartz. His bitch had a litter six weeks ago and he said we could come and choose a pup this weekend if we liked.”

  “No kidding!” Ian said. “An Irish setter?”

  “Yes. Ernie says it has a pedigree. I told him that was more than we had and we didn’t want to pay a fortune for it; and he said he didn’t want a fortune, he wanted me to tear up the bill for setting his daughter’s leg.”

  “Oh,” Ian said. “Is that okay?”

  “I’d forgotten all about the bill, so I suppose so.”

  “You need a secretary as well as a nurse.”

  “I just need to get myself organized.”

  “Pigs might fly,” Ian said.

  His father sighed.

  “By the way,” Ian said. “I’ve decided what I’m going to do next year.” As he said it, he felt a kind of ache, mid-chest.

  “Oh, yes?” his father said. “What have you decided?”

  “I’m going to be a pilot.”

  His father looked at him, then looked away. Ian had been half afraid he might laugh, like Pete, but he didn’t. He crouched down and began to examine the rabbit. “A pilot,” he said after a moment. “That’s an interesting career. Good for you.” He didn’t look up.

  Ian said, “It’s what I really want to do.”

  “Good,” his father said. “Excellent. Then you must do it. It sounds very good.” He moved the saucer with the water in it closer to the rabbit.

  “I’ll have to go and talk to Mr. Hardy about it,” Ian said. The ache had spread outward, filling his entire chest now, tightening his throat. “I don’t know how I go about applying, like where you go to train, that sort of thing.”

  “No,” his father said. “No, neither do I. Get Hardy onto it. He’ll know.” He looked up, finally, and smiled. “It sounds like an interesting career. Good for you.”

  By rights he should have dreamed about his father that night, but instead, as he slipped down into sleep, Jake’s car rolled smoothly into the farmyard and the passenger door opened and Ian’s mother stepped out, her legs long and elegant in high-heeled shoes. Ian was standing by the water trough but she paid no attention to him. She picked her way through the dust of the farmyard and went into the house and sat down in the armchair Jake usually sat in. She took a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and lit one. Ian was standing by the table; he must have followed her into the house. She looked at him with a little smile and said, Tell Laura she doesn’t have to worry about Arthur. Arthur will be fine.

  TWELVE

  SIXTEEN DISTRICT MEN AMONG CASUALTIES:

  Community Mourns

  DISTRICT MAN COLLECTS $80 ON DEAD BEARS

  —Temiskaming Speaker, October 1944

  October. The skies a pale, lifeless gray, the fields stripped bare, everything holding its breath, clenched against the coming cold. Jake’s pursuit of Laura was nicely under way and all Arthur could do was stand and watch.

  “He says your father was a wonderful man,” Laura said.

  They were in Otto’s barn. Arthur and the two POWs were preparing winter quarters for the pigs; it had snowed the previous night and any day now they’d have to move all the animals inside. Laura had just arrived home from school and had brought mugs of tea out for the three of them. The boys were sitting on bales of straw, warming their hands on the mugs. Arthur and Laura stood in the doorway, Laura leaning against the door, her arms wrapped tightly around her to keep out the cold. She was wearing an old coat of her father’s and had a long red scarf wound several times around her neck. It was coming on for dusk and the light was seeping out of the sky, draining the color out of everything as it went—everything, it seemed to Arthur, except the bright flame of that scarf.

  Laura said, “He says you’re exactly like him. He says you’ve been wonderful since he died, the way you’ve run the farm—both farms—all by yourself. The way you’ve provided for him and your mother. He says he’s worse than useless, no help to you at all.” She smiled to show that she knew that wasn’t true, that Jake did everything he could.

  Arthur looked at the ground. Sometimes he could hardly bear to be near her.

  “He told me how you saved his life, Arthur,” she said. “How you risked your own life wading out into the river and then carried him home in your arms.”

  Had Jake sat down and worked it out, the best way to win her over? Had he studied her, thought about who she was and how she’d been raised and decided on the best strateg
y? Or was it just another thing that Jake was born knowing? He and Laura walked to and from school together every day now. Half an hour each way. Five hours a week alone in her company, telling her the version of things he wanted her to hear, painting the picture he wanted her to see.

  “He says you’re the one your mother depends on,” Laura said another time, her voice full of pity and admiration for Jake.

  It was true, that was what was so clever about it. Arthur had known it for years without ever putting it into words. He was the one his mother depended on; Jake was the one she loved.

  Sometimes when he looked at Laura he was almost paralyzed with the fear of losing her. He could hardly get his breath, sometimes. Which was strange: how could you be so terrified of losing something you didn’t have?

  Other things were going on in the world: major, historic things that were of infinitely greater importance than the small matter of one man’s love for a woman who was being stolen by his brother. In the middle of November a grainy picture of a battleship called the Tirpitz was taped to the window of the post office so that everybody could see it, though you couldn’t actually see much for the billows of black smoke pouring out of the belly of the ship. It was the very last German battleship, so they said, and now it was at the bottom of the sea. The war was nearly over and Hitler was on the run. A few months back the RAF had dropped more than two thousand tons of bombs on Berlin in one night; there couldn’t be anything left of it but dust. Any day now peace would be declared, and everything would return to how it was before.

  Everyone knew, though, that nothing would be as it was before. Not for anyone. The prison camp guard arrived one morning not long before Christmas with letters for the boys. They excused themselves immediately after lunch and took them to the parlor, which was their bedroom, to read. Usually when they got letters they read bits out to each other and if you were in the kitchen you would hear them jabbering away, even laughing sometimes at bits of family news. It was Arthur’s mother who noticed that there wasn’t any jabbering this time.