A Long Bridge Home

by Kelly Irvin

  Andy,

  Aenti Lucy told me about the accident. I am grieving with you the loss of a friend. John carried my family on many outings. He liked to tell us knock-knock jokes. He asked us about school and always remembered when our birthdays were. He sent Maisie a card when her kitten got run over by Mr. Knowles’s truck. I am happy that you are all right. I know our last conversation didn’t go well. I’m not sure what to say about it. I wish I could talk to you in person. I think it’s the only way we can talk about such hard things. I’m trying to understand. I’m trying to understand why you didn’t tell me before. It’s hard, but I reckon it’s hard for you too. I am not working at the store right now, so you can’t call me there. Take care.

  Christine

  She hadn’t mentioned why she no longer worked at the store. She wasn’t ready to go fishing with that can of worms. Not yet.

  “What does that tell you, child?”

  That she shouldn’t be in this car with this man?

  Too late.

  “We’re here.” Raymond stopped at the entrance to a swinging bridge.

  Below them the Kootenai River dropped into a series of glorious, rushing waterfalls. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the frothing water. He started out on the bridge. Christine hesitated. He looked back. “It’s safe, I promise. This bridge was first built during the Great Depression. After it was destroyed by flooding, the Forest Service rebuilt it with concrete piles. It’s twenty-one hundred feet in the air, so it’s the best place to see the falls.”

  Very impressive, but it didn’t make Christine any more convinced that stepping onto the bridge was a smart idea. Grinning, Raymond held out his hand. Christine took it. His fingers were warm and his grip firm. He tugged. She followed.

  Raymond stopped in the middle of the bridge and placed her hand on one of the wooden posts to which the metal netting attached. “You’re okay.” His reassuring tone and amused gaze made it hard for her to look away even as the roar of the water below called her name. “Hang on and look down. The water drops ninety feet in less than a mile. It’s breathtaking.”

  Indeed it was. Her head swam every time she peeked over the railing. The sound of the water invited her to relax and to trust. She tried again. “It’s so beautiful.”

  “You can feel Earth’s blood pulsing through her veins here. You can hear her heart beat.”

  Christine closed her eyes. The pulse pounded in her ears. The water roared through her own veins. Her breathing accelerated to match its rhythm. The post’s wood felt rough under her fingers. Every part of her body vibrated. She opened her eyes.

  “You felt it, didn’t you?”

  “What is it?”

  “The spirit that lives in this place, that tells us we came from the earth and will return to the earth. Our bones and muscles will turn to dust and be swept up in the wind and scattered to the four corners of the earth.”

  “I feel clean here.”

  “That’s a start.” He nodded. “Do you want to find a bench and sit down?”

  She allowed him to take her hand again. Her legs weakened. They couldn’t be trusted to carry her to solid ground. Raymond settled on a spot where the cottonwood trees didn’t obscure their view of the spectacular falls. Christine eased down on a spot a reasonable distance from his solid presence. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “To try to help you understand our spirituality—what you call religion.”

  “Here?”

  “This is where the aboriginal tribes came to prepare spiritually before hunting. My aboriginal tribe covered part of Idaho, Montana, and Canada, but this was the center point. We came here to harvest salmon, whitefish, and trout. We hunted bighorn sheep; Rocky Mountain goats; grizzly, brown, and black bear; moose; elk; whitetail, blacktail, and mule deer; and woodland caribou.” He stared at the water, shadows from the surrounding tree branches making dappled patterns on his face.

  He looked as if he could see his ancestors in their deerskin clothes and moccasins traipsing along the trails he said they’d marked with cairns, or piles of rocks, along the steep mountains split by the gorge that held the river captive. “Before they did anything they undertook spiritual preparation.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We are dependent on nature. The spiritual guides who protected us and instructed us could be found here. We sought them out in visions.”

  Visions. Like the angel who came to Mary and then to Joseph before baby Jesus was born. Like the God who walked with Adam and Eve in the garden and made a covenant with Abraham and then gave the Ten Commandments to Moses? “I don’t understand.”

  “We have spirit guides who we still respect and contact regularly through vision quests and ceremonies conducted by our religious leaders. Can you understand that?”

  “My father says we should always respect the beliefs of others, even when they are different than our own.”

  “He is a wise man.”

  “How do you contact these spirits?”

  “Those ceremonies are private. This place is a tourist attraction now. People come and leave their pop cans and chip bags on the ground next to the trash cans.”

  “So where do you go?”

  “We have areas on the reservation that are kept primitive. Only tribe members are allowed there. No development occurs. It’s quiet and the spirits come to us.”

  “Do you have visions?”

  Raymond leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and watched the burbling, white water below. “Not yet. I hope to, one day. My gramma, she is the visionary. She is a shaman, a medicine woman. She saw death before my grandpa died and before my mother died.” He squinted in the sunlight, his expression glum. “You don’t believe me?”

  “I believe with God all things are possible. He spoke to Abraham. He spoke to Moses. He spoke to the prophets of the Old Testament. Moses and Abraham appeared to Jesus during the Transfiguration. The disciples saw them. They saw Jesus after He was dead and buried.”

  “So you understand.”

  “Not exactly, but I know nothing is too hard for my Lord. The Word tells me so.”

  He studied his hands. “Do you ever have doubts about your God?”

  “He is your God too.”

  “Don’t try to convert me.” For the first time his voice acquired a sharp edge. “The Jesuits spoiled any chance that many of our people would worship the white man’s God.”

  “You don’t believe in forgiveness?”

  His face relaxed. “I try, but not because of your God’s requirements, but because it is good and honorable. Men make mistakes.”

  “All men are sinners and fall short of the glory of God.”

  He sighed.

  “What happened to your mother?”

  He snatched a twig from the ground and began to peel away its bark with nimble fingers. “She was a tribal police officer. One night when I was ten, she went after a car that was speeding outside Arlee. A Native she knew was driving. He’d been drinking and refused to stop. She drove too fast in the pursuit, swerved to avoid another car, crashed, and died.”

  “Because of another person’s poor mistakes.”

  “For many reasons, most of which I cannot understand.”

  “And your father?”

  The pause lasted long enough that it seemed he wouldn’t answer. She reached over and stilled his fidgeting hands. “It’s all right. If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand. It’s none of my business.”

  “He was—is—white. He was out of the picture before I was old enough to remember him. Grandma Velda doesn’t talk about it and neither does Gramma. I’m not sure if it’s because he was white or because Mom didn’t marry him. Probably both. She didn’t marry the fathers of my two brothers, but they were Natives.” He glanced her way, his gaze tentative. “That’s not uncommon on the rez. Or in the rest of the world. Your people probably don’t see it that way. You have a book where you get your beliefs. Ours have been handed down orally.”


  “Why do you think she didn’t marry any of them?”

  “Some might say she was a free spirit. Gramma said she had the rebellious soul of a wild mustang. She couldn’t be tamed. She refused to be ruled by a man.” Raymond tossed the twig back in the grass and leaned back to contemplate the sky. “It’s smoky here. The fires near Libby are causing more evacuations. Soon even this area might be off-limits. It’s nature’s way of refurbishing her lands. It inconveniences those who didn’t understand her. They built too close to the mountains and messed with the natural rhythm of the land.”

  He was changing the subject. She should let him. “Are you blaming us for the fires?”

  “Not you specifically. Our people did the same thing. When they had to buy allotments of land, they chose the ones closest to the mountains and to water sources. That was the life they knew. They didn’t understand farming instead of hunting and gathering.”

  Christine couldn’t let it go. “I can’t imagine not knowing my father.”

  Pain flittered across his smooth face. “There is a hole where my father’s name belongs in my heart, but I adapted. Children do. My brothers did too.”

  “But they shouldn’t have to. They are gifts from God meant for a husband and wife.”

  “Maybe in your world.”

  “Do you ever think of venturing outside the reservation and seeing the white man’s world from another place? Maybe you could see a perspective that isn’t so narrow.”

  He laughed.

  “Why is that funny?”

  “I’m not laughing at you. We are like two sides of the same coin. It is strange that our paths would cross now, in this time, when you are at a crossroads and I know my life is about to change in ways I don’t relish.” He shook his head, his expression perplexed. “I wanted to go to the University of Montana in Missoula to study archaeology. I filled out the application my senior year of high school and all the financial-aid papers. I got accepted. When I showed Gramma, she said no.”

  “Why?”

  “She said I needed to stay with my kind. She said the college in Pablo was there for me to learn my tribe’s ways and pass them on to my children. That’s why she worked so hard with the other tribal elders to establish the college.”

  “My aunt and uncle said I shouldn’t see you anymore. We are to keep ourselves apart from the world.”

  “So both of us were schooled to keep the world at bay. Yet, here we are, the edges of our worlds touching. It’s not so bad, is it? What are they so afraid of, I wonder?”

  The silence stretched for several minutes. Lulled by the water and the comfort of his presence, she closed her eyes.

  “Look, a red-tailed hawk. He’s hunting.”

  She opened her eyes in time to see the raptor soar over the falls, zoom to the ground, then flee upward again, a tiny mouse flailing in its talons. “He’s quite the hunter.”

  “He knows how to survive. Strong, unafraid. All things Native men aspire to be.”

  “Is he one of your gods?”

  “We don’t have gods. There’s a kingfisher.” Raymond pointed to a cottonwood below them. “See how he has a wide white stripe around his neck and his body’s blue-gray? He’s called a belted kingfisher.”

  “How do you know so much about birds?”

  “Everything I know I learned from Gramma.”

  “She sounds special.”

  “She is. I can’t imagine how life will be when she’s gone.”

  “Is she dying?”

  “We all are—eventually.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I want to take her to the medicine tree in Bitterroot Valley.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and tucked his chin on his palm. He seemed to be contemplating joining the rushing water below. “She says it’s been spoiled by nonbelievers who take the coins others have left there.”

  “You leave coins for your god?”

  “Let’s just sit here and think.”

  “I can do that.” Her thoughts refused to be still. They wanted to soar like the red hawks and the eagles and break free from the earth. Healing trees, shamans, and lithe foxes whirled inside her brain.

  The sun slipped behind a cloud, taking with it the day’s warmth. She shivered and crossed her arms. Her folks didn’t evangelize. And Raymond had no desire to be converted. What did God intend to accomplish by putting them together? “Maybe you should take your gramma anyway. It’s enough that she believes. It doesn’t matter what others do or don’t believe. There’s healing power in believing.”

  He straightened and smiled. “You’re very wise for so young a woman.”

  “I don’t think so. I think I’m just beginning to figure things out.”

  “I know that feeling.” He stood and held out his hand. “Let’s go home.”

  Home. More and more, the true meaning of that word escaped Christine. She stood as well but didn’t take his hand. “Whether you like it or not, I will pray to my God for your gramma. It’s what we do. That His will be done. If she is to stay a little longer, praise God, if it’s her time to pass on, that she go peacefully, praise God.”

  “Your faith in your God is like our faith in the medicine tree. Because you believe, it helps you.”

  “It’s different.”

  “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that.”

  They walked single file across the swinging bridge. Only a few feet separated them, but they remained worlds apart.

  20

  Lewistown, Montana

  The phone rang and rang. Maybe no one would answer. Andy rubbed his aching neck. He leaned his forehead on the edge of the desk in his father’s sawmill office. It smelled of sawdust. He stared at his boots.

  He sat up straight and turned Christine’s letter facedown. Her words had been conciliatory. Forgiving, even. She was right. They needed to speak in person. Soon.

  Please, someone, anyone, answer. He needed to hear Christine’s voice. To see her. To know she still wanted what he wanted.

  He had to return to Eureka for John’s funeral. That would give him an opportunity to find out what was happening with the evacuation. The fire and its devastation seemed a million miles away right now.

  “Hello. I mean, Valley Gro—ccee—rry St-st-ore.”

  “Jah, this is Andy. I need to talk to Christine.”

  “She’s not-t-t-t here.”

  Andy gritted his teeth. This woman was not to blame for her speech impediment. His lack of patience was his fault. It made him petty and sinful. He breathed. “I know she doesn’t work there anymore, but I hoped you could get a message to her to call me. I have a letter from her that says she doesn’t work there anymore. Why is that?”

  “Because of Raymond Old F-f-f-f-ox.”

  Andy leaned back and removed the receiver from his ear. He stared at it. Had he heard right?

  He returned the receiver to his ear. “Who is—?”

  A rustling sound filled the line.

  “Andy? It’s Fergie.”

  Christine’s uncle sounded different on the phone. More commanding. Andy’s family’s vacation travels had sometimes meant a stop at the St. Ignatius store where the owners were everywhere, welcoming and chatting with shoppers. In person he was a roly-poly guy with big glasses. He looked like a hard-boiled egg wearing suspenders, glasses, and a beard. It would be easier to talk to him—and harder. Andy took a long breath. “Jah, it’s me. Is Christine all right? Who is Raymond Old Fox?”

  “She is gut.” Fergie’s tone belied his words. “Are you recovered from the accident? I am sorry about John Clemons. He was well spoken of in these parts. He brought folks to the store a few times.”

  “I’m gut. Sore but gut. Christine wrote me a letter. She said she no longer works in the store. Is it because of this Raymond Old Fox?”

  “It is.”

  Normally, Fergie was a talker, a storyteller, a joker. Today he barely had two syllables to rub together.

  “I have to go to Eureka for the funeral
. I think she would want to go.”

  “It would be gut for her to go. To remind her of who she is and where she comes from.”

  Had she forgotten all this in such a short time? “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing that Lucy and I can’t handle.”

  “I plan to rebuild in West Kootenai. While I’m there I’ll see when we are allowed back in.”

  “Christine will come back here—for now.”

  Fergie’s tone was sharp as the knife Andy used for whittling. “I will bring her back—for now.”

  “I’ll tell her you are coming for her. My fraa and I cannot get away. The store needs us. My son Jasper can go with you to Eureka. He has friends there.”

  A chaperone. Fine. “I’ll be there in the morning.”

  Andy needed to talk to Christine. Something had changed.

  Something that had easygoing Fergie worried.

  21

  St. Ignatius, Montana

  The seating arrangement didn’t bode well for conversations of a personal nature. Nor did Andy’s frame of mind. He swiveled in the van’s front passenger seat to look at Christine. She smiled and raised two fingers in her lap in a tiny half wave. She had to know about his phone conversation with her uncle Fergie. Bewilderment dogged Andy. Less than two weeks out in the world and she’d been drawn to someone outside her Plain community. Someone besides Andy. It didn’t seem possible, but Fergie’s angry tirade had left no doubt. Christine had strayed.

  The thought socked Andy in the gut. Not again. Please, Gott, not again. The pain and the humiliation—yes, pride did play a role, as much as he longed to rise above it—and visions of long, lonely days ahead taunted him.

  Please, Gott, I can’t bear to go through this again.

  She had said little when he came to her uncle’s front door. She simply grabbed her duffel bag and scurried to the van while her cousin Jasper took his time saying goodbye to his family. Jasper insisted Andy take the front seat. He had no way of knowing the intensity of the nausea that rocked Andy’s gut when he contemplated getting into a motor vehicle so soon after the accident that killed his friend.