A Long Bridge Home

by Kelly Irvin

  “He’s close.”

  “So close we might have crossed paths at the convenience store?”

  “Yes.”

  Tonya scooped up her leather binder and stood. “Let’s go.”

  “It’s late.”

  “No rest for the weary.”

  “Take me back to my car.”

  She sighed. Her fingers traced the hummingbird that hovered on the cover of the binder. “You don’t know what you want, do you?”

  “No.”

  She leaned down. Her scent of sandalwood enveloped him. Her lips brushed his forehead. “Let me know when you do.”

  Every nerve in his body vibrated. He cleared his throat. “I will.”

  “No you won’t.” Her soft, tender lips deserved better than that sad smile. “I’ll have to do all the work, as usual. It’s a good thing you’re worth it. Come on. You need sleep, and I have to go to work in the morning.”

  If she said so, it must be true. Whether this half-breed was worth it remained to be seen.

  She left him at the Volvo and drove away without further adieux.

  Raymond slid into his car. He slammed the door. Slammed it a second time. He laid the laptop on the seat. The tears refused to be ignored. They pounded against the dam in his throat.

  He glanced around. No one would see. No one would know. The stars and moon would keep his secret. He rested his head on the wheel and wept.

  29

  St. Ignatius, Montana

  The thud of the horse’s hooves on the dirt road, the soft, cool breeze, and the scent of fresh-cut grass as dusk crept into night created a hazy world that was half memory, half dream. Christine breathed in the late-September air and stared at the stars splashed across a deep-navy night. Could this be real? After everything that had happened. The wildfires. Her parents leaving her to go to Kansas. Andy’s revelations about his past love. Raymond’s unnerving critique of her faith and the faith of those who ravaged his ancestors.

  As if he read her thoughts, Andy pulled up on the reins and steered the buggy into a clearing that overlooked a small pond on her uncle’s property. Bullfrogs serenaded them. An owl hooted. Crickets chirped. A perfect night for a romantic ride.

  Only this wasn’t that.

  She cast a surreptitious glance at her companion. He’d said little since the insistent tapping on her window three nights after his unexpected arrival in St. Ignatius had forced her to peek through the curtains and find him waving at her. Like two teenagers new to their rumspringas, they’d slipped away while everyone in the house slept. New lines etched themselves around Andy’s eyes and mouth. Dark patches bruised the soft skin under his eyes. A painful twinge in the vicinity of her heart made her wince. “How are you?”

  He wrapped the reins around the handle and leaned back in the seat. “Gut. You?”

  So it was like that. “Nee. You’re not. We can pretend nothing’s happened and we’re out for a drive on a Thursday evening, no cares in the world. Or we can act like we know each other in a way that others don’t.”

  “It’s hard to know what to say. I know my head isn’t on straight and the words are all mixed up.” He straightened and hopped from the buggy. “If I sit for very long, I’ll nod off.”

  “I’m that boring, then?” She tried out a giggle. He responded with a smile. She jumped down and met him in front of the horse he’d borrowed from his friends at the B&B. “I’m glad you came.”

  “You’re never boring.”

  “I’m sure after all you’ve been through you could use a little boring.” Shivering in the cool night air, she slid her hand through the crook of his arm and tugged him toward the water that shimmered in the starlight. “I’m sorry I haven’t made it easy for you.”

  “What did the bishop say?”

  Her session with David and Matthew had lasted almost an hour—fifty-five minutes too long. In her entire life Christine had avoided trouble. She always toed the line. She always obeyed. A girl didn’t get into much trouble cleaning house, washing clothes, and baking bread. Until now when it meant talking to two strangers about something wholly personal and beyond even her own understanding. “David is a kind man. So is Matthew, their deacon. They went over passages from the Holy Bible regarding obedience and humility. ‘Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.’ ‘Children, obey your parents.’ They reminded me of my baptism and my commitment to my faith.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “That I have not forgotten any of this.” They had the same perplexed looks on their faces that Andy had now. David suggested Fergie was right to send her home to her parents before her transgressions grew bigger. Trying to hang on to a shred of dignity, she came very close to begging him to reconsider. “I’m not trying to be disobedient. I’m trying to see the world through different lenses while I still have a chance. It was easy to be baptized when I’d only heard one version of the truth.”

  “There are no versions of the truth. There’s what’s true and what’s not.”

  “I need time.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because of Raymond?”

  “Nee . . . not exactly. Because of what he represents.”

  “You’re in trouble with your onkel and with the bishop because of this man, and yet you persist.” In the light cast by the moon, she caught a glimpse of his troubled, wondering expression. “What hold does he have over you?”

  She tucked her hands under her arms to warm them. Despite the flush of guilt mixed with bravado, the night chilled her. “It’s not him, exactly. For the first time ever, I was on my own, away from family and friends. I was startled by the world.”

  “Ensnared by it, more likely.”

  “I’m only a woman, I know, but I’m not stupid.”

  “No one who knows you would say that.” Andy squatted and picked up a handful of rocks on the pond’s edge. He stood and tossed the first one into the darkness over the lapping water. “But you used to be more . . . more—”

  “Obedient?”

  “More as Gott would have women.”

  Perfectly aimed missiles, the words sliced to the bone. “You think Gott is upset with me for overstepping my place, for no longer being happy with my toilet brush and my mop and my wringer washing machine?”

  “I don’t know what Gott thinks. My pea brain hurts just trying to understand my own situation. I know keeping my past from you was wrong. I feel that this has somehow added to your determination to strike out on your own.”

  He felt responsible for her transgressions. Guilt and remorse washed over Christine. “I was hurt. I am hurt, knowing you cared for another woman. But one has nothing to do with the other. Raymond’s people are connected to nature. They respect it. I never noticed the plants and trees and mountains the way they do. I’m ashamed to have taken it for granted.” She struggled to capture the essence of this new perspective. It was as if she were blind before and could see for the first time. The colors of the sky, the grass, the water, the sun shone so bright she had a perpetual squint. “They love animals and plants. They hunt and fish, but with respect for the animals and fish that they kill and eat. I have never felt . . . whole before. I liked scrubbing toilets and mopping floors because I could do it all on my own with no help. That’s prideful, isn’t it? Being clean is gut. Dirty is bad. It’s so simple and clear. Life isn’t like that. It no longer is . . . fulfilling.”

  “It’s not about fulfilling you. The point is to make yourself small and Gott big. Faith, then family, then self.”

  “I’m not putting myself first.” Christine cast about for something Andy could understand. “Their ancestors were introduced to our Gott by men who used religion for their own selfish, worldly use. That history still follows them. They reject it because it was forced upon them in an ugly way.”

  “That is sad, but it’s not for us to try to right a wrong that is more than a century old.”

  “Shouldn’t we be concerned fo
r their souls?”

  “We live our faith by example.” He tossed another rock into the void. Harder this time. “Don’t try to convince me that your interest is in converting this man to a Christian faith, let alone our faith.”

  Not convert him but save him. To imagine Raymond consumed in hellfire scared Christine. He was good and kind. Did God not find that appealing? Father would say hard work and kindness propelled no one through the gates to heaven. Only the blood of Jesus did that. However, kindness and industriousness were the fruit of their faith. These values kept them from straying into a world less and less known for either.

  It seemed so uncomplicated when the bishop explained it. Now in this world peopled by men like Raymond, suddenly the twists and turns kept Christine off balance. She wanted good people to go to heaven. She wanted them to be saved.

  As if she had a hand in it. Gott, forgive me for being so prideful. So arrogant. So human.

  “I don’t want him to go to hell. He’s good and kind. I’m trying to understand how it can be right for him and his people to be condemned for something that wasn’t their fault.”

  “Scripture says, ‘Enter ye in at the strait gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat. Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.’” Andy’s voice softened despite the hardness of the words. He sounded so weary. “The explorers came here and tried to force a life in Christ on the Indians. Maybe their methods were wrong, but their desire to save souls was right. They gave up their homes and their families, like the apostles did, to travel to the wilderness to bring the gospel to people who were in need of salvation.”

  “It was in the way the message was delivered.”

  “It happens all the time in this fallen world. You only have to read an English newspaper to see it. Corrupted churches. Preachers who claim faith will give believers wealth and happiness. Preachers who preach hate against those who are different than they are. Churches where pastors have abused children. There’s no shortage of stories like the one your friend Raymond tells. Despicable human behavior persists to this day.”

  “Raymond’s ancestors weren’t given a choice. They were forced into the church.”

  “The Jesuits and nuns didn’t give them a choice about how they worship. Gott always gave them a choice about what they believed. He invites us all to be a part of His family.” This time the rock Andy threw against the water smacked so hard it sounded like glass breaking. “It’s up to us to accept or reject His invitation. That’s what we do when we’re baptized.”

  Andy had far more answers than David or Matthew, who hadn’t given her the chance to frame the questions. They simply assumed her heart had strayed. “How do you know all of this?”

  “I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I believe. What happened with Winona was the start of it. Then John’s death. When something like that happens, you either cling to your beliefs or you toss them in the trash. When I was in Eureka, I stopped to talk to Noah. He, too, has given these questions thought.”

  Andy let the remainder of the rocks seep through his hands to the ground. He turned to her. “I chose to believe. Trouble has a way of forcing us to keep our eyes on the one true God. I’m praying you’ll see that too.”

  “I want to.” She smoothed damp palms against her apron and tried to discern that place where the water met land. Darkness prevailed. “But I’ll never stop praying for Raymond and Tonya and Gramma. They are good people. They don’t deserve to burn in hell.”

  Andy’s sigh rippled in sync with the breeze that rippled across the pond. “Just when I want to be angry with you, I can’t. You have a soft, kind heart. No one will ever tell you—least of all me—not to pray for someone. We are called to pray for nonbelievers. Scripture says so.”

  His hand sought hers. His fingers entwined with hers. He bent down, his lips seeking hers. She leaned into his warm body and let go. All the distrust, the uncertainty, and the pain subsided. Thinking of anything but his soft yet demanding lips seemed impossible. She leaned up on tiptoes, wanting more of him. Don’t stop, please don’t stop.

  The kiss deepened. He let go of her hands. His fingers moved up her arms, trailed across her neck, and touched her cheeks. She slid her arms around his waist, certain she would sink to the ground if he moved away.

  Finally, when breathing no longer seemed possible, he straightened.

  Breathless, she opened her eyes and stared at his face in the moonlight. “What was that for?”

  “For being you. What happened with Winona would never happen with you. You think things through. You say what’s on your mind. You want to do the right thing, even if it’s the hard thing.” Andy’s calloused fingers brushed tears she hadn’t known she’d shed from her face. “I know Fergie and Lucy don’t understand. Your daed and mudder won’t understand. But I’m trying to understand because I love you.”

  More tears threatened to spill over. She willed them to stay put. “What happens now? Fergie called my daed.”

  “What happens now depends on you.” He let her hand drop and backed away. “Are you done with Raymond? Are you done seeing the world?”

  She put her hands to her warm cheeks. The memory of Gramma’s impish grin peeking from the pile of blankets in the back seat of Raymond’s car held her captive. “Is it wrong to want to try to share the message of salvation with a woman who will die soon?”

  “It’s not wrong, but it’s not your place.”

  Wasn’t it every Christian’s place to win the lost? “She’s lived a good life, been a good mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother.”

  “Being good doesn’t guarantee a spot in Gott’s house.” He climbed into the buggy and grabbed the reins. “Let’s go.”

  She scrambled up the incline. Mud and twigs clung to her dress. Her hands were icy and her head ached. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad.” His voice cracked. “I’m trying to understand how you can be so ensnared by these people you hardly know. There’s a reason we keep ourselves apart.”

  Christine crawled onto the seat next to him. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.”

  Fair enough. “What will you do?”

  “I received a call from Henry today. He says word is we will be able to return to Kootenai tomorrow or the next to start rebuilding.”

  “Please take me with you.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Because you don’t want to?”

  “Of course I want to.” He glanced her way. The battle waging in his eyes made her heart hurt. His gaze returned to the road. “Because Fergie likely won’t allow it.”

  “Jasper can go with me.”

  “Poor Jasper.”

  “I know.”

  His gravelly chuckle held a sliver of humor. He pulled up in front of Fergie’s, but he didn’t get down. “Finish your business in the world soon.”

  “Andy, I—”

  “You cannot have your feet in two different worlds.” He met her gaze head-on. “We both have unfinished business. I need to see John’s boys. We need to get our heads on straight. Maybe then we can meet in the middle.”

  The hope that infused the words stayed with Christine as he drove away. They could still find their way back to each other.

  Now she just had to convince Fergie and her father to let her stay.

  30

  Swan Lake, Montana

  Using Gramma’s death as a reason to miss work seemed wrong when Raymond had no part in preparing for her burial. He need only be present. Vic would arrive toward afternoon, Tony not until later in the evening. They wouldn’t need him. Velda would feed them and regale them with stories of Gramma’s last days. So Raymond told his boss at S&K the truth. He needed a day off to look for his father. His boss didn’t hesitate. Raymond hadn’t missed a day’s work in two years. Twice he showed up with a fever and had to be sent home. “Do wha
t you need to do. Come back when you’re ready.”

  Such was the advantage of working at a Native-run business. Raymond grabbed more coffee at a McDonald’s drive-through in Polson and pushed through to Swan Lake where his research said Cap Dawson rented a duplex half a block from the lake’s shore.

  The prune-faced Native lady with wrinkles that looked like mountain ridges on a geography map kept digging up weeds in her flower garden while she talked to Raymond. Yes, she’d seen Cap Dawson walking toward the lake an hour or two earlier. He probably went fishing. He liked to fish when he didn’t have to lead a bunch of tourists on a hunting or fishing trip. The tourist season was over. They could all be thankful for that. Blankety-blank tourists driving like idiots, throwing their trash on the grounds and carousing all day and all night.

  She kept talking, cursing, and digging, even after Raymond thanked her and started walking away. He trudged across the asphalt road that separated the strip of duplexes from the wedge of bait shops, canoe rentals, outfitters, and other businesses that lived off Swan Lake toward the closest dock. A middle-aged man with the leathery skin of someone who spent most of his life outdoors sat on the weathered planks over the lake, but he had no fishing pole. Instead, he sat with bare feet swinging just above the lapping water, hands empty, expression vacant.

  No one sat with him. In fact, only gulls yammering overhead broke the midmorning silence. And the sporadic hum of an engine as a car passed by. No boats cut through the lake’s smooth glass surface. The turquoise water shone so brightly it hurt Raymond’s eyes.

  He hesitated at the top of the dock. Nothing about the stranger seemed familiar. The man coughed, cleared his throat, and spat into the water. He wiped his mouth with his Led Zeppelin T-shirt sleeve and took a swig of a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag.

  Raymond’s stomach clenched. He breathed in and out, trying to loosen his jaw. What am I doing here? Stepping outside my circle. Doing what Christine had done with him. Opening himself up to the possibility that life could be different. He could be different. He wasn’t Native. He was biracial. The blood of a white man ran through him, whether Gramma liked it or not. Whether Velda liked it. The reality could no longer be ignored.