One Lane Bridge: A Novel
Read One Lane Bridge: A Novel Online
Authors: Don Reid
ONE LANE BRIDGE
Published by David C. Cook
4050 Lee Vance View
Colorado Springs, CO 80918 U.S.A.
David C. Cook Distribution Canada
55 Woodslee Avenue, Paris, Ontario, Canada N3L 3E5
David C. Cook U.K., Kingsway Communications
Eastbourne, East Sussex BN23 6NT, England
David C. Cook and the graphic circle C logo
are registered trademarks of Cook Communications Ministries.
All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes,
no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form
without written permission from the publisher.
This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.
LCCN 2010932063
ISBN 978-1-4347-6508-6
eISBN 978-0-78140576-8
© 2010 Don Reid
Published in association with The Seymour Agency, 475 Miner Street Road, Canton, NY 13617.
The Team: Don Pape, Steve Parolini, Amy Kiechlin, Sarah Schultz, Caitlyn York, Karen Athen
Cover Design: Gearbox Design, David Carlson
Cover Image: Getty Images, photographer B.SCHMID, rights managed
First Edition 2010
To Debbie:
I’ll go to my grave loving you
Late Summer
2007
J. D. and Karlie Wickman walked down the old marble hall toward the heavy front doors of the police station in silence. This argument had been going on for over a week. They both were of a right mind and a good heart on what needed to be done; the only problem was that there seemed to be more than one right way of doing it. Their two main disagreements in twenty-one years of marriage were about things that had good and logical solutions. How to discipline Angela—that had been the first. Karlie was the disciplinarian while J. D. always let up on the rules. The second? What to spend money on and how much. J. D. tended to see what
had
to be spent while Karlie saw what
needed
to be spent. If the house trim needed to be repainted every five years, then Karlie saw it as a necessity, but if the trim lasted six, J. D. saw it as a savings. Problems of the heart never entered into their disagreements, so they counted themselves lucky and learned to give a little, knowing they would eventually settle on the right solution. They would this time too, but it might take a little longer. That silent walk down the hall suggested they should let the discussion rest a few hours.
But Karlie knew they wouldn’t, and the sooner they got it settled, the better. As they walked out the large wooden doors and down the steps toward their car, she fired the first gentle volley.
“I don’t think you’re being realistic.”
“I don’t think you’re being reasonable,” said J. D.
“Do you want to put somebody in prison? Is that your goal here?”
“Yeah, maybe. If that’s the punishment for stealing, well, maybe that’s where they should be.”
“Oh, come on, J. D. You know these women, these girls. You like them.
I
like them. You know we can put a stop to this without having to play cops and robbers like some weekend schoolboys.”
The car beeped as J. D unlocked the doors, and they slid into their seats; he in the driver’s and she in the passenger’s. J. D. stared out the windshield and checked his cell phone messages. Karlie straightened the stacks of receipts littering the floorboard, thinking about the conversation they had just had with their old high school friend, now Sergeant Bobby Caywood of the Hanson Police Department.
Bobby didn’t solve their problem and didn’t offer his opinion on their opposing solutions. His silence on the matter only added to the tension they were feeling from the daily money shortages. Karlie could see it in J. D.’s eyes and hear it in his voice. He was concerned not just by the losses but also by how they were going to deal with them—with the apparent theft. Of course she was concerned too, but J. D. always seemed to take business matters more to heart.
When they explained how the money was disappearing from their restaurants, Bobby suggested a couple different routes to take, but she could see he didn’t like being a referee.
J. D. set his phone down and looked over at her. “You know, we really put Bobby on the spot in there today.”
“Well, he’s a policeman. He’s used to being on the spot.”
“Honey, we can solve this thing ourselves. We’ve got nearly a thousand dollars missing, and it has to be one of three peo—”
“J. D., let’s not go over it again. You just get more upset every time, and I don’t want to see you go through that. We’ll do it your way. I know you want to try and catch the person responsible.”
“And you want to just ask them outright if they’re stealing and hope someone’ll ’fess up.” His face reddened again, and his voice got tighter with each word.
She put her hand on his arm. “J. D, please. Let’s go home and tackle this later.”
As her husband pulled out into traffic, Karlie looked out her window at the passing shops and signs and tried to remember more pleasant times. Neither she nor J. D. wanted to confront the people and the problem at hand …
but life and business don’t always ask permission for the courses they take,
she thought. She watched J. D. out of the corner of her eye all the way home, and it wasn’t until they stopped in the driveway that she broke the silence.
“I didn’t want to tell you till we got this little episode behind us today, but Angela called this morning.”
“What’s wrong? She find a shoe store on campus and needs more money?”
She heard his sarcasm but also the humor in his question.
“No, that would be simple.” They made eye contact for the first time since getting in the car.
“She sick?”
“No, but she wants to come home.” Karlie waited for his reaction.
“She’s only been there three weeks. You said yourself she would get homesick and made me promise not to go get her. Have you changed your mind?”
“A girl got attacked in front of the library last night, and Angela’s scared to death.”
“What do you mean
attacked?”
“Somebody grabbed her. Ripped her clothes. She got away, and nobody was hurt, but the whole campus is in an uproar.”
“Does Angela know the girl?”
“Knows of her—she lives in the next dorm. Angela was crying and pretty upset. Says she wants to come home.”
“For good or for the weekend?”
“She says for good. I said for the weekend. She wants you to call her. But before you do, let me say this: Don’t give in to her. Don’t go racing up there to rescue her. Let her come for the weekend, but please don’t let her talk you into anything permanent.”
Karlie was never fooled by the tone of her husband’s voice or his words where their daughter was concerned. No matter how tough a stand he agreed to take, Karlie knew that Angela always had her daddy’s heart firmly in her pocket. She could get what she wanted from him anytime and change her mind as often as she liked, and he would still find a way to see it her way. He’d complain about her being impulsive and irresponsible, but in the end he’d always cave in, excusing her behavior by saying, “But she’s young.…” Angela was daddy’s girl—and
most
of the time, Karlie liked that.
J. D. sat looking at his wife for a moment, apparently waiting for more words from her. He turned off the engine, stared straight ahead again, and said, “You amaze me. You can be harder on your daughter than on an employee.”
“Honey, I’m not being hard on anyone. I’m just doing what I think is right.”
J. D. took a deep breath and opened the car door. “I’ll call her and see if she needs to come home.”
H
ome was Hanson, North Carolina, and always had been. Hanson wasn’t a big town, but it was growing enough that J. D. and Karlie no longer knew most of the merchants on Main Street. The last census had come in around twenty-eight thousand, and with all the industrial growth on the outskirts, the population could easily double in the next decade or two. J. D. and Karlie had both gone to elementary and high school here, then away to college and back. They married in a local church and started a home in the neighborhood where they had grown up. Both business majors, they had always shared a dream of opening a restaurant. This dream had come true five years ago, and now there were two restaurants: The Dining Club—Downtown and The Dining Club—West End. Their restaurants kept them busy but happy and, thankfully, successful at the same time. But
happy
was a relative term. The headaches and worry of running a business might bring fulfillment, but as J. D. and Karlie found out, those things could also keep a person’s blood pressure at the top of the chart. The recent discovery of money shortages at the downtown site was a situation that brought more headaches than fulfillment.
J. D. was consumed with finding out which waitress was stealing from them and firing her immediately. He had been wrestling with the puzzle for days without relief. But now, for a few moments anyway, he wasn’t thinking about the theft. When Angela was on his mind, there was room for little else. His tunnel vision drove him to get her on the phone as quickly as possible so he could listen to the tone of her voice as well as her words. Only then would he know for sure how serious the situation was. He was out of the car and on the sofa, phone in his hand, before the whining and clicking under the hood of his BMW died down.
“Did you reach her?”
“I got her voice mail. She may still be in class. I think she’s got a late class on Mondays, doesn’t she?”
“I think so,” Karlie said. “Wait until later tonight. Give her a little time to get used to it. She has her friends there, and I told her not to go out alone. Let’s call her after dinner, and we’ll both talk to her and see what’s what. Okay?”
“Okay.” J. D. agreed because he also needed the extra time to live with it. He stood up, and Karlie came to him and gave him a much-needed hug.
“Did you check
our
machine for calls?” she asked as she reached down and pushed the blinking button.
The machine spoke: “Mr. and Mrs. Wickman, this is Mrs. Rodell. I’m a nurse at Maple Manor, and Mrs. Wickman asked me to call and ask if you are coming to visit tomorrow. Please feel free to call me back at this number. I’ll be here until nine.”
Karlie looked at him. “I usually erase these messages before you have to hear them. Your mother—she knows we’re always there every Tuesday morning, but she gets a nurse to call every Monday afternoon with the same message.”
“Well, great. What else do you think is going to happen today?”
“I don’t know. But I tell you what, let’s eat here, go by and check the restaurants, and then call it a day.”
“Twist my arm, please. Twist my arm.”
“I’ll do better than that. How about I close up both restaurants tonight, and you put the top down and go driving in the country?”
This was a generous offer J. D. couldn’t refuse. It was his favorite thing to do on a late summer evening when the sun had given up on the day and was dying its slow and sure death. No matter how bad the day had been, he could always go to the garage and pull out his little green Triumph (which had seen better days and even better years), rev it up, and head for a country road. Getting lost was half the fun—and letting the wind hit him in the face was the other half. It blew away the dust that had gathered since the last ride and prepared him for whatever the morrow held. He would talk to Angela later tonight, see his mother come morning, and decide on how to handle the money problem at the downtown restaurant before closing time tomorrow. But for now he wasn’t going to think about anything but that ride in the country. He thanked Karlie with a kiss.
Route 724 was a typical country road just wide enough for two cars to meet comfortably but not wide enough to pass a slow driver safely. J. D. would pull to the side whenever a restless driver got behind him and let them go by on their merry way. He could always sense a driver’s schedule or lack thereof by their speed and how closely they rode his bumper. When J. D. was on one of these head-clearing little drives, he was always the slowest vehicle on the road. He had no place in particular to go and no set time to get there. He was simply enjoying the sights, the smells, and feel of the country.
It must have been about 7:20 p.m., the sun just losing its early September strength, when he rounded a curve and saw a sign that read One Lane Bridge.
He slowed as he looked across to make sure no one was entering from the other side, then stopped in the middle of the bridge to listen to the small river that ran under it. Weeping willows lined either side of the small, quaint stream, which was about twenty feet wide from bank to bank—and beyond the willows, he saw nothing but beautiful pastures. Just the sight of it brought tranquility he hadn’t felt for days. He was tempted to pull over, take off his shoes, roll up his pants, and wade in up to his knees. The thought of doing this brought a smile to his face, and he shivered and shook his head to snap out of the notion. He drove at a creeping pace across the rest of the bridge, drinking in the peace he could feel all around him.
Then, just as he was going down the grade from the bridge, he smelled heat from his engine. He inspected his gauges, and, sure enough, his Triumph had overheated. He immediately pulled to the side of the road, got out, and opened the hood. The smell of antifreeze and a small stream of steam rose from the radiator. He was in the middle of nowhere with nowhere to go for help. His first thought was to call Karlie or his friend Jack. But his very next thought was one of panic when he realized he might not be able to tell them exactly where he was. Was he still on Route 724? Did he take a right at that barn a few miles back and maybe a left at the last crossroads? He wasn’t sure. He could always backtrack to get home, but he wasn’t certain he could give anyone directions on how to find him. He snapped his cell phone from his belt and flipped it open. He was getting zero reception. He dialed Karlie’s number twice, but nothing happened. He walked twenty yards both ways, hoping to find a signal, but still nothing. The sun was a little dimmer, and he was a little more lost than he had been ten minutes before. Certainly someone would come along, and he could hitch a ride back to town. He waited fifteen, then twenty minutes and was beginning to feel more stressed with each tick of the watch. Not one car came in sight.
He scanned the horizon and didn’t even see any houses. But he did see some cows.
Where there are cows, there have to be people not far away,
he thought
.
He noticed a dirt lane a few paces behind the car. As he walked up the path, he spotted a chimney behind a grassy hill. There
was
a house—and it wasn’t far at all. He began to walk up the lane and could see the house growing bigger and closer with each step.
It was an old farmhouse—weatherboard in need of paint, two chimneys, badly patched roof, small front porch with a swing, and, thankfully, no barking dog in the yard. The picket fence partially surrounding the house was falling down and missing a gate, and the sheds out back were in an even worse state of repair. But the chickens in the yard told him someone was obviously living here, and that was exactly what he needed: someone who could give him a bucket of water or let him use a phone to call for help.
He walked through the opening where the gate once was and across a dirt yard to the two steps leading up to the front porch. There he found a screen door with no screen and an ornate solid wood door with a window in the top half. The glass was cracked from corner to corner. He opened the shell of the screen door and knocked three times. The window rattled as if it might fall out with a fourth knock. When no one answered, he walked around the house, sidestepping a few chickens, and knocked at what was clearly the kitchen door. Having no more luck there, he stepped back and looked at the second-story windows before yelling, “Is anyone home?”
There was no car in the back, and he heard no reply, but he took his chances and yelled again, “Hello! Hello! Anybody here?”
His call was answered by footsteps on gravel behind him. “Yes sir. Can I help you?”
Startled, J. D. turned around quickly and said, “Ah—hi.”
“Hi yourself. Can I help you?”
The man staring back at him was tall and thin, wearing work jeans and a heavy chambray shirt. He was carrying a bucket. His back was bent just enough to tell J. D. he was well familiar with hard work—and his weathered skin suggested he was used to doing that hard work in the sun and the wind. He wore a tan cap, stained around the edges from the sweat of his labor and plain in front where there might typically be some sort of advertising. He wore work shoes with soles and heels worn thin and the tops caked with dust. The man, in his early fifties or so, had a pleasant yet sad air about him.
“I’m afraid I’m lost. My car overheated down here in front of your drive. I was wondering if you could give me a hand.”
“I’ll do what I can. I ain’t much of a mechanic.”
“Oh, I don’t need much. I just need a bucket of water.”
“Well, that I can help you with. Would you like to come in?”
“Thanks,” J. D. said and followed the man through the back door into the small and rustic kitchen.
“I’ll draw you a bucket of water. Can I offer you some coffee or anything?” the man asked as he washed his hands at the kitchen sink.
“No, thanks. I would like to use your phone, though, to call my wife and let her know where I am.”
“Can’t help you there, son. We don’t have a telephone.”
“No phone?”
“Naw,” he said, drying his hands on a threadbare towel hanging from a wall hook. “We go across the hill to the next farm when we have to make a call. I can walk you over there if you want.”
“No, that’s fine. It’s not that important.”
The man was about to say something when he was interrupted by a voice from somewhere farther back in the house. “Paul. Paul! Who is it?”
“That’s my wife,” the farmer—Paul, as J. D. was putting all this together—explained. “She’s bedridden.” Then he raised his voice and answered back, “A visitor, Ada. A man with car trouble.” He looked at J. D. and said, “She’s sick. We’ve made her a bed in the parlor. She don’t go out anymore. Maybe never will.”
“Who is it, Paul?” the voice called again.
Paul looked at J. D. and asked, “Who do I tell her it is? You got a name?”
“John David Wickman,” he said, not sure why he was being so formal with his answer.
Paul hollered back, “His name is John. He’s from town, and he needs water for his automobile.”
“Tell him to come in. I never get to see anybody anymore.”
“She’s sick, but she’s also lonesome. Nobody much comes around. Would you like to go in and see her?”
J. D. said, “Sure, I’ll go in and see her,” and followed Paul through hanging beads in a doorway that opened into a modest dining room and then through a wider doorway that became the living room or parlor. All the shades were pulled, and J. D. could just barely make out the shape of a couple of chairs, a sofa, and, over near the front door, a daybed with a figure lying on it. He assumed this was Ada, Paul’s wife. As he came closer he could see the outline of a frail, small body. Her skin was pale and yellowed, and her hair was long and stringy and matted around her forehead. He could smell sickness in the room, and the air became difficult to breathe. Ada reached out her hand and said in a weak voice, “I heard you knock. What’s your name again?”
“John,” J. D. said. He was surprised at how foreign his given name sounded rolling off his tongue. Only a few teachers in high school had ever called him that.
“John. Sit down, John. There’s a chair right there.”
J. D. stumbled in the near-dark room and felt a straight chair behind him. He sat down while Paul stood in the center of the room. J. D. picked up the conversation to fill the awkward silence.
“I had a little car trouble, and your husband is helping me out. I appreciate your hospitality.”
“Paul will help you. He’s good help. He’s a good man. He keeps me alive every day.”
“I see. And your name is Ada? Is that right?”
“Ada Clem. And this is my husband, Paul. Have you met him?”
As J. D. was answering, “Yes, ma’am, I have,” Paul interjected, “She forgets. Sometimes right in the middle of a thought. She knows you one minute, and the next she don’t.”
“I see,” J. D. repeated nervously. “Well, Mrs. Clem, I guess I better start back to town. I’ll get your husband to give me a hand, and I’ll be on my way.”
Ada held out her arm from her bed again as if reaching for something. J. D.’s first instinct was to step toward her and shake her hand, but then on closer inspection it looked as if even a gentle squeeze could break every fragile bone. She peered up at him with watery eyes and said in a faltering voice, “Will you get me something in town, John?”
“Sure. If I can.”
“Would you get me a Dixie Cup of ice cream? I love store-bought ice cream. You know what I mean in a Dixie Cup?”
“Yes ma’am, I know.”
“Ada.” Paul spoke gently and firmly. “This gentleman ain’t comin’ back out here. He’s just passing by.”
“Well, he’ll have to come back to bring me my Dixie Cup, won’t he?”
“We gotta go now, Ada. This man has to get home for supper.”
Maybe it was the word
supper
that turned J. D.’s attention to the smell of something frying in the kitchen, or maybe it was the smell itself that caused him to look toward the doorway with the hanging colored beads. Either way, it was the tension breaker that gave him the opportunity to stand and say, “Good evening, Mrs. Clem. It was nice to meet you, and I hope you’re feeling better soon.”
The feeble voice from the daybed in the ever-growing darkness said, “Good-bye, sir. It was good making your acquaintance.”
Paul led the way, this time toward the kitchen and the good smell of something simmering on the stove. As J. D. pushed through the beads, he could just barely hear music, apparently coming from a radio. But the sight that stopped him was of someone standing at the stove, flipping bread with a spatula into a skillet. The “someone” was small and female, and from the back he couldn’t determine her age. Her hair was long and pulled straight back from her head. She was wearing a thin, light-green dress and was humming with the music from the radio as if unaware of anyone else in the house.
“John, this is my daughter, Lizzie. Lizzie, honey, this is Mr. Wickerman.”
“Wickman,” J. D. corrected as Lizzie turned around and said, “Hi.”
J. D. estimated this pretty young girl to be fourteen years old, but her eyes looked so much older. And although she seemed friendly and bright, he was at a loss as to what else to say to her. His head was still spinning from the conversation he’d just had with her mother.
“John, would you like to stay for supper?” Paul asked.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t. I just ate before I left home. And I really do need to get back. My wife will be wondering where I am.”
Lizzie spoke over her shoulder. “We ain’t got much. We’re having fried bread and applesauce. You like fried bread?”
“Ah, sure. But I’m not hungry, really.”
“Is that your car down on the road?” Lizzie asked, then added before he had time to answer, “It sure is a pretty one.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I go for a ride sometime?”
“Lizzie, Mr. Wickerman is just passing by. He don’t have time for that.”
J. D. fumbled again for the right parting word. “It was good to meet you, Lizzie. I hope to see you again sometime.”
“John, you wait here while I draw that bucket of water, and then I’ll walk down with you to your car.”
As the back door closed, J. D. and Lizzie were left in the room alone. He didn’t know what to say to a fourteen-year-old, so he decided to say nothing. But as she shoveled more butter-battered bread into the skillet, she broke the silence for him.
“Did you come out here to see my mamma?”
“No, I….”
“’Cause if you did, I don’t want you gettin’ her hopes up if you really can’t help her. We’ve had other people out here who claimed they could help her and never did. She just gets sicker, and my daddy gets sadder. So if you’re one of those …”