One Lane Bridge: A Novel (10 page)

J. D. drove the twenty miles east to Corban Springs and found the address Lavern Justice had written out for him. It was a small brick building on the edge of a strip mall lined with insurance and mortgage offices. There was parking near the front door. He went inside and found behind the reception desk a heavyset, round-faced woman who smiled at him and asked him his name.

“J. D. Wickman.”

Scanning her appointment screen, she said, “Wickman. Wickman. What time was your appointment, Mr. Wickman?”

“I really didn’t have a set time. It was just made by phone a little while ago.”

“And who did you make it with?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t actually make it myself. A Ms. Justice called it in, I think, and I don’t know who she might have talked to.” He dropped his voice and said, “I’m supposed to pick up a prescription for penicillin.”

Looking past her, J. D. counted nine nurses-receptionists-assistants milling around from desk to desk among the filing cabinets. There were more people on her side of the glass than there were on his, and the waiting room was almost full.

“Have a seat, Mr. Wickman, and someone will be with you momentarily.”

He had only been seated a minute, just long enough to glance at the seven other people who were in the waiting room, when a woman in a pink pullover and gray slacks, presumably a nurse, came out and called his name. Every head in the room turned to watch his departure with a scowl. The pink nurse ushered him into a small treatment room and he sat down in a straight-backed chair as she stood in the doorway. She assured him with a smile that the doctor would be in momentarily, then closed the door behind her. He looked around at the charts on the wall explaining blood pressure readings and artery blockage and the insides of the human torso. He picked up a short stack of magazines consisting of
Health Today
and
Progressive Wellness
and tried to find something to read to pass the minutes. He finally decided on a well-worn
Newsweek,
but after leafing through a few pages, he turned back to the front cover and discovered it was three and a half years old. He only hoped doctors were more particular in keeping their medical magazines updated than their news.

After about ten minutes, two short raps at the door announced that someone was about to enter. The door opened, and a short, dark man of indeterminate nationality walked in, wearing a crisp white jacket over a blue open-collar shirt. His thin black hair was receding, and he wore thick red-rimmed glasses.

“I’m Dr. Annata.” His accent was thick and his speech was clipped, and J. D. immediately began worrying if he was going to be able to communicate with him. They shook hands while the doctor held a clipboard in his left.

“I’m J. D. Wickman.”

“Yes. I have your name. You are here for medicine.”

“Yes. Did Ms. Justice talk to you?”

“Ms. Justice.” The way the doctor said her name, J. D. couldn’t tell if he was asking a question or merely repeating what he had just said.

“Ms. Justice,” J. D. said to add clarity.

“Ms. Justice. Ms. Liberty. Mount Rushmore.”

J. D. stared at the doctor. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh at or ignore this little exchange. J. D. wondered if he needed to make up a malady—or had it all been prearranged. Finally, out of desperation, he said to Dr. Annata, “What do you need from me?”

“I need nothing. Nothing. You need something from me. Are you sick?”

“Well”—J. D. hesitated—“I have felt better in my time.”

“Something hurts you, yes?”

“Yes, you could say that. I wasn’t given a lot of information before I came here, but you apparently knew I was coming so you must know what this is all about.”

“About? I know nothing about nothing. What your name?”

“My name’s Wickman. J. D.”

“What your drugstore?”

“Any one you want. I’ll go wherever you want me to.”

“How much you weigh?”

“One hundred seventy-eight pounds. Why? What’s that got to do with it?”

“American citizen?”

“Yes, but I don’t understand.…”

“Caportab?”

“I beg your pardon. I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Caportab?”

“Capsule or tablet? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yah. Caportab?”

“Oh. I don’t care. Either.”

“Amoxicillin. Give you twenty-eight. Don’t stop till all are gone.”

“Yes sir.”

“Fifty dollar.”

“You want it now?”

“Fifty dollar.” And the doctor held out his hand.

Dr. Navin Annata handed him a small piece of white paper with ink scrawling on it and then turned and was gone as quickly as he came. J. D. could hardly believe it. After all the worrying and the scheming, apparently it only took a single phone call from Lavern Justice, and it was done. The medicine was only a drugstore visit away from being in his hands. Who was Lavern Justice, and what was her connection? And who was Dr. Annata to her? He would find out in time, or maybe he would never find out. Right now, it didn’t really matter. He only hoped he could get it to Lizzie in time.

The closer he got to his destination, the more unsure he became. His hands were sweating on the steering wheel, and the air conditioning was making him clammy instead of cool. He took a deep breath but could do nothing to slow his heart pounding in his chest. He turned the radio off because the music was more annoying than soothing, interfering with the wild thoughts rushing through his mind.

The road began to turn to the left as the sun bounced off the windshield and blinded him for a second. When he realized it had blinded him because it was reflecting off the steel beams of the one lane bridge, he whispered a three-word prayer: “Thank You, Lord.” As he crossed the bridge, he realized he had a smile of relief on his face, and then as he turned up the dirt lane to the house and considered what he might actually find, the smile bent into a sickening frown. What if Lizzie was dead? What if the Clem family no longer lived there? What if it was another time altogether and not 1942? There was a queasy, uneasy feeling in his stomach, and he felt less sure of the situation than he ever had.

He pulled next to the old cistern beside the house and turned off his engine. It took every ounce of strength and courage he could conjure up to open the door and step out. The yard was dusty around scattered patches of tall grass. He walked to the back screen door with the grocery bags in his hands and knocked. He was about to go around to the front door when he heard movement inside. A figure he could hardly detect through the screen pushed open the door with squeaky hinges and said, “Hello.”

It was Paul.

“Mr. Clem. Do you remember me?”

He didn’t say anything immediately. He just looked J. D. up and down as if trying to register a proper answer.

“I remember you.”

“I was here before and brought you some groceries.”

“That’s right. What can I do for you?”

“Well, sir, I have some more food, and I wanted to check on Lizzie. How is she?”

Paul Clem stood in the doorway, offering no invitation to come in. He eyed J. D. coldly, and when he did finally speak, it was hard to find a hint of warmth in any of his words.

“Lizzie is a sick little girl.”

“May I see her?”

“Who are you exactly? And why do you keep coming here?”

“My name is Wickman, and to be honest with you, sir, I’m not sure why I keep coming here. But I think it’s because I can help. I can help Lizzie.”

“How?”

J. D. knew the wrong word or the wrong tone could mean losing the moment forever. Paul was on the verge of kicking him off the property. J. D. didn’t want to irritate or anger Paul because there was no way he was going to allow himself to be sent away after having come this far. He chose his words carefully.

“I have food and medication I think will help her. If you’ll let me see her I may be able to make her well.”

“You a doctor, Wickman? Or some kinda county relief worker?”

“No. But trust me, Mr. Clem. I can help her. What do you have to lose by letting me try?”

Paul Clem didn’t answer his question. At least not out loud. After a few moments of consideration, he stepped back and held the door for J. D. to walk past him.

J. D. set the bags on the kitchen table. He looked toward the living room, but it was dark, as if every shade in the house had been pulled. He looked back to Paul standing behind him and asked permission to go to Lizzie by simply raising his eyebrows. Paul, in return, nodded his approval and began taking the groceries from the plastic bags as J. D. pushed his way through the beaded doorway.

J. D. whispered softly as he entered the darkened living room, “Lizzie. Lizzie, it’s me. John Wickman. Are you awake?”

She didn’t answer, but he could hear movement from the far corner. Then a lamp switched on, and he could see the small, frail figure of a blonde-haired girl lying on yellowed sheets. Her hair was glued to her head from the heat, and her face was a mixture of sleep and pain. But through all this she smiled at him and said, “John Wickman. You came back.”

“I did, Lizzie. How are you feeling?”

“Kinda weak. My leg hurts a lot. And my foot.”

“Can I see your foot?” he asked, frightened at the thought of what he might find.

“Sure,” Lizzie said, pulling back the sheets to expose her swollen right foot.

It was much bigger than it had been two days ago, and it had turned from a pink to a yellowish red. He had always heard that red streaks would run up the leg if it was blood poisoning, and to his uneducated eye he was sure he could see signs of that. He didn’t touch it for fear of hurting her. Instead he pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down so he could speak to her in something lower than conversational tones.

“Lizzie, do you have a glass of water in here?”

“Sure,” she said, reaching toward a table on the other side of her bed. “You want a drink?”

“No, but I want you to take this pill.”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out the small bottle of amoxicillin and removed the childproof cap. He shook a tablet out into her hand and watched as she put it to her lips and drained the half-full glass of water. She never questioned what she was taking or why. She totally trusted his authority as she probably did any adult.

“You have to take one of these every six hours. Do you have a watch?”

“No, but there’s a clock over there on the mantle. It was Grandma Clem’s. I get it whenever something happens to Daddy.”

“Okay. Now you keep an eye on the time, and you take one of these again at eight o’clock tonight. And Lizzie, let me show you about this top. It’s a little tricky to work. You have to push down on it and turn it to the right. Here, you try it.”

“I never seen anything like this. Where’d you get this?”

“At the drugstore. It’s … it’s a new kind of bottle. A safety bottle. Do it again to make sure you know how.”

Lizzie did it five or six times, as if playing a game she enjoyed. J. D. took the bottle from her and placed it on the table by her bed. He looked at her pale complexion and gaunt features and felt lost for the proper words to say to her. There was one nagging question in his mind, though, and he knew no better way than to just ask.

“How long since I was last here, Lizzie?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I think so. Was it two days ago?” He held his breath.

“Look at that calendar on the back of the door. I think it’s the thirteenth. I know it’s Sunday. See if it ain’t Sunday the thirteenth, and I think you were here three days ago.”

He walked to the door and looked at the Conner’s Insurance calendar, which had a picture of the Grand Canyon for September. Lizzie was right. It was Sunday, September 13, 1942. Only three days had passed since his last visit. Two years between his first two visits and only three days since his last. Where was the rhyme and reason? But now the days were properly lined up for some purpose beyond his comprehension. It was September 13 on both sides of the bridge. Exactly sixty-five years apart. Sunday afternoon on one side and Thursday afternoon on the other. Did this mean something, or was he trying to make too much of it all? Was every little detail supposed to add up to something important? Or was it just God’s way of keeping him off balance and in the dark? Another of those “mysterious ways” He enjoyed moving in? J. D. could make no sense of it. But all that really mattered was that time had slowed down enough for him to get Lizzie the cure she needed. He hoped, prayed it worked. He would have to come back to find out, and he was already plotting his next visit when he heard Lizzie talking to him.

“Do you think I’m going to die?”

“No, I don’t, Lizzie. I think you’re going to be just fine. But it’s very important you take all these pills. You will do that, won’t you?”

“You think I’ll die if I don’t, don’t you?”

“I think … you might have if we hadn’t gotten those pills to you.”

“I don’t want to die. I lay here at nights and think about dying and how there’s just nothing. You’re dead and you lay in a cemetery forever and ever in the ground, and that scares me.”

“Don’t think those kinds of thoughts, Lizzie. You’re going to be okay. Do you go to church anywhere?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes me and Daddy go to the Four Square Gospel Church. Mamma used to go all the time. We don’t go much anymore. I don’t think he likes church people very much.”

“Did you learn about heaven at that church?”

“Some. But me and Daddy don’t believe in heaven very much.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, Daddy says if you can’t see it and can’t touch it, it ain’t there. And that makes sense to me, too.”

“Lizzie, you can’t see and touch a lot of things, but they’re there none the less.”

“Like what?”

“Well, like the wind. Or the dark. Or the cold. Or the heat. You can sense it and feel it, but you can’t see it or touch it.” J. D. was selling this girl something he hadn’t thought much about himself in the last twenty years. He felt like a preacher and wondered if perhaps he was preaching as much to himself as to her.

“Well, maybe,” Lizzie conceded, “but that still don’t explain heaven. I ain’t seen it, so I don’t believe it. It’s just that simple.”

“Lizzie, you ever travel much?”

“I been to Raleigh.”

“Have you ever been to California?”

“Heavens, no! That’s a long way off.”

“Do you believe there
is
a California?”

“Sure. It’s in my geography book.”

“You’ve never seen it, but you believe it’s there. Just because a book tells you it is.”

“Yeah, I reckon.”

“It’s the same thing, honey. It’s the same thing. It’s called faith.”

J. D. felt for a moment as if he were talking to his own daughter. She looked so vulnerable and breakable and innocent. She could easily have been Angela’s little sister. He wanted to protect her and teach her and help her with so many things she was going to face on her own. He thought of her father, a caring man, certainly, but cold and distant. J. D. couldn’t imagine Paul talking to a young girl about the things she needed to know, the things any daughter needed to learn. Her mother was gone. As J. D. sat there, he felt emotionally sick at Lizzie’s chances. Life, if she lived, would not be easy. He had no idea of her education—how far along in school she was. She seemed bright, but …

A voice came from the shadows behind him. “You about through here?”

It was Paul. J. D. stood and walked toward the doorway leading to the kitchen. He said to Lizzie, “I’ll be back before I leave.”

Paul Clem walked to the kitchen stove and took a sip of water from a tin dipper. He watched J. D. with eyes that trusted nothing.

“You’re right, Mr. Clem. She’s a sick girl. Are you willing now to move her to a hospital?”

“No.”

“Can I bring a doctor?”

“No.”

As Paul Clem dipped more water, he never took his eyes off J. D., and his face never changed expressions. He pointed casually with the dipper toward the table where he had set out all the groceries and said, “Where’d you get that milk?”

“Grocery store.”

“I never seen milk put up like that.”

J. D.’s pulse raced, and he felt perspiration at his temples. He knew he had to be careful in how he answered. What if he leveled with this man and told him what he knew? At worst, there might be an altercation and a little embarrassment. Or maybe this tired, life-beaten man, a product of the Depression, could shine some light on what was happening in both their lives. But he knew in his heart that Paul wasn’t ready for that. No matter how much J. D. wanted to say something, he knew he wasn’t going to confide in Paul Clem.

“That’s called a, uh … a carton. It’s how … uh … some milk comes now.”

J. D. ran the list of groceries quickly through his mind, trying to think what else he might have overlooked that would be a dead giveaway.

“Never seen nothin’ but bottles.”

“Really?” J. D. tried to sound casual. “This is something fairly … new.”

“Everything you got is new, ain’t it, boy? That automobile out there you’re drivin.’ Never seen nothin’ like that around here before you showed up. Just everything about you. The clothes you wear; your haircut. And these strange paper sacks?” Paul held up one of the plastic bags tentatively between his fingers. “You’re a slick one, ain’t you?”