One Lane Bridge: A Novel (15 page)

As bad as Friday night had been, the worst of his life, Saturday night wasn’t much better. He and Karlie hardly spoke. The only words exchanged between them were about Angela. She had called and told Karlie what a wonderful time she’d had at the mixer and how glad she was to be back at school. Whatever metamorphosis had taken place in her young heart or mind was certainly welcome. At least his daughter was happy. He only wished he and his wife were. Maybe when all of this was over, things would get back to normal, and they would never have to talk or think about it again. Sadly, he couldn’t imagine a time when he wouldn’t think about it. It was becoming a growing, indelible pain that he feared would be a memory he’d take to his grave. How could he ever forget the pallid and sickly face of Lizzie Clem lying on those yellowed sheets? Or the squint of Paul Clem’s eyes when he said, “You’re a slick one, ain’t you?” These and other images gave way to few moments of rest as he lay in bed, fitfully trying to make sense of it all. He found himself praying, hard and desperately, for a solution—for comfort—for peace of mind. He resigned in his heart that only God could rescue him from the misery and confusion he had been thrust into.

The phone startled him awake. It was as if the ring was clanging inside his head instead of just next to it. He glanced quickly at the alarm clock on the nightstand: 5:10 a.m. He sat straight up. He thought of his mother—had something happened? He grabbed it and nearly shouted, “Hello.”

Karlie was awake and asking, “Who is it? Who is it?”

J. D. waved her off and listened intently. If someone was saying anything on the other end, he certainly couldn’t hear it. He repeated, “Hello? Hello?” each time a little louder than before. And then finally he heard the voice.

“J. D.,” Lavern Justice said with no apology in her tone for calling at such an hour. “Do you take the Fayetteville paper?”

“No.”

“Then go online and call it up. The obits. I’ll talk to you later.”

The line went dead, and he sat there in bed with his brain scrambled.

“Who was that?”

“A woman I know.”

“A woman? At five o’clock in the morning? What is going on, J. D.?”

“Nothing. Not what you think, anyway.”

“What woman?”

“Her name is Lavern Justice. You don’t know her. She’s an older woman.”

“And why is she calling my house and my husband at five o’clock in the morning?”

“You wouldn’t understand. Just let it go.”

“Let it go, you say. Would you if some man was calling me at home in the middle of the night?”

“It’s not the middle of the night, Karlie. You just said yourself, it’s five o’clock in the morning. She’s a woman who has been helping me with some research.”

J. D. said all this while getting out of bed and putting on his pants and shirt.

He stopped just before leaving the room and looked at his distraught wife, who was now sitting against the headboard with both hands to her mouth. All he could see was the hurt and fear in her eyes.

“I promise you, honey, there’s no reason to worry. It’s about what’s been going on. Something’s up. I don’t know what, but I need to go to the computer. I’ll tell you all about it later.” He turned and left the room and then ran down the stairs taking two steps at a time. He went to the basement and hit one button that started the whirr and the other one that lit up the screen. All he could think of was that DSL should be faster than this.

He typed in
Fayetteville Observer,
and when the home page popped up, he looked for obituaries. He paused just a moment, the cursor hovering over the word. His heart was racing. He took a deep breath and clicked.

The accounts of all city and surrounding-area deaths were apparently in alphabetical order. He scrolled each one of them. The first was Acord. Then Bell and Bosserman. Friedman. Hanger. He scrolled slowly through to the last one, Walker, and still didn’t see what he was supposed to be looking for. Twenty-one deaths in all, but no Clem. He started from the top again, and this time he scanned each one, looking for a clue. There was nothing until he got to the Ss. And there it was. Elizabeth Clem Stockendale. All the air went out of his chest, and a pain shot between his shoulder blades. He took a deep breath and slowly read every word.

Elizabeth Clem Stockendale

Fayetteville—Elizabeth Ann (Clem) Stockendale, 81, of 327 Holyoke Lane, went to see the Lord at 2:25 p.m. on Thursday, September 13, 2007 at her home. She was the widow of Robert Mason Stockendale, who preceded her in death in August of 1952.

She was born on April 4, 1926 in Norge Springs, North Carolina, a daughter of the late Paul C. and Ada L. Clem.

Mrs. Stockendale was a teacher in the Missouri school system for forty-one years and retired in 1995. She married Robert Stockendale in the summer of 1947 in West Plains, Missouri, and after his death in 1952 during the Korean Conflict, she attended Warten State Teacher’s College and received her degree in English. She retired to her home state and enjoyed gardening, reading, and her best friend—her dog, Champ.

In addition to her parents and her husband, she was preceded in death by a brother, Carl Alton Clem, who was aboard the USS
Arizona
at Pearl Harbor. She is survived by one niece, Lucille Clem Tanner—husband George C. Tanner; two great nieces, Patsy Boyer and Colleen Hiezer; two great-grand nieces, Linda Boyer and Cathy Boyer; and one great-grand nephew, Lyle Hiezer.

There will be no visitation or funeral service at the request of the deceased. The body will be cremated.

He read it all again. And then again. Now he knew why he couldn’t cross over yesterday and the day before. It was all over. He had sat along the road yesterday evening with all those items from the Barn and Farm store in his van and just stared at the spot where the house had been. Something had told him he would never cross over again. He felt that somewhere down deep where you feel fear and anxiety. And these words on a flickering computer monitor explained why. Lizzie was already dead.

He drew his eyes back to the time of death. 2:25 p.m. Thursday. It must have been just minutes after he left the farmhouse for the last time. Just minutes after he sat in the dusty lane and saw something move past the shades in the upstairs window. Maybe that
wasn’t
Paul. Maybe it was Lizzie. But he knew this for certain. The medicine had worked. He had saved her life. He didn’t know how it all happened or why, but he did know he couldn’t stop here. He still needed answers. He had to know what was being kept from him. By God Himself. And he knew before he even got up from his chair that he was going to Fayetteville.

J. D. drove to the end of the dead-end street and turned around, giving himself a little more time to come up with a good story about who he was and why he was here. He wanted to have it all planned out in his head before he walked up and introduced himself to the woman loading the car. He just needed some time to figure out what he was going to say. By the time he had come back up the street and was pulling to the curb in front of the little white house, he still had no idea. So he just turned off the engine, got out, and walked up the couple of steps to the front porch. He had come this far not knowing what he was doing, so why stop now?

Just as his foot hit the porch, the front door flew open, and a huge golden retriever took a leap and hit him in the chest with two enormous front paws. J. D. laughed, grabbing the dog with both hands and ruffling the hair on top of his head. “Hey, boy! You nearly knocked me over.”

The dog panted and smiled and panted some more, and J. D. was instantly on his knees, rubbing the dog’s head vigorously. The woman who had been loading the car a few minutes before came rushing out and said, “I think Champ likes you, mister. He’s such a friendly pup and so full of energy.” And then, in the same breath, she changed the direction of her one-sided conversation and said to the dog, “Leave the man alone, Champ.” And then to J. D, “I hope you like dogs, ’cause that dog sure does like you.”

J. D. looked up at her and, never taking his hands off the animal, said, “I love dogs, and he’s a pretty one.”

“My name is Lucille Tanner. Are you a neighbor? We don’t live around here, so we don’t know many of Auntie Liz’s neighbors, but she sure had some good ones. They all looked in after her and saw to her needs. Some really good people in this neighborhood. Where do you live? Next door? I think that’s the cutest house next door. You’ll have to tell me where you got that porch awning. It reminds me of a house we had at the beach one time.”

J. D. was digesting the situation almost as fast as Lucille was talking. Not quite, but almost. This must be Lizzie’s niece. If he underplayed his part just enough, Lucille’s constant, breathless chatter could work to his advantage. Keep her talking, and he could find out everything he needed to know.

“So which house is yours?”

“Well, none of them actually. I don’t live in this neighborhood.”

“Oh. How did you know Auntie Liz? She had so many friends. People just seemed to take to her. All kinds of people.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m just a friend.”

“Well, I know it’s a little soon, but we’re going to get this house ready to put on the market. Just as soon as we get some of this stuff cleaned out inside. My husband, George, is in there now. He’s started in the attic, and I have never seen such a mess. Mind you, I loved my Auntie Liz, but I do believe she saved everything she ever owned. Get down, Champ. Leave the man alone.”

“He’s not bothering me. I love dogs.”

“I love ’em, too, but I don’t want ’em all over me. She never disciplined her animals, but she loved this one. Took good care of ’im. I have to say that. You’re a friend of Auntie Liz’s. You say you’re not a neighbor. You knew her well?”

“Well, yes. I knew her and thought the world of her.”

“She was a good woman, wasn’t she? Everybody who ever met her just loved her to death. And she had so many students all those years she taught that she kept up with. They would call her and write to her, and they always sent Christmas cards. I just don’t know how I’ll ever get the word to all of them that she’s passed. I was thinking about putting a piece in the paper out there in Missouri or something like that. You know, just to let them know. They all thought so much of her. How did you know her then? And what’s your name?”

Lucille was making J. D. dizzy. The number of subjects she could cover in one take was putting him in a fog. He wasn’t sure he could think fast enough to dodge this ole gal.

“My name’s J. D. Wickman. And I was real sorry to see in the paper this morning about your aunt.”

“We knew it was coming, but you know, you’re still never prepared for these sort of things. I’m all the real family she has left. She only had the one brother. That was my father. He was older than she was, and he died at Pearl Harbor. I never knew him. He was shipped out before I was even born. Before the war even started. It was just them two. My daddy and Auntie Liz. And when she got married and moved out to the west she never had much family out there either. Her husband, now, his name was Bob Stockendale, he was killed in the war just like my daddy. A different war, but still just the same. I only saw him once, I think. They were only married for a few years, and then there she was all those years by herself. Never remarried. Should have. I told her all the time she should have. We used to write real regular, and I told her she needed a man. But Auntie Liz—boy, she had a mind of her own. What’s your name again?”

“Wickman. J. D.”

“What’s that stand for? That J. D.?”

“John David.”

“I like that better. I’ll just call you John. That’s easier. My husband had a cousin they called B. B., and I thought that was the silliest thing I ever heard. I just called him Bob. I never knew what the Bs even stood for, but I just called him Bob. Auntie Liz did a lot of charity work at the library here after she retired. She loved books. Loved to read. She’s got rooms full of books in there. I don’t know what we’re going to do with all of them. Is that where you knew her from? The library?”

“Yes.” J. D. knew if he was just patient and waited, Lucille would provide his cover for him, and she did.

“I think Champ really likes you. Don’t know what we’re going to do with him either. We live up in Virginia, and we can’t take him. George has huntin’ dogs, and I don’t think they’d mix. That’s why we can’t stay more than a couple of days. We’ve got dogs and grandchildren up there. I hope we can get all this mess cleaned up in a couple of days. We’ll have to come back for the sale. Heaven knows when that will be. There’s just so much to do, and I guess I’m not getting much of it done standing out here talking to you. Do you want to come in?”

“Sure. I’ll help pack things up if you would like for me to.”

“We can always use another hand.” She opened the screen door, and they went inside, the dog leading the way. “This is the living room. This is where the neighbor across the street found her. Bless her heart, she was sitting right there in that chair, reading one of her novels. She loved mysteries. And it was as if she had just fallen asleep. The neighbor was bringing her mail in, and she knocked on the door, and when Auntie Liz didn’t answer, she looked in the window and saw her just sitting there as if she’d fallen asleep. Peaceful-like. What a sweet way of goin’. She called the ambulance, you know, the rescue squad, and they broke the lock and came on in. But she was gone when they got here. Just slept away. Heart attack, I guess. That’s how they came up with the time of death. They figured she’d been dead about thirty minutes by the time they got to her. George! George!” she yelled up the steps. “He can’t hear me. He must be in the attic.”

Her attention was quickly back on J. D. “For instance, here’s an old box of pictures we found this morning. I don’t know who any of these people are. I never knew any of my family. Never even knew my grandmother or my grandfather for that matter. I might have seen him once, but I can’t clearly remember.” All the time she was talking, she was handing the pictures to J. D., and he was leafing through them. “Now, that one I’m pretty sure must have been my grandfather, even though there’s nothing written on the back.”

J. D. looked at the tall, thin figure in the three-piece suit and saw Paul Clem staring back at him, his foot raised on the bumper of a 1936 Chevy. Before he thought, he said, “Yeah, that’s him all right.”

“What? You didn’t know him did you? Of course you didn’t. How old are you, son?” Then she chuckled.

“No.” J. D. faked a laugh while cold perspiration broke out on his neck. “I just meant Lizzie looked exactly like him.”

“Lizzie. Funny you should say that. No one called her that anymore. Did she tell you to call her that? Because she was always Miss Elizabeth to all her students and friends. But speaking of my grandfather. I said I never knew him. Did you know what happened to him? Did she ever tell you?”

“No, she never said much about him.”

“I’m not surprised. I mean, I think he was a good man and all, but he had a lot on him. Lost his wife, then lost a son in the war, and one day he just took a shotgun and went upstairs in the front room and ended it all. Shot himself in the head, and nobody at home except poor Auntie Liz—and she was just a teenaged girl at the time.”

J. D. froze at the memory of seeing that final image in the upstairs bedroom. Was the movement he saw really Paul, and could it have been …? He was afraid to finish his thought.

“Right in the house. What a shame. What a crying shame for poor Auntie Liz. It was no wonder she never talked about it. Here are some empty boxes, John. You can pack those books over there and all those knickknacks. She had oodles, didn’t she? This was the room she lived in most. I think there were nights she never even went up to bed. She just slept in that chair. Everything she needed was right here at her fingertips. The TV, a radio, her sewing basket, all those books. And look. Here’s her little Bible they gave her when she was in grade school. A little New Testament. Do you have any idea how old that is?”

“Yeah, I think I do,” J. D. said, absently touching the ragged corners.

“You just make yourself at home. I’ll go up and help George. He falls sometimes. Has trouble with his balance, and he’s got no business up there in that attic by himself.”

And as Lucille’s voice trailed off going up the steps, J. D. knelt down and rubbed Champ’s head again. He needed a minute to think about Paul and the shadow at the window, but he was having trouble processing everything that was being thrown at him. He looked around the room and found it hard to believe that the old woman who had just died here three days ago was the same teenaged girl he had just talked to three days ago. The air was suddenly thick, and his emotions almost too much for him to handle. Champ saved the day when he licked him on the side of the face and brought him back to reality.

J. D. stood and walked around the chair. He looked at the pictures on the wall. Landscapes and flowers. No family portraits or snapshots. The curtains were old and dark, and the room-size rug was worn at the edges. The books ranged from the classics to the mysteries Lucille said her aunt loved. There was everything from Chaucer and Twain to Erle Stanley Gardner and Ngaio Marsh. They were all arranged in alphabetical order according to authors. He looked through the Cs, and sure enough, there was a hardback copy of Agatha Christie’s
The Body in the Library.
The same book he still had in the back of the van. He had made a good choice after all. He said aloud, “I knew you’d like that book, Lizzie.”

“Did you say something?”

J. D. turned quickly and saw whom he assumed to be George standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“You must be George Tanner. I’m John Wickman.”

“My wife said you were down here. I’m on my way to the basement. She’s still upstairs. Tell her where I am if she comes down. And don’t let her talk your leg off.”

“I’ll do my best.”

J. D. sat down in Lizzie’s chair. The chair she had died in. He looked across the room at the nineteen-inch TV and the lamp sitting beside it and filled his mind with the idea that he was seeing the final things she had seen just before she closed her eyes for the last time. Champ came and put his chin in J. D.’s lap. With one hand J. D. rubbed the dog’s head, and with the other he reached down and picked up the TV listing insert she had kept on the floor by her chair. Under the paper was an old tan sewing basket. He picked up the basket with his free hand and put it in his lap. He opened it.
It’s strange,
he thought,
how we all keep close to us the things we love the most. The things that tell our life stories.

He reached inside the basket, and among the threads and buttons and thimbles and little packs of needles, he picked up some old campaign buttons. One for somebody named Turner who had run for the Senate in Missouri. A Truman button from 1948. Two movie tickets to the Rialto. This could have been the last movie she and Robert had gone to see together. Coins. Some nickels and dimes and some old eagle half-dollars. A picture in a small silver frame of a man in uniform standing in front of a tank. Robert, again, he was sure. There were a couple of keys, maybe to the house but probably to nothing. Keys often have a way of outstaying their usefulness and even their memory. He looked at a picture of a small country church, and on the border she had written “Easter Sunday 1953.” And in the very bottom of the basket was something yellow he couldn’t quite make out. He dug with his one hand, still stroking Champ’s head, and touched something round and plastic. He picked it up and recognized it immediately. It was a pill bottle, and the faint, faded letters, almost unreadable with age, said,
Dr. N. Annata—J. D. Wickman—Amoxicillin.
And it was dated three days ago.
September 13, 2007.