One Lane Bridge: A Novel Read Free

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