One Lane Bridge: A Novel Read Free Page A

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 …”
    Her words trailed off with the sizzling from the stovetop. He could hear tears in her voice—but more than that, anger.
    “Who tried to help her, Lizzie? Doctors?”
    “No. Not real doctors. But medicine people. People who have all kinds of cures that never work.”
    There were so many things to