One Lane Bridge: A Novel Read Free Page B

ask, but he sensed the girl was upset over things she didn’t really understand. He didn’t want to push buttons she didn’t have the maturity to handle. He nearly asked, “What are you cooking?” before remembering she’d already told him.
    J. D. could only imagine that Lizzie was frying bread because there was nothing else in the house for supper. The words stumbled awkwardly out of his mouth.
    “Lizzie, I, ah … I own a restaurant. We … we have lots of food there …”
    “We’ve got food, Mr. Wickerman. That’s what I’m doing now is fixing supper.”
    “But if there’s anything you need … I mean … if you need something …”
    “We’re doing fine, Mr. Wickerman. Me and Daddy and Mamma, we like fried bread.”
    The door opened, and Paul stuck his head in and said, “Got your water, John. Let’s go get this contraption started.”
    John turned and started toward the door. Lizzie had her back to him, intent on what she was doing at the stove. J. D. recognized the music on the radio—traditional country music. Ernest Tubb or Eddy Arnold or one of those older guys. The sweet smell of bread warmed the chilly, twilight-tinged kitchen. He decided against saying good-bye to the girl, wondering if he’d offended her. He quietly slipped through the back door and out into the dirt yard, following Paul, who was a good twenty yards ahead of him with a two-gallon bucket of water in his hand.
    As they approached the green TR3, Paul whistled and said, “Wow. Now that’s a dandy-lookin’ machine. Never seen one of those. What do you call it?”
    “Triumph. English made. Little banged up. Needs a little work, but it runs pretty good.”
    “Well, here, I’ll let you put the water in. I might pour it in the wrong hole.”
    They laughed, and J. D. got in the driver’s seat and started the engine just in case it hadn’t cooled down enough. He remembered all too well the first car he ever had while still in high school. This same thing had happened to him and his friend Jack. They had pulled into a service station and got a water hose—and in their youthful ignorance, filled the steaming radiator with the motor off and busted the block in the engine. His father never got over it. So while J. D. filled the radiator, this time with the motor purring, Paul stood off to the side, watching intently with his hands in his pockets. J. D. spoke to him without turning.
    “Mr. Clem, has a doctor seen your wife?”
    “Doctors cost a lot of money, son. And I don’t know what they can do for her.”
    “Well, I don’t either. But shouldn’t someone see her?”
    “There’s been folks here to see her, but nobody can help.”
    J. D. turned and looked the farmer in the face and saw the fear in his eyes. “Paul, I’ll pay for a doctor if you’ll let me bring one out. And do you need food?”
    Paul Clem’s face froze, and his eyes went from sad to indignant. J. D. knew he had crossed the line, but it was too late to retract his words.
    “We’re doin’ just fine, Mr. Wickerman. We have food on the table, and we don’t need any doctor. I ain’t on relief and never have been. Good day, sir, and it was pleasant meetin’ you.”
    “Mr. Clem, I’m sorry if I offended you. I never meant to imply that you were not a good provider. I just thought … I just wanted you to know that I was willing to help in any way I could.”
    Halfway through his last sentence, he found himself talking to the back of a figure walking slowly but determinedly up the dirt lane toward the rundown farmhouse. And as J. D. stood swallowing bitter words he wished he had never spoken, he looked farther up the hill and saw the silhouette of Lizzie Clem against the nearly nighttime sky. She was waiting for her daddy to come to supper.
    J. D. slammed the hood, then the car door, and turned the Triumph sharply around in the road to head back across the one lane bridge toward town. He now had his daughter, his mother, his business, and a family of