The Bridge

Part 1

I’ve been pretty consistent with telling my readers where the idea for each of my stories comes from, but not this time. I don’t know how it started, and for weeks, I didn’t know where it was going. Then, it kind of got away from me and turned out longer than I wanted. I’m still tweaking the end, so I hope you’ll stay with me and come back for Part 2 next week.

Image by RÜŞTÜ BOZKUŞ from Pixabay

The Bridge

According to Bruno, my boss, Ms. Glory Hayes might be an odd duck, but she’s the odd duck who keeps the Wooten Monthly afloat. Her father started this tabloid in 1929 during the Great Depression, when he described the publication as “Stories to take your mind off your troubles and think about someone else’s.” When he died, Glory took it over until she found Bruno, who needed work that didn’t require too much physical labor.

Now, she keeps our little scandal-sensation rag funded for sentimental reasons. That’s fine by me because that means she pays my salary, which I need until I can land a job with a real newspaper.

She called yesterday, saying she wanted someone to come see her and write a piece for next month’s issue. Her wish is Bruno’s command, and, therefore, mine.

I arrive on time. Knock on her door, and when she opens it, she’s putting on her coat. She’s a small woman with laser blue eyes that peer up at me from under puffy lids. She seems to be studying my face as if I remind her of someone and she can’t remember who.

“Hello, young man. It’s the first of the month,” she says as if I’d asked the date.

“Right.” I can tell this is going to be a challenge to understand what she’s talking about, so I click on my Voice Memo App. “Do you mind if I record this?”

She shrugs. “No, but I can’t explain what happens on the first day of the month. I have to take you along with me. Just don’t interrupt. In fact, pretend you’re in a theater watching a movie and being polite. Don’t talk. Listen and watch.” She pulls the door closed behind her. “Ready? We have a short walk to the river, less than a mile. Come along. Keep up.*

The woman is sixty years older than I am, but I have trouble staying with her. It’s my writer’s lifestyle, too much sitting.

We leave the street and start down a dirt path that leads into the trees. The sun is lower, and under the canopy, it’s hard to see. I switch on my cell’s flashlight and aim it at the ground. This is creeping me out—the silent trudge through the woods, the way she rushes ahead as if she’s late.

I’ve lost all sense of where we are when she looks back at me, caught in the beam of my cell phone, and points forward.

“This is it.”

We’ve stopped at the edge of Wooten’s last wooden bridge, its planks warped by many seasons of rain, snow, and sun. The handrail tilts out along the edges, close to plunging into the river. The metal plaque reads, Justice.

“It used to be called the Justice Hayes bridge after one of the early settlers, but they shortened it when they hanged the man for stealing horses.”

Since she asked me not to talk, I try to express interest with a nod.

She signals for me to wait and steps to the middle of the bridge, where she begins talking to herself.

I’d take off, but she is old, so it’s not right to leave her alone. And, without her, I can’t pay my rent. I hold out my phone with the record on and listen.

“Hello, It’s Glory, 2026. I’m back! Where are you?”

Glory turns toward me, so now I can see her face, but she’s not looking at me. She frowns and shakes her head.

“Oh, no. You! You’ve jumped backward, not forward like usual! What’s the year?”

Her lips part with a smile touched with regret and maybe a little fear.

Now, fear vanishes. She clenches her fists, and anger springs full force across her face.

“And how could I forget?” She grinds those words between her teeth.

Again, she pauses, listening to what I guess is a voice only she can hear. I lean a bit closer and cock my head as if I’m hard of hearing.

“Living a long time tends to change a person. I’m no longer the queen, and frosted means cold now, not angry.”

Glory shakes her head and glances my way. “Are you recording this?”

I hold up my phone to be polite. The woman’s a nut case. I have no way to deal with a loony octogenarian. I swear I need to find another way to make a living.

“So why are you here from 1955?” Glory asks what I’m guessing is her imaginary friend. “I thought you’d be here from another time. You know, when I was on the city council or the president of the library board.” Glory looks my way as if to make sure I’ve heard about her civic involvement.

Then suddenly, she steps back as if someone has tried to slap her. “Just shut up.” Glory stomps one foot. “Don’t say one word about that fire.” Once again, she talks to the air. “That’s enough. Don’t ever come back. Hear me?” Then she faces me and yells, “Stop recording. Now.”

I click off my phone and wait until she joins me. Her steps are slower, and she’s dragging that foot she so angrily punished against the ancient wood planks.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine. Forget that story. I don’t want any of it told.” She strikes off ahead of me, but I can see she’s having trouble walking. She seems to have gotten much older in only a few minutes.

When we reach her house, she goes inside without looking at me and slams the door.

I don’t know what the hell just happened.

Part 2, next Wednesday

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