The Bridge, Part 2

Here’s another Weekly Dose of Fiction. Last Wednesday in Part 1, we met Glory Hayes and a young tabloid reporter who could make no sense of what he saw and heard when he accompanied Glory to the bridge. So now we’re moving on in the story. As I wrote in last week’s post, even though—like usual—I want to explain the genesis of The Bridge, I do NOT know where this story came from.

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Image by RÜŞTÜ BOZKUŞ from Pixabay

The Bridge

Part 2

I spent the better part of my afternoon with Glory Hayes for nothing, but I can’t forget what I saw and heard, even if it makes no sense. I’m still rattled, so I pop open a cold beer and settle into my desk chair. This town isn’t a metropolis. The history is pretty easy to track, so I pull up my browser and enter the words: 1955, fire, Wooten, PA.

And there it is. The high school auditorium at the old Wooten High went up in flames. Cause? My fingers freeze on the keyboard.

Suspected Arson.

Three students died from smoke inhalation. One teacher succumbed later to burns sustained while trying to save people trapped inside. I stop reading when the name Michael Davidson appears. My grandfather. He was a hero that day, but it scarred him as he rescued several other students who’d taken shelter in a closet.

I’ve started down the rabbit hole, and I can’t stop now. The reporter described the scene so vividly that I cringe while reading. In a small town like this, everyone was affected by that disaster.

I type in: Prom, 1955, Wooten High. The headlines are: Prom Cancelled. Further down the page, up comes Glory Hayes, Queen and…I choke on the sip of beer I’ve just taken…Michael Davidson, King.

My grandfather’s name stops me again. The image of Glory and him is grainy, but I recognize them. They’re standing next to a boathouse, his arm around seventeen-year-old Glory, smiling down at her as if she were the one. His forever girl.

Now, I have to listen to what that old bag was going on about. I reach for my phone and play back what I recorded. Glory’s voice is clear, but there’s something else…a murmur in between what she says.

I go back and increase the volume, then hold the phone close to my ear.

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

“Behind you. Turn around.”

I jab the stop button, my hand shaking. I’d heard what Glory said, but this second voice…I had not heard at all. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and restart the playback.

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

“1955. You graduated from high school, remember? You were seventeen.” This second voice is calm and sweet.

“And how could I forget?” Even on the tape, Glory’s anger comes across.

“Whew. The queen’s frosted. You never used to let anything get under your skin.”

“Seventy-one years tend to change a person. I’m no longer the queen, and for your information, frosted means cold now, not angry.”

“Some things change, but others don’t,” the younger voice says with a tinge of sadness.

“So why are you here from 1955? 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.”

“I can’t choose when you…or I…or maybe I should just say We appear in time. Maybe you’re coming to…sorry, the end, so whoever set this annual visit up thinks you need to take a look at the year you made your biggest mistake. We should all pay for our crimes, don’t you think?”

“Just shut up. Don’t say one word about that fire. That’s enough. Don’t ever come back. Hear me?”

“Whatever you say, Glory.”

The last of the message is Glory’s command to me.

“Stop recording. Now.”

PART 3 NEXT WEDNESDAY

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