One Lane Bridge: A Novel by Don Reid Read Free Book Online Page A

support him, that it might disappear just as he was in the middle of it. But he crept across at five miles per hour, watching the land and the stream on all sides. As he drove slowly down the small grade where the bridge ended and the county macadam resumed, he saw the dirt driveway to his right—the same driveway that this morning had been a paved parking lot in front of Stan’s One Stop. His head hurt and his eyes were watering, but he made himself turn up the dusty little lane marked by weeds and vines on both sides. The muffler scraped on the loose dirt and gravel, but he hardly noticed. He was focused on the old frame house that was quickly coming into sight.
    J. D. parked the van near an old tin cistern that looked like it was still in use. He sat for a moment before getting out, collecting his thoughts and preparing himself for whatever greeting, good or bad, he might face. As he closed the car door, the kitchen door opened, and Paul Clem stepped out on the porch. He looked shorter and thinner than he had yesterday and strangely older. The lines in his face were deeper and darker, and he was bareheaded. His hair was gray and thinning. When he spoke, his voice didn’t have the friendly greeting it had yesterday when he had said, “Can I help you?” But J. D. had no reason to expect that same friendliness today. He had offended the man’s sense of dignity and was now back standing in his yard, totally at his mercy.
    “Mr. Clem. How are you doing, sir?”
    “I’m fine. Do I know you?”
    “Yes sir. My name is Wickman. John Wickman. I was here yesterday evening.”
    “You were? I don’t remember you. You got the right house, young fellow?”
    J. D. opened his mouth to offer a reply but suddenly realized he had none. He looked at all his surroundings to make sure he was at the right place because with all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, he couldn’t be certain. But of course he was. And this was the same man. Paul Clem. How else would J. D. have known his name?
    “You are Paul Clem, aren’t you?”
    “That’s right.”
    J. D. remembered the groceries in the back of the van and said, “I don’t want you to take this wrong, but I have some food I brought that I want you to take.”
    “Are you from the church?”
    “The church?”
    “Yeah. The holy rollers down at New Park. They bring stuff up here all the time. If you are, thanks. And if you’re not, thanks. I’ll help you put ’em in the kitchen.”
    Paul ran his hand slowly over the fender of the van as J. D.’s breath quickened at what might be going through the old man’s mind. They made the necessary repeat trips from the vehicle to the kitchen until all the groceries were stacked on the kitchen table.
    J. D. saw a light shining through the beaded doorway that led into the parlor. He asked in a low voice as he set a final bag of canned goods on a kitchen chair, “How’s your wife, Mr. Clem?”
    Paul Clem looked at him with a quick jerk of his head. “What did you say, boy?”
    “I said, how is your wife? Is she feeling any better or about the same?”
    “Oh, she’s feeling better, son. She’s feeling a lot better. Ada’s been dead for two years.”
    The stun from the words and the sting from Paul Clem’s sarcastic attitude left J. D. dumbfounded. Was there some sort of misunderstanding? Was the woman from last night not his wife? Had he misconstrued who she was? No. He distinctly remembered him saying, “That’s my wife. She’s bedridden.” What fresh hell was he going through now? He was about to turn and rush out the back door when someone called from the front parlor.
    “Who is it, Daddy? Who’s here?”
    “Somebody from the church, honey. You go on back to sleep.”
    J. D. recognized the voice coming from the other room. And he knew he couldn’t leave this house again with so many mysteries hanging thickly in the air. He looked at Paul with a sternness he had no right to express and said, “Who is that in