Crossing the Bridge (26 page)

Regardless, what Iris and Chase had between them seemed more intimate to me after that conversation. It was as though what she’d revealed wasn’t just a physical reality, but an emotional one as well. And it left me utterly off stride. I’d vaguely considered the notion of becoming her brother-in-law. But becoming an uncle had so many additional implications and reverberated so much stronger ten years later.

I lay the top of the case on the workbench and pulled out a carving tool. I didn’t want to do anything
elaborate with these displays, but I thought a few etchings would improve them. I set to work carving three subtly curved lines on each side. This was the first time I’d used this tool in ten years and I needed to exercise great care. The concentration allowed me a few minutes’ diversion.

But then there was the other thing to think about from the day before – the argument between Chase and Iris when she’d told him that she was pregnant and the way he’d walked out on her that day. For the past ten years, Iris had been carrying around the belief that this argument had led in some way to the accident that night. It was so easy for me to dismiss it, especially given my much closer proximity to Chase – and my much greater opportunity to save him – in the time before he took his fatal drive. But was I dismissing it too easily? Chase surely got as drunk as he did that night because he was upset about the way his future was redefining itself. Could Iris have handled the conversation differently? Should she have allowed the fact of the pregnancy to sink in before she confronted him with her conviction to keep the child? Was Iris right in carrying this guilt with her a decade hence?

I pulled back and noticed that I’d angled one of the curved lines incorrectly. This was going to take some work to fix. And perhaps today wasn’t the best time to do it.

I put the tools aside and shut down the workshop for the day. I spent a few minutes bouncing a ball against the concrete wall before heading upstairs. They weren’t expecting me in the store, but I decided to go there anyway.

“You’re playing like a drone,” my father said as we sat across from each other during our next chess match. “Your moves are totally predictable.”

“If they’re so predictable, why are you having so much trouble countering them?”

“I have to do something to keep myself entertained.”

A comment like this would have stung a few weeks earlier. But I knew that the books I’d read and the practice games I’d played online were making me better. There was still no chance that I could beat my father, but I was putting up more resistance. Hence the “trash talk” from him. I think this was his way of letting me know that I was becoming a worthier opponent.

I sat back and took a bite from my bagel. Whole wheat, which would never be my first choice. My favorites were salt bagels, but eating one in front of my father seemed cruel. He moved his Queen’s Bishop to King Five. I quickly countered.

“I saw that one coming,” I said. “Speaking of predictable.”

He scowled. “I’m baiting you and you don’t even realize it.”

“How do you know that
I’m
not baiting
you
?”

He glanced up at me as though he was giving my question a moment’s consideration and then looked back down at the board. Consideration over.

It turned out to be the longest match we’d played to date. I’d been keeping track of the number of moves it took until checkmate for several weeks now.

When we were finished, I reached into a bag that I’d gotten from the bagel store and pulled out a glazed chocolate doughnut. I broke the doughnut in two and reached out with a piece to my father.

“Whoa,” he said. “This is not exactly on my approved diet.”

“I gave you the smaller piece.”

He took the doughnut from me. “Have you decided that since you can’t beat me you’re going to kill me?”

“You saw right through that one, huh?”

He looked at the doughnut for nearly a minute before taking a bite. After he did, he took another one quickly and then closed his eyes, as though this would allow him to heighten the sensation of the taste. When he opened his eyes, his expression was sadder than I would have expected and he put the unfinished piece down on his plate.

“I feel like my life is over,” he said.

In many ways, I’d been expecting this conversation from the very first time I set up the chessboard.

“Baby steps, Dad,” I said.

“I’m not taking any steps at all.”

“You
are
taking some. You’re kicking my ass in chess. That requires at least a little effort, right?”

“Not much.”

“But it’s something. And you can take more. The doctor says you can, doesn’t he?”

“The doctor doesn’t live inside of me.”

“Do you feel like something is happening? Do you feel weak? Do you feel like something is coming on?”

“I just feel wrong.”

He pulled his robe close around him and, for the first time in a week, tied the sash. He got up and moved tentatively to his chair.

“You’ve never gone through anything like this before,” I said.

“I’ve gone through
something
like this before,” he said sharply.

“I meant you’ve never gone through anything like this physically.”

“What’s your point?”

“That maybe you’re supposed to feel wrong because your body is making adjustments.”

“Or maybe I feel wrong because my heart is about fail on me at any minute.”

“So from your perspective it’s better to petrify than to die, huh?” This came out more critical than I’d intended and I thought about saying something else to soften it. But when my father looked at me, he didn’t seem angry or hurt, but rather a little baffled.

He settled back in his chair and reached for the remote control. “Let’s leave this for now,” he said, turning on the television. “You played a good match today.”

I kissed him on the forehead and walked away. Before I left the room, I took the rest of his doughnut.

Iris and I usually spoke on the phone at least once every couple of days, but in the five days since we’d been on the beach, I hadn’t called her and she hadn’t called me. I knew this was sending her a message. I just wasn’t sure whether I wanted to send it or not and, regardless, I didn’t know what else to do. Eventually it didn’t matter anymore when my mother woke me out of a sound sleep with the phone in her hand.

“It’s Iris,” she said, turning to go back to her room before I could even apologize for waking her.

“I wasn’t expecting to get your mother,” Iris said. “Why don’t you answer the phone?”

“It’s not my house. Why didn’t you call my cell?”

“It went straight to voice mail. Do you think your mother’s angry with me?”

“I think she’s probably asleep again already.”

We fell silent. I sat back against the headboard.

“You haven’t called,” she said.

“I know.”

“I’ve kinda gotten used to you calling.”

“I know. I’m sorry, I should have called.”

“That was a little weird on the beach last Wednesday, wasn’t it?”

I slid down to lay my head on the pillow. “I don’t know what it was last Wednesday. I guess I have been feeling a little weird about it.”

“I shouldn’t have told you about the pregnancy.”

“Of course you should have told me about the pregnancy. We’re supposed to be able to talk to each other like that, aren’t we?”

“Are we?”

I thought for a minute. “Yeah, of course we are.”

“But it still made you feel weird.”

“I didn’t say that there would never be a time when we would feel uncomfortable.”

“What are you uncomfortable about?”

“I’m currently uncomfortable with feeling uncomfortable, so this might not be the best time to ask me that question.”

“I don’t want you to lose respect for me.”

“The very last thing you ever have to be concerned about is my losing respect for you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure. Whatever I’m feeling has nothing to do with that. You being pregnant with Chase’s kid was a bombshell. We haven’t talked about anything at that level before. And going back to the day that Chase died brought up a lot of stuff. It’s not a big thing.”

“It’s a big thing to me that you haven’t called.”

“I was planning on calling. You haven’t called me, either.”

“But I
did
just call. As your mother, currently tossing and turning because I woke her up, will attest.”

“You’re right; I was wrong.”

The air between us was still for several seconds. “I felt a little weird, too,” Iris said.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Telling you that stuff, I guess. Hearing what you had to say about that night with Chase. I was feeling pretty naked out there.”

“I know.”

Things fell silent again. I was glad to have her here. Glad to know that she’d reached out to me. If we were together, it wouldn’t have seemed so strange that we weren’t saying anything.

“What have you been doing?” she said.

“The usual stuff with the store, working on display cases down in the basement, losing to my father, reading Updike. I special ordered a couple of books about New Mexico and they came in yesterday, so I’ve been reading those. I’m starting to have second thoughts about Tucumcari.”

“Specifically Tucumcari or about New Mexico in general?”

“No, specifically Tucumcari. Some other towns sound more interesting. That’s assuming, of course, that the store ever sells and I get sprung.”

“It’ll sell. You’ll get the chance to make your get-away soon enough.”

“I should be so lucky.”

There was another pause.

“Listen, Hugh, I know I’m supposed to play along with this and tell you to keep your chin up and that you’ll be free soon, but I wouldn’t be honest if I did that. I don’t want to lose you. I feel like over the last few days that I’ve lost you a little and I don’t like that. Your friendship has become much too important to me. New Mexico is very far away.”

I wasn’t sure how to feel about this. I’d been missing Iris over the past five days, missing how she energized and expanded me. Even if Chase’s ghost had his arm draped permanently around her shoulders, I felt diminished being away from her. And even though I had no idea what it meant to her that my friendship had become so important, it meant a great deal to me to hear her say it.

“You’re not going to lose me,” I said. “I promise you that.”

“That’s why I had to call you.”

“I’m glad you called. And I think I hear my mother snoring in her bedroom.”

“Then everything works out.”

“Yeah, everything.”

“Are you coming up on Wednesday?”

“Of course. If you want me to.”

“Didn’t we just have this conversation?”

“I’ll be there.”

“You should get back to sleep now.”

“Thanks. And thanks for waking me up.”

The cases I’d been building weren’t ready yet, but some of the other changes were already in place. The iPod dock I’d bought played Lucy Kaplansky’s “Ten Year Night” album. The music wasn’t loud, but I did-n’t set the player on “1,” either. We’d repositioned the candy rack and I’d not only ordered more BlisterSnax, but I’d added several other renegade confections as well. The vendor seemed nervous about this at first, but then brought in samples from his car to hook me further.

We’d remerchandised the magazine rack, organizing it by interest category and putting some hotter titles in prime locations. We’d received a shipment of mildly subversive stuffed animals and put them up front, were expecting a shipment of hand-painted tiles from Mexico early next week, and handmade coffee mugs from Northern California a few days after that. I’d ordered dozens of new catalogs on the Web and had made tentative plans to go to a craft
show in Norwalk a couple of weeks hence in search of writing supplies.