On The Bridge Page 4

  “I don’t know why you bother with this pill-popping the women have you doing. You damn well don’t need it,” he looked at Jean’s warning eyes with a disdain that countered her quiet attack on her husband’s bitching. But Norman considered it a challenge.

  Then he launched a tirade against the man who caused it all.

  “I wish I could reach into the dark pits and pull that son of a bitch out and let him know how selfish committing suicide is! Look at what it has done to us!” Doug’s father was furious. There was no sarcasm, no discipline and no preachy lesson, just brute rage, as raw as he had ever seen his father emote. “And we were just witnesses. What about his family? He’s just fine. He’s dead and gone, but his family will have to deal with it for the rest of their lives!”

  It seemed to have hit a nerve, a very personal nerve that Norman’s little family dared not ask about now.

  Norman suddenly stopped and realised that he had revealed a bit too much emotion just then, and emotion is for women. His father had made sure he knew that when he was younger than Doug was now. Boys who took care of stray dogs were too soft, his father taught him. Boys who asked their daddies for help when their secret pets were caught in barbwire were nancies who couldn’t do things themselves. Boys who cried when their dads shot stray dogs who could not be held as pets were pathetic, emotional girls who had to get a beating to remind them that feelings were for women.

  Doug could see that his mother didn’t agree, but she said nothing. Doug didn’t know if he agreed or not. He’d have to think about this whole suicide business. His father nodded awkwardly as if to say goodbye, took his basket and stormed out, leaving Doug with his mom in stunned silence.

  “I guess it’s alright if you go then,” she said softly as she took her mug from the microwave.

  She tried to play the understanding mother, but the guilt of her true agenda, to get him out of the house for her own self-inflicted healing, had to be drowned by a stiff drink or two. It was not in Jean’s nature, but then again, one does not see a van turn a man into sausage meat every day and simply walk away from it without a shard of injury.

  “I’ll be fine,” Doug smiled, and his mother gave him a loving embrace, masking her selfish desire to be alone, and with that she left the kitchen with her cup, calling back to him that she was going for a morning soak.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mick got a call from his pal whom he had been dying to interrogate for days, but the kid was off limits until now. He called his other friend immediately.

  “Thompson! My man! Guess who’s coming to visit, dude?”

  “No way, really? The psycho ward finally let him go?” Thompson exclaimed on the other side of the line.

  “Yeah, they did and can you believe mommy and daddy are allowing him to hang out so soon? So, you comin’ or what? He’ll be here at ten, so be here!” Mick hung up and got everything ready for Doug and Thompson’s visit. He couldn’t wait to get the gory details from his friend. This was something that excited Mick, as it would most curious teenage boys, much like the innate cruelty boys had for insects and the use of magnifying glasses. Thompson left home almost immediately, as he had quite a bit of distance to cover on his bicycle, a two-mile slightly slanted road that left him loathing his uphill trip every time he had to visit Mick, but this was too good to miss out on, and he looked forward to having a Saturday powwow with his friends anyway.

  Mick’s parents both had work on Saturday mornings, his dad mostly an entire day of it and he had a lot of freedom. Given his personality, it was perhaps too much. They were a wealthy family but his father had some sense of work ethic and that annoying old rule of teaching rich kids to earn their own money and live on modest means and so on, which annoyed the spoiled boy no end. And it is so that they found themselves residents of Maple Ridge, a humble middle-class neighbourhood and of course Mick had to go to public school, which was perhaps his saving grace, being kept from wielding family money. Besides, he liked his pals; his lower-class, normal pals who did not care for his possessions or his status, only how sick he could tell a story and how good he was at throwing a football.

  With it all came freedom. Unfortunately the boy had an affinity for alcohol, more than most kids his age. For some reason he felt powerful when holding a beer, only about six years too early for the similar psychology found in college students. Knowing that his two best friends would be arriving soon, the well-built redhead collected a six pack from his dad’s billiard room, picked up the phone and ordered two pizzas with ample helpings of pepperoni, most effective in hiding one’s alcohol breath when parents made their appearance. Mick had it all figured out – and his parents never really challenged his motives, fuelling his hedonistic existence free of worry of discovery. Mostly. There was an instance or two where his father did punish him for indiscretions detected and he quickly learned that his family’s money certainly did not relinquish their faith in good old fashioned chastisement whatsoever, but for most of it, it was smooth sailing for Mick.

  Now he was ready to hear all about the wicked accident his best friend had had front row seats to and he was adamant not to allow one single detail to slip. Nothing substantial ever really happened to the three of them and this was considered something huge in their circle. He could not wait for Doug to fill them in on what happened. Perhaps one could consider Mick and Thompson vultures of sensation, not cruel-mannered enough to commit acts of violence or distaste, but definitely readily pouncing on the facts presented by such things, eagerly gobbling up ounces of misfortune, as long as it was the misfortune of others, of course.

  It was just after ten when Thompson’s semi-rusted bicycle fork squeaked its way onto the pavement and into Mick’s driveway, his perspiration evident of the damned upward slant of the neighbourhood roads surrounding Mick’s residence. He was not amused. Thompson was not the leanest of lads, his love for junk food unmistakable on his ill-fitting skinny jeans such that no-one could convince him he looked like a German sausage forced to a denim casing. The puff of his cheeks shimmered in an alarming dark red beneath the sweat and panting of his face as he dismounted the dreadful mode of transport his parents forced him to use and he threw to the side the miserably abused wire and wheels that had him pedalling to pain every time he wanted to go somewhere. In some measure, both he and Mick were convinced their evil parents had plotted such things deliberately to make their lives miserable.

  “Is he here?” he pushed through enormous tufts of breath, desperate for oxygen.

  “Not yet. Come inside before you drop dead or puke on my dad’s lawn,” Mick laughed, absent any empathy for his friend, leaving the front door open for the poor fat fifteen–year-old who slung down his backpack as he entered the ugly double story cube Mick’s parents called home.

  The bicycle was left right there in silent hope of theft, but truthfully no self-respecting thief would want to acquire such an antique torture device. It did, however, make for an unexpected obstacle fifteen minutes later when Doug ventured across the lawn, reading his messages on his online profile and did not see the steel skeleton lying right in front of his feet. He came down with a force, spokes pressing into the skin of his calves and the brutal pedals of the bicycle battering his shins. He yelped out like a spurned cat as the horrid old frame of the thing stuck into his ribs and the sudden surprise had him cussing before he even realised it. For a brief moment Douglas lay on the lawn, at one with Thompson’s bicycle, and he took a moment to adjust his horizontal sight to his surroundings. Doug could not decide if the cocktail of discomfort and pain actually brought his attention to the soothing coolness of the soft grass beneath his aching body, but he realised that he suddenly found the position quite pleasant. It was an odd mixture of pain and comfort, as if one begotten by the other and the logic of it eluded him, although it was undeniable.

  Again, out of the blue came the flashbacks of that day. Maybe it was because Doug was lying on the ground, hurt, but it came back in droves now, almost pulsing in s
econd–by-second detail, and his eyes were wide open to his memory. The sound of bone cracking, the screams from motorists and his mother, the wry smile on the man’s face as he turned into traffic, and the peace on his face played in front of Doug’s eyes like a looping film and he seemed wide awake on the lawn, but his eyes saw nothing of Mick’s home or his garden. Doug was now firmly planted on the tar in the heat of the bridge and he smelled the stench of tire rind and fresh innards. Over and over the man’s smile replayed itself until he could no longer drown out the screaming rubber of the impact, and as the deafening crash reverberated through him, he was shaken violently by his two friends, back into reality.

  “God, dude, are you having a stroke or something?” Mick’s familiar rasp pulled Doug back to his world and he could feel Thompson’s puffy hands tug at his shirt to pull him up.

  Disoriented, the fallen young man clutched at his friends as they hoisted him up into their arms and walked into the house with him.

  In the den, they sat him down on the couch and Mick swiftly stuck a beer in his hand while they drew open the curtains and opened the windows for the mid-morning breeze to sweep the place clean of bad energy and relax their traumatized friend.

  “You scared us, Doug. I thought you’re having a fit with your wailing out there, man. What happened? Are you okay?” Thompson was honestly worried, but Mick set up the triangle of coloured balls on the pool table and shoved a handful of peanuts into his mouth.

  “Oh please, Thompson, he’s fine. Don’t be such a chick. He fell over your ancient bike and lost his bearings. Big deal,” he mumbled through his snacking and for a moment his words became the words of Norman Bates himself, leaving Doug to wince at it.

  “I’m cool, thanks T,” he reassured his more sensitive, overweight buddy and tapped him lightly on the shoulder, not wanting to reveal his terrors to anyone anymore, especially now that he knew Mick, for one, wouldn’t give his concerns any more thought than the day’s FOREX rates.

  “I just got my leg caught in the spokes and panicked,” he sniggered sheepishly at his own clumsiness, putting Thompson at ease.

  “Come on,” Mick coaxed as his white ball shattered the colourful triangle of balls, scattering them all over the table, but sinking none.

  “Tell us what happened.”

  Douglas felt a pinch of dread settle in behind his eyes, but he could not disappoint them. They, as much as anyone, had the right to hear the story from him rather than whatever gossip would no doubt mutate the story into half-truths and sensationalism, leaving him looking like a fool for being so shocked by something they’d make less terrifying than it was. He had a chance to relate the story the way it actually happened and let his friends know the truth. For this, he figured he could relive the awful event one more time and who knows, it may even help him get a little more of its iniquity out of him.

  He picked up a cue stick, and with previously untapped bravery the likes of which could only be mustered by a young man surrounded by the safety of his brethren, he sank a stripe and started relating the tale with an even-tempered manner he did not think he could maintain. By the gruesome part of the tale, Doug found it almost delightful to tell over, watching his friends cringe and howl in delicious disgust at the horror. He sank ball after ball, astonishing himself and Mick, who was absolutely creamed in the contest, and by the black ball Doug felt nothing for the idiot who took his own life and disrupted his delicate sensibilities and drove a deeper wedge in between his parents than there already was. It was almost like the unlikely wedding between pain and peace he briefly encountered outside on the lawn a few minutes before, and by the end of his tale, of course omitting the nightmares, medication and impact on his family life, he felt he owned the whole thing, almost expecting applause as he finished and shoved the cue into Thompson’s hand and got himself another beer.

  It was early afternoon now and the light had shifted, bringing the den a distinctly different feel, and the three settled down in a hefty discussion no adult would ever be privy to – the moment teenagers enter the contemplative and philosophical stage of their social gathering.

  Mick sat on the pool table while Thompson stretched across the couch, leaving the corner exercise bike to Doug, who pedalled lazily every now and then as they talked about the far out things that could possibly drive a man of such evident success to commit suicide.

  “I don’t get it,” Thompson said while running his hands over the cue stick, “It sounds like this guy had everything. I can’t think of anything so bad that he’d just throw it all away, except…except maybe he killed someone and couldn’t take the guilt anymore,” Thompson said with zeal, as if he had just solved a secret of centuries. He sat upright. “Or perhaps he did something that was about to come out and he couldn’t handle the public disgrace that he’d have to face.”

  “You know, that could not be so far from true, T,” Doug said after almost no thought on the subject at all because the thought had crossed his mind before as well. “I saw this huge dent in the back of his Ferrari when he stopped on the bridge and you never know,” Doug’s voice was now masked in mystery, “that could be from an accident. He stopped suddenly, maybe a guy with a motorcycle was behind him…” he paused and locked eyes with his companions, edging them on to come to his conclusion, but in finding none, he continued, “…and the guy smashed into his car and died?” He motioned with his hand for them to think about it and was rewarded with a collective agreement and nodding.

  Mick remained in his zone for a bit and then brought his opinion to the table.

  “What?” Thompson addressed his pal, whose continual stare had now begun to unsettle him.

  “What, Mick?”

  “What if…” Mick started with narrow eyes and a furtive voice, “…what if he saw Doug standing there and mistook him for his dead son or something. Like, what if his son was one of those kids who took a jump off the bridge last year? Remember last year there were like, four high school kids who killed themselves on that bridge?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” said Doug and emptied his bottle.

  “Maybe this guy was one of the fathers and when he saw you there he thought you were his dead son’s ghost and maybe wanted to be reunited, or something,” Mick continued.

  “That’s just stupid,” Thompson frowned at the absurd idea.

  “Oh shut up, Thompson, this shit exists, okay?” Mick exclaimed over his protesting friend, grabbing the cue chalk and throwing it at him.

  “Hey, maybe he just lost all his savings gambling online. Money is a big thing to lose hope over – or maybe he walked in on his wife banging the super,” he smiled a little at his trivial notion. “Whatever it was, I think it was unnecessary. Anything can be sorted out. Anything. And now you know my parents and the doctor are so worried that this crap has an effect on my future. Can you believe that? I am the happiest asshole on the planet, man.”

  His friends laughed.

  “Yeah, and the clumsiest asshole too,” Thompson said, lamenting the condition of his bicycle.

  Finally, Doug said, “We’ll never know. But one thing I do know for sure is that I love myself too much to ever commit suicide. I’m going to have a glorious life with prestige, sports cars and easy women with diamond jewellery falling at my feet - and into my bed.”

  He found himself standing on the pedals of the stationary bike, making it his pulpit, hardly paying attention to his audience as he tried to convince himself that he would have a brilliant future.

  “I’m going to have my own summer house on Martha’s Vineyard and I’m going to fly my own plane too, whenever I want to go there.”

  Mick and Thompson were folding over in hysterics by now. Their blatant disregard for his sincerity made him mad, and he stepped off the exercise bike and flung the couch cushions at them.

  “Whatever pills they got you on, dude, I want some!” Mick squealed.

  “Laugh it up, jerk-offs. You’ll see,” he said, but their laughter kept scratching the inside o
f his mind. His temper warmed him, but all he did was lower his voice at the two idiots before him.

  “You’ll see.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Twenty-three-year-old Krista sat staring blindly at the empty luminescence of the unforgiving screen with her hands sleeping steadily on the keyboard. Her black hair edged over her eyes, but she did not need to look through them. Her mind was far away, drowning in the musical thrall of the jazz of her Sting album, placing her in another world so deeply tucked that she could not, would not wish to, escape from the atmosphere of emotions it rained on her empty heart.

  The cursor pulsed rhythmically in front of her, beckoning for her to type, but she simply could not find herself moving just yet. It was so sweet in her ears and it melted itself over her soul, the voice of the man who had escorted her through so many life experiences and heartbreaks that she had now considered him a roommate.

  Finally his midnight rasp faded into the end of the song and she realised that Sting had now abandoned her to the dread and dedication of her work. She came from her pleasurable oblivion like a newborn calf, eager to venture, but still a captive of the safe place she had just gestated in for a few minutes.

  Her upper arms and thighs yielded old scars from under her sleeves and the hem of her denim shorts. The lashes were thick, but not too long in length, carefully made almost invisible to any eye which did not look for them with the prolonged healing of Bio Oils and Vitamin E she spent every morning and night applying.

  The windows of her third-floor apartment took turns lapping at their hinges, fixed, but still movable by the charm of the soft wind, while far in the distance she could smell rain coming. Her computer had finished playing the Sting folder and Krista looked at the toolbar with a weary demeanour, rolling her eyes back in her head, lazily sliding her index finger over the choices of music files presented to her. Her heart weighed heavy again today and she knew she had to snap out of the melancholy quickly or become its victim. Besides, she was running out of skin to carve at this rate and her only salvation, after therapy and medication had failed her, was music.