Toll Bridge

Billy Daggett left his bike in the Best Western parking lot and walked to the toll bridge spanning Hood River. He stood for a moment hugging himself against the cold wind and looked out at the old bridge and the reflection of its lights in the gray waters of the Columbia River. There were no cars crossing the bridge at this late hour. No headlights to spot him heading out to the center, where the lift span stood high over the river like a guillotine.

Billy was shivering. He didn't know if it was the cold, or fear. Maybe a little of each. No, that wasn't honest. He was more frightened than cold. He was scared of what might be waiting for him out there. The fear made his legs feel wobbly, but he kept walking. He wanted something very badly, and getting it was worth the risk -- wasn't it?

#

It never would have occurred to Billy to be scared of going out on the bridge if not for Kyle Howell. Howell was a classmate at Hood River Middle School, where Billy was in the Sixth Grade. He also lived next door, so he and Billy tended to hang out, even though Kyle was a grade ahead of Billy. Kyle was always telling Billy about horror stories he was reading in the weird comics he bought. The latest tale of terror was called “The Monkey’s Paw.” It was creepy.

Kyle was with Billy when they came upon the old man sitting in front of the Sun Markt. Kyle and Billy were headed into the store to buy candy and comics when the old man, not even looking at Billy, said, "I kin get ya yer dog back.”

Billy stopped in his tracks, and stared at the old man. Kyle stood there holding the door open looking at Billy. “You coming?”

Billy waved him on inside. Then he turned to the old man, who was moving a toothpick side to side in his mouth and scratching the grey stubble on his cheek. “You have my dog?” Billy said, his voice sounding strangely high and shaky.

#

Billy’s dog Tag had disappeared more than a week ago. Billy had ridden his bicycle all over looking for the dog, and his mom had even helped him put up signs around Hood River all the way down to Oak Street, offering a twenty-five dollar reward for the dog, a long-haired golden retriever mix, smaller than a pure breed retriever, but just as lovable and twice as energetic.

Tag was always at the corner of the yard, tail wagging furiously, waiting for Billy when he came home from school. Billy’s mom said Tag was better than an alarm clock. As soon as three o’clock rolled around, there was Tag scratching at the door to get out and greet Billy. Billy and his dog had been inseparable.

“I don’t got ‘em, but I kin get ‘em,” the old man said, finally looking up at Billy over the bags hanging under his bloodshot eyes. The old man had his hands folded in his lap, and he twiddled his thumbs as he spoke, as if bored by the exchange with a scrawny kid like Billy.

“There’s a reward,” Billy said, stepping back involuntarily as the old man rose. Standing, he was taller than he looked all slump-shouldered on the bench. He looked down at Billy. “Don’t want no reward,” the old man said, taking the toothpick from his mouth and examining it intently.

“Ya know what kinda bridge that is over the river there?” the man said, canting his head towards the Columbia.

Billy looked at the old man. “What kind?” he said. "Uh..."

“It’s a toll bridge,” the old man said, with a smile that made a shiver run down Billy’s spine. “You meet me out there at the lift span at Midnight. I’ll have yer dog for ye.”

#

From The Lion and the Sun

The taxi pulled up to the entrance of the Marriott where I was waiting. The weather was overcast and cold in that bone chilling way that seems to be unique to the concrete jungles that form the core of our major cities. The Christmas decorations around Crystal City looked sad and neglected and did nothing to brighten my mood. For Christ sake, it’s not even Thanksgiving yet.
My taxi driver was a burly, dark complexioned guy wearing a turban. He had a full beard partially hidden by a heavy winter scarf. The name on his chauffeur’s license was Jagtar Singh. As he slipped out into traffic a book fell from the top of his dash into my lap. I turned it over and read the title. “The Puzzle Palace,” by James Bamford.
“You reading this?” I asked.
The driver spoke to me while he watched his side mirror. “Sure I read it. You know this book?” Without waiting for me to answer he went on, “All about America spy agency, NSA.” He glanced at me. We were on the way to CIA headquarters. What was I supposed to say? I just smiled and raised my eyebrows.
“Where did you get it?”
“My son gave me this book. He is in US Air Force,” the driver said, abruptly changing lanes and gunning the cab.
“What’s he do?” I asked.
The driver made another abrupt lane change and charged on to Jefferson Davis Highway. “He’s a good boy,” he said, glancing at me.

Beginnings and Endings

“There are no beginnings and endings,” Jacob said.
“Well, things, you know, planets, stars… stuff, didn’t just appear out of nowhere.” Devon was clearly exasperated with Wande’s husband.
“Where is nowhere?” Jacob said. He was leaning forward in his armchair, elbows on knees, resting his chin on his fists, gazing at Devon with feigned interest. Wande knew the look all too well.
“Oh, for God’s sakes,” Devon said.
Jacob said nothing. Just kept looking at Devon, waiting for him to answer his unanswerable question.
“Look, I’m not a cosmetologist, or whatever, but the Big Bang Theory, you know…everybody believes it’s correct. The universe started billions of years ago when this tiny… this thing, uh, ball of material exploded. That’s the beginning.”
“You’re not a cosmologist,” said Jacob, in his maddeningly reasonable voice.
“That’s what I said,” Devon shot back.
Wande knew she had to step in. “How about another piece of pie, Devon?”

#

Jacob and Wande stood at their front door and watched as her sister Sylvia and her husband, Devon drove off. Sylvia and Devon appeared to be having a rather heated conversation.
“You can be such a pompous ass sometimes,” Wande said, continuing to look at the car’s fading headlights.
“I’m not a cosmetologist,” Jacob said.
Wande punched him in the shoulder.
“Ouch!”
“Come on. You need to help with clean up.”
Wande took Jacob’s arm and led him back into the house.

#

“The universe has always existed in an endless cycle of expansion and rebirth,” Jacob was saying as he placed a platter in the dishwasher.
Wande took the spoon from the bowl of mashed potatoes and licked it. “Um hmm,” she said, preoccupied with thoughts about her sister. She knew that Sylvia and the rest of her family had disapproved of her marrying a white man -- ‘that Viking,’ Sylvia had called him. And she had to admit she sometimes felt self-conscious when they went out together. She once overheard women at a party saying that Wande was haughty. What they failed to realize was that her behavior was meant more as a defense than an offense.
The truth was, that despite her PhD, her professional standing and excellent job, and her upper class life style, Wande felt something lacking in her life. It was if she were floating in a tank of warm water – everything was fine, but her life lacked sharp sensation.

#

Jacob looked at his wife. He thought that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her skin was so dark, at once empty and foreboding, like a panther, and at the same time drawing you to her irresistibly, like deep space. He moved behind her, put his long arms around her, and cupped her generous breasts in his hands. Her scent was spicy-sharp, almost louche.
Pheromones, he thought.
Wande stopped what she was doing, put her hands on the edge of the sink, and pressed her buttocks back against his hardness. “You want to fuck me,” she said in a low growl.
“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“Then finish loading the dishwasher,” she said, pulling his hands away.

#

Wande slid her legs over the side of the bed and sat on the edge watching Jacob. He was snoring softly, something he tended to do after having too much wine. She wasn’t complaining, though. His lovemaking had been energetic and adventurous. He’d used his tongue in a gentle and ultimately very satisfying way instead of the pedantic way he sometimes used to explain his views of the universe.
Wande was wide-awake. It often happened that she’d practically pass out after sex, only to wake up an hour or two later ready to sit down with a snack and a good book.

#

Wande used the hall bathroom, then went to the kitchen and got a container of yogurt from the fridge. She walked into the family room, picked up the travel brochures on Africa from the coffee table, sat on the couch, tucked her feet up under her and began thumbing through descriptions of 7, 10, and 14-day tours of Egypt, accompanied by carefully composed photographs of pyramids, gently rolling sand dunes, date palms, and graceful sail boats plying the Nile River. In just five days she’d be visiting the continent of her ancestors.

#

Wande’s parents had emigrated from Africa to Brazil, and then to the United States. They were Yoruba, from southwestern Nigeria. Her father had named her Yewande, which meant ‘mother has returned.’ He was not pleased to learn that while in college, she’d allowed her name to be transformed to Wande. He was even less pleased, to put it mildly, when she brought Jacob home and introduced him as her husband. It was as if she’d thrown live power lines in the house and everyone was dancing and dodging the snapping cables. And Jacob, chameleon-like, had turned himself into a patient, sensitive, culturally aware son-in-law, who spent all his time carefully doing his active listening routine, ‘I know how you must feel.’ Hardly. If she were honest with herself, Wande would have to admit that she wasn’t sure how she felt.

#

Wande fell asleep on the couch and dreamt of giraffes loping gracefully across the GSC parking lot as she watched from her office window, standing there in the nude. She saw her reflection in the glass. She was white.