Under the Bridge
UNDER
the
BRIDGE
UNDER
the
BRIDGE
ANNE BISHOP
Roseway Publishing
an imprint of Fernwood Publishing
Halifax & Winnipeg
Copyright © 2019 Anne Bishop
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
This is a work of fiction.
Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
Editing: Linda Little & Fazeela Jiwa
Cover image: Bridge in Wet Fog by Paul Hannon, used with permission
Design: Tania Craan
Printed and bound in Canada
eBook: tikaebooks.com
Published by Roseway Publishing
an imprint of Fernwood Publishing
32 Oceanvista Lane, Black Point, Nova Scotia, B0J 1B0
and 748 Broadway Avenue, Winnipeg, Manitoba, R3G 0X3
www.fernwoodpublishing.ca/roseway
Fernwood Publishing Company Limited gratefully acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, the Canada Council for the Arts, the Province of Nova Scotia and the Province of Manitoba for our publishing program.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Under the bridge / Anne Bishop.
Names: Bishop, Anne, 1950- author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190046414 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190046473 | ISBN 9781773630434
(softcover) | ISBN 9781773631622 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781773631639 (Kindle)
Classification: LCC PS8603.I837 U53 2019 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
This book is dedicated to those who give years of their lives, and sometimes their lives, to the struggle for a world where life and health for all mean more than wealth for a few, especially Nova Scotia’s anti-poverty, anti-racism and Indigenous rights activists and the Mayan people of Guatemala. I am inspired by your courage, insight and wisdom.
CHAPTER ONE
“You. Yeah, you.” Young man turns to look at me, mouth open. I point. “Those roses in your hand. Why do you think they’re red? Blood.”
He actually looks down at the flowers in his hands, steps back like I’ve cursed him.
“Where do you think flowers come from in winter? Who grows them, on whose land?”
Where am I? A flower shop. Don’t remember coming in.
“Multinational corporations, that’s who, on land stolen from peasants. Where they grew food for their families.”
The man clutches his paper cone of roses to his chest as he makes for the door.
“Now they work in the flower fields, twelve, fourteen hours a day, for a couple of dollars.”
Metallic thump as the door shuts behind him. I yell at the blank glass. “And the pesticides. Workers get sick. No income. Starving. Drift off to a massive city slum to live in a cardboard box. Die in a cardboard box.”
People are staring. Woman behind the counter slides her hand toward the phone. Damn. What have I done? I turn so quickly I have to grab a display to steady myself a moment before I stagger toward the door. People scuttle out of my way.
Crowded sidewalk. No cop weaving toward me through the people. No flashing lights. But I’m not waiting around. In my mind, I run. Heavy old body can only manage a shuffle, though.
***
All I want is to hide. Go to ground. Broke my conditions. Again. Just left the probation office, too. John with his Newfie accent. “How many times did I warn you, m’dear? ‘Keep the peace and maintain good behaviour.’ After a few breaches, the judge had no choice but to give you thirty days. But now you’ve served it. Chance for a fresh start.”
John, John, why won’t you write me that letter? I need the hope to hang onto. “Let’s wait and see,” he says.
Why do they need a letter in the first place? They know me. All my years of Latin American solidarity work, teaching refugees English, helping them organize housing and income co-ops. And now they want reference letters? Not just from John, but from Doctor “Tell-me-about-it” too?
I’m puffing less, though my chest hurts. Below the ramp to the Angus L. MacDonald Bridge, just down the slope, there’s a bit of scrubby woods where the homeless guys go. I pause, listen. They drink down here.
There are remnants of parties, scatter of bottles, couple of fallen trees pulled up to a sodden black bonfire pit, but no one’s here now. I find an old blanket, scrunched into the roots of a tree so long ago it’s crusty. Holds its shape as I pull it out. By the chain-link fence at the bottom of the slope, the bushes are thicker. I drop to my knees. They’re sore, but I crawl in, pull the dirty blanket behind me. There’s a bit of log I can lean against. I squirm the blanket around my legs. Comfortable enough, for now. And hidden.
That flower shop. Have the brake pads on my tongue worn right through? But my head was full of flowers, fields of them, brilliant in the sun. Emilia, only fourteen. Big dark eyes flooding with tears, telling me she wanted to die. And then she did. Her blood, a scab in the dust.
I lie down, curl up so my shoulders are under the blanket too. Carpet of chocolate bar wrappers, coffee cups, mostly Tim Hortons, rims rolled. Traffic rumbles over my head. The Beast, roaring. Chain-link fence beside me, a view down into the parking lot of the dockyard. Hulking grey buildings fade into a greyer evening. I read sideways: Canada’s East Coast Navy/Marine Canadienne. Above, the bridge soars out into space, bridge to the sky.
Actually, to Dartmouth, to Burnside. Excuse me, I mean the “Central Nova Scotia Correctional Facility.” I’m never, ever going back there. Before that happens, I swear, I’ll jump off the Angus L. MacDonald bridge-to-the-sky.
I follow it with my eyes, arching up. The lights come on, a trail of stars leading out into the darkening night. What would it feel like to climb over the railing and let go? Fall, down, down, toward the icy water under the bridge? When you hit, would it knock you out? How long does it take to drown? Would you feel the cold? Would there be time for terror? Relief?
I should just do it. Get it over with. Last time in court, Judith argued I’m harmless. Judge agreed, then gave me thirty days anyway.
Harmless. Powerless. God knows, I’ve tried. And the rich are richer, and the poor are poorer than when I started. “You want to help us? Then go home,” Rosa said. “Our poverty and suffering come from el Norte.” The North. So much more than just a direction.
Dear Rosa. Where are you now? Alive? Quiché women don’t get old. And Nicolás? Against all odds, they’re negotiating Peace Accords. Hard to believe there might actually be peace in dear, tormented Guatemala. I always comb the papers for little bits of information in the back pages. That’s where I saw it. The refugees camped in Mexico and hidden in the northern jungles will be allowed to go back home. The solidarity networks want volunteers to walk with them. Witnesses, for protection.
Rosa said that too. Some of them thought I would bring trouble to the village, but Rosa said no, a foreign witness keeps us safe, especially a Canadian. And maybe I would have, if I’d been there that morning.
I want to go. Witness. Accompany. Protect those I failed before. Find Nicolás.
All I need is a letter from John. Oh yes, and one from Doctor “I-can’t-help-you-if-you-won’t-talk-about-it.”
I root in the pockets of my old wool coat, close my hand around the plastic bottle. Did I take my pill this morning? Can’t remember. Stopped taking them in jail and did better
. Or maybe it was the routine, or the chance to feel just a little bit useful again, teaching, after all these months. Not that they stopped giving me the pills. Got good at it, didn’t I? Tucking them into my cheek, swallowing the water, popping them out later. Drug company’s happy anyway. They got paid.
Sky’s suddenly full of fat snowflakes, twirling around the lights of the bridge. Fall’s moving along toward winter. I’m cold. And hungry. Food wrappers, food wrappers everywhere and not a bite to eat.
I pull the bottle out of my pocket. Hard to open with frozen fingers. Evening pill, supposed to calm my mind, help me forget, sleep. Not enough to kill me, says Doctor “I-don’t-believe-you’re-delusional.” But maybe knock me out long enough to freeze to death? If I take them all? Wish it was midwinter so it’d happen fast. Wish it were midwinter.
No. I haven’t the nerve for that. Just forget, sleep. I take two, swallow them dry and push the bottle back into my pocket. Touch something else. A key. My apartment. Gone now.
CHAPTER TWO
Cold. Curled up tight, half buried in the earth-smelling mould of the jungle floor. Cold. Frightened. Listening. Chirps and croaks of night creatures. Was that a footfall? Are they coming back? Do they know there is a scattering of people left alive, burrowed into the hillside, hidden? Freezing. Cold. Cold. Listening. Roaring. Vehicles. Coming back.
I start awake, roll over, brace my hands on the ground to get up and run, breathing hard. Fingers gripping not leaf mould but gum wrappers, chip bags. The roaring, it’s overhead. Just traffic approaching the bridge. I sag back to the ground, puffing, joints complaining. I can’t believe I actually fell asleep. I don’t sleep much at the best of times, but under the bushes, below the bridge ramp, in the snow?
I’m freezing. Crusty old blanket drenched, bits of snow in the creases. Melting down the back of my neck. And I have to pee, badly. I push myself up and over onto my knees. God that hurt. Grab the trunk of a small tree, shift my feet under me. Can’t even feel them. Use my free hand to work my pants down, just far enough, I think. Too late for the underwear.
Yanking my pants off over my soaked sneakers, I abandon the underwear, tuck it modestly under a piece of bark. Modesty? Here? Why? Somehow, I get my pants back on, use the tree to pull myself up.
Bits of snow drift through the air. I’m hungry. St. Marks drop-in? Wait. Out-of-control rant in a florist shop. I’m hiding. From John. Not going back to jail. Ignore the hunger. Too fat anyway. Damn meds. Ignore the cold. Well, maybe not the cold. Got to find some place warmer.
Force my wooden feet, one ahead, then the other. Drag the blanket behind me. Up the slope, under the bridge ramp. At least it’s sheltered here. Concrete bare of snow. Traffic deafening. The Beast. I slump against wet graffiti, crawl under my rag of a blanket, curl up as tight as I can. Teeth clattering.
A bundle of rags further along moves, turns. Thin, dark face, young, toque pulled down. Two figures come around the concrete corner, silhouettes against the lightening sky, walking loose-limbed. Hoodies, baggy jeans, baseball caps. “Hey, Casey. What you doin’ here?”
“Hey.”
“Come on, man.” One of the young men holds a hand out, pulls Casey to his feet.
I can see them now, one Black, one white. Black one looks at me. “Who’s this? You know her?”
“Nope.” Casey is brushing off his pants, trying to straighten up all the way.
“Hey, Gran’ma.” White one comes over, looks down at me. “Too much booze last night?”
Black one joins him, Casey tagging reluctantly behind, not looking at me. “This is our place, eh? Maybe you’d better clear out.”
Exactly what I have in mind, but my feet are dead under me.
“Hey, Germaine,” says the white one. “She never makes it out of here, who’d care?” Nasty laugh.
Fear curls through me. Can I get up?
“Hey, what’s going on?” A woman’s voice, and I know it.
Kids step back, straighten up.
Click, click, click. A pair of brown legs comes into my line of vision, fishnet stockings, unbelievably high heels. “What are you kids thinking? Germaine? Lewis? Casey?”
Lewis, leader of the nastiness a moment ago, scuffs his toe on the pavement. “Nothing, Miz Beals.”
Cindy Beals. Thank God.
“Doesn’t look much like nothing. I’ve a mind to tell your mothers about this.” She leaves a cold pause for them to squirm in. “Unless you get home first.”
They waste no time.
Cindy bends over me. “Lucy? My God, Lucy, what’s happened to you? Are you hurt?”
She kneels in front of me. Pretty oval face full of concern, heavy makeup, the worse for wear. She’s got on a satiny thing, bright blue, neckline so low it nearly meets the shortest skirt I’ve ever seen. Four or five silver chains and long dangly earrings brush her coffee-and-cream skin. She looks exhausted. My heart sinks down toward my stomach. “You okay, Cindy?”
She laughs. “About as okay as you.”
“You’re …”
“Yeah, back on the stroll. Money’s too good.”
I look at her eyes. Big, black pupils. “The boys?”
“Back in care.” My heart sinks even further.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. But hey, let’s get you … God Lucy, tell me you’re not living on the street.”
Living on the street. Is that what I’m doing?
“Let’s get you to Althea. She’ll get you dried off and fed.”
“No …”
“No?”
I’m cold and hungry and so tired. Maybe Althea will understand about the hiding. Cindy’s smaller than I am, but she knows how to lever a body, gets me to my feet, her arm around my waist. After a moment, we start out. I have to lean on her.
What a pair we make in the cold light of morning, me hobbling along on swollen feet, her click, click, clicking on her skinny heels.
***
The noise of the place hits us, feet echoing on wooden floors, children shrieking. Talk, laughter. Dark, panelled rooms that once held choirs and Sunday school classes now house a child care, a single parent support centre, classrooms and agency offices, with a drop-in, soup kitchen and used clothing depot in the basement. I’ve spent hours here, days. My second home for years. As a worker, teacher, community organizer. Now look at me, a client.
Althea’s office faces the door. Now that she’s Community Services Director she likes to keep an eye on everything. We’re just a few feet inside when she spots us. “Cindy? Oh my God, Lucy. What’s happened to you?” Between them, she and Cindy help me in, lower me into Althea’s chair.
“She’ll take care of you.” Cindy smiles at me, pats my hand and disappears.
There’s a plate on Althea’s desk, a sandwich from the drop-in downstairs. She sees me looking, passes it over. I wolf the sandwich then find myself studying the scattering of crumbs left behind.
“I’ll get you another one, but first …” Althea goes down on her knees in front of me, unlacing my soggy sneakers.
“Althea, don’t.” Embarrassed by her bottomless Earth-Mother cleavage, I flick my eyes away.
“You can’t walk like this.” The worried lines between her eyes fold deeper into the dark skin of her broad, open face. Althea’s not even coffee-and-cream, just coffee. “Hold still.”
I can’t help flinching as she eases off the wreck of my shoes. “Sorry,” she says. She holds my dripping, filthy socks in the very tips of her fingers while she uses the arm of the chair to get to her feet. Drops them into the wastebasket. The sneakers she sets on the clanky old radiator to dry.
“Stay there.” As if I’m going anywhere. My feet look like old rotten tomatoes, purplish. She returns with a basin, towel, soap. She goes down on her knees again and carefully lifts one of my feet into the warm water.
“Oh
for God’s sake, Althea.” I try to pull it away, but she gives me that fierce look she perfected on her own kids. She’s gentle, but I still have to hold my breath from the pain. Were the Apostles this embarrassed? Or is it because this is a servant thing, me white, her Black?
“Lucy, Lucy.” It’s her scolding voice, and my hackles start to rise. She leans back and holds up my foot, pointing between my toes. Even clean, they smell bad. “You’re starting to get thrush. Can I get you to go to emerg?”
I glower at her.
She lets out a big, gusty sigh and begins dabbing my foot dry with the towel. It hurts and itches at the same time. “Will you go to the Community Clinic?”
I sigh. “Sure.” Do I mean it?
She finishes, throws the towel into a heap beside the basin of filthy water and sits back on her heels. She levers herself to her feet again, more effort this time, stretches her back a minute and sits down in the other chair. “I got a call from Magdalen House this morning, wondering where you were. Obviously you slept outside, but why, Lucy?”
I shrug.
“What did you do?”
“What do you mean, what did I do?”
That look again. “Okay, doesn’t matter. Did you talk to John?”
I can hear the big clock on the wall. One tick. Two.
“You have to, you know. It’ll just be worse if you don’t.”
Tick. Tick.
“And I think you should talk to Judith. She’s coming …” Althea looks at the big calendar on the wall above her desk. “Two thirty. Meeting with a group of moms at the Single Parent Centre. She’s going to try and set a precedent, so the power company can’t cut people off if they fall behind on their bill.”
She studies me. “Are you taking your pills?”
I dig into my pocket, pull out the little plastic bottle.
She reaches out, and I let her take it. “Seroquel. What’s that?”
“Supposed to calm me down, but sometimes I think it just makes me fly off the handle easier.”