Shadow by the Bridge Read online

  Shadow by the Bridge

  By Suzanne Zewan

  NFB Publishing

  NFBPublishing.com

  Copyright © 2017 Suzanne Zewan

  For my husband, son, family, and friends who have supported me through this journey.

  “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear.”

  ~H. P. Lovecraft

  One

  Linden, New York—November 12, 1917

  I held my fox trap in my hand, remembering when my father told me that man is the only creature who can find amusement in killing. But he wasn’t one of those men. He killed only by necessity; he believed that God put plants and animals on this earth so that we could eat and stay warm. Plus, I needed pelts to make my mother a coat for Christmas.

  The neigh of a horse in the distance caught my attention.Who’s coming?I set my trap on a small boulder that was the size of a carriage wheel. Then I peeked through the naked branches, past the decaying cornstalks, and settled my eyes on the road.

  The Indian sun hit my cool cheeks as the scent of burning birch swept me into a memory of my father—not long before he died—placing a frayed white log on the fire. I remember watching him as he stood by our fireplace. He took a deep breath, turned to me and said, “I love the scent of burning birch; don’t you, Fritz?” I inhaled deeply and nodded before I finally exhaled.

  “I do, Dad, I really do.”

  I stopped my thoughts from wandering as the far-off neigh signaled the approach of Frank Harlow and his horse pulling an empty cart, probably coming from Batavia after selling his goods. When I saw him pass by our house in Linden the day before as he headed to Morgan’s General Store with his goods, he told me that I could trap on his farm anytime I wanted to. He hoped that I’d catch the pesky red fox he saw around his chicken coop. I carried on with setting my trap to kill the fox so I could make my mom a coat.

  I heard a woman yelling.

  Who’s coming?I thought. I peered through the trees again and saw a woman lagging behind a man; they were walking down the road next to the cornfield. The man was now yelling back at her. I continued with the more important task—setting my trap in the perfect spot—and then drove the stake into the ground with a rock. The voices were getting closer.

  Now that the trap was set, I crouched down behind a piney bush and watched them. They were traipsing through the dry stalks of corn, coming toward me. I crept further, until I was behind the large rock, and kept my eyes on them. The man had tanned skin—maybe he was French or Italian?—and was wearing a colorful plaid cap and a long tan coat that flapped in the wind. He was standing at the edge of the trees and waving the lady into the woods. She was holding up her ankle-length dark blue skirt and took each step with trouble. Her waist-length brown hair blew across her face as she finally made her way through the trees. It was strange to see a lady with her hair down. I thought it was a rule that women had to wear their hair in a pile on their heads, like my mother did.

  The two looked too dressed up to be having any business in some trees. I pressed my cheek against the cold rock as I waited, not making a sound. My father taught me a lot of things, and one of them was to mind my own concerns. But Leon Chapman, one of my friends who lived not too far from me, told me that men and women like to neck, undress, and touch each other from time to time. Suddenly, I became interested in the couple’s business. I found a way to watch them around the side of the rock.

  “In here.” The man turned and pushed a swaying branch away from his face as he cracked his way through the brush as the lady followed him. He stepped over a mound of dirt that stood in his way. The belt of the man’s coat hung close to the ground. If I crawled a few feet, I could have yanked it. He shoved his hand in his coat pocket and pulled something out, but I couldn’t tell what it was. The man stood there with his back toward me. I couldn’t see his face.

  The lady was facing him. She brushed the hair away from her dark eyes, then adjusted her small purple velvet hat that had fallen to one side. Finally, I was able to see her face. I didn’t recognize her. She had lovely small features and a warm, soft face. She looked old enough to be my mother, maybe thirty or so. In other ways, though, this woman was very different from my mother. I had noticed recently that my mother’s previously chestnut-brown hair was starting to look like pumpkin mold.

  “I don’t understand what this is all about! And what we’re doing out here?” she said with a huff, and then she crossed her arms and coldly stared at him.

  “I think you do understand,” he replied with a heavy foreign accent. He then hit her across the face. Blood started dripping down her jaw as she started kicking him with her black boot. Then, she broke free from his grip and tripped, snapping branches as she fell to the ground. Her coat was ripped, and the collar of her ivory blouse was sliced and bloody. The lady touched the side of her face and stared at her bloody hand.

  “You bastard!” she cried, and then she stood up. She ran toward him. With her bloody fists, she pounded his chest and face. He shoved her back. The dust rose as she stumbled over a pile of dirt onto the dried leaves. Then he slowly bent down and picked up a thick broken branch lying near the dirt pile.

  I watched in disbelief; my heart pounded and felt as if it was going to break my chest open and run, pulling my fear-laden body with it. I trembled. I wanted to help her. But the man had to be at least six feet tall and solid as the rock that I was hiding behind.

  I shook and stared. The man’s back was still to me. She was lying on the ground face down, shaking as she sobbed. He turned around and glanced over toward Harlow’s farm as if he heard a noise. Quickly, I moved back behind the rock and stared at its solidness, wishing I could find a crack in the rock to seep into. My fear kept me still as if I was being held with sharp claws. I was left with only a prayer.

  “You’re nothing but a whore,” he yelled.

  Again, I peeked around the rock.

  She sat up and wiped her watery eyes. “I—I—”

  The man stood over her and pounded the branch into her face, again and again. The sound of her moist flesh breaking weakened my bones. He then set the bloody branch down next to the rock and next to me. Pieces of bloody flesh were dangling off the jagged wood. He killed her! God, no, no, he killed her! I felt my blood drain from my face.

  The branches rustling above seemed louder than ever as a huge gust of wind sent the dead leaves spiraling around me. My sweat was cold. I could hardly breathe. I heard what sounded like him dragging her across the ground, and wanted to look, but I was frozen. If he caught me, I’d be dead too.

  Minutes passed. I didn’t hear anything but a crow’s squawk and the wind whipping its way through the bare branches. I knelt down and stared through the bush. I looked around; I didn’t see him, but I waited to be sure. I listened, and listened, still shaking. I crept over to her lifeless body. He had moved her over to what seemed to be a shallow grave. Tears poured out of my eyes, as if I were a girl.

  Trembling uncontrollably, I stared at her, watching the blood pour down her neck and onto the leaves and dirt. There was so much blood; blood was everywhere. Her lovely face was a broken crater of flesh, blood, and bone. As I stared, I started to see black and broke into a cold sweat.

  I leaned against the cool rock to keep from passing out. My forehead, neck, and back were wet, which sent a chill over my skin and into my bones. I brushed my hand across my sweaty forehead, and then felt my stomach clench. Bile shot up the back of my throat. I heaved what was left in my stomach. The yellowish liquid dripped from my tongue onto the ground. My throat burned as I heaved and heaved. I couldn’t look at her again.

  A few minutes passed before my light-headedness cleared and my shaky legs were able to move. Finally, I
stood, set my hand on the rock for a moment, and gathered my strength. Then I broke through the trees and began to run toward the road. Out of breath, I stopped dead in the middle of the dry and lifeless stalks of corn.

  There he was, standing at the edge of the road, staring right at me.

  Two

  I stared back at him, shaking. He took a couple of steps toward me. Then he began running.I was about to die. I ran and I ran, like a wind storm that would carry me into tomorrow. The soles of my boots turned the lifeless cornstalks to dust with each step.

  “What did you see?” he yelled in a foreign accent.

  I kept running. You know what I saw!

  “Come here,” he shouted.

  I looked over my shoulder. He was getting closer to me. Then I saw a small farm house with a barn beyond some scattered trees. Suddenly, I heard dogs barking. I saw two large, black dogs standing on the back porch of the house. I ran through the scattered trees and past a tractor sitting next to the barn. To keep out of sight, I ran up a small hill behind the barn and into another patch of woods. I stumbled over the tree’s tangled roots, and then landed on the ground. I crawled over to a small bush at the edge of the woods. The man stopped at the edge of the scattered trees. He peered through the wooded area looking for me.

  “What’s going on out here?” a man said as he stepped out the back door of the farm house and began to look around.

  Staring through the trees, I watched the man who was chasing me turn around and run toward the road. With my hand pressing against my chest, I tried to stop the pounding of my heart against my lungs as I caught my breath. I wiped my tears and sat there for a few moments in thankful silence.I was alive.

  “It’s just a damn rabbit,” the man said gruffly. “Come on inside, you two. I’ve had enough of this noise.” I rolled my gaze through the trees and over the fields, but saw no one. I moved and stood behind a small group of trees wide enough to hide my scrawny body. Then I saw the man running down Ellicott Street Road toward Batavia.

  “Thank you, Dad,” I whispered, staring up into the blue sky as a bird circled above me. A sense of warmth held me like a set of wings for a moment, and then it drifted away with the cool breeze. I knew my dad was with me. “I’ll get the trap back too, don’t you worry,” I whispered.

  I pulled my dad’s tarnished, brass pocket watch out of my front pocket, the watch that held the moments of the past between its hands. The past I carried with me, always.

  I thought back to the night of my father’s funeral, after everyone had left our house; my mother walked into the parlor and sat down next to me on our sofa. She gently grasped my hand and placed my father’s pocket watch into my palm and closed it. The watch was warm from her holding it.

  “Your father would want you to have this,” my mom said to me. Her eyes were swollen with tears.

  I nodded with tears pooling.

  “Are you sure?” I asked softly.

  “Yes, he always carried it with him,” she replied as she held my hand. “Did you know there are a couple of reasons why a watch has hands?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “It’s a magical piece,” she said. “It holds the owner’s memories.” She assembled a partial smile. “So when you find yourself missing him, hold his watch and remember a happier time. And the other reason: this watch can be a way for you to reach for his hand when you need it or just want to hold it.”

  From that day on, I had carried my dad’s pocket watch with me.

  My watch read 12:15. As I looked down, I noticed the blood and dirt on the knees of my trousers, the stains which told the tale of my morning. The dirt was nothing new to my mother, not that she appreciated the mud one bit. The blood was going to be a little harder to explain, especially since I wasn’t dragging a dead animal behind me. I dropped my watch back into my pocket and rolled around in the moist dirt to make sure all the blood was covered up with mud.

  If I didn’t leave then, I was going to be really, really late. My mother told me to be back by noon. She hated it when I was late. She liked everything in its proper place, even time.

  My trousers now had several layers of mud to hide the truth of my morning. It was the best that I could do, but just to be sure, I dug my hand into the ground and grabbed another fistful of the cold dirt and rubbed it into the blood. The sight of the woman’s broken face flashed in my head like a lighting strike as I stared at the knees of my pants. I stood up and left the woods for home.

  My mouth watered as the aroma of chicken and gravy welcomed me into my kitchen.

  “Ma,” I called.

  “Where’ve you been, Fritzelle Reynolds? I’ve had your dinner ready for almost an hour,” she yelled up from the cellar.

  The lies swirled inside my mouth. The most believable one tumbled off my tongue. “I got busy looking for places to set my trap.” I grabbed a bowl from the cupboard, and I dished a few forkfuls of juicy chicken over three biscuits. Then, I reached for the ladle and poured a heaping amount of gravy over the mound on my plate and sat down at the table. I didn’t know which lie was coming next.

  I saw something I shouldn’t have. And the man knows I saw something I shouldn’t have. What if the news spread from town to town that I was the boy in the woods… with him?

  “What happened to you?” my mother asked, staring down at me with a basket of folded clothes on her hip. “You look as if you spent the morning in a hog’s pen.”

  I gazed at my plate as I spread the chicken and gravy over the biscuits. I felt the heat from her eyes on my head. I slowly looked up at her. “What’re you talking about?” I asked as I continued to move my chicken and gravy around the biscuits with my fork.

  She set the basket of clothes on the chair next to me. “Are you all right? You don’t seem like yourself.” An icy chill landed in my gut. Sweat beaded on my forehead as my mother stood there watching me for what seemed like a million years.

  “I’m not feeling so well. I’m going upstairs to lie down.” I set my fork next to my plate and pushed my chair out.

  My mother’s eyes softened. She removed her hand off her hip, gently grabbed me by the arm, and pulled me away from the table. Her eyes widened. “What did you get into?” she asked, wavering between concern and anger. “You’re covered in mud!” She looked down at the kitchen floor. “And it’s all over the floor!” Her face reddened. “Don’t make another move; you’d better undress right here! And take those clothes upstairs and soak them in the tub. I want all the dirt out of them before I wash them.”

  I nodded, then pulled off my shirt and dropped my trousers on the floor. The sound of dried mud hitting the wooden floor seemed to echo. I stood there in my skivvies, trembling with goose bumps.

  “Here, let me help you with them.” She wrapped them up as more chunks of dirt fell. She looked down in disgust, shaking her head, and pulled a pillowcase out of her laundry basket to stuff my clothes inside. “Here, put them in here. I’ll just rewash it. Put all of these in the tub to soak.” She handed me the slipcover.

  “All right,” I whispered.

  Her gaze gently rested on mine. “Let me feel your head.” She brushed my hair out of my eyes. “You don’t feel warm.”

  I shrugged.

  “What’s this on your forehead? Whatever it is, it’s in your hair too.”

  “I don’t know.” I began to tremble, and it wasn’t because I was cold. “I don’t know. It could be anything.” My voice shriveled like a dried leaf.

  “It looks like dried blood,” she said, holding my hair off my forehead. “Did you cut yourself?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe… I could’ve.” I answered her without looking up; I could feel her eyes crawl up and down my body like a spider.

  “Well, I don’t see any scratches.” She shook her head with her lips pressed together. “Now, what’s bothering you? You’re not acting like your normal self.”

  “My stomach hurts. I feel like I’m going to be sick,” I replied in an achy voice,
gripping my stomach.

  “Well, you do look a bit pale, I suppose.” She opened up the bottom cupboard and pulled out one of her tin mixing bowls. “Here: keep this with you in case you can’t make it to the bathroom. And don’t forget to put your clothes in the tub and fill it.”

  I ran up the stairs, and set the bowl on my nightstand. Then I headed into the bathroom. The hardwood floor was cool beneath my bare feet. I reached into the clean smelling pillowcase and found my trousers. I pulled my pocket watch out of the pocket and set it on the sink. Then I dumped my clothes and all the dirt into the cast iron tub, and I dropped the pillowcase in with them. I grabbed the long, cold iron handle and began to pump the water from the cistern. For some reason, pumping the water seemed harder than normal. My muscles felt weak and ached with every push of the handle. With the mud covering most of my clothes, no one would be able to tell what the stains really were. I kept pumping as I watched the clothes slowly disappear under the muddy water.

  I grabbed my pocket watch off the sink and stared into the mirror. A frightened face stared back at me. I remember Leon calling me “Fearless Fritz” once. That name hardly fit the person in the mirror. I pushed my brown hair out of my eyes. There was dirt on my face, dried blood in my hair, and more blood on my forehead. I gazed into my dark blue eyes, the eyes that had seen the black hand of evil.

  For the first time, I saw how much I resembled my mother. People always said I looked like her. I had her blue eyes and long lashes, but my nose was definitely my father’s nose because it sloped up a bit at the end. I touched the scar on my forehead, then tilted my head to see the one under my chin. I had earned both scars within days of each other, the first one from jumping off our barn roof into a small pile of hay and the second one a few days later, after falling out of my Uncle John’s red maple tree and hitting my chin on the way down.