My Very Best Friend (43 page)

“Hello, Mrs. Thurston,” Bridget said, so gently, her voice soft as we passed a table.

Mrs. Thurston, a shriveled bird, did not bother to reply, her face shocked, angry.

“Mr. Coddler,” Bridget said, to a potbellied man wearing a hat. The hat had a white feather in the band. His face twisted, and he deliberately turned to the side.

“Hello, Holly, a pleasure to see you,” she said to a woman in her thirties who was sitting with two other women. I recognized all three of them. We had gone to school with them until I left for Seattle. They stuttered out a hello, and “Nice to see you again, Bridget . . . hello, Charlotte . . . how are you?” then quickly, as if Bridget’s disease would smother them, they shifted away.

I saw the brokenness on Bridget’s face, and I regretted bringing her to town. I helped her into a chair. “Thank you,” she said to the girl. The girl smiled and said, “Laddy will be out in a minute.”

“You remember that Laddy is Lorna’s sister, right, Bridget?”

“Yes. Laddy’s kids couldn’t stand her. Moved away as soon as they could and never moved back to visit her. The woman can bake, but she’s a spitting spider.”

“They moved to get away from their mother and their aunt. Gargoyle women.”

We put the napkins on our laps, and Bridget and I started chatting about how much the village had changed; how we had run through the streets together, our ribbons flying; how we had brought a few coins to Sandra’s Scones and Treats Bakery for a treat; how we’d pretended that there were ghosts living at the same time we were. We talked quickly so the tears building in Bridget’s eyes wouldn’t spill over and fall out.

I felt ill. I thought my anger might eat me alive. It hurt to sit there watching her hurt.

There was a flurry of activity by the door to the kitchen. Mrs. Thurston stood up, wriggling with indignation, then whispered to Laddy, stabbing her finger at us.

Laddy hustled over, her face scrunched up, red. She was a stout woman, firm in her stomach rolls, her hair graying and pulled on top of her head like a ball of gray rope. She had been a stern woman when we were younger, and her three children were all rebels. Who would want to live with that? It would cause rebellion in a saint.

“Bridget, Charlotte.” She was panting.

“Hello, Laddy,” Bridget said.

Laddy put her fists on her hips. “I’m sorry, Bridget, you must leave immediately. Immediately!”

Bridget—tiny, thin Bridget—swayed in her chair.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked.

“No, this is no joke. Not a one! Bridget must leave this establishment right this very second. Come along, now. Out you two go.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because of the AIDS. I can’t have her infecting other people.”

“She can’t infect other people,” I said.

“Yes, she can!” Laddy’s chins trembled. “And I won’t have my customers infected.”

“You can’t be that intellectually challenged.” I studied her. “Surely.”

Her face flushed, her eyes bulged. “I’m not intellectually challenged, you impertinent girl. Daughter of your mother, an outspoken, irrational woman if I ever met one—”

“Don’t talk poorly about my mother,” I said to her, standing, my voice low. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’ll dare as I see fit, and I see fit for Bridget to leave. Don’t touch a thing. We’ll have to throw out the dishes and the silver. I’ll send a bill to Toran.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” I said. “Because if you had a brain cell, you would know that AIDS can’t be caught through forks and teacups.”

Bridget put a hand on my arm. “Charlotte, it’s all right. Let’s go. Thank you, Laddy, for making delicious desserts. I have remembered them fondly over the years.”

Laddy seemed taken aback by Bridget’s gentleness.

“Why . . . why . . .”

“I loved the scones, the chiffon cookies, and your apple tart was the best I’ve ever had. Those were my favorites. You’re a talented chef, and my brother and I, and Charlotte and Pherson, when we were children, we always came here for your pastries and looked forward to it.”

“Well . . . I . . .”

“We’ll leave. I’m sorry to have upset you,” Bridget said. She tried to stand, she wobbled, and I grabbed her. “Please don’t worry, though. You can’t possibly get AIDS from me. Send me the bill for the items and I’ll pay you.”

“I’ll do that,” Laddy said, but some of the anger seemed to deflate out of her. “Yes, I will. Directly.”

I glared at her, told her she was a “fat, prehistoric, bleating cow,” and we turned to leave. I propped Bridget up, my arm around her skinny waist. Mr. Coddler, Mrs. Thurston, and Holly glared. Mrs. Thurston said, “Stay out in the country, Bridget. We can’t have this spreading to our bodies. The children. Think of the children. And the elderly.”

Bridget said, “I’m sorry I frightened you, Mrs. Thurston. There’s nothing to be frightened of, though.”

I said, “Mrs. Thurston, I studied cells in petri dishes for years. May I say that you remind me of chlamydia?”

Mrs. Thurston made a choking sound in her throat.

“You know what chlamydia is, don’t you?”

Holly said to Bridget, “I’m sorry, Bridget, but you’re contagious. Henson and I are trying to have children and I can’t take a chance on the baby.”

Bridget said, a slight smile on her face, “Your baby will be fine, Holly. Healthy as can be.”

I said, “Holly, I remember you from when we were kids. You were a tattling, nosy, irritating girl, and I see that you’ve grown up to be the same. I’m surprised a man is willing to have sex with you.”

She gasped, and I gasped back, imitating her.

Mr. Coddler, with the feather in his hat, said, “I’ll let Toran know that you need to be kept at home for the duration.”

Bridget said, “That’s not necessary. I won’t come in again.”

I said, “Do call Toran, Mr. Coddler. He’s helped you with your fields many times, hasn’t he? I’m sure he’ll be ever so happy to help you again after I tell him how rudely you’ve treated his sister.”

He paled, blinked, and his face sagged.

“You’re a closed-minded old man and have lost your compassion.”

He said, flustered, “I am appalled! I never—”

“You’ve never what? Offered compassion or care to anyone? That’s abundantly clear.” I said this loudly.

There were other people in the café. None of them said anything. None of them spoke up for us. Laddy was still red, but there was something else in her eyes. Maybe tears. Bridget was leaning heavily on me, her skin a ghastly white. Holly kneaded her fingers together, her two friends stunned. Mrs. Thurston appeared ready to pop, like a can of worms under pressure.

“You cannot get AIDS from being in a restaurant with someone who has it,” I announced to those illiterate idiots. “You cannot get AIDS from hugging someone or being their friend. You cannot get AIDS when you’re having a conversation about the weather. But you can choose to stay uneducated and ignorant and cruel your whole life, which is obviously how you people have chosen to be. That you would choose to be this mean to one of your own is shameful.”

I saw jaws drop. I think I saw guilt on a few faces.

“Shame on you.”

They were shocked. They hardly moved. Perhaps it was the thought of getting AIDS through the air. Or perhaps it was my last three words.

No matter. What did I care what they thought?

So I said it again, “Shame on you.”

Bridget smiled weakly and said, “Good-bye everyone. Have a nice day.”

I helped Bridget back to the car. No one stopped to help us. She cried silently all the way home.

I raged against AIDS at dusk that night as I stomped across the hills behind my house and down to the ocean, unusually frothy and noisy that evening. I raged against it as the pounding waves dissolved my footprints behind me. I raged against it as the sun went down, the colors muted, the fog dense, gray and darker gray. I threw rocks into that thudding, churning ocean until my arm hurt.

I raged.

My mother called. She had broken her foot on the stairs at her university in South Africa. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to go to her, to help, but I couldn’t leave.

“Charlotte, my students are all helping me. You stay there and don’t move. I’ve read all your letters, twice. You tell Bridget I love her, I’ve always loved her, that poor woman. Women must stick together. You stick with Bridget.”

I stayed. I felt horrible about my mother, but she was right. I needed to stick with Bridget.

Dear Charlotte,

Once again, I will say to you that I am extremely saddened to hear about Bridget’s AIDS diagnosis. I know that the two of you are the best of friends.

I am also sorry about the response of some of the people of the village. We cannot invite people to leave town because of a lack of intellectual prowess, unfortunately. I wanted to let you know, and Toran, too, that I will do all I can to protect dearest Bridget, so undeserving of this, the poor thing, that lovely girl.

Life can be terribly cruel, can it not?

Your rights are thus: You may go anywhere in town with Bridget that you wish, including cafés and bars and other restaurants, despite the lunatics who are protesting otherwise.

Don’t go to Lizzie’s Café. Honestly, more people get sick eating there than they do from the flu. She’s only been in business a year, and she’ll be out of business in a month, but this is not a risk Bridget should take with her health.

If you have any trouble, get to a phone, and I will be there for you with my men. (And Officer Mary Adele, a new hire, tough lady she is.) I will never accept discrimination of any kind in St. Ambrose, in particular against the needy or ill.

For a personal story: My mother was Jewish, killed in the camps in the war. We later learned she lived three years in Dachau, a direct recipient of the Nazi’s torture.

I cannot write of this further. I apologize for the smearing of the ink. Those are tears that never quite stop when I think of my brave mother. My father got me out of Germany as a young boy. Being half Jewish, I was at risk. I was blond, though, and that helped. We escaped, and my father, being a Christian, did not have a problem. Lost everything, he did, but we got out alive.

Twice he went back into Germany to get my mother. One time he was beaten by the Nazis but managed to get out again. Missing two fingers on his left hand and had a limp the rest of his life, courtesy of those monsters.

I wanted to tell you so you would understand why I believe that discrimination and bigotry of any kind is wrong, in all circumstances.

I am behind you, Bridget, and Toran. I will defend you all. I will stand in your father’s place.

Yours,

Chief Constable Ben Harris

A friend of your parents, your father the best of bagpipers. He was my best friend. I will be the father that you, Toran, and Bridget need now, in his honor.

Dear St. Ambrose Ladies’ Gab, Garden, and Gobble Group,

We must take immediate action. The way that Laddy treated Bridget on Thursday in her café was deplorable. She kicked Bridget out. My pigs are far better behaved!

I will not be going to Laddy’s again, and I told her that yesterday. She told me that she didn’t care, and I said, I’m glad you don’t care because you are a scared nit, and she said you are a pig-loving hustler, and I told her that she owed Bridget an apology for being herself, a petty and spiteful overcooked woman, and she said that Bridget needed to be quarantined. I told her that she needed to be quarantined for improper obnoxiousness.

My pigs are smarter than Laddy is. (I told her that, too.)

St. Ambrose Ladies’ Gab, Garden, and Gobble Group, at Charlotte’s house next time.

I’ll be killing Frieda so we’ll have ham and potatoes. I will miss her.

Sign this note and pass it on. Do not pass it on to Lorna.

Olive

Ladies of Gabbing and Gobbling,

I will not be going to Laddy’s again, either. I already heard about what happened. One of my patients was there at the time, and I asked her why she didn’t speak up for Bridget and she started to cry.

People in town are being paranoid and hysterical. I’ve had many calls already to my office. One woman wanted to know if she could get AIDS from Bridget if Bridget’s “air cells” didn’t leave St. Ambrose. Someone else wanted to know if the whole village would be infected and would we have to live under a giant plastic bubble. A man called and asked if Bridget could give him AIDS if he touched the same door handle as her.

I’ll get on the agenda to speak at the next town meeting.

I’ll be bringing homemade cock-a-leekie soup with prunes that I’ll buy at Trudy’s Market. A pump up for the digestion system.

On another note, I need ideas for fall flowers. I need to look at bright colors after hours of using knives on people and all that blood. Blood everywhere sometimes. People have a lot of blood. What are your suggestions?

Kenna

Hey wild ladies and Hallelujah!

Olive,

Please don’t kill Frieda.

She is my favorite pig of yours.

Ex-husband was not pleased that we let Hallelujah loose in his house.