My Very Best Friend (44 page)

I told him to pay up child support, on time, every time, or we’d do it again, and this time we’d use one of your horses.

I received a check today. Hallelujah!

Rowena

PS I like Laddy about as much as I like Lorna. Why is she in Gardeners Who Gobble Gab Club with us? What is our name again? I can’t remember. Don’t send this note to Lorna.

Ladys,

I come to Garden Ladys Gobbling Giblet Club at Charlotte’s. I bring Papri Chaat with potatoes and the yum yogurt for Bridget. It heals. She need heals.

Chief Constable Benny Harris drives me up the road to Charlotte’s, but thank you for saying you come get me for the vacation to Charlotte’s.

Love and joy to you.

Gitanjali

Hello, everyone.

I know what my Aunt Laddy did to Bridget. I am so sorry. I will apologize properly to Bridget.

May I still come to Gardening and Gobbling Gang?

Malvina

Malvina,

Yes, silly lady. Bring a salad. I’m killing Frieda, despite internal protests that I not. She will be delicious.

Olive.

“Who do you think killed Angus, Bridget?”

Bridget put her feet up on a chair in the kitchen. We were making highland toffee cookies. A sliver of anger rushed through her face, then it softened, as if the energy for anger was too much.

“I don’t know. He may have run off.” Silver Cat jumped on her lap.

“I don’t think he ran off. My guess is someone killed him.” I thought of Father Cruickshank. Who would have killed him? There were other victims. Fathers, brothers, sisters, husbands, mothers—all would have wanted revenge. “He deserved it.”

“Yes, he did. Everyone who hurts children like that deserves it.”

“Who do you think could have done it?” I looked right at her, and she held my gaze.

“I didn’t.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did, nor would I tell.”

“I know.” She looked outside. Toran and three other men were on tractors in the distance.

“I have wondered the same thing,” I said. “He could have done it.”

“Yes. He could have.”

“Excellent move.”

“I feel the same.”

“Anyone else you suspect?”

“My parents.”

“Because of the timing.”

“Yes. That was suspicious.”

“Damning, actually, given the circumstances.”

“Yes.” We sat in silence.

“I love Silver Cat,” Bridget said. “She never leaves me. I can’t believe that she looks identical to the one Father Cruickshank shot.”

“Think she’s a grandcat?”

“Could be. I hope her grandma clawed Father Cruickshank’s eyes out.”

The nastiness continued.

Someone threw bricks through Toran’s front window in the middle of the night, sending shattered glass everywhere. He got up so fast, I went flying off his chest. He was out the bedroom door practically before I’d landed.

Toran found out later, from Pherson, that the bricks were thrown by a man who lived about ten miles away. The man talked about it at the pub as he drank. “Threw bricks through the window to show ’em we don’t need an AIDS drug addict in our village. She needs to head on out or we’ll take her out, even if she is Bridget Ramsay. She’s got to go.”

Toran, Pherson, Stanley I, and Stanley II and I went to the man’s house late that night. We built a wall of bricks—mortar between them—in front of his door so he couldn’t get out of his house.

Someone slashed the tires of one of Toran’s tractors. It was rumored to be a young, obnoxious man named Inek. Toran saw him in town, walked straight up, and said, “Do you not like my tractor?”

The boy stumbled, mumbled. Toran asked him to apologize, and the boy said, his voice shaking, “Keep your sick sister away from the rest of us.”

“Okay, lad,” Toran said. Then in old Scottish form, Toran and Pherson packed him into Toran’s truck and drove him ten miles out of town. “You won’t get infected out here, Inek.” They left him.

Toran was shunned by a few people he had known all of his life, which was the most hurtful. They avoided him in town, the pub, everywhere. They thought they would catch AIDS if they associated with him, as he may have been infected by Bridget.

His best friends, however, did not, starting with Pherson. Pherson was no more afraid than we were. They were smart, measured, learned men.

Toran Ramsay inspired true friendship. He was loyal to his friends, and most of them were loyal to him. I knew that the people who walked away from him now would never be allowed inside his life again.

“I am finding who my true friends are and who aren’t, Charlotte.” His voice was heavy, shoulders back, strong and hard, but he was hurting.

I nodded. “Yes, you are.”

“The true friends, they are my brothers. In another clan, but Scotsman brothers.” He sighed. “I was right about many of my friends—who would stick with me, who wouldn’t. Yet there are people I would have guessed were not true friends who have been. And there are men who I thought were true friends who have backed away.”

I hugged him tight. He hugged me back. I felt him shudder and I was instantly furious. Who were these harsh, judgmental people who would hurt sweet Bridget and Toran, people they had known their whole lives? How dare they make Toran shudder and Bridget cry.

“People can be very disappointing,” I said, blinking rapidly.

“That they can, luv, that they can. But you, you have never disappointed. You have always been the truest of all the trues.”

I kissed the bottom of his chin. He tilted his head down and gave me a proper Scottish kiss.

“Give me another kiss, Charlotte. I do believe I need one more . . . and another one . . . a third for tomorrow . . . a fourth because I cannot resist you. Shall we take a nap?”

I thought about kissing that night.

Some kisses on the cheeks are between friends, an air-kiss, very shallow, a casual greeting. Women air-kiss other women whom they hate all the time.

Then there are kisses on the cheek, in affection and friendship and love. Mother to daughter. Father to son. Sister to sister. Man to woman.

There are passionate kisses, and kisses that one person wishes would be more passionate. There are kisses that are light and fleeting, a tease, a whisper, a wish, a promise for more. There are kisses that have been given to the same person for decades, and others that have one chance and one chance only.

There are kisses that fill loneliness, that comfort and soothe, that are fun and funny.

Then there are passionate and lusty kisses, like the ones I share with Toran, that reach all the way to my heart. I love him with all that I am.

On Wednesday night someone set fire to one of Toran’s barns. He, and the other men who worked for him, tried frantically to put it out as best they could, but in the end, as the fire engines and firefighters raced toward us, nothing helped. I stood outside, a hose in my hand, as the roof caved in

Toran came running, grabbed me with one arm, and pulled me away as the sparks flew, the wood split, the flames took hold, and debris careened through the black night.

“Are you all right, my luv?” Toran asked, panting, sweating, on top of me.

“Yes, yes. Are you?” Our hair was singed.

The walls of the barn collapsed behind us, and Toran picked me up again and shoved me in front of him as we ran, the wood transformed into mini torpedoes, the fire scorching hot. The barn burned to the ground, gas cans exploding, which sent another round of objects spinning through the night. When the flames died down some and the explosions stopped, Toran, the employees, and the firefighters did their best to contain the fire with multiple hoses. The barn was a black, charred, crackling mess. I was so glad he did not have animals.

Bridget watched from her window, too weakened to move.

Later, when I comforted her, the black smoke billowing into the sky, the acrid smell invading the house like living hate, she cried.

“I cause him pain all the time. I do, Charlotte.” She wiped her wet face with the tissue I gave her.

“No, he loves you.”

I crawled into bed with her and rocked her, the scars on her arms reflected by the moon’s beams. “I have caused him pain and trouble. I am pain and trouble.”

“Bridget, please—”

“Don’t tell me I’m not.”

“I won’t. You’re a pain in the ass and you are trouble on wheels.”

“I know, I know!” she said, wiping her face again.

“And if you keep whining and being pathetic, I will continue to be sarcastic when needed, as that self-pitying crap is irritating.”

“Oh. Argh. I sounded self-pitying then? Can’t do that. I won’t do that. No one likes a whiner.” She took a shuddery breath. “Okay. Whew. Let’s start over.”

“Fair enough.”

“Those assholes burned down our barn!”

“They did.”

“I should get up and set fire to them and their skinny arses!”

“You should.”

“I curse them from here to hell and hope that snakes crawl up their buttocks and lodge there indefinitely.”

“A righteous punishment.”

“I hope they get lice.”

“Also righteous.”

“I hope they never have a lover again in their lives. Enforced abstinence.”

“They deserve nothing more.”

We did the Clan TorBridgePherLotte handshake and said, “May our enemies rot in the fires of hell.”

“I’ll make Bonnie Prince Charlie chicken tomorrow to make it up to him,” Bridget said.

“I’ll eat it.”

“And we’ll have some Scotch.”

“I’ll drink it.”

“And we’ll play poker.”

“I’ll try to win.”

“You won’t.” Bridget shook her head sadly. “But you’ll try. Try as you might.”

“I’ll try.”

She couldn’t stay awake any longer, too weak. When I had her covered, I headed back outside. The engines and firefighters were still there, as was Pherson, Stanley I, Stanley II, Ben Harris, and three of his officers.

I saw Toran in the shadows, directing, leading.

He had lost his barn. This was a direct attack on him, and on Bridget, sweet Bridget.

My fury flamed as high, and as burning hot, as that fire.

The next evening Chief Constable Ben Harris and two other officers came to Toran’s home. They had found out who had burned the barn down. Two brothers named Ennis and Ewan Matharnach. They were cousins of Baen and Gowan.

That figured.

“Arrested, in jail currently, will be prosecuted,” the chief said. “They’ll be in jail for a long time.”

“And I will take them to court for the damages,” Toran said.

“They don’t have any money, Toran,” the chief said. “They do have, however, land.”

Toran crossed his arms over his chest. “Looks like I have acquired more land.”

“Looks like it,” the chief agreed.

Clan TorBridgePherLotte had Bonnie Prince Charlie chicken and Cloutie Dumpling parfait with whip cream and Scottish Scotch the next night.

We played poker.

Bridget was wrong. I won. I have, after all, studied the game, too.

We went to bed early, the charred scent from the burned barn still drifting in and out of the Scottish winds.

Toran came upstairs with the newspaper two days later, dawn barely gone. He climbed into bed with me and said, “Editorial written by Chief Constable Ben Harris. Look.”

I scooted closer to him, the silk of my purple nightie wrapped around my legs.

ST. AMBROSE DAILY NEWS
A LETTER FROM CHIEF CONSTABLE
BEN HARRIS

To the people of the village of St. Ambrose,

I want to be clear with all of you about the law, specifically how it relates to Bridget Ramsay.

Ms. Ramsay is a citizen of this grand country. She was born here in St. Ambrose, as was her brother, Toran, who employs many people in the village.

Because Bridget has AIDS, she has been shunned from many businesses and has been harassed and ridiculed.

Bricks have been thrown through the windows of her and Toran’s house. Toran’s tractor tires have been slashed. His barn was set on fire two nights ago. That was arson, pure and simple. The perpetrators are in jail and will stay there for years.

There will no discrimination in this town. There will be no more harassment or intimidation. You will not attack, in any way, one of our own.

Some of you have made a member of our community unwelcome. You have made her feel unsafe. You have disrespected the Ramsay family. You have disrespected this village and the values and ethics of Scotland.

That a few of you have excluded her from your bars and restaurants indicates an ignorance I can hardly comprehend. We all know which bars and restaurants have blatantly excluded Bridget. You, friends, are free to choose not to patronize those places anymore. I hope that you will do so.

For those of you who have been kind to her, well done. You have been true Scots, a proud example of who we all aspire to be. Thank you for your compassion, loyalty, and friendship.

I will, once again, hand out flyers I have made detailing what HIV and AIDS is and how it’s transmitted. This time, read them.

There is no way—I repeat, there is no possible way—that you can catch AIDS from Bridget. Do not buy into unfounded fears, allegations, and general, unattractive panic. You are safe. We are safe.

But let me be very clear, friends. If anyone causes more trouble for Toran or Bridget Ramsay, if there are any more crimes committed, I will take action again. I will arrest you. I will have you prosecuted under the laws of this land. You will go to jail.