My Very Best Friend (47 page)

“Yes, I did.” Bridget handed the drawing to Olive. Silver Cat yawned beside her.

“Would you take a gander at that?” Olive exclaimed, her face lighting up. “This is genius. Pure pig genius!” She laughed, and we scooted over to see it.

The drawing was colorful, happy . . . and filled with pigs. Pigs resting on lounge chairs, pigs at a table with pink drinks with umbrellas, pigs swimming in a mud pool, bellies up, pigs planting flowers.

“This is spectacular. You have captured perfectly my love of pigs.”

“Oh. My. Spank me with a spoon,” Rowena gasped, as Bridget handed her a drawing. “You drew a torture chamber for me!”

“Yes, I did.” Bridget laughed. “But see the flowers I added? You said tonight that your favorite flowers were orchids, zinnias, and lilies, so I added them around the handcuffs attached to the brick wall and the chains.”

“Bridget.” Rowena sighed. “Thank you. It makes the revenge I want to take on The Arse sweet and flowery. I love it.”

For Kenna she drew her with her legs crossed, palms out, in yoga clothes, pink tea roses pouring through the trellis overhead. “I’m framing this sucker,” Kenna said. “For my office. After moving people’s organs about, or taking them out altogether, I need to see this yoga-peace picture. Thank you, Bridget.”

For Gitanjali, a pool as she described, only she had a hot tub in the corner and exotic, tropical flowers surrounding the pool and a twisty, tall slide. “Bridget,” Gitanjali said, her face crumpling. “This one of best thingies ever done for me. You gift me. Thank you.”

For me she drew a desk in the middle of a meadow, with my Einstein journal and a quill in an ink pot. Beyond that was the blue-gray sea, and whales, and a sunset turning the sky into liquid color. It wasn’t a secret garden, but it was pure me. It was where I loved to work, how I loved to work. In nature. I couldn’t even speak. I stood up and hugged her.

And for Malvina? A white gazebo. A blue table in the center of it with purple and yellow chairs, a huge bouquet of daffodils and narcissi in the center. Three candle lanterns hung from the ceiling. There was a long box with a glass front with Malvina’s bow and arrows inside.

“Bridget.” Malvina could hardly speak as the tears ran down. “My mother has been so cruel to you. . . .” She choked. “And I did nothing. I was quiet. And in being quiet I let it happen. . . .”

“Malvina, I’ve known you my whole life. You. Are. Not. Your. Mother.” We were quiet, still. Malvina needed to get this.

“No. No, I’m not my mother.”

“You’re Malvina.”

“Yes.” Malvina wiped her face, both hands. “Right. I am. I am Malvina. I’m trying to figure out who Malvina is.”

“Malvina is a kick-butt woman.”

“Thank you, Bridget. I know I’m a woman. I’m trying to do the kick-butt part.”

When we were younger, Bridget would always know these insightful details about people. Why they acted as they did. What they really meant when they were talking. What they chose not to say. What pained them. What they wanted. She was terribly sensitive, and thoughtful, and she wanted to know people. She listened. She cared.

Her gifts and love of people were reflected in the secret gardens she had drawn for us.

“Damn, but I love Gabble and Gobbing Garden group,” Rowena said.

“I know,” Kenna said. “This is my favorite night.”

“I love it so much, it’s not even hard to leave my animals,” Olive said.

“Friends,” Gitanjali said. “I love the serenity friends.”

“Eating, gardening, and talking,” I said. “What could be better, except for a thorough analysis of nuclear fusion and where the country will head in the future regarding the use of clean nuclear power for energy.”

They looked at me blankly. Dang.

“It’s a joke!” I said, and laughed, overly loud.

“Ah, Charlotte, you are so funny. . . .”

“I am loving this daiquiri,” Bridget said. “Shall we have another?”

We should, we decided.

Later I watched Silver Cat stick her nose in Bridget’s glass and lick up her leftover daiquiri.

We were pretty well smashed by the end of the night. We went outside to my garden, joined hands on the grass, and ran around in a circle until we all fell down. It was a tad hard for some of the ladies to get up, so we lay there, together. Bridget put her head on my stomach, then everyone put their heads on someone else’s stomach and we laughed and laughed.

Daiquiris will do that to you.

The stars were white and pretty, arcs and spirals, the sky so close, you could scoop it up with your hands.

Bridget did not wake up until noon the next day. She felt ill, nauseated, and had a fever of 101.

She said it was “headbangingly fun” and “totally worth it.”

I heard the train’s whistle.

Most people in the village were at the meeting to discuss quarantining Bridget. Hysteria travels fast. So does panic, ignorance, general stupidity, a lack of education, a need to spread gossip, and a general desire to get freaked out about something.

Toran called a friend who called two friends. Two doctors from London were now coming to speak at the meeting. Both were AIDS specialists. Kenna would also speak, as everyone in the village knew her.

Toran and I went to the meeting. We sat with Pherson and about ten of Toran’s and Pherson’s best friends, including Stanley I and Stanley II. Also sitting near us was Olive Oliver and her husband, Reginald. They were both wearing knitted snake scarves. The snakes had friendly eyes. That was probably intentional.

The rest of the Gardening, Gabbing, and Drinking group was nearby, as were many of the people who worked for Toran. Gitanjali sat next to Ben Harris. She looked tiny and fragile next to him.

Olive said to me, “I may have to cut Lorna’s tongue out tonight. Look, I brought my gardening scissors.” She then pulled out clippers, the long ones, from a huge flowered bag.

“Intimidating,” I said.

“I think I’ll wave them in the air when she stands up, the old stiff bottom.”

Lorna arrived, shoulders back, her bottom imperious, as bottoms can sometimes be. She strode down the aisle, indignant, followed by Laddy, self-righteous. Baen and Gowan were there, too, lockjawed, cavemanlike, ready to fling their fat fists around, but probably not at Toran, the nose smasher, again. Their noses were definitely still bumped, and moved to the side.

The town mood was anxious and angry, the division between those who defended Bridget and those that wanted her quarantined in the Arctic firing off at each other. Those that wanted her quarantined—like Mr. Coddler and Mrs. Thurston—were near hysterical, sure they could catch AIDS if a butterfly landed in the proximity of Bridget, then flew and landed on the roof of their home.

I thought of what had been said and done these past weeks, from one person to another. Two bar fights, with both Stanley I and Stanley II taking our side; one fight at the local school, Rowena took our side that time; tempers flaring in the grocery store (Kenna); and even a smackdown in the ruins of the cathedral between one of Toran’s friends, Athol, who defended Bridget, and a man named Lennox, who would never be Toran’s friend again. There were relationships in this town that would not heal.

Mayor Niall MacBay went through boring business first. Honestly, it could put you to sleep.

“And now we will invite Dr. Takamoto and Dr. Hirsch to stand and talk with us about AIDS, along with our own Dr. Kenna Thorburn, as we are sorely in need of an education.” Mayor MacBay glared at the people in the rows, taking time with Lorna, who was still huffing; Laddy, who was sanctimoniously angry; Baen, hoping for a fight; and Gowan, too dim to realize he was a fool with brain cells that would not show up in a petri dish even if they were dug out of his skull.

Toran and Pherson had gone to school with Mayor MacBay. He was blond, giant sized, and had six daughters and a wife who had had a traumatic brain injury and was loving but couldn’t remember a thing.

Both doctors, serious, intent, spoke. This is what HIV is. This is what AIDS is. This is what happens to the body when you have it. AIDS is contracted through sex, needles, blood transfusions—although they were working on that—and can be transmitted from mother to baby. No one in the room was even remotely threatened by AIDS from Bridget Ramsay. There is no evidence that it is contagious in daily life.

You are safe.

You are safe.

You are safe.

Kenna addressed the crowd, and she said the same thing, only she added the personal. “Most of us have known Bridget Ramsay for years. We know Toran. She’s our friend and neighbor. We need to treat her with kindness and care. . . .”

The doctors took time for questions.

Could they get AIDS by touching Bridget, Mrs. Thurston wanted to know, though that question had been answered ad nauseam. Can the virus hop from skin to skin?

“No,” Kenna said, authoritative and impressive up there.

“Not unless you’re hopping like a frog at the time,” Stanley II drawled. “Then, watch out!”

What if they touched someone who had touched Bridget? Mr. Coddler asked. Could they get it then?

“No.”

“Only if you had Chinese food for lunch,” Stanley I drawled. “The noodles make your cerebellum more vulnerable to the virus, Coddler.”

Was AIDS floating around in the air because of Bridget? Gowan asked. Is it catchable through the air?

“No.”

“You won’t get it from the air,” Rowena called out, “but you might get it if you did three cartwheels in a row.”

“Bridget Ramsay should be quarantined,” Lorna said, standing up, shaking her fist, “Quarantined! She should never, ever be allowed in St. Ambrose again! She has chosen her own death. She has indulged in sinful behavior, a common harlot, and now she’s being punished, rightly so. The AIDS is a curse upon this earth, sent to people who are not walking on God’s road.”

There was a loud rumble of derisive anger, but a number of people clapped in support.

“You should be quarantined,” Olive shouted. She stood, held up her garden clippers, and cut the air three times. I gently pushed her back down.

Bridget should not be quarantined, the doctors said, speaking over the noise. Remember what we said about how a person can be infected with AIDS. You will not get it from her.

Someone had heard that a sliced onion could catch bacteria and germs. Should they cut up onions and put them in their homes? Should they wear garlic around their necks? Would it work the same? Why, my aunt Dee did it and she died at 101, or was it 91? It was 101. Garlic works!

Olive stood, pushing her snake scarf to the side as she cut the air again with her clippers, and shouted, “Garlic won’t work, but a rabbit’s foot stuck in your ear would.”

This is a new disease, a few villagers said. You doctors can’t possibly know what you’re talking about. What are you hiding from us? Is this a government conspiracy?

They were not hiding anything. There was no government conspiracy.

Couldn’t they get the disease if Bridget ate in a restaurant and the plate wasn’t thrown out? What about a drinking fountain? Could they get it then?

“No,” Malvina called out, “but if she thinks of an elephant the same time you do, you
will
get infected.”

My jaw dropped. A hush filled the room, then laughter. Was that silent
Malvina
?

I snuck a peek. She looked proud of herself. Good for her.

You are safe.

You are safe.

You are safe.

Gowan barked in his throat, then said, “You don’t know nothing.”

Baen said, “Lies, I think it all is. Lies.”

“I’m glad you’re thinking,” Stanley I said.

“We weren’t sure if there was much going on in there,” Stanley II said.

“A lot of hot air,” they said together.

Gowan glared at them. Olive stood again and clicked her clippers. I gently pushed her down.

As the doctors calmly, patiently, answered the questions, I felt the mood shift. Information takes away fear. Learning creates knowledge. There were still people in there who didn’t believe that Bridget was not going to contaminate the entire village by breathing or smiling or brushing her hair on Tuesday at eight, but I felt the relief, the minds of rational people kicking in.

Lorna’s, Laddy’s, Baen’s, and Gowan’s minds stayed the same: Locked down. Rigid. They thought what they thought and they weren’t thinking any different. I can’t stand people like this.

“I still don’t think that Bridget Ramsay should be allowed in the village,” Lorna said, standing, quivering, her butt making its presence known again. “Here’s my petition!” She waved the petition. “My petition is signed by all the people in this village who believe in protecting one another. This is a moral issue. We cannot condone her illicit, immoral behavior.”

Pherson swore. Toran tensed. I thought Toran was going to lose it. I put my hand on his thigh.

“All this hocus pocus medical advice,” Laddy said, standing by her sister. “This is catchable!”

“Your fears are irrational and not based in medical science,” Kenna said.

“Science doesn’t know everything. They’re guessing! It’s a guess! This could be contagious. It could be an epidemic.”

Baen, beetle faced, spittle flying from his gnarly mouth, yelled, “This is the disease of the gays and the drug addicts. All who say quarantine Bridget, all for keeping St. Ambrose safe from a demonic disease, raise your hands.”

Gowan stood with his father, still the angry boy who never got his chance with the girl of his dreams. He would take his frustration out tonight. “I want Bridget to stay out of the village! This is from the devil!”

That about did it for everyone. People stood and yelled and said inflammatory, rude things that would probably not be forgiven for generations. Things to do with others being stupid beyond belief, wooden-headed, and willing to sacrifice the lives of innocent women and children, and can pets catch AIDS, too? What if Bridget gave it to the cats? Could a cat give it to a person? Do rats have AIDS?

Pherson stood and told everyone to sit down and shut up, which quieted people down. He was, like Toran, a Scotsman, tough, ready to fight, and he was pissed off. He spoke, with furious tears in his eyes, about how Bridget didn’t deserve their scorn, how their fears were unjustified, their cruelty shocking.