Travis came home from his hitch on a Thursday evening.
He pulled into the driveway just as the sun was going down. He didn’t even go in the house. He dropped his bag on the porch, kissed me, picked Easton up and swung him around, and then walked straight down to the creek.
He stood at the end of the bridge for a long time. Then he walked out to the middle. He knelt down, the way Vance had, and the way Gerald Pruitt had, and looked at the welds underneath.
“Which one did Hub make you redo?” he asked.
I pointed.
He ran his thumb over it. “Can’t even tell.”
“That’s the point.”
He stood up and leaned on the rail and looked out at the creek. It was running clear now. You could see the rocks on the bottom.
“I owe you a steak,” he said.
“Medium rare.”
“Is there any other way?”
Easton came running down the hill with Buster, Hub’s dog, who had more or less moved into our yard while Travis was gone. Buster ran out onto the bridge and lay down in the middle like he owned it.
“Dad! Did you see the low rail? Mom made it for the little kids. Tilly holds it every day. She doesn’t even look down at the water anymore. She says it’s her bridge.”
“Her bridge?”
“She says it’s hers because she went first. But I went first. She just went first with me.”
Travis looked at me over Easton’s head. I knew that look. It was the same look he gave me the day Easton was born.
“You held out your hand?” he asked Easton.
Easton shrugged, embarrassed. “She was scared.”
“That’s a good thing you did, buddy.”
“It wasn’t a big deal.”
“It was,” Travis said. “Trust me. It was the biggest deal on this whole bridge.”
Up the hill, a pair of headlights turned into Vance’s open gate. It was Vance’s truck. He drove slow, right down the tire tracks, not on the grass, the way his sign said. He pulled up at the top of our road and rolled down his window.
“Travis,” he called.
“Vance.”
“Your wife builds a good bridge.”
“I know it.”
Vance reached across the seat and held something out the window. A brown paper sack, heavy, folded over at the top.
“Tomatoes,” he said. “The last of the season. My wife’s plants. I still keep them going. She’d have wanted you to have them.”
I walked up the hill and took the sack. They were big and red and still warm from the sun.
“Thank you, Vance.”
“Thank you, Jo.” He paused. “You and Hub want to look at the culvert drawings with me? Gerald Pruitt sent them over. He wants a landowner’s opinion. I told him I’d only give it if you two were there.”
“Saturday morning?”
“I’ll bring coffee,” he said. “In a thermos. Not a can.”
He almost smiled. Then he rolled up his window and drove back through his open gate, slow, staying on the tracks.
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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