The Bridge

TW: suicide

“That should be it, right Jimmy?”

“Yeah.” Jim threw a rope over the loaded truck and heard it thump the steel frame on the other side. He tightened the rope and made a loop with both strands, passed the end through the loop, fed it through one of the metal hooks on the headboard, and cinched it down into a trucker’s hitch. The load swayed and he heard the rubber feed bins screech softly against the tailgate.

“You heading out soon?”

“Soon.”

The truck teetered out of the dooryard. Jim heard the load creaking as the truck rolled over the potholes in the driveway. He pictured where the truck would be swerving to avoid the deepest ones.

He went into the barn. The empty rows of stanchions shone, wet from the pressure washer. At the end of the aisle, three Holstein cows stood in their stanchions and munched on silage. Jim sat on a plastic Agway bucket and watched them eat. Between bites, they gazed at him with large, kind eyes.

The manure belt rattled to life and began grinding through its trough behind the stalls. Jim listened for any dislodged links. How many times have I repaired that belt? At least a hundred. Dozen times a year. Thirty-two years. Probably should have replaced it by now.  

He scooted the bucket over to one of the cows and stroked her smooth neck. In return, she dumped a mouthful of silage on his boots.

“Thanks, Liza.”

His cell phone buzzed and he let it go to voicemail. Probably just Larry. Another document, another motion. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Larry’s a good guy, but a lawyer was never going to be enough. Should’ve seen the writing on the wall.

“I remember the day you were born, you know that, Liza?” Her head swung up, massive, chewing. “Right back there in the center pasture. Summer morning, sun just coming up, there you were.” He smiled and took his hand off Liza’s neck, causing her to toss her head in protest. He resumed stroking and a second Adam’s apple surfaced in his throat. Liza extended her wet nose toward his face, blowing on him and attempting to lick his hat. She knocked it off his head and his laughter mingled with tears.

The barn lay empty around them.

The sun was low on the horizon when Jim placed the Agway bucket in the truck bed. He pulled out his phone and listened to the voicemail from Larry.

“Jim, wanted to let you know I heard from the agency commissioner and he’s still saying that the stream used to be a wetland. It’s ridiculous, I know. We obviously have the two depositions, but I wanted to make sure you hadn’t seen any water there recently. Cause you know they’ll use even the smallest puddle. These things are so broad and vague, they can pretty much use ‘em any way they want to, you know what I’m talking about. Anyway, give me a call when you get a chance.”

Jim wasn’t angry. He had been angry many times before. When it started, when they had first pulled into his misty driveway that warm May morning, he had been enraged. The unfairness, the cost, their elitist attitude—it had driven him over the edge. They can go to hell, the bastards. Then, after the first three years of litigation, he had resigned himself to shaking his head. “I’m sorry, sir,” they had said. “But under our regulations dairy farming is not an approved agricultural activity.” How the hell is dairy farming not an agricultural activity? Damn the bureaucrats.

And now, twelve years later, he was numb.

At least it took them twelve years. Most of the others went down a lot easier.

He began walking toward the pasture, down the hill and through the gate by the big maple. A sledgehammer rested against the side of the tree. He slung it over his shoulder. Been wondering where that was. Must’ve left it here by accident last spring. Coming to the back of the first field, he passed the small valley where Liza had been born.

His mind turned to family. Dad loved the farm, but he loved the forest most of all. A stand of pine walled the north edge of the pasture to his right. Gramps too, although he was the one who got the dairy started. Bought us our first Holsteins. Manure from the herd peppered the field beneath his feet. They had been here just yesterday, after all. The beef truck hadn’t come until the afternoon. God, that seems like forever ago. His blood boiled at the thought of his tall, graceful Holsteins getting trucked off for beef.

He was standing on the bridge that crossed the stream. The stream that had started it all.

“What pollutants?” he had asked the officials when they drove into his misty driveway on that warm May morning.

“Well . . .” They didn’t know. “But don’t worry, you’ll be able to keep your farm.”

The bridge was covered with yellow tape and a large toolbox that had been there for weeks while the officials ran tests on the tiny mud-pit under the bridge they called a “water of the United States.” The fields on both sides were grown up with dried thistle and brown grass. What a waste. A waste of good land. My land. It’s been at least five years since I’ve had cows down here. Whenever it was that the agency told me I couldn’t use it.

Those bastards can go to hell.

Telling me I can’t use my own goddam land—

The anger boiled over. He swung the sledgehammer off his shoulder and brought it down with all his strength on the toolbox. The lid crumpled like a folding chair and he swung again, splitting the hull in two places. Test tubes full of muddy water spilled onto the bridge. The fury controlled him and he fed it. He smashed each tube with the sledgehammer, screaming, cursing through his hot tears, throwing his whole body behind each blow. Then he was gasping for breath, bent over, the sledge beside him and blood in his hands from freshly opened callouses, the bridge strewn with glass, mud, shards of plastic toolbox, yellow tape. Wonder what they’ll charge me with for doing this.

The sun was almost gone when Jim left his farm. He saw the potholes in the driveway and did not swerve around them. He was numb again.

The truck crawled along the highway. Cars roared past him with flipped birds and blaring horns. He stared at the road and the dried tears on his cheeks glittered in the oncoming headlights like sunny rivers cutting through the desert.  

It was dark when he pulled into the motel parking lot. He turned the truck off and sat motionless in the driver’s seat. Slowly, serenely, without changing his forward gaze, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the .44 magnum. It rotated in his hand, turning over and over and around and over again and then sideways and over and now he was looking into the barrel.

He heard the crickets chirping in the night.