Under the Bridge (Black Point NS: Roseway 2019)

CHAPTER ONE

“You. Yeah, you.” Young man turns to look at me, mouth open. I point. “Those roses in your hand. Why do you think they’re red? Blood.”

    He actually looks down at the flowers in his hands, steps back like I’ve cursed him.

    “Where do you think flowers come from in winter? Who grows them, on whose land?” Where am I? A flower shop. Don’t remember coming in.“Multinational corporations, that’s who, on land stolen from peasants. Where they grew food for their families.”

    The man clutches his paper cone of roses to his chest as he makes for the door.

    “Now they work in the flower fields, twelve, fourteen hours a day, for a couple of dollars.”

    Metallic thump as the door shuts behind him. I yell at the blank glass. “And the pesticides. Workers get sick. No income. Starving. Drift off to a massive city slum to live in a cardboard box. Die in a cardboard box.”

People are staring. Woman behind the counter slides her hand toward the phone. Damn. What have I done? I turn so quickly I have to grab a display to steady myself a moment before I stagger toward the door. People scuttle out of my way.

    Crowded sidewalk. No cop weaving toward me through the people. No flashing lights. But I’m not waiting around. In my mind, I run. Heavy old body can only manage a shuffle, though.

All I want is to hide. Go to ground. Broke my conditions. Again. Just left the probation office, too. John with his Newfie accent. “How many times did I warn you, m’dear? ‘Keep the peace and maintain good behaviour.’ After a few breaches, the judge had no choice but to give you thirty days. But now you’ve served it. Chance for a fresh start.”

    John, John, why won’t you write me that letter? I need the hope to hang onto. “Let’s wait and see,” he says.

    Why do they need a letter in the first place? They know me. All my years of Latin American solidarity work, teaching refugees English, helping them organize housing and income co-ops. And now they want reference letters? Not just from John, but from Doctor “Tell-me-about-it” too?

    I’m puffing less, though my chest hurts. Below the ramp to the Angus L. MacDonald Bridge, just down the slope, there’s a bit of scrubby woods where the homeless guys go. I pause, listen. They drink down here.

    There are remnants of parties, scatter of bottles, couple of fallen trees pulled up to a sodden black bonfire pit, but no one’s here now. I find an old blanket, scrunched into the roots of a tree so long ago it’s crusty. Holds its shape as I pull it out. By the chain-link fence at the bottom of the slope, the bushes are thicker. I drop to my knees. They’re sore, but I crawl in, pull the dirty blanket behind me. There’s a bit of log I can lean against. I squirm the blanket around my legs. Comfortable enough, for now. And hidden.

    That flower shop. Have the brake pads on my tongue worn right through? But my head was full of flowers, fields of them, brilliant in the sun. Emilia, only fourteen. Big dark eyes flooding with tears, telling me she wanted to die. And then she did. Her blood, a scab in the dust.

    I lie down, curl up so my shoulders are under the blanket too. Carpet of chocolate bar wrappers, coffee cups, mostly Tim Hortons, rims rolled. Traffic rumbles over my head. The Beast, roaring. Chain-link fence beside me, a view down into the parking lot of the dockyard. Hulking grey buildings fade into a greyer evening. I read sideways: Canada’s East Coast Navy/Marine Canadienne. Above, the bridge soars out into space, bridge to the sky.

    Actually, to Dartmouth, to Burnside. Excuse me, I mean the “Central Nova Scotia Correctional Facility.” I’m never, ever going back there. Before that happens, I swear, I’ll jump off the Angus L. MacDonald bridge-to-the-sky.

    I follow it with my eyes, arching up. The lights come on, a trail of stars leading out into the darkening night. What would it feel like to climb over the railing and let go? Fall, down, down, toward the icy water under the bridge? When you hit, would it knock you out? How long does it take to drown? Would you feel the cold? Would there be time for terror? Relief?

    I should just do it. Get it over with. Last time in court, Judith argued I’m harmless. Judge agreed, then gave me thirty days anyway. Harmless. Powerless. God knows, I’ve tried. And the rich are richer, and the poor are poorer than when I started. “You want to help us? Then go home,” Rosa said. “Our poverty and suffering come from el Norte.” The North. So much more than just a direction.

    Dear Rosa. Where are you now? Alive? Quiché women don’t get old. And Nicolás? Against all odds, they’re negotiating Peace Accords. Hard to believe there might actually be peace in dear, tormented Guatemala. I always comb the papers for little bits of information in the back pages. That’s where I saw it. The refugees camped in Mexico and hidden in the northern jungles will be allowed to go back home. The solidarity networks want volunteers to walk with them. Witnesses, for protection.

    Rosa said that too. Some of them thought I would bring trouble to the village, but Rosa said no, a foreign witness keeps us safe, especially a Canadian. And maybe I would have, if I’d been there that morning.

I want to go. Witness. Accompany. Protect those I failed before. Find Nicolás.

    All I need is a letter from John. Oh yes, and one from Doctor “I-can’t-help-you-if-you-won’t-talk-about-it.”

I root in the pockets of my old wool coat, close my hand around the plastic bottle. Did I take my pill this morning? Can’t remember. Stopped taking them in jail and did better. Or maybe it was the routine, or the chance to feel just a little bit useful again, teaching, after all these months. Not that they stopped giving me the pills. Got good at it, didn’t I? Tucking them into my cheek, swallowing the water, popping them out later. Drug company’s happy anyway. They got paid.

    Sky’s suddenly full of fat snowflakes, twirling around the lights of the bridge. Fall’s moving along toward winter. I’m cold. And hungry. Food wrappers, food wrappers everywhere and not a bite to eat.

I pull the bottle out of my pocket. Hard to open with frozen fingers. Evening pill, supposed to calm my mind, help me forget, sleep. Not enough to kill me, says Doctor “I-don’t-believe-you’re- delusional.” But maybe knock me out long enough to freeze to death? If I take them all? Wish it was midwinter so it’d happen fast. Wish it were midwinter.

    No. I haven’t the nerve for that. Just forget, sleep. I take two, swallow them dry and push the bottle back into my pocket. Touch something else. A key. My apartment. Gone now.