Bridgetender

By Lizzi Duff

At age 11, Edna Mae walks alone along the old drawbridge. Summer heat beats on her and the calm river below. The bridge draws her to her rapist, and launches her extraordinary life. In an altered state, she kills her rapist. Or does he kill himself? She doesn’t know. He vanishes. She escapes the bridge that hot day in 1939. She finds refuge in her girlfriend Toni.

But her rape on the bridge shapes her.

Her rapist’s disappearance haunts her.

Sex fuses with violence. Despite an enduring lesbian love with Toni, Edna Mae must seek dead male bodies during sex. She needs to know her rapist is dead, no longer a threat. As she ages, she marries and births a son. But her dead rapist stalks her. She becomes a sex addict and multiple murderer. She shape shifts into animal form. She wades the river shallows and hunts in the body of her totemic heron.

And men die.

In 1989, Edna Mae is 61. Toni dies of cancer. Edna Mae and her longtime friend, Ida, give Toni a river burial. They lower Toni into a shallow grave dug in the river mud. With Toni claimed by the river, Edna Mae is freed to confess the murder of her rapist 50 years earlier. With her knees bending backwards, she walks as an albino heron from the bridge to the police station. But will the cops believe her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lizzi Duff
• Release date: Oct 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311587831

Lizzi Duff

Bridgetender is Lizzi Duff’s third novel. Her first, The Ram, won 2nd place for Literary Fiction in the 2003 Pacific Northwest Writers Association Literary Contest. Lizzi is a transgender woman and board member of the Gender Justice League. She fights in the streets for gender justice, prison abolition and climate justice. She exults in cycling helmet-free through Seattle nights. Her daily life weaves writing with shamanic drumming. Food bank work sustains her and her parrot, Lily.

Book preview

Acknowledgments

This book is dedicated to rape survivors and to the memory of those who did not survive.

And, to Michele Levine, my Mikey-Ma, my shaman’s wife, my partner, my friend, my lover-beyond-time. You, alone, have been with me since the start of this story.

To Tobi Hill-Meyer, my literary agent and sweet friend, I owe the cover art and editing. Your support and advice have been my constant. Thanks for letting this story find readers.

1989

Chapter 1

Edna Mae looks at the cop.

I killed a man.

The cop taps his fingers on his desk. It’s wood, massive in the old style, with a glass top.

Edna Mae exhales. Her breath whistles, a small leak in a balloon.

I did. I did kill him.

The cop studies her face.

Edna Mae meets his gaze.

The cop is silent.

She touches her sun burnt nose. Her skin feels like parchment. Lotion on her face feels oily.

A half-done cigarette catches between the cop’s index and middle fingers. His skin yellows by the cigarette. Smoke lazes past his face.

Edna Mae looks down at her hands. Age spots dot her skin. The backs of her hands show bones and veins. Purple polish coats her nails. She fingers her gold wedding band. It’s wide with inlaid diamonds. Two oval amethysts flank the diamonds. The amethysts are dark purple with no facets. Small yellow streaks pierce the purple.

I did kill him. It was on a bridge.

The cop nods. His moustache is thin. It looks painted on.

Edna Mae raises a hand to her hair. Fading brown streaks her silver. A big purple barrette pulls her hair straight back, like a schoolgirl. Her hair stops just below her ears.

It was here, in Little Silver.

She taps her pearl choker, three strands of creamy white beads. Her fleshy neck wrinkles next to the pearls. She strokes her purple blouse and inhales. Her breasts show.

The cop’s cigarette moves to his mouth. He drags in. He exhales smoke at her, casually. His haze wreathes her.

It was a long time ago…50 years.

The cop drums his fingers. He leans his cigarette in a plastic ashtray.

His cigarette smoke catches in Edna Mae’s throat. She coughs. One hand springs to her mouth. Her wedding ring presses into her lip. The diamonds bump. The amethysts are smooth, provocative and comforting. She draws the stones over her flesh. A cold trill runs her spine. Her arm flesh puckers. Her hand stays over her mouth.

Excuse me. Edna Mae speaks behind her hand. Her breath warms the blisters on her palms. They hurt a bit.

She lowers her hand to the desktop. Purple lipstick clings to her ring. She shakes her shoulders, straightens her back. The hair on her arms relaxes.

…this man is dead, officer. I killed him.

Edna Mae leans into the desk, her elbows propped on it, her hands gripped together in front of her.

The cop pulls open a drawer. He slides out a yellow notepad. He fishes for a pen. He smiles at Edna Mae. His moustache parts under his nose. He has a left moustache and a right one. Smoke tendrils from the cigarette. It hovers between them like a halo.

Can you imagine how difficult this is for me, Officer?

The cop watches her hands tremble.

I mean, after all these years.

Edna Mae tries to smile. Her cheeks plump under her eyes. They ache from sun. Her teeth show between her lips. Her top teeth buck gently, quizzically. The large gap between her two front teeth looks intentional and stylish.

No. The cop speaks.

No?

Edna Mae blinks. Her eyes are defiant. Purple eye shadow tints her upper lid. The shadow tapers at her eye corners, almond-like.

I can’t imagine.

Edna Mae’s cheeks flatten. Loose skin sags at the corners of her mouth. Her purple lipstick masks her lips’ thin line. It’s a royal color, darkly female.

Are you married, ma’m?

Well, I… Edna Mae looks down at the notepad. Window light reflects a long silvery rectangle on the glass desktop. The reflection runs from her hands to his. You want this for your records?

I wonder if you have a husband. I see your ring.

Yes.

Edna Mae twists and twists her wedding ring. The stones spin. The sharp diamonds probe a small thumb gash. The band indents the skin on her finger. Her skin puffs to the band, embedding it, like tree bark congeals around a wound. She rubs the amethysts. Lipstick residue slicks the purple stones. Her skin glides on the lipstick, delicate grease. The amethysts feel warm. Her lips flicker.

Yes, of course. Purple stains her finger pads.

Where is he?

Oh, I see. Oh, yes. He’s dead. You see, for years.

The cop’s hands close on the desk. He moves a jot closer to Edna Mae. She focuses on the cop’s blue tie. It lifts and falls with his breath.

Ma’m? Your husband isn’t the one you killed, is it? Across the glass top, the blue tie rises and holds. Is that why you’re here?

Edna Mae’s eyes bolt to his.

No! She slaps the desk with both hands. Her ring smacks the glass. Her blisters sting. Her slit thumb hurts. The cop’s cigarette jiggles in the ashtray. Purple lipstick smudges the glass, like he’s been fingerprinting her.

Young man, please… Her voice quavers. She exhales loudly. His cigarette smoke eddies. I…

You understand I have to ask.

I do. But can you understand what I’m trying to tell you?

What are you trying to say? The blue tie moves back from the desk.

I’m Edna Mae Zug. I’ve lived in Little Silver all my life! Her voice is a quiet shriek.

Where do you live, Mrs. Zug?

Well…you see…my married name, my husband’s name is, was… Edna Mae clutches her throat, like she’s choking.

Ma’m? Are you all right?

Edna Mae nods silently, her hand at her throat. Her eyes mist and brim.

You sure, ma’m?

Yes! Edna Mae tears her hand from her neck. She breathes heavily and nods. Yes, I’m all right. And yes, my husband’s name was Purvis Hollander. I was Mrs. Hollander. Edna Mae fumbles in her purse in her lap. She lifts a white cloth handkerchief to her face. She blots both eyes. And I live in Pheasant’s Run, by the river. She looks at the handkerchief. Purple eye shadow smudges it.

I know that area.

Smoke from the burning cigarette clutches Edna Mae’s face. She waves it away.

Of course you do. It’s where my husband had a heart attack five years ago. Her lids snap shut and open. Her eye shadow flashes purple. He died at Riverview. Do you want the room number?

The hollow clip of high heels sounds on the wood floor. The muscles along Edna Mae’s spine tighten.

The sound draws closer. A woman emerges through the smoke. She has streaked-blonde hair to her shoulders. The cut looks expensive. The woman smiles and talks to the cop. Cigarette smoke eddies. It clouds her body to her neck. She is a talking head across the desk.

They want you on bus patrol, Lou. School’s out. The cop looks up at her. His neck muscles stretch and bulge like a wooing male pigeon.

…guess I’ll go out into that heat… The cop clicks his tongue. He smiles at the blonde. His mustache parts. …real hot for September.

The woman laughs and tilts her head. Her expensive hair hangs in the space between Edna Mae and the cop, partly hiding his face.

Edna Mae snorts quietly. The cop and the woman don’t hear her. They chatter. Edna Mae shifts in her chair. A classroom clock hangs on the opposite wall. She watches the red second hand tick. A big pedestal fan stands unused under the clock. Air in the room is cool.

I’ve got to go, ma’m.

Edna Mae whips to the cop. The streaked-blonde is gone. The cop crushes his cigarette out in the ashtray. Final smoke collects by his face. Edna Mae smells burnt tobacco. The cop starts to stand.

It was on the Oceanport Bridge.

What was? The cop stands. He looks stronger standing, his length exposed. His pressed blue trousers are heavily starched, the crease knife-sharp. He brushes cigarette ashes from his pants.

I…I… Edna Mae’s face flushes.

Ma’m? The cop straightens his blue tie. His Adam’s apple shows above his collar.

I told you, officer. I already told you. Edna Mae touches her cheek. It’s hot. He died. A long time ago. Her fingers are cold. Remnant sun lotion greases her pads.

Who did? The cop leans one hand on the desk.

Edna Mae turns away. She looks through a window to the front walk. Burnt red leaves on a Japanese maple look like bits of old fire.

Ma’m?

Edna Mae hears faint typing from around the corner. A distant telephone rings. A female voice murmurs. She can’t hear the words.

Ma’m?

It was the bridgetender.

Edna Mae looks at the worn lacquered door to the Borough Treasurer’s office. The tarnished brass doorknob is the old-fashioned kind, with an hourglass hole below for a skeleton key. Edna Mae’s face cools.

Yes. It was.

A bridgetender? I don’t know about any bridgetender, ma’m. Not in Little Silver.

Not now. Of course not now. Edna Mae’s hands splay on the desk. Purple lipstick faintly streaks the glass. You must know that bridge.

The Oceanport Bridge?

The cop stands away from the desk. He turns to a pedestal coat rack behind him. He reaches for his blue police hat.

It wasn’t always concrete and so high over the river. Edna Mae raises her voice. The old one used to be flat and painted. It always needed paint.

The Oceanport Bridge? The cop holds his hat by the brim.

But it opened then. A man opened it. Edna Mae speaks in a rush. He walked around a big key in the road. And it cranked open. Very slowly.

The cop puts the hat on his head. He taps his crown. He’s all blue except for his shirt and his black belt.

The man used to live on the bridge. He had a hut, bolted to the top like a…tumor. Her face flushes, again. It was near a big red light. For airplanes, I suppose, and boats. Her eyes wet and overflow. He climbed a ladder, it was built into the bridge. To get up and down. She dabs her cheek. He was the bridgetender. A smudge of sun lotion wets her hand.

The cop sits.

It was 50 years ago? The cop’s hat brim covers his face to the bridge of his nose.

Edna Mae’s hands clasp. Her knuckles whiten. Her ring presses hard into her fingers.

You say it was 50 years ago?

Edna Mae shakes her head. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. I…

You killed the bridgetender 50 years ago?

Yes. I pushed him. Or maybe he fell. He’d been drinking.

Drinking? The cop spreads his arms, palms up.

It was night, late at night. Edna Mae sniffs. Hers eyes are drying. She wrinkles her cheek where she wiped lotion. Her skin feels naked.

How old were you?

I was eleven, officer.

The distant telephone rings. A female voice answers.

Was it exactly 50 years ago?

I believe so.

You believe so?

The cop leans back. He opens the desk drawer. He withdraws a pack of cigarettes, unfiltered and stubby. He shakes one out. He pulls it from the pack with his lips. He holds the unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

50 years is a long time, ma’m.

I’m Edna Mae Zug. That’s my name.

50 years is a long time… Edna Mae.

Yes it is. An awfully long time.

An awfully long time to remember.

Yes. Edna Mae’s eyes drift outside. A blue jay perches in the Japanese maple. Its brilliant blue shines against the dark red leaves, like a splash of fountain water. Its blue crest juts. The spiked feathers look contrived and comical.

I’ve got to go, now. The cop’s cigarette wags. Why don’t you go home, ma’m…Edna Mae?

The cop looks down his hat brim at her. He pushes the notepad toward her.

Take this. Write down anything you want to tell me. His cigarette dangles. The paper barely catches to the sticky part of his lip. Here. The cop slides the pen across the wide desk.

Edna Mae stares at the notepad. Its yellow paper is blank and immense. The cop’s chair slides back. She hears the stiff whisk of his starched pants brushing the desk legs. His footsteps cross to the front door. The door creaks open and slams shut. Its glass top rattles. Edna Mae looks outside. The jay is gone. The Japanese maple is burnt red and bare.

She clicks her purse open. She pulls out the large white handkerchief. EMZ is stitched in purple at one corner. She nudges the pen and notepad away from her. She places the pen on top of the blank yellow paper.

Edna Mae bunches the handkerchief. She swipes hard at the lipstick smears on the desk. She wipes several times, in circles, leaning into the glass. She carefully wipes her hands with the clean side of the handkerchief. She avoids her blisters. She twists the cloth around her ring. Her amethysts are clean, dark and brooding next to the diamonds. She glances about the room. She is alone. She digs under her nails, rooting out bits of purple lipstick. Her thumb hurts. She clicks the soiled white cloth back into her purse.

She leaves no trace.

1939

Chapter 2

Edna Mae walked alone on the bridge.

River air rose to meet her. Sudden salt tickled her lungs. She coughed and smiled.

She stopped on the wooden walkway. She leaned over the rusty iron railing. The water was close. Little Silver Creek hung limply by the wood pilings, pausing between tides. The noon sun baked off the river. A big, flesh-colored crab crawled on a pile just below the surface. The sun slipped and slid on tiny ripples. The steel rail pinched through Edna Mae’s short-sleeved blouse. It felt warm on her belly. She rose up on tiptoe off the wood walkway. She wore white bobby socks and shiny black Mary Janes. Stitched red letters printed EMZ on both socks. She dangled her arms and head. Her blouse pulled free. Her hair fell toward the river. It was shoulder-length, brown and straight with small red barrettes on each side. It felt good streaming away from her.

A lonesome bit of seaweed floated under her. A school of shiners roiled the surface, like black fingers swimming. They banked, flashing brilliant silver in the murky water. A pan-sized snapper leapt clear of the river. It suspended, briefly arrogant and gleaming. It splashed back home. The shiners dived and vanished. Edna Mae’s ribs ached where the steel rail pressed into her. The summer sun off the river kissed her face.

The bridge trembled.

Edna Mae jerked to standing straight. A blue car came from the Little Silver side. The car shimmered in summer heat off the roadbed. A tunnel of big sycamores arched behind it, cool and shadowy. Edna Mae pivoted away from the rail. She brushed at her full, red skirt. She tucked in her blouse. The old walkway shuddered. The car drew near. Sun glinted off the car’s hood creature. The chrome thing had wings. It looked ready to fly. Edna Mae’s eyes watered and closed. She heard the car slow and stop. The bridge stopped shaking.

Edna Mae…is that you?

Edna Mae’s eyes popped open.

Sir?

Edna Mae saw blur. She blinked quickly, several times. She clicked her heels together at attention. She squinted at the glare. The driver leaned on the front seat toward her. He wore black in the September heat, his jacket, his pants, his hat. Edna Mae fixed on his white and black collar, a minister’s turned around collar.

It is you…Edna Mae Zug.

The minister’s voice was gentle, familiar. He smiled. His blue eyes bulged slightly. His engine idled. She stood ramrod straight.

It’s me, Edna Mae. Reverend Dollar. The man removed his hat. A red line from the hatband smudged his forehead. His hair mixed black and silver. What are you doing in the middle of the bridge?

Edna Mae stared at him. A motorboat rumbled in the distance. The sun felt hot on her bare arms. The man turned off the car engine. A seagull passed over her. The white gull flew toward Sea Bright and the ocean. It grew smaller and disappeared.

Edna Mae, I’m Reverend Dollar and I can give you a ride, if you want.

I know who you are…

Edna Mae rushed the words. Her jaws clamped shut. Both nostrils flared. The man watched her. Edna Mae looked down at her feet. Her red skirt covered her legs to mid-calf.

Mama says don’t talk to men in cars.

She spoke to the walkway. She lifted a splinter with the toe of her shoe.

Does your Mama know you’re walking alone on this bridge?

The splinter broke. It was a long jagged shard. Edna Mae nudged it with her heel. She kicked backwards and spun away from the car. The wood sliver dived into the water. Edna Mae scanned the glassy surface. Little Silver Creek was serene.

Do you remember me at your 6th grade graduation, Edna Mae? She heard the man’s voice over her shoulder. Just this past June, wasn’t it?

Yes. Edna Mae stood straight, heels locked together, facing the river. She looked at Colt’s Neck Point, where the river forked. Tall marsh grass fringed big lawns.

A great blue heron stalked the shallows. Its knees bent backwards. Its neck stretched long and thin over the water. The heron struck down like a snake. Its bill stopped inches above the surface.

The sun burned Edna Mae’s face.

The heron stabbed the river. It seized a wiggly piece of silver.

Where are you going, Edna Mae?

There. Edna Mae raised her arm. She pointed to Oceanport, across the river from Little Silver. She looked straight ahead at the heron. Its bill angled to the sky, as if gargling. The prey fish flopped madly. The gray bird gulped. I’m going to visit Toni. She’s my best friend. Mama knows that. Her forehead and nose hurt.

She knows where Toni lives?

Edna Mae was silent. The heron walked slowly, knees working backwards. Its great body hovered on stilt legs. Edna Mae’s face throbbed.

She knows Toni?

Edna Mae nodded. The river glare was hotter than the sky. Her skin felt raw, like the top layer had been burnt off. She gripped the bridge rail hard. The car started. The walkway shook.

O.K., Edna Mae. I’ll see you in church.

Edna Mae heard gears grind and catch. The engine sound moved toward Oceanport. She whirled away from the sun, facing the roadway. She panted in relief. She cupped her hand to her forehead. Heat oozed onto her palm. +

Chapter 3

A boat horn sounded.

Edna Mae jerked from the two nasal blasts. A cabin cruiser idled on the ocean side of the bridge. She rooted to the walkway, frozen by the horn. The boat bobbed innocently.

Bridge bells clanged, one close, one farther away. Edna Mae felt the sound in her spine. Her shoulder blades squirmed. Her eyes roamed the towering drawbridge frame.

A red light flashed on the nearest steel girder. She snapped toward it. It pulsed at her, scarlet then dark. The green girder paint peeled and bubbled.

Edna Mae looked across the river. A girl knelt on a floating dock. She wore a purple swimsuit with a frilly skirt. Her curly black hair cascaded down her back, almost to her waist. The girl tied a blue rowboat to the dock. Edna Mae waved. The other girl jumped in the rowboat. She started throwing orange lifejackets onto the dock. She moved with an athlete’s ease about the tilting boat. Edna Mae jumped and waved both arms over her head. The red light flashed in her side vision. The bridge bells jangled.

Toni!

Toni lifted the oarlocks from the boat. She tossed them onto the dock, a boy’s practiced motion.

Toni!

Toni pulled up the rowboat’s floorboards. She straightened with something big and silver in her hands. She chucked it overboard. A fish head splashed next to the boat. Toni let the floorboards slam back down into the hull. The sound delayed to Edna Mae.

Toni!

Edna Mae’s arms fell. The sun scorched her. She looked away. A man climbed down a steel ladder on the side of the drawbridge frame. He climbed awkwardly. He snaked one arm through the rungs. He caught the ladder in the crook of his elbow. Edna Mae saw something above him. A gray hut wedged between two girders at the very top. It looked like a tree house. A small window opened onto the bridge.

Toni! Edna Mae’s voice went limp.

The bridgetender climbed closer to the bottom.

Edna Mae glanced at Toni. She hopped into another blue rowboat. It careened under her weight. Toni held her arms out for balance.

The bridgetender was almost to road level. He wore a fringed straw hat with down-turned brim, like a Native’s. His long-sleeved shirt was raspberry and too short at the waist. His white belly showed above his belt when his arms rose.

Edna Mae looked along the walkway. It was clear to Oceanport.

Toni leapt from the last rowboat onto the dock. The boat bolted under her jump to the end of its rope. It yanked rudely back. Toni walked up a gangplank to a small house. A seagull perched on its sagging roofline. Toni opened a door and stepped into the shadows.

Bridge bells stopped.

Silence flooded Edna Mae. Red light leered at her.

The bridgetender was on the roadbed, walking toward her. One hand hung below his shirt cuff. The other cuff flapped empty, unbuttoned. The man stopped a few paces from her. He smiled. His tanned face wrinkled deeply by his mouth. His hollow cuff reached up. A fleshy stump slithered from the shirt. There was no hand. Edna Mae’s lungs stopped. Her lids peeled wide. The bridgetender touched the top of his straw hat with his stump. Edna Mae gawked at the thing. It looked like a blunt-faced eel menacing from its lair. With one hand, the bridgetender reached down to unlatch the bridge gate from a girder. He kept gazing at Edna Mae. Air burst from Edna Mae’s lungs.

She retreated a step.

His eyes held hers. She backed away another step. Her heels knocked into the bottom railing. The bridgetender yanked hard at the gate. She flung her face away from him toward the river.

Hello, Edna Mae.

She whirled back to him.

The gate moved freely in his hand. It was a single bar wood gate, like at a railroad crossing, painted red and white. A red reflector hung in the middle.

I’m J.J.

His voice slapped her, quick and violent, then fled. Blood surged to Edna Mae’s face. A chill ran her spine. Her pulse beat hot in her temple. She traced her lips with her fingers. Her fingers were cold. She touched her cheeks. They felt hot. Her skull tingled, like it would lift free from her body.

J.J.’s eyes trapped hers. She stared at him. He smiled. He turned away.

J.J. pushed the gate across the roadbed. His stump recoiled into its shirtsleeve. His straw hat hid his head. The red reflector bobbed in the middle of the road. The tailpiece of the gate blocked the walkway. Edna Mae looked past it, down the green railing toward Oceanport. The Idle Hour Marina and Bar sign stood next to the small house. The rowboats floated still and empty. Toni was gone. The boats pointed stern-first toward the bridge. The tide ran out.

J.J. walked to the far end of the bridge draw span. He fastened a second gate across the roadway there. He bent to a metal toolbox bolted to a girder. He withdrew a long tool, like a giant tuna can key. Under his shirt, his back muscles formed a hard V from his armpits to his waist. A small wet spot showed between his shoulder blades.

He spun to face Edna Mae. Their eyes locked. Her cheeks throbbed.

J.J. walked to the center of the bridge. The waist-high key clopped on the pavement like a cane. J.J.’s straw hat softly flopped. He slid the key into a round hole in the road. With his lone hand, he gripped one arm of the handle. He shoved his body at it. His shoulder muscles bunched. His loose shirt cuff waved. The key moved. J.J. lunged, again. The drawbridge creaked and cranked. J.J.’s eyes shone darkly.

The bridge under Edna Mae shuddered. The yellow centerline on the roadway split, like solid ground shears in an earthquake. The draw span began cranking away from her. She stood still on the landside of the bridge. Big, green girders groaned and traveled. Shadows and sunlight shifted on their gnarled paint. J.J.’s hut squatted on top, a gray wart.

She felt his gaze. J.J. eyed her steadily in her full red skirt and white monogrammed bobby socks. His body turned with the key. His neck craned. His eyes forced hers to follow. The sweat spot on his shirt spread from shoulder to shoulder. His handless arm dangled.

Cool air reached Edna Mae’s face and arms. Her face dropped. She saw open water where solid road had been. She felt dizzy, like coming on a sudden sheer bluff. A crab scuttled on the wood bulkhead under the bridge. The tide forced through the narrow bridge channel, headed to sea. The river smelled stronger, cooler.

Edna Mae!

Edna Mae saw something purple across the bridge, beyond the two closed gates and the gaping bridge channel. It was the girl in the frilly bathing suit. Edna Mae’s tongue poked into the big gap between her front teeth.

Edna Mae!

Toni jumped and yelled, again.

Edna Mae!

Toni vaulted on top of the gate tailpiece on her side of the bridge. Her tan legs gripped the red and white wood. She rode it like a broncobuster, one arm waving. Gold buckles on her purple sandals flashed in the sun. Toni laughed. Her head