The Jackson River Bridge

By Elliott D Light

Alone on a bridge staring into the dark water...

 

He was not born Noah Waters, but constant rejection often has a way of encouraging one to walk away from everything they have known while giving birth to the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Imzadi Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Aug 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781944653279

Elliott D Light

Elliott Light grew up outside Washington, D.C. in McLean, Virginia before the beltway encircled the capital city, before farms were turned into housing developments, and before open fields became mega-malls.Light attended the University of Virginia, receiving degrees in Electrical Engineering and Law. He has several patents to his name.After stints as an environmental lawyer and a high tech in-house counsel, he practiced patent law in a private law firm.Now retired, he resides in Naples, FL with his wife, Sonya.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

My name is Noah Waters, but it wasn’t always so. I was born Jeff Cutter and then born again a few months after my sixteenth birthday as Noah Waters on a bridge over the Jackson River. That’s where my life pivoted - when my past and future met at a crossroads, and I had to choose.

I left home in early June of 2004, shortly after my father’s funeral and just hours after my mother had found a way to blame me for his death. Two months later, on a warm August night, I reached the middle of a cold steel bridge fashioned from huge girders and held together by massive bolts and rivets. Here, the black metal was illuminated by an overhead streetlamp, the light casting an orange glow over the bridge’s midsection while leaving its endpoints to disappear into blackness.

I arrived at the bridge broke, hungry, and disillusioned. My eye throbbed from a punch landed by one of the men who had robbed me a few hours earlier. I wasn’t in good shape. I stepped out of the soft light at the center of the bridge, climbed the girders to the edge and peered over at the river below. The moon played hide-and-seek with the remnants of thunderheads. The intermittent moonlight streaked the dark water with silver beams that danced with the flow of the clouds. A breeze teased my cheeks and filled my nostrils with a pungent earthy aroma.

I grasped the cold beam and pulled myself onto the top of a railing, then stared at the inky ribbon that flowed silently below me. I imagined Huck Finn on a raft and envied his courage.

I took a slow, deep breath and considered my situation. There was nothing for me on the side of the river that I had come from. I had no reason to believe that the other side of the river offered anything better. Logically, I had no compelling reason to go one way or the other. Jumping seemed a way to break the tie, but I didn’t have a death wish.

I was locked into this stalemate when I heard, It’s a long way down.

The voice was so soft and without alarm that I thought for a moment it came from inside my head. I listened for a moment, but my internal voices were silent. I turned to see a dark silhouette only a few feet to my left.

Killing yourself will solve nothing.

Actually, it would. I wouldn’t be hungry, and I wouldn’t have to think about being betrayed by the ones who were supposed to love me unconditionally.

The owner of the voice moved closer. He was wearing a hooded garment of some kind that shadowed his face. He could have been another robber, or he could have been a monk who wandered the darkness looking for lost causes. I decided to be prepared for either possibility.

I don’t mean to be argumentative, countered the hooded man, but I believe you’re confusing a resolution—jumping will resolve your dilemma for sure—with a solution to a problem you have but can’t solve, which jumping would have no bearing on. A problem has brought you to the railing of a bridge. I’m simply saying that if you elect to do a header into the river, that problem will remain unsolved.

The stranger’s argument stunned me, not because he was right, but because I had never encountered anyone other than myself who would have thought of it. Having been caught in a semantic error, I responded defensively.

What do you care whether I jump or not? I turned and faced the river. It’s really none of your business.

I heard him groan and looked back at him. He pulled back the hood. From the shadow emerged a tall man with a long, weathered face. His hair was streaked with gray and pulled into a ponytail. Even in the dim light, I could see his face was etched with sadness. He, too, was stalked by demons.

At the risk of being boorish, I’m compelled to correct you again. I didn’t say I cared what decision you make or how you make it. For all I know, you’ve done something terrible, and the world would be a better place without you in it. It is, however, my business, albeit in a selfish sort of way, because I live in a house downstream from here. If you go off the edge, the police will come and dredge the river. The last time they did that, my shoreline was littered with old tires, a washing machine, and a bicycle. To make matters worse, they drove their SUVs over my plants and made a mess of the habitat that is home to many of nature’s most endearing creatures that I consider my friends. And then there’s my desire not to attract attention to myself. So, my preference is that you do not jump, or at least jump somewhere else.

I glanced again at the muddy water, then focused my gaze on the gray-haired man. As his image blurred, I blinked to clear the tears from my eyes. I won’t jump, I said. I don’t want to cause you any trouble.

Looks to me like trouble has found you a lot this evening. If you like, I can offer you something to eat and a place to stay while you sort things out.

I gripped the girder tightly. Then what? You’ll decide that you know what’s best for me, which in your mind is that I go back to where I came from and get help? No thanks. If that’s what you’re thinking, I might as well jump.

He took a long slow breath and exhaled noisily. I sensed that he had lost patience. I have no clue what is best for you or anyone else. If you’re hungry, I’ll feed you. After that, you might leave or stay. It’s your choice.

I stared at him but said nothing. To my surprise and relief, he didn’t leave.

My name’s Ben Chaffin. What’s yours? When I didn’t answer, he asked, What may I call you?

Since I’d left home, I had accepted help from strangers. My last encounter had landed me in a ditch with a throbbing eye. I was fearful of making another bad decision, but I was ravenous. I don’t know, I said, stepping down from the rail. Let me think about it.

Ben turned and headed across the bridge. It’s not far, he said.

I followed him a few paces back. After a few minutes, we were walking across from each other, albeit five feet apart. As we approached the end of the bridge, he again asked me about my name. My memory of the moment is as clear now as it was when it happened:

Picking your name is an important decision, he said. Anything come to mind?

Phoenix Rivers.

I like that, but you know there was an actor named River Phoenix.

I didn’t, but I said I did. I wasn’t saying that I picked that name. I said I liked it.

Well, if he hadn’t taken it, it would suit you.

Thanks. I’m not keen on the usual names like Tom or Mike or Billy.

I knew a guy named Stretch. He was really short.

Then why did they call him Stretch?

I should explain that, as a child, multiple doctors believed that I was brain-damaged and hopelessly mentally handicapped. A few were convinced that I had a form of autism, but even those experts believed I should be institutionalized forever. My siblings told their friends I was retarded. As you can see, both schools of thought got it wrong. As I will explain later, I had outgrown some of the attributes of what I call my affliction, but not all. At sixteen, I was still learning to hide my remaining quirks from others, the most obvious of which was that I processed words literally. Had I not been so weary and emotionally drained, I might have grasped the humor in the name. But at that moment, naming a short person Stretch simply made no sense.

I think the name was supposed to be ironic, added Ben.

I like animal names, I said. Otter, wolf, coyote, bear, and panther are cool words, but I’m not sure about being named after one of them. I heard a story about how all the animals were put on a boat before a big flood.

That would be the story of Noah, said Ben.

I don’t believe that happened, but I like to imagine a boat big enough to hold elephants and giraffes. I saw a TV show at camp about a guy named Branson. That’s a kind of a good name.

I think the character was named Bronson, said Ben. He wandered around on a motorcycle.

This was a different show, I said defensively.

Your name is a big decision, said Ben. Best let it percolate until it comes to you.

We reached the end of the bridge. About a quarter mile farther, Ben turned right onto a dirt road. When I hesitated, he walked back to the highway and pointed at a mailbox. This is where I live. You can see the lights from the house through the trees.

I saw them but remained uncertain.

I’ll tell you what. You wait here, and I’ll bring you a sandwich and something to drink.

I looked again at the lights. You go ahead, I said, and I’ll follow you.

A few minutes later, an expansive house, illuminated from the outside by a line of equally spaced floodlights, emerged from the trees. The glass and stone exterior looked exotic in the orange-yellow light. As I came closer, I looked through a massive bay window to a back wall of tall windows and beyond to a tree line that disappeared into the shadows. Behind the trees, I surmised, was the Jackson River.

If you don’t want to come inside, you can sit on the deck in the back, and I’ll bring you something to eat. I can make you a sandwich or reheat the spaghetti I made yesterday. It’s quite good.

I opted for the spaghetti, and he directed me to a path that led to a deck that ran along the back of the house. Through the trees, I could see the light that hovered over the top of the bridge where I’d been standing a half-hour before, and I could hear the water lapping on the bank. A deer emerged from the edge of the woods, glanced at me, then ambled into the darkness. A moment later, a raccoon jumped onto the deck railing and looked at me through a black mask before scurrying away.

I closed my eyes and was engulfed by the sounds of the night and the smell of the river. Images of the dark flowing water dappled with moonlight drifted into my thoughts. The ambiance was enticing and peaceful, begging me to slumber. The mood was broken when my head snapped forward, bringing me back to the present. For a moment, I had no clear understanding of where I was.

A door opened behind me, and Ben appeared with a tray and two plates of spaghetti. He set the tray on the table. I added a little parmesan and heated some garlic bread. I hope you enjoy it.

The pasta was as advertised. I hadn’t eaten much before leaving camp, and I’m afraid I ate like it. To my relief, Ben didn’t ask any questions or try to engage me in conversation. When a possum arrived on the deck, Ben gave it a disparaging look. I was about to come to the critter’s defense when Ben laughed. That’s Mr. Bob. He comes looking for a handout even though there’s plenty for him to eat by the river. I believe he’s fond of garlic bread, so if you would like to share with him, it’s okay.

I tossed a piece of bread onto the deck. The possum grabbed it and disappeared.

For the first time, I saw what looked like a smile on Ben’s face. He saw me looking at him, but I held my gaze. You can call me Noah, I said. Noah Waters. That’s who I am.

He studied me for a moment before giving a loud laugh. That’s really one hell of a name! He held up his glass and toasted me. It’s nice to meet you, Noah Waters. Cheers.

With dinner done, Ben took to pacing the deck. He walked back and forth, gesturing with his hands, his lips moving occasionally. As a practitioner of the art of silent debate, I didn’t find the behavior odd, but I was concerned that I was the subject of the discussion. I heard him say something about a bad idea, followed by, don’t do this. After several minutes, Ben took a deep breath and then muttered the word right, signaling that the pros and cons had been weighed and a decision made.

He sat down across from me. I need to ask you if you are wanted by the police for a crime or if you escaped from a mental institution.

Before I could answer, he apologized.

The questions might seem unkind, but I have to know who I’m dealing with.

I shook my head.

Good. The situation we find ourselves in is a conundrum of sorts. The responsible adult thing for me to do would be to take you to the closest police station. They would probably send you home. I think it’s obvious that if you wanted to be there, you wouldn’t have left. Now, the law sees you as a runaway, and by helping you, I might be seen as a potential kidnapper or worse. The first thing we need to do is to clean up whatever evidence that the old you was anywhere near this place. So, without prying, you need to tell me how you got here, where any of your belongings might be, and how we can go about retrieving them.

I don’t want you to get into trouble with the police, I said.

Thank you. But around here, unless you do something to attract attention, the police mostly leave you alone.

In the few months I had spent on my own, I had placed my well-being in the hands of strangers on three occasions. I had been lucky the first two times and unlucky the other. I clearly had no clue how to determine in advance who I could rely on and who I couldn’t. Ben seemed to read my mind.

The hardest decision in life is to know whom to trust, he said. People will let you down sometimes when they don’t mean to. You forgive them because one day you’ll hurt someone without meaning to. I can’t tell you to trust me. I have to earn it. You need to keep your guard up and have an escape route planned if things don’t turn out the right way. Understand that I’ll do the same to you. For all I know, you’re a serial killer pretending to be a runaway and have been lying to me about everything.

I looked away, stunned by how complicated my situation had become.

You’re going to have to decide if you want to hang out here while you weigh your options or stay the night and move on, said Ben. While you mull it over, I’d like you to meet someone. He went into the house and a moment later a dog strolled onto the deck, sniffed me, then sat and watched me warily.

This is Raz. He’s an English Setter. If I give him the command to kill, he can be very vicious. Would you like to see?

Before I could answer, the command was given. I recoiled in fear as Raz knocked me off my chair. A moment later, he was licking me and barking playfully.

Now that Raz knows you, he will protect you with his life. If you can’t trust me, you can trust him.

When I recovered to my seat, Raz put his head on my lap.

He wants you to rub his ears.

I obliged, and the dog moaned with satisfaction. Without looking up, I said, Two older kids stopped on Old Jericho Road and offered me a ride. When I said I’d rather walk, one of them got out and punched me. After that, they grabbed my wallet and backpack and drove off.

You know where this happened?

Right before a sign for Jericho. About five miles back.

Ben sighed. All right. Raz and I will take a look. You can stay here if you want or come along.

I opted to join them. Raz claimed the front seat. I slid into the back and was asleep before we reached the highway.

****

When I woke, I was in the back of an SUV. I was surrounded by darkness and momentarily confused, a condition that passed when I saw Raz lying on the tailgate, his eyes focused on me. When I raised my head, he jumped down and ran off. A moment later, he returned with Ben behind him.

Good morning. Sorry about leaving you outside, but I didn’t want to wake you, so I dropped the rear seat, stretched you out, and tossed a blanket on you. I found some of your things and put them in the guest cottage. I suggest you get yourself cleaned up and join me for breakfast on the deck. I have a friend who might have one or two ideas. She’ll be here shortly, and we can sort this out.

The guest cottage was a small house tucked into the trees beside the river. Outside, a rack held an assortment of canoes and kayaks. Inside, the area was surprisingly spacious, with the kitchen and living room separated by a bar. Like the main house, the wall that faced the river was mostly glass. The sky had brightened enough to see a large convoy of ducks and waterfowl paddling in the slower water.

I showered until the water started to cool. I was dreading the conversation with Ben, in part because most adults were irrational and in part because I didn’t like talking to them. I had no clue what sorting out meant. I dressed and headed out, following the sound of voices coming from the deck. I stopped before the speakers came into view and listened.

…but I don’t think this is a good idea. The words were spoken by a woman in an earnest voice. From what you’ve told me, he seems to have mental problems. I mean, what’s to say he won’t climb the bridge again and jump. Don’t do this, Ben.

I hear you, but what if someone had reached out to Carl? asked Ben. After a brief silence, he added. Let me talk to him and see where it goes.

I was about to turn back when Raz stepped behind me and barked.

Ben appeared. There you are. Join us.

I followed him to the deck. He took a seat at the table next to a woman with long dark hair that was streaked with blue. Most of her face was covered by oversized glasses. Ben looked to be in his late thirties, and his female friend was six or seven years younger. To me, they were adults and not to be trusted. I took a seat opposite them but focused my attention on a beetle that was making its way across the table.

I think I should leave, I said.

And go where? asked Ben. Back to the railing on the bridge? He shrugged. No one is stopping you. You’re free to do whatever you want.

The harsh tone pressed on me like a weight and stirred the voices in my head to warn me that I’d made a mistake in following him home.

The woman with blue hair reached across the table and touched my hand. I pulled it back before she could grab it. She glanced at Ben, then said, I’m Janice Powell. I’d like to learn more about you so we can decide what the best choice for you is.

"You decide? I snapped. You want to institutionalize me? Send me home?"

I didn’t mean it that way, replied Janice. We are simply trying to figure out what’s best for you.

Ben tossed my student ID, a letter from MIT, and a note from my Aunt Chelsea on the table. I found your pack and wallet. The guys who mugged you were only interested in cash, so they didn’t take your clothes. I looked through your things to make sure you didn’t have a weapon or drugs. Of course, if you did, they took those, too.

He stared at me for a moment, then sighed. "I want you to understand that we would like to help you, but we aren’t equipped to offer the special assistance we