The Last Bridge by Teri Coyne Page A

and a cardigan and I’d look like a lady from the church welcome wagon.
    “Addison?”
    No answer. I looked over the landing and saw his truck. If he had gone for a walk, I would leave the pie and a note. I went into the kitchen.
    It had been years since I had been in the apartment. As a girl I spent many afternoons here with my grandma watching TV and hiding from my father. After Grandpa died, Grandma took to her bed and stayed there for almost ten years before my mother foundher asleep for good. The apartment was left as is after that. Mom said she didn’t see the reason to change anything.
    The kitchen was sparse; an empty jelly-jar glass sat on a small round table next to a crumpled paper napkin. The white linoleum counter that bridged the small stove and half-refrigerator was bare and yellowed from too many bleaches. The porcelain sink had a thin rust stain that snaked from the edge of the faucet to the drain. In the second of the two rooms, the glow from a mute television illuminated a chair covered with discarded clothes and the dulled footboard of the brass bed my grandparents got as a wedding present more than half a century ago.
    “Hello?”
    I put the pie on the table next to the glass and walked into the main room. Addison was lying on the bed. His arms were crossed in front of his eyes, blocking the late afternoon sun that lit his half of the bed. His good khaki pants and starched white shirt were abandoned to the chair in favor of torn jeans and his “Stinky’s” T-shirt. His feet were bare and pale.
    “Addison?” I waited. He didn’t move. I tiptoed to the television and looked for the power switch.
    “Leave it,” he said, his voice muffled by his arms.
    I looked out the window and followed the line of the road that should have brought Addison’s father to him. In the distance you could see the hint of cars passing on their way to somewhere better.
    “I brought pie,” I said, turning to him.
    Addison rolled on his side toward the wall and curled into a fetal ball. Dust fairies danced in the final burst of sunlight that cut across his waist.
    “Your father called.” I spoke slowly, infusing each word with as much care as possible. I believed the right words would make it better. “He’s sorry he couldn’t come.” I made that part up. I didn’t know if he was sorry or not; he should have been and that was all that mattered.
    “Go away,” he said, enunciating each word slowly.
    “He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” I said.
    Addison laughed. “Run along, Alex.”
    The voice that spoke was not the one I associated with Addison. This sound had a harder edge and resonated from somewhere back behind his heart. I felt the sting but waited for an apology or shift of some kind, but he just lay there, appearing smaller and smaller.
    After a few minutes, I gave up and started for the door.
    “Go ahead and leave. Everyone does eventually.” His voice softened.
    “Is that how it works? You drive them away and then cry when they go?”
    Addison sat up and pointed to the door. “I said go away!” His hair and eyes glowed a gold-red color. His body was so tense I was afraid it would spring forward and attack me.
    I stepped back toward the door.
    “This is me.” He pointed hard at his chest. “Man who doesn’t finish anything. Who is still waiting for a father who will not come.” He moved closer to the foot of the bed toward me with each word as if he wanted to shake me.
    I knew he wouldn’t hurt me; I recognized his rage—it was similar to my own. I understood what he needed and, if it was possible, what I could do for him.
    I did not move.
    “Please go!” He fell back on the bed with his arms and legs out as if he were asking God instead of me.
    I moved closer.
    “‘Three colleges and five different majors,’” he said, imitating the sound of his father’s voice. “‘What do you want, Addison?’” I sat on the edge of the bed. “I want to be someone else!” He answered