The Other Side of the Bridge by Mary Lawson

like a freight train out of control. They stood by his stall, stamping their frozen feet, wretchedly keeping him company, until finally, about eight o’clock, they couldn’t stand it anymore, and Arthur’s father went back to the house and got the rifle and shot him.
    Jake was in the kitchen when they finally went in, curled up in a chair by the stove, reading a book. He looked up and raised his eyebrows at the sight of the rifle. “You guys hunting in this weather?” he said.
    Their father paused. Stood in the middle of the room, head down, studying the floor. Then he went and hung the rifle on its rack over the door, and left the room.
    “What did I say wrong now?” Jake asked. Suddenly he was furious, close to tears with rage. “What did I say wrong now ?”
    Arthur, his mind filled with the image of that great still body on the frozen floor, could think of nothing to say.

    April. The wind turned around and blew from the south and like magic the snow sagged, collapsed on itself, and melted away. The air smelled of damp earth and things trying to grow, trying to force their way up out of the still-frozen ground.
    “Those two there,” Arthur’s father said, nodding at two heifers over by the fence. “Told Otto I’d send ’em over this morning. Simplest thing is, you two take ’em over. Just walk ’em around.”
    Arthur nodded. It was Saturday, the best day of the week. Sunday would have been just as good if it weren’t for the fact that it was followed by Monday.
    Jake said, “When?”
    “Now,” their father said.
    “Can’t Art take them?” Jake said. “I have to go into town.”
    Their father was in the middle of harnessing the team. He turned slowly and looked at Jake. Arthur felt a prickle of apprehension, and also of annoyance. Sometimes he got the feeling that Jake was trying to provoke their father. Yesterday he had forgotten to feed the pigs. How could you forget to feed the pigs—something that had to be done every day, something that was always done? It was as if he wanted to see just how far he could push their father before he snapped. Arthur couldn’t understand it; it was like deciding to stir up a nest of rattlesnakes or prod a hive of bees: maybe you didn’t know the exact details of what would follow but you did know that it wasn’t going to be nice. So why do it? Why didn’t Jake just shut up and do what he was told?
    Their father looked at Jake in silence; Jake shrugged and turned away. Arthur relaxed. He went over to the cows and took their tethers and handed one to Jake. The two of them set off down the track between the fields, leading a cow apiece.
    There was still snow lying in the furrows, streaking the fields black and white like giant lengths of corduroy. The road was muddy and slippery with patches of ice hidden under the slush, and the heifers were slow.
    “I don’t know why it takes two of us,” Jake said when they were out of sight and earshot of the farm. “Can’t you manage two cows by yourself?”
    “No,” said Arthur.
    “Why not? You’re so good with cows.”
    “’Cause of the bridge.”
    “What about it?”
    “They don’t like it. Scares ’em. Moves too much. We’ll have to take ’em across one at a time.”
    “Okay, but once we get them across the bridge, will you take them on? ’Cause I’ve got to get into town. I’m meeting someone.”
    Arthur shrugged. “Okay.”
    “Great!” Jake said. “Don’t tell Dad, all right?”
    Arthur shrugged again. They slogged on, Jake trying to speed things up, eager to be gone, pulling the reluctant heifer behind him. She swung her head unhappily. “Come on, come on, come on !” Jake said.
    “Slow down,” Arthur said. He felt as if it was him Jake was yanking at.
    “She can go faster than this when she wants to,” Jake said.
    “She doesn’t want to.”
    “Maybe you’ve got all the time in the world,” Jake said, “but I’ve got things to do.”
    “The bridge is just up there.”
    Farther