Mr. Wilson’s Bridge

By, Vittorio DiVincenzo

“Hi Mr. Wilson!” Brian Donovan’s voice interrupted Jack’s anxiety. The sight of Brian, whizzing by on a newly washed bike, brought some calm.

“You workin’ the bridge, today?” Brian asked, his voice fading in the distance.

Jack Wilson waved a thumbs-up. Despite any preoccupations, a child’s voice could always put a “bounce” in Jack Wilson’s step. But today was different. 

Jack stroked his throat.

Today, Jack didn’t revel in the prospect of kids stopping to hear stories about the old canal. Today, Jack wasn’t crafting new spins on recycled tales about the worn-out canal bridge where he volunteered as a tour guide, in these, his sunny retirement moments. No, on this summer Friday, eighty-two year old Jack Wilson pondered two possibilities: “cancer” and “not cancer”.  A call from Dr. Martelli’s office was all that counted.

Jack didn’t tell anyone about the biopsy. Very able-bodied and inventive, he managed to hide it from his oldest (and most inquisitive) son Pete. Using age as leverage, Jack Wilson convinced Dr. Martelli to call with the results. “None of this ‘come to my office’ talk,” Jack had insisted, “Just give me a ring and give it to me straight.” Vincent Martelli had taken the medical practice over from his father, an old friend of Jack’s. “I’ll grant your wish,” Dr. Martelli assured.

“Make sure it’s not a dying wish,” Jack joked.

Almost a week had passed since the biopsy. No call. He contemplated reaching out to Martelli’s office, but decided otherwise. “I’ll know for sure. Today. It’s in my gut,” Jack thought. Rocking in a reconstructed green chair, on the reconstructed wooden porch, of the reconstructed bridgetender’s house, he thumbed through the newspaper—purchased early in the morning.

A dog barked, somewhere behind the clump of trees lining the North side of the canal.

For some reason, the woof-woofing prompted Jack to place the paper on an endtable he kept near the chair.

“Let me see,” he mumbled.

He fished his wallet from the chest pocket of his thin, plaid shirt. He pulled out a picture of his wife, Lizzie. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, he confided that he wasn’t ready. She had been ready, he was convinced, when she passed eleven years ago. Another great-grandchild was on the way, and, God-willing, Jack would be around to teach him, or her, all about great-grandma Lizzie—how she loved to snore; play canasta; entertain Jack’s long stories about what is was like to teach high school history students; and how Grandma Lizzie loved “to grow in the parish soup kitchen,” as she had put it.