James McGowan

Bonesetters

Excerpt

A crowd had gathered on the bridge. Fathers cheered their sons as they balanced up the truss. Mothers arranged their toddlers under the welcome sign, prompting them to smile and say bye-bye. Childless men buzzed off the handrail’s curlicues, Sawzalls shimmering with liberty-green paint dust. From his truck on the other side of the chain-link gate, posted NO TRESPASSING, THIS AREA IS A RESTRICTED CONSTRUCTION SITE, Rex watched the Spector kid scale the bridge’s northeast spire and tiptoe along the top beam. She poised, bounded, and plummeted thirty feet into the bay, oblivious to any rafts or cables the dock builders had rigged for demolition the following Tuesday. Someone yelled:

—Cannonball!  

The crowd roared at her splash. 

Emboldened by the cheers, another, shakier kid climbed the truss. 

—Bellyflop! 

The crowd laughed. 

The second kid peered down at the spiraling through-current, made a few feeble feints, then shimmied down the arc. Someone croaked:

—Womp womp! 

The crowd gave a better-luck-next-time applause, and the kid shuffled along to the south walkway, where Ms. Clancy of the American Legion Auxiliary had set up a hot dog cart. She handed him two Sabretts and a plastic cup of diet soda. He scarfed one, then joined a group of Brownies penning farewell letters with blue, pink, and yellow chalk in the fire lane. Dear Mr. Bridge, I’ll miss you after boring drives to the supermarket. deer missus bridge if you leeve us where will seeguls sit when there wings get acky? Dear Bridge, Mom said your insides are old and broken I hope that doesnt hurt but if it does I hope this makes you feel better. 

Rex turned off the ignition and left his truck. Among the hive of men sawing curlicues off the handrails of the south walkway was Bozo Chirico: the shirtless goon donning an orange hardhat, self-appointed foreman of a de facto demolition: thief. Rallying his workers, Bozo cupped the only hand he had left around his mouth, holding a bottle of Budweiser in the coozy where his right hand should have been, and shouted:

—If my mother, godblesser, didn’t spit me out on Hawkins curb, this bridge coulda been my cradle.

Bozo clinked his beer along the balustrade. He conducted himself up and down the walkway, overseeing the job, his spindly legs slightly trailing his exposed beer belly. When he passed the file of men hunched over their tools, he selected a curlicue from a pile of mongo and held it to the sun. He mused, then said: 

—I don’t know about you, but I’m not gonna hand our bridge over to a buncha cradle-robbers. Today we take the waves. Tonight we come for the spires. Time’s running out, boyos. 

Bozo returned the steel helix to the treasure heap and sauntered towards a styrofoam cooler he’d left near the chain-link fence. Rex, leaning against his truck, nodded as Bozo approached the gate. Bozo replaced the beer in his coozy-hand and bit off the bottlecap, spitting the bent metal into the water. 

—Budweiser’s screwtop, Bobby. Looking for a trip to the dentist?

—With these teeth?

Bozo grinned his gnarly grin. Gray-toothed, gums gutted. Rex shrugged. He’d seen it before. Bozo held aloft his amputated hand and philosophized:

—Sometimes you gotta know when to give up. 

Case in point: this farewell party: surrender in all their smiles: children’s hands waving like tiny white flags: Bozo’s men dismembering the handrails as if they’d won the city contract: each looted curlicue a token of betrayal. 

—Looks like everyone got the message. 

—Except you. Huh, Rexy? 

—I got it.  

A resounding, regal pronouncement:

—I, Rexebald Tiller, regretfully decline…

—Shouldn’t be coming down for another week, Bob. 

Bozo swigged his beer and swished the liquid around in his mouth. He swallowed. 

—When you’re right, you’re right. But it’s coming down, so we’re takin’ souvenirs. We could use you and the boys. 

—They didn’t get the message. 

—Post office doesn’t deliver to the Anchor? 

—Why waste money on toilet paper? 

—When you’re right, you’re right. Listen, honey. If you change your mind, come back at midnight. We’re taking the spires.  

—You might see us. 

A clamor arose on the bridge. The Spector girl had returned from the bay, and the crowd was cheering as she reclimbed the truss for a second jump. Rex’s eyes followed her as she moved between gusset and strut like an acrobat: tempting fate: bird-boned chick flying, whistling, dipping above the water’s mirage: serene and ripping: a strength that pulled me down. The crowd shouted requests: 

—Jackknife! 

—Pencil!

—Backflip!

But she had a routine of her own. Inching the balls of her feet to the edge of the top beam, she pressed her palms together and gazed out at the mouth of the sound, beyond the curve of the mainland woods, past Stepping Stones Light. Bozo handed Rex a beer over the fence, but he was distracted. Careful. The Spector kid bent her knees and sprung forward into a swan dive: arms embracing the air carrying her, then folding into a point below her head: upside down: welcoming gravity. She disappeared. Someone yelled:

—Bellyflop!

No one laughed. The crowd hurried to the north rail. Sawzalls hushed. Brownies left unfinished letters. Bozo said:

—Ballsy chick.

—She’ll learn. 

—Why don’t you get up there, like you used to. Teach’er a lesson.

—I don’t swim anymore. 

—You? A Bonesetter? A landlubber?

—I know the rules.

—You? A Bonesetter? 

Rex saw the word accumulate like scuzz on Bozo’s tongue. 

When the Spector girl surfaced, the crowd cheered. Seconds later, a police car zoomed across the temporary bridge, sirens blaring. Except for Bozo’s men, who packed up their tools and stuffed their loot into two canvas duffle bags, the islanders didn’t react: the hot dog kid thought he’d give the jump another try; the girls finished their letters. The patrol car rolled up behind Rex’s truck. He climbed in and started the ignition. Two officers stepped out of the vehicle. One leaned against the car, while the other stepped forward: nice kid, sweet eyes.

—What’s going on here?

—Nobody’s harming nobody, honey. 

—Someone reported a jumper.

—Nothing like that. How about a beer, babe? Devil’s armpit today. 

—We have to break it up. 

—This is city property, the second, older, fatter officer persisted.   

—My mother said the bridge belonged to clamdiggers.

—You should tell her otherwise.

—Twenty years underground, godblesser. 

—You’ll see us, Rex said over the officer’s shoulder, then drove off, taking the backroads to Earley Street, where the boys were waiting at the Anchor.

About the Author

James McGowan is a writer based in the Bronx, New York. He is currently pursuing an MFA in Fiction at Columbia University.