“Brown Bear” — a short story by Bailey Bridgewater

July 22nd, 2019

.

.

 

“Brown Bear,” a short story by Bailey Bridgewater, was a finalist in our recently concluded 51st Short Fiction Contest. It was published in April, 2019 by Terse literary magazine, and is published here with the permission of the author.

.

.

.

 

.

Brown Bear

by

Bailey Bridgewater

.

_____

.

 

…..The shimmering bulb of the brown Long Island sunset was barely enough to illuminate the silently flailing figure in the water.  The flaming ball stared down at the commotion from beneath its skin of smog, but the girl simply picked the loose sand up in her hands, running the granules through her stubby fingers, fascinated by the way it felt on her palms, but irritated by how it stuck under her bitten nails.  As she dug it out with her tooth, her mother sat up straight, abandoning her usual reclining position and the song she had been singing on the striped beach towel.

…..         “What is that out there?”

…..  The girl pushed honey blonde hair out of her eyes gingerly, careful not to deposit debris into her bangs.

….. “Where?”

…..“There.  Look at the sun, then go two notches left. It’s there.  Something white?”

…..   “Maybe it’s a whale!” The girl giggled furiously, catching her mother’s eye to see if she liked the joke.

…..“You silly.” The mother leaned forward abruptly to tickle her daughter.  “Silly billies know there are no whales!”

…..   Between giggles she gasped “I know I know, but aunty says you’re so old you probably remember them!”

…..    “Your aunt’s a meanie.  Nobody’s old enough to remember whales. And especially not me! I’m a little spring chicken.” She flapped her wings and clucked her tongue before tickling the girl again, just under her ribs through the thin cotton.

…..      The splashing in the water became audible as the pair grew temporarily silent. The mother raised her head from where she was about to blow air onto her daughter’s belly, guaranteeing a loud and obscene noise. What sounded like a muffled wail rose just above the crashing of the waves.

…..      “Mama it’s a man!” The girl exclaimed as she jumped from her prone position to her feet.

…..     “A man?”  The mother sounded so alarmed that she startled the girl, who had only been curious until this moment.

…..         “Yeah look. There’s a man and he’s floating on something.  There’s his arm waving at us.”

…..       The woman raised her hand to her forehead in the posture of women she’d seen on ancient wartime posters as they waited for their men to come home.  In doing so, she confirmed that in fact there was a man who appeared to be waving, his head just above the surface, his arm creating a languid arc through the air as his head appeared and disappeared intermittently.  The woman fumbled on the towel for her device, held it to her face and zoomed in close on the arm, as the rest of the man had disappeared beneath the cloudy water.  She pulled the device away suddenly, then turned to her daughter.

…..    “What do you say we go look for some nice shells down the beach?”

…..   “But what about the man?”

…..      The mother looked out at the waves foaming at the mouths of so many hidden caves, the rocks that had broken the bodies of so many surfers and sailors jutting into the sea.  Doubt flickered in her hazel eyes, but only for a moment.

…..      “It’s best to leave him.” She seemed to speak to herself instead of the girl.  “He is dangerous, but our beach will protect us.”

…..    As she spoke, his brown arm under its soaked-to-transparent shirt slid from the scrap of torn boat on which he floated and noiselessly disappeared.

…..         The girl stood transfixed by the sight of the flimsy orange piece of wood now bobbing alone, inching closer to the rocky cliffs that would smash it to pieces as they smashed to pieces everything and everyone that tried to circumvent the wall and enter this territory by sea.

…..        “But won’t the man drown?”

…..     The woman sighed as she looked down at her daughter. She had hoped the day for explaining could wait, but now here it was because of that awful man. She knelt down, the hem of her summer dress skimming the sand. Briefly she remembered the days when breezes would flutter cloth, causing her to drop her arms lest her modesty be compromised.  She missed breezes since the air had become so thick and heavy.  Her daughter’s hair felt damp to her touch.

…..    “Baby, you have to understand that there are some very bad people in the world, and many of them want to come here and make our home unsafe.”

…..      “But why do they want to come here to our town?”

…..       “Well, the places that they come from are poor and dirty, so it’s dangerous for them to be there because they might starve or get hurt by another bad person or arrested because they are the bad person, so they try to come here to escape.”

…..    “So was that man a bad person?”

…..      “Yes.”

…..     “How do you know, mama?”

….. “Because a good person wouldn’t try to come to a town where they aren’t welcome.”

…..      The girl thought deeply about this, her short, pale eyebrows drawn together.  In the bottom of her stomach she felt sad for the man who had disappeared in the water.  The way he’d waved his arm, looking so tired, she felt like maybe he wasn’t bad, he was just too sleepy to keep swimming.  But her mama said he must be bad, and the girl understood that the law in her town must never be broken. She had heard the stories about people who tried to help the people who came in the water in their little boats.  The town people gathered them up with just the belongings they could carry and walked them away from the sea, over the inhospitable barrier of the mountains, and to the desert, where they had to fend for themselves against the brutal heat. They were left there in the small communities of other people who tried to help bad people. The town then destroyed their house with all the things they’d left inside. It was bad luck to have remnants of one of the traitors floating around town. Once a person got taken to the desert, they were never allowed to come back. It was illegal, just like crossing the wall that kept people who weren’t from their country from coming in.

…..    “Can we go home?” She felt sad looking out at the ocean now.  She wanted to go home to her dolls in their fancy dresses and play tea.

…..  The mother leapt to her bare feet, anxiously gathering up the blanket. “Yes let’s go home. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

…..   As they wound their way along the path that took them to the top of the cliff, the girl kept her eye on the place at sea where the man had been, though she could no longer see the orange board on which he had floated.  Soon she was distracted by the greetings of the townspeople as they turned inward towards the village.  When they passed the tower that overlooked the coast her mother put her hands on the girl’s shoulders.

…..      “I need to speak to Mr. Wallace for just a minute, ok?”  They entered the imposing structure and found Mr. Wallace just inside, one thick finger winding and unwinding the ginger hairs of his thick moustache.  He greeted them jovially, patting the girl’s head and calling her a pet name that she didn’t like. The mother tapped her fingers lightly on his upper arm.

…..     “I need to make a report.” Suddenly Mr. Wallace’s red and smiling face turned serious as he spun towards her. He unconsciously leaned one of his ears towards her mouth.  “We’ve just been down at the beach.  There was a man. It looked like he was floating on a capsized boat.  He’s gone.” She looked at her daughter anxiously before leaning close to whisper “but there could be more.”

…..       Mr. Wallace leaned forward and seemed to contemplate putting a hand on her slender shoulder before thinking better of it.  He too lowered his voice, though the girl had profound hearing – a fact that she kept quiet because it was so different. “Not to worry, Ma’am.  If the rocks don’t get ‘em, we will. I’ll send a patrol down and they’ll stay at it through the night, make sure no one tries to help.”

…..  She gasped audibly.  “Do you think there are still sympathizers living here?”

…..  He put on his most reassuring face.  “I believe we got ‘em all with the last bunch ma’am, but you never can be too careful.  There are always those among us who question the way things are done. They can turn soft at any time, but don’t you worry about that. We know who to watch out for, and if we catch ‘em trying anything with those scoundrels, well me and the patrol will drag the lot of ‘em out to the desert ourselves! They can rot out there with the rest of…..” here he caught his voice and looked at the girl “their kind”.

…..        The mother exhaled heavily, the escaping air causing a quiver in the bead of sweat that had formed on the v of her upper lip.  “Thank you Mr. Wallace. That is such a relief to know. We appreciate your keeping the community safe.” She turned to the girl.  “We want to thank Mr. Wallace for keeping us safe, don’t we?”

…..       “We appreciate your keeping the community safe,” the girl repeated robotically as she had so many times before.  With that, her mother ushered her out the door as Mr. Wallace rushed off.  The girl was never allowed to stay out late enough to see a patrol, though she had heard about them from older children and knew many of the boys liked to sneak out at night and follow them, and she had always kept quiet about her wish to join them. Most of the boys were so clumsy it seemed certain that the older men knew of their presence. Some of the stories of the heroics conducted by the patrols made the girl wonder if in fact the older men weren’t putting on shows for the boys, who were gullible when it came to that sort of thing.  But she didn’t know for certain, and she did so want to find out.

…..        It was almost dark when they arrived home, and mother seemed perturbed that their normal schedule was so thrown off.  She made the promised sandwich, but then asked the girl to change into her pajamas for bed.  The girl obliged of course, slipping her feet through the ultra-light material that would keep her cool in the hot night.  When she had brushed her teeth and attempted to brush the sand from her hair, she went and kissed her mother on the cheek, then climbed the stairs to her room alone as her mother collected the dishes. She listened for the dish machine to stop whirling its drying air, then listened for the sounds of her mother preparing for sleep. When she heard the door shut and deadbolt automatically engage, she slid gently to her window, easily reached from her bed.  It slid open noiselessly. She scrunched herself up and eased into the window until her legs dangled below her outside.

…..  She had snuck out twice before, but only to go to her friend’s house just across the street when she was grounded. Still, it was enough to know how to get down from her window without being too loud.  The lid of the safety box was just a few feet below her.  She would make a thud in landing that would carry through the still, yellow night, so she turned back around and grabbed her favorite blanket, tossing it out the window so that it landed mostly on the box.  Awkwardly, with her head bent to avoid the window frame and her legs leading, she launched herself onto the blanket.  She did make a light thump and quickly jumped onto the grass, finding herself exposed fully by the safety light.  She hurried across the lawn and into the darker confines of the path that led to the beach., carrying the blanket with her.

…..  Though safety lights blazed through the night, her eyes had trouble adjusting to the mustard haze that characterized nighttime here.  Still, she made her way slowly down the rocks to the beach, where she and her mother had sat enjoying the sound of the waves.  But this time she kept walking past the spot they had occupied, to the cove that housed so many hidden cave mouths.  The recession of the water had left a strip of rocky land over which she clambered to enter into the first cave.  She did so with short, fast breaths. She had heard stories about robbers in the caves from the boys and, though she knew they were probably just lying to make her scared, she didn’t want to risk startling a thief.  She poked her head into the cave silently. It was pitch black and still.  She took a couple steps in, but then backed out so suddenly that the sound she made as she kicked up pebbles made her jump and flee as if someone was chasing her.  Blinking in the wash of the safety lights that shone down from higher on the cliffs, she continued on the path until she heard voices ahead of her.

…..   Afraid of being discovered, the girl ducked behind a boulder, cradling the blanket in her arms.  It was the patrol ahead of her, and they were talking excitedly.  She could make out some familiar voices; her school teacher, the man who cut her bangs. Mr. Wallace.

…..  “Must have been just a few this time.”

…..  “The shoe looks like it’s probably his.  This sweater though… this is too small to fit him.  There has to be another one somewhere.

…..  The school teacher chimed in, a nervous edge to his voice. “What about the bear?”  Noone answered.  “Well we can’t put it with the other found items in the display. People might be upset if they knew there might be a….”

…..  “We’ll get rid of it. Just keep looking. The body has to turn up somewhere.” They started moving in her direction and she shimmied around the rock until she was nearly in the surf. She could feel the warm water lapping against the skin beneath her thin pajamas. Though their eyes were trained out to sea, they didn’t see her there, so close, crouched beneath the massive boulder.  She sat motionless and breathless until they were out of sight, then she scurried around the rock and continued the other way.  Soon she came upon some of the objects they had spoken of, all gathered into a tiny pile that she knew would be displayed at the town hall to remind the people that threats always remained.  There was a brown shoe, the sole mostly off and the toe busted.  Not far from it, a pair of legs emerged from the mouth of a tunnel.  She stooped though she could easily fit into the entrance and slowly came upon the man who had waved at her, bloated and looking unnaturally white in the face even though his skin was dark.  She felt her stomach turning over and over. The man’s brown eyes were wide open, as if he was searching for something and she had the uneasy sense that from somewhere, he could see her seeing his limp body. She shuffled away.

…..       Just before the next cave was the bear, apart from the other items.  It was a teddy bear, the same kind that she had at home, tucked safely beneath the sheet of her bed. Though her bear was white and soft, this coarse brown one had the same shape and the same wooden eyes with a stitched-on smile.  She picked it up by its matted arm and smelled the salt on it as she pulled off a strand of seaweed.  Suddenly she knew that there wasn’t only the man, and the breath caught in her chest, making her feel a cough deep down in her stomach.  This rasping repeated itself until tears eventually sprung in her eyes and mixed with the mucus that now poured out of her nose.  She wiped the blanket across her face, still holding the bear, unable to let go of it.  She didn’t want to go any further. She didn’t want to find what the men were looking for. But she couldn’t bring the bear home. Her mother would know.  Her room would smell like salt and death and seaweed if she tried to hide it.  She looked around anxiously, but saw no sign of the men. She didn’t want them to have the bear.

…..  She hurried past the cave where the man’s legs protruded, past his shoe, back onto the beach and then beyond it up to where the sand became dirt, and the dirt sprouted tall beach grass.  Behind some shrubs in the shadows, she knelt down and dug her ragged nails into the soil, displacing tiny palm-fulls as quickly as she could, not minding the dirt between her fingers.  She made the hole just big enough to fit the bear, which she laid out as comfortably as possible. She began to cover it with dirt and tried to remember the words the town spoke when someone from the community died.  She couldn’t remember, so she made up her own words to say over the lonely bear.

…..  When the hole was invisible, she wiped her hands in the cattails as best she could, then hurried back along the path to her house.  The window was still open and it seemed easier than it should have been to climb back through and tuck herself into her clean bed as if nothing had happened.  She tucked her dirty hands beneath the spotless white of her pillow and drifted off to sleep.

.

_____

.

.

 

.

Bailey Bridgewater is a university administrator, though ideally she can be found kayaking or traveling the world. Her work has appeared in Terse, Crack the Spine, The Molotov Cocktail, Nanoism, As You Were, The Esthetic Apostle, Treehouse, Eunoia Review, and Fiction on the Web, among other places. She was recently artist-in-residence at Chulitna Wilderness Lodge, Alaska, where she completed her first novel and started a second.  Her work can be found at. www.baileybridgewater.com.

.

.

.

Share this:

Comment on this article:

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Site Archive

In This Issue

painting of Clifford Brown by Paul Lovering
A Collection of Jazz Poetry — Spring/Summer, 2024 Edition...In this, the 17th major collection of jazz poetry published on Jerry Jazz Musician, 50 poets from all over the world again demonstrate the ongoing influence the music and its associated culture has on their creative lives.

(featuring the art of Paul Lovering)

Feature

photo of Rudy Van Gelder via Blue Note Records
“Rudy Van Gelder: Jazz Music’s Recording Angel” – an essay by Joel Lewis...For over 60 years, the legendary recording engineer Rudy Van Gelder devoted himself to the language of sound. And although he recorded everything from glee clubs to classical music, he was best known for recording jazz – specifically the musicians associated with Blue Note and Prestige records. Joel Lewis writes about his impact on the sound of jazz, and what has become of his Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey studio.

Interview

Interview with James Kaplan, author of 3 Shades of Blue: Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Bill Evans and the Lost Empire of Cool...The esteemed writer tells a vibrant story about the jazz world before, during, and after the 1959 recording of Kind of Blue, and how the album’s three genius musicians came together, played together, and grew together (and often apart) throughout the experience.

Publisher’s Notes

photo by Rhonda Dorsett
On turning 70, and contemplating the future of Jerry Jazz Musician...

The Sunday Poem

painting by Jennylynd James
”He Jazzed His Way," by Susie Gharib

Click here to read previous editions of The Sunday Poem

Essay

“Gone Guy: Jazz’s Unsung Dodo Marmarosa,” by Michael Zimecki...The writer remembers the late jazz musician Michael “Dodo” Marmarosa, awarded Esquire Magazine’s New Star Award in 1947, and who critics predicted would dominate the jazz scene for the next 30 years.

Playlist

“‘Different’ Trios” – a playlist by Bob Hecht...A 27-song playlist that focuses on non-traditional trio recordings, featuring trios led by the likes of Carla Bley, Ron Miles, Dave Holland and Jimmy Giuffre...

Feature

Excerpts from David Rife’s Jazz Fiction: Take Two – Vol. 5: “Scott Joplin: King of Ragtime”...A substantial number of novels and stories with jazz music as a component of the story have been published over the years, and the scholar David J. Rife has written short essay/reviews of them. In this sixth edition of excerpts from his book, Rife writes about jazz novels and short stories that feature a theme of “mystery.”

Interview

Interview with Larry Tye, author of The Jazzmen: How Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, and Count Basie Transformed America...The author talks about his book, an intensely researched, spirited, and beautifully told story – and an important reminder that Armstrong, Ellington, and Basie all defied and overcame racial boundaries “by opening America’s eyes and souls to the magnificence of their music.”

Short Fiction

Impulse! Records and ABC/Dunhill Records. Photographer uncredited/via Wikimedia Commons
Short Fiction Contest-winning story #66 — “Not From Around Here” by Jeff Dingler...The author’s award-winning story is about a Jewish kid coming of age in Alabama and discovering his identity through music, in particular the interstellar sound of Sun Ra..

Click here to read more short fiction published on Jerry Jazz Musician

Poetry

John Coltrane, by Martel Chapman
Four poets, four poems…on John Coltrane

Feature

What we discover about Kamala Harris from an armful of record albums...Like her or not, readers of this site will enjoy learning that Vice President Kamala Harris is a fan of jazz music. Witness this recent clip (via Youtube) of her emerging from a record shop…

Poetry

“Revival” © Kent Ambler.
If You Want to Go to Heaven, Follow a Songbird – Mary K O’Melveny’s album of poetry and music...While consuming Mary K O’Melveny’s remarkable work in this digital album of poetry, readings and music, readers will discover that she is moved by the mastery of legendary musicians, the wings of a monarch butterfly, the climate and political crisis, the mysteries of space exploration, and by the freedom of jazz music that can lead to what she calls “the magic of the unknown.” (with art by Kent Ambler)

Book Excerpt

A book excerpt from Designed for Success: Better Living and Self-Improvement with Midcentury Instructional Records, by Janet Borgerson and Jonathan Schroeder...In this excerpt, the authors write extensively about music instruction and appreciation records dealing with the subject of jazz.

Interview

The Marvelettes/via Wikimedia Commons
Interview with Laura Flam and Emily Sieu Liebowitz, authors of But Will You Love Me Tomorrow?: An Oral History of the 60’s Girl Groups...Little is known of the lives and challenges many of the young Black women who made up the Girl Groups of the ‘60’s faced while performing during an era rife with racism, sexism, and music industry corruption. The authors discuss their book’s mission to provide the artists an opportunity to voice their experiences so crucial to the evolution of popular music.

Short Fiction

photo via FreeRangeStock
“Hip Replacements” – a short story by William Torphy...The story – a short-listed entry in our recently concluded 66th Short Fiction contest – is a humorous take on a septuagenarian attempt to resurrect a revival band.

Art

photo of Leroy Jenkins by Giovanni Piesco
The Photographs of Giovanni Piesco: Leroy Jenkins...photos of the eminent free jazz violinist, taken at Amsterdam's Bimhuis on January 4, 1999.

Short Fiction

Shisma, CC BY 4.0  via Wikimedia Commons
“Nostalgia” – a short story by John-Paul Cote...Harlan has an addiction. A most illegal addiction. It drives him from morning until night. He dreams of it. How can he escape it before it brings him into the arms of the law? Down a dark alley he will find out just how far he is willing to go.

Essay

“Like a Girl Saying Yes: The Sound of Bix” – an essay by Malcolm McCollum...The first time Benny Goodman heard Bix Beiderbecke play cornet, he wondered, “My God, what planet, what galaxy, did this guy come from?” What was it about this musician that captivated and astonished so many for so long – and still does?

Trading Fours with Douglas Cole

Trading Fours, with Douglas Cole, No. 21: “The Blue Truth”...In this edition, the poet riffs on Oliver Nelson’s classic 1961 album The Blues and the Abstract Truth as if a conversation between conductor and players were caught on tape along with the inner monologue of some mystery player/speaker of the poem.

In Memoriam

Hans Bernhard (Schnobby), CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
“Remembering Joe Pass: Versatile Jazz Guitar Virtuoso” – by Kenneth Parsons...On the 30th anniversary of the guitarist Joe Pass’ death, Kenneth Parsons reminds readers of his brilliant career

Book Excerpt

Book excerpt from Jazz with a Beat: Small Group Swing 1940 – 1960, by Tad Richards

Click here to read more book excerpts published on Jerry Jazz Musician

Jazz History Quiz #176

photo of Lester Young by William Gottlieb/Library of Congress
While legendary as a saxophonist, his first instrument was a violin and his second the piano — which he played well enough to work as an accompanist to silent movies. Ultimately it was Lester Young’s father who taught him the saxophone well enough that he switched instruments for good. (It was during this time that he also saved Lester from drowning in a river). Who is he?

Community

photo via Picryl.com
“Community Bookshelf” is a twice-yearly space where writers who have been published on Jerry Jazz Musician can share news about their recently authored books and/or recordings. This edition includes information about books published within the last six months or so (March – September, 2024)

Contributing Writers

Click the image to view the writers, poets and artists whose work has been published on Jerry Jazz Musician, and find links to their work

Coming Soon

An interview with Larry Tye, author of The Jazzmen: How Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, and Count Basie Transformed America; an interview with Jonathon Grasse, author of Jazz Revolutionary: The Life & Music of Eric Dolphy; A new collection of jazz poetry; a collection of jazz haiku; a new Jazz History Quiz; short fiction; poetry; photography; interviews; playlists; and lots more in the works...

Interview Archive

Ella Fitzgerald/IISG, CC BY-SA 2.0 , via Wikimedia Commons
Click to view the complete 25-year archive of Jerry Jazz Musician interviews, including those recently published with Judith Tick on Ella Fitzgerald (pictured),; Laura Flam and Emily Sieu Liebowitz on the Girl Groups of the 60's; Tad Richards on Small Group Swing; Stephanie Stein Crease on Chick Webb; Brent Hayes Edwards on Henry Threadgill; Richard Koloda on Albert Ayler; Glenn Mott on Stanley Crouch; Richard Carlin and Ken Bloom on Eubie Blake; Richard Brent Turner on jazz and Islam; Alyn Shipton on the art of jazz; Shawn Levy on the original queens of standup comedy; Travis Atria on the expatriate trumpeter Arthur Briggs; Kitt Shapiro on her life with her mother, Eartha Kitt; Will Friedwald on Nat King Cole; Wayne Enstice on the drummer Dottie Dodgion; the drummer Joe La Barbera on Bill Evans; Philip Clark on Dave Brubeck; Nicholas Buccola on James Baldwin and William F. Buckley; Ricky Riccardi on Louis Armstrong; Dan Morgenstern and Christian Sands on Erroll Garner; Maria Golia on Ornette Coleman.