The Spring My Brother Closed Our Bridge
That was all of it. He did not blame the rain, or the engineers, or other people. He sat back down.
“I know you, Alan Ostrander,” Verna said. “I knew you in a diaper. You were always the one who took everything hard.”
“Yes, ma’am,” my brother said.
When the room had settled, Faye went back to the voice she used on the lunch line. “Alan, I accept your apology, and I think Mrs. Hollister has too. But an apology is not a fix. A woman’s hip is broken, and the people of this county need to see that the book is closed on that. I will entertain a motion.”
Rob Rademacher made it, and Jackie Beale seconded, and it passed 3 to 0, and Alan did not say a word against any of it. Here is what they voted.
First, that the Creek Road bridge repair be done immediately, using the stockpiled rock and the county crew, to be completed by Friday, May 29.
Second, that from this night forward, any county road or bridge closed longer than seven days appear on the board’s agenda automatically, with its repair date read aloud in public session, so that no one man could hold a road in a drawer.
Third, that the county engineer’s office inspect the Creek Road abutment before it reopens and two other washouts by June 15, and file a written repair timeline with the clerk.
Fourth, that the board record a formal censure of the road commissioner in the minutes, and that the censure be published in the county paper under the county seal.
“That one’s not for spite,” Faye said, looking right at him. “It’s so the voters of this county have it in front of them in 2028. They can forgive you, or not. That’s their job, and the Lord’s.”
Alan nodded once. He did not argue.
Afterward, in the gravel lot, he stopped beside me while Josh and Tonya got Verna and the chair back up the lift. We stood a minute without saying much. I held out my hand because there was nothing else to do.
He took it. We did not hug. We are Ostranders.
“I’ll be at the bridge at six,” he said. “You’d better bring coffee.”
At 5:40 the next morning I was standing on the washed-out east bank with two thermoses and a sleeve of Marianne’s cinnamon rolls when the first dump truck came down Creek Road. It was Wednesday, May 27, and there was dew on the grass.
Wade Tindall was driving the loader. Two of his crew followed in the county trucks, one with the compactor on a trailer. Josh Vogt’s pickup was already parked on the shoulder, because he had called in to the elevator and said he would be late.
It was a crew of five, counting Josh, and nobody made anything of it. That was how it should have been in March.
At 6:00 sharp, a county pickup swung in and my brother got out. He was in his old work clothes, the faded Case overalls, with a steel-toed boot and a good shovel and no cap. He looked like he had not slept.
He walked down the bank to Wade and said, “Where do you want me?”
Wade looked at him for a long moment.