“There were other boxes?”
“Not like ours. I’m talking about men leaving their marks on the bridge: their initials, coins with messages scrawled onto them dropped into the cement pours, that sort of thing.”
“So there was more in the box than just the journal?”
“Sure. It was full of stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Notes from the crew, pictures of the construction, jewelry, housing receipts, couple of pin-up postcards, letters, lots of things. It was all wrapped in a pouch that tied in the middle. I still remember the words they’d burnt into the leather. It said, ‘Built Forever.’”
“Was it an official time capsule?”
“Doubt it. There’d be records of that. This stuff looked like something an iron crew might toss together. Our bet was they did it on their own, that nobody else knew.”
“What happened to the rest of it—the notes and papers? Do you have them?”
“Me? No. I’d have been fired for keeping stuff like that.”
“So, where are they?”
“We should have turned it all in and told everyone what we’d found.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, we didn’t. Our boss at the time was a real . . . well, in the presence of a lady, I’ll just call him challenged. We didn’t know what he’d do with the stuff, so we emptied the contents into our lunch pails and then tossed the steel box off the bridge into the bay. It was stupid, I know, but sometimes people do stupid things.”
“Do you know where everything is now?”
“I thought we should sell it. Your dad kept saying that we needed to give it to a museum. He took the journal home to look it over. I kept everything else. All we knew was that we couldn’t turn it in or tell people where it had come from—not after so many days had passed, not without the risk of losing our jobs.”
“So, what happened?”
“You’re an impatient little thing, aren’t you?”
“Sorry. Go ahead.”
“There wasn’t a bridge museum, so I dropped most everything off with an anonymous note to one of the universities.”
“But not the journal?”
“No, your dad kept the journal. He decided it was like a family Bible—that it didn’t belong to a museum or a university or anyone but the family of the guy who wrote it. He figured whoever wrote it was probably dead, but he took it upon himself to find out, and if the author was dead, then your dad planned to give it to his family.”
“But he never did.”
“No. Not that I know of. He tried—oh, how he tried. Honestly, I think he felt guilty for keeping it, and then when he couldn’t find the owner or his family, well, it bothered him.”
“Mr. Bryant, I noticed you said that you dropped off ‘most’ everything. Did you keep anything at all?”
He pauses. “You sure act like a reporter.”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it to sound that way.”
He studies me for another long minute before he stands and shuffles out of the room. He’s gone for only a minute.
“The stuff wasn’t ours, but since your dad kept the journal, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to keep something as well. There was a ring that my wife took a liking to, so I gave it to her. She loved it and wore it for years. But since she’s gone, and since your dad found the box to begin with, Katie, I think you should take it.”
He places his wrinkled fingers in mine and passes along an intricately carved silver ring. It’s beautiful. I am stunned, unable to offer any better response than a mumbled thanks. We visit a little longer, until I sense it is time to leave.
“Mr. Bryant, one last thing, and then I’ll let you go.”
“What is it?”
“The rest of the items that you said you dropped off at the university. Do you remember which one?”
“It was the one on the west side, near the lake—let’s see, what’s it called?”
I smile at the thought. It’s the university where I work. “SFSU, San Francisco State University?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Check with them. Who knows, they may still have everything.”
• • •
On the drive home I can’t get the journal out of my head. My father was right. It doesn’t belong in a museum where people will glance at the cover under glass as they stroll past. There are too many dreams, fears, and hopes embedded in its pages. It’s a personal story of a life that needs to be cherished by his family. It belongs to his children, and their children, and then their children.
My father desperately wanted to find them. He’d tried every O’Riley in San Francisco, probably every O’Riley in California, and, knowing Dad, every O’Riley across the country. But my father was an ironworker, not a researcher. I, on the other hand, am paid to dig up obscure facts and information. I know the ropes; I have people I can call, places I can look. And now, with the Internet, surely I can track down his family. I owe that much to my father; I owe that much to Patrick O’Riley.
The more I contemplate the task, the more energized I become. It’s right down my alley, a job on my own turf. And not just for Patrick, or for my father. Deep down, I know this is a job that I need to do for me.
My breathing quickens, my thoughts jump around with waving hands. Instinctively, I map out the paths I’ll take, the places I’ll start. As I do, one obstacle keeps flashing a warning in my head. I’ve promised the professor that in just a few days I’ll submit a comprehensive outline.
I can’t do both.
• • •
I drop the ring on the table. The design is unlike any I’ve ever seen. The band is formed by what look to be two connecting arms, each reaching around until they meet. The hands at the ends of the arms are intricate, with every detail of the fingers and nails showing. In the center, where the fingers touch, they hold a small silver heart. And below the heart—in fact, connected to it—extends a small crown.
I consider what might possess an ironworker to include a ring in the box. I’ve known many men who worked on the bridge, but most refused to wear jewelry, afraid they would catch it on a rivet and cause injury. Intrigued, I push the ring onto each of my fingers until it slides safely around the third finger of my left hand. I twirl the ring around and again study the design sculpted into the surface. There is something familiar. I’m sure I have seen these shapes before.
I sit perplexed until my mind makes the connection. When it does, I jump from my chair. As I hold it close, words from the journal flow from my lips.
“With this crown, I give my loyalty. With these hands, I promise to serve. With this heart, I give you mine.”
The crown, the hands, the heart—they are all there. In an instant, I know. On my finger I wear Anna’s ring.
chapter twenty-one
He didn’t need to keep his appointment with the doctor, not after landing BikeHouse. His boss would never ask about the visits again. Dave had come today because, for the first time since their conversations had started, he had something he needed to discuss.
She started first. “Let’s talk about baseball,” she said.
“Baseball?”
“Sure, why not? On your first visit you mentioned that you once coached a youth team. I’m just wondering, why baseball?”
“Well, because it’s a fabulous sport.”
He would often anticipate her questions. Not this time. “But why is it so great?” she persisted. “Don’t grown men just smack a white ball with a stick and then run around?”
Dave perked up. “You’re confusing it with golf. Baseball isn’t just smacking a ball—it’s much more than that. It’s skill, it’s discipline, but it’s also planning and strategy. It’s watching your opponent’s move and then deciding how best to react. Baseball is symmetry and grace and beauty and power, all woven into a sing
le fabric. Simply put, Doctor, it’s a perfect game.”
While her question appeared to be idle chat, he realized afterward that it was meant to probe his emotion, to gage intensity.
“Okay, I believe you. Do you still coach?”
“Coach? No, I gave it up after the accident,” Dave said.
“Why?”
He paused. She let the silence drag.
“I couldn’t go back. It brought back too many memories.”
“But aren’t they good memories?”
“Sure, but . . .”
“I hope you see, David, that it’s okay to remember. It won’t always cause pain. In time, you’ll create new memories, good memories that will blend with the old. Your life will continue. You’ll still have hopes, dreams, passions. In short, you still have a full life to live.”
The idea felt so distant, so unreachable. Instead of accepting her words, pretending to agree, and moving forward, Dave raised a topic of his own. “Before we go on, I’d like to talk about my jacket.”
“The one from Megan?”
“Yeah. I told you how I found it, but I didn’t tell you the whole story.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
“I didn’t tell you that I wore it to work—that I hadn’t shaved or showered. I’d been drinking. I was a mess.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“I got the account—I got BikeHouse because of the Harley jacket. Do you see any significance in that?”
“I wouldn’t try to read too much into it. Life is full of coincidence—it just has a way of helping us out sometimes.”
“Nothing more than chance? You don’t see it as a sign or something?”
“A sign?”
“That’s why I’m asking.”
“David, it’s normal to want to believe that life is ruled by fate. But be careful about giving away control. If you turn your life over to destiny, then it takes responsibility away from your actions. We’d all like answers as to why awful things happen in life, but the answers are not always there. Sometimes life is awful—just because. Does that make sense?”
“I guess so.”
“You’re grieving over the loss of your wife and family. That’s the reason we’re talking. But understand that life will keep right on going around you. Be careful about stepping off. Be careful about chasing dreams that are only wispy puffs of hope not based in reality. Be careful about giving up. If getting this account is indeed a sign, as you imply, then it’s to tell you to move on with your life. Let go of the pain and move forward. You deserve happiness.”
His eyes narrowed; his head flinched slightly back. When he finally spoke, his words caught her by surprise. “You mention hopes, passions, and dreams. But how far should I go in search of answers?”
“Answers to what, David?”
“To questions like, where do I find the hope you talk about? Where do I find the will to get up each morning and live my life? Where do I find out if there’s more to life than just sitting here asking you questions? No offense.”
“I want to understand you completely, David. Can you expound a bit further?”
His intensity was turning into frustration. “I’ll narrow it down. Where do I look to make my life meaningful again?”
It was her turn to pause, to ponder. She picked her words carefully. “Many places—I think that you have to look in many places, David. You mentioned that keeping busy at work has helped. Isn’t your job meaningful, for one?”
“At times, sure, but if that’s the only reason I can find to get up each morning, then smother me with a pillow now. Don’t get me wrong, my job can be challenging, but there has to be more to life than Strategy Data. Look, here’s what I’m getting at—just a couple of months ago, I’d have answered that my family was the place to look, but now I don’t have a family. So with no family, with no wife, and no children—where do I look for meaning?”
“We’ve already discussed the fact that nobody can replace what you’ve lost. But, David, whether you want to hear it yet or not, you will most certainly love again.”
She waited for his reaction.
“I don’t think you answered my question,” he said, “so let me ask it this way. At our first meeting, you told me about losing your fiancé, Jonathan.”
“Yes.”
“You may have mentioned it, but how long ago did he pass?”
“Nine years.”
“And have you found someone else in those nine years?”
“Shouldn’t I be the one asking the questions?”
“Please, I’d like to know.”
“No, not yet,” she said. “But I’m certain that with time, I will.”
“Certain? How do you know?”
“Know? I guess I don’t know. I simply hope.”
“That’s exactly my question, Doctor—that’s what I want to know. How far do I go to find hope?”
chapter twenty-two
Every major university library has a Special Collections Department. I’ve used them often. The books and material are old, frequently historic, generally priceless. None of it can be checked out, but it can be held, read, and studied, if done so with gloved hands, appreciation, and care.
I am embarrassed that it hasn’t occurred to me before now to search there for items relating to the bridge. I recognize Gwen, the librarian in charge, and she recognizes me. She is a pleasant older woman, and if I was playing my separated-at-birth game, I’d say she reminds me of a modern Mary Poppins.
“Professor Winston’s assistant, right?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“What project are we working on today?”
“It’s an assignment about the history of the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“There’s a fun way to spend your weekend.”
“Tell me about it.” I chitchat until the timing is right, then I get to my point. “Listen, I’m looking for old books or letters from men who may have worked on the bridge during its initial construction. Do you have anything like that?”
“Honey, we’re in San Francisco. We have shelf loads: notes, letters, pictures, drawings. You name it.”
It turns out that she is not exaggerating. There are several drawers of letters, minutes from government meetings, photos, even plans and drawings of the bridge. I ask specifically about items that may have been dropped off anonymously years earlier, but she has no way of checking. Anything so acquired would have simply been cataloged eons ago. I take a pile of the material and spread it over one end of a table. The information is fabulous—and I mean fabulous—and I quickly get lost in my work.
I’m transported back to a harder, lonelier time. I am reminded of the climate and conditions, of the fact that the country was in the throes of a debilitating depression.
“August 1934. It is late summer, a time carpenters normally cherish—a time of abundant light and warm weather. That is not the case at this forsaken place. The Gate is plunged in cold, wet gloom. During normal times one would never consider working in such a place—but these are not normal times.”
Another reads, “1933—times are tough with the Depression going on. There are always men looking for work, and so if you mess up, they let you go quicker than the bay fog. Take time for a smoke and they replace you. And we only get paid for time put in, no matter how long we’ve been waiting for work to begin. Even guys out on the steel, where it’s cold and miserable as hell, they all just feel damn lucky to have jobs.”
I leaf through the various notes and letters, pondering the conditions, wondering what role Patrick O’Riley played.
“May 4th, 1934—Never seen a completely calm day at the Gate, always windy, a gale that seeks men out. It blows up our sleeves and pant legs, no matter how many layers we wear. When this hellhole ain’t windy, we’re shrouded in fog. There are days we st
and in sunshine on top of the tower, but we never see the water because of the fog. Sometimes it’s all around and you wonder what the hell you’re doing out here—fog, cold, wind in your face. But you stay, and despite the weather, the tower continues to rise—and it is a beautiful sight.”
As I read, I am surprised to find that an earthquake struck the bridge while it was being built. The event was recorded by a bridge worker, Frenchy Gales.
“It was early June. I was on the tower when the quake hit. It was so limber that it swayed sixteen feet in each direction. There were twelve or thirteen guys on top with no way down. The whole thing would sway toward the ocean and the guys would say, ‘Here we go!’ thinking the tower was going to collapse into the water. Then it would sway back toward the bay. Men were throwing up. I figured if it collapsed into the water, we’d hit the iron first. It never did.”
As I continue to peruse their words, one fact becomes obvious. Through the insurmountable hardship of bridging the Gate, a comradeship developed among the men—a feeling that all were taking part in something historic.
A note left by a tower worker makes me chuckle.
“We had toilets on the tower where the waste collected in a trap. It was always a temptation to open the trap on one of the passing ships, like dropping a live bomb. Nobody did, ’course, till we heard that the Shensu Maru, a Japanese freighter, would be steaming through the Gate. It wasn’t long before the war, and the Japs had already invaded Manchuria. A lot of the guys on the crew weren’t fond of ’em. I guess the temptation became too great for one of them. I can’t say who, ’course, other than to say I heard he figured his precise timing the day before. The next morning when the ship appeared right on schedule, steaming toward the bridge in the outbound shipping lane, there was a sudden waiting line to use the toilet. Funny how all the guys had to go at once. Well, whoever the culprit was, he missed the smokestacks but still managed a direct hit all over the deck. You could hear the men’s hoots ’n hollers all the way to the shore. The Japanese filed a protest and inspectors came around asking questions—’course, nobody knew nothing, nothing at all.”
The Other Side of the Bridge Page 12
