The Other Side of the Bridge

by Camron Wright

  “What?” Brock replied.

  “Is today the twenty-sixth?” Dave turned to the crowd as if asking a school class. The intern, a guy who had come to watch a master at work, spoke up first.

  “It’s the twenty-sixth, Mr. Riley.”

  “Twenty-sixth,” Dave repeated, doing the math in his head.

  Brock touched his shoulder and pushed him toward his empty chair. “Dave, why don’t you take a seat and let me take over here?”

  Dave’s tone shifted, quickened. “There’s still time. I can make it.”

  “Still make what?” Ellen called out.

  If Dave heard his boss’s question, he didn’t respond. Instead he turned to Shaun Safford. “I’m sorry, Mr. Safford. Brock will explain the study. I have to go.” With that, he sidestepped around Brock and bolted through the conference-room door.

  chapter twenty-six

  Dave followed Redd through the back doors at Lakeshore until both men stood beside the ’91 Sturgis that Dave had ridden to Frederick. It was polished and ready. As they looked the bike over, Redd spoke first. “She’s all fueled up and clean as a new-diapered baby.”

  “Thanks, Redd.”

  “The boss will want you to sign this.” Redd picked up a sales contract that waited on the counter and handed it to Dave. “I’ll take care of the rest of the paperwork.”

  Dave scribbled his name on the dotted line without reading a word.

  “You know where you’re heading?” Redd asked.

  “I’ve known for a while—it’s a bridge my grandfather helped build. I visited once as a boy, when I was seven or eight. I barely remember it. We went out as a family for my grandfather’s funeral. It’s funny because I don’t really remember him—my grandfather—yet I have a curious recollection of staring up at these massive orange spires on the bridge, as if they were enormous fingers that reached up to touch the clouds.”

  There was a long pause before Dave spoke again. “I also remember my father telling me, very distinctly, that my grandfather found answers at the bridge.” Dave took another breath. “I don’t know if I ever told you, Redd, but Megan bought me this jacket before she died. It’s hard to explain why I need to go, I just do.”

  “Dave, I’m the one guy you don’t need to explain that to. Just be prepared. You need to realize that the answers you find may not be those you expect.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. And thanks for teaching me to ride, being my friend, everything.”

  “No problem. Listen, you’ve got my number if anything comes up?”

  “I do.”

  Redd pressed a green button on the wall, and the metal overhead door clanked into action. Dave pushed the bike outside, threw his leg over the seat, and engaged the engine. He raised his hand toward Redd, a mixed gesture of thank you and good-bye; he couldn’t hear Redd’s reply over the rumble, but he could read his lips.

  “Godspeed.”

  Dave twisted the handle, released the clutch, and rolled smoothly out of the parking lot while Redd watched the bike and his newfound friend disappear.

  • • •

  On his way home from BikeHouse, Dave stopped at REI and purchased a sleeping bag that he stuffed into his bike’s leather saddlebag. He didn’t plan on using it—it was only for emergencies. He’d been a camper as a teenager, but that felt like a lifetime ago. Camping to Megan, after all, meant a weekend at the Marriott.

  At home, Dave gathered up the rest of his essentials—clothes, toothbrush, toothpaste, a handful of power bars, two bottles of water, a cell phone, and his printed maps, just in case.

  That morning he’d spent more than an hour on the computer calculating the mileage, the days, the stops along the way. He had plenty of time. Even with stops for food, gas, laundry, and sleep, he would still make the Golden Gate with at least two days to spare before the Fourth of July.

  Two lights were left on, the front and back porch. It wouldn’t matter—he lived in a secure neighborhood. He glanced around one last time, wondering if he’d forgotten anything. The newspaper had been stopped; he’d put a hold on the mail. He’d called two boys on the baseball team to keep up the yard; they were more than happy to oblige. The security patrols had been notified that he would be on an “extended vacation.”

  It was time.

  Once in the garage, Dave locked the door leading to the house, then wheeled the bike out into the driveway. He checked the latches on the saddlebags for the third time—they were fine—then entered the garage code. He watched the door drop until the bottom rubber edge pushed tight against the pavement. It felt symbolic, a door being sealed behind, uncertainty opening ahead.

  He took a breath, swung his leg over the bike, and pressed the ignition. It roared to life. With the clutch engaged, he clicked the machine into gear and twisted the handle. His action was still not as fluid as Redd’s, still not as certain—but it was adequate.

  Though he’d vowed not to look back, he couldn’t resist a final glance as he rolled toward the street. At the mailbox he squeezed the brake to bring the bike to a stop and check traffic. The sun was just beginning to set, causing a glare from the west. He wouldn’t get far tonight, but he was leaving anyway. He couldn’t stay another night in the emptiness alone.

  With the sun in his eyes, it was difficult to make out the shape of the car coming down the street toward him. The sound, however, was unmistakable. He waited for Brock to pull in front of the mailbox, shut off his ignition, and step from his car. Dave turned off his engine as well, then watched Brock study him—first the bike, and then the scene before him.

  “Looking good. Looking very good,” Brock finally said.

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean the bike, of course. The real question is, are you okay?”

  “I think so.” Dave kept his answers short. He waited for Brock to get to his point.

  “You sure you want to leave like this?”

  Dave responded with the slightest of shrugs.

  Brock continued. “You’re kissing off a six-figure-a-year job. I’m sure that’s filled with some terrific irony or hidden meaning, but I sure as hell don’t know what it might be.”

  “Look, I know it doesn’t make sense. I just need some time off, that’s all.”

  “Time off, huh?” Brock questioned.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you sure? ’Cause it sounds like a bit more than that.”

  “No, I’m not sure at all. It just . . . feels right.”

  “Feels right?”

  “Weird, I realize, but yeah.”

  Brock accepted the answer, seemed to understand that nothing he could say would dissuade the man. “It’s not going to be the same at the office without you.”

  “I appreciate that. How did Ellen take it?”

  Brock’s eyes rolled heavenward. “She went ballistic—threw the reports across the conference room, swore up a storm. Not in front of Safford, but before the elevator doors had finished closing. Yes, I’d say you did a fine job of burning that bridge to a crisp. Even if you changed your mind, the truth is, it’s probably too late for you to come back.”

  “She’ll get over it.”

  “Perhaps,” Brock said. “And I also talked to Dr. Jaspers today. She said you weren’t answering or returning her calls.”

  “She means well.”

  “She asked if I’d have you call her.”

  “In time.”

  “So, where you heading?”

  “West. There’s a bridge my grandfather help build.”

  “The Golden Gate?”

  “Same one.”

  “You’re not going there to jump off, I hope?”

  The remark caused Dave’s first smile. “I hadn’t looked at it that way.”

  “Well, don’t. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

  Dave exhaled, suck
ed in a fresh breath, tried his best to explain. “I remember hearing a lot of family stories about the bridge, mostly concerning my grandfather. They say he found answers there. I just thought I’d go have a look.”

  “That sounds . . . quaint.” Brock’s tone reeked of ridicule.

  Dave ignored it. “It’s what he believed.”

  “When will you get there?”

  “By the Fourth—I have a stop to make first, but I’ll still make it by then.”

  Each out of words, the silence settled around them, then nudged. Brock extended his hand. Dave reached out and clasped it to pull his friend close.

  “For the record,” Brock added, “I think you’re crazy as hell, but at the same time—good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And I am going to try to smooth things over with Ellen. So, if you get to the bridge and it’s closed or something, call me.”

  Dave nodded, pulled on his helmet, started the bike, and then reached for the clutch. Before squeezing it tight, he raised his hand in a stationary wave. Brock reciprocated.

  A quick shift, a gentle rumble. Brock turned left; Dave turned right. Brock toward home and Dave toward the lingering glare of the setting sun.

  chapter twenty-seven

  Upon my return to the library, I find a note by a man named Alfred Finnila. “I was walking on the catwalk and I slipped my watch into my pocket. It was a gold pocket watch. I missed my pocket, and the watch went down my pants leg and kept going all the way down into the water. It gave me a funny feeling.”

  I understand how he felt.

  Another man, Peanuts Coble, noted, “Ed Reed was a full-blooded Indian who boxed professionally on weekends. I was boarding with him at an old widow lady’s place in Sausalito. Ed was sometimes a bit short on manners. We were eating with the widow and her kids at the table, when she said to Ed, ‘Don’t you feel proud that someday your son or daughter will look up at that bridge from a cruise ship and say, “My father helped build that”?’ With a mouthful of food and without missing a beat, Ed responded, ‘Just so the little bastards don’t say I fell off of it.’”

  When I laugh aloud, Gwen, the librarian, wanders over to find out what is so funny. She reads the account and her smile lingers. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  “Thank you,” I say, but my frustration must show, because no sooner have the words come out than she continues to probe.

  “Are you sure I can’t help you find something?”

  I’ll take all the help I can get. “Gwen,” I say, “I’m looking for information about a man named Patrick O’Riley who worked on the bridge. I was hoping to find something here, but no luck. Any ideas?”

  “Did you check the electronic index?”

  “Yes—nothing.”

  “And you’ve checked some of the better histories written about the bridge?”

  “Yes, and again nothing.”

  She lists a few more ideas, but none that I haven’t tried.

  “We do have some material out on loan to two or three other universities. I can check the log to see what turns up. Did you say the name was O’Riley?”

  “Patrick O’Riley.”

  I thank her kindly, but my chances are slim. Thousands of men worked on the bridge, thousands made their contribution, put in their years, and then filtered out into the vastness of America. I am hoping for the impossible.

  As Gwen wanders away, I continue to read stories of struggle, lessons of triumph. I find words of sorrow in the histories, but also words of accomplishment. I read about the men’s lives and I wonder about their families and how their wives and children left at home must have worried. Did these men have their own Annas?

  The information is captivating, but the lights dim and the library will soon close for the day—and I have yet to see the name of Patrick O’Riley. It appears he arrived out of nowhere, dedicated a good five years or more of his life to the bridge, and then dropped off the face of the earth.

  • • •

  I call the professor early and tell him that I’ll be at home working on the project. I don’t dare tell him that means I’m obsessed with learning more about Patrick and Anna.

  I came up empty at the library, but bumps in the road are expected. I begin today by calling the Golden Gate Bridge Highway and Transportation District, the agency that was formed to finance and construct the bridge. They were slated to disband once the bridge was complete and the construction bonds were repaid, but, like most government agencies, they proved harder to dispatch than to organize. While they once managed construction of the bridge, today they oversee all transit in the Golden Gate corridor. I talk with three people before confirming what I already suspect—there are no employee records that cover the building of the bridge. I’m reminded that they only oversaw the work of hired private companies.

  Next, I attempt to track down records from the contractors themselves. There were ten prime contractors and various subcontractors selected to work on the structure. To my dismay, none are still in business.

  The room’s air is beginning to smother me—it’s time to take a walk. I open the journal and scribble down the address Patrick has written on the inside cover. It is in Parkside, a good five miles from where I live. I change into my jogging shorts, lace up my running shoes, and head out the door.

  I picture finding an old apartment building, historic but well kept, a place where a friendly elderly gentleman in the office talks about the workers they once housed during the construction of the bridge. He’ll speak of being but a small boy, perhaps five or six, when his father or grandfather owned the building, and he’ll still remember the men. He’ll confirm that of course they have all their records from over eighty years ago—that they are kept in an old wooden filing cabinet upstairs in the attic. He’ll tell me to help myself, and to lock the door on my way out. Or even better, he’ll tell me that though he was just a lad, he recalls a charming Irish gentleman in particular.

  It’s a good vision that keeps me running. But when I arrive at the address, I find a supermarket. I contemplate jogging back home, but I flag down a cab instead.

  My wall is getting taller, wider, and deeper. In research, you climb over, you dig under, you find a hole. It’s a matter of time, persistence, and patience.

  Where is the weakness in my wall?

  Ellen reclined in her deep leather chair, her feet squarely on the desk. It was a position she seldom took. Her stare was at unseen objects out the window, past the city skyline.

  “Damn him!” she mumbled to herself. “How could he just get up and walk out like that?” With no one by Ellen’s side to bob their head along with hers and agree that she was right, she cursed again for good measure, just to feel better. The woman wasn’t through ranting. “Dave knew how important this account was. How could he do it?”

  It wasn’t easy being the boss, especially of a company where her father had once been in charge. Ellen wished she could be sympathetic, but she had a business to run. Dozens of people depended on her for their paychecks, not just Dave Riley.

  “And to not wait until the meeting was over,” she continued, “to leave right in the middle with the client sitting there in shock.” It was unacceptable. There was a line of common sense, of decency, of professional demeanor. Dave Riley hadn’t just stepped over it, he’d taken a running long jump.

  The familiar beep of the intercom startled her. She pulled her feet in and sat up straight in her chair.

  “Ms. Brewer?” It was her secretary, Kathy.

  “Yes, Kathy?”

  “There is a call for you on line seven. It’s Mr. Jim Wiesenberger.”

  “Wiesenberger . . . Wiesenberger.” Ellen repeated the name. It sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “Kathy, do you know who he’s with?”

  Kathy’s tone echoed surprise, since usually her astute boss r
ecognized the names of such important men. “Yes, ma’am. It’s Mr. Jim Wiesenberger, the CEO of BikeHouse Customized Motorcycles. He’s calling from Wisconsin. He needs to speak with you right away. He says it’s urgent.”

  chapter twenty-eight

  My first call of the morning is to Janet Metcalfe, a friend in Salt Lake City. After getting a history degree from SFSU, she moved to Utah to work for an insurance agency. I call her first because she’s an avid genealogy nut, and I use the term in the nicest sense of the word. The Mormon church operates a Family History Library there that is one of the best in the world. I know that Janet uses it regularly to research her own ancestors, and I’m hoping that she’ll know the ropes and use it to help me.

  “Good morning, this is Janet.”

  “Janet, it’s Katie Connelly.”

  “Katie? It’s about time you called. How are you?”

  We chat for several minutes, catching up on old acquaintances and gossip. I find out that she is engaged; she finds out that I am hardly dating. She loves her new job and is surprised to hear that I am still working at the university. She and her fiancé are planning a trip to Hawaii for their honeymoon; I tell her that for my vacation, I painted my house. Before I get too depressed, I cut short the small talk and get to the reason for my call.

  “Listen, Janet, I’m calling to ask a favor.”

  “Sure, what is it?”

  “I’m looking for a man . . .” I pause at the wrong moment, and she jumps in before I have a chance to finish.

  “Well, it’s about time. You came to the right person. I know several who are available.”

  “Let me rephrase that—I’m looking for information about a man. He lived in San Francisco from about 1931 to at least 1937. His name was Patrick O’Riley. I was thinking that, since you are so good at genealogy research, you could check the Family History Library for me.”

  “I’d be happy to. Do you know when he was born?”