The Other Side of the Bridge

by Camron Wright

  “I don’t.”

  “You don’t know how old he was?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “He was from San Francisco, though?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “A U.S. citizen?”

  “I doubt it, but I don’t know.”

  “So, all you really know is his name?”

  “Pretty much. I do know that he had a wife whose name was Anna; at least, I think they were married. I know they loved each other. She was living somewhere far away, perhaps Ireland. I was hoping that you could look for him in both San Francisco and Ireland.”

  “Let me get this straight. You want to find a man named O’Riley from Ireland, and that’s all you know about him?”

  “I guess.”

  “Should I look for a Smith from the United States while I’m at it?”

  If she is trying to make me feel stupid, it’s working.

  “I know it’s not much, but it’s all I have right now,” I admit.

  “It’d be easier to just find you a man.”

  “I called because you’re the best researcher I’ve ever known.”

  “You know me, Katie, flattery will get you everywhere. You say his first name is Patrick?”

  “You’ll give it a shot?”

  “Sure, but no promises. Now, is there anything else you can tell me about him? Anything else at all?”

  “He may have been an engineer or attended engineering school. Does that help?”

  “About as much as knowing his favorite color, but it’s something.”

  “I appreciate this.”

  “Just promise you’ll come to my wedding.”

  “It’s a promise.”

  I confirm my address and say my good-byes. I hate to admit it, but Janet is right. I need more information. Before I make any other calls, I pick up the journal, open the cover, and carefully turn page after page.

  There must be something I’ve missed.

  The steel and concrete buildings blurred as Dave headed south, away from the city, away from the job, away from Brock and Dr. Jaspers and Ellen Brewer, away from his empty home in Jamesburg—away from the memories.

  There was one visit he needed to make before his journey to the bridge could begin—one place he felt compelled to see. Traffic in Washington, D.C., was heavy when Dave arrived, just as it had been every other time he’d ever been to D.C. Once, three years earlier, feeling guilty for not providing enough “culture” for the children, he and Megan had piled the family into the van for a long weekend in the nation’s capital. They’d made plans to see all the historic sites—the Washington Monument, the Jefferson Memorial, the Constitution Gardens, and, yes, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial—the “wall” that Redd so deeply revered.

  Unknowingly, however, they’d picked the same weekend as the annual Cherry Blossom Festival, the time each spring when the trees blossom and the crowds throng in hordes to see. By the time they’d hit Constitution Avenue, traffic had come to a standstill. After moving only two blocks in forty-five minutes, the family voted to bail. They would get historic another time. Instead, they opted for Annapolis, one of Dave’s favorite getaway spots. They rented rooms at the Prince George Bed and Breakfast and spent the weekend going to movies, restaurants, and even a wax museum. Those were good memories, but also reminders that the city’s historic sites remained on the someday list.

  Today was the day.

  Dave found a parking spot along Henry Bacon Drive and locked up his bike. It was a short walk to the monument nestled in the grassy park of Constitution Gardens. His pace slowed as he neared the structure. It was exactly as Redd had described: black granite panels, arranged into two arms that extended to form an angle. The area sloped gently toward the center of each so that for a person entering at ground level, the descent toward the middle would reveal more and more of the wall. At the highest point, Dave guessed the wall extended about ten feet.

  He studied the design. It was striking but unimposing, less grand than he’d imagined, and yet certainly profound. Each of the long black granite slabs sunk down into the earth—obviously symbolic of the men and women who had died and were buried. And it was indeed a place of calmness and serenity.

  Dave stepped back to record mentally what he was seeing, feeling—if not for himself, then for Redd. Most staggering were the sheer numbers of names cut into the stone’s surface—thousands upon thousands of names, each holding a story of lost life, love, and legacy.

  An older, olive-skinned man and woman shuffled past Dave toward the wall. They were speaking Spanish; as they neared the granite, their tones hushed. The old man bowed his head and looked down while the woman raised her hand, extended her wrinkled finger, and touched a name.

  Farther down the wall Dave watched three teenage girls, one writing in a notebook while the other two strolled silently back and forth. It was more hallowed behavior than one might have expected from teenage friends on a beautiful summer day.

  Dave stepped up to the granite slab, picked a name at random, and let his fingers trace the letters. Clifford Paxton. Who was he? Who had he left behind? Dave’s fingers moved to the name adjacent: Simon Ellison. Did he leave a wife? Did loved ones still visit and trace outlines of his name? Was he still remembered?

  Books had been placed at each end of the wall that listed the soldiers alphabetically, making it easy for friends and family to find their loved ones. Dave walked to a book, flipped through its pages, searched for Leslie Harris, and then located the panel where his name was engraved. Dave let his fingers trace the furrowed letters, as Redd had done so many years earlier and no doubt many times since. But what about the soldier’s name below Leslie’s, or the one above? Every single one, like Leslie, had given his or her life, had left grieving family behind. While he was grateful for the chance to touch Leslie’s name, to remember Redd’s story, to offer a silent moment of gratitude for the man’s sacrifice, Dave also realized that each and every name would do.

  He had read about the war in school, recalled the history. Countless books and movies had been written and made, and he had read and seen many of them—yet it had never felt like his war.

  An elderly woman approached and placed a flower at the base of the wall. Dave could see no tears, and yet she touched the wall with reflection. What was her story? Had she lost a friend, an uncle, a father? He thought about approaching her, asking, but didn’t. Instead, he bowed his head, closed his eyes, and offered a tribute to those whose names stretched out before him—to Les Harris, to thousands of faceless others, and to Redd.

  He was thankful he had taken the time. It was a hallowed place, a sacred place—Redd would be proud. And yet, although he knew he would never take the war for granted again, he also realized this was not where he would find closure. Without looking back at the woman, the teenage girls, the couple, or the many others who had come to pay their respects, Dave turned and walked back across the grass and down the street to where his bike was parked. Many came to the wall to shed tears; Dave did not.

  Instead, he strapped on his helmet, climbed on his bike, and rode—away from Redd’s answers and toward a search for his own.

  chapter twenty-nine

  As I study the journal again, combing for clues, I find something new.

  Patrick wrote, “When Russell Cone came to inspect me work on the cable, we discussed how the bridge moves and deflects as the cable length changes. ’Tis this giving of the bridge that gives strength to the structure and absorbs strain. Me bridge is almost a living, breathing thing.”

  I find his comment intriguing, for as a child I also imagined the bridge to be alive. With the wisdom of years that adulthood brings, I understand that she is just a bridge. Yet there are times, even today, when she takes on a life of her own.

  I also notice that Patrick references God, and if he was a religious man from Ire
land, it means that there are two choices—Catholic or Protestant. Thankfully, both are notorious record keepers. If he had attended a local congregation, there still might be a record.

  When I explain my plight to Father Muldowney, my own priest, he is happy to help. He promises to check surrounding cathedrals as well as fax me a list of additional churches worth investigating.

  Next I head out to see the city clerk. If Anna and the children moved to San Francisco, there’s a possibility that the family purchased a home. My chances are slim, but I am getting desperate.

  The woman at the desk smiles a friendly hello, but if I expect her cheeriness to make my work pleasant, I am soon disappointed. The job is drudgery. Two hours in, I discover a P. O’Riley who owned property in Stonestown, but my hopes are dashed when further digging reveals he was Mr. Pierce O’Riley, not Patrick, and dates on the documents preclude him from being my O’Riley at all.

  After six more hours, I head home for a hot bath and bed, flush with frustration, needing to extinguish the feelings of failure building in my chest. On my way, a haunting comment from the journal keeps flashing into my head. It is a simple, almost reflective statement Patrick made in the journal’s final pages.

  “It is interesting,” he said, “that bridges, the most permanent of structures, are so often built by the most transient of men.”

  Is he speaking of himself? If bridge builders are migratory, if they follow the work, then did Patrick also move on to another bridge? If so, where? Once home, I find a government website that lists all the bridges in the United States. My chest aches when I notice the number—six hundred thousand!

  I narrow my search by filtering for large, historic bridges. The Tacoma Narrows Bridge pops up first. It was a suspension bridge, the first to cross the Puget Sound, and construction began shortly after completion of the Golden Gate. Within minutes, however, I have dozens of possibilities. I see bridges in Connecticut, Pennsylvania, New York; I find bridges along the East Coast, the West Coast, and in between. They are everywhere.

  It doesn’t take long for hopelessness to roll and boil, for the bleakness to bubble. I am looking down another impossible road. Even if he moved on to work another bridge, the never-ending list on my monitor flickers a truth that bounces about the room—Patrick could have gone anywhere.

  • • •

  Visiting churches should be soothing—today, not so much. While some of the priests and ministers are pleasant, the rest must moonlight at the DMV. Several insist that I make an appointment—not a problem, except it’s for weeks down the road, and I can’t wait weeks.

  At the churches friendly enough to let me peruse their records, I find the work grueling. It isn’t like typing words into a search engine. Instead the places are stuffy, the smell of must and mildew is overwhelming, and the rooms are miserably hot. Honestly, I envision hell to be quite like the back rooms of a church. Each page must be scrutinized individually, and the writing is nearly impossible to read. I start my quest with excitement, with a vision of success, but my enthusiasm ages into despair.

  I take a deep breath and remember that I need to be elastic and flexible like the bridge. But I don’t feel elastic, I feel tense and rigid. I understand that this search is a self-imposed burden, one that I opted to carry the day I vowed to find the family of Patrick O’Riley. And if it is self-imposed, then I should be able to cast it aside—but I can’t. It has taken hold of me and won’t let go. It has grown into an obligation that wraps its fingers around my heart. With each beat I keep asking: what if, after all my searching, I can’t find him? What if I never learn more about Patrick and Anna?

  I should go home. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and I can feel my blood sugar is at an all-time low. Instead, with stress clouding my logic, I commit a cardinal sin. I pass Chang’s Chinese Buffet with its “all-you-can-eat” neon sign flashing like a hypnotist’s trap. I wander inside, hand the plump Chinese woman my money, and then for the next forty minutes I perpetrate diet suicide. I eat like it’s my last supper. I chow down on sesame chicken, sweet and sour pork, and orange beef. It’s like popcorn: once you start eating, it’s almost impossible to stop. With everything fried in oil, I can eat through my entire monthly allowance of saturated fat in one sitting.

  I’ve always had the willpower to resist, but tonight I gorge like a screaming pig. By the time I can’t pop another piece of fortune cookie into my mouth, all I desire is to crawl home and throw up—not because I feel sick to my stomach, but because I feel sick in my heart. It’s a deep-down sickness that I’m feeling because, soon, I’ll be forced to admit that I have failed to find Patrick O’Riley.

  • • •

  In the safety of my home, I get angry—more than angry, I am livid. I scream at the computer. I crumple up papers and hurl them into the wastebasket. I move into the kitchen and swear at the stacks of books piled high, uttering words that I never say in public. All the while my unfinished outline mocks from the table. I utterly detest that ridiculous assignment—busywork from the Society of Ladies with Too Much Time on Their Hands!

  I have been home for all of five minutes and my pity party is in full swing. In my frustration, I move close to the table and dump the remaining pages of my report into the garbage can. As I do, I interrogate myself.

  “Why is it, Katie, that you can’t finish the report, can’t find Patrick, can’t accomplish anything you set out to do? Why is it that you’re still alone? Why are you still stuck at a university unable to move forward, too nervous to even face the man who betrayed you? Why, Katie?”

  I ask as if I expect a different Katie to answer. But there is only one Katie at home, and her life is unraveling. As I wait for answers that don’t come, I realize for the first time since walking through the door that I smell atrocious. I’ve worked up a sweat in the hot and stuffy church rooms, and the ensuing stench coming from my shirt is disgusting. I don’t just stink with body odor, I reek of failure.

  In disgust, I tear off my shirt, head to the shower, and pull on the hot water. I’m usually one to conserve, to do my share for the community, but tonight I don’t care. I plop down in the middle of the shower’s tile floor and let the water cascade over me in torrents, watching it pool, mix, and swirl with my guilt and then flow down the drain. I vow to leave the water on until the pipes in the city run dry, until the conservation police kick down my door and haul me off naked and screaming to jail.

  After thirty minutes, however, my skin begins to shrivel. I renege on my vow to run the city dry and decide instead that using up all the hot water in the house will be revenge enough. Ten minutes later, I am a prune, but the hot water keeps blasting.

  We have a deep, old-fashioned bathtub in the bathroom upstairs. Dad loved to soak in it after a hard day at the bridge. With an active teenage girl in the house, he would often run out of hot water. It drove him crazy until one Saturday, he brought home a new water heater, a huge, seventy-five-gallon model. Together, we connected it to our existing unit so that one feeds into the other. As my skin now starts to itch, it dawns on me that since that time, I don’t remember running out of hot water—ever. I could be here all night. I could drown. After five more minutes, I wave the white flag and push the valve closed in disgust. I am a failure at everything.

  My hands are white and wrinkled. I look like an old, dead, white woman. As I pat myself dry, my skin begins to scream for lotion, and there is none left in the bathroom. I want to simply crawl into bed naked to begin the cry of my life—and I will, just as soon as I get more lotion from the kitchen. I find the other bottle on the counter, but when I discover that it too is almost empty, I am about to start my tantrum over—when something catches my attention.

  The notification light on my phone is blinking.

  Someone called while I was staging my shower sit-in. I tap the screen to hear the voice of Gwen from the library. She must have called just before closing. I want to believe t
hat this is the break I’ve been praying for. I need to hope, but as I consider my actions of the previous hour, caution seems my best ally. If I raise my expectations, I’ll set myself up for a drop off the emotional edge that I just can’t handle.

  But her words cause hope to rise in my chest.

  “Hi, it’s Gwen at the library. I think I may have found something.”

  chapter thirty

  From Washington, D.C., Dave headed northwest on I-70 across Maryland and into Pennsylvania—past the steel mills of Pittsburgh, past factories, past apartments. I-70 soon meshed into I-76 toward Cleveland, then into I-80 past Lake Erie, Toledo, and Gary, Indiana.

  When Dave was hungry, he would stop and eat—burgers and sandwiches, mostly, at drive-ins, cafés, fast-food diners, whatever was convenient. When he was tired, he’d find a motel and sleep—usually in the smaller towns, away from the big city, far from the memories he was trying to distance. Sometimes, when the monotony of the freeway began to grind, he’d exit to the back roads and traverse at a slower, less frenzied pace. Other times, when anxiety would take hold, when he worried about making it on time, he’d jump back onto the interstate and push it to the limit.

  Just missing Chicago, then across Illinois and into Iowa, familiar city names—Davenport, Iowa City, Des Moines—but names that mixed and mingled, never letting him be sure, as he traced the route in his head, if they were places he’d just passed or those still to come. He drove by farms, endless fields of crops, scattered tractors and cows. He passed small, blurring towns—Guthrie, Oakfield, Hancock—almost nameless, each looking like the one before.

  Through them all, he kept a close eye on the weather, and it had generally cooperated. He’d detoured only once near Newton to avoid rain that was predicted to blow across the plain from the northeast. It was a detour that proved unnecessary. The guarded storm stayed distant, as if it understood that the determined man on the motorcycle needed to get past and be on his way.