The Other Side of the Bridge

by Camron Wright

  It was a solitary ride, a reflective ride, a lonely ride—and yet it provided time to think, to wonder.

  With Megan things had been easy. Life’s road had been busy, at times a veritable eight-lane freeway, but she had always been there providing a direction and a destination. Without her, it felt as though he’d lost his orientation. The once-solid path was now more like gravel, and sometimes it led off into so many diverse directions that it was impossible to know which to choose. Or worse, at times the road ended, leaving only weeds, brush, and craggy rocks.

  Dave had hinted more than once to Dr. Jaspers that a change of scenery might do him some good. Her answer was always the same: “I wish it were that easy to run away from the pain, David. If it were, I’d open up a travel agency. But it follows you. It chases you. The pain needs to be dealt with from inside, David, not from the outside.”

  Was she right? Was this journey helping the inside? With each mile, the nagging questions remained. Was he avoiding his problems—or running toward the only place he could find answers? He had no idea; he simply knew that it was time he ran toward something.

  Past the state line and into Nebraska. More fast food, more cheap motels. Omaha, Lincoln, Aurora—into the heartland—Kearney, Lexington, North Platte. Chased by demons, perhaps chasing solace, but moving. If the constant riding was merely deadening the pain, one thing was certain. As soon as he stopped, as soon as the numbness wore thin, the returning ache would be devastating.

  I arrive at the library just before eight a.m. and wait by the entrance to the area that houses the Special Collections documents. Gwen doesn’t arrive until almost eight minutes after the hour. “Hi, Katie. I had a feeling you’d be waiting. Sorry to be late. I couldn’t find my keys, and without my keys, nobody gets in.”

  “That’s okay. In your message you said that you found something?”

  Gwen nods as she fiddles with her large silver key ring. She locates the key and slips it into the lock to open the door. I follow like a puppy.

  “I checked the electronic index of the documents on loan to three universities. They didn’t show a Patrick O’Riley. I was about to call you and tell you the bad news when I remembered the interdepartment log sheets. From time to time, department heads can request that material be transferred to their care, as long as they’re using it on campus for an approved project. The problem is that those items on request don’t show up on our loan sheets or in the electronic index until we get the confirmation logs back from the department heads.”

  I remind myself that this is a university, so to someone obviously much smarter than I, the system must make perfect sense.

  Gwen continues, “Of course, it sometimes takes weeks; heavens, I’ve seen them take months to be returned. So, when I checked the log sheets, I could see that the chemistry lab had a bundle of letters that they’ve been using for date testing—items relating to the bridge. They are listed in the index as a bundle, rather than by author. That’s why nothing showed up. Anyway, I called Dr. Stanton, and apparently they did have a bundle of letters from the early to mid-1900s.”

  “Did have? They don’t still have them?” I question, getting impatient at the depth of her explanation.

  “Not exactly. They were sent down to the extension in Los Angeles to Dr. Markus, still technically part of the campus. I called his assistant and she checked through the material. Sure enough, there was a letter that’s signed by . . . are you ready?”

  She pauses, as if expecting a drumroll to materialize from nowhere. When it doesn’t, she finishes on her own. “Patrick O’Riley. Now, I don’t know if it’s the same Mr. O’Riley you’re looking for, but I thought you’d like to know.”

  It was the best news I’d heard in weeks. “How long will they have the letter?”

  “They’re scheduled for another two months, longer if they request an extension.”

  “Can I drive down and see it?”

  “You can, but you don’t need to. I had a copy sent over to me yesterday.”

  I feel my neck chill as she turns to her desk and picks up three sheets of paper. I see the top piece has a sticky note attached with my name written on it. I glance at the first page and instantly recognize the handwriting. It is the same as in the journal. It is indeed a letter written by Patrick O’Riley—my Patrick!

  “This is amazing, Gwen. I owe you.”

  “Just doing my job. I do hope it helps.”

  I thank her again profusely and then, as politely as possible, excuse myself to one of the nearby cubicles. It’s not that I care if anyone else reads the letter—obviously many people have. I want to study the letter alone because it feels personal. Perhaps I’m also afraid of how I might react.

  February 11, 1937

  Dearest Anna,

  The bridge is almost finished and she is a wonder! I can’t wait for you and the young ones to see her. She spans a deep canyon, a channel filled with treacherous currents and a perpetually frenzied sea, like the Atlantic that beats upon the shores of Ireland. The two great cables that drape from her towers contain enough strands of wire to encircle the equator thrice, and the concrete poured into her pylons and anchorages could pave a four-foot-wide sidewalk from me to Dublin. The structure is indeed a wonder, and she will open to the public in just over three months.

  I could not help but feel a little pride today, Anna, as I walked her span. The wind was blowing, as it always does, and the gale caused me to remember the many days I had spent on her girders. At times the wind would gust so hard the bridge would sway back and forth nearly five times a man’s height. I would think of you, even in those conditions. I would picture your smiling eyes, the warmth of your touch, your laughter. I would think of the children and I would pray silently to God and the saints to sustain me.

  Only now, Anna, with me work almost complete, will I admit to you that it has been dangerous. ’Tis a job that loses one man for every million dollars spent. And yet, by God’s good grace, only one had perished—until February.

  The safety net had saved nineteen men from plunging to their deaths into the cold, swirling sea. We called ’em members of the “Halfway to Hell” club. Thank the saints I was not among ’em. Perhaps we took the net for granted—until the day it failed.

  Twelve lads were standing on the scaffolding when she collapsed. Eleven fell into the net, and for but a moment the men cheered. Then the web began to tear, and screams of joy turned to terror. I watched in horror, Anna, as the web gave way and all of me friends plunged into the open jaws of the ocean below. ’Twas a tragic and painful day.

  The wonder is that, only minutes before, I had stood on the same scaffolding! I do not tell you this to cause alarm—me intentions are just the opposite. I want you to know, Anna, that it was God who spared me life.

  I have devoted five years to build her—five years of longing for you and the children. And though this bridge has robbed me of sacred years of fatherhood, she is also me savior. Without the endless days spent welding her frames together, I could never have saved the money needed to snatch you and the young ones out of the slums of Dublin that hold you captive.

  It is true, Anna. You will all soon be free. I have booked you all passage on the Virginia May, which sails from Cork on the 29th.

  I am enclosing $60 for the journey. Take only what you can carry. Leave quietly. Bid farewells carefully. I will spend me days waiting your arrival. And when you and the children come, there is something that I want all of us to do. We will take a boat across the bay to the north end of the bridge. We will hold hands, and with gratitude we will walk as a family across her length—across our bridge to freedom.

  You will soon see that I don’t exaggerate her greatness. I want you and the children to see her majesty, feel her power. I want our young ones to understand that she is more than just a bridge—she is our liberty, our life, our hope for the future. And not just for our famil
y, but for all those who cross her span in search of better times.

  ’Tis true. God is good and merciful, and so when we reach the other side, I know a place on the south shore where we can kneel together as a family and say a prayer thanking Almighty God and all the saints for our reunion and our future.

  Anna, I hope you will not think it strange, but when we rise from our knees on that opposite shore, we will no longer be the O’Riley family from the sully side of Dublin. At the moment we stand, as a symbol of our new life, we will be the Rileys—and we will be from America!

  Please, dear wife, do not think that the sea air has rusted me brain. I am not forsaking our heritage. We both know I’ll be Irish ’til the day I die, but the children, Anna, the children will have a new life in America, and a new hope! And not just our children, but their children, and then their children, and the chain will continue because of our courage and because of God’s goodness.

  We have lived in poverty and misery, but soon it ends. The bridge is spectacular, enchanting, even magical. As we cross over the sea and to her opposite shore, we will be a family once again.

  I count the days.

  Your loving husband,

  Patrick O’Riley

  He changed his last name! No wonder my father couldn’t find him. No wonder the man appeared to vanish. With tears clouding my eyes, I mouth my thanks to Gwen and hurry toward home. On my way out, I pass Professor Winston.

  I’ve always had a hard time hiding my emotions. I can’t mask my joy when I’m happy or my gloom when I’m sad. Right away, he sees tears streaming down my face, but he also recognizes that I am beaming. He’s a man, so he is immediately confused.

  “Katie, are you okay?”

  “Good morning, Professor. Yes, I’m fabulous. It’s been such a productive morning.”

  “But you’ve been crying.”

  “Yes, indeed I have.”

  His fingers touch his chin. “You certainly are involved in your work.”

  I smile and hurry past him toward the exit. And he doesn’t once ask about the assignment. The day is turning out to be stellar after all.

  chapter thirty-one

  Why do terrible days occur before wonderful days? Could it be with life that, in order to savor the joy, we must dine first at the table of despair? I don’t pretend to know. What I do know is that, as bad as the last several days have been, today has made up for them and more. And, no offense, God, but it’s about time!

  When I walk in the door, the phone is already ringing. It is Janet on the other end.

  “Janet? I was just going to call you.”

  “Queen’s College of Cork.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I found a record from the school for a Patrick O’Riley—he attended the Queen’s College of Cork in Ireland. He enrolled in 1926.”

  “I won’t ask how you tracked that down,” I say.

  “There’s more. He didn’t graduate, but take a guess what he studied.”

  “Engineering?”

  “Ding, ding. We have a winner.”

  The puzzle pieces are falling into place. Patrick O’Riley is growing into more than words on a page—he is becoming real.

  Janet continues, “And you said he was in San Francisco in about 1931?”

  “Yes.”

  “The last record of him at the school is in 1930.”

  “So, he’s our man.” I say, as I catch myself bouncing from foot to foot.

  “Let me finish—there’s more. You mentioned that your Mr. O’Riley worked on the Golden Gate Bridge, right?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Well, in my digging, I learned that the Queen’s College of Cork has a few famous graduates, among them a Mr. Michael Maurice O’Shaughnessy. Does the name ring a bell?”

  “I think so. Let me try to remember.” The name sounds familiar. It has something to do with the bridge, but I can’t put my finger on it.

  Janet interrupts. “Let me help. He came from Ireland to San Francisco to become the city engineer. Turns out he was one of the early advocates of building a bridge across the Gate. He was born in County Limerick, Ireland, which also happens to be the birthplace of . . . Patrick O’Riley.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “In this business you make assumptions. Perhaps Patrick knew this guy or his family in Ireland. Perhaps this O’Shaughnessy is the one who convinced Patrick to come to America to work on the bridge. It’s all plausible.”

  “Is there more?”

  “That’s all for now. The most curious thing is that I haven’t been able to trace him after he arrived in the United States. Usually that’s where we have the most success.”

  “I believe I can tell you why. We found a letter from him here at the university. He dropped the O’ from his name. The family changed their name to just Riley.”

  “Of course!”

  “Will that help you track him?”

  “You know me. I’m the one who can’t put down a crossword puzzle. Give me a couple more days, and I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  “Janet, every time we talk, your wedding gift gets more expensive.”

  I don’t expect to hear back from Janet for at least two days. Three hours later, she calls again.

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “Yes.”

  “Looking for the right name made all the difference in the world. Let me tell you about your mystery man. Patrick O’Riley was born in County Limerick, Ireland, in 1899.”

  I quickly do the math in my head and realize that when he started on the bridge, he was 32—older than I’d guessed.

  Janet continues, “He married Anna Sullivan in Ireland in 1925. She was from a village called Claddagh. I have records of Patrick at the university until 1930, but nothing in Ireland after that. That’s the same time he pops up in San Francisco to work on the bridge. He’s there until 1937. After that, it becomes tricky. I can track seven different Patrick Rileys during the years that follow. Interestingly, two are married to women named Anna. I found church records for one of the two Patricks in Portsmouth, Virginia. If he’s our man, then he had three children—one son and two daughters. The other possibility is a Patrick Riley in Washington, near Tacoma. If that’s him, then the news isn’t so good. He had four children—one boy and three girls. However, I found death dates for his wife and the children, all on the same day. That means an accident or perhaps an epidemic. If he’s your man, then when he died in 1959, he died alone and with no posterity.”

  My mind races. I recall reading about the bridge in Tacoma. Construction started shortly after the Golden Gate Bridge was finished.

  “Let’s assume, Janet, that my Patrick is the man in Virginia. What did you find out about his children?”

  “The trail with the two daughters went immediately cold. That’s common—they no doubt married, changed their names, moved away. The son is easier since his name stays the same. He was christened Robert Riley; personally, I wouldn’t have named my kid Robert with a last name of Riley, but nobody asked me. It turns out Robert stayed in Virginia. He was Irish Catholic, like his father. He married a woman named Louise Skinner. They also had a son. Here’s the bad news. Robert Riley died of a heart attack four years ago. His wife died two years later. I have an old address, but I don’t think that will do you much good.”

  “So, where do I go from here?”

  “Katie, it’s me, Janet. I told you they had a son. Do you want his phone number?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Remember, it helps only if I’ve traced the right Patrick Riley. We still have the guy who moved to Washington. It’s a fifty-fifty shot as I see it.”

  “Janet, what’s his name? The grandson, I mean.”

  “Is your pencil ready?”

  “Ready.”

  �
�His name is David—David Riley.”

  chapter thirty-two

  I wait patiently in the office courtyard, watching the elevators as they open and close, rehearsing what I’ll say. There is a moment when I wonder if I have the courage, but then I remind myself that I need to find closure if I expect my life to move forward. An hour and ten minutes later, he walks into the lobby. He’s staring at his phone and doesn’t notice that I’m there. It’s my chance to speak up—or walk away silent forever.

  “Eric?”

  He jolts to a stop at the sound of my voice, turns toward me, and stares. I watch his eyes drop, his head lower, his countenance crumble. He looks uneasy, even frightened. I hold my ground, not moving forward but not stepping back. I wait.

  “Katie?”

  “I saw you come into this building a few days ago. I live close by—I didn’t want to keep avoiding the place.”

  When he speaks, he looks past me, as if there were someone standing in the distance. “Um . . . I’m . . . you know, of all the ironies, the company transferred me back here.” He tries to laugh, but it sounds forced, unnatural. “I thought about looking you up, but I wasn’t sure what the point would be.”

  I expected to be angry. I expected to feel pain. Strangely, I feel only pity. He keeps glancing down nervously, and it strikes me as odd that he seems so vulnerable. Has he always been so insecure? His foot twitches nervously as he waits for stinging words that don’t come.

  Instead, I watch, wait, and listen. After a minute, when it seems as if the silence will smother him, he speaks.

  “Katie, it’s just that . . . I’m sorry . . . I mean, I don’t know what to say to you.”

  “I’m not here for an apology, Eric.” I don’t know if it’s my words or my manner that surprise him the most. “How’s your life been?” I ask.

  He stutters, stammers, takes a breath. “It’s been . . . okay, I guess.”

  Minutes ago I’d been the terrified one. Now that the moment is here, I find my words flowing with confidence. “Are you married? Dating?” I ask.