The Other Side of the Bridge

by Camron Wright

  “No . . . I mean, I go out once in a while. I guess you’re married, though. That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

  His assumption catches me off guard. “No, Eric. I’m not married.”

  He looks bewildered, but he still refuses to look me in the eyes. “I just presumed . . . well . . . you look good, Katie—a lot thinner than I’d remembered.”

  “Eric, there’s something I need to ask you.”

  He takes another heavy breath, trying to anticipate what’s coming. “Katie, listen, I don’t have an answer. I don’t know why I did it. I’ve been over it again and again. It wasn’t planned. It just happened.”

  I can’t help but smile. “Eric, that’s not my question.”

  “Oh . . . I’m sorry. What, then?”

  “I’m wondering about you, Eric.”

  “What do you mean?” He shifts his weight as I pick my words.

  “If life could be rewound to that moment when you were in L.A. and I was driving down from San Francisco, and the woman you were with appeared again, from wherever she came from in the first place . . . would you do it again?”

  My question seems to surprise, even stun him—as if he’s never looked inward, never probed his own character. Moments pass before he speaks.

  “I made a stupid choice. I never meant to hurt you like I did.” He pauses, fidgets some more. “But I don’t know that I could promise you, Katie, that I wouldn’t make the same mistake all over again. How could I know something like that?”

  It is a subtle realization, a pivot of understanding that, though slight, is also profound. In looking back, I find it interesting that such moments never come in the middle of the raging storm, but afterwards, in the gentle breeze of reflection and rebuilding.

  When Eric proposed to me, I viewed him as a partner on a pedestal, someone to lift me up. I leaned so heavily on his strength that, when he cheated, when his pedestal crashed over and knocked me breathless to the ground, I was afraid my leaning may have pushed it over.

  What I instantly understand, in an ordinary lobby on an ordinary day in an extraordinary moment, is that I don’t want a hand up. Nor do I want a push from behind. I want someone who will climb mountains with me, side by side.

  Despite my faults and weaknesses, despite my own insecurities, I deserve better.

  There is little more to say.

  “Thank you, Eric, for being honest. Right now that means a lot to me. Good luck.”

  I turn to walk away and he whispers his good-bye, visibly relieved that the ordeal is over. I am three steps away when I stop.

  “Eric, wait.” He turns, waits. “I’m curious why you thought that I was married?”

  After the question is asked, he glances down at my fingers, and I realize that he is looking at my ring.

  “It was your faith ring—you’re wearing it with the crown turned out.”

  My blank stare is enough. For the first time, his laugh is genuine.

  “You, of all people, a history major, and you don’t know about Claddagh faith rings? There’s an irony there somewhere.”

  “Can you tell me about them?”

  “You don’t need me for that—the story’s out there. You were always an amazing researcher. I’m sure you’ll find it.”

  “But . . . how do you know about . . . ?”

  “Yeah, me of all people. My grandmother used to wear one. She taught me.”

  And with that, he shrugs and walks away.

  • • •

  Claddagh. I’d heard the name from Janet—it was the town where Anna was born. It doesn’t take me long at my computer before the legend of the Claddagh faith ring smiles back from the screen.

  I learn that while several misty fables surround the creation of such a wondrous ring, the most common is of a man named Richard Joyce who lived over four hundred years ago in the fishing village of Claddagh, Ireland, which overlooks Galway Bay. It is told that he sailed from the village to the plantations of the West Indies only days before he was to marry his true love. He was captured by Algerian pirates and sold as a slave to a Moorish goldsmith, who trained him in his craft. In his captivity, Joyce fashioned the now-famous Claddagh ring in memory of his only true love, the one he’d left waiting in Ireland.

  In 1689, Richard Joyce was finally released at the bidding of King William III. The Moor offered him his only daughter in marriage and half his wealth if he would remain in Algiers, but Joyce declined and instead returned to the village to find his love unmarried and still waiting. The ring was presented, the couple were married, and they lived the rest of their lives happily together.

  As I read the simple fable and the story of the ring, I can’t help but picture Patrick and Anna, each so distant, each so concerned about reuniting again. The legend must have held a special place for each. Patrick’s words are now so plain and evident. “With this crown, I give my loyalty. With these hands, I promise to serve. With this heart, I give you mine.”

  I discover that faith rings are still available today from many Irish jewelry shops. It is understood that if one wears the ring on the left hand, with the crown turned outward, it is a sign that the person is blissfully committed. If the ring is worn on the right hand, with the crown turned inward, then everyone knows that the wearer’s heart is free.

  Patrick and Anna are taking on depth and shape and life. He didn’t disappear after the bridge was finished. They were reunited; they remained committed. Oh, there are still holes in the story—traits about the man and his wife that I am left to imagine. But if I do have the right Patrick Riley, I will have accomplished what my father couldn’t. I will have found the rightful owner of Patrick’s journal. All I have to do now is dial his grandson’s number.

  I hold the phone against my ear, pick up my scribbled notes from Janet, and determinedly punch the keys. It rings once and then twice. On the third ring someone answers and I hear a voice.

  “This is Dave Riley. I’m out right now. Please leave a number at the beep . . .”

  chapter thirty-three

  Rising in the majestic Rocky Mountains of central Colorado, the South Platte River flows 420 miles northeast, toward the central plains of Nebraska. As it has done for generations, the life-giving flow provides irrigation and hope to the many dotted towns sheltered along its valleys and basins.

  As Dave followed the river, the countless towns blurred—North Platte, Sutherland, Paxton, Roscoe, Brule—small towns, hometowns. Five thousand people here, ten thousand there. Each a community harboring homes, farms, businesses, churches . . . and families. Sturdy names, solid names—Orchard, Hillrose, and Big Springs. Every town the same, every town unique. All loved, despised, appreciated, and scorned by those who called them home.

  Just out of Big Springs, Nebraska, almost to the Colorado border, Dave pulled over to check his route. The battery on his phone was all but dead; thankfully he’d had the foresight to bring his printed maps. He traced the planned direction with his finger. The turnoff was just ahead to I-80 west into Wyoming. He’d gas up at one of the towns along the way, find a home-cooked meal at the local diner, then stop for the night when he reached Cheyenne. It was only June 30—he still had five days until the Fourth. It was a two-day ride—two and a half days at most—to the coast. He would make it in time.

  Dave pushed the map back into his saddlebag and headed toward the freeway, accelerating up the on-ramp. Traffic was light—a far cry from New York or D.C., both of which felt so distant, in mileage and in memory. Two eighteen-wheel trucks ahead blocked both lanes of traffic as one passed the other. Dave slowed. He was on a Harley, so he could certainly roar around the left side and pass on the shoulder. But there was no point; he had time. He kept a steady pace behind the passing truck until it pulled over into the right lane to let him safely by.

  A half hour later, when the sign read Sterling, Colorado—48 miles, Dave kne
w he’d taken the wrong road.

  He pulled off the freeway onto the frontage road. He must have missed the turnoff when passing the trucks. Now, twenty miles too late, he had two choices: backtrack or head toward Denver, looping up north on I-25 to Cheyenne. Even with the unexpected detour, it was early afternoon; he could still make Cheyenne by nightfall. It was the long way, but no worse than retracing country he’d already seen. With plenty of time to spare, going forward seemed the best option.

  A dot on the map—Liberty, Colorado—lay a few miles ahead. He would stay on the back roads and gas up his bike there.

  The town was visible from miles away, its whitewashed water tower poking high above the thick canopy of green trees that staked out its existence. Running parallel to the road grew a mile-wide thicket of cottonwood, cedar, and spruce trees—a forest that snaked along with the river for miles in each direction, evidence that water runs not only over the surface but deep beneath as well.

  Farms trimmed the outskirts, blanketing the area for miles with corn, alfalfa, and hay—each irrigated field adding lushness to an otherwise arid rolling plain. Even from a distance, Dave could make out the outline of a large grain elevator that companioned the town’s water tower. They stood adjacent, as if sentinels, protecting the residents from intruders. Dave guessed the structures would mark the town’s center, its main street.

  The distant scene was picturesque, and Dave now congratulated himself for missing the turnoff. The only immediate problem was that he was starving. He hoped the town would have a diner with real food on the menu—mashed potatoes, chicken, vegetables. Fast-food burgers were wearing thin. The more his stomach rumbled, the harder he twisted the throttle and the deeper the bike crooned. He would finish with apple pie. All hometown diners served apple pie—it was a requirement. He shifted the gears again, adding five miles per hour more to the speedometer—and then the bike sputtered.

  He twisted the throttle back and forth several times, but the bike continued to lose power. Dave checked for traffic behind and then pulled off to the side of the road. The fuel gauge showed a quarter of a tank. He removed the chrome gas cap and tipped the bike to see inside. The level looked about right, plenty of fuel to make it to Liberty. Bad gas at the last stop? That didn’t make sense, since he’d been driving all morning with no problems. From Redd’s maintenance lessons, Dave would have guessed the carburetor was at issue, but Redd himself had gone over the bike with a fine-tooth comb and pronounced it in perfect condition.

  Dave set the kickstand, stepped off the bike, and glanced down the road in both directions. No cars in sight. The town was just ahead; perhaps some premium gas would do the trick. He fiddled with several switches, adjusted the carburetor, and then pushed the start button again. Instead of rumbling alive, the engine sputtered and chugged. The bike lurched forward. It was running rough, but at least it was running. With a little luck, he’d make it into town, where he could get help.

  “With just a little luck,” he repeated.

  The engine stalled completely half a mile later.

  Dave hated to leave the bike on the side of the road, and since the grade sloped gently toward town, he clicked the machine into neutral and started to push.

  It took nearly thirty minutes to reach the first building, a plumbing-supply warehouse on the east side with a red pickup truck parked in front. Across the street, to the west, a community ball diamond waited. Dave opted east; they’d certainly have a phone. He looked both ways—still no cars. He was about to give his bike a heave to push it across the road when something ahead near the baseball diamond caught his attention.

  It was built of polished river rock and stood about three feet high, adjacent to the three-tiered wooden bleachers behind home plate. It was a drinking fountain, the old-fashioned kind that had once dotted many city street corners before vandalism and city budgets put them on the endangered-species list. But it wasn’t the structure that caused Dave to pause—it was that the fountain was spewing torrents of crystal spring water.

  It was a call he couldn’t refuse.

  He pushed the bike forward close to the field, set the kickstand, and beelined toward the water. The mountain air was dry, the humidity nonexistent compared with what he’d left behind. But the summer temperatures, coupled with the effort of pushing the bike, had left him exhausted and sweating profusely. His eyes locked on the stream that arched freely into the air and then down into a continuous splash, swirling in the cement bowl. As he approached, he mouthed a silent prayer: “Let it be cold, please let it be cold.”

  It was all he expected.

  He gulped swallow after swallow so quickly he thought he might get sick. When he could drink no more, he lowered his head and let the stream cascade over his hair and neck. Every inch of him that the water touched wept with gratitude.

  After several minutes of joy, he stepped aside and shook away the dripping water like a wet dog. With the bleachers adjacent, Dave found a seat to relax and let the water settle. For the first time, he noticed two young boys on the diamond behind the fence, one pitching balls to the other.

  As Dave rested, he couldn’t help but watch their play—once a coach, always a coach. They looked to be about eight and ten years of age, the younger of the two pitching to the older. Both had sandy blond hair, cut short above the ears. The single bat they shared was oversized.

  When the boy swung, Dave cringed. His elbow was too low and his grip on the bat was not high enough for his height. Out of habit, Dave stood, stepped to the chain-link fence, and grabbed it with his fingers. Three more pitches, three more misses.

  Elbow up, Brad, don’t let him throw that garbage. Watch the ball, keep your eye on the ball.

  Two more misses, then the youngster finally ticked one toward first base. With no one there to field the ball, he ran the bases. Rather than racing to home plate after retrieving the ball, the younger boy chased after the older one around second, then third base, then home. The run was scored; the younger boy never came close.

  “I’m ahead by four,” the older boy confirmed loudly.

  “So? It’s my turn to hit now.”

  They switched places and the game continued. His form was no better. He swung, he missed, he swung some more. Dave stayed at the fence.

  A familiar ache was rising in his chest.

  The pitch will come in high, Brad, watch the high pitch and remember you have a man on third.

  Dave could feel his eyes begin to moisten. It was ridiculous. The young boys were having a great time—why get emotional now? Dave reached up to shield the sun and wipe his eyes.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you like baseball?”

  The young voice startled him. He hadn’t noticed the girl standing near the bottom bleacher watching the boys as well. Her hair was not just blonde, it was almost white, and it curled just below her ears. She wore Levi’s with holes in the knees and a navy blue shirt. It was hard to guess her age—six, perhaps seven.

  “Nothing’s the matter, and yes, I do like baseball.”

  “Looked like you was crying.”

  Dave wasn’t sure how to answer. “Not at all. It’s just that those boys are holding the bat wrong. I was watching them and . . . never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Holding it wrong? How can you hold a bat wrong?” She was inquisitive, even amused.

  “Look closely and I’ll show you.” He moved over to the bleacher and sat beside her. Both watched as the boys continued.

  “See how his back elbow is pointing down? That means that when he swings, he will drift into the pitch, his bat will drag, and his timing will be off. The other boy is doing the same thing.” She seemed truly interested, but bolted to her feet and ran to the edge of the fence. She hollered at them through chain-link openings.

  “Jared! Glen! You’re doin’ it wrong!”

  The boys’ focus turned to the girl. It was th
e first time they’d noticed the stranger.

  “We are not!” the younger of the two defended.

  “Are so!” she shot back.

  “Are not. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ ’bout.”

  They stepped toward her.

  “Are so,” she repeated louder, this time pointing to Dave. “He said so.” She waited for Dave, as if it were his turn to scream are so and defend her honor. Dave, more amused than embarrassed, wiped at his lips.

  “Technically,” he began, “she’s right. Your power is great, gentlemen, but you’re not holding the bat like you should.”

  Each boy scanned Dave independently, apparently sizing up the credibility of this sudden expert.

  “Do you play?” the older one asked.

  “I used to coach a competition team on the East Coast. We took the division championship, even went to state.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Do you want some pointers?”

  They cast a quick glance at one another. The younger one shrugged; the older one nodded. Dave winked at the girl, laid his jacket on the bleachers, and then walked around the fence to where the boys stood.

  “So, who’s Jared, and who’s Glen?” Dave asked as they reached home plate.

  “I’m Jared, my brother is Glen,” the older one responded.

  “And the girl, she’s your sister?”

  “Yeah, that’s Gracie.”

  “Gracie,” Dave repeated. It fit.

  At the plate he spent some time helping each boy with his form. It felt good—very good—to be teaching baseball again.

  “Look, you need to hold the bat higher—right here. Good. Now close your grip.”

  After a few minutes of instruction, Dave moved to the mound and pitched easy balls over the plate. Jared smacked one on his second swing. It rolled past second base into the outfield, the farthest he’d hit the ball all morning.

  “Whoa!” Jared exclaimed. The boys stared in sheer amazement, a sight that made Dave grin.

  “Are you going to run or not?” Dave yelled as he retrieved the ball. Jared ran the bases while Dave stepped back to the mound.