The Other Side of the Bridge

by Camron Wright

  When the man finally spoke, his voice was like steel.

  “What are you doing with my jacket?”

  Dave wasn’t sure that he’d understood. “What?”

  “Are you deaf? I want my jacket back.” The man stood. He was about Dave’s height, perhaps slightly taller. His shoulders were broad.

  Dave stood as well. “Look, this jacket was a gift from my wife. It’s not yours.”

  “You calling me a liar?” The man took a step toward him.

  Dave held his ground.

  The man’s eyes burned with hatred. “I’m telling you for the last time, give me my jacket. Now!”

  It was not just a jacket. It was a gift from Megan, a piece of her—one of the last pieces he held. Vicious threat or not, there was no way he would part with it.

  Dave took a step forward, now just inches away from the man. He stood tall and with broadened shoulders, hoping to intimidate. “I’m telling you, man, this is my jacket, not yours, and I’m not giving it to you, or to anybody, for that matter. If you want it, you’ll have to take it, but it’ll be over my dead body!”

  He hoped his aggressiveness would cause the guy to back down, even frighten him. Regardless, his words weren’t an act. When he said over my dead body, he meant each and every syllable. Whatever it took, he was keeping the jacket.

  “Dead body? You saying I’ll have to kill you first?” The man didn’t seem fazed by Dave’s boldness. He turned back toward his own cot. As he did, Dave breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  The man’s next move was so quick it caught Dave completely by surprise. In one motion the man jolted back, his clenched fist catching Dave in the lower jaw. “Killing you won’t be a problem,” he said as a second fist pelted Dave in the abdomen. The blows stunned. He gasped for air, not able to breathe in or out. He was dazed—shocked—bent over, but still standing. The man continued to growl, but it was hard to make out the garbled words.

  “ . . . kill you? If you want me to kill you . . . I’ll kill you . . .”

  The next blow caught Dave in the face as he fought for air. He dropped to the concrete floor in a crumpled ball beside his cot as everything in the room faded to black.

  chapter forty-one

  The sun was shining as he rode over the crest of the hill, the ocean waves coming into full view. The rays warmed his face—

  a refreshing change from the terrible rainstorms that he’d just ridden through. He slowed his bike to bask in the warmth and to admire the surroundings. The low rumble of the engine beneath him was sweet and solid. The valley around him was green and lush, with plants—strange plants—blanketing each side of the highway.

  He could see the bridge in the distance, and it was stunning—just like he’d remembered as a child. The pillars towered, huge orange skyscrapers reaching heavenward, roped together with strands of massive twisted cable.

  The road should have been crowded with people coming to enjoy the splendor of such a day, the majesty of such a bridge—and yet today the path lay vacant and deserted. The sky above the bridge was an astonishing shade of vivid blue, with only a few wispy clouds on the horizon that served to contrast the deepness of its color.

  As the bike rolled on toward the grandeur before him, Dave could feel and smell the ocean air blowing in from the bay. It was fresh and cool—the perfect mixture of salt and sea. His hair blew in the wind.

  It was just as he had imagined it.

  The bridge—the bridge to freedom—lay majestically before him, beckoning. The view was grand, and he found himself wishing Megan were with him to share in the moment.

  No sooner had the thought entered his mind than the sound of another bike startled him. As he turned to look behind him, Megan pulled up to his side. It was peculiar to see her riding a motorcycle . . . so out of character. And yet she looked comfortable on the bike—at peace, and enjoying the beauty of the day.

  It had been so long since they’d been together, so many months since they’d had a chance to talk. He wanted to speak—to touch her—to hold her—to tell her how much she had been missed. He knew the rumble of the engines would drown out his words, but he found himself speaking them anyway.

  “Meg, I’ve missed you.”

  He was startled to hear her answer—whispered, and yet as clear as if they’d stood in a quiet room alone. “I’ve missed you as well, honey.”

  Her voice was sweet and soft, her smile radiant, her face and body so full of life.

  “It’s been so hard without you,” he said, not knowing if she had known the turmoil in his life.

  She smiled her understanding—a smile that let him know that she was aware, that she cared. “You’ve been doing fine, Ponytail Man. Just fine.”

  He’d never felt fine, not until today. His thoughts turned to the children.

  “What about Brad, Brittany, Angel—how are they?”

  No sooner had he spoken their names than the sound of another bike resonated behind them. He turned to see Brad pull up adjacent to Meg. He was riding his own bike, a dark blue Classic Swift Tail with shimmering chrome—a smaller, easier-to-handle bike. Dave recognized the model from the showroom at Lakeshore. Brittany sat in back, her arms wrapped tightly around Brad’s waist.

  Brad gave Dave a thumbs-up sign before he spoke. “This is the coolest, Dad—absolutely the coolest!” Brittany’s braces glistened as she beamed her approval of the journey as well. With a slight acceleration of the throttle, Brad’s bike pulled ahead, taking the lead in their excursion toward the bridge.

  “And Angel?” Dave asked Megan once Brad had passed. As he spoke her name, Dave noticed a sidecar attached to Meg’s bike. Strange that he hadn’t seen it before. Angel was seated in the sidecar, surrounded by a few of her favorite toys. She held a flower in her hand from which she was pulling the petals and leaves and letting them go in the wind. Watching them flutter away made her giggle.

  “Still precocious?” Dave questioned.

  “Afraid so,” Megan responded with a laugh—a laugh that was rich, warm, and familiar.

  The bridge was drawing closer, the pillars rising high into the sky as they neared its entrance. The purring sound of the engine on Dave’s bike changed—a quick sputter, a sudden loss of power. He twisted the accelerator, hoping it would help. The engine continued to falter.

  It was the carburetor—the same problem he’d just had outside of Liberty. He reached down and tapped the side of the bike. The sputtering worsened.

  “Meg?” His heart quickened at the realization that he might not be able to keep up. She slowed her speed to match his, aware of his trouble and concern. “Meg, it’s the carburetor,” he continued, pointing down at the engine. “It gave me some trouble a ways back, near Liberty. It needs an adjustment. I need to stop and fix it, but I can’t be left behind.”

  Her tone was understanding, her voice full of reassurance. “Honey, it’s okay. I think that you should stay here and get your bike fixed—do what you need to—get things taken care of—then catch up to us later. I’ll ride up ahead with the kids. We’ll wait for you on the other side of the bridge.”

  He wanted to protest, to change her mind, to convince her and the children to stay. She continued, “Everything will be fine. We’ll be waiting for you—I promise.”

  The sputtering worsened. Meg’s bike pulled slightly ahead.

  “I love you,” he called to her.

  “And I love you too, Ponytail Man.”

  A warm fog enveloped the bridge. It rolled soundlessly across the structure, its piers and anchorages, its cables and towers. As Dave’s bike coasted to a stop on the side of the road, he watched Brad and Brittany enter the bridge first. He could hear their laughter, feel their anticipation.

  Next he watched Megan and Angel approach the structure. He wanted to feel sad—sad that they were leaving, sad that he was being left behind—but for the
first time in months, he didn’t.

  She was distant now, but he thought he heard her voice one last time. I love you, Ponytail Man.

  He watched Meg glide onto the bridge—the bridge of magic, the bridge of hope—and then slowly disappear into the mist with Angel by her side, still throwing petals into the wind.

  chapter forty-two

  Dried blood caked his face, and his head pounded. He tried to open his eyes, but they were covered with dirt and blood. He pushed himself up into a sitting position. He’d been passed out on the concrete floor; his muscles were stiff and sore. He focused first on the filthy sink in the corner, and then on the cot on the opposite side of the cell. Dave wished he could rinse the blood from his face, but he feared that he might disturb his cellmate, who was asleep and wearing the tight-fitting leather jacket.

  The buzz of the steel door sounded, and the man on the cot stirred. Dave could hear voices, but none that he recognized.

  “Get him out. Get him out now! The boys upstairs have done it again.”

  The cell door rattled open, and three uniformed guards stepped inside. The tallest of the three appeared to be in charge. He directed the others, who moved to Dave’s side to help him up. Dave’s joints ached as he attempted to stand. He spoke softly. “I swear it’s me in the picture.”

  The guard in charge turned toward the other two. “Oh, they’re well aware of that now. Down here we’re just wondering why the hell the city’s finest couldn’t figure it out last night.”

  Dave’s cellmate, who’d been watching from his cot, now sat up. The guard motioned Dave toward the door.

  “So I’m free to go?” Dave asked.

  “Of course. That’s a nasty cut on your eye. Did that happen last night?”

  Without a word, Dave glanced at his cellmate. The man on the cot shrugged, spat on the floor, then leaned back against the wall.

  The two men at Dave’s side reached out to help him walk. He shrugged off their assistance and stepped ahead alone. He paused at the door and then turned to address the tallest of the guards. “Are you in charge here?”

  “Down here, I am. Paul McGuire.” He held out his hand. Dave reached out and shook it.

  “Mr. McGuire, can I ask a favor of these men?”

  “I guess that depends on what you have in mind.”

  Dave leaned over and whispered to the circle of men.

  Paul McGuire was the first to speak. “I think that’s doable.” He turned toward the two guards and nodded his approval. “Gentlemen,” he directed.

  Dave stepped back into the cell with the uniformed men and toward the burly man sitting on the cot. As they approached, he stood.

  “I’d like my jacket back,” Dave said politely.

  The man grunted a response—Dave took it as a no.

  With as hard a punch as Dave could muster, he drove his fist into the man’s stomach. Instantly the man buckled over, though he remained on his feet. He lunged toward Dave, but the two guards had already stepped forward. Each grabbing an arm, they stripped the jacket from him, pushed him back down onto the cot, and then handed the jacket to Dave.

  “Thank you,” he said to the still-gasping man. “I knew you’d understand.”

  Then, accompanied by the three uniformed men, he turned and walked through the cell door a free man.

  • • •

  The sky was still cloudy as Dave retraced his path across the bridge, but this time he could see patches of blue dotting the horizon. He slowed down when he reached the structure’s midpoint. The pillars, the cables, the towers—everything looked different today. Everything felt different.

  He didn’t stay long—he didn’t need to.

  A few miles down the road, he pulled off at Citrus Heights to eat. After he’d finished, he called Redd.

  “Redd, it’s Dave. How are you?”

  “Dave? Good to hear from you. I’m doing fine. How about yourself?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “How’s the bike working?”

  “Just the one little detour; otherwise she’s been great.”

  “Glad to hear it. Listen, you may not want to hear this right now, but I’ve had a bunch of visitors around here this last week.”

  “Visitors?”

  “Well, yeah. First, your friend Brock and his boss came by. Then, the next thing I know, the CEO of BikeHouse himself shows up—asking for me. You should have seen my boss’s face. I think my job security is at an all-time high.”

  “So, what’s up?”

  “Well, they came asking for me, but only ’cause they need to find you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, sir. Seems you stood up in the middle of an important meeting, said to hell with it all, and walked out—just so you could take off on your new motorcycle.”

  “I guess I did—and they’re still mad?”

  “Mad? They want to make you the BikeHouse poster child. CEO wants to meet you. Their ad people have been going crazy. They’re thinking of re-creating the whole thing for their TV commercials. A highly paid executive who chucks it all to ride off on his bike to find life’s answers—you have to admit, it has possibilities.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Oh, they’re convinced this approach will sell more motorcycles than Easy Rider. Problem is, they’d like your permission. Oh, you’ve got a slew of people looking for you, all right.”

  Dave was stunned. He could only imagine the look on Ellen’s face.

  Redd continued. “And here’s the best part. I’m chatting with the CEO and he starts asking me questions. He wants to know what I think. Can you imagine . . . the CEO asking what I think?”

  “Congratulations, Redd.”

  “Thanks. So—” Redd hesitated, as if not sure how to ask, “what should I tell them?”

  “Nothing yet. If you’ll wait to tell them that I called, I’d appreciate it.”

  “No problem. And Dave . . . how did it go?”

  “On the long stretches of road, Redd, I still think about her and the children. I still remember her smile, her voice, the highlights in her hair from too much time in the sun, the way she’d touch my hand . . . but it’s different now. It’s better.”

  “It’s so good to hear you say that. What are your plans? Are you heading back this direction?”

  “You’ll be the first to know, Redd, the very first to know.”

  It’s been nine days since I met the stranger on the bridge. Since then I’ve hardly slept. I’ve scarcely quit typing. My assignment for the Society is all but complete. Who knows? The professor may be proud of me yet.

  I tore up the work that I’d started and began fresh with a clean sheet of paper. I’ve started fresh in many ways. I realized that there’s a more important story to tell than to recite a history of the bridge. I wrote it for the Society instead. It’s a story that’s been held captive inside, trying to find a means to come out—and it found a way. Once it started, I couldn’t get it to stop. Ideas and phrases and words poured into my mind so rapidly, I was terrified they would slink away before I had time to get them all down on paper. The story I’ve created for the Society is one of a man who kept a journal about a bridge. It tells of a cable and a selfless ironworker and the lessons they taught to a young girl. It’s a story about pain and fear turning into courage, and about not giving up on life. It’s a story about giving of ourselves to save others.

  I’ve pasted a picture on the cover of my assignment. It’s a picture of the bridge—my picture, the one I painted long ago. It’s a house with a chimney and a white picket fence. There are cows and pigs and a pasture blended with bushes and trees and small yellow flowers covering the yard. Next to the house and connected to it are the tall golden and orange spires of a bridge that springs forth from the ground.

  I used to think it was odd that there was no ocean in th
is picture—odd that, rather than spanning a treacherous strait, the bridge connects to a house and a family. I realize now that the picture is profound, that only as a child was the truth so plainly evident.

  I’m grateful that it recently came flooding back, that it has again touched my life. You see, I’m beginning to remember, to realize that it’s not the cable or the steel or the concrete; it’s not the design or the engineering; it’s not the structure itself or even the turbulent ocean that it spans. What matters is that it connects people and families—that lives come together because of it, that they touch each other, become stronger. That’s the real magic.

  I’ve changed the title of the report. I didn’t ask for permission.

  A Forever Bridge, by Patrick O’Riley and Kade Connelly, as told by Katie Connelly.

  It’s a story everyone needs to hear.

  The best news is that I finally spoke to Mr. Riley. He called me at home yesterday. He got my number from his secretary. As I hoped, he is the correct David Riley. He confirmed that his grandfather, Patrick Riley—or Patrick O’Riley, if you prefer—did work on the bridge as a younger man. Mr. Riley was more reserved than I would have guessed from his picture on the Internet, but he seemed thrilled, even overwhelmed at the news. I have Patrick’s journal, letter, and Anna’s ring all packaged up and ready to send to him.

  Giving up the journal and especially the ring will be difficult. They mean such a great deal to me. But they’re not mine, and I sense—at least I hope—that they will mean as much to Dave Riley.

  It’s okay that I won’t have the journal in my hands to hold. I’ve instead placed its lessons in my heart.

  My father taught me that people are like strands of cable, and he’s right. But I also think that love is sometimes like that piece of cable as well. If it’s not held tightly, if it’s dropped, it can break apart into a tangled pile on the floor.

  I’d been expecting someone else to show up and put the pieces of my cable back together. Perhaps I should have started on my own. The main thing I think I’ll remember is that once my cable is together, once it’s strong, I’m going to keep the ends tightly wrapped.