The Other Side of the Bridge

by Camron Wright

  chapter forty-three

  He stopped at a small-town barbershop in Kearney. It had a striped pole out front and an old-fashioned leather and chrome chair inside. It was quaint; Megan would have loved the place. The barber was friendly, even nosy—no doubt a small-town job requirement.

  “That’s a nasty scar above your left eye, young man. Still a bit red.”

  “It looks great now,” Dave replied. “You should have seen it a couple of months ago.”

  “Well, I won’t ask what happened.” The man’s curiosity was evident.

  “My old barber slipped with his scissors,” Dave replied. “That’s why I came here.” He laughed. It felt good to joke.

  The barber laughed as well, accepting the teasing answer without pushing further.

  “So, how do you want your hair cut?”

  Dave considered the question. “I used to keep it short, but I’ve been wearing it longer lately—I like the look. Just trim it up a little, take off a couple of inches or so, and it’ll be fine.”

  The barber nodded his understanding and began to comb and snip. He chatted politely as he worked. “You’re obviously not from around here?”

  “No, I’m from Jamesburg—it’s on the East Coast.”

  “You’re a long way from home. Are you coming or going?”

  “Coming, I guess. I’ve got a business meeting in L.A. I’ll get there eventually.”

  “Eventually?”

  “Yeah, I have a stop to make in Liberty, Colorado. Have you been there?”

  “Liberty? Of course. It’s what—four or five hours west? Yes, I’ve been to Liberty many times. It’s a nice little town.”

  “I agree.”

  “Yeah, Liberty,” the barber repeated. “I had a great-aunt who lived there once. So, you have relatives there?” Nosy again. His job, his nature.

  Dave didn’t immediately reply. It was a stop that he’d been weighing for weeks now, prodded by a note in his Grandpa Patrick’s journal. We can’t know ’til we travel the road.

  The old barber stopped snipping and waited for Dave to answer.

  “I’m going to Liberty because of some kids.”

  The old man raised an eyebrow. “Kids?”

  “Yes, sir. I need to teach some kids how to play baseball.”

  • • •

  The park was empty when Dave approached. He’d expected to see two boys hitting balls, with an inquisitive blonde girl umpiring from the bleachers. Instead, the place was deserted.

  He parked his bike near the stands and climbed up to the second row to sit. The wood was still weathered, the fountain still spewed gallons of fresh water, the late-autumn air was still dry—the place still felt inviting.

  It was a quaint town, and again, Megan would have loved it. He thought of her often—remembered her voice, her smile, the sparkle in her eyes. But the memory was no longer painful—not since his final visit to the bridge. Her voice now seemed to reassure, to coax him forward.

  He felt a little uneasy about coming back, not sure what the reception might be like, considering his coldness when he had ridden away so many weeks prior. But mixed with his anxiety—indeed, woven into the same fabric—were whisperings of hopefulness, longing, and desire, all edging him forward.

  “Hey, you cut your hair!”

  Gracie had snuck up on him again, approaching while his mind wandered elsewhere. Her white-blonde hair wisped in the breeze as she climbed the steps and stood beside him.

  “Just a little bit—and I shaved. Do you like it?”

  She studied him for a long moment before nodding her satisfaction. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Well, that’s good. You want to sit down?”

  The little girl sat beside him.

  “Jared and Glen got a new bat,” she announced, as if the news may have made the town paper.

  “They did? Did your mommy buy it for them?”

  “Yep. She had to go to Greeley.”

  “Can they hit better with it?”

  “Guess so,” she shrugged.

  “I figured they’d be out here playing.”

  “Nope. They’re doin’ chores.”

  “You’re done already?”

  “Yep.”

  She chatted as if they’d been friends for life—as if he had never left without saying good-bye.

  “So, is your mommy home?” he asked.

  “Yep.” Her standard answer, though in her own observant way she added, “She’s gonna be surprised to see you. She was sad when you left.”

  “She was?”

  “Yep.”

  While they talked, Dave glanced across the field to see two boys approaching with a bat and glove. They were walking slowly, but when they noticed Gracie sitting next to Dave on the bleachers, they began to holler and run.

  Not far behind them Dave noticed someone else—her blonde hair, like Gracie’s, reflecting the autumn sun. She walked slowly at first, as if she didn’t believe what the boys were hollering back at her, what her eyes were soon telling her. Dave sat up on the battered wood. He couldn’t help but watch her approach, admire her confidence. He stepped down from the bleachers and waited as she neared.

  Crystal approached haltingly and spoke in a dry, sarcastic tone. “I told the kids to leave the bikers alone—and damned if they just won’t listen.”

  He shrugged. “Kids will be kids.”

  “So, are you just passing through again—on your way to somewhere?”

  “I guess that depends. Is there a bike shop in town?”

  Her finger touched her chin. “The mechanic at Darin’s just moved to Raleigh. His brother opened up a shop there. There’s always Darin, the owner, but he mostly works on the RVs.”

  “That’s too bad. I guess I’ll have to stay a while, then.” He thought he noticed a smile, though it was slight and quickly vanished.

  “That could be a problem,” she said.

  “It could?”

  “Sure. The Sundowner’s been condemned, and the new motel isn’t open yet.”

  “Is there a campground?”

  “Not that I know about. Hmm . . .” She put her finger to her lips, pretending to weigh a decision. “I do have a spot in my front yard—but it will cost you.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Okay, then.” She reached out and took his hand. As she did, she turned serious. “Honestly, Dave, I’m surprised to see you.”

  This time he held her hand tight and didn’t let go. “The truth is, after I left here—I couldn’t quit thinking about you.”

  She was startled by his blunt response. “You couldn’t?”

  “No, not at all. I mean, your batting stance was terrible. You really need some practice.”

  “I see. And you’re here to help me?”

  “Absolutely. It’s what I do.”

  She pulled away, reached out and took the bat from Jared, and held it out upside down, by the fat end. “Like this?” The boys’ grins nearly touched their ears. Even Gracie showed a smile.

  Dave stepped beside her, took the bat, and turned it around. He touched her hands, held them for a moment before placing her fingers around the bat in the proper grip. He then stepped behind her, reaching around her body to hold the bat with her.

  She relaxed, let him hold her—and it felt familiar, more acceptable, more certain.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, as he helped bring the bat back into position.

  “That depends,” she replied. “Are you ready?”

  He considered the question. “This time I am.” He swung the bat with her—together. “Did you feel that? Did you feel the difference?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “It does feel different.”

  Dave drew the bat back once more as he asked, “Are you ready to try it again, then?”
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  Crystal pulled away. She turned her face to look him in the eyes.

  “We are talking about the same thing, aren’t we?” she questioned. “I mean, I just need to be sure that I understand what you’re asking.”

  “I’m talking about a second chance, Crystal—another shot.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “I am.”

  Hers was a smile that she couldn’t hide.

  He asked again. “Do I get a second chance?”

  “Yes, okay,” she answered. “You absolutely get a second chance.”

  Dave turned to Glen, Jared, and Gracie. “Did you hear that? I really hate to lose, and so your mom says I get a second chance. The teams are me and Gracie against you three. Now, if everybody’s ready—let’s play some ball.”

  I’ve come to the bridge one last time. My car is overloaded with all my things. I rented a trailer hitch, the kind that bolts onto the bumper, and pulling the tiny U-Haul trailer is about all this little car can handle. There was only room for my father’s desk and a box or two of my things. I’ll come back in a few weeks to sell the rest of the furniture. The real-estate agent said she expects the house to move quickly.

  I’m not sure what it says about me, being able to pack everything I own into my trunk and a small trailer, but I think I’m finally on the road to figuring it out.

  In two weeks I begin teaching history to high school students—eleventh graders, to be exact. The principal called and offered me the job without even requesting an interview. He said we’d already met, the evening he listened to me speak to the crowd at the Society banquet—the night I broke down and cried like a baby. He called Professor Winston, who sent up my file along with a hearty recommendation. I wish he would have asked me first, though I certainly won’t complain. I never do. It turns out that the principal is from the high school in Crescent City, where the Society will debut my material about the bridge. It seems like a great place to begin.

  I must say, the thought of standing in front of a class of high school students scares me crazy—even worse than standing before the gray-haired Society ladies. Kids tend to be brutally honest. Then again, it’s a trait that I think I’ll appreciate.

  The Society is ecstatic with my final report, my lessons from the bridge, and while I’m glad they like it, mostly I’m ready to share it with others. I’m frightened, sure, but at the same time I feel an energy that I’ve never known. It’s like I finally have something to give, something to pass along—lessons that deserve to be treasured.

  I said good-bye to the professor. He claimed that he was glad to finally be rid of me, but he did get teary-eyed when we shared a last hug. As usual, he got in the final word. He shouted to me from the window as I climbed into my car.

  “I thought you should know, Katie,” he yelled, “the principal who hired you up in Crescent City—he really likes you and he’s single!”

  I’ll miss the professor.

  I spoke to Dave Riley again last week. He thanked me for sending the journal, said it meant a great deal to him. He asked for my address so he could send a thank-you gift. I assured him that there was no need, that coming to know Patrick and Anna was certainly payment enough. He insisted, and I received the box from him yesterday.

  It wasn’t Anna’s ring—he certainly cherishes that—but it was strikingly similar. He ordered it from the village of Claddagh, in Ireland. Isn’t the Internet amazing? Along with the ring came a paper reciting the legend and the words I’ve grown to love: “With this crown, I give my loyalty. With these hands, I promise to serve. With this heart, I give you mine.”

  I wear my ring proudly on my right hand, with the crown facing out. My heart is indeed free. The ring, the words, the lives of those before—they all reassure. Yes, I was betrayed, but not all men are betrayers. Yes, I was hurt, but not all relationships cause pain. If I ever forget these truths, I’ll take a walk and have another conversation with my father.

  Mr. Riley gave me his new address in Colorado. He said he was no longer working or living in New York. I look forward to meeting him someday, but there’s not time for me to drive all the way to Colorado—not with a loaded-down car pulling a trailer, not with eleventh graders waiting . . . but perhaps someday.

  I leave the bridge in peace; we part as friends. I take so much of her with me and leave so much of myself behind. I think that’s what life must be about—helping others, leaving pieces of us with them, in return fitting borrowed pieces from them into our own voids, each person helping others along the way.

  Yes, I’ll finally be leaving this crazy old bridge, but I leave with hope in my heart. I’ll try not to miss the place too badly.

  She is, after all, just a bridge.

  epilogue

  Memorandum

  From: Shaun R. Safford

  Vice President, Marketing

  BikeHouse Customized Motorcycles

  To: Dave Riley

  Vice President, Market Research

  BikeHouse Customized Motorcycles

  Dear Dave,

  I’ve just been handed the latest sales figures generated from the ad campaign that features you and your bike. The numbers look very good. If sales continue at this pace, then we can all look forward to the best year in the company’s history. Congratulations!

  Also, I want to tell you again that it’s been great having you on board as part of my team these last five months. I was concerned at first with you living in Colorado, so far away from company headquarters. When you told me you would ride your Harley over once a quarter for the company meetings, I was skeptical. Then I realized that attitude sums up the whole message of the campaign, the whole genius behind it. With email, phones, and video conferencing, one can live just about anywhere these days. I wanted you to know that it’s working out well, and it’s been a pleasure having you on board.

  I look forward to seeing you again in April.

  Sincerely,

  Shaun

  P.S. Congratulations on your engagement. Please give my best to Crystal.

  author’s note

  Since the Golden Gate Bridge was finished in 1937, nearly 2,000 people have leapt to their deaths from its girders, making the bridge the most popular location to commit suicide in the United States.

  In April 2017, after years of debate, construction on a suicide-deterrent system was started: steel nets to span the bridge’s length on both sides. It’s an effort that officials believe will save many lives, including those of the ironworkers who volunteer their time talking down potential jumpers.

  For additional information, including other works by Camron Wright, please visit AuthorCamronWright.com.

  acknowledgments

  Although The Other Side of the Bridge is a work of fiction, it’s natural for a writer to stitch bits of real life into his or her narrative. In this case, it includes the adaptation of an experience related to me by an acquaintance whom I’d not seen in thirty-five years. As a young man, he shared with me a sliver of his own life that I’ve never forgotten. It seems that, as a teenager, he got the notion into his head that the day he would ride across the Golden Gate Bridge on his motorcycle would be the finest day of his life. He longed for it, lived for it, finally saved enough to buy a bike, and then headed west. When he arrived, instead of the day being sunny, warm, and wonderful, it was cold, rainy, and emotionally miserable. As I remember it, he’d just received word from home that a good friend had passed away. It meant that an experience he’d hoped would represent a pinnacle of satisfaction turned instead into heartache, sorrow, and tears—and yet it proved to be a critical turning point in his young life.

  As I’ve thought about his experience over these many years, it’s helped me to deal with my own sorrows and disappointments—and I believe therein lies the lesson: Take time to interact and share with others. In our Facebook world, brimming with people who are
starved for honest communication and contact, we may never know how our in-person words and kindness will touch another.

  Deserved thanks for this story must also go to my wife, Alicyn. She loved this story every time I dug it out, dusted it off, and revised it. She continually encouraged me to do something with it, and for her perseverance, I’m sincerely grateful.

  Information about the bridge was culled from several sources, the most important being The Gate: The True Story of the Design and Construction of the Golden Gate Bridge, by John Van Der Zee. It’s a book I highly recommend. Thank you, Mr. Van Der Zee, for your fascinating work.

  Thank you as well to the various editors whose technical expertise and insight always help to improve my writing. (There are many and you know who you are.)

  I also owe a hearty thank you to Adam Rosales, an MLB player with the Arizona Diamondbacks, who graciously corrected my baseball dialogue. His foundation, Sandlot Nation, uses the love of baseball to teach youth about the importance of education, teamwork, and sportsmanship. Visit him online at SandlotNation.org.

  Last, thanks must deservedly go to you, the reader, both individuals and book groups. Without you, I wouldn’t have the opportunity to write. You are truly my heroes for reading my books and then sharing them with others.

  reading guide

  1.In Emily Dickinson’s opening poem (the book’s epigraph), she describes faith as a bridge without piers or supports. Is that a fair description of the way many in the world view faith? At the same time she calls it bold and having Arms of Steel that join behind the Veil. What do you think she is implying with this phrase? What parallels can you draw between the concept of faith and hope in the poem and then in the story?

  2.In reminiscing about her father’s death on the bridge, Katie wonders what part fate played. Do you believe that accidents are fate—that they are meant to happen? Or are they, as their name implies, simply accidents?

  3.In one of Dave’s visits with Dr. Jaspers, his grief counselor, she tells him to “be careful about chasing dreams that are only wispy puffs of hope not based in reality.” Is this wise advice? Have you ever chased a dream and wished you hadn’t? On the other hand, have you ever chosen to not chase a dream but later wished you had? How can we know if our dreams and desires are worthy of chasing?