by Rick Mofina
Olivia had reached the middle of the bridge.
How had she come to this?
Was it because her birthday was near? Was it the young couple with their baby on the bus enjoying a life she ached for? Was it the bridal shop murder, turning even her fairy-tale dreams to dust? Was it the reality of a dead flower pressed in a romance novel next to her bed in an empty house no one visited, where she adjusted paintings no one saw, arranged furniture no one sat in, cooked meals that were eaten in solitude to the ticking of a grandfather clock?
Am I living in vain?
Then is this the answer? Had she tried everything?
Her hands gripped the cold metal railing.
She was uncertain, feeling the bridge’s vibrations in her hands. It was two hundred and forty feet to the water. The drop took four seconds. Four seconds and it was over.
Do you want to end the pain, or end it all?
In her heart she knew she had so much to give, so much to share, if she could only find the right person.
There had to be someone for her out there. There just had to be somebody.
She lifted her head, breathing deeply. The night sky was so beautiful. Tell me what to do, she pleaded with the stars, hands fixed to the railing. Please tell me what I should do.
Her answer came in her memory of Mr. Caselli’s advice to her before he died.
“You should jump into life. Don’t be so shy all the time. Don’t be afraid of a heartbreak or two, Olivia. That is how you know you are alive.”
Don’t be afraid.
At that moment, it was as if his gentle hand took hers as a breeze lifted her hair from her eyes.
This is not the answer, Olivia. Don’t be afraid. Take a chance.
It was time for her to take control. She did have a life and it was worth living. Olivia relaxed her grip on the railing.
“Everything okay, miss?”
Olivia didn’t notice the scooter, nor its lights as she met the friendly face of a large public safety patrolman, standing next to her.
“Is there anything I can do for you, miss?”
Olivia was no longer alone.
She looked to the stars, the lights of San Francisco, feeling her ice-cold isolation melting in the warmth of a human connection.
“Thank you. Yes. I think I’d like to get a taxi to take me home.”
The patrolman was expert at reading people who came alone to the Golden Gate Bridge. He had witnessed some tragic events at this very spot.
“I think you’ve made a good decision.”
Olivia’s driver was the same one who had dropped her off. During the trip home, he shared a joke his four-year-old grandson told him repeatedly on Sunday visits. “Know what the doctor said to the sick banana? Are you ‘peeling’ okay?” It made Olivia laugh, blink back her tears. Upon arriving at her house, he opened the taxi door for her.
“Thank you.”
“You take care of yourself, miss.”
He drove off and Olivia entered her home, shutting the door, sliding against it to the floor, pulling her knees tight to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and holding on.
She sat that way, listening to the grandfather clock and thinking. Thinking how close she had come on the bridge to succumbing, to giving in to something so dark. So final. Something she vowed never ever to consider again. Tightening her hands into fists, she pounded her knees softly.
Never again. That was stupid, Olivia. Dangerously stupid. Get a hold of yourself.
Olivia was at a crossroads. The time had come to stop wallowing in self-pity, to get over this adolescent shyness crap, to put Mr. Caselli’s advice into action and get busy living. Talk to people. She would take control and she would start now. Right now. Olivia stepped outside of the house, something she never did at this hour, and stood before it, as if seeing it for the first time.
It was a pretty three-story wood-frame Edwardian home, situated on a hidden serpentine lane between the Upper Market and Twin Peaks. Its mature trees stood like sentinels offering privacy on a neatly landscaped lot bordered by ornate wrought-iron fencing. Her father, an accountant who had died in a car accident when she was a teen, had purchased it decades ago. Her mother left it to her, and with her meager salary from Caselli’s, Olivia managed to pay for its taxes, insurance, and upkeep.
Reaffirming her love for her home, her sanctuary, she picked a few roses from the front garden. Every day she arranged flowers for other people, now it was time to do it for herself. She carried them into the house, walking along the glistening hardwood floors, opening the sliding glass parlor doors leading to her living room with its crown moldings, its fireplace, then passed through the formal dining room with its elegant chandelier, to the kitchen, opening a cherry-wood cabinet for a vase. She filled it halfway with warm water, then placed the flowers inside, inhaling their wonderful fragrance before climbing the staircase.
Now that she had the perspective of age, it was clear to Olivia that her parents had chosen to live restrained lives. They had bequeathed her their legacy but with some regret. For she never forgot her mother’s final words before the cancer finally took her.
“Do not let strangers live in our home, Olivia. Keep it. Fill it with life. Fill it with love.”
Olivia took each step, determined now more than ever to honor her mother’s dying wish, for it was her wish too. She drew a hot bath, lit a scented candle, soaked and wept as if purging her soul of a festering poison. You are going to be all right. You will have many tomorrows, each one a new chance.
After wrapping herself in her robe, Olivia was not ready for sleep, or another romance novel, or a movie. But she was restless and her attention went to a women’s magazine she’d left on the seat of the master bedroom’s bay window. It contained a long article about a shy couple who got married after meeting on the Internet. He was from New York, she was from Portland. They had agreed to meet in Chicago. They dated, then got married, now she was pregnant. Olivia had read it a couple of weeks ago.
Her interest rekindled, she made some raspberry tea and reread the story, remembering how it had inspired her to check out a few sites, casual chat groups for singles.
That was a few weeks ago. Now Olivia went to her computer. She had initially just monitored some groups before joining a few. She never revealed much of herself. A small generic bio. No one seemed interested. She had forgotten about it.
But that was then.
Olivia’s keyboard clicked. She bypassed Caselli’s Web site, which was her homepage. She didn’t mind doing some work at home for Mrs. Caselli during the busy periods. Now it was all coming back to her. Olivia thought maybe the chat sites would teach her how to play the field, how to talk to guys from a safe distance, a place to prepare herself to pursue dating. Let’s see. She had been very careful not to offer her real name or specific personal details. Playing on Olivia, she chose liv and came up with the name livinsf, for Liv in San Francisco. She felt comfortable with that. Her computer whirred and one of the sites popped up on her monitor. A few keystrokes and she found her introductory bio.
Thirty-something. SWF. Retail manager. Hopelessly shy, a good listener. livinsf.
Olivia’s slot showed she had a few new responses, unread since the last time she visited this site. Nothing special, a few welcomes, a few descriptions of bad dates, boyfriends who were jerks, men complaining about women. Olivia went to another site, where someone -- a woman -- took the time to advise livinsf not to be shy. To get out and meet real people. Another site member chimed in with lists on how to meet men. One member actually had wondered where livinsf had gone.
After a long, thoughtful walk, I’m back, Olivia typed, then reached for her teacup. It needed refilling, so she went to the kitchen. By the time she returned, she had received a new response.
What exactly do you look for in a man?
NINE
Ominous rock music hammered in the hallway of the inner-city apartment building. Garbage was strewn on the floor, obscen
e graffiti violated the punctured walls, screaming along the scar-like crack that led to the shouting coming from unit 832, where San Francisco Police Inspector Ben Wyatt had business. He was about fifteen yards away when the door burst open, ejecting a woman in her twenties, torn dress, bloodied face, sobbing, running to him.
“He’s going to kill me! Please help me! He’s going to kill me!”
A large male appeared at the darkened doorway. “Come back here!” Stained sleeveless T-shirt, rope-like veins in muscular tattooed arms, one rising, outstretched hand holding a handgun aimed at the woman.
Wyatt had no time. “Police officer! Put your weapon down!” The man, his face contorting into a malevolent mask, yelling: “Woman, you are going to die!” Wyatt’s eardrums throbbing, music, shouting, stress, he sidestepped, crouched, feeling the smooth trigger, training his .40-caliber Beretta on the suspect. “Police. Drop it!” The man refused.
Wyatt squeezing one, two, three, times. The suspect went down. In four point two seconds, Wyatt had saved one life and taken another. He lowered his gun. Exhaled. Each time he killed a suspect now, his pulse rate peaked a little lower than it used to. He had lost track of the number of dead now.
“You made the proper decision, Ben.” Sergeant Elmer Gruzzio, a firearms instructor at the SFPD Academy, checked the cable attached to Wyatt’s Beretta, the C02 tank, and the line connecting it to the air pack attached to Wyatt’s belt. Gruzzio replayed the “deadly domestic” scenario on the full screen, both men studying the three dots in a tight cluster grouping over the suspect’s left upper chest. All three dots were green. “All mortal,” Gruzzio said. “Want to go again?”
One night a month for over a year, Wyatt had arrived at Diamond Heights Park after regular classes ended to take a private session on F.A.T.S., the SFPD’s Firearms Training System. It is a computerized laser shooting simulator, a high-tech tool used to sharpen the stressful mental process any cop can face in a heartbeat. It confronts them with realistic “shoot, don’t shoot” scenarios allowing a split second to make a life or death decision.
Then you drop into hell, Wyatt thought. Where’s the scenario for that?
Since Wyatt’s ex-partner Reggie Pope had gotten shot, Gruzzio was the only officer in the entire SFPD who exchanged complete sentences with Wyatt. A few months after it happened, the police psychologist had confidentially urged the department’s hierarchy to return Wyatt to street duty and discourage his shunning from all ranks.
There was more than one officer wounded in the tragic shooting of Inspector Pope, the psychologist wrote in his most recent status review. Inspector Wyatt continues to pay an extraordinary personal price for unfortunate circumstances beyond his control. It appears to me that contrary to force-wide perception, he did not “choke at a critical moment.” He had no option. He did nothing wrong and remains an extremely capable officer who should be returned to street duty and standing among his peers.
After Pope’s shooting, Wyatt was bounced around, then detailed to Crime Scenes, tasked to investigate computer and Internet crimes. Since then he had become skilled at computer work but he wanted to get back into investigations, to return to the street, to go toe-to-toe with his demon. So he took intense firearms sessions at the academy where he came to know Gruzzio, insisting he throw the most demanding scenarios at him, pursuits, gun-jammings, school yards. Wyatt consistently scored high, making the proper decision in every case. Like this morning.
“Got time for another?” Gruzzio said.
“I’ll pass, Elmer. I’m pretty bushed.”
Gruzzio began disconnecting the air pack from Wyatt’s belt. He had grown to like Wyatt, who seemed like a conscientious, intelligent cop. But after months of watching him, Gruzzio could no longer keep silent about his concern over Wyatt’s situation and the increasingly aggressive, desperate way he worked through each session. “What’s the latest word on when you’ll be detailed back to the street?”
Wyatt slipped on his sports jacket. “They keep telling me ‘soon’. You hear anything?”
“Not a word.” Gruzzio knew it was rough on him. “Ben, I’ve watched you here, working on this contraption for over a year. Want some advice?”
“Go ahead.”
“You probably have the highest score average than any officer I’ve run through here. I know it’s been a while since the shooting. But no matter how many times you get it right here, it will never erase what happened. You can’t go back, I don’t have your shooter in here. This machine does not offer a forgiveness scenario. That one comes from you.”
Wyatt looked at Gruzzio. “It’s that obvious?”
“From day one. Ben, you’ve got to let it go.”
Wyatt did not know if he could.
Gripping his car’s steering wheel as he drove to his apartment, he knew what was coming. It tormented him after every session, pulling him back to that terrible day when he and Reggie had worked plainclothes in Narcotics, following a lead on a new drug family.
Their suspect standing six on a downtown corner, a woman, early twenties. Twitchy. She knows us. Something cold in her eyes. A flash and she’s pointing a chrome-plated gun at Wyatt. “You’re one dead pig!” She vanishes into the rat-hole slum behind her. Reggie radioing for backup. “Take the back, Ben!” Finding the rear door torn from its hinges, entering coming to a rear stairway, hearing Reggie running up the front stairs, calling. “Second floor, Ben!” Then a gunshot. More running. Another gunshot. “Third floor, Ben”’ Wyatt taking the rear stairs two at time. Hearing a cracking crash, something metal banging, thumping down the front stairwell, Reggie shouting. “Goddamnit! Ben! Goddamnit!” Another gunshot as Wyatt mounts the rear stairs, panting, taking cover at a corner ten yards down the hall, smelling urine, cordite, sirens approaching, the scene hitting him. At the midway point to the third floor, Reggie had dropped to his waist through a rotted stair, trapped, his gun had fallen to the landing, out of reach, leaving him exposed to the suspect, her eyes glazed as she fired down on Reggie from the top of the stairs. ‘Ben, Jesus! Shoot her!’ Suddenly a boy, about twelve years old, steps from a door. In a heartbeat, the woman steps back from the stairway, puts her arm around the boy’s throat, making him a shield. The boy struggling. She’s out of Reggie’s sight, extending her arm from behind the boy around her wall, the chrome muzzle flashing pop pop like firecrackers, firing two more rounds at Reggie. “Christ, Ben, I’m hit. Shoot her! Goddamnit!’ No clear shot. All he found were the widened eyes of the boy, forcing him to hesitate, Reggie shouting, the woman firing, then disappearing down the hall with the boy.
That day rolled on like fog. A couple of black-and-whites had scooped the shooter two blocks away passed out on the street still carrying the empty gun. She had never recovered. Died of a cocaine overdose. No one had located the boy. In the days, then weeks that followed, Wyatt felt the investigators’ sympathy for him sour into suspicion.
“Reggie got off two shots, yet you never fired a single round. Tell us again about the boy, Ben. Reggie never saw him. No one in the building ever saw him. No one in the canvas saw him. No one can find him. Tell us again about the boy.”
The kid became known as “Wyatt’s phantom,” and while his account of the shooting was noted in the report, the unofficial version convicted Wyatt of the unforgivable sin of failing his partner.
The worst of it came the last time he saw Reggie in the hospital. A .38-caliber round was still lodged near his spine and the doctors were uncertain he would walk again. Reggie had looked as if half of his life had drained from him. He was sedated, Wyatt was anguished. It was bad.
“Ben, for the last time, I never saw a kid. Never heard a kid. I’ll tell you what I saw: I saw you standing there frozen, like some sort of…”
“Like some sort of what?”
“Like some sort of goddamned coward, standing there frozen letting a freaked-out cokehead shoot me up. That is what I saw.”
“I had my gun drawn, my finger was on the trigger, but she pulled
the kid. I swear there was a kid.”
“I believe what I saw. You stay the hell away from me, Wyatt.”
He never saw Reggie Pope again.
After parking, Wyatt took the stairs to his apartment on the edge of the Mission, near some old Section Eight housing. He moved here after his fiancée moved out on him from the trendy loft they had shared in North Beach. Opening the refrigerator to finish a half-eaten can of cold beans, he glanced at the calendar taped to the door, catching the upcoming Saturday she had highlighted almost a year ago. It was going to be their wedding day.
Old wounds. He knew he should have tossed the thing long ago but he could not bring himself to get a new calendar.
She had been a nurse at San Francisco General and had tried to help him after the shooting. But her friends were married to officers and in no time at all their suspicion had worked its way to her, bubbling to the surface one night at home a month after the shooting.
“Ben, are you certain there was a boy?”
His eyes were fixed to the TV.
“Because I talked to some of the shrinks at the hospital about post-traumatic stress and compensating for guilty feelings.”
He stood up. Looked at her. “You don’t believe me either.”
“Ben, I was talking with some people at work and --”
“If you don’t believe me, we have nothing.”
“Ben.” Tears filled her eyes.
“Nothing.”
And that was it.
He had left for a long drive and refused to speak to her for days. A few weeks later she had decided he needed space to sort himself out, then moved in with a girlfriend. He refused to take her calls. Not long after that, she took a new job at a hospital in Los Angeles. Her engagement ring came back to him in the mail, taped to a tear-stained note: I was only trying to help, Ben, but you shut me out. I’ll remember the good times. Good luck with your life.
