The Other Side of the Bridge Read online

  “Not home, try later.”

  “Busy.”

  “Call back.”

  When I inspect the names closely, I see that every person he called, every name crossed out, every line with a notation by its side, is someone named O’Riley.

  My eyes sting, but my heart races. I’m not sure, but I sense that I have just discovered something significant—either for the university or for myself.

  I know I should go to bed, but instead I randomly turn the pages. What I see next causes my adrenaline to surge. There is a drawing of a cable, in particular a cross section of the thirty-six-inch cables that drape the towers. The picture is penned in ink and with intricate detail shows how the three-foot-diameter cables were wound of smaller strands, more than twenty-seven thousand in all. The drawings detail how the wire was pulled into one thick cable and then wrapped and banded to hold it intact. There are engineering calculations that note the strength of the cable, how it increases with each added strand. Below the pictures are words I’ve heard my father repeat often—my father’s words, but written in the curious penmanship of a stranger.

  “Together, we do the impossible. Like the cable that drapes from her towers, Strauss is joining men together to accomplish greatness. Indeed, we build an impossible bridge.”

  The words ring in my ears. “Together, we do the impossible.” I can hear my father’s voice as if he were speaking. I take deep breaths and reflect.

  It had been difficult for my father to raise his daughter while holding down a full-time job on the bridge. Like most children and parents, we had our moments—times when each questioned if we’d make it. During those times, my father would often pause, take a similar deep breath, and say, “Sure it’s hard, but, honey—together, we do the impossible.” He would say it with conviction, as if he believed the words. And because he believed them, I believed them.

  One time in particular, he even used an actual piece of cable from the bridge. I must have been eleven or twelve, already teenage-stubborn and making him crazy. After dinner he set the cable section on the table before me. It was tiny compared to other cables I’d seen on the bridge, but similar in design. It was about two inches in circumference, six inches long, and made up of many smaller strands twisted together in spiral fashion. When he removed the masking tape that held it together, the twisted pieces fell into a pile of corkscrew pick-up sticks. He told me it was a game, and that I needed to fit the curled pieces back together into a single cable. I tried on my own for a few minutes without much success, and then together we pieced them into one and secured the tape. He explained that the huge cable draping the bridge was no different. It was simply a bunch of smaller cables wound together to make one giant cable, capable of holding up tons of concrete, miles of steel, and hundreds of cars.

  He said that people are the same as the cable. We can’t make it by ourselves because we aren’t strong enough, but if we unite with others, there will be enough common strength. He took my hand and said, “Katie, let’s work together, let’s get through this. We’ll be like the cable pulling together—doing what we aren’t strong enough to do on our own. Believe me, honey . . . together, we can do the impossible.”

  chapter nine

  Dave arrived twenty minutes late for the meeting already in progress. He straightened his tie on the way to his secretary’s desk.

  “Gloria, sorry I’m late. Do you have the voter cross-tab study?”

  “Ms. Brewer picked it up already. She’s with the client.”

  Dave exhaled a lonely breath and headed for the conference-room door. He touched the handle, hesitated, and then pushed himself inside.

  His boss was conducting the meeting. Abel Lawless sat at Ellen’s right. Dave acknowledged both.

  “I apologize. Traffic was heavy.”

  Ellen covered. “No problem. I understand there was an accident in the tunnel. Several other staff members are stuck as well.”

  Dave didn’t mention that he’d driven the long way, over the bridge. He knew nothing about conditions in the Lincoln Tunnel.

  As the lead in charge of the new account, Dave should have been directing the meeting. He let Ellen continue.

  “I was just filling Abel in on the results of our focus group,” she said. “So, as you can see, Abel, the majority of those who vote consistently, year after year, also attend at least one other annual community activity . . . ”

  The house was a mess. Was it today or tomorrow that the cleaning lady was scheduled to come? Dave tried to remember but couldn’t. He’d told her to just tidy up the place—dust, vacuum, light cleaning only; I want to save the deep cleaning for later. By “deep cleaning,” she had presumed he meant waxing floors, vacuuming drapes, jobs normally done once a year. But Dave meant something else altogether. Closets needed to be emptied, clothes needed to be boxed up, personal items needed to be stored or discarded.

  “So, what is your assessment of the numbers, Dave?” Ellen repeated. Dave had let his mind drift again, didn’t know how to answer, what to say. He wanted to stand up and shout that it was just another senseless study—that it didn’t matter—that tomorrow, not a soul in the accursed room would care about the useless data.

  “I apologize, Ellen, Abel,” he addressed both, “I haven’t been feeling well. Could you excuse me?” With a nod, he stood up, hurried to the door, and left the room.

  • • •

  Most local ball games were held at the community complex near the town center. The championship game was to be played at Barton Field, just out of Lakewood. It was slated to start at eight p.m. Dave arrived ten minutes early. The team would already be on the field stretching, practicing.

  Swing level, Brad. Keep your back elbow up. Be patient. Don’t swing at anything out of the zone.

  He’d wanted to be there for the team, but after the accident he’d been laid up for days. He still had occasional shoulder pain, but his cuts were healing. He had promised that as soon as he felt better, as soon as he was at a hundred percent, he would be back.

  When Kevin and the boys from the team stood on his porch earlier in the week, he’d decided it was time. What better occasion than the championship game?

  If the pitch comes in high, Brad, let it go. Attack the ball, connect, and follow through.

  Cars arrived. People laughed as they carried coolers and blankets into the stadium. Dave stayed anchored behind the wheel.

  The other coaches had stepped right in and done an excellent job. The boys should be proud: they were the regional champions, after all, perhaps state champions after tonight. The team had only been together for three seasons. Who would have guessed they could pull it together so quickly? Win or lose, they should celebrate tonight.

  The shortstop is playing too close, Brad, so if you pop it over his head, you’re on base for sure. Keep your elbow up and swing through.

  From his car Dave watched the stadium lights come on. The sun wouldn’t set for another half hour, but for the big games they always turned them on early to give the halogen-filled bulbs time to reach their final temperature and offer the maximum light. At such a beautiful facility the grass would be cut short and nicely groomed. Dave hoped the hype and the allure of playing on such a large field wouldn’t throw off the team’s game. Soon the national anthem was echoing across the arena.

  There are two outs, Brad, so Kevin will run on anything. Bring him home, son. And watch the fastball. This kid can throw.

  The announcer’s voice rumbled through the rolled-up windows. Latecomers scurried from hastily parked cars to awaiting bleachers.

  Coach, we’d like to dedicate the game to Brad . . . the game to Brad . . . to Brad.

  “Congratulations, guys, you deserve it,” Dave muttered aloud. He let his wounded gaze drift away in the direction of the setting sun. “And I’m sorry, Brad.”

  He twisted the key, giving the engine life. Withou
t glancing back toward the cheers rising from the stands, Dave exited the luminous stadium lot, turned right on Coast Road, and faded quietly into the welcoming shadows of the night.

  A quarter of the way through the pages, amidst many scribbled notes and calculations, I find another bit of wisdom from my

  father—again written by Patrick O’Riley.

  The words are sandwiched among engineering notes detailing the bridge’s strength—interesting facts that I’ve heard my father recite. The bridge, he said, is designed to hold four thousand pounds of weight per linear foot, a figure derived by estimating the bridge load when packed bumper to bumper with the heaviest cars made at the time—Cadillacs, Packards, and Buicks. Of course, not everyone drove heavy cars, and there would be space, perhaps ten to twenty feet, between each as they crossed. And yet the worst-case scenario was used and then increased again by a fourth.

  I can see in the notes where Mr. Patrick O’Riley summarized calculations for the towers, the trestles, and the piers. In every case, they were overengineered, designed for the worst that could possibly happen. Below his calculations, he wrote, “In life, always overengineer.”

  No further explanation. I’ve heard the lesson from my father as one of his infamous “Lessons from the Bridge.”

  “Quite simply, Katie,” he would say, “plan for the very worst, then pray for the very best. Savor the days when the sun shines, but have your raincoat and boots ready for the storms that will always blow in from the bay.”

  His wisdom is sound. In the years since the bridge was completed, calamities have come—violent storms, devastating earthquakes—and through them all, the bridge has remained strong and true.

  I can almost hear my father’s voice. “Katie, in life, always overengineer.”

  I wish I had listened more closely.

  Habits are born of repetition. They cause ruts in our road that either guide us for good or push us toward peril. Many habits are neither good nor bad, but simply paths worn so deep from repeated actions that our ruts become furrows, and furrows become canyons. Changing course, venturing off in new directions, finding new experience, can be arduous if not impossible.

  As Dave studied his unkempt reflection in the mirror, he realized that Megan had been the only one to cut his hair for the last seventeen years. He wasn’t sure where she had learned—from college roommates, perhaps. No matter . . . now that she was gone, Dave didn’t know where to go, how much it should cost, or how to explain to a stranger how his hair should be cut. The simple truth was that he hadn’t found the courage.

  Brock was the first to say something over lunch. “Are you going for the ponytail look?”

  “Something like that.”

  Brock pressed the issue. “Much longer and I’ll have to braid it for you.”

  When Dave didn’t answer, Brock got straight to the point. “Look, I have to tell you: Ellen mentioned it to me the other day. Thought you should know.”

  “Ellen complained about my hair?”

  “Didn’t complain, really, just wondered about it, about how you were doing.”

  “It’s none of her damn business.”

  “Hey, take it easy. I don’t think she meant anything by it. She’s just being the boss, that’s all.”

  “My hair is not her concern.”

  “Are you okay?”

  They’d had the are-you-okay conversation before. Dave had always assured Brock that he would get through it, that he was fine. Today he couldn’t keep up the façade.

  “I’ve gotta get out of here. We’ll talk later.” He snatched his briefcase and stormed out the door.

  • • •

  The meeting in Ellen’s office started at seven, early enough that Dave hadn’t yet arrived. He wasn’t invited.

  Ellen’s hands helped her words do the talking. “I don’t know what to do for him, Brock. I mean, I’m truly sorry. I can’t imagine what he’s gone through . . . what he’s still going through. But, at the same time, I have a business to run. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Look, things are still rough, but I think he’s improving.” Brock faked optimism. Ellen didn’t buy it.

  “Improving? You should have seen him with Abel from the governor’s office. Dave was in la-la land. When he left the room, Abel was dumbfounded. This is our most important political account and he’s blowing it!”

  “Let me talk to him again.”

  “He needs more than talk, Brock. He needs professional help. I’m telling you, we’re losing him.”

  “I said I’d talk to him. Do you need me to take over the account?”

  “Do you have the time?”

  “I’ll make time.”

  Ellen tipped her head as she considered the offer. She generally didn’t take such a personal role with clients, but she’d stepped in to help cover Dave’s accounts. “Thanks, Brock. You’re my best lead. Just get Dave back. I can’t afford to lose him.”

  Brock couldn’t tell if Ellen was more concerned about losing a friend or an employee. Perhaps it didn’t matter.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he told her. “Just give me a few more days.”

  • • •

  It was close to midnight when Dave heard pounding on his door. Whoever it was would know he was up—almost every light in the house was on. Before even touching the knob, he guessed who was standing on the other side.

  “Hey, Brock, come in. You want a drink?”

  Brock nodded. “How you doing?”

  “Surviving.” Dave pulled open the fridge door. “Let’s see—I’ve got water, milk, or umm, water. Sorry, I guess I need to get to the store.”

  “Actually, I changed my mind. Forget the drink.” Brock pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat down. It was clear that he hadn’t come to be sociable.

  Dave grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it half full of water from the sink—not because he was thirsty, but rather to give himself something to hold. No small talk was needed. He didn’t wait for Brock. He could already see what was coming. “You want the truth?”

  “We’re friends. I think we both deserve it.”

  “I can’t remember anyone but Megan cutting my hair.”

  If there was tension in the air, it was shamed silently away by compassion. It felt like minutes before Brock spoke. “Listen, I understand what you’re saying. Let me set up an appointment with Sharon. She does mine. I realize it’s a scary thought going to the same woman who cuts my hair, but you’ll like her. I may even have her home number.” He reached for his phone.

  “I can wait. It might be a bit late to call tonight.”

  “You don’t know Sharon.” Brock quipped, before perhaps realizing Dave was right. “I’ll call her tomorrow, let her know you’ll be setting something up.”

  “Okay, thank you.”

  Even in the weary light, Dave hoped Brock could read his gratitude. He must have, because Brock stood and reached out his hand. The man looked downright pleased at his efforts. “Perfect! Anything else I can do to help?” Brock’s tone welcomed back levity into the room.

  “No, I’m good.”

  “Really? I had no idea it was this easy. I should have been a social worker.”

  It was the first time Dave had smiled since Brock had arrived. “I just need some time,” he confirmed.

  “Are you coming in tomorrow?” Brock asked.

  “I’d better. If not, Gloria’s going to move her stuff into my office.”

  Brock shrugged. “Women are funny about men showing up. Why is that?” He didn’t let Dave answer before he continued, “So, haircut tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, tomorrow for sure.”

  chapter ten

  The more I study the journal, the more I learn about Patrick O’Riley, the man. His writing spanned a period of almost six years, from late 1931 to mid-1937, a
time frame that corresponds to the bridge’s construction. His early pages contain many engineering notes that seem to indicate his responsibilities on the bridge.

  It is odd, though. When I search my reference books for the names of engineers who worked on the Golden Gate Bridge, I don’t see the name Patrick O’Riley. A handful of fragmented comments from his journal may explain why.

  “1931. Hired by McClain, a good gaffer. Odd jobs mostly ’til she begins.” Later he writes, “ . . . trying to keep up me skills, though most days spent welding.”

  The first reference to his possible work as an engineer reads, “I met a brilliant chap, Mr. Charles Ellis, and hope to soon be in his employ.”

  The name Ellis sounds familiar. I reference him in a book about the bridge and learn that Mr. Ellis, a senior engineer, is the man many historians credit over Joseph Strauss as the designer of the Golden Gate Bridge. I turn back to the journal and skim it further. The words are difficult to decipher, but as I do, I find another mention of the man. “I pray Mr. Ellis will see me skills as adequate. He is the most brilliant engineer I have ever known. It would be an honor to be in his employ. If God grants, I will reunite shortly with Anna and the wee ones again. ’Twill be sooner than planned.”

  I presume that Anna is his wife, and, with a name like O’Riley, I wonder if his family is in Ireland. As I peruse further, I find other notes that indicate his almost revered respect for Mr. Ellis.

  “I met him again today, though he couldn’t grant much time. He is working eighteen hours a day—but said he could hire me soon. Patience. I see Strauss bow in public, but ’tis Ellis who is the genius. The two are like chalk and cheese.”

  One other mention of a conversation with Ellis grabs my attention.

  “I asked Ellis how he withstood the pressure of working with such brilliant men as Ammann and Moisseiff. His reply made me consider me own life—he said, ‘O’Riley, excellence fosters excellence. They force me to be at my best, and the leap of excellence, once made, must be sustained.’”