The Other Side of the Bridge Read online

  I look up the names of Ammann and Moisseiff and find they also worked as engineers on the bridge. Patrick’s words ring true—I’ve heard them before from my father.

  “Excellence fosters excellence, Katie,” he would say. For this reason, he didn’t object to my never-ending education. “You’re surrounding yourself with good people—growing, learning, loving. Why not?”

  Perhaps it was the fact that my father hadn’t attended college himself. Perhaps he could read my trepidation of taking on the world. Either way, he never complained.

  My curiosity about Ellis gets the better of my patience and I turn back to several history volumes. I learn that he served as the chief design engineer under Joseph Strauss but that the relationship between the two men seemed doomed from the start. While Ellis, a reserved academic, focused his energies on his work, on the soundness of the bridge design, Strauss, his boss, was overly concerned with getting credit. Most historians agree that although Ellis was unquestionably the more brilliant, Strauss was the one in charge. I shouldn’t have been shocked, then, to find out that after Charles Ellis had worked tirelessly to deliver completed engineering calculations and a structural bridge design, and even before a shovelful of dirt had been turned, Joseph Strauss fired him.

  I wonder how Patrick O’Riley reacted to the firing of the man he so admired, a man with whom he had hoped to work. I note the date of the firing—a few days before Christmas, 1931, amidst a deep national economic depression. In Patrick’s journal I find no mention of the event, only a single, poetic notation.

  “My hopes are thrown into the blustery bay wind. Vanity is victorious over virtue. ’Twill be longer than I had expected as Anna and the young ones mire in misery.”

  I scan the journal thoroughly, but find no further reference to Mr. Ellis.

  Seven silver hoops outlined the right ear of the female cashier chatting with Brock from behind the counter. Her nose and eyebrows hadn’t been forgotten either, all heavily pierced as well. He was killing time while Sharon finished with her current customer. According to the clock on the wall, Dave was six minutes late. Brock excused himself to check his phone. No reply to the text messages he’d sent to Dave.

  “Hi, handsome,” Sharon purred as she approached.

  “Hey, beautiful. You look astonishing,” Brock replied.

  Sharon laughed as she brushed away strands of black hair still sticking to her white blouse.

  “Am I doing you today?” she questioned, not having checked her schedule.

  “I wish,” he replied, “but my buddy needs a cut worse than I do. And you have to be gentle with him.”

  “Is it the guy who lost his wife?”

  “Same one, and I mean it—go easy on him.”

  “Not a problem. Where is he?”

  “He’ll be here.” Brock dialed Dave again. Voice mail picked up.

  “Hope he’s not too late,” she added. “I’m booked solid today, and I hate making customers wait.”

  “Don’t worry,” Brock assured. “He’ll be here. I promise. Any second he’ll be here.”

  • • •

  Dave sat alone in his office. Brock didn’t knock.

  “Hi, bud. I missed you this morning.”

  Dave’s eyebrows rose, his eyes widened, he glanced at his watch. “Oh, that’s right . . . the haircut. I’m sorry, I forgot.”

  Dave’s phone was sitting on the desk; Brock tapped it with his finger, hard enough to make a noticeable thud. “And you didn’t hear your phone ringing? I only called thirty gazillion times.”

  When Brock wasn’t buying, Dave’s surprise turned into a shrug. He no longer cared. “Sorry. I couldn’t make it. I had some things come up.”

  Brock pulled a chair up to the desk. He turned it around and straddled it backwards, resting his arms on the back.

  “Dave, I’m going to get in trouble for what I’m about to say.”

  “About what?”

  “Look, I’m just apologizing in advance. But if I’m going to be a true friend and not just a drinking buddy, then there are some things that need to be said.” It was a side of Brock that Dave had seldom seen, and he felt his teeth clench in response. He looked first at the door, then back to Brock. “Say it, then,” Dave demanded, his tone turning defensive.

  “Meg, Brad, Brittany, and Angel . . . they’re gone, Dave, and they aren’t coming back. It’s been weeks, even months, and you’re not getting better. Truth is, you look like hell. You need to get some help.”

  “You have no idea what I’ve been through!”

  “That’s true, and I pray that I never do. But if I ever have to go through anything even half as bad, then I hope you’ll be as good a friend to me.”

  Dave didn’t answer, and Brock wasn’t ready to stop. “Look, I’m not saying that you need to paste a smile on your face all the time. I’m not saying that you need to party every night. What I am saying is that it’s time to face the situation. If you can’t do it on your own, then let’s find someone who can help.”

  Dave wanted to run—to storm out of the office. Instead, he sat like a statue, motionless and cold. After seconds had passed, his troubled eyes peered up. “Reality sucks,” he said.

  “Yeah, I can’t argue with that, sometimes it does,” Brock answered. “But even so, there are times I envy you.”

  “Envy me? I’ve lost everything! Don’t be stupid!”

  “I’m not saying that I envy what you’ve been through; nobody would suggest that. I’m talking about what you had before the accident—your wife, your children. I mean, look at me. I know I act as if life is Disneyland all the time, but the truth is that I’ve never had anyone close in my life, nobody who truly cared for me—maybe never will.”

  “You want me to feel sorry for you, then? Is that what this is about?”

  “No, I just want you to realize that while you’re feeling pretty lousy right now, life is a whole lot better than you’re making it out to be.”

  It was evident that, in Brock’s own way, he was trying to help.

  “Look, Brock, I’m sorry I missed the appointment. I’ll do better.”

  Brock hesitated, seeming to weigh whether he should keep going. “As long as we’re having this heart-to-heart, I’ll tell it to you straight. Your work is suffering—Ellen doesn’t know what to do with you.”

  “Is she going to fire me?”

  “No. Not yet, anyway. Just take a deep breath and get on with it, man. You still have a helluva life ahead of you. And hey, get a haircut, you’re scaring me.”

  chapter eleven

  I eat my lunch every day in the park next to the history building because the grassy lawn and walkways there are always filled with students and teachers. It’s the perfect spot to study strangers.

  People-watching is a curious habit—like being a spectator in a human zoo. As strangers pass today, I wonder about fate. I wonder about the ways lives intersect. I wonder about the part that fate plays. For example, take those walking past. They don’t see me; they don’t even realize I exist. So, what if “Mr. Right” walks past and, just as he steps in front of me, I sneeze, and he turns and notices me and says hello, and we talk, and then get together—and so from one simple sneeze, two strangers’ lives change forever. If this is how life works, then I’m terrified because what happens if he walks by and I don’t sneeze?

  Besides worrying about sneezes, I often make up games. Today I’m guessing people’s careers. The older man with graying hair pulled back into a ponytail is no doubt an artist—a painter of modern art, to be more specific. The woman wearing too much makeup walking close behind, eyeing him, she works for . . . a cosmetic surgeon. The man with the briefcase and the tie, well, he must be the CEO of a multinational conglomerate that makes, let’s see . . . tongue depressors.

  Other days I’ll match faces to celebrities, playing a separated-at-
birth game. It’s amazing how many people do look like the rich and famous. Just two days ago, for example, I swear that Paul Walker walked past. It wasn’t him, of course, since he’s dead. But it was still exciting.

  No matter the game, I’m always curious about other people’s lives. If I see a man or a woman sitting on a bench alone, and if I have a chance to study him or her closely, I often begin to interrogate the person in my mind. Are you married? Do you have children? Do you also stay up late to watch old black-and-white movies? Do you sometimes eat cold pizza for breakfast? Have you also been betrayed by someone you love? What makes you laugh, or cry? And most important, through it all, do you still hold dreams in your heart?

  I also wonder about people when I visit the bridge, when I stand at the railing and peer over the side at the water, when I see the darkness of the waves rolling two hundred and twenty feet below the deck—at these times I also question how the lives of strangers intersect.

  What about the people my father saved? Are they now mothers and fathers? Do they have honest jobs and are they trying to raise their children to have a better life? Are they still on drugs, or depressed, or angry? Are they even still alive, or did they find some other way to accomplish their dreadful deed? Mostly, I wonder if they’ve ever realized the goodness of the man who saved them. Do they understand that they ultimately took away the only person who ever mattered in my life?

  I wonder if it was destiny that my father was there to save them, and if it was, then what about the man who pulled my father off the bridge? Did God play a part in that as well? I wonder if the whole thing could have been stopped. I wonder: if the man who killed my father could have been distracted, even for a second, would the outcome have been different? I wonder what would have happened if, at just the right moment, my father had sneezed.

  It was dark when Dave entered the building. It was better that way. He preferred working on his projects at night, when it was easier to think, when there were no distractions.

  Remnants of a cleaning crew clanked distant garbage cans, though he could see no one. They were like mice, working by night, vanishing by the light of day.

  An older Hispanic woman cleaned the floor where Dave worked. He had run into her on occasion when he’d stayed late. One night she’d been humming, but stopped when Dave entered his office. She’d seemed apprehensive, even frightened. He’d tried to ease her discomfort by chatting, but it proved difficult. She wouldn’t look him in the eye; she fidgeted incessantly; and she always nodded in the affirmative, no matter what question was asked.

  Now he could empathize. It was so exhausting to function, to concentrate, in an office full of people who were whispering about the guy-who-lost-his-wife-and-children.

  Dave looked over his desk at the deepening piles of work. It was always the same: he would vow to improve, promise to hit the job and life with a new attitude first thing in the morning. But, as with most silent pacts, promise proved easier than performance. Tonight was no exception.

  After twenty minutes of tossing paper clips into the garbage can across the room, Dave stretched through the guilt and stood. He was self-destructing and he knew it. He just didn’t know how to stop. He wanted to stay, to make an effort, but the walls were closing in and his breathing was becoming labored. He grabbed his coat and headed toward the exit. He would come in early tomorrow instead to finish his reports.

  As he waited for the elevator to slide open, he noticed light peeking out from under the door of Brock’s office. He walked toward it.

  “Hello?”

  He tapped lightly and then pushed the door open. There was no sound, no one inside. The light must have been left on by accident, or perhaps the cleaning woman wasn’t finished. He checked the garbage—empty. She’d already made her rounds.

  Brock had been a good friend, better than Dave might have been had the tables been turned. Dave would never have had the guts to say what Brock had said, wrong or not. As Dave reached for the light switch, he noticed a stack of mail on the chair. It was the letter on top that caught his eye. He picked it off the pile and studied it: standard business size, starched white color. What captivated Dave was the graphic on the envelope’s corner, the brazen orange-and-black outline of a customized Harley-Davidson road bike.

  In the protection of both silence and solitude, Dave let his finger trace the outline of the machine.

  “What dreams are you missing out on?”

  “You won’t laugh?”

  “I probably will, but tell me anyway.”

  “I’ve always wanted to buy a motorcycle and ride across the country.”

  “A motorcycle? Like a Harley?”

  When he turned the letter over to check the postmark, he noticed that the envelope had already been sliced open. He listened again for any sounds from the office—the stillness confirmed he was alone. He pulled the folded paper from its sleeve, spread it flat, and began to read.

  It was addressed to Ellen but had been copied to Brock.

  Dear Ms. Brewer,

  It was a pleasure speaking with you last week. As I mentioned, I’ve heard wonderful things about your firm. It turns out you’re actually not far from our location in York.

  As the nation’s largest customizer of Harley-Davidson, Indian, BMW, Ducati, and other major motorcycle brands, I’d like to hear how your research can improve the impact of our ongoing national expansion.

  While it’s true that we take good products and make them remarkable, we’d like to better understand the demographics and purchasing habits of our clients. It’s not enough to create the most sought-after customized bikes in the marketplace. We need to maximize our advertising budgets by increasing our customer understanding.

  We can discuss our needs further at our meeting a week from Monday when I arrive.

  Sincerely,

  Shaun Safford

  Vice President, Marketing

  BikeHouse Custom Motorcycles

  • • •

  It was after one a.m. when Brock arrived home. Dave was perched on his entrance steps.

  “It’s about time.”

  “Dave? What are you doing here?”

  “You dropped by my house late at night. I’m returning the favor. I’m just glad you showed. I was getting nervous that you were at a sleepover.”

  “Are you okay?” Brock asked.

  “Do you have a second to talk?”

  “Sure, let’s go inside.”

  Dave didn’t wait. “Listen, I need to know about this.” He held out the envelope he’d retrieved from Brock’s office.

  Brock took the letter, squinted. “You’ve been going through my mail? Have you been drinking?”

  “Just water. Why wasn’t I told about this account?”

  Brock plopped down on the step next to Dave. “You haven’t exactly been around much lately.” He let his words hang. “Where were you today, for example?”

  “Point taken.”

  “Why do you care about this account, anyway?” Brock asked.

  At the very moment I crossed the bridge, I’d have experienced the best that life had to offer. I’d have lived my dream. I’d have arrived. “I’m just interested. Do you think Ellen will let me work on it?”

  Brock shook his head. “We don’t even have the account yet. And when we do, it will only need one lead. Dave, you’ve been so . . . distant. The truth is, you’d be lucky if she let you blink on your own right now—and rightly so.”

  Dave knew Brock was right, but he didn’t care. “If I can convince Ellen, will you let me take the account?”

  Brock laughed, then moved closer. “Buddy, I’m swamped. I’d love to give it up, but honestly, I don’t think you’re ready.”

  Dave fidgeted. How could he convince him? How much should he tell him?

  Brock spoke before he could decide. “I recognize that look.”


  “What look?” Dave asked.

  “Your mind going a million miles an hour working through a problem, tracing out every possible path. I have to say, that’s a look that I haven’t seen in quite a while.”

  “I need this account, Brock.”

  “The only difference is that tonight you also seem a bit giddy—or desperate. Are you taking anything?”

  “What?”

  “You know. Drugs.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Let me smell your breath,” Brock said. It was Dave’s turn to laugh. Brock leaned back. “I haven’t heard you laugh like that in weeks.”

  Dave shrugged it off—this was working. “Brock, I’m telling you, I can handle it. I can.”

  Brock offered a pat on the shoulder, the kind a father might give a son. “Look, the meeting with BikeHouse isn’t scheduled until a week from Monday. Clean yourself up. Get a haircut. Then talk to Ellen. What’s the worst she can say?”

  “Then it’s okay with you?”

  Brock nodded. “I’m warning you, though, there’s no way you’ll convince her. But if you want to give it a shot, I’ll back you.”

  In the deep recesses of his brain, Dave began to plan his strategy. As he did, it invited questions. Why was he so intrigued? Did this client come along as a coincidence, or was there something more happening here? The possibility had crossed his mind that he might be losing it mentally, that he could be drifting over the edge. There was no reason to be so excited, so hopeful over one silly account—other than the fact that every time he thought about BikeHouse, Megan’s words echoed in his head.

  One problem existed—his boss still stood in the way.

  chapter twelve

  Desperate men take desperate measures, or so the saying goes. Dave didn’t feel desperate, simply reaching—hoping to grasp something that would pull him away from the edge of the cliff, anything that would help him make sense out of the recent events in his life.

  He leaned against the glass of the fourth-story office window and scanned the street. Ellen always arrived early, so it was no surprise at six-fifteen to see her green Mercedes approach the building and wait for the gate to lift open.