The Other Side of the Bridge

by Camron Wright

  Ironically, the song that played first was “Running on Ice.”

  There was always a new account at the office, more activities for the kids, run to this, late to that—and what did he have to show for it? More gray hair. He needed to slow things down, but how?

  At times when he was alone in the car, Dave would sing along with the lyrics. Not today. Today he turned up the volume.

  “Seriously?” he mumbled as he pulled into the lot. “Am I really going to be forty?”

  chapter three

  “Good morning, Mr. Riley.”

  Dave nodded his reply to the receptionist. She was new, and he couldn’t remember her name.

  When he reached his office, Gloria, his personal secretary, was thankfully not at her desk. It meant he could slip inside undetected to have a few more minutes to breathe. The room’s solitude, however, was both a reprieve and a punishment. Every contemplative moment he spent motionless in his chair was a missed opportunity to get a head start on his day. He’d barely arrived and guilt was already piling up at his feet.

  He turned his stare from the window to a company brochure on his desk.

  Strategy Data International was smaller than the name suggested, middle of the pack when analyzing gross revenue. However, the company was respected and aggressive, and word on the street was that in the field of strategic marketing research, this was the firm to watch. Its newly appointed president, Ellen Brewer, had taken over from her father two years earlier. While children in many family businesses quickly drove their respective companies into the ground, Ellen was turning out to be an exception. With her conservative father out of the way, the man’s only daughter had positioned the company for growth. Though she had initially been criticized by analysts as overbearing and inexperienced, her vision was proving brilliant.

  Dave had never doubted. He’d known the woman long enough to be certain of one thing—Ellen Brewer would capture market share.

  For fifty-two years the company had been headquartered in New Brunswick, just a twenty-minute drive from the Riley home in Jamesburg. Ellen’s first executive decision had been to relocate corporate offices to Manhattan, closer to the big-money clients and with easier access to Washington, D.C. And in the few short months since the move, revenue had already increased by thirty percent.

  While good for the company, the change had complicated life for Dave. He and Megan had talked about moving closer to the city to accommodate, but with children already established in school, sports, and other activities, it muddied the picture. Moves were hard on families, especially teenagers, and despite Megan’s belief that the children would adjust, it didn’t feel right to Dave. The entire situation remained a paradox—the anxiety of moving would wreak emotional havoc, but the pressures of staying were slowly doing the same.

  The door opened and Gloria rushed in. “You’re here! I didn’t see you come in.”

  Not yet ready to face the day, but with no other choice, Dave pasted on a plastic smile and stood. His secretary didn’t waste any time.

  “Your ten o’clock called and would like to move your meeting to eleven. I hope that works because you have lunch at noon at the Lighthouse on 37th rather than at Pompanos. Ms. Brewer said she may be attending. She’ll let you know in an hour. And your three o’clock with the new account . . . let’s see, Ability Fitness Centers . . . has been moved to four.”

  “To four?” Dave protested. “I coach today. I can’t be late or the kids will have me skewered.”

  “Do you want me to cancel?”

  “I’ve canceled twice already. Keep it but be ready. I may need your help.”

  He watched Gloria’s eyes roll, knowing she detested their routine when meetings ran long. She had barely stepped from his office when Brock Pelino strutted in.

  Since joining the company five years earlier, Brock had become Dave’s best friend. Ellen often teamed them up to handle important accounts, a pairing that had proved successful. The men worked well together, laughed at the same jokes, shared an appreciation of baseball and sports cars. Alike in many ways, they were also oddly different. Brock was slightly older, at forty-five, divorced, no children, and though he sympathized with Dave’s family juggling act, Brock seemed happy to be married to his job.

  In many ways it was an unlikely friendship: one man single, carefree, with little outside responsibility; the other buried in the duties of employee, coach, husband, and father, with never enough time to excel at any one of them. Perhaps it was a friendship that thrived because each envied what the other had.

  “You hear the news yet?” Brock asked, almost giddy, as he closed the door. He loved office politics, lived for the gossip.

  “You’re dating the new girl in accounting?” Dave quipped.

  “Seriously, we just landed the Yorkshire account.”

  Dave sighed, letting a hint of distress also escape. “That is good news.” It was the right answer, but delivered in the wrong tone.

  “Hey, c’mon. I thought you’d be thrilled. Our stock options are going to be worth a mint.”

  “Sure, if I don’t drown first.”

  “Why so tense? You need a vacation,” Brock added.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Two quick knocks came at the door before Gloria entered.

  “Your nine o’clock, is waiting. I’ve got the numbers ready.” She handed Dave a folder. He glanced at his watch—five after.

  “Thanks. Seat them in the conference room. I’ll be right there.”

  “They’re already there and waiting.”

  Dave straightened his shoulders. The gun had sounded and the day’s race had begun.

  He turned to Brock. “You want to continue this conversation at lunch? Clients at the Lighthouse at noon. I think the waitress there has a thing for you,” he added, trying to insert needed levity.

  When Brock hesitated, Dave baited the hook. “Ellen will be dropping in.”

  “Look, normally I’d love to, but . . .” When Brock didn’t bite, especially with the boss attending, Dave’s eyebrows raised. Brock’s explanation was simple. “I already have a lunch date with Jeanine.”

  “A woman! Of course, that explains it.” Though the name sounded familiar, Dave couldn’t place the face. He turned to Brock for help. “Jeanine?”

  Brock headed for the door. Before closing it behind him, he let a smile slip. “She’s the new girl in accounting.”

  • • •

  Dave glared at the wall clock, expecting it to interrupt for him. Sadly it only glared back as Mr. Sorensen, a.k.a. King of Ability Fitness, continued to drone on about ruthless industry competition, the cost of labor, and how government regulation was killing business at all fourteen of his locations. Dave didn’t care. The necessary points of discussion had been covered in the first ten minutes, and now the follow-up diatribe by Sorensen was not only making Dave late, it was boring him utterly to death.

  Twice Dave stood to signal that the meeting had to end. Twice Sorensen stood, hardly taking a breath before sitting back down.

  At five minutes before the hour, Gloria opened the door. She was a woman who hated to lie, and as such had waited until the last possible minute. She wasn’t a moment too soon.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Riley, but the senator is on the phone for you. Would you like to take the call?”

  Dave bit his lip to suppress a smile, knowing her message was all but true. The year prior, the firm had hired retired autoworker Axel Senator to run the mail room.

  Gloria continued, “Should I tell him you’re with a client?”

  Dave stepped into character, nodding to Mr. Sorensen. “Excuse me, I’d better take this call.”

  Dave pushed the blinking line on the phone. “Good afternoon, Senator,” Dave began.

  “Hey there, Mr. Riley. Gloria said you needed to speak with me?”

 
Dave pressed the receiver tightly against his ear. She obviously hadn’t filled Axel in on the angle. “I’m fine.”

  “Well, I’m fine too, sir. Is there a problem?”

  “What can I do for you today?” Dave asked back, wholly ignoring Axel’s question.

  “What?”

  Dave didn’t let the man’s confusion slow him down. “I’m thrilled to hear your constituents are happy. It’s amazing what we learn from market research, isn’t it?” Dave turned in time to catch the look on Sorensen’s face: saucered eyes, arching eyebrows, a mouth that puckered in childlike surprise.

  Axel sounded equally amazed—or perhaps confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Riley. This is Axel in the mail room!”

  “You’d like to meet?”

  “Can’t you hear what I’m saying? This is Axel!”

  Dave let several seconds pass.

  “I’m with a client, but, yes, I can leave right now.” Dave offered Sorensen an apologetic shrug. “Of course, Senator, I’ll be there immediately. Yes, I have the address in my phone. Good-bye to you too.”

  “What the—”

  Click. Dave dropped the receiver to cut off Axel midsentence and then jumped to his feet. No time to waste.

  “That was our senator?” a dumbfounded Sorensen asked.

  “I like to think he’s everybody’s senator. At least that’s how we think of him around here.”

  Dave grabbed his briefcase and jacket and then opened his office door. “He’s a nice guy . . . you’ll have to meet him someday.”

  Gloria already had the elevator open and helped shoo Sorensen inside. The man didn’t let their herding slow down his enthusiasm. He continued speaking to Dave as the doors closed, “Call me next week when the marketing profile is complete. We can do lunch.”

  While Dave normally walked the twelve blocks to the train station, today he waved down a taxi. He hadn’t had time to change, so as the cab jerked away from the curb he opened his briefcase and removed his coach’s uniform and shoes. If the driver noticed him changing, he didn’t say a word. No doubt he’d seen worse.

  When Dave pulled on his second shoe, his toe crunched something inside. Even before he’d fished out the wadded paper and smoothed it flat, he knew what it was. “Just a quick note to say that I love you. See you at the game.”

  Love notes. Megan had started writing them months earlier, to keep the passion alive. They would show up on occasion in unexpected places, and although he didn’t keep track, lately they felt more frequent. He’d hoped the habit would run its course and die a forgotten death. It hadn’t.

  Dave had tried to reciprocate by writing messages back, but he felt like a copycat, not sincere. Sending flowers was his next attempt, but with work so hectic he’d often forget. Brock suggested Dave have Gloria schedule rose deliveries at the first of every month, like Brock did for two of the women he was dating, but for Dave, scheduled “love gifts” were so contrived they were self-defeating. Usually he did nothing, which only caused inadequacy and guilt to smolder.

  When the cab pulled up to the station, Dave stuffed the note into his pocket, swiped his card to pay the fare, and then bolted out the door. He ran in full stride for the train, weaving his way through the crowd, business suit wadded under one arm and briefcase in the other hand.

  The uncooperative train seemed to crawl, and by the time Dave reached his car in New Jersey at the Park ’n Ride lot, he was already half an hour late. There were two other men who helped Dave coach the team, but both were out of town for today’s game. Dave had assured them he would take over, no problem. He was the man; he was in charge—and he wasn’t even there.

  He slid into the car, mumbled a quick prayer that policemen would be blind, and then he slammed down the gas. It still took twelve minutes more to reach the field.

  After the car squealed to a halt, Dave bolted toward his team’s dugout. He could see his guys up to bat. Woody Peterson was in the box, which meant they were already halfway through the batting order. Then Dave caught sight of Megan, clipboard in hand. She watched him approach and offered a quick wave. Angel was stacking baseballs into a pile at the far corner of the dugout.

  “We’re ahead, three to one,” she glowed. “Christian is on third, and Woody is batting.”

  Megan turned to the field and hollered to the team, “It’s okay, the coach is here now!”

  Dave ignored the disapproving parent glances to focus instead on the batting order scribbled on the scorecard. It was all out of whack. “You put Woody up to bat after Christian?”

  “Yeah, I sorted them by last name. It was easier that way.”

  “But . . .” He wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” she continued, reading his confusion. “Woody’s small, but—”

  Smack.

  Both turned to see the boy’s ball sail over the shortstop’s head and drop shy of the left outfielder. Woody dashed for first while Christian slid home to score another run.

  Megan beamed.

  “Alphabetical order,” Dave muttered to himself. “Who would have guessed?”

  Brad was up next. He eyed Dave, nodded with confidence.

  Dave called to him from near the dugout. “Keep that elbow up, Brad. Study the pitcher. You can see that he’s tipping his pitches.”

  The pitch came high and outside. Ball one. Brad held steady while Dave hollered encouragement. “Watch the pitch, Brad. That’s it, wait for the one you want.”

  The second pitch came in low. Brad let it go. “Not today,” he mouthed aloud, “not today.” Ball two.

  The next pitch also trailed low, well below the strike zone, and Dave winced as he watched Brad swing. The pitch was low, all right, but not too low for Brad. He connected solidly, sending the ball over third base and toward the left field line. The outfielder raced at full speed and, seeing it would be close, laid himself out horizontally and extended his glove. It would be the play of the game—for one team or the other.

  Brad won.

  The ball touched leather but not enough to stop as it deflected off the mitt and rolled toward the fence. The prone outfielder sprang to his feet, but by the time he located the ball, it was too late. The runner on first touched home plate as Brad slid in at third.

  By the end of the game, they were seven runs ahead—their easiest win to date. Voting was unanimous: Brad and Megan shared the game ball.

  After the equipment had been gathered, Dave, Megan, and crew headed toward the parking lot.

  “Can you take Angel?” Megan asked. “Brad’s coming with me. We’ll pick up Brittany and the pizza and meet you at home.”

  “Sure. Let’s go, Squirt.”

  Dave loaded the game gear while Megan transferred Angel’s car seat. As he helped his daughter get properly strapped in, Megan drove away in the van before quickly circling back. She must have forgotten something. Dave waited for his wife to slow down and stop, but she didn’t. That was when he noticed Brad behind the wheel. As the van passed, Megan held up Brad’s new license from the passenger’s seat for Dave to see.

  Dave was speechless. In the rush of things, he’d completely forgotten that this was Brad’s big day. Only Angel spoke.

  “Daddy, Brad’s driving. I think you should call the police.”

  chapter four

  By nine-thirty Angel was tucked into bed, well past her bedtime. Another half hour had passed before the girl quit talking and drifted off to sleep. Dave waited for Megan at the Jacuzzi out on the back deck—one of the few places they could talk without interruption.

  Dave studied her features as she slid into the bubbling water and closed her eyes: wispy hair curled across her shoulders, slender eyebrows balanced over a freckled nose, lips turned up just enough naturally on each end that she always appeared to be smiling. Even the kids joked that when Mom was angry, she
stilled looked happy about it.

  If asked about her appearance, Megan would be the first to point out the wrinkles now showing at the corners of her eyes. Dave would contend they only compounded her beauty with added badges of experience and wisdom.

  “What?” Megan finally asked, sensing that she was being watched.

  “I’m just thinking.”

  And he was. In the steamy solitude, his thoughts drifted to the first time they’d met, eighteen years earlier. Psychology 102. He was filling elective credits he needed to graduate; she was just beginning work on what would become an art degree.

  Their first class assignment was to bring a picture showing something they feared. By a simple twist of fate, they’d sat adjacent that day, and as she’d laid her photo on the table, one taken in her early teenage years riding Disneyland’s Space Mountain, he leaned forward and picked the curious photo up. It had caught his eye because sitting directly behind the wide-eyed, attractive girl screaming her lungs out from the front seat was Dave. Despite the resemblance, Megan didn’t believe at first that it was him—until he recited the month and year the photo was taken.

  It wasn’t the only coincidence. It turned out their families had lived barely two blocks apart, their fathers had attended the same Rotary Club, and, despite multiple college scholarship opportunities elsewhere, each had selected the same university.

  They dated for just four months before he proposed, and barely three months later their married life together started. Those had been carefree days . . . a far cry from the current rush.

  “Do you think we’re too busy?” Dave finally questioned, letting the thought that had been gnawing at him all week swirl with the steam.

  Megan opened her eyes, then tried to whisk his worry away the way she always did, with humor. “We have way too much happening to worry about questions like that.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  She considered him seriously, took a moment to answer. “Yes, I think we are. But it’s by our own choice, isn’t it?”