The Other Side of the Bridge

by Camron Wright

  “But is it the right choice?”

  “What would you cut out?” she asked. “Baseball? Dance? Piano? Better yet, which child should we sell?”

  “I’m not sure,” Dave answered, with no hint of a smile, before he clarified, “I mean about the activities, not the child-selling part.”

  “For having just won the game, you seem pretty down. What’s wrong?”

  His words were quieter now, mixing freely with the sound of anxious bubbles. “Do you ever feel like you’re so busy that you’re letting dreams slip by?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Did you get any painting done today, for example?”

  “I finger painted with Angel—does that count?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I can see that. Today was my day to help out at the school. You know that.”

  “See what I mean? We need more time . . .”

  She was relaxing. He was stewing.

  “Honey,” she interrupted, “I enjoy my art, but honestly, I can paint anytime. Watching my kids grow up, being there with them, with you—I’m living my dream.”

  He heard her assurance, but his eyes answered that he didn’t completely believe her.

  “Honestly, what’s the matter?” she asked again.

  “I just . . .” The night air seemed to reach down his throat and steal his words, tie up his thoughts. He felt so apprehensive, so unsure how to explain. “I don’t know. I feel . . . well, it’s like the song says, I’m running on ice. My legs are moving, but I’m not going anywhere. I feel like I’m in the dream where you run to catch the train, the last train of the day, and you run and run and run, stretching and stretching, until you’re out of breath and your legs ache . . . but it’s always just out of reach.”

  Megan splashed up straight. Her eyes brightened, as if a light had clicked on. “Wait, it’s because of your birthday, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re turning forty—you’re worried! Honey, it’s still three weeks away, and I’m the one getting the wrinkles. We have a terrific life. Let’s enjoy it.”

  His head knew she was right. How could he argue? If only he could convince the anxiety punching at his chest to listen.

  “Maybe it’s just the schedule that’s getting to me.”

  Megan reached for his hands and locked her eyes on his. “Life is great,” she repeated. “Have a little faith in it, would you?”

  “I will,” he said before he hesitated. “Sometimes it just . . . it feels like I’m missing out on something, that’s all.”

  “Like what?”

  How could he explain it when even he didn’t understand? He had a great job, a terrific wife, amazing children. Why the trepidation? His answer, learned from Megan, was to make light of the situation. Humor to the rescue—when you can’t face the truth, you joke about it.

  “You won’t laugh?” he asked Megan.

  “Probably. Tell me anyway.”

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

  Megan chuckled. “A motorcycle? Like a Harley?”

  “Why not?”

  “In your suit and tie?”

  “Of course not. I’d get a black leather jacket, the kind with padding on the elbows and zippered pockets.”

  “Would you grow a ponytail? Just for me?”

  “Sure, and perhaps a beard. I’d ride across the country, until . . . well, until I came to the Golden Gate Bridge. That’s where I’d end up. Did you know my grandfather helped build that bridge? Dad said he loved it. He used to say that it was magical.”

  “Yes, you’ve mentioned that. So, you’d ride to the bridge?”

  “Not just to it, I’d ride across it.”

  “Across the bridge?”

  “Yep. It would be the Fourth of July. The sun would be shining. The sky would be bright and clear. A slight breeze would be blowing over the ocean and through my hair.”

  “Through your ponytail,” she specified, evidently trying her best to tamp down a laugh.

  He nodded. “And people would stare, not daring to say anything aloud, but to themselves—to themselves they would whisper, ‘That guy is so cool.’”

  It was born as a playful, fictional scene, sketched in charcoal strokes of black and grey and white, never meant to be taken seriously. But as Dave spoke the words aloud, as they stretched and breathed and filled in space of their own, the vision in his head turned to rich, descriptive color.

  Megan let him silently swirl in his moment of glory before asking the obvious. “I am curious, Mr. Ponytail Man. What happens after you cross the bridge?”

  Absorbed in the imagery, he let contentment linger. “It wouldn’t matter,” he finally concluded, satisfaction glowing in his face.

  “And why not?”

  “It wouldn’t matter because 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.”

  It was picture perfect.

  “I think you’ve been in the hot water way too long,” Megan concluded as she reached her arms around his waist and pulled herself tight, kissing him ever so lightly on the neck. “Let’s get out and go to bed, and I’ll give you something real to smile about.”

  chapter five

  My father was an ironworker on the Golden Gate. It doesn’t sound glamorous to the average person. Perhaps it doesn’t sound glamorous to anyone. It’s the kind of job that you brag about to your friends when you’re in elementary school, but learn to hide as you grow older.

  Ironworker. It rolls off the tongue much harsher than teacher or salesman. Everyone accepts that it’s not in the same league as lawyer or dentist or fill-in-the-blank with just about any professional occupation. But what I now realize, since he’s been gone, is that my father’s job was worth more than all of those careers combined. You see, during his years working on the bridge, he not only raised a little girl on his own, my father also saved twenty-eight lives. He was part of an elite group of men who, in addition to maintaining one of the world’s most miraculous structures, was trained to stop people from jumping off it to their deaths.

  It’s an odd combination, meshing the traits of a burly ironworker with those of a compassionate psychologist. Men who work at the bridge are tough men, hard men—they have to be to handle the Gate. And yet at the same time, they can be caring, sensitive men—at least that was the case with my father. I think that’s why he was so good at his job, so able to help people who had for one reason or another decided that life was too much to bear.

  People will ask why ironworkers are the ones who stop the jumpers, rather than the police or paramedics. The answer is simple: when a jumper climbs over the railing and edges out onto a treacherous area of the bridge, the ironworkers are not only the first ones on the scene, they are also the only ones daring enough to follow.

  It was a volunteer assignment, and I remember only one short period of time when my father gave it up and took himself off the list. It was the day I turned sixteen, the same day he took me out to breakfast to celebrate because he’d be working late that night, the same day I blew out sixteen candles that poked out of a ham and cheese omelet. It was also the same day that he watched a father jump from the bridge after first throwing his two-year-old daughter ahead of him. It tore my father apart. When he arrived home late that night, he was crying. He’d decided the stress was too much to handle for a single father trying to raise a balanced teenage daughter. Within weeks, however, he’d changed his mind and was back at work, talking people down.

  When I asked him later what had caused his change of heart, he admitted that although the job could be dreadfully painful, it was more difficult not to do than to do.

  Simply put, my dad was selfless.

  Work a
t the office had been frenzied. No surprise. With Ellen Brewer in charge, expectations were high. Market share was the name of the game, and, like everyone, Dave took on more work than he could handle. He had just finished quantifying marketing results for Lansing Financial when Gloria buzzed his office.

  “Mr. Riley, there’s an Abel Lawless from the governor’s office on line three asking for you.”

  For just a moment, the name startled him. Lawless? Then he chuckled. He and Brock had begun trading practical jokes on April Fools’ Day, shortly after Brock first hired on. He’d called Dave on the phone, pretending to be from Google, wanting to offer him a job in California. Dave returned the prank a week later with the delivery of phony legal papers claiming action against Brock in a paternity suit.

  The jokes continued back and forth, usually no more than one a month to ensure things didn’t get out of hand. As the pranks were generally harmless, Ellen winked at the fun, understanding that it added levity to an otherwise stressful environment. Bogus calls were Brock’s specialty and had included dead-on impersonations of an IRS agent, Mark Cuban, and even a birthday-gram singer who pretended to have an appointment with Gloria. When Dave had related the story to Brock about Axel calling from the mailroom, Brock couldn’t quit laughing.

  Dave picked up the line, trying to think of a clever ploy. “This is Dave, discoverer of not-so-funny pranks. Who might you be?”

  Silence—then the voice on the line said, “Hello, this is Abel Lawless, the governor’s policy director in Florida. A friend recommended you. I’m in town for a few days attending a diversity conference at the Javits Center. I’d like to get together to discuss using your firm for a marketing study as part of the rights initiative we’ll be pushing next spring.”

  Dave laughed into the receiver. Brock would have to do better than that. “A diversity conference, you say?” Brock was relentless, but Dave could take it. “For diversity’s sake, we need to hire someone around here who thinks Brock is funny.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not sure that I follow . . .”

  At that moment the door kicked open and Brock strolled in. He could see that Dave was on the phone, so he plopped down into the adjacent chair to wait.

  Dave quit talking. His stomach tightened and his breathing stopped. He looked to Brock, then to the phone, then back to Brock.

  “Oh, no!” he whispered, loud enough to let his anxious words spill across the floor.

  Puzzled, Brock added a shrug. “What? What did I do?”

  • • •

  Megan ducked out of Angel’s kindergarten class early and headed to the mall. She had forty-five minutes before she had to return to pick up her daughter. At the moment, she had one mission: to find a present for Dave’s surprise party.

  She felt bad that he was taking his birthday so hard. Could it be the commute, the pressures of work? A real midlife crisis? As long as he doesn’t get a girlfriend, she quipped.

  Traffic at the mall was unusually light. The most obvious place to start would be the sporting goods store. Dave loved to deep-sea fish, but he hadn’t found much time for it as of late. There were dozens of displays sporting shiny tackle, strange hooks, and assorted water gear. How would she know what to get? And, with his busy schedule, would it just cause frustration? She wandered over to the baseball equipment. He was in his element as the batting coach of Brad’s team. She scanned the aisle. As near as she could tell, he had everything.

  Unsettled, she walked out into the mall and toward the department store at the opposite end. She could always get him shirts and ties. He loved to dress well. Yet that was like buying him underwear for Father’s Day. This was his fortieth birthday—her gift needed to be special. It needed to be something he would love, something he’d remember.

  She browsed through a few clothing racks, then checked her watch—out of time. Another day, perhaps. She crossed the common area and was headed for the exit when a glance toward a display window near the doors stopped her cold.

  Her heart raced as she placed her hands on the glass. It was perfect, and he’d never guess it in a gazillion years. She hurried inside and checked the price tag: $795! He’d totally freak if he found out, but it was his birthday; she’d take a chance. She ran her fingers across its surface, then held it up to the mirror.

  “You like it?” the clerk inquired.

  “Can I bring it back after he drools all over it?” she retorted.

  The clerk laughed. “As long as you have the receipt.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “That quick? You saw the price? Is the size okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s perfect.”

  Megan bounced with excitement as the girl removed a large zippered bag from beneath the counter, opened it wide, and placed the black leather motorcycle jacket inside.

  • • •

  When they had first married, Megan had cut Dave’s hair to save money. In time, he’d grown accustomed to the arrangement and refused now to go anywhere else. She loved it because they could chat, and today there was gossip that just wouldn’t wait.

  “You’ll never guess,” Megan said, not intending to give him a chance to try. “It looks like Rob and Cindy are splitting up.”

  “What?”

  “Yep, her phone died, and so when she borrowed his, she found a text he’d sent to a woman at his office that was . . . well, let’s just say the message was unusually descriptive.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “It’s true. I feel so bad for her.”

  “What a jerk—and he still has my leaf blower. Are they selling the house?”

  “I don’t think it’s gone that far yet.”

  He was contemplative, silent.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “I was thinking that I better delete my text messages.”

  She tugged the hair on the back of his neck.

  “Ouch!”

  “You forget—I’m holding scissors.”

  “I surrender.”

  She checked the length in back. “Since you gave up so easily, I have a surprise for you.”

  “A surprise?” Dave held steady as she cut behind his ear.

  “You know how your birthday is coming up?”

  “No party—you promised.”

  “We’ve been over that already. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “So, what is it?”

  “I’ve made arrangements to have the kids stay at my sister’s next weekend. It’s spur of the moment, I know, but you seem tense lately. I thought that we could drive down to Annapolis for the weekend.”

  His eyes widened. “I love that place . . . oh, but I can’t—there’s a new account at work.”

  “Yeah, I thought you’d say that. I talked with Ellen yesterday. She agreed. I only had to twist her arm a little. We can leave first thing Friday morning.”

  Dave turned to face her. “You called my boss?”

  “I asked Brock first. He agreed and backed me up.” She watched the corners of his mouth slowly turn up. “Thank you, thank you,” she added, offering a bow to her pretend audience.

  Dave was chuckling now at the thought. “You’re terrific, you know that?”

  “Happy birthday,” she whispered as she bent over and kissed his lips.

  As Dave pulled away, he felt the need to apologize. “Listen, I’m sorry for being so down lately. I never thought the turning-forty thing would bother me—but I guess it has.”

  “It shouldn’t.”

  “I know. It’s just strange: one day I’m twenty, full of aspirations, excited for life’s adventures that are just around the bend. Then, the very next day, I’m forty, and I’m not sure I can even see the bend anymore, and . . . well, it’s exasperating. And then you surprise me with the perfect gift.”

  She shrugged. “What can I say? I’m just the
perfect little wife.”

  Dave wasn’t finished. “Best of all, you knew not to plan one of those lame surprise parties. Everyone giving you dopey over-the-hill gag gifts. I’d go off the deep end. I’m telling you, honey, you always know just what I need.”

  Megan reached for the broom and began to sweep. Seconds ticked before she answered. “What can I say to a compliment like that?” Another long moment passed. “And don’t worry. I would never plan one of those silly over-the-hill parties—never in a million years.”

  chapter six

  I accepted the assignment to research the bridge. I’ll begin after I finish my current project—fourteenth-century artists—and then take a two-week vacation. I don’t have anyplace to go, though I should just pick a Caribbean island and buy a ticket—the sunshine would do me good. I just find it awkward and lonely to vacation alone.

  My father and I used to go on adventures together when he could get a weekend off. They weren’t to exotic locations, usually just up the coast. There was a little hotel near the beach in Mendocino that was his favorite. We’d ride bikes, go to movies, or just sit on the beach and people-watch. Of course, the only people that he’d ever watch were those wearing bikinis. I’d tease him and we’d both laugh; I miss his laughter.

  We actually had a weekend trip planned just before he was killed. But as often happens in life, I was busy with my job at the university, and I asked him to postpone it a month. I wish so badly now that I’d taken the time.

  I won’t be using my vacation to head up the coast. I’ve only been back to the hotel in Mendocino once since his death. I cried most of the night and then drove straight home early the next morning. I’m taking two weeks off because I haven’t used any vacation time in almost two and a half years, and if I don’t use at least part of it by summer, I’ll lose it. It’s a ridiculous policy, but then again, I work for a university, a place where too many smart people are confined in too small a space—so odd policies happen.

  The professor assures me that even with a couple of weeks off, I’ll still have plenty of time to take on the society’s assignment, the history of the bridge. Their deadline isn’t until late summer. He was ecstatic that I accepted, and that alone makes me nervous. It’s not that I don’t trust him; he’s just so meddlesome. And I’ve learned from sad experience that when the professor meddles, it means there’s a bad date in my future.