chapter eighteen

The banquet hall is bursting with more well-intentioned overachievers than the gym after New Year’s. These are society’s capable meddlers. The conscientious. The punctilious. The doers. They have assembled today to hear about the bridge.

The woman on the front row two seats from the end, with the wire-rimmed glasses and straight brown hair, looks surprisingly like Diane Keaton. It’s hard to tell from a distance, but the man standing in the back beside the lady in the purple dress vaguely resembles Justin Timberlake. The only other obvious match in my celebrity game is a man sitting a dozen rows from the front—the spitting image of a young Tom Hanks. The rest are mostly gray-haired society women wearing fancy dresses and too much lipstick.

I don’t like large groups of people; they make me nervous. If I’d known I was going to be seated on the stand next to Professor Winston and his wife, perched in front like produce at the supermarket, I surely would have found an excuse to stay home.

After scanning the crowd, I am utterly relieved that I wore my longer floral dress instead of the short green one. Even though I’m wearing nylons, everyone knows that raised platforms, short skirts, and crowds are a scandalous mix.

I do my best to pretend I am listening to the man on stage, the man wearing a badly fitted tuxedo, yammering on about heritage and posterity. Finally, unable to take any more torture, I invent a new game to pass the time—a perfect game for a crowd of old ladies. I call it, “Guess the Price of the Walmart Skirt.” Soon my mental fun has evolved into a full-fledged game show in which contestants pair up audience members wearing similar outfits. It is the best game I’ve invented yet, and I half expect a booming voice to announce the many fine prizes in the studio for those on today’s show.

My fun is interrupted by the professor, who glances in my direction. Perhaps I am getting a bit too involved, my excitement a bit too obvious—and then the speaker announces my name.

When he turns toward me, the professor leans over and whispers in my ear. “Told you that you’d be surprised. Sorry for the lack of warning. Talk for about two minutes and tell them about the research you’re doing. Give them a little flavor of what’s to come. You’ll do fine.”

I don’t move. I feel like killing him right here, in front of all these people. Sure, there are plenty of witnesses, but I can plead insanity.

The professor pats me on the knee, as if that will speed me up or give me the strength to stand. My face is flushed and my hands are trembling. I don’t have any idea what to say, and so I sit there, not moving from my chair.

The room is growing silent as the clapping subsides. The people in the crowd who were dozing begin to stir. The professor is now physically lifting me gently out of my chair, and so, seeing no other choice, I stand and trudge to the podium. As I do, I can feel him breathe a sigh of relief. I can see people in the audience breathe too, but I can’t catch my own breath.

I look out over the expectant faces and long for my cubicle at the university, for my solitude. From the podium I have a perfect view of the woman who looks like Diane Keaton. She stares at me. Justin Timberlake stares at me. Young Tom Hanks stares at me. The gray-haired ladies stare at me. I stand in silence. I have nothing prepared, nothing to say.

“Just talk about the research that you’re doing,” I hear the professor whisper. He doesn’t know that I haven’t started the research, that I’ve been too caught up in the journal.

I glance back at him and then again at the crowd.

I apologize—never a good way to begin. I stumble through a few basic facts about the bridge that pop into my head, then stammer about how important the structure is to the community. I mumble. I pause. I stutter. I recite meaningless drivel. I sound like the professor.

I realize I am repeating phrases. It is a disaster, and it occurs to me that I should end my misery and theirs, but I can’t find a way to close. I stop again and try to collect my thoughts, to salvage what little is left of my credibility as a researcher. The crowd waits patiently.

As I grope for words of substance, for some way to conclude, for any thought that will tie my rambling together, my father’s words come to mind. I remember my childhood and the game of pick-up sticks that I played at the table with the piece of cable. I remember the words my father taught me as I played that lesson from the bridge. Mostly, I remember the man who was always there for me.

The surprise of being called on to speak and my fear of crowds, coupled with memories of my father that flood my mind, have made me a nervous wreck. I feel emotions taking complete control of the helm. Next, in front of so many strangers, I do something I absolutely dread. I begin to cry like a child.

The professor steps to the podium to hand me a tissue, and for the first time he seems concerned that he has stepped over the line, that he has pushed me too far beyond my capacity. I take the tissue and nod. I know I should sit, but instead I turn back to the audience and try to explain my behavior.

I apologize again, but then tell them why I am crying. I tell them about my father bringing the cable home from the bridge. I tell them about matching the strands together. I tell them about the lesson he taught me, about working together, and about how much I have missed him since his death. I echo his words and then say, “Together, we also can do the impossible.” Then, with mascara running rampant down my face, I stumble to my seat and sit down.

The room is silent, until one of the gray-haired women on the front row stands up and begins to clap. Soon, many people are on their feet, applauding. They don’t stop. The professor smiles and nods as if the accolades are for him. He pats my knee again and continues to bow to the crowd. I clutch the tissue and dab at my smudged eyes. I keep dabbing, the black keeps coming, and the crowd continues clapping. And all that I can think of is how grateful I am that I didn’t wear my green dress.

At the reception afterward, strangers congratulate me on an outstanding job. I find out that Diane Keaton’s twin is actually the vice president of the Society, that the Justin Timberlake look-alike owns a chain of furniture stores and is one of the larger financial contributors to the group, and that young Tom Hanks is the principal at a high school in Crescent City, where my information will début. They all tell me that they are excited to see the final product and add that if it is anything like my presentation, it will be outstanding.

Then the principal steps right up beside me. “Miss Katie!” he exclaims, as he reaches out with both his smile and his hand to again enthusiastically grip mine. “Your words were inspirational, even sensational. This entire evening has been . . .” He pauses, laughs, and then concludes, “ . . . educational!”

His eyes don’t turn, and while I smile back, my research brain has automatically started to scour for other closely rhyming words. Oddly, the only one that spits out is available.

Others continue to draw near to applaud me, and though I should be happy to receive their praise, it all causes a knot in my stomach. I haven’t begun the research, haven’t even put together an outline. I’ve been too consumed by an odd journal penned by a man I don’t know.

As the crowd thins, the professor and his wife offer me a ride home. I politely accept, deciding to hold my rebuke until the next day at work.

The professor congratulates himself again as he pulls up in front of my house. “You were the hit of the evening, Katie . . . the hit of the evening. I’m so glad I trusted my instincts.”

I mumble my thanks, though I am not sure for what, and then I get out of the car. Before I can close the car door, he says, “And one more thing . . .”

“Yes?”

He speaks the words quickly, laughs, and speeds off, causing the open door to slam shut on its own. It takes a minute for his remark to register, and when it does, I can only swing my purse in the direction of his car. But his words also make me smile as I unlock my door and step inside.

“Katie, you look beautiful without mascara.”

Dave slipped out of the office just before three. This time no one questioned his absence. He found Redd at the Lakeshore BikeHouse showroom, standing in front of a stainless-steel table strewn with parts.

“Dave, what’s up? How are the suits treating you?”

“Very well. I gave Shaun Safford your line about freedom—he went nuts.”

“It’s ’cause it’s true, man. Like I told you, they should hire me.”

“That’s why I’m here. I’d like to.”

Redd’s mustache curled along with his confused lips. “Say what?” His eyes grew wider when Dave took out his wallet and started counting bills.

“Whoa, wait a second. I was joking. I ain’t taking your money.” Redd motioned him close, lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you all you want to know—no charge.”

Dave nodded his acceptance. “Fair enough. I’ll take you up on that offer. You tell me everything that I need to know about BikeHouse and their customized motorcycles—no charge.”

Still, he continued to lay bills on the table next to the pieces of a carburetor.

Redd stared in confusion. “I told you, no charge.”

Dave nodded. “Then we’re in agreement. But this money isn’t for your knowledge about the machines.”

“What’s it for, then?” Redd questioned.

“I landed the account because of you. Now I truly need to learn everything possible about the company, the people, the product.”

“So?”

“So, before Shaun Safford asks again and I’m forced to either lie or embarrass myself, I need you to teach me how to ride a Harley.”