chapter twenty-eight

My first call of the morning is to Janet Metcalfe, a friend in Salt Lake City. After getting a history degree from SFSU, she moved to Utah to work for an insurance agency. I call her first because she’s an avid genealogy nut, and I use the term in the nicest sense of the word. The Mormon church operates a Family History Library there that is one of the best in the world. I know that Janet uses it regularly to research her own ancestors, and I’m hoping that she’ll know the ropes and use it to help me.

“Good morning, this is Janet.”

“Janet, it’s Katie Connelly.”

“Katie? It’s about time you called. How are you?”

We chat for several minutes, catching up on old acquaintances and gossip. I find out that she is engaged; she finds out that I am hardly dating. She loves her new job and is surprised to hear that I am still working at the university. She and her fiancé are planning a trip to Hawaii for their honeymoon; I tell her that for my vacation, I painted my house. Before I get too depressed, I cut short the small talk and get to the reason for my call.

“Listen, Janet, I’m calling to ask a favor.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“I’m looking for a man . . .” I pause at the wrong moment, and she jumps in before I have a chance to finish.

“Well, it’s about time. You came to the right person. I know several who are available.”

“Let me rephrase that—I’m looking for information about a man. He lived in San Francisco from about 1931 to at least 1937. His name was Patrick O’Riley. I was thinking that, since you are so good at genealogy research, you could check the Family History Library for me.”

“I’d be happy to. Do you know when he was born?”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t know how old he was?”

“No, not exactly.”

“He was from San Francisco, though?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“A U.S. citizen?”

“I doubt it, but I don’t know.”

“So, all you really know is his name?”

“Pretty much. I do know that he had a wife whose name was Anna; at least, I think they were married. I know they loved each other. She was living somewhere far away, perhaps Ireland. I was hoping that you could look for him in both San Francisco and Ireland.”

“Let me get this straight. You want to find a man named O’Riley from Ireland, and that’s all you know about him?”

“I guess.”

“Should I look for a Smith from the United States while I’m at it?”

If she is trying to make me feel stupid, it’s working.

“I know it’s not much, but it’s all I have right now,” I admit.

“It’d be easier to just find you a man.”

“I called because you’re the best researcher I’ve ever known.”

“You know me, Katie, flattery will get you everywhere. You say his first name is Patrick?”

“You’ll give it a shot?”

“Sure, but no promises. Now, is there anything else you can tell me about him? Anything else at all?”

“He may have been an engineer or attended engineering school. Does that help?”

“About as much as knowing his favorite color, but it’s something.”

“I appreciate this.”

“Just promise you’ll come to my wedding.”

“It’s a promise.”

I confirm my address and say my good-byes. I hate to admit it, but Janet is right. I need more information. Before I make any other calls, I pick up the journal, open the cover, and carefully turn page after page.

There must be something I’ve missed.

The steel and concrete buildings blurred as Dave headed south, away from the city, away from the job, away from Brock and Dr. Jaspers and Ellen Brewer, away from his empty home in Jamesburg—away from the memories.

There was one visit he needed to make before his journey to the bridge could begin—one place he felt compelled to see. Traffic in Washington, D.C., was heavy when Dave arrived, just as it had been every other time he’d ever been to D.C. Once, three years earlier, feeling guilty for not providing enough “culture” for the children, he and Megan had piled the family into the van for a long weekend in the nation’s capital. They’d made plans to see all the historic sites—the Washington Monument, the Jefferson Memorial, the Constitution Gardens, and, yes, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial—the “wall” that Redd so deeply revered.

Unknowingly, however, they’d picked the same weekend as the annual Cherry Blossom Festival, the time each spring when the trees blossom and the crowds throng in hordes to see. By the time they’d hit Constitution Avenue, traffic had come to a standstill. After moving only two blocks in forty-five minutes, the family voted to bail. They would get historic another time. Instead, they opted for Annapolis, one of Dave’s favorite getaway spots. They rented rooms at the Prince George Bed and Breakfast and spent the weekend going to movies, restaurants, and even a wax museum. Those were good memories, but also reminders that the city’s historic sites remained on the someday list.

Today was the day.

Dave found a parking spot along Henry Bacon Drive and locked up his bike. It was a short walk to the monument nestled in the grassy park of Constitution Gardens. His pace slowed as he neared the structure. It was exactly as Redd had described: black granite panels, arranged into two arms that extended to form an angle. The area sloped gently toward the center of each so that for a person entering at ground level, the descent toward the middle would reveal more and more of the wall. At the highest point, Dave guessed the wall extended about ten feet.

He studied the design. It was striking but unimposing, less grand than he’d imagined, and yet certainly profound. Each of the long black granite slabs sunk down into the earth—obviously symbolic of the men and women who had died and were buried. And it was indeed a place of calmness and serenity.

Dave stepped back to record mentally what he was seeing, feeling—if not for himself, then for Redd. Most staggering were the sheer numbers of names cut into the stone’s surface—thousands upon thousands of names, each holding a story of lost life, love, and legacy.

An older, olive-skinned man and woman shuffled past Dave toward the wall. They were speaking Spanish; as they neared the granite, their tones hushed. The old man bowed his head and looked down while the woman raised her hand, extended her wrinkled finger, and touched a name.

Farther down the wall Dave watched three teenage girls, one writing in a notebook while the other two strolled silently back and forth. It was more hallowed behavior than one might have expected from teenage friends on a beautiful summer day.

Dave stepped up to the granite slab, picked a name at random, and let his fingers trace the letters. Clifford Paxton. Who was he? Who had he left behind? Dave’s fingers moved to the name adjacent: Simon Ellison. Did he leave a wife? Did loved ones still visit and trace outlines of his name? Was he still remembered?

Books had been placed at each end of the wall that listed the soldiers alphabetically, making it easy for friends and family to find their loved ones. Dave walked to a book, flipped through its pages, searched for Leslie Harris, and then located the panel where his name was engraved. Dave let his fingers trace the furrowed letters, as Redd had done so many years earlier and no doubt many times since. But what about the soldier’s name below Leslie’s, or the one above? Every single one, like Leslie, had given his or her life, had left grieving family behind. While he was grateful for the chance to touch Leslie’s name, to remember Redd’s story, to offer a silent moment of gratitude for the man’s sacrifice, Dave also realized that each and every name would do.

He had read about the war in school, recalled the history. Countless books and movies had been written and made, and he had read and seen many of them—yet it had never felt like his war.

An elderly woman approached and placed a flower at the base of the wall. Dave could see no tears, and yet she touched the wall with reflection. What was her story? Had she lost a friend, an uncle, a father? He thought about approaching her, asking, but didn’t. Instead, he bowed his head, closed his eyes, and offered a tribute to those whose names stretched out before him—to Les Harris, to thousands of faceless others, and to Redd.

He was thankful he had taken the time. It was a hallowed place, a sacred place—Redd would be proud. And yet, although he knew he would never take the war for granted again, he also realized this was not where he would find closure. Without looking back at the woman, the teenage girls, the couple, or the many others who had come to pay their respects, Dave turned and walked back across the grass and down the street to where his bike was parked. Many came to the wall to shed tears; Dave did not.

Instead, he strapped on his helmet, climbed on his bike, and rode—away from Redd’s answers and toward a search for his own.