chapter thirty

From Washington, D.C., Dave headed northwest on I-70 across Maryland and into Pennsylvania—past the steel mills of Pittsburgh, past factories, past apartments. I-70 soon meshed into I-76 toward Cleveland, then into I-80 past Lake Erie, Toledo, and Gary, Indiana.

When Dave was hungry, he would stop and eat—burgers and sandwiches, mostly, at drive-ins, cafés, fast-food diners, whatever was convenient. When he was tired, he’d find a motel and sleep—usually in the smaller towns, away from the big city, far from the memories he was trying to distance. Sometimes, when the monotony of the freeway began to grind, he’d exit to the back roads and traverse at a slower, less frenzied pace. Other times, when anxiety would take hold, when he worried about making it on time, he’d jump back onto the interstate and push it to the limit.

Just missing Chicago, then across Illinois and into Iowa, familiar city names—Davenport, Iowa City, Des Moines—but names that mixed and mingled, never letting him be sure, as he traced the route in his head, if they were places he’d just passed or those still to come. He drove by farms, endless fields of crops, scattered tractors and cows. He passed small, blurring towns—Guthrie, Oakfield, Hancock—almost nameless, each looking like the one before.

Through them all, he kept a close eye on the weather, and it had generally cooperated. He’d detoured only once near Newton to avoid rain that was predicted to blow across the plain from the northeast. It was a detour that proved unnecessary. The guarded storm stayed distant, as if it understood that the determined man on the motorcycle needed to get past and be on his way.

It was a solitary ride, a reflective ride, a lonely ride—and yet it provided time to think, to wonder.

With Megan things had been easy. Life’s road had been busy, at times a veritable eight-lane freeway, but she had always been there providing a direction and a destination. Without her, it felt as though he’d lost his orientation. The once-solid path was now more like gravel, and sometimes it led off into so many diverse directions that it was impossible to know which to choose. Or worse, at times the road ended, leaving only weeds, brush, and craggy rocks.

Dave had hinted more than once to Dr. Jaspers that a change of scenery might do him some good. Her answer was always the same: “I wish it were that easy to run away from the pain, David. If it were, I’d open up a travel agency. But it follows you. It chases you. The pain needs to be dealt with from inside, David, not from the outside.”

Was she right? Was this journey helping the inside? With each mile, the nagging questions remained. Was he avoiding his problems—or running toward the only place he could find answers? He had no idea; he simply knew that it was time he ran toward something.

Past the state line and into Nebraska. More fast food, more cheap motels. Omaha, Lincoln, Aurora—into the heartland—Kearney, Lexington, North Platte. Chased by demons, perhaps chasing solace, but moving. If the constant riding was merely deadening the pain, one thing was certain. As soon as he stopped, as soon as the numbness wore thin, the returning ache would be devastating.

I arrive at the library just before eight a.m. and wait by the entrance to the area that houses the Special Collections documents. Gwen doesn’t arrive until almost eight minutes after the hour. “Hi, Katie. I had a feeling you’d be waiting. Sorry to be late. I couldn’t find my keys, and without my keys, nobody gets in.”

“That’s okay. In your message you said that you found something?”

Gwen nods as she fiddles with her large silver key ring. She locates the key and slips it into the lock to open the door. I follow like a puppy.

“I checked the electronic index of the documents on loan to three universities. They didn’t show a Patrick O’Riley. I was about to call you and tell you the bad news when I remembered the interdepartment log sheets. From time to time, department heads can request that material be transferred to their care, as long as they’re using it on campus for an approved project. The problem is that those items on request don’t show up on our loan sheets or in the electronic index until we get the confirmation logs back from the department heads.”

I remind myself that this is a university, so to someone obviously much smarter than I, the system must make perfect sense.

Gwen continues, “Of course, it sometimes takes weeks; heavens, I’ve seen them take months to be returned. So, when I checked the log sheets, I could see that the chemistry lab had a bundle of letters that they’ve been using for date testing—items relating to the bridge. They are listed in the index as a bundle, rather than by author. That’s why nothing showed up. Anyway, I called Dr. Stanton, and apparently they did have a bundle of letters from the early to mid-1900s.”

“Did have? They don’t still have them?” I question, getting impatient at the depth of her explanation.

“Not exactly. They were sent down to the extension in Los Angeles to Dr. Markus, still technically part of the campus. I called his assistant and she checked through the material. Sure enough, there was a letter that’s signed by . . . are you ready?”

She pauses, as if expecting a drumroll to materialize from nowhere. When it doesn’t, she finishes on her own. “Patrick O’Riley. Now, I don’t know if it’s the same Mr. O’Riley you’re looking for, but I thought you’d like to know.”

It was the best news I’d heard in weeks. “How long will they have the letter?”

“They’re scheduled for another two months, longer if they request an extension.”

“Can I drive down and see it?”

“You can, but you don’t need to. I had a copy sent over to me yesterday.”

I feel my neck chill as she turns to her desk and picks up three sheets of paper. I see the top piece has a sticky note attached with my name written on it. I glance at the first page and instantly recognize the handwriting. It is the same as in the journal. It is indeed a letter written by Patrick O’Riley—my Patrick!

“This is amazing, Gwen. I owe you.”

“Just doing my job. I do hope it helps.”

I thank her again profusely and then, as politely as possible, excuse myself to one of the nearby cubicles. It’s not that I care if anyone else reads the letter—obviously many people have. I want to study the letter alone because it feels personal. Perhaps I’m also afraid of how I might react.

February 11, 1937

Dearest Anna,

The bridge is almost finished and she is a wonder! I can’t wait for you and the young ones to see her. She spans a deep canyon, a channel filled with treacherous currents and a perpetually frenzied sea, like the Atlantic that beats upon the shores of Ireland. The two great cables that drape from her towers contain enough strands of wire to encircle the equator thrice, and the concrete poured into her pylons and anchorages could pave a four-foot-wide sidewalk from me to Dublin. The structure is indeed a wonder, and she will open to the public in just over three months.

I could not help but feel a little pride today, Anna, as I walked her span. The wind was blowing, as it always does, and the gale caused me to remember the many days I had spent on her girders. At times the wind would gust so hard the bridge would sway back and forth nearly five times a man’s height. I would think of you, even in those conditions. I would picture your smiling eyes, the warmth of your touch, your laughter. I would think of the children and I would pray silently to God and the saints to sustain me.

Only now, Anna, with me work almost complete, will I admit to you that it has been dangerous. ’Tis a job that loses one man for every million dollars spent. And yet, by God’s good grace, only one had perished—until February.

The safety net had saved nineteen men from plunging to their deaths into the cold, swirling sea. We called ’em members of the “Halfway to Hell” club. Thank the saints I was not among ’em. Perhaps we took the net for granted—until the day it failed.

Twelve lads were standing on the scaffolding when she collapsed. Eleven fell into the net, and for but a moment the men cheered. Then the web began to tear, and screams of joy turned to terror. I watched in horror, Anna, as the web gave way and all of me friends plunged into the open jaws of the ocean below. ’Twas a tragic and painful day.

The wonder is that, only minutes before, I had stood on the same scaffolding! I do not tell you this to cause alarm—me intentions are just the opposite. I want you to know, Anna, that it was God who spared me life.

I have devoted five years to build her—five years of longing for you and the children. And though this bridge has robbed me of sacred years of fatherhood, she is also me savior. Without the endless days spent welding her frames together, I could never have saved the money needed to snatch you and the young ones out of the slums of Dublin that hold you captive.

It is true, Anna. You will all soon be free. I have booked you all passage on the Virginia May, which sails from Cork on the 29th.

I am enclosing $60 for the journey. Take only what you can carry. Leave quietly. Bid farewells carefully. I will spend me days waiting your arrival. And when you and the children come, there is something that I want all of us to do. We will take a boat across the bay to the north end of the bridge. We will hold hands, and with gratitude we will walk as a family across her length—across our bridge to freedom.

You will soon see that I don’t exaggerate her greatness. I want you and the children to see her majesty, feel her power. I want our young ones to understand that she is more than just a bridge—she is our liberty, our life, our hope for the future. And not just for our family, but for all those who cross her span in search of better times.

’Tis true. God is good and merciful, and so when we reach the other side, I know a place on the south shore where we can kneel together as a family and say a prayer thanking Almighty God and all the saints for our reunion and our future.

Anna, I hope you will not think it strange, but when we rise from our knees on that opposite shore, we will no longer be the O’Riley family from the sully side of Dublin. At the moment we stand, as a symbol of our new life, we will be the Rileys—and we will be from America!

Please, dear wife, do not think that the sea air has rusted me brain. I am not forsaking our heritage. We both know I’ll be Irish ’til the day I die, but the children, Anna, the children will have a new life in America, and a new hope! And not just our children, but their children, and then their children, and the chain will continue because of our courage and because of God’s goodness.

We have lived in poverty and misery, but soon it ends. The bridge is spectacular, enchanting, even magical. As we cross over the sea and to her opposite shore, we will be a family once again.

I count the days.

Your loving husband,

Patrick O’Riley

He changed his last name! No wonder my father couldn’t find him. No wonder the man appeared to vanish. With tears clouding my eyes, I mouth my thanks to Gwen and hurry toward home. On my way out, I pass Professor Winston.

I’ve always had a hard time hiding my emotions. I can’t mask my joy when I’m happy or my gloom when I’m sad. Right away, he sees tears streaming down my face, but he also recognizes that I am beaming. He’s a man, so he is immediately confused.

“Katie, are you okay?”

“Good morning, Professor. Yes, I’m fabulous. It’s been such a productive morning.”

“But you’ve been crying.”

“Yes, indeed I have.”

His fingers touch his chin. “You certainly are involved in your work.”

I smile and hurry past him toward the exit. And he doesn’t once ask about the assignment. The day is turning out to be stellar after all.