chapter thirty-one
Why do terrible days occur before wonderful days? Could it be with life that, in order to savor the joy, we must dine first at the table of despair? I don’t pretend to know. What I do know is that, as bad as the last several days have been, today has made up for them and more. And, no offense, God, but it’s about time!
When I walk in the door, the phone is already ringing. It is Janet on the other end.
“Janet? I was just going to call you.”
“Queen’s College of Cork.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I found a record from the school for a Patrick O’Riley—he attended the Queen’s College of Cork in Ireland. He enrolled in 1926.”
“I won’t ask how you tracked that down,” I say.
“There’s more. He didn’t graduate, but take a guess what he studied.”
“Engineering?”
“Ding, ding. We have a winner.”
The puzzle pieces are falling into place. Patrick O’Riley is growing into more than words on a page—he is becoming real.
Janet continues, “And you said he was in San Francisco in about 1931?”
“Yes.”
“The last record of him at the school is in 1930.”
“So, he’s our man.” I say, as I catch myself bouncing from foot to foot.
“Let me finish—there’s more. You mentioned that your Mr. O’Riley worked on the Golden Gate Bridge, right?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Well, in my digging, I learned that the Queen’s College of Cork has a few famous graduates, among them a Mr. Michael Maurice O’Shaughnessy. Does the name ring a bell?”
“I think so. Let me try to remember.” The name sounds familiar. It has something to do with the bridge, but I can’t put my finger on it.
Janet interrupts. “Let me help. He came from Ireland to San Francisco to become the city engineer. Turns out he was one of the early advocates of building a bridge across the Gate. He was born in County Limerick, Ireland, which also happens to be the birthplace of . . . Patrick O’Riley.”
“What are you saying?”
“In this business you make assumptions. Perhaps Patrick knew this guy or his family in Ireland. Perhaps this O’Shaughnessy is the one who convinced Patrick to come to America to work on the bridge. It’s all plausible.”
“Is there more?”
“That’s all for now. The most curious thing is that I haven’t been able to trace him after he arrived in the United States. Usually that’s where we have the most success.”
“I believe I can tell you why. We found a letter from him here at the university. He dropped the O’ from his name. The family changed their name to just Riley.”
“Of course!”
“Will that help you track him?”
“You know me. I’m the one who can’t put down a crossword puzzle. Give me a couple more days, and I’ll see what I can come up with.”
“Janet, every time we talk, your wedding gift gets more expensive.”
I don’t expect to hear back from Janet for at least two days. Three hours later, she calls again.
“Are you sitting down?”
“Yes.”
“Looking for the right name made all the difference in the world. Let me tell you about your mystery man. Patrick O’Riley was born in County Limerick, Ireland, in 1899.”
I quickly do the math in my head and realize that when he started on the bridge, he was 32—older than I’d guessed.
Janet continues, “He married Anna Sullivan in Ireland in 1925. She was from a village called Claddagh. I have records of Patrick at the university until 1930, but nothing in Ireland after that. That’s the same time he pops up in San Francisco to work on the bridge. He’s there until 1937. After that, it becomes tricky. I can track seven different Patrick Rileys during the years that follow. Interestingly, two are married to women named Anna. I found church records for one of the two Patricks in Portsmouth, Virginia. If he’s our man, then he had three children—one son and two daughters. The other possibility is a Patrick Riley in Washington, near Tacoma. If that’s him, then the news isn’t so good. He had four children—one boy and three girls. However, I found death dates for his wife and the children, all on the same day. That means an accident or perhaps an epidemic. If he’s your man, then when he died in 1959, he died alone and with no posterity.”
My mind races. I recall reading about the bridge in Tacoma. Construction started shortly after the Golden Gate Bridge was finished.
“Let’s assume, Janet, that my Patrick is the man in Virginia. What did you find out about his children?”
“The trail with the two daughters went immediately cold. That’s common—they no doubt married, changed their names, moved away. The son is easier since his name stays the same. He was christened Robert Riley; personally, I wouldn’t have named my kid Robert with a last name of Riley, but nobody asked me. It turns out Robert stayed in Virginia. He was Irish Catholic, like his father. He married a woman named Louise Skinner. They also had a son. Here’s the bad news. Robert Riley died of a heart attack four years ago. His wife died two years later. I have an old address, but I don’t think that will do you much good.”
“So, where do I go from here?”
“Katie, it’s me, Janet. I told you they had a son. Do you want his phone number?”
“You’re serious?”
“Remember, it helps only if I’ve traced the right Patrick Riley. We still have the guy who moved to Washington. It’s a fifty-fifty shot as I see it.”
“Janet, what’s his name? The grandson, I mean.”
“Is your pencil ready?”
“Ready.”
“His name is David—David Riley.”