chapter forty-two

Dried blood caked his face, and his head pounded. He tried to open his eyes, but they were covered with dirt and blood. He pushed himself up into a sitting position. He’d been passed out on the concrete floor; his muscles were stiff and sore. He focused first on the filthy sink in the corner, and then on the cot on the opposite side of the cell. Dave wished he could rinse the blood from his face, but he feared that he might disturb his cellmate, who was asleep and wearing the tight-fitting leather jacket.

The buzz of the steel door sounded, and the man on the cot stirred. Dave could hear voices, but none that he recognized.

“Get him out. Get him out now! The boys upstairs have done it again.”

The cell door rattled open, and three uniformed guards stepped inside. The tallest of the three appeared to be in charge. He directed the others, who moved to Dave’s side to help him up. Dave’s joints ached as he attempted to stand. He spoke softly. “I swear it’s me in the picture.”

The guard in charge turned toward the other two. “Oh, they’re well aware of that now. Down here we’re just wondering why the hell the city’s finest couldn’t figure it out last night.”

Dave’s cellmate, who’d been watching from his cot, now sat up. The guard motioned Dave toward the door.

“So I’m free to go?” Dave asked.

“Of course. That’s a nasty cut on your eye. Did that happen last night?”

Without a word, Dave glanced at his cellmate. The man on the cot shrugged, spat on the floor, then leaned back against the wall.

The two men at Dave’s side reached out to help him walk. He shrugged off their assistance and stepped ahead alone. He paused at the door and then turned to address the tallest of the guards. “Are you in charge here?”

“Down here, I am. Paul McGuire.” He held out his hand. Dave reached out and shook it.

“Mr. McGuire, can I ask a favor of these men?”

“I guess that depends on what you have in mind.”

Dave leaned over and whispered to the circle of men.

Paul McGuire was the first to speak. “I think that’s doable.” He turned toward the two guards and nodded his approval. “Gentlemen,” he directed.

Dave stepped back into the cell with the uniformed men and toward the burly man sitting on the cot. As they approached, he stood.

“I’d like my jacket back,” Dave said politely.

The man grunted a response—Dave took it as a no.

With as hard a punch as Dave could muster, he drove his fist into the man’s stomach. Instantly the man buckled over, though he remained on his feet. He lunged toward Dave, but the two guards had already stepped forward. Each grabbing an arm, they stripped the jacket from him, pushed him back down onto the cot, and then handed the jacket to Dave.

“Thank you,” he said to the still-gasping man. “I knew you’d understand.”

Then, accompanied by the three uniformed men, he turned and walked through the cell door a free man.

• • •

The sky was still cloudy as Dave retraced his path across the bridge, but this time he could see patches of blue dotting the horizon. He slowed down when he reached the structure’s midpoint. The pillars, the cables, the towers—everything looked different today. Everything felt different.

He didn’t stay long—he didn’t need to.

A few miles down the road, he pulled off at Citrus Heights to eat. After he’d finished, he called Redd.

“Redd, it’s Dave. How are you?”

“Dave? Good to hear from you. I’m doing fine. How about yourself?”

“I’m okay.”

“How’s the bike working?”

“Just the one little detour; otherwise she’s been great.”

“Glad to hear it. Listen, you may not want to hear this right now, but I’ve had a bunch of visitors around here this last week.”

“Visitors?”

“Well, yeah. First, your friend Brock and his boss came by. Then, the next thing I know, the CEO of BikeHouse himself shows up—asking for me. You should have seen my boss’s face. I think my job security is at an all-time high.”

“So, what’s up?”

“Well, they came asking for me, but only ’cause they need to find you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, sir. Seems you stood up in the middle of an important meeting, said to hell with it all, and walked out—just so you could take off on your new motorcycle.”

“I guess I did—and they’re still mad?”

“Mad? They want to make you the BikeHouse poster child. CEO wants to meet you. Their ad people have been going crazy. They’re thinking of re-creating the whole thing for their TV commercials. A highly paid executive who chucks it all to ride off on his bike to find life’s answers—you have to admit, it has possibilities.”

“You’re serious?”

“Oh, they’re convinced this approach will sell more motorcycles than Easy Rider. Problem is, they’d like your permission. Oh, you’ve got a slew of people looking for you, all right.”

Dave was stunned. He could only imagine the look on Ellen’s face.

Redd continued. “And here’s the best part. I’m chatting with the CEO and he starts asking me questions. He wants to know what I think. Can you imagine . . . the CEO asking what I think?”

“Congratulations, Redd.”

“Thanks. So—” Redd hesitated, as if not sure how to ask, “what should I tell them?”

“Nothing yet. If you’ll wait to tell them that I called, I’d appreciate it.”

“No problem. And Dave . . . how did it go?”

“On the long stretches of road, Redd, I still think about her and the children. I still remember her smile, her voice, the highlights in her hair from too much time in the sun, the way she’d touch my hand . . . but it’s different now. It’s better.”

“It’s so good to hear you say that. What are your plans? Are you heading back this direction?”

“You’ll be the first to know, Redd, the very first to know.”

It’s been nine days since I met the stranger on the bridge. Since then I’ve hardly slept. I’ve scarcely quit typing. My assignment for the Society is all but complete. Who knows? The professor may be proud of me yet.

I tore up the work that I’d started and began fresh with a clean sheet of paper. I’ve started fresh in many ways. I realized that there’s a more important story to tell than to recite a history of the bridge. I wrote it for the Society instead. It’s a story that’s been held captive inside, trying to find a means to come out—and it found a way. Once it started, I couldn’t get it to stop. Ideas and phrases and words poured into my mind so rapidly, I was terrified they would slink away before I had time to get them all down on paper. The story I’ve created for the Society is one of a man who kept a journal about a bridge. It tells of a cable and a selfless ironworker and the lessons they taught to a young girl. It’s a story about pain and fear turning into courage, and about not giving up on life. It’s a story about giving of ourselves to save others.

I’ve pasted a picture on the cover of my assignment. It’s a picture of the bridge—my picture, the one I painted long ago. It’s a house with a chimney and a white picket fence. There are cows and pigs and a pasture blended with bushes and trees and small yellow flowers covering the yard. Next to the house and connected to it are the tall golden and orange spires of a bridge that springs forth from the ground.

I used to think it was odd that there was no ocean in this picture—odd that, rather than spanning a treacherous strait, the bridge connects to a house and a family. I realize now that the picture is profound, that only as a child was the truth so plainly evident.

I’m grateful that it recently came flooding back, that it has again touched my life. You see, I’m beginning to remember, to realize that it’s not the cable or the steel or the concrete; it’s not the design or the engineering; it’s not the structure itself or even the turbulent ocean that it spans. What matters is that it connects people and families—that lives come together because of it, that they touch each other, become stronger. That’s the real magic.

I’ve changed the title of the report. I didn’t ask for permission.

A Forever Bridge, by Patrick O’Riley and Kade Connelly, as told by Katie Connelly.

It’s a story everyone needs to hear.

The best news is that I finally spoke to Mr. Riley. He called me at home yesterday. He got my number from his secretary. As I hoped, he is the correct David Riley. He confirmed that his grandfather, Patrick Riley—or Patrick O’Riley, if you prefer—did work on the bridge as a younger man. Mr. Riley was more reserved than I would have guessed from his picture on the Internet, but he seemed thrilled, even overwhelmed at the news. I have Patrick’s journal, letter, and Anna’s ring all packaged up and ready to send to him.

Giving up the journal and especially the ring will be difficult. They mean such a great deal to me. But they’re not mine, and I sense—at least I hope—that they will mean as much to Dave Riley.

It’s okay that I won’t have the journal in my hands to hold. I’ve instead placed its lessons in my heart.

My father taught me that people are like strands of cable, and he’s right. But I also think that love is sometimes like that piece of cable as well. If it’s not held tightly, if it’s dropped, it can break apart into a tangled pile on the floor.

I’d been expecting someone else to show up and put the pieces of my cable back together. Perhaps I should have started on my own. The main thing I think I’ll remember is that once my cable is together, once it’s strong, I’m going to keep the ends tightly wrapped.