The Bridge They Said Couldn’t Be Built

Ethel Rohan

Ben caught my attention one foggy morning on the Golden Gate Bridge, it clear at a glance that he was agitated and overwrought. He paced back and forth next to the rail, muttering and rubbing his face. I approached him as I would a frothing dog. Several passersby looked at him twice, but no one stopped. I hurried past, avoided eye contact. His pacing and hand gestures turned frantic, and he let loose an anguished cry. I doubled back, and asked if he needed help. He spat out a bitter laugh.
…..I persisted, struck by his helpless boy face, his green eyes. He moved toward the bridge rail, threatening to jump. I offered to call someone, pulled my phone from my pocket. He licked his lips, his eyes darting between the phone and the ocean, and croaked numbers, his ex-wife’s. I dialed her, the phone damp in my hands. She refused to speak with him. I stared at the dead phone, incredulous. Ben faced the ocean and gripped the bridge rail.
…..I peeled my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “You want to go get a beer?”
…..He shook his head hard and seemed more appalled by beer than suicide.
…..“You can always come back later?” I coaxed. “The fog will have burned off and you can go out in far more spectacular surroundings.”
…..His thick eyebrows climbed. “I don’t drink.”
…..“Maybe that’s your problem.”
…..He flexed the barest smile.
…..I babbled, told him about the fresh doughnuts in my car. I was parked real close, right at the start of the bridge.
…..“These doughnuts are so good you just might die from ecstasy alone, save the theatrics—”
…..He shook his head. “You’re crazy.”
…..I didn’t state the obvious.
…..We were almost at my car. I could tell he was wavering, that his skeleton was turning inside his skin, twisting back toward the ocean.
…..I resumed my jabber. “They serve these doughnuts still warm from the oven, taste like they’re from a fairy tale.”
…..My car smelled of a bakery, of spices from the air freshener. Ben’s teeth sank into the jam-filled doughnut, and his eyes widened as the flavors hit. He licked sugar from his lips and jam from the edges of his mouth. I tucked into the second doughnut, and enjoyed it far more than felt right. I licked my chin, catching chocolate and ocean salt.
…..I told Ben how I liked to walk the Bridge every Sunday morning, liked how the wind sifted through me, how the fog swallowed me.
…..“Do you think there’s a heaven?” he asked.
…..“Here, this is heaven.”
…..“This is hell,” he said.
…..“It’s that too.”
…..He told me how he and Shirley had broken-up after five years of marriage. How she’d thought he had no backbone. He was going to show her. He’d never fit right in the world, he went on. He’d always felt lonely, out of step. He was done trying.
…..I grasped at the right things to say. He remained distracted and stared back at the bridge. I asked if there was someone else he could call. He demanded Shirley, again. I hesitated, another wave of adrenalin coursing through me. I pushed the worst from my mind. Perhaps she’d talk to him this time, get through to him.
…..“Please,” he said.
…..I dialed, trembling. Shirley hung-up again. Ben held his head. I thought to dial 9-1-1, but he would have cleared the bridge before the dispatcher even had time to answer.
…..Ben clutched his stomach. “I’m going to be sick.”
…..He leaned out the passenger door and retched.
…..The smells of vomit and fear took over the car. I considered driving to a police station or the hospital, but decided he would bolt as soon as I parked or, most likely, jump from the moving car.
…..“Please let me take you to the hospital.” My voice sounded too high and quivery.
…..He rushed from the car. I charged after him, shouting.
…..He finally stopped, at the same spot where we’d met less than an hour earlier.
…..We watched the water, sailboats, seagulls, and Alcatraz in silence. Seals clamored over the far rocks, barked. We hugged ourselves against the encroaching fog.
…..I tried again. “You can’t do this. This is insane.”
…..He rested his head on his arms on the rail.
…..I thought of my father dead from lung cancer, my mother alive but lost to Alzheimer’s, and my brother wooden with depression, people I couldn’t save no matter how hard I’d tried.
…..“Right,” I said. “Let’s both jump.” I moved to the rail. I meant it, in that moment I really meant it.
…..He tugged on my arm. “I know what you’re trying to do. It’s not going to work.”
…..“I’m serious, I’ll jump too.”
…..“That’s just stupid.”
…..“I’m stupid? You’re stupid. You really think your life’s so worthless? You think you can just check-out? What about the rest of us?” I slapped my chest. “We play by the rules even when we don’t want to, when it’s hard and it hurts, unbearable. We go on even as we worry we’ll never be anything close to happy. What about us?”
…..I pulled myself up onto the bridge and swung my legs over the rail, dangled above the ocean. “So let’s go. Let’s do it.” My heart thumped in my throat.
…..Ben grabbed at my waist and pulled me backwards into his arms. I slapped at him. “Don’t you touch me. Don’t you dare stand there and tell me it’s not okay for me to jump, but it’s okay for you. Who made you so fucking special?” My voice broke.
…..He grabbed at his hair and made helpless, wounded noises.
…..I pushed my face close to his. “Go ahead. Do whatever you want.”
…..I forced myself toward my car, my breath uneven and legs iron. He wouldn’t jump. I knew he wouldn’t jump. A minute passed. Two. Three. I was just about to turn around when his shouts reached me.

…

The whole drive home, I thought I must be just as crazy as Ben. In my apartment, he wanted nothing more than to sleep. Like a baby, he said, like he hadn’t a care. He offered to take the couch, but I insisted he sleep in my bed. Too tired to take off his clothes, he fell in between the clean sheets and pulled the blankets up to his chin. I moved a chair to the side of the bed and watched while he slept. He lay on his side, his hands in prayer under his cheek. His eyes darted behind his lids.
…..On my dresser stood the gold-framed photograph of my parents and my broken brother. I tasted salt, and heard the seagulls. Often, I, too, didn’t feel able for this world. Sometimes, even leaving my apartment proved too much. Some days, I didn’t think I’d make it through. I relived those moments on the bridge rail when I’d leaned over the water and stared into its green, blue, silver, and golden hues, its gleam—terrified, tempted.
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“The Bridge They Said Couldn’t Be Built” is from Ethel’s upcoming short fiction collection, Cut Through the Bone, out in December from Dark Sky Books.

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→EMPRISE 16