Three Views of the Bridge

Three Views From the Suicide Bridge

“Please, don’t do it. Don’t do it,” the gusting winds blew around his head and whipped the man’s brown, stringy hair, but the drumming of Rodney’s erratically beating heart drowned the plea roaring in his ears.

His grip tightened on the low guard railing. At last! The perfect suicide bridge. Stretching further out over the side of the New River Gorge Bridge, he squinted through ghostly morning haze shrouding the steep-sided canyon—the murmuring river flowing far below enticing, the mist’s curling fingers beckoning.

“Hey, fella. Gonna’ jump?” The words, flung from the window of a vehicle speeding along the bridge’s dual-lane highway, startled Rodney

Straightening, he swiveled on his heel and watched cars, pick-up trucks, and eighteen-wheelers rumbling across the New River Gorge Bridge.

Stupid, really, going over at this hour. Ronnie brushed strands of hair from his red-rimmed eyes. If he waited until midnight, it could lessen the chances someone traveling across the bridge would video-record his long dive.

The morning sun raised its shining head and peeked over the mountain ridges. Dancing rays of light ushered in the dawn. Ronnie bit his lip. I’ll have to find some way of killing this day.

His stomach began grumbling.. Two chili dogs with slaw and a cold beer bought at a convenience station were all he’d eaten since crossing from Ohio into West Virginia.

 Breakfast would make an ideal start for his last day. That hole-in-the-wall café in Fayetteville had an Open All Night neon sign glowing in the window.

 Shoulders hunched, hands shoved in his pockets, Rodney sauntered south towards the small town.

                                                                   #

“Coffee smells good, Mertie.”

“The usual, Officer Kirkland? And for Symes? Is he riding with you this morning?” The woman behind the counter at the Rocky Bottom Café poured the steaming coffee into two large Styrofoam cups. “Fresh brewed. Couple going whitewater rafting guzzled the last pot.” Mertie snapped on white plastic lids and placed the two cups in a cardboard carrier.

“Ever been rafting, Mertie?” Officer Kirkland asked.

“Lordy. Won’t risk jostling these old bones bouncing down the Gauley River in some dinky inner tube.”

The officer’s laughter was interrupted by the cackling of his two-way radio.

“Okay, Symes,” he said. Be right out.”  Picking up the coffee carrier, Officer Kirkwood headed for the door.  “Thanks, Mertie. Dispatch just called. Looks like we’ve got a jumper on the bridge.”

“Hope you can talk them down.” Mertie entered the tiny kitchen and tied a white cobbler’s apron around her thickening middle. She was cutting lumps of lard into a large bowl of self-rising flour preparing the café’s early-morning special—two freshly baked buttermilk biscuits served with sausage gravy—when she heard the front door open.

Wiping her hands on the apron, Mertie hurried to the counter. She smiled at the café’s early-bird customer standing in the open doorway. “You’re a tad bit early for breakfast, But coffee’s fresh,” she said and reached for the glass carafe warming on the burner.

“Coffee’s fine, and a piece of that apple pie.” The man smoothed long, brown strands of hair, unzipped his leather jacket, and slid into a wooden booth.

“Pie’s homemade.” Mertie poured coffee into a large mug. “Cream and sugar?

“Yes, thanks.”

Mertie cut a generous wedge of pie. Poor man looked cold and half-starved. “On the house,” she said placing the cup of coffee and the dish of pie on the table.

Thanks, Miss.”

“Customers ‘round here call me Mertie. Short for Myrtle. Been working at the Rocky Bottom near forty years.”         

“Nice to meet you. I’m Rodney.”

 “Likewise, I’m sure. Well, enjoy your pie. Them biscuits won’t fix themselves.”          

Rodney finished the pie, pushed aside the empty plate, and sipping his coffee, looked at the large black and white photographs mounted on the café’s walls.

The photos showed a progression of steel beams extending from both ends of the gorge (forming the New River Gorge Bridge’s arch) being lowered into place by cables.

“Interesting pictures, Mertie,” he said as the woman cleared the table.

“Views are of the bridge being built. Starting way back in ’74.”

 “Who was the photographer? Nice composition.”

“An amateur. Strictly an amateur.” Mertie shifted her weight from one swollen foot to the other.

 “An amateur with a keen eye for detail.”

“Well, I don’t know a thing about that.” Mertie’s crease-lined face brightened.

“Now, Mertie. Don’t be modest. You took those photos, didn’t you?”

 Mertie fiddled with a small heart-shaped locket hanging from a gold chain around her neck. “With one of those new-fangled Instamatic cameras. All the rage at the time. A present for my thirteenth birthday.”

“There’s a picture missing, Mertie. No self-respecting photographer would have neglected a shot of such an important moment.”

“Capping Day? Mostly, customers never notice.” Mertie glanced at the photographs.

“Yes, the moment the center beam was set into place at the top of the arch,”

“May 13, 1976, it was. You wouldn’t have believed the crowds. Press. Television coverage. Bigwigs, too. Senator Byrd and the Governor.

“Mom kept us kids from school so we could be there. My brother bought two rolls of film for my camera. Lord sakes, was I ever excited.” Tears welled in the woman’s faded grey eyes, and her lips quivered. “Haven’t much talked about that day.”

“This might be your opportunity. Talking helps.” Rodney said and gave Mertie a half-smile. “That’s what I’ve been told.”

 Mertie nodded. “May be as you’re right. First, let me put my biscuits in the oven and set the timer.”

“Figured you could do with a fresh cup.” Mertie returned with two brimming cups of coffee and sat across from Rodney. Her hand trembled. Coffee from the cup she was holding sloshed onto the table.

 “Right careless of me.” Mertie dabbed the coffee droplets with a paper napkin she’d pulled from the metal dispenser.

“Take your time. My plans are up in the air.” Rodney, eyes were wide and expectant, bent forward slightly–subconsciously mimicking techniques his former psychiatrist utilized during therapy sessions.

Mertie rubbed the bridge of her nose.

“What happened on Capping Day?”  

“An accident.”

“Go on, Mertie.”

“Construction worker toppled from a beam. His body spiraled through the air, arms flailing, legs flailing.” Tears trickled down Mertie’s crease-lined face.

Rodney handed her a napkin.

“His people witnessed the fall. Course, at the time, they never realized it was any kinfolk.” Mertie dabbled at her eyes. “No one should live with the memory of their loved one dying that-a-way.”

A pulse beat in Rodney’s temple; maybe his ex-fiancé was right accusing him of being a selfish prick. Considering how his death might affect friends and family never crossed his mind.

“Do you have kinfolk hereabouts?” Mertie wadded the damp napkins in a tight ball.

“Living in California.”

“You’ve come a long way.”

Rodney opened his wallet and fanned a plastic photo holder. “Here’s my family. In happier days.”

“Who’s this pretty gal? Looks unhappy.”

 “My ex-fiancé.”  Rodney slipped the holder back into his wallet.

“Any possibility of getting back together again?”

“Impossible. Not a damn chance, Mertie.”

“You must believe hooking back up is a possibility. Why else hang on to her picture?”

 “Hell, you’re a pretty shrewd gal.” Rodney patted Mertie’s hand.

The oven timer buzzed.

“Goodness.” Mertie jumped up. “Day shift near have conniptions if those biscuits burn. Give me a minute. I’ll fix you a mess of biscuits and gravy.”

Rodney finished mopping the small puddle of gravy with the last of the still-warm biscuit.

“How’d you like it?” Mertie asked hovering like a mother hen guarding her brood.

“Delicious. Thanks again. For everything.” Rodney slid out of the booth..

“Think nothing of it. Come again right soon now.”

 “Don’t think that’s a possibility,” Rodney said.

 From the front window, Mertie watched Rodney disappear into the morning mist.

               #

“Didn’t feel the pull, I reckon, son? From those bridges closer to your home. The Golden Gate Bridge. The San Diego-Coronado Bridge.” The stranger stepped from the shadows and stood beside Rodney on the bridge’s narrow walkway.

“Damn it, mister. Scared the shit out of me. How’d . . . how’d you know?” he asked scrutinizing the man’s serene face and calm, deep-set blue eyes.

A silvery sliver of moon floated in the starry sky. The gusty wind blew the ends of the stranger’s red scarf. “Why would you be here after midnight?” he asked. “Except to jump.”

“No, no. I meant about those other bridges.” Rodney shivered and pulled the collar of his leather motorcycle jacket around his ears. “About bridges that are closer to my home.”

“Took notice of the Harley you’d hidden earlier this morning. Had California plates. My name’s Darrell, by the way. What’s yours?”

“Rodney.” The distraught man stepped back from the railing. Headlights from passing vehicles illuminated his tight jaw and wild-looking eyes. “Anyway, what the hell do you know about irresistible urges?”

“A might more than you’d imagine.” Darrell patted the pockets of his jeans. “Want a drag? Got a pack of cigarettes here, somewhere.”

“Maybe I wasn’t quite ready before.” Rodney stared down into the gorge.

“Checked the Internet, did you? Before deciding the New River Gorge Bridge was an ideal site for a jumper.” Darrell lit two cigarettes and handed Rodney one. “Fairly isolated. Located in mountainous West Virginia. Doesn’t have a protective suicide barrier.”

Rodney puffed on the cigarette and blew smoke from his nostrils. “No abutments, either,” he said. “Or outcroppings impeding the body’s downward spiral.” 

“Might be a consideration. If one’s plans include jumping.”

A convoy of trucks thundered along the multi-lane highway.

“Traffic usually this heavy at night?”

“This here road’s a major north-south artery. Bridge cut down traveling time across the gorge.”

“From a twisty forty-minute drive to less than a minute.”

“Learned that watching the video they show at the Canyon Rim Visitors Center, did you, son?”

“Good way as any, I suppose, for spending my last day. Don’t you agree, ah . . .What did you say your name was?”

“Darrell. But I sure can’t agree about this being your last day.”

“Well, Darrell, making an end to things would be a relief.” Rodney’s sigh, deep and mournful, was drowned as an eighteen-wheeler whooshed by.

“Don’t be too sure about that.”

“What the hell do you know?”

“A woman’s tangled up somehow?”

“Among other things. My fiancé returned the engagement ring by registered mail.” Rodney flipped the cigarette butt over the side of the bridge. The glowing tip flickered for a moment before burning out.

 “Long was down, ain’t it, son?”

“876 feet high. About the height of the Eiffel Tower.”

“You sound like one of them tour guides.”

Rodney snickered. “Loads of interesting information available at the Visitors Center,” he said.

“What did you think of the displays? Those photographs on the walls? The models showing various stages of the bridge’s construction?” Darrell mashed the cigarette stub under the heel of his boot. “During the building of the bridge, people swarmed to the gorge daily. From miles around. Eager for a view of the progress.”

 “Quite an amazing feat of engineering.”

“Gave us West Virginians a sense of pride. For a time, this bridge was the longest steel-arch suspension bridge in the world.”

“Until the Chinese built a bridge with a longer span,” Rodney said. “I learned that today, too.”

 “Fame’s fleeting.” Darrell gazed upward at the curved sliver of moon smiling in the inky sky. “Back in 1974,” he said quietly, “I got hired on with the bridge’s construction crew.”

Rodney whistled. “Damn dangerous occupation,” he said. “Heights never bothered you?”

“Not as dangerous as working in an underground coal mine. Kept telling dad.” Darrell sighed. “But my old man was dead set against the idea of working sky-high. Quarreled about it until . . ..”

“Didn’t stop you, though, did it?”

“I was young. Pig-headed. Somewhat like you, I imagine.”

Rodney snorted. “Called worse thing,” he said.

“Mom would take my brothers and sisters to the construction site when Dad worked evenings. or when we came back from shopping in Beckley. After church service, too. Dad’s pew was a stool at the local beer joint,” Darrel said and laughed.

“Your dad never—”

“No, wouldn’t so much as look at the photos my youngest sister snapped.”

“My dad’s a bastard, too. Left a year after I was born.” Rodney rubbed his palms together. “Damn cold up here.”

“Gets right chill high in the mountains most nights. Even in summer.” Darrell looked at his wristwatch. “We could get a cup of coffee. There’s a little place in Fayetteville.”

“Been there. The Rocky Bottom Cafe.”

“Mertie always keeps a fresh pot going.” Darrell put a hand on Rodney’s shoulder. “Pretty short jaunt from here.”

“Hey, man. Let go.” Rodney jerked free. “What the hell are you doing on this bridge anyway?”

 “Aiming to help is all.”

“Christ! I’ve had professional help. A bellyful.” Rodney leaned over the railing and spat into the wind.

“Psychiatrists don’t do business on bridges.”

“That’s what you think you’re doing?”

 “Like I said, son, aiming to help.” Darrell shook his head. “Got anyone who’ll grieve when you’re gone? Family? Friends?”

 “Ex-fiancé doesn’t give a shit. Mom’s preoccupied with her clubs and committees. And playing granny to my brother’s four kids.

 “Friends?” Rodney shrugged. “Fed up, you know, after a while. Aways loaning me money, listening to my complaints, letting me sleep on their sofas.”

“Burned your bridges, did you?”

“That’s too funny, Darrell.”

“What’s funny, son?”

“Don’t you get it? I’ve burned all my bridges. Except for this one. The one I plan jumping from.”

“Might move forward.”

“You’re crazy. And I’m through talking.”

“A new beginning’s a possibility.”

“Second person who said something like that today.” Rodney leaned further out over the railing. “Say, Darrell, how many people have died jumping from this bridge?”

Darrel’s voice was even, measured. He moved, catlike, closer to Rodney. “Four BASE jumpers have died skydiving off the bridge during Bridge Day festivities. But the National Park Service won’t disclose statistics on suicides.”

“Guess that’s sensible. Say a bridge lists ninety-nine suicides. Someone might conclude being the hundredth jumper would confer a kind of notoriety.”

“Doesn’t make much sense to me,” Darrel said his blue eyes troubled.

“Maybe you’ve never been desperate enough.” 

“Double suicide here last month, I recall. A woman. Along with a former member of some famous male gospel quartet. Went over in tandem.”

“Misery loves company, hey, Darrell?”

“Or one or the other of them was hoping they could prevent the tragedy.”

“Saw how that worked out, didn’t you?”

“Well, I’m hankering for that cuppa joe,” Darrel said looking at his watch. “Mertie always keeps a fresh pot perking. Sure you won’t come?”

“Hey, you aren’t giving up on me, too?”

“Been an hour.”

“You’re sounding like Dr. Betts, my psychiatrist. She’d smile, close her notebook, say, ‘Our time is up, Rodney,’ and show me the door.”

“Her time’s valuable. Lots of troubled folks needing help.” Darrell began walking south across the bridge towards Fayetteville.

“Are you saying I wasted Dr. Betts’s time?”

 “Only you can decide if you wasted that shrink’s time,” Darrell called over his shoulder.

            #                                                                    

“Oh, hello. It’s you again. Coffee?” Mertie reached for the coffee carafe.

Rodney’s eyebrows lifted. “No one’s here,” he said searching the café’s unoccupied booths and tables. “Thought he’d be here already. Left before I did”

“Business slow this time of morning. Officer Kirkland has been here just a while back. And earlier, a carload returning from the outdoor theater at Grandview State Park. My eldest grandson plays one of “Devil” Ansel Hatfield’s sons.”

Rodney took the same booth he’d sat in hours before.

“Might be you’re mistaken? Are you sure your friend was coming here?” Mertie poured coffee into a large mug.

“He’s not a friend, exactly. Some stranger being helpful. He was heading to the Rocky Bottom for coffee. You’re certain Mertie?" Rodney rubbed his chin. “ A tall guy with blue eyes wearing a red scarf hasn’t been here?”

“Oh, I should’ve known. You’re looking for him.” Mertie set the cup on the table. “You ain’t the first asking about a blue-eyed stranger wearing a red scarf who don’t show.”