“Just a little longer, guys-I promise.”
“Uh-huh,” said Hannah without looking up from her phone.
“You know,” he said, gesturing toward the crowded overlook behind them, “some people actually come here of their own accord.”
“They’re probably just waiting to see somebody jump,” Hannah muttered.
Aidan stopped spinning. His face lit up with glee. “They let you jump off the bridge into the water?”
“No!” Jake and Emily said in unison, a moment of parental telepathy.
“Your sister was just kidding,” Emily added, flashing Hannah a stern look.
“No, I’m not.” She waved her cell phone at her mother. “Says here sixteen hundred people have leaped off it to their deaths since it first opened. A record forty-six in 2013 alone.”
Aidan’s expression turned worried. “Wait-the people who jumped died?”
“Don’t listen to her, buddy-she’s just messing with you. Hannah, stop being morbid. C’mon,” Jake said, heading farther down the path, “I think the photo was taken over here somewhere.”
The photo was of Jake’s parents-Jake’s favorite picture of them, in fact. Forty years ago next month, they’d driven down the coast from Eugene on their honeymoon and asked a passerby to snap the shot. Over time, the colors had washed out, lending the photo a slightly magical quality, and their pose-his father’s hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans, his mother clinging to his arm, their hair mussed by the breeze-exuded effortless cool. The photo felt like a secret window to a foreign land, and the people in it were so young and hip, Jake had trouble reconciling them with the hopeless squares who’d raised him. Looking at it, he couldn’t help but wonder how he must appear to his own children.
Jake thought it would be cute to stop off on their way home from Disneyland and re-create the photo as a video to wish his parents a happy anniversary, but it had proved harder than anticipated. First, they got stuck in the Bay Area’s brutal traffic. Then the city was socked in with morning fog. Once the fog burned off, Jake had trouble finding the right spot. It was no wonder Emily’s patience was wearing thin.
Now, though, things were looking up. The day was clear and bright. The sky behind the bridge was a field of blue, unbroken save for the gulls that circled overhead. A lone tugboat chugged across the choppy bay. The temperate ocean breeze blunted the sun’s rays and dashed the surf against the rocks. Sea spray filled the air with saline and cast fleeting rainbows at the water’s edge. It looked like a postcard come to life.
Jake raised a hand to halt his family and checked the view against the photo again. This time, he smiled.
“Gather up, guys-we’re here!”
“Finally,” Hannah said.
“Hannah!” her mother chastised, more out of reflex than disagreement.
“What? We’ve been walking forever.”
Jake patted his pockets, looking for his phone. It wasn’t there. He cursed under his breath.
Emily shot him a look that could have stopped a city bus. “Don’t tell me you left it in the car.”
“Okay,” he said, flashing her a crooked grin. “I won’t tell you.” Normally, she found his goofy sense of humor charming. Today, though, she didn’t seem amused.
Hannah held her cell phone out. “Here, use mine. Your camera app sucks anyway.”
“Thanks, kiddo,” Jake said-not remembering until her expression darkened that she’d asked him not to call her that anymore. It seemed like only yesterday that she was greeting him at the door when he came home from work with a squealed “Daddy!” and a knee-height hug.
He opened her camera app and toggled it to video. Then he took a big step backward, trying to fit everyone into the shot. “Aidan, squeeze in closer to your mom. Em, Sophia’s got her fingers in her nose again. Hannah, no bunny ears, okay? Once I start recording, I’ll count down from three, and we’ll all yell happy anniversary!”
“Dad,” Aidan said, “aren’t you going to get in here with us?”
“I’d love to, buddy, but somebody’s got to work the camera!”
“But Nan and Papa had a stranger take their picture.”
You know, Jake thought, the kid had a point. He looked around for someone to hit up, but his prospects were slim. A trio of cyclists rode past, headed toward the bridge. A teenage couple sat hand in hand to one side of the trail, staring moonily into each other’s eyes. A woman jogged by in a blur of neon green, her face flushed, her exposed skin gleaming with sweat. None of them looked as if they’d welcome the interruption.
Then Jake spotted an older gentleman moving their way. His face was pallid, his gait halting. Despite the day’s warmth, he wore a tweed driving cap and khaki trousers, an argyle sweater over a collared shirt. His clothes hung baggily around his scrawny frame, like dry-cleaning on a wire hanger. Jake thought he looked lonely-the kind of guy who might feed pigeons in the park.
“Excuse me, sir? Would you mind holding my daughter’s phone so my family can record an anniversary message for my parents? It’ll only take a second, I swear.”
The man looked at the phone and then at Jake. His eyes were the pale blue of faded denim. “Sorry,” he said, “but I ain’t much for gadgets. I got no idea how to work that thing.”
“That’s fine-I can press record. All you’ll have to do is point it.” He thumbed the button on the screen and held the phone out to the man.
The man hesitated for a moment, as if searching for some way to decline politely. Then he shrugged and shuffled over. When he took Hannah’s ridiculous, bedazzled phone from Jake, he did so gingerly, as if it might break.
Jake trotted over to his family. Tousled Aidan’s hair. Turned to face the camera. Put his arms around Hannah and Emily. “Are we all in the shot?”
The old man peered into the phone’s camera lens as if it were a viewfinder. “I dunno,” he said, “I can’t see shit.”
Aidan giggled. Emily reddened and gave Jake a gentle elbow to the ribs. Jake forced a smile and said, “I think you’re holding it backward.”
“What? Oh, hell.” He turned the phone around. “There you are. Wait-does that mean I’m on your video now?”
“Don’t worry-we can cut that bit when we get home. Ready, guys?”
One by one, all save the baby murmured their assent.
“Three…two…one…”
But they never did record their message.
Because that’s when the tugboat slammed into the bridge’s south tower and exploded.
2.
MICHAEL HENDRICKS TOSSED back his drink and slammed the shot glass onto the dark-stained bar. “Hey, barkeep: another whiskey.”
The young woman to whom he’d spoken looked up from the table she was wiping clean and replied, “I’m not a barkeep-I’m a waitress.”
He squinted dubiously at her. She was in her late teens or early twenties. Her freckled face was free of makeup, and her brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a heather-gray T-shirt with the restaurant’s logo on it, and jeans cuffed high enough above her ballet flats to show her ankles. “You’ve been pouring me drinks all afternoon, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
He yawned and scratched idly at the scruff on his jawline. It’d been weeks since he’d last shaved. “Then I fail to see the difference.”
“The difference is, I’m not a barkeep-I’m a waitress. I’m just covering the bar until our real bartender comes in at five.”
Hendricks peered around the dining room. Its walls were adorned with lobster traps and colorfully painted buoys, lacquered stripers, and woven fishnets dyed green-brown by use. The tables were empty. A few still needed tidying, but most were reset for dinner already-flatware wrapped in white cloth napkins, clean water goblets waiting to be filled. The lunch rush, if you could call twenty-odd patrons that, had cleared out hours ago. “I’m sorry-is my drink order pulling you away from all your other customers?”