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Authors: Rebecca Rogers Maher
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Bridge. “Why not somewhere else?”
We’re nearing the center of the Manhattan Bridge now. A tall cage-like fence separates us from the edge. Henry pauses, links his fingers into the hard chain, and looks out over Brooklyn. “It’s not that interesting of a reason.”
“I’d still like to hear it.”
He offers a vague smile to the water below. “My nanny used to take me there.”
There’s a world of sadness contained in that one sentence. I’d like to open that world, take it apart like a diorama and examine its contents. I recognize that desire as greedy. As invasive, even. But I seem to have lost the ability to observe basic rules of politeness with Henry. We seem to have both agreed to a kind of no-holds-barred interrogation of each other, a gradual and relentless barrage of questioning, and it’s emboldened me, dangerously, to think I have a right to the memories most dear to him.
“What was her name?”
He answers, though, God help him. He answers all my questions now without hesitation. “Sharon.”
I look out at the bright blue sky. The white clouds that skitter across it are so cartoonishly fluffy it almost feels unreal. Like the last-minute raving of the man inside the hangman’s noose in “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.” Which one of us is imagining this, I wonder—Henry or me? Whose fantasy are we?
If it’s me who’s dreaming it, I know that I’m not ready to wake up yet. I’m not ready to open my eyes and realize I’m falling, that the impact of water is imminent, that Henry is not real and it all is about to be irrevocably, eternally, unchangeably over.
I remember back in high school, there was a suicide. A girl who was older than I was—Penelope Cannon—someone I didn’t know. She’d found her boyfriend kissing someone else and the next day hanged herself at the local movie theater. They found her in the bathroom, dangling from a water pipe in the ceiling with claw marks on her neck.
It was the idea of the claw marks that stayed with me. The red scrape of her fingernails as she tried desperately in that last moment to loosen the rope.
She changed her mind. Maybe she realized he wasn’t worth it. Maybe she remembered how young she was, how much life she had ahead of her. But it was too late, by the time she saw it. She tried to get out of the rope and couldn’t, and died with the marks of that regret dug permanently into her skin.
Maybe this situation with Henry is so profoundly doomed that it’s short-circuited my normal defenses, but when he stands beside me, I feel him. In my bloodstream like a magnetic force. It makes me want to claw the rope off my own neck, and I’m ashamed of that. I’m ashamed of my own need.
“What was Sharon like?” I ask, because I can’t follow that line of thought anymore. I want Henry to distract me. I want memories from his life to make me forget my own.
He smiles, and there’s warmth inside that smile. I want to crawl deep into that warmth and never come out. “She didn’t know the meaning of hesitation. That’s what I remember. When something was funny, she laughed. When I was hurt, she’d hold me. When I did something bad, she’d make me go sit by myself in a corner. Every time, without question.” He leans on the railing and looks down at the water far below. “You know what’s funny? She smelled like coconuts. Sometimes I catch that scent in the summertime. Suntan lotion? It just makes my heart
hurt
.”
He tries to bite that hurt back, but it’s too big; I can see that.
“What happened to her?”
He takes so long to answer I worry that the wind has swallowed my voice. I close my eyes and feel the swaying of the bridge underneath me. It moves with the weight of the vehicles on it, with the gusts that slam against it. It doesn’t tighten up and resist, the way Henry does beside me. The way I do. Things like us that don’t bend—we break. We’re in the midst of breaking right now, and I don’t know what to do
We’re nearing the center of the Manhattan Bridge now. A tall cage-like fence separates us from the edge. Henry pauses, links his fingers into the hard chain, and looks out over Brooklyn. “It’s not that interesting of a reason.”
“I’d still like to hear it.”
He offers a vague smile to the water below. “My nanny used to take me there.”
There’s a world of sadness contained in that one sentence. I’d like to open that world, take it apart like a diorama and examine its contents. I recognize that desire as greedy. As invasive, even. But I seem to have lost the ability to observe basic rules of politeness with Henry. We seem to have both agreed to a kind of no-holds-barred interrogation of each other, a gradual and relentless barrage of questioning, and it’s emboldened me, dangerously, to think I have a right to the memories most dear to him.
“What was her name?”
He answers, though, God help him. He answers all my questions now without hesitation. “Sharon.”
I look out at the bright blue sky. The white clouds that skitter across it are so cartoonishly fluffy it almost feels unreal. Like the last-minute raving of the man inside the hangman’s noose in “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.” Which one of us is imagining this, I wonder—Henry or me? Whose fantasy are we?
If it’s me who’s dreaming it, I know that I’m not ready to wake up yet. I’m not ready to open my eyes and realize I’m falling, that the impact of water is imminent, that Henry is not real and it all is about to be irrevocably, eternally, unchangeably over.
I remember back in high school, there was a suicide. A girl who was older than I was—Penelope Cannon—someone I didn’t know. She’d found her boyfriend kissing someone else and the next day hanged herself at the local movie theater. They found her in the bathroom, dangling from a water pipe in the ceiling with claw marks on her neck.
It was the idea of the claw marks that stayed with me. The red scrape of her fingernails as she tried desperately in that last moment to loosen the rope.
She changed her mind. Maybe she realized he wasn’t worth it. Maybe she remembered how young she was, how much life she had ahead of her. But it was too late, by the time she saw it. She tried to get out of the rope and couldn’t, and died with the marks of that regret dug permanently into her skin.
Maybe this situation with Henry is so profoundly doomed that it’s short-circuited my normal defenses, but when he stands beside me, I feel him. In my bloodstream like a magnetic force. It makes me want to claw the rope off my own neck, and I’m ashamed of that. I’m ashamed of my own need.
“What was Sharon like?” I ask, because I can’t follow that line of thought anymore. I want Henry to distract me. I want memories from his life to make me forget my own.
He smiles, and there’s warmth inside that smile. I want to crawl deep into that warmth and never come out. “She didn’t know the meaning of hesitation. That’s what I remember. When something was funny, she laughed. When I was hurt, she’d hold me. When I did something bad, she’d make me go sit by myself in a corner. Every time, without question.” He leans on the railing and looks down at the water far below. “You know what’s funny? She smelled like coconuts. Sometimes I catch that scent in the summertime. Suntan lotion? It just makes my heart
hurt
.”
He tries to bite that hurt back, but it’s too big; I can see that.
“What happened to her?”
He takes so long to answer I worry that the wind has swallowed my voice. I close my eyes and feel the swaying of the bridge underneath me. It moves with the weight of the vehicles on it, with the gusts that slam against it. It doesn’t tighten up and resist, the way Henry does beside me. The way I do. Things like us that don’t bend—we break. We’re in the midst of breaking right now, and I don’t know what to do
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