about was her fix. That was all. She just wanted some instant gratification so she could go home happy and not even think about Sam.
Before I realized what I was doing, my book was smashing against my control panel. When I regained consciousness, I quickly stopped, but before I could even check the controls, I heard the noise. It was hideous – the shrill groan of iron twisting against iron like chalk squeaking down a chalkboard. I scrambled to my feet and looked out in panic to see that the two sides of the bridge were lowering and pinching the aft of the cargo ship. Frantically, I sprung to my control board, but before I could raise the bridge back up, it burst into red and orange flames like wild tongues slashing at the night. Blue smoke billowed up, past the streetlights and into the cold darkness as the burning bridge creaked open and the ship’s crew hosed down the boat. As the bridge rose higher, the fire encroached on the onlookers on the bridge, and they scrambled for safety when the orange flames lunged at them like swipes from a tiger’s claw. The crew finally extinguished the ship’s fire, and the ship cruised through, its disgruntled crew cursing and gesturing at me. Then, I lowered the burning bridge.
Fear and adrenaline coursed through my veins. I knew I would have to call and report the incident, but terror seized my heart at the thought. What would I say – that I slept with my wife in the tower, blacked out, and smashed my book against the control panel until the bridge smashed down on the ship? I shook my head.
The fire. First, I had to put out the fire, so I searched my office and found the fire extinguisher, shattered its case, snatched the extinguisher, and tore out of my cave and into the unwelcoming night. My legs felt stiff and my feet throbbed with each pounding step on metal as I ran to the far side of the bridge. The orange flames were already burning low, but it was my duty to extinguish them. I sprayed the flames, and they died without fanfare, like a tiger succumbing to a tranquilizer dart. It was over, but the damage was done.
I turned and saw the bystanders and drivers staring at me. I looked down and jostled the fire extinguisher in my hand to avoid their judgmental eyes. I wanted to spray them and distort their senses so I could escape like a ninja to his lair, but that would not do. They saw me - stupid, broken, and fallible. Now, I could only hope they would forget.
I crossed the bridge, ascended the iron steps, and returned to my perch above traffic.
The heater hummed, and when I closed the door behind me, the office gasped like I knocked the wind out of it. Hot air blasted me and sucked the moisture from my skin. I removed my coat and realized I was sweating. I placed the empty fire extinguisher back in its case and sat at the desk in my office. My chair felt different, itchy and uncomfortable, and I wore no jacket to protect me from it.
I looked out at my bridge, and for the first time, everyone looked back. Instead of sweet invisibility, I was on display, like a lone rain cloud in an otherwise bright blue sky. There was no hiding anymore. My sanctuary had been exposed, and I felt naked. Everyone could see me for exactly what I was. A failure.
I picked up the phone to report the incident.
6. BURNED BRIDGE
The incident earned me a month of unpaid vacation to “rest and deal with my loss”. The city did not want to fire me for fear of a lawsuit. If I was depressed like they believed, I could attribute my termination to mental illness and file suit. Worse, my dismissal could lead me to suicide, and that was the last thing the city needed. I suspected all this when my boss’s warning devolved into a pitch for me to seek psychiatric help. He said, since I managed to prevent any injuries or further damage to the bridge after it “malfunctioned” (there were no other witnesses besides me, after all) that compassion was my reward. Only his idea of compassion was torture.
My hiatus from work passed like the minutes spent floating in the icy water of the Arctic Circle before going numb. Pop tried to engage me. He would mention Sam and cry. He would hug me and encourage me to “let it out”. I would not. My wife was not any better. She took even more time off work so that we were as short on money as we were when Sam was sick. On top of it, she wanted to go on vacation. It was the normal thing to do.
I found solace in escaping to the park to watch my ducks. Donald, Darkwing, and Scrooge had grown into young adults. They no longer teetered after Daffney, and Daffney seemed to suffer from depression. She loafed, hardly exerting the energy to honk and flap at naughty ducks anymore. Instead, she liked to rest under the shadow of a tree where a bush blocked her completely from sight when the wind blew a palm frond in front of the bush’s opening. I guessed she missed her ducklings.
It was a big day - the last day of my exile from work. I would soon have my cave - my invisibility - returned to me. In the past month, I had had nowhere to hide from the world, and in the absence of my sanctuary, the emptiness grew inside me like a tumor. I had tried to fill the void with distractions. I tried to drink. I tried cigarettes. I gambled on dog and horse races. I almost tried drugs, going so far as to drive to the wrong part of town to buy them, but I chickened out when I saw the tattooed tears on the faces of the thugs standing on the corner. But now, I would have my solitude again. I could escape to my secret hiding place where I could block out the world and be alone with my grief, with my son.
I rose early that morning and snuck out before my wife and Pop were awake. They would realize soon enough and start calling. I learned the hard way that if I ignored their calls for long enough, they would call elsewhere and a police officer would escort me home. Time worked against me just like they did, and I knew my time at the park would be short, regardless of the hours, minutes, and seconds.
It was still dark when I arrived. The familiar purple haze warmed the horizon to the east. It would be an unwelcome sight in twenty-four hours when it signaled the end of my shift. The pond was flat and still. A few joggers paced through the park, but no one other than me sat and kept his distance. The ducks were hidden away, sleeping in the darkness. I felt almost at peace.
The bushes rustled near me, and the three sons scurried out of them. Donald, Darkwing, and Scrooge McDuck looked chipper. They greeted the morning sunrise with melodious quacks as they waddled down to the pond for a swim. Daffney had not emerged. I knew she was hidden in her bush, although I could not see her. She had to know she could not hide anymore, even if she thought she was concealed.
Finally, a honk that sounded more like a squawk echoed from the bush, and Daffney waddled out of it. Her eyes looked as dreary as a duck’s eyes could look, and she moved with the urgency of a sloth. She spotted me and waddled over. I fed her to give her strength for another day.
The morning passed as fast as promised. Nothing eventful happened. Daffney spent most of her time hiding in her bush. I watched the three sons swimming and thought of Sam. Sam would want to swim with the ducks. He would smile when they dipped their heads under water and shook their tail feathers. I missed his smile. It seemed more distant to me than ever before. Even the grief was less constant and overbearing. Worst of all, I no longer dreamed of Sam. Somewhere deep in my mind, a truth was taking hold that I would not let myself accept. I was forgetting him.
I drove home, and an ominous pit in my stomach steadily grew. Dread welcomed me at my front door. I paused a moment and tried to wrap my head around it. I wanted to understand why I felt this dread whenever I returned home. But, it was just a moment, like any other.
I opened the door to the screeches of whistles echoing from the family room, and I knew Pop was already watching a game. It seemed early for it, but Pop was always in my leather recliner watching some game. I spotted my wife cooking eggs in the kitchen. The hissing of the pan and sweet aroma sent hunger pangs from my brain to my stomach. I had not eaten yet. I would need food to give me the strength to face another day. I turned left after I closed the door and entered the kitchen to my right.
“Where have you been?” my wife asked in a cheery tone.
r /> I grunted and walked past her to sit at the kitchen table.
“Do you want some eggs? I’m making omelets.”
I nodded and snapped open a newspaper. A boy had drowned down the street. The picture of his grieving parents was on the front page of the local section. I envied them.
“I’ve been so hungry lately,” my wife said.
Instead of responding, I read about the boy who drowned. He was younger than Sam, only two. The pool fence had caved in, and he fell into the pool. He was entangled in the fence and did not know how to swim. An adult could have saved him if one was present, but he had no savior. The boy sunk to the bottom and drowned. It struck me as the saddest news I had ever read. Then, I felt guilty for not thinking of Sam.
My wife delivered the plate, butting through the newspaper and casting aside the tragedy written in black and white. I looked down and saw she had outdone herself. The omelet was loaded with cheddar cheese, cherry tomatoes, onions, and spinach. My wife rarely cooked. This was a surprisingly successful attempt. She smiled proudly at her creation and took a bite.
“Go ahead. I want to see how you like it,” she said.
I took a bite. The mixture was hot and