He was looking down at the river. It was cold and getting colder. Late October, the nights were getting longer. That alone made Tallie start to question whether life was worth living—God turning out the lights. Autumn was okay, but winter? Winter was too brutal to tackle alone, and this would be the second winter since her divorce. Joel would be spending winter in Montana with his new wife and baby.
“Right. I’m sure Montana is fine. Um, you said you had friends there. Why don’t you come over to this side and tell me about your friends?” Tallie said, stepping closer to him.
He looked at her before giving his attention back to the river. It was the first time she’d seen his face full on. He had a smattering of light freckles, like someone had accidentally spilled cinnamon across his nose and cheeks, and he was wearing a jacket the same color as his backpack. Both his jeans and boots: syrupy brown. Shattered energy seemed to pulse from him like sonar. Tight blips of loneliness. Tallie translated the echolocation easily. She was lonesome and blipping, too.
“We should call them. I bet they’d love to hear from you,” she said, moving closer and going into her pocket for her phone. “What are their names?”
“I don’t want to talk to them right now.”
“You won’t tell me your name or how I can help you?”
“No, thank you.”
“All right. Okay,” she said, tapping around on her phone, wondering if there was something she could find that might help. She glanced at her car, the open door, the rain falling sideways against the seat. The dome light glowed a blurred white. She wiped her fingers dry, tapped around more.
“Have you heard this song? I love this song,” she said, turning it up, stepping closer to him.
She was on the safe side of the railing; he was on the suicide side. She doubted he would be able to hear the music. It was a loud world. She was only a bit surprised no one else stopped, no one else pulled to the side and said hey. Everyone always thought everyone else would take care of things.
“A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left” by Andrew Bird played from her phone. She thought past the title having the word nervous in it, but early in the song he sang the word died, so she waited until that part had passed and only turned it up once Andrew Bird began to whistle. It was a quirky song with lots of whistling. She’d been flicking through the musical artists in alphabetical order and skipped ABBA, although “I Have a Dream,” with its hopeful lyrics about believing in angels, wouldn’t have been the worst choice. One scroll past ABBA was Andrew. She stretched her arm out so the phone would be closer to his ear.
“This guy. His name is Andrew Bird, and he’s whistling like a bird in this song. It’s a pretty song, but I don’t know what it means,” she said. The rain was wetting her hoodie, her cold hand, the phone. This man must’ve been freezing if he’d been on the bridge for even a short amount of time. She asked how long he’d been standing there.
“I don’t know,” he said, still looking down.
She let the song play, stopping it before Andrew Bird said the word died again. She put the phone into her pocket.
“I’m sure you’re very cold. There’s a coffee shop up the road. We could go get a coffee. I’d love to buy you a coffee. Would you let me buy you a coffee?” she asked.
He could be a murderer. He could be a rapist. He could be a pedophile on the run.
“You don’t want to tell me your name? I told you mine. I’m Tallie. Tallie Clark.”
“No,” he said. Soft. The world was loud and hard, but he was soft.
“Would you like something warm? To hold or drink? I can’t leave you here. I won’t do that,” Tallie said. She could reach out and touch him but was afraid. He could jump. He could fall. He could grab her and not let go, take her with him. She didn’t want to go.
“Play another song, please,” he said.
Tallie searched for “Jesus, Etc.” by Wilco—a song she’d always found comforting—and held her phone out for the man to take. They stood there listening to Jeff Tweedy’s flannel, languid voice together. She hugged herself for a moment, an attempt at warmth, before tucking her hands into the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie.
“Thank you,” he said, handing her the phone back once the song was over.
She looked at the highway—the flashing gloss of minivans, SUVs, pickup trucks, four-doors—no police cars, no fire trucks, no ambulances. She didn’t know what to do and told him that. Maybe it would make him feel better, knowing no one had all the answers. And if he was going to jump, he surely would’ve jumped already. Right? Right.