The Mine (35 page)

Katie Kobayashi, your ship has come in.

Joel walked past a Mercedes in the driveway to a short wrought-iron fence, opened the gate, and proceeded up a stone path to a tiered brick porch and an imposing oak door. A mat under his feet read: "Welcome to the Saitos."

He rapped on the door, but no one came. No one answered his second knock either – or a doorbell that sounded more like a wind chime than a ding-dong. Joel peered through a large window, saw nothing of interest, and proceeded to the side of the house, where he peeked over a six-foot cedar fence and scanned an empty lawn. Still convinced that someone was home, he moved to unlatch a gate and give the premises a more thorough inspection. But when he heard a menacing growl, he stopped and withdrew. Even the most enlightening meeting with Katie was not worth an unpleasant encounter with a Rottweiler.

"They're not home."

Joel turned and saw a thirtyish woman wearing pink sweats and a ponytail stride up the driveway. She had the friendly but guarded demeanor of a soccer mom. He returned to the path and met her at the gate.

"They're not home and they won't be back until Monday," she said. "I'm their neighbor. The Saitos asked me to watch their place this weekend. Can I help you?"

"I'm here to see Mrs. Saito. She was a good friend of my grandmother's. I have some personal matters I need to discuss with her."

The woman put an index finger to her chin and stared at Joel, as if trying to decide whether young men who looked like underwear models were the kind who cased houses. She smiled and extended a hand.

"I'm Jennifer Swingley."

"Joel Smith."

"Do you know the Saitos?"

"I met Mrs. Saito a long time ago, but I've never met her husband. Like I said, she knew my grandmother. She died in 1995. Have the Saitos lived here long?"

"I think so. I've been here only three years, but I know that their house is the oldest on this street. I don't think anyone else has lived in it."

"You say they'll be back on Monday?"

"Katherine said noon at the latest."

Joel pondered his options. He had planned to be back in Seattle on Sunday but decided he might have to delay his return by a day.

"Would it be all right if I left a note with you?"

"Sure. Do you need a pen and paper?"

"No. I have both in my car. Hold on a moment."

Joel returned shortly with a note bearing his name, address, and two phone numbers. He handed it to the woman, who quickly examined the contents.

"You live in Seattle, huh?"

"That's right."

"Are you sure Katherine will remember you?"

"She'll remember me," Joel said. "You can be sure of that."

* * * * *

Ninety minutes later Joel checked into a downtown Seaside motel and unloaded a small suitcase, a laptop computer, and a toiletry bag in a room he had reserved on Monday. The joint fell four stars shy of optimal. The carpet was stained, the curtains were torn, and the toilet ran slightly better than the bulky, dust-covered television. The only gym he could see was the one attached to a grade school across the street. But that was OK. Joel had come to exorcise ghosts, not exercise his body.

The town had added just three thousand residents since his last visit, in 1941, but looked much different. Many of the hotels and establishments he remembered had been torn down, remodeled, or reused for other purposes. Only the aquarium and a few businesses on Broadway had remained largely unchanged.

After grabbing a quick lunch at a seafood grill two blocks from the beach, he took a cab to Tillamook Head and a house that still stood in his memory, if nowhere else. The lot near the towering bluff now sported a condominium complex and a craft shop, not the magnificent vacation home that had remained in Gillette family hands through the 1960s. But Joel could feel the vibes. He had been here before and did not need a deed or a key or a photograph to prove it.

Joel felt foolish snooping around the premises. No matter how hard he looked, he would not find Ginny tossing a salad in a kitchen or Tom barbecuing steaks on a deck in back. But he continued to check the place out, until a groundskeeper gave him a curious look and started pressing buttons on a cell phone.

Rather than wait to be told to leave, Joel wandered to a path near the parking lot and followed it down two flights of cedar steps to the sand and the surf. He did not need permission to walk on this sacred ground. Thanks to a tenacious and enlightened governor named Tom McCall, Oregon's beaches belonged to the public.

The temperature was a bit cooler than the last time he had explored this shore, prompting a long-sleeved sweatshirt and jeans. But Joel was more than comfortable. When he hit the sand, he kicked off his flip-flops, threw them in his pack, and walked barefoot the rest of the way to the south end of the Promenade. Once on the concrete boardwalk, he began a slow trek toward town and let the serious reminiscing begin.

There was a lot to think about. This was, after all, the place where Joel and Grace had gone from silly to serious and from friends to something much more. It was the place where he rediscovered someone he thought he knew and where their friends made a commitment that would change how all of them looked at a perilous world.

As Joel drew closer to the center of town, he thought of his long Promenade walks with Grace and the things they talked about. He thought of her disappointment with Ginny, her enthusiasm for the carnival rides, and the poignant descriptions of her parents. Most of all, he thought about how incredibly stupid he had been to throw it all away and not take her to a future where they both belonged.

When he reached the Turnaround, he dodged two inline skaters and walked out of traffic to the edge of the Prom. He could almost see Grace sitting on the railing telling him why her mother would have loved him and why her father might have liked him. But almost was not close enough. He could not touch the face of a daydream. When he leaned on the barrier and looked out at the sea, he saw the sea and only the sea – that vast, timeless, perfect symbol of constancy and emptiness.

Moments later he looked at the moving sky and noticed change. The sun had emerged from a large bank of clouds, bringing welcome warmth to those in swimsuits, T-shirts, and shorts. Finding some stairs, Joel accessed the beach and once again put his bare feet to soft sand. He began another walk. Only this time he headed west, not north, and moved at a slower pace.

Ten minutes and two hundred yards later Joel reached the waves at ebb tide and the end of his journey. He had hoped the water would be like this, counted on it even. There was nothing like this kind of surf to bring about the finality he needed. Rolling up his jeans, he slowly waded into the Pacific. The foot-high water was cold, colder even than in Puget Sound, but tolerable. Then again, he had not come to swim.

Turning northward, he followed the water's edge to a spot where a beach-ball-sized rock emerged from the sand. He stopped in front of the rock and let the salt water invigorate his feet before pulling a snapshot from his back pocket.

Slightly torn on one edge and badly faded, the photograph represented everything he had gained and lost in a year that still defied explanation. It was the sole surviving evidence that Joel had ever known and loved a daughter of missionaries; a girl who rode elephants in Africa, splashed mud in the Yangtze, and threw snowballs in July; a woman who loved movies, books, bumper cars, and jazz; a kind, brave, principled soul who had overcome the worst kind of adversity to inspire others and make an indelible impression on a frequently thoughtless, cavalier, and superficial young man.

Joel placed the photo in the water and let the surf do the rest. The picture bobbed, twisted, and curled before finally sinking from sight. He gave the image one last thought before turning his back on the ocean and starting for town. He had made his peace with God and the girl. It was time to move on.

CHAPTER 69

Joel wanted to go home. After symbolically burying six months that would never be recorded in the Smith family history, he did not want to hang around a town that reminded him of that time. He did not want to see the amusements or the restaurants or even the beach. He just wanted to climb into his Toyota, race back to Seattle, and resume his wonderful life as a mixed-up, unemployed, and hopelessly broken-hearted college graduate. But he had already paid for his motel room and figured that that was reason enough not to run from his problems, so he stayed.

When he returned to the motel at three, he asked the clerk for a recommendation for dinner. The rough-looking woman named Bette gave him three – four if you count the biker bar on the edge of Seaside that served "killer bacon burgers" but could get "a little raucous at times." Joel figured the bar was his kind of place and wrote down its address before heading off to his room.

He watched television for more than an hour, flipping between the third round of the U.S. Open, the Mariners-Twins game, and
Sci-Trek: Dinosaur Attack!
When he became bored with all three, he walked to his second-floor window and glanced at the streets below. No matter where he looked, he saw people – people eating, shopping, driving, walking to the beach, even sitting on a bench playing chess. Most probably did not know each other. Most probably did not care. But all no doubt had one thing in common: They were having more fun than Joel Smith.

When Joel saw a young couple walk by holding hands and laughing, he threw the TV remote across the room and said the hell with it. He was going to pack his bags right then and drive home as fast as reasonably inattentive state patrolmen would allow.

He was going to call Jana, apologize profusely, take her out on the town, and make crazy love to her – and then plan the next day. He was sick and tired of being sick and tired. He looked at the digital alarm clock, saw four thirty, and started grabbing toiletries and clothes. With any luck he would be back in Seattle by nine. Then he glanced at the room phone and saw a blinking light.

* * * * *

A few minutes later Joel examined a scrap of paper in the motel office. It bore a message that was as clear as it was mysterious: "Be at the Turnaround at five." There was no name, no return phone number, and no clue as to who might be stalking him on his weekend getaway.

Bette wasn't much help either. After apologizing for not informing him of the message when he had returned from the beach, she told him that another clerk had taken the information and was presently unavailable. Joel did not know whether the caller was male or female, young or old, or even sincere. For all he knew, Adam was paying him back for skipping the hiking trip. But it did not matter. He had an appointment to keep. He slipped the note into his wallet, walked to where Broadway met the sea, and waited.

For twenty minutes Joel watched hundreds of people come and go down the Prom. The walkway was unusually busy, even for a late Saturday afternoon, which made his guessing game all the more difficult. He had no idea who he was looking for, or what, so he just leaned against the railing and continued his vigil.

Then, at ten after five, he looked north along the boardwalk and saw a woman move slowly along the barrier. He could not recognize the figure at first, but there was no doubt she was headed his way. When she drew near, he looked at her and smiled. It had been a long time since he had seen her still beautiful face but not so long that he had forgotten its distinctive features. Joel pushed himself away from the railing and addressed his stalker.

"Hello, Katie."

"I want more than that, young man."

Joel grinned, stepped forward, and offered a warm embrace.

Katie appeared smaller than the perky coed from the past. She had a slight hunch and walked with a cane. But she seemed otherwise fit and mentally sharp. It was clear from her greeting that her wit had not dulled since the Roosevelt Administration.

"You've grown. But you are just as handsome as the last time I saw you."

"You mean at the Mad Dog in forty-one?"

"No. I mean at your grandmother's funeral. I gave you a hug in the receiving line. But I was just another of Ginny's many friends that day."

"I wish I could tell you I remember that, but I can't."

"That's all right. You had more important things on your mind."

Joel stepped back and took another look at his long-lost friend.

"How on earth did you know I was here?"

"I called your mother. I told her I wanted to send you a graduation present and needed an address. During our conversation she said you were planning to drive to Seaside this weekend. When I asked if I could give you the gift in person, she gave me the name of your motel."

Joel laughed.

"That's my mom, the protector of my privacy."

"I also got a call from my neighbor. It seems you visited my house this morning."

Joel sighed and put a hand on Katie's shoulder.

"I had to see you. I've been going insane the past few weeks. You were the only one I could talk to about you know what without being committed to a funny farm. But even then, I wasn't sure you wouldn't treat me like a loon. How did you know?"

Katie smiled sweetly.

"I was there when Grace read your letter. I read every word," she said. "But I wasn't sure it wasn't all a bunch of hooey until the year you were born. When Ginny told me that your parents had named you Joel, then I knew."

Katie moved her head, as if looking for something, and then glanced at Joel.

"May I sit? I don't have much energy these days."

"Of course," Joel said. He escorted Mrs. Saito to a nearby bench, sat at her side, and extended an arm. "Can I get you anything?"

"No. I'm fine. I just need to sit."

"You read my letter?"

"I did, right after Grace. It was just after Pearl Harbor was attacked."

Joel closed his eyes and dropped his head.

"I'm sorry I left like I did. I just knew I couldn't stay."

"I understood," Katie said, putting a hand on his knee. "Grace did too. She had difficulty at first believing the time-travel thing. That required quite a leap. But then there was Pearl Harbor and that coin. They gave your story the ring of truth."