The Mine (7 page)

Joel pondered ringing the bell just to see who answered. He knew his parents had purchased the place in 1980 from a family that had resided there for three generations, but he knew nothing about them or how they had managed the property.

He knew he would not find a redwood deck and heated swimming pool in back or a Lexus in the detached garage, but he was pleasantly surprised to see a vegetable garden on the treeless south side of the house. He had spent some quality time there as a young child, harvesting his mother's crops whenever hunger called.

A few blocks away Joel found his alma mater, a four-story brownstone edifice that towered above neighboring homes. He had attended Westlake High for four years and made the most of every minute, lettering in football and baseball, serving as class president, and dating three-quarters of the varsity cheer squad as a
junior
. He had also started the school's first history club.

Joel had loved history since watching President Reagan commemorate the fortieth anniversary of the D-day invasion. Only six at the time, he stood mesmerized before the television. When Reagan spoke, he spoke to him. When he honored the ancient heroes assembled in Normandy, he honored Grandpa Smith, who had stormed Utah Beach with the Fourth Infantry Division. Patrick Smith died the next year.

His reverence for the past, and his grandparents' generation in particular, extended to entertainment. He loved movies like
Casablanca
,
It's a Wonderful Life
, and
The Grapes of Wrath
; syndicated sitcoms like
Happy Days
and
Leave it to Beaver
; recordings by Frank Sinatra, Elvis, and Buddy Holly; and even broadcasts of old-time radio shows featuring Burns and Allen, Abbott and Costello, and Jack Benny. His mother had once told him he had been born fifty years past his time. When he heard Big Band music blaring out an open window of a nearby house, he laughed.

Thanks, Mom.

Joel had wanted to major in history at the university, but his father would have none of it. To Commander Francis H. Smith, U.S. Navy (Retired), college was a place to learn a vocation, not expand your mind. Unless Joel planned to take a history degree to law school, he would have to find another discipline or fund his education. So he majored in his second love – rocks – and minored in his first.

The salutatorian of the Class of 1996 gazed at his school from across the street as a bell rang. Dozens of boys in slacks and button-down shirts and girls in knee-length skirts, ankle socks, and saddle shoes began spilling out the doors. Many wore smiles.

Joel put a hand to his chin. He tried to remember the names on an oak-and-brass plaque by the main office, names of graduates killed in various American conflicts. Life was about to change in a big way for the Class of 1941. He wished them the best. As he left the intersection of Memory Lane and Thirty-Eighth Avenue, Joel thought about the decisions he had made and the decisions still to come. Neither gave him comfort.

* * * * *

By the time Joel reached Pennington Storage and Distribution, he was spent. He had walked eight miles on one meal and not slept in thirty-six hours. Bags the size of quarters dogged his weary eyes. To say he looked like hell was to slight hell. But he had come to see Brutus, not a beauty queen.

Joel caught the beefy, fortyish owner at five after five, just as he locked his office and headed toward his car. He introduced himself and said he knew Charles Prescott.

"I remember him," the big man said. "Short little prick. But a hard worker."

"He said you sometimes hired nobodies to move boxes around. His exact words."

"Sounds like something he would say." Brutus laughed. "I'd like to help you, but I can't. Business is down and I don't expect it to pick up for a few more weeks."

Joel frowned and glanced at the late afternoon sky. He would soon have bigger problems than riding out a business cycle. He thanked Brutus and started to walk away.

"Say, kid, where are you staying tonight?"

"No place special. I just got into town."

"I thought so." Brutus scribbled an address on the back of a business card and handed it to Joel. "Here. Give this place a call. It's a mission run by one of the churches in the U-District. They'll put you up tonight and give you a meal in the morning. If you still need a job next month, come back. I might have something by then."

"Thanks again."

The two shook hands and Joel started to walk away.

"By the way, I like your shirt. Probably best not to ask what it means."

Joel laughed.

"You're right. Best not. Take care."

Joel noted the address and did a beeline for the Montlake Bridge. He counted his blessings. If nothing else, he would sleep in a bed that wasn't rolling on rails.

CHAPTER 19

The troops assembled at six. Armed with lipstick, cash, and pin-curl permanents, the Twenty-First Birthday Brigade of Kappa Delta Alpha set out to shake things up on a Monday night. Or at least order a few decadent desserts to go with legal cocktails.

Ginny Gillette, the officer in charge, had asked a dozen coeds to meet at Harlan's Hideaway, located just outside the dry zone on University Way Northeast, or what locals called the Ave. Thanks to a series of legislative acts, the sale of alcoholic beverages was prohibited within a mile of campus. But the restriction was merely an annoyance for most students, including Grace Vandenberg's closest friends. All twelve answered the call.

This particular powwow, however, had less to do with the consumption of Demon Rum and other spirits than with pushing a beloved but reclusive sorority sister out of her comfort zone and getting away from books and typewriters one last time before dead week, the usually quiet and intense lead-up to finals week, took its toll.

"I feel a little guilty," Ginny said to Grace, as she turned away from a menu. "If I had known Paul was going to pop a rock on your finger, I would have called this off – or at least rescheduled. You really should be with him tonight."

"Don't be silly. How often do any of us get together like this?"

"At least once a week," Linda McEwan said.

Several girls giggled. Grace turned red.

"I guess I
have
spent too much time at the library."

"And with that handsome man of yours," Katie said.

Katherine Kobayashi, the outlier of the group, worked beside Grace three days a week in the rare books section of the university library. The second generation Japanese American had not joined Kappa Delta Alpha. Nisei did not join traditional sororities. But Katie had been welcomed with open arms into Grace's tight circle of friends.

With the exception of two tables near the front door, where noisy young men in zoot suits swapped naughty stories, the juniors and seniors had the dark, pub-like establishment to themselves. Most students hit the books the week before finals, not restaurants and bars, so Harlan's, a popular haunt, was unusually quiet.

"So when's the date?" Linda asked, turning to the guest of honor at her side. "Big brother didn't provide details."

"We haven't set one," Grace said. "Paul wants me to finish school first. I imagine it will be next summer, when he gets his leave."

She smiled at Linda and grabbed her hand.

"Just think. We're going to be sisters-in-law."

"I'm looking forward to that."

Linda lifted her Sidecar and clinked Grace's wine glass. She had ordered two of the brandy concoctions and pondered a third. But she did not like to drink alone. Only Ginny, Grace, Phyllis, Betty, and Rose had requested something stronger than iced tea. Four others had asked for lemon water. Lemon water!

"I'm so happy for you," Katie said.

"I am too. We all are," Ginny added. The queen bee looked down the long table, moved around an index finger, as if counting the number of adult beverages, and frowned. She tapped her fork on a full martini. "What's this? This is supposed to be a party. The first round is on me!"

The sisterhood cheered.

Ginny stood up, lifted her glass, and smiled at Grace.

"Here's a toast to the birthday girl and the
blushing
bride to be!"

* * * * *

The non-party party finished at nine, after two girls left for the library and Linda left for the ladies room. She gave back to Harlan's on three separate occasions. Grace provided comfort each time, helping her to a sink to wash her face and then to a glass of water to wash her throat. At the end of round three, she wiped a bit of celebration from the hem of her white cotton dress.

"Some birthday," Linda said. "I'm sorry."

"It's OK. Someone always gets sick at these things and I'm glad it wasn't me."

The friends laughed.

The Birthday Brigade decided early on to stay at Harlan's rather than hop from bar to bar. They agreed that they had all that they needed in the Hideaway and that Monday night of dead week was no time to pursue additional distractions – like men.

Grace could not have asked for a better time, given the circumstances. She could not have asked for better friends. All had taken time from their studies to celebrate her milestone birthday, even though she herself had celebrated with just two glasses of wine.

As the women pushed out the door and began their long walk back to the sorority, the sun slipped below the horizon and a gentle breeze blew in from the Sound, rattling leaves and prompting some to button their sweaters. But no one complained. Grace loved this time of year, when Seattle's dreary wet season gave way to the best summer weather in North America.

She pondered her plans for the coming season, her final year of college, and, most important, her future with Paul. Oh, how he had surprised her Saturday night! Oh, how she had surprised herself by accepting his offer. Grace had dated only five men in her life, but she did not have to date more to know that her naval officer was a catch.

Ten minutes into the walk, Grace and Linda fell behind the pack and got caught on the wrong side of traffic when the others crossed East Forty-Seventh Street. As they waited for a caravan of cars to pass, Grace glanced to her right and saw a young man in a dirty sweatshirt and cowboy hat lean back on a bench and stare into space.

She paused to assess the figure and noticed that he was uncommonly handsome, in spite of, or maybe because of, thick brown stubble that covered much of his face. When he turned to face Grace, he locked onto her crystal blue eyes and offered a long, weary smile. She responded in kind. He did not appear to be a student or one of the many transients who passed through the university district but rather something else.

Grace peered across the street and heard shouts from the other side. Katie and others motioned frantically for her to cross. As the traffic cleared, she looked back at the man and gently waved a slender hand. He sat up straight and touched the brim of his hat.

Ginny greeted her first.

"What did you do? Stop to check the white sales?"

"No. I was just looking at a cowboy, over on the bench. He looked very sad."

"Well, I'm sure he'll find his horse. Come on. Let's go."

Grace put an arm around Linda and gave Katie her heavy purse. In the distance, dozens of moviegoers filed out of the Phoenician as impatient drivers in slow-moving cars revved their engines and honked their horns. The Ave was coming to life.

As she started down Forty-Seventh Street, Grace glanced back at the bench. It was empty. No one loitered nearby, and no one walked down the street. Satisfied that her cowboy had found his horse, she turned to join her sisters and mused of other things.

CHAPTER 20

Joel thought about mattresses as he walked north on the Ave.

He thought about the queen-sized box spring he had in his apartment, the waterbed he'd had growing up, and the king-sized memory-foam special in his parents' bedroom. He even thought about flimsy bunk-bed pads, the kind Saint Xavier's Mission had but couldn't offer when it told him there was no more room in the inn.

The pampered youngest son of Frank and Cynthia Smith couldn't remember the last time fatigue and hunger had gripped him like this. He gained new respect for those who spent each day walking the streets.

Joel also thought about the blonde. Who was she? And why had she stared at him? Was Joel Smith, world traveler, gold-card member, and former all-state linebacker, now an object of pity? He didn't think so. He saw empathy in those incredible eyes, not contempt. Still, he wondered.

As Joel proceeded down the busy arterial, he passed a few familiar sights. Some things had not visibly changed in fifty-nine years, such as two brownstone apartment buildings, a Mission Revival grade school in the Heights, and three taverns with colorful names. He stood before one, the Mad Dog, and considered his options.

The Mad Dog didn't have memory-foam mattresses for weary time travelers. But it did have a long sidewalk bench. Joel sat down on one end and extended his legs toward the other. He pondered walking to a nearby park but decided to stay put. The bench was hard but relatively comfortable. If necessary, he could make it his bed for the night.

He closed his eyes and thought of pleasant things: his mother's chicken cacciatore, the hot tub at home, Jana in a string bikini, Maui, and the blonde. He could still picture her face.

Miss Denmark has nothing on you.

Joel was about to drift off when a party of three crashed through the tavern door. Two men about his age escorted another to the other side of the Ave, where a narrow, unlighted alley between a redbrick law office and a used bookstore allowed for private conversations. An American flag flew in front of the office.

"I believe the sum was twenty dollars," Joel heard one of the men say.

"And I said I'd have it by Wednesday."

"You said that a week ago. Let's see your wallet."

Silence passed for a moment, and then another. Pleased that the misunderstanding across the street had been resolved to the satisfaction of all parties, Joel again settled into the bench and let fatigue take its course. He visualized Kapalua and another epic dispute. In this clash, Jana and Smiling Sarah fought over his beach towel. Blondie from Forty-Seventh Street, whistle in mouth, mediated the spat, which had gone into overtime. The bliss ended all too soon.