The Road to Grace (The Walk) (21 page)

I woke the next morning to the first rays of dawn stealing through the room’s window. Analise was facing me, her eyes open. She looked soft and peaceful.

“Thank you,” she said, in a voice only slightly above a whisper, her breath warm on my face.

“For what?” I asked.

“For saying no and for holding me.”

“You’re beautiful,” I said.

“So are you.” She paused. “Do you think I’ll ever see you again?”

“I don’t know.”

“I hope so. I hope someday you come back on a white horse and save me.”

“Analise …”

She put her fingers on my lips to still them. “A girl needs her fantasies.” She laid her head against my chest, and I pulled her tight against me. Her warmth and softness were exquisite. She wasn’t McKale, but she was lovely.

After a few minutes Analise groaned slightly as she pulled away. “I better get up before the kids wake.”

“Wait,” I said. “What are you going to do now?”

“Get the kids ready for the day.”

I laughed. “I was thinking a little broader.”

“Like with my life?”

I nodded.

“I don’t know. But I feel so much better. I haven’t felt this peaceful since the day before Matt died.”

“You loved him,” I said.

“With all my heart.” She touched my face. “I’m glad your walk brought you through Sidney, Mr. Christoffersen.”

“So am I.”

She leaned forward and kissed my cheek, then climbed out of bed. She looked back from the door. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

She walked out, pulling the door shut behind her. I sighed, then lay back and looked at the ceiling. Then I got up and showered.

When I walked out of the room the two children were eating bowls of cereal, staring at the backs of the cereal boxes in front of them. Casey turned around and looked at me. “Hello, Mr. Christoffersen.”

“Hi, sweetie.”

“Are you going to be here tonight?”

“No. I’m going back out walking.”

She frowned.

Christian wouldn’t look at me.

“Hey, Christian,” I said.

“What?”

“I have something for you.”

He turned and looked at me. “What?”

I took my Swiss Army knife out of my pocket. “I thought you could use this.”

He sat there staring. I could tell he wanted it, but wasn’t sure how to accept the gift. I walked to the table and set it down next to his bowl. “It will come in handy with your Scouting.”

He nodded.

“Better not take it to school, though. I’m sure they frown on students bringing knives to school.”

He nodded again.

“Okay, you take care.”

He still didn’t say anything.

A few minutes later Analise walked into the dining room. She grabbed the milk carton. “Okay, kids. Run out
to the car. I’ll be right out. Christian, don’t forget your pack.”

“Okay,” he said. Then he looked at me. “Thanks, Alan.” He grabbed the knife then walked over and picked up his pack.

Casey ran over and hugged me. “Good-bye, Mr. Christoffersen. Thanks for visiting.”

I smiled. “It was my pleasure.”

She went back and got her pack, then both kids walked out the front door.

Analise looked at me curiously. “What was that about?”

“Casey’s a sweet little girl.”

“No, with Christian.”

“I gave him a present. I hope it’s okay. It’s a Swiss Army knife.”

She shook her head. “He’s been asking for one for almost a year. I keep telling him no.”

“Sorry,” I said.

She grinned. “It’s okay. I’m just overprotective. Thank you for doing that for him.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Just a minute.” She left with the carton of milk, then returned. She walked up to me. “I don’t know what to say. I can’t believe I feel like I’m going to cry. I don’t even really know you.”

“You know me better than you think. We belong to the same club.”

She nodded. “I wish I could revoke my membership.”

“We all do.”

She stared into my eyes. “Thank you for giving me hope.” She took something out of her pocket. “Will you take this to Key West with you?”

“What is it?”

“It’s the bracelet I was making when I learned of Matt’s death.” It was a simple black cord with a small pewter oval that said,
Believe.

I closed my hand around it. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. If you think of it, look me up sometime. You know where to find me.” We embraced. Then she looked into my face, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Bye.”

“Bye, Analise.”

She walked to the door, then turned around. “Just lock the door behind you.”

I nodded and she walked out. I went out to the porch and watched her climb into the truck. She glanced at me as she backed out. Casey waved. So did Christian. Then she drove away.

I took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. I wondered if I would ever see her again. I examined the bracelet she’d given me and put it on my wrist. Then I went back inside. I grabbed a banana from the counter, then lifted my pack up over my shoulders, and stepped back out onto the porch. I checked the door to make sure it was locked and pulled it shut.

At the edge of the yard I stopped and looked back at the house.
Just another story under the sun
, I thought. Then I turned back to the street. It took me less than twenty minutes to cross out of Sidney.

Outside of Sidney there was a lot of road construction and enough detours that at times, even with my map, I wasn’t sure if I was walking in the right direction. Kind of like my life. One detour led me to a road that didn’t even appear on my map. After an hour of walking along a narrow, two-lane country road, a man pulled up next to me in a red Dodge pickup truck. He was about my age and wore a John Deere cap. He rolled down his window. “You’re going the wrong way.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“The only people going that way, live there. Where are you headed?”

“St. Joseph.”

“Yeah, you know that last road you passed—about a half mile back?”

“The dirt one?”

He nodded. “Yeah. You wanted to take that. It’s only dirt for about a hundred yards, then it’s asphalt again. It runs south and reconnects with 29. I’m going that way, I’d be happy to give you a ride.”

“Thank you, but I’m committed to walking.”

“Good on ya,” he said. “Remember, back a half mile to that dirt road. There’s no sign and it breaks up a little bit in places, but don’t let it scare you. When you come to a T in the road you’re going to want to turn right. That will get you to the 29. Got it?”

“Take a right at the T.”

“Perfect.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Don’t mention it.” He rolled up the window then pulled away, spinning a U-turn in front of me. I realized that he had actually gone past his turnoff to help me.

The road the man had directed me to alternated between
pavement and dirt but was always surrounded by cornfields. Just as he said, the road led me south, intersecting again with 29, which ran all the way to the Missouri state line.

There wasn’t much to see, and my mind wandered. I thought a lot about Analise. I wondered what would become of her. I barely knew her, yet I cared about her. As I pondered this phenomenon I learned something about myself: I’ve always been a sucker for a damsel in distress. Always. And that included McKale.

Pamela had asked if McKale would have needed me the way she did if she had been a better mother. The question I’d never asked was, would I have been as attracted to McKale if she hadn’t needed me? Had I seen McKale in Analise’s pain?

I didn’t know. I don’t think I wanted to. So I forced my mind to other things and just kept walking. Four days later I reached the city of St. Joseph.

St. Joseph was founded in the early 1800s by a fur trader named Joseph Robidoux. In its heyday it was a thriving wilderness outpost—the last stop on the Missouri River, and gateway to the Wild West. It was also the end of the line for west-bound trains.

Today, St. Joseph has a population of over seventy-five thousand residents. The town has several claims to fame, among them that it was the headquarters and starting point for the legendary Pony Express, which sped mail west to those cities inaccessible by rail. It is also the town where the infamous outlaw Jesse James was shot and killed.

Entering St. Joseph, I was struck by the city’s beautiful architecture. I walked into the city through an industrial section, then up through suburbs until I reached an area of shopping malls and hotels. I checked into an ambitious hotel called the Stoney Creek Inn, a Western-themed family hotel.

That night I ate at a barbecue joint called the Rib Crib. After looking over the menu I asked my server what the difference was between St. Louis ribs and regular ribs. He replied, “St. Louis ribs have less meat and aren’t as good.”

“Then I’ll have the regular ribs,” I said, pretty certain he didn’t sell many St. Louis ribs. I ate until I was full, then walked a mile back to my hotel and crashed for the night.

The next morning I decided to see the town’s three advertised tourist sites, beginning with the Patee House Museum.

The Patee House was originally built as a 140-room luxury hotel and was, in its day, one of the best-known hotels in the West. It also served as the headquarters for the Pony Express. I was surprised to learn that for all its infamy, the Pony Express only lasted for eighteen months.
Today the Patee House is considered one of the top ten Western museums in the country.

Less than a block away from the Patee House Museum was the home where Jesse James was killed. This wasn’t a coincidence. For commercial reasons, the home was lifted from its original site and moved to its current location.

The killing of Jesse James in 1882 made national news. James had been hiding out in St. Joseph under the alias Tom Howard, hoping to start a new life with his wife and two children as a law-abiding citizen. After such a notorious career, and with a lengthy list of enemies, James was understandably paranoid, so he hired two brothers to protect him, Charley and Robert Ford—family friends he believed he could trust.

Unbeknownst to James, Robert Ford had been plotting with the governor to betray the outlaw. One day, while James stood on a chair to right a crooked picture hanging on the wall, Ford shot him in the back of the head.

Then the Ford brothers hurried to the local sheriff to claim the ten-thousand-dollar reward. Much to their surprise, they were arrested for first-degree murder, indicted, and sentenced to death by hanging, all in the same day. Fortunately for the brothers, the governor interceded and pardoned the two men.

History, while heralding the outlaw, has not been as kind to the Ford brothers, painting them as traitors and cowards. After receiving a portion of the reward money, Robert Ford earned a living by posing for photographs in dime museums as “the man who killed Jesse James” and appeared onstage with his brother Charles, reenacting the murder in a touring stage show, which was not well received.

Two years after the killing, Charles, suffering from tuberculosis
and addicted to morphine, committed suicide. Robert Ford was killed a few years later by a man who walked up to him in a bar then said, without explanation, “Hello, Bob,” and unloaded both barrels of a shotgun into his neck.