Truth Like the Sun (35 page)

These articles swelled in Helen’s estimation until she began considering them the sort of public service journalism she’d marveled at in Pulitzer anthologies, a notion bolstered by the
Columbia Journalism Review
’s latest issue, which lauded Helen and Steele for
knocking out
a city legend running for mayor, and for exposing the possibility that much of Seattle’s spectacular skyline—maybe including the Space Needle itself—had been built with tainted money.

Finding her
Dear Roger
letter days later on her office computer
had given her shivers. She’d deleted it, clicked into her trash and killed it again, appalled she’d written it even in her weakened state. But now she was healthy, rested and invigorated, beneath a sky so blue it hurt to look up.

Amazingly, the city was starting to feel like home. She’d jogged around Green Lake with Omar and the cheerful masses last weekend, then let him take her to the symphony, which was so good it made her cry. He’d also found her a deal on a Ballard apartment with a sunset view that she couldn’t wait to show her parents. It really was happening. She was falling for this place. She took lunch breaks at the Pike Place Market and heard herself asking strangers, “Have you seen the mountain today?” It was creeping into her, this cheery notion that something exceptional was going on here.

She watched Omar playing with her boy as if they were recess pals. It was definitely Morgan’s cell number. Perhaps ringing her by accident? People’s hips called her all the time. And if he was trying to reach her, it would no doubt be hostile. She told herself to let the call pass into her voice mail, but then cleared her throat and picked up.

“If you haven’t done it yet,” he said without introduction, “you and Elias should take the ferry to Bremerton while the weather holds. If you take the seven-o’clock boat, you’ll see the sun drop over the Olympics. Fabulous trip, if you haven’t made it already. Captain’s name is Matt Schultz. Tell him you’re a friend of mine, and he might let Elias steer a little bit.”

He gave her a moment to compose herself and respond, but she just kept clearing her throat. She wanted to tell him that on deadline she’d successfully insisted they cut any mention of his three illegitimate children even though he’d confirmed their existence. Finally she simply whispered, “Thank you” right before he hung up. She felt emotion rising toward her head.

“Mom? What’s wrong?”

Elias had taken this nurturing tone with her ever since she explained that his father was a short, clever man who’d never loved her. She crouched low enough now for him to drop a large, perfect blackberry into her mouth.

•   •   •

IN LESS THAN
sixteen hours, two Boeing jets will slam into the twin towers in New York and thousands of people of all races, ages and incomes will spontaneously gather beneath the grand old Space Needle to cry, stack flowers and hold hands. Roger would have loved to see his fairgrounds pulling the city together yet again, even to mourn, but that won’t happen.

RIGHT NOW
he’s walking down Union Street trying to pinpoint why he feels so good. Part of it had to be the phone call. As his grandfather used to say, it’s hard to beat the glory of forgiveness. Plus he’d given his mother a ride, and at the last minute had summoned the right words to send off Jenny Sunshine. And it’s early September, his favorite time of the year, with a crispy hint of fall and the smell of dying leaves amid all this photogenic stillness. It’s his favorite time of day, too, with the city getting off the clock and bicyclists weaving through traffic and people strolling freely onto buses and ferries and into bars and restaurants. His boom-bust city is rebounding, and that has always lifted his mood. Jobs and wages were up in August. The port’s also expanding, as are Amazon, the bio-techs and the Gates Foundation, which now is merely attempting to rid the world of preventable diseases. Seattle’s thinking big again.

Most of his mirth, though, he realizes, can be attributed to Meredith Stein, who’s waiting at the bottom of this hill to show him Annie Leibovitz’s latest exhibition—seventy-five black-and-white photos of women.

He checks his watch, thrilled that he remembered in time to hear the first pitch. He sticks his earpiece in and listens to Niehaus describing Ichiro’s pre-batting ritual—the deep knee bends, the pinch and lift of his jersey at the right shoulder, his right arm extending with the bat vertical, like an archer aiming his bow at the pitcher, then dropping the bat across his body and assuming his stance, ready to swing at whatever gets thrown. Inside, outside, head high, in the dirt? Doesn’t matter. He’ll swing. And he does so now at the first pitch.
This skinny Japanese rookie has done the impossible by making routine groundballs exciting. This one bounces twice, fast and low to the right of the Angels’ shortstop, who rushes his backhand scoop because the ball came off Ichiro’s bat, and every player and umpire and savvy fan knows it’s going to be really close. Niehaus’s voice rises excitedly as the ball thumps the first-baseman’s glove at the same instant that Ichiro’s left foot hits the sack. It’s only the first at bat, and just an infield hit, yet Niehaus makes it sound like a game winner.

The day is bursting with promise, and Roger struts painlessly down the hill, noticing all the orange markings where high-speed Internet cables will be buried beneath the pavement. Why plant miles of wire in a city that is home to the cellular revolution? Why not be the first wireless city? This thought triggers a flurry of others. Why not turn this into the greenest city on earth? Buildings with triple-paned windows and automated blinds, rainwater reservoirs and sod roofs. Yes, yes, and why not lead the way on electric cars too? Hell, why not collapsible electric cars? And instead of all these light-rail boondoggles, just expand the damn monorail. And do it now! He’ll counter stupid initiatives with smart ones if he has to. Better yet, he’ll pass his ideas on to young dreamers who can reinvent this city with their bliss. Yes, yes, yes! And what about putting on another fair that dares to look decades ahead? Why hasn’t he thought about that before? He’ll get all the brainstormers involved—Gates, Bezos, Glaser, McCaw, come one, come all. He sees his young city out front once again, sailing faster than the others into the radiant future.

In his mind, it’s already happening, and he’s running these ideas past his grandpa now, and soon he’ll hear what Meredith has to say about them. Is he finally ready to commit to a woman? He laughs aloud. He’s seen her twice in the past week, and knows he’s falling for her yet again. From here, he can actually see her waiting at the bottom of the hill next to the museum. It’s got to be her. As wide as she is tall. He can’t wait.

Then it’s just a pop and a rapidly expanding headache, but he knows. And in this instant of knowing, he imagines his funeral, and Teddy breaking down, and so many people who expected to go before him saying,
Good God, he was so young
, but nobody knowing,
not even Teddy, what to say into the microphone because he’s not there to say it for them. His vision dims as the sidewalk rises up to catch him.
Not now!
He can’t help but want more. He hasn’t been to Buenos Aires yet. And who’s gonna read stories to his mother? He wants
more
! Just a little bit … 
more
.

By the time she gets up the hill to him, a dozen others are already there and several have dialed 9-1-1. A bearded young man has attempted CPR, and he’s trembling because it didn’t work. And a thin older woman has recognized the famous Roger Morgan and is shouting his name over and over again.

Meredith is panting as she takes off her sweater and folds it beneath his head, which looks unharmed. Kneeling beside him, she places a finger on his neck to be sure, though she knows. She strokes his forehead and finger-combs his bangs the way he likes them and starts humming to stop herself from crying. For a moment there is nothing but the sound of her humming, then seagulls shriek nearby, a train whistles across town, a jet rumbles overhead and the city carries on.

While much of Seattle’s 1962 World’s Fair is accurately portrayed here, this novel is the result of research mixed with imagination. Some celebrities have cameos in this story, but most of their conversations are invented. Also, Roger Morgan and Teddy Severson are my creations and were not based on men who actually ran the fair. Last, Seattle endured an elaborate bribery scandal in the 1960s and early ’70s, which was condensed to suit this novel. Similar liberties were taken with more recent newsflashes.

Books that helped conjure this story include
Century 21: The Story of the Seattle World’s Fair, 1962
by Murray Morgan;
On the Take: From Petty Crooks to Presidents
by William J. Chambliss;
Pugetopolis
by Knute Berger,
Seattle Vice: Strippers, Prostitution, Dirty Money, and Crooked Cops in the Emerald City
by Rick Anderson;
Meet Me at the Center: The Story of Seattle Center from the Beginnings to the 1962 Seattle World’s Fair to the 21st Century
by Don Duncan; and
Seattle and the Demons of Ambition: From Boom to Bust in the Number One City of the Future
by Fred Moody.
Seattle
magazine, circa 1964 to 1970, inspired as well, as did interviews and journals of fair executives Eddie Carlson, Joseph Gandy and Ewen Dingwall.

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