The Mine (Northwest Passage Book 1)

by John A. Heldt

  By quarter to five, traffic had fallen to manageable levels. With the exception of a young couple that played a Tommy Dorsey record on a phonograph, a fortyish woman who examined a hutch, and an old man who let his cares drift away in the arms of a French club chair, the store was quiet and customer free.

  Tom considered trying to sell the hutch but opted to stay put. If the lady really wanted to buy it, she'd let someone know. The others, he concluded, were just passing time before heading out the door and putting the final touches on their own busy week.

  "Have you given any more thought to what I said?"

  "I have," Joel said.

  "And?"

  "And let's wait until after Labor Day and find someplace close to campus. I want to build up a little capital first and get some decent furniture." Joel sat on an ottoman and re-rolled the sleeves of his white dress shirt. "Besides, I've developed an addiction to your mother's cooking. I'm not ready to give that up just yet."

  "OK. I just thought you might be getting tired of the trailer."

  "I am. But I can be patient. Remember where I was sleeping a few weeks ago."

  Tom laughed.

  "How could I forget that?"

  When Tom began moving from the fraternity into his parents' house on Memorial Day, he had planned to stay a month at most. Twenty-two-year-old men with twenty-one-year-old girlfriends did not reside with Mom and Dad – unless they lived in Appalachia or Greenwich Village. When Joel came along, the desire to move out became even stronger. He wanted his privacy, to be sure. But he also looked forward to sharing an apartment with the most entertaining man in western Washington.

  Joel let his eyes drift to the front of the store, where the record-playing couple and the hutch-touching woman headed for the door and a last-minute customer rushed in. She walked toward the sales team of Carter and Smith as the man in the chair snored.

  "I think it's time to wake Rip Van Winkle and help your dad close shop," Joel said.

  "You go ahead," Tom said. "My knees are locked into place."

  "Well, maybe it's time to unlock them," the late arrival said as she tiptoed behind the settee and placed her hands over Tom's eyes. "A gentleman would already be on his feet, and a true gentleman would already have straightened his tie and combed his hair in eager anticipation of his one true love."

  "My boat?" Tom asked.

  "That's pretty funny, handsome."

  "Hi, Ginny."

  "Hello to you too," she said. "And don't even think of getting up on my behalf. I was just teasing. You look as though you've spent the day with a hundred customers or half a day with Doris."

  "Both, actually," Tom said.

  "Well, I've got just the thing for you."

  Ginny Gillette sifted through the black hole that was her purse for nearly a minute before retrieving four colorful tickets. She handed them to Tom.

  "These are a gift from my editor. He loved my piece on polio. In fact, he wants to run it above the fold in the city section on Sunday."

  "Congratulations," Joel said. "I thought you said it was a mess."

  "It was. But I added two wonderfully quotable sources after I talked to you and put it all together Tuesday night. I'm pleased with how it turned out, very much so."

  "I'm proud of you, sweetie. You'll be running that place before you're thirty."

  "I doubt it, Tom. But I am making headway. I've been assigned two more stories for July. And rest assured, Joel, they're very weighty."

  Joel smiled.

  "I wish I could reel that back."

  Along with every "yes, ma'am" of the past three weeks.

  "No need to take back anything. You meant well," Ginny said. She stepped away from the settee and stood between the salesmen. "In any case, unless you two have other plans, we're going to see the ballgame tomorrow night. San Francisco is in town."

  "There are four tickets, dear," Tom said. "Who gets the last one?"

  "That's for me to know and you to find out."

  Ginny took the tickets out of Tom's hand and kissed the top of his head.

  "Why don't you stop by the house at five? That will give us a chance to visit some before the game begins. Nice to see you, Joel."

  She clutched her purse and started for the door but didn't get fifteen feet before the peanut gallery started throwing peanuts.

  "You know, Ginny, Tom asked a legitimate question. It might be nice to know who I'll be sitting next to all night, for three hours, maybe more, with mustard breath."

  She stopped, turned around, and grinned.

  "Well, now, aren't we impatient? Bye, boys."

  Ginny strutted toward the exit. As she passed the armchairs, she waved the tickets high over her head and woke Rip Van Winkle with a shout.

  "Linda!"

  CHAPTER 34

  The Boys of Baltic Avenue arrived fashionably late after their most adventurous member turned a fifteen-block jaunt into a thirty-mile spin.

  Joel had insisted on driving Tom's graduation present at disturbingly high speeds through northeast Seattle, and Tom had surprisingly agreed. The fact Joel possessed a driver's license that expired in 2002 and a collision policy from a company that did not exist was wholly irrelevant. He had more fun than he had had in at least five years.

  When Joel reached the corner of Fifty-Sixth and Klickitat, he whipped the metallic blue Plymouth Special Deluxe convertible to the curb, honked three times, and turned off the engine. Tom released his tight grip on the passenger door.

  "Next time I'll stick to the roller coaster," he said with a nervous laugh. "Where did you learn to drive like that?"

  "On rural roads, mostly," Joel said.

  It wasn't a lie. He had rolled two vehicles in as many years and been ticketed six times on Forest Service routes alone. He pulled the keys from the dash and handed them to his still-skittish partner.

  "Your keys, sire."

  "You sure you don't want to drive to the stadium?"

  "I'm sure. But thanks for offering."

  Joel hopped out of the driver's seat and walked around the back of the car to the passenger side. He joined Tom on the sidewalk, where they made last-minute adjustments to their appearance. Before they advanced even halfway to the door, Ginny walked out to meet them. Wearing a crisp white blouse, knit sweater, and dark blue skirt that showcased her slender form, she looked ready for an evening on the town. But a forced smile suggested that the evening had already hit a snag.

  "We have a bit of a problem," she said, mostly to Tom. "Linda is sick, really sick. She's been vomiting all day and can't get out of bed. My guess is the stomach flu."

  "I'm sorry to hear that," Tom said. "Do you want to go another time?"

  "We can. But these particular tickets are good only for tonight."

  "What's Katie doing? Maybe she'd like to come instead."

  "I asked her, but she said she has other plans."

  Following the conversation from a few feet away, Joel processed the information and pondered the options. Linda was out and Katie was out.

  Well, Hell's bells, Monty, what's behind Door Number Three?

  "How about Grace?" Tom asked.

  "I'm glad you inquired," Ginny said. "She has agreed to be our pinch hitter tonight, provided that's all right with you, Joel."

  Joel looked at Ginny and tightened the reins of the wild horses attempting to pull his indifferent expression into a mile-wide grin.

  "Are you sure it's no bother?"

  He felt as genuine as Eddie Haskell in a heartfelt conversation with Mrs. Cleaver – "I'm sorry that Theodore can't join Wallace and me at the game" – but he did not care. He'd give his left steely for an evening with Blondie.

  "I'm as sure of that as I'm sure it's no bother to you," Ginny said.

  Her smile suggested that she was as good at reading Joel Smith now as she was when he was eleven and lied about tracking mud across her living room carpet.

  "Your pinch hitter meets my approval."

  "I thought she would. W
e'll just be a minute."

  Ginny ran inside. When she returned ten minutes later, she brought a friend who had not lost any luster in fourteen days. Wearing a green summer dress and a wide-brimmed hat, Grace Vandenberg did not look like a hastily called substitute but rather a well-prepared starter.

  "Hello, Joel," she said with a tentative smile.

  "Hi, Grace."

  "Well, it looks like we have a foursome after all," Tom said. He walked back to his glistening coupe, opened the passenger side door, and flipped down the front seats, providing the only access to narrower quarters in the back. "I like the idea of coed seating tonight. Grace, Joel, after you."

  Joel helped Grace into the back and then pulled Ginny's seat upright, allowing her to enter the vehicle. Tom closed the passenger door behind her, scurried over to his side, slammed his door, and started the engine. After adjusting the rear view mirror, he flipped down the automated top, nodded at Ginny, and then grinned at his passengers in back.

  "Here's the deal, kids. We have a thirty-minute drive and twenty-five minutes to make it. Fortunately, my good friend here showed me some new tricks."

  "Tricks?" Ginny asked.

  "He means efficiency measures," Joel said.

  Tom looked ahead and shifted into gear.

  "Hold on to your hats!"

  * * * * *

  Thanks to efficiency measures and a few well-timed lights on Rainier Avenue, Tom covered the distance to the stadium in twenty-two minutes.

  In another ten, the two couples found their way to seats twelve rows up behind the first base dugout. Though they brought light jackets, they did not need them for the first pitch. With no wind, blue skies, and sixty-nine degrees inside the three-year-old ballpark, conditions were nearly perfect for an evening of Class AA baseball.

  "This is the life, no?" asked Tom, settling into his seat after paying for two beers, two sodas, and four hot dogs. "The weather's great, the beer is cold, the crowd is festive, and we're sitting with the most alluring women in Seattle."

  "I'll drink to that," Joel said.

  The friends reached across their female companions to clink paper cups.

  "You two are insufferable," Ginny said. "But you can talk that way all night."

  Grace smiled but said nothing. She had said little on the drive to the stadium as well, but Joel did not interpret that as lack of interest. She had gently stared at him from start to finish, as if studying and evaluating something different and appealing.

  "Do you like baseball?" she asked.

  "Of course. I played three years in high school and see at least thirty Mariners games a year. Or at least I used to. We used to have season tickets."

  "Who are the Mariners?"

  "Probably some rookie league team in Helena," Tom said as he finished his hot dog. "They do play ball out there, don't they?"

  "In between rodeos and summer blizzards," Joel said, wondering how many more gaffes he'd have to explain before the evening was done.

  He sipped his beer and returned his attention to Grace, hoping she was the kind who let sleeping dogs lie. She wasn't. She quickly hit him with more questions.

  "Did you participate in many activities in high school?"

  "Let's see. I played football, took French and Spanish, and started a history club. You know, the usual cowboy stuff. No calf roping, though."

  Grace put her drink down and shifted in her seat to address her neighbor.

  "Parlez-vous français?" she asked.

  "Oui."

  "Then please show us what you've learned. Say something in French."

  "Vous avez des jolis yeux bleus."

  Grace smiled.

  "Yes, Mr. Smith, my eyes are blue and some think them pretty. Thank you for the compliment. But I suspect you can do better."

  "Oh, I can!"

  Joel massaged his temples for a few seconds, as if retrieving an assignment from third-year French, and then dropped his hands to his lap. He turned to his peers.

  "La dame au jolis yeux bleus est plus chaude que Veronica Lake."

  Ginny grinned and Grace blushed.

  "What did he say?" Tom asked, suddenly interested. "What did he say?"

  "Well, Tom, to put a fine point on things, our new friend thinks that the lady with the pretty blue eyes is 'hotter' than Veronica Lake."

  "I know all the swear words too," Joel said. "But I'll save them for another night."

  Tom roared with laughter.

  "I have to spend more time with this guy. I didn't learn anything like that in high school. I can't even count in German, much less swear."

  Tom leaned to his side and addressed the girl two seats down.

  "He's got a point too, Grace. You make Veronica Lake look like a barmaid."

  The blonde smiled and shook her head.

  "Thank you, both of you, for that kind assessment," Grace said. "But I was hoping for a bit more. It's been a while since I've had the chance to practice my French. Tell me something interesting, Joel. Tell me something about Montana."

  "OK. Let me think," he said. He rubbed his chin. "How about this? Les rivières de Montana sont pleines de truites."

  "J'en ai entendu," Grace replied. "So I've heard. The rivers are full of trout. Have you ever caught one of these fish?"

  "I have. My grandparents took me fishing on the Madison River every year when I was kid. We always caught our limit," Joel said, telling the truth. He spoke to Grace but gazed at Ginny. "I loved those trips. I loved sleeping under the stars. I loved spending time with them. The trips were the highlight of my summer."

  "That's very sweet," Grace said.

  Joel let his mind drift for a moment. He missed the campouts, just as he missed his grandmother and the man she had yet to meet. He could have wallowed in nostalgia all night, but he saw no point. Those memories belonged to another life, one he couldn't have back. Gathering himself, he returned to 1941, Grace, and the topic on the table.

  "How did you learn French?"

  "My mother taught me the basics. She was my primary teacher. I also took a semester in high school. I know just enough to get into trouble."

  "You know more than you think," Joel said. "Trust me."

  "Merci."

  Joel settled into his seat and thought about the woman to his left. Grace Vandenberg wasn't just a looker. She was a thinker – and probably as smart as a whip. He'd stand in line to hear her speak, in any language, seven days a week, so long as she didn't ask questions about him. Joel saw nothing to gain by discussing his past – not now, anyway – so he attempted to steer the conversation in a different direction.

  "What about you, Grace? What did you do in high school?"

  The question brought a chill to Row 12 as Grace turned pale and Tom and Ginny looked away. Game sounds that had been little more than background noise suddenly took center stage. Joel knew he had stepped in something, probably something big, but he didn't know what. He tucked away the talk and waited for a break in the storm.

  Ginny watched Grace try to make eye contact with her inquisitor and watched her fail. She grabbed her friend's hand and turned to address the newcomer.

  "Grace accomplished quite a lot in school, Joel. But she was too busy earning a full-ride scholarship to participate in any extracurricular activities. She got straight A's at Westlake High. Did she tell you that?"

  "No, she didn't." Joel stared into left field as he digested that morsel. Beyond the fence more than a hundred fans gathered to watch the game on Tightwad Hill. "Westlake, huh? I passed the school my first day here. How did you like going there?"

  "It was all right," Grace said, recovering slightly. "I went there only a few months and didn't have the opportunity to do much except graduate."

  "I see. Well, there's nothing wrong with winning a scholarship."

  Joel closed his eyes for a few seconds and tried to guess how often he had passed the composite photo of the Class of 1938 in four years at WHS. He could not believe that they had attended the same school. T
he coincidence left him excited, numb, and strangely ill at ease. Sensing that this was not Grace's favorite subject, he moved on.

  "Would you like something more to eat?"

  "I think I would," she said.

  "Let's get something then. Let's go for a walk."

  * * * * *

  Joel took his time guiding Grace from the right side of the stadium to the left. After buying two boxes of caramel corn, he gave her a tour of the concourse, the team museum, and an outer walkway that divided the box seats from the cheap seats. He provided running commentary every step of the way.

  "You know a lot about this place for someone who's never been here," she said.

  "That's because baseball stadiums are all the same. It doesn't matter if they're big or small, fancy or plain, or host major league teams or minor league teams. The trappings are all the same. So are the people who attend the games."

  Grace stopped at a wide spot on the walkway, put a hand on the thick steel railing, and turned her head. She stared at Joel.

  "Is that so?"

  "It is."

  Joel looked at her face and chuckled.

  "You don't believe me."

  "I most certainly do not."

  "OK. Let me elaborate."

  Joel put a hand on Grace's shoulder and directed her attention to a pair of middle-aged men in gray suits a few rows behind home plate. They took turns speaking, nodding, and moving their hands around.

  "You see those two? I'll bet you anything they're talking dollars and cents instead of balls and strikes. They're here to conduct business because baseball games are the best business venues around. Don't get me wrong. They'll stand at the right times and cheer along with everyone else. They might even say disparaging things about the other team. But in between pitches, they'll trade stock tips and negotiate deals."

  "You're sure about that?" Grace asked. "You're sure they aren't talking about their wives or children or perhaps their summer vacations?"

  "Oh, yeah," Joel insisted. "They're talking business. I'm sure of that. That's why they left their wives at home. The wives would only screw things up."

  "Screw things up?"