The Mine (Northwest Passage Book 1)

by John A. Heldt

  "That sounds good," Joel said with minimal enthusiasm. "But let's stop by my place first. I left my wallet behind and want to get some cash."

  "OK. We can do that. I'll drive."

  Aunt Edith did not let her visitors slip away without a proper sendoff. She gave each a hug and enough leftovers to feed a village – or two houses of young adults who spent more time in school and furniture stores than behind a stove.

  "Be sure to call me tomorrow, Grace," she said. "I want to know how your friends are doing. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for them."

  "I will. Thank you for a wonderful dinner."

  Edith accompanied Grace out the front door into the cold, blustery autumn night. She stopped at the edge of a covered wooden porch and glanced at the wet driveway and her late husband's coupe. Joel sat motionless in the passenger seat.

  "Keep an eye on him, dear," Edith said, putting an arm around her niece. "There is something he is not telling us, something that is weighing heavily on his mind. He is a nice young man, but he is deeply troubled. He has something to work out, and I suspect it is something he'll have to resolve very soon."

  "I know. I see it too."

  Grace stared blankly at the glistening vehicle and then the ground before returning to her aunt. She grabbed her hand and gently squeezed it.

  "I'll be in touch."

  CHAPTER 57

  The drive to Fifty-Second Street was short and quiet but not uneventful. In three places along Fifteenth Avenue, a north-south arterial, Grace ran into flares, warning signs, and arm-waving policemen.

  The same storm that had rattled windows and unsecured garbage cans in Madison Park had sent power lines, branches, and other debris into the street. When they finally arrived at the bachelor pad, they found it dark. Though no trees or lines littered the pavement, no streetlights or houses along the block emanated light.

  "Looks like the power's out," Joel said, stepping out of the Ford.

  He escorted Grace to the door and fumbled with his keys before finding the one that let them in. When they stepped inside, he flicked a nearby switch but it failed to break the darkness. A waxing moon that pushed light through scattered black clouds and a kitchen window provided limited illumination.

  "Do you have a candle?" Grace asked.

  "I do. Ginny's housewarming gift. Remember? I guess it's time I used it."

  Joel stumbled his way to a corner of the kitchen, grabbed a book of matches from the silverware drawer, and brought it back to the dining room table. He struck a match and lit a stout white candle that sat atop a clear glass holder. The flame cast a cozy glow.

  "That's better," he said. "Wait here while I get my wallet. It's in the bedroom, but I won't need the candle to find it."

  When Joel disappeared around a corner, Grace walked through the residence – or at least the parts she could navigate by candlelight. She entered the kitchen, opened the door to a barren refrigerator, and moved two dirty dishes from the counter to the sink. She lifted an empty beer bottle with a thumb and a finger and dropped it into the trash.

  From the kitchen she moved to the living room, where no newspapers littered the floor, no dirty clothes covered the furniture, and no artwork adorned the walls. A large stack of unopened mail sat atop the coffee table. Grace returned to the dining area just as Joel emerged from the hallway.

  "I found it," he said. "It had fallen to the side of the bed. Are you ready to go?"

  "No."

  "No?"

  "No."

  Grace grabbed his hand, the one with the wallet, and stopped his advance toward the door. She took the billfold out of his grasp and placed it on the table.

  "I thought you wanted to go to a movie," Joel said.

  "I do. But Dumbo can wait. You can't."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean I'm worried about you, very worried. You've been down in the dumps the past few days. Is it Tom? The fight? Something else? Tell me."

  Joel kicked himself for not masking his mood more effectively. He hated bringing others down, particularly someone as important as Grace. He considered telling her the truth but decided against it. She would not believe his story and telling it would do nothing to alter his circumstances.

  "I wish I could, Grace. I really do. But it wouldn't change a thing."

  She stared glumly at the floor, like a student who had tried and failed to figure out the only question on a test – a test that did not have an answer key. When she finally looked at him, a moment later, she did so with a frown.

  "OK. I'll let it go, for now. But not forever," she said. "I want to be a part of you, Joel. I want you to trust me."

  Joel smiled sadly and looked at Grace, his amazing Grace, with weary eyes. He wondered what he had ever done to deserve her. She was literally too good to be true. He put his wallet in a jacket pocket and glanced at the door before returning his attention.

  "We should probably get moving," he said as he gently grabbed her hand. "It'll take a while to get there. Are you ready for Dumbo?"

  "No."

  "No again? You don't want to go out?"

  Grace tightened her grip on his hand.

  "No. I've changed my mind."

  She released his hand, walked to the kitchen counter, and turned on his new Philco PT-87 portable radio, a housewarming gift from Melvin Carter and the only object in the residence that ran on batteries. She moved the tuner until she found a station that played popular music. Glenn Miller's "Moonlight Serenade" streamed through the speaker.

  "I would rather stay. I have all that I need right here."

  Grace put her purse on the table, kicked off her saddle shoes, and pulled Joel to an open space between the kitchen, the dining area, and the living room.

  "I never got my slow dance in Seaside. I'd like to collect."

  "OK."

  Joel put one hand around her waist, grabbed a hand, and did something he could not do in July: lead a waltz. When "Moonlight Serenade" gave way to more slow songs, he continued as best he could. When the radio played something more up-tempo, he picked up the pace. When the music broke for commercials, he held Grace and continued to move to whatever made sense.

  And so it went for more than two hours in the dark little house on Fifty-Second Street. Two kindred spirits, from different eras and backgrounds, danced, kissed, and held each other closely on a hardwood floor as a lone candle flickered at their backs and projected darting shadows on the opposite wall.

  Joel did not want the evening to end. He did not want it to end at seven, when the music stopped for the news; at eight, when the lights came on and Grace casually walked across the room to turn them off; or at nine, when she lowered the volume of the radio, grabbed the candle on the table, and led him to a bedroom she had never seen.

  Once inside, she closed the door behind them, put the candle on a tall dresser, and blew it out. Except for the dresser, the bed, and an unfinished nightstand, the room was bare. A glimmer of moonlight streamed through a small window, allowing recognition of basic shapes and outlines but not much more.

  Grace stared at Joel intently, threw her arms around his neck, and gave him a soft kiss before stepping back against the dimly lit wall. Maintaining eye contact, she slowly unzipped the back of her blue gingham dress, loosened its hold on her slender form, and let it fall to the floor.

  Joel looked at the lithe figure with awe and uncertainty. He had dreamed of this moment for weeks, months even, but wasn't sure this was the time or the place to fulfill that dream. He feared that sympathy, not passion, had brought her to his room.

  "We can't do this, Grace."

  "Why?"

  "Because you're trying to make me feel better, that's why. I love you for that. I do. But this is not the answer. I know what this means to you. You told me yourself at the beach. You said you were saving yourself."

  Grace took a breath and smiled sweetly. She gently pushed aside the dress with a foot and stepped toward a man who was no more than a silhoue
tte in the darkened room. She put an open hand to his solemn face.

  "I did, and I have," she said. "I saved myself for you."

  "But . . ."

  "Hush." Grace put two fingers to his lips. "No more talk. Not now."

  She placed her arms on his shoulders.

  "Not tonight."

  CHAPTER 58

  Tom Carter could not remember a lonelier drive, despite the immediate or near immediate presence of his entire family and a dozen friends. He sat quietly in the back of his father's DeSoto sedan, behind his somber parents and beside his surprisingly supportive sister, who had extended her Thanksgiving break from UCLA by two days to see her brother off to the United States Army.

  "Are you OK?" Brenda Carter asked, putting a hand on his knee.

  "I'm as OK as I can be. But thanks for asking."

  Tom smiled as he considered how far she had come in only a few years. She was no longer his scrawny and sometimes annoying kid sister but rather a grown woman who was no doubt turning heads in Westwood. On her own initiative, she had contacted many of his friends and urged them to take time from work and school to see him off. Brenda had also insisted that he ride with his family and not in the Plymouth with Ginny. She knew this was a particularly difficult time for their parents.

  Not that Ginny was far behind. She rode with Joel and the rest of the Klickitat crew in the ragtop. Five fraternity brothers and four coworkers occupied two vehicles further back. For the first time in eight years, Melvin Carter had closed Carter's Furniture and Appliance on a non-holiday weekday. That alone, Tom thought, spoke volumes.

  As the caravan passed through the only hometown he had ever known, Tom pondered the weeks and months ahead. He lamented that a June wedding was no longer likely and wondered whether any wedding was likely. He and Ginny had had just eight months together. Could they survive a long separation? Probably, he reasoned. Ginny was equally committed to their future and not one to let any obstacle interfere with achieving a goal. If anyone could manage this kind of disruption, she could. But a year apart was still a year apart. A lot could happen in twelve months.

  Tom thought of his father as well. He knew that this sudden turn of events had hit him hard and in ways most others could not see. The old man had great plans for his firstborn, plans to make him a full partner in an expanding enterprise, plans he would now have to shelve. Mel Carter would also have to confront fears he had talked about for years, fears of sending a son into combat. As an Army conscript in World War I, he had seen the worst fighting in the Battle of the Argonne Forest and had promised his children a more peaceful transition to adulthood.

  The drive from Baltic Avenue to the National Guard armory downtown took only twenty minutes, the formalities inside just two hours. Tom walked to the back of a long line, presented his induction notice to the appropriate officials, and when finished headed outside to a large lawn in front, where he waited for his bus to Tacoma.

  His entourage joined him in the mid-morning drizzle, along with other inductees and their families and friends. By noon more than a hundred had gathered on the green. Tom sent his fraternity pals away first and then his sales colleagues. Some tried to lighten his mood with jokes and memories, but most were uncharacteristically respectful. At least one had received his order to report and knew his turn would come soon enough. From Grace and Katie, he went to Brenda and Joel. The man from Montana had worn his cowboy hat for the first time in weeks to get his friend's mind off the moment.

  "That's exactly the way I want to remember you: the cowpoke who kicked some serious ass on my behalf," Tom said. "It's too bad I wasn't around to return the favor the other night. I would have enjoyed the payback."

  "It's probably best you weren't there," Joel said. "Nothing good came out of that fight. But I don't think we'll be hearing from your betting buddy anytime soon. The bartender at the Mad Dog told me that I broke his jaw."

  "Good job. Someone needed to shut his trap."

  Both men laughed.

  Joel smiled, put a hand on Tom's shoulder, and stared blankly toward the parking lot, as if revisiting the many laughs and experiences they had shared. A moment later he looked back at his friend, pulled a set of keys from a jacket pocket, and held them up.

  "You still trust me with your car?"

  "I do. Because I know you'll take care of it and I know you'll have fun with it," Tom said. "And if, by some miracle, they send me home tomorrow, I know I won't have to hunt you down to get it back."

  "I'll have it washed and buffed if that happens."

  The sound of an air brake shifted their attention to the next block, where the bus to Tacoma stopped for a sign.

  "Well, I guess I should hurry up. I've got more important mugs than yours to see," Tom said with a laugh. He embraced his friend. "You're the best, Joel. I mean that. Take care of yourself and take care of my girls."

  * * * * *

  The cowboy gave as well as he got, giving Tom a firm hug before finally letting go. He paused to look at his pal. It was amazing how easy it was to like this guy.

  Joel wasn't one to get caught up in the moment, in any moment, but this farewell hit him hard. He was not only saying goodbye to a dear friend but also allowing fate and history to take their course. For weeks he had considered pushing Tom into enlisting in the Coast Guard or even the Navy to shake things up. But he knew it wasn't his place to play God and knew that he had already overstepped his bounds with Grace. So he sent Tom on his way with the only words that made sense.

  "Come back to us," he said. "Make your family proud. Don't be a hero."

  Joel watched his housemate move down the line to his quiet father, teary mother, and attentive fiancée, who straightened his collar, put a small photo in his hand, and followed him to the bus. Tom began speaking to Ginny as they reached the door.

  Joel could not make out their conversation, but he saw the concern on her face. He thought of his Grandpa Joe and all the years he had seen him interact happily with his wife. He could not imagine anyone taking his place in the hierarchy of men in the life of Virginia Gillette. Yet as he watched Tom Carter say goodbye, he wasn't so sure. There had been someone else, before Joe Jorgenson, and he had been pretty damn important.

  Minutes later the door closed and the bus, loaded with more than fifty inductees, slowly pulled away from the curb. Sitting in a window seat three rows back, Tom waved to his family, blew a kiss to Ginny, and gave Joel a half-hearted salute. His family and friends waved back. They never saw him again.

  CHAPTER 59

  Freeland, Washington – Sunday, November 30, 1941

  Joel opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Though little light spilled through a crack in the curtains of the motel room, there was enough to make out water stains on the tiles, an overhead light hanging by a thread, and a small spider working its way toward the wall. The place was a dump. But Joel had wanted privacy and few places offered more than the Agate Inn on the southwest corner of Whidbey Island.

  Groggy from a sleepless night, he threw on some jeans and a wool sweater and walked across the room. Parting the curtains slightly, he peered out the window and saw a bank of fog drift eastward over Admiralty Inlet. Dawn had come to Puget Sound.

  Joel looked back at the bed and saw Grace pull a blanket over her shoulder and smile as she repositioned her face on a pillow. She was still asleep and very much lost in another place. He envied her ability to rest and dream and think about happy things. He tried to remember the last time he had seen something that beautiful.

  They had come to the motel Friday night after work and school, at his suggestion, and checked in as Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Joel had loved the irony. By using his real name, rather than a plausible alias, he had needlessly invited additional scrutiny and judgment. But he no longer cared what strangers, like motel clerks, thought of his personal decisions. He cared only about escaping the lifeless house on Fifty-Second Street and spending more time with Number One.

  The days following Tom's departu
re had been quiet and businesslike. The Army had taken him, of course, and had already sent him to Fort Lewis for processing and basic training. Ginny had returned to her editing position at the Barker, Grace and Katie to their classes, and Joel to his responsibilities matching Seattle's most restless sleepers with Carter's most restful mattresses. But nothing was the same without the jovial joker who had held their little group together for almost six months.

  Deciding to let Grace enjoy literally her last peaceful Sunday morning for the next four years, Joel put on his coat and quietly exited the room. He walked across a gravel parking lot to the motel's office, where he found the manager reading a weekend edition of the Sun. Joel poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the lone table in the lobby.

  "Can I read that when you're done?" he asked.

  "You can have it now, if you want," the thin man in spectacles said. "I've got to get back to work. Did you sleep well?"

  "I did," Joel lied. "It's very quiet here."

  "That's what we advertise."

  Joel pictured his dilapidated room and juxtaposed that image with an ad he saw in a telephone book. He understood why the owners had promoted peace and quiet over cleanliness. He'd have done the same. But he was in no mood to complain. He needed a mental break from the city and the Agate Inn had delivered. He took the Sun from the manager and retreated to the table and his coffee.

  "Thanks for the paper."

  The headlines reflected the state of the world: TOKYO DEFIES U.S. ULTIMATUM, RED ARMY CAPTURES ROSTOV, BRITISH SINK EIGHT GERMAN SHIPS IN ARCTIC CONVOY. In other articles above the fold he learned that Navy had defeated Army, that Oregon State had won a trip to the Rose Bowl, and that Westlake had pounded Polk in the state semifinals. Joel laughed. Even in 1941 football held its own in the mainstream media.

  From other pages he learned that ski conditions were improving across the state, that tuberculosis was on the rise, that an Idaho miner faced a bigamy charge, and that A Yank in the R.A.F. had been held over at a downtown theater. Another advertisement touted a "French permanent" for two and a half bucks.