The End of The Road

by Sue Henry

  I let Stretch off his leash and he trotted immediately over to explore among the pilings that supported the now closed shops above us. Somewhere there he found a stick that he deemed acceptable and brought it back to drop at my feet, looking up at me expectantly. He’s not much into the game of fetch, but once in a while he will play for a few minutes before something else attracts his attention and he leaves me holding the stick, so to speak. This time it lasted four or five retrievals before he gave it up, curiosity aroused by a gull that landed close to the water on the wet sand left by the retreating tide, but it took off again with a resentful squawk at his approach.

  We walked for the better part of an hour. Or at least I did. Stretch must have covered several times my distance in his explorations and investigations. Finally, when I began to feel cold, I sat myself down on another abandoned log, my back to the sea breeze, and pulled the thermos out of my day pack, along with his bowl and the bottle of water I had brought along. Noticing what I was doing, he came scampering back and waited politely while I splashed some water into the bowl, then lapped it up thirstily. I gave him more and poured myself a thermos cap of the breakfast coffee, which I sipped as I watched him drink his fill, then lie down to rest at my feet in the shelter of the log.

  It had been a good walk, but it was turning truly chilly as the anticipated clouds rolled in from the west and the sun, already low in the southern sky that late in the year, disappeared behind them. The wind had grown stronger and now that the tide had turned the incoming waves were breaking farther and farther up the sandy shore, significantly more spray blowing from each crest.

  Farther down the beach I saw an eagle perched atop an old piling with its back turned to the gusts that ruffled its feathers. It was one of many that come to the end of the spit, where a woman who lives in a small one-room house has fed them for so many years that, though I’m sure she has a name, everyone just calls her the Eagle Lady.

  All but one of the gulls that had been riding the wind high overhead had vanished into shelter.

  “Well, intrepid explorer of beaches, are you ready to go home? It’s getting downright cold out here.”

  Stretch stood up in response to the word home, waiting for me to get myself together and start.

  After drinking the last swallow of the coffee I had poured, I shook out the last drop or two and replaced the cap on the thermos, tucked it back into the day pack with Stretch’s water bottle and bowl, got to my feet and headed for the hill that would take us up again.

  There were more grasses beside that more southern path that we took up to the road and they were rustling storm warnings to each other as they bent eastward, away from the cold air that tossed them down to brush semicircular patterns in the sand.

  Stretch had picked up another stick somewhere late in his last investigations. He sneezed and dropped it as he breathed in some of the wind-borne sand that flew over the ground at his level. Leaving it where it lay, he trotted up the hill in record time and stood at the top looking down, as if to say Come on, we don’t have all day, you know.

  At times I think he actually believes he is responsible for me and that I simply could not possibly make it without him to supervise.

  TWO

  WHEN I REACHED THE TOP of the path next to the road I snapped Stretch’s leash to his collar and we began to walk together along in front of the seaside shops, all closed and secured for the winter. As we passed, I read a few of the more than a dozen signs: The Spirit of Alaska Native Crafts, North Country Halibut Charters, White Wave Gifts, Across Alaska Adventures, Halibut King Adventures, Rainbow Tours, and Central Charters.

  Facing these on the other side of the road were more small shops at ground level: The Better Sweater, Brown Bear Photo Safari, Homer Spit Gifts, and Forget-Me-Not Gifts—the last with a sign in its window that read, “Closed for the season. See you in the spring. Stop by our town location just uphill of the post office.”

  North of these was a much larger two-story building, stained a warm golden brown that accentuated its bright green metal roof. It housed the Coal Point Trading Company with its Fresh Seafood Market and gift shop, which I noticed was open and offering espresso as well. Now decidedly chilled, I considered that for a moment or two, but gave it up. There was coffee to be made at home, where we could warm up inside.

  In front of the building was a tall pole with arrows attached top to bottom that pointed in all directions and gave the mileage to such mixed locations and distances as Cape Horn 9503, Anchorage 235, Seward 180, Beck’s Saltry 6, Bering Sea 700, Ferry Office .04, Addie’s 50ft, Halibut Cove 6, and Mt. Iliamna 58. As always, in passing, it made me smile at the sense of humor of the pole’s creator.

  As we came to the end of the row of shops on pilings, ready to cross the road, I was reaching into my coat pocket for the keys to the car when the leash went slack as Stretch suddenly stopped short in front of me. Off guard, I almost stumbled over him, but looking to discover what had caught his attention I saw a man sitting at one of the three or four picnic tables on the platform that supported the shopping area. He was facing the road, watching us pass, with a tall paper cup between his hands on the table in front of him—evidently some of the espresso offered across the street at the Trading Company.

  His hair and forehead were hidden under a blue baseball cap with a bill, and he had zipped his heavy gray coat up under his chin. Under the table I could see a pair of brown work boots below his jeans-clad legs. A pair of heavy leather gloves and a wallet lay on the table in front of him.

  That late in the year we have very few tourists, and this person’s dress told me he was probably a working man, maybe a hand on one of the cargo ships that during rough weather sometimes come into the calmer, deep waters of the bay that are protected by the spit, or wait their turn to load whatever is waiting to be shipped. Most floating cargo comes into Alaska at Seward, where it can be loaded onto freight cars or trucks and transported on to Anchorage and Fairbanks. Points farther north that are off the road or rail systems are serviced by air. What we can’t grow or produce in Alaska—and there are a lot of things that fall into that category—also comes in overland on the Alaska Highway, by plane from a wide variety of sources, or by sea all the way up the coast of British Columbia and the Alaska panhandle. Given his appearance, my fir st guess was that he had arrived on one of the latter and was perhaps waiting for that ship to be ready to start its long run back down to the Lower Forty-eight.

  “Hello,” I called, seeing that he was watching us. “A bit chilly to be sitting outside, isn’t it?”

  He nodded and smiled. “Yeah, but I wanted to take a look at the famous Homer Spit, so I hiked out from town. Didn’t realize it was quite so far, so I’m warming up a little before starting back. It’s very quiet out here.”

  “Always is this time of year,” I told him. “The hoards of tourists desert us, shops close for the winter, and, as you can see by the emptiness of the harbor, many of the local fis hing charter companies put their boats in storage. In the summer this place is busy as an anthill. Now it’s pretty much just the permanent residents in Homer.”

  As I talked, Stretch was tugging on the leash, having decided he wanted to inspect the man at the table at closer range. After one particularly assertive tug, I gave in and allowed it, walking out onto the platform with him.

  “This is Stretch, my insatiably curious dachshund,” I told the seated man. “He’s harmless—just wants to check you out and say hello.”

  “Well, hello there, buddy,” the man said, reaching down to give Stretch a couple of pats and a rub at his ears, which he loves—and expects—and which almost guarantees his immediate approval and friendship.

  As I watched them get acquainted, I considered this new and unknown person, who seemed pleasant enough, and finally extended a hand. “Now that you know my dog, I’m Maxie McNabb—Homer resident since I was born.”

  “John Walker,” he responded with another smile, reaching with a hand warmer than mine f
rom the hot coffee he had been holding. “Nice to meet you, Ms. McNabb.”

  “Just Maxie,” I told him, feeling that his name rang a vague bell somewhere in my memory.

  “Okay,” he said and grinned. “Nice to meet you—Maxie.”

  “You hiked out here?” I asked him. “Didn’t come in on one of the cargo ships, then?” I asked.

  “Nope. I’m playing tourist. Caught a bus ride down from Anchorage Wednesday. Thought I’d like to see the Kenai Peninsula.”

  “The Homer Stage Line. Runs the year round and that’s a pretty good way to do it.”

  “I enjoyed it. Lots of spectacular scenery before it got dark. I thought of going to Seward on the train, but I heard that Homer is supposed to be about as far west as you can drive in Alaska and wanted to see it. Seemed like the right place to me—the end of the road, right?”

  “That’s right, and we often say it’s as far as you can go without a passport. One of our claims to fame—such as it is.”

  As we spoke I had noticed that the wind had risen to a whistle that was almost a howl around the shop buildings that partially shielded us from it. I could also hear larger waves crashing onto the beach out of sight below. It was quickly growing colder and the clouds that had rolled in were much darker. It seemed we might be in for some very stormy weather very shortly.

  “Listen,” I said to John Walker. “I’m heading back to town before this storm gets any worse. You really don’t want to hike all the way back in the rain, do you? I’ll be happy to give you a lift.”

  From under the bill of his cap he gave me a slightly twisted smile with a hint of humorous mischief in it.

  “You sure you wouldn’t mind?” he asked. “Sort of reminds me of Blanche DuBois—depending on the kindness of strangers.”

  I had to smile back at that as I assured him, “Absolutely sure. I’d be remiss in Homer hospitality leaving you to the mercy of what looks like a nasty blow coming in. Besides, now that we’ve introduced ourselves, we aren’t total strangers, are we? Come on. That’s my car just across the road.”

  He stood up and swung his legs over the bench that was part of the table at which he sat, and I realized that he was taller than I had anticipated and was looking down at me from perhaps three or four inches. Sitting at the table, the coat he wore had made him seem heavier than the slender build with broad shoulders that standing up revealed. I judged him to be somewhere in his forties, and from the look of his callused hands he had done heavy work of some kind, maybe construction, or something like it. He reminded me suddenly of my first husband, Joe, the fisherman I had buried at close to the same age. His hands had revealed his livelihood, too, scarred with the constant handling of ropes and lines, hooks and knives, that are necessary to the profession.

  John picked up his gloves and stuffed the wallet into a hip pocket with one hand as he took up his cup with the other. He drained it quickly, tossed it into a nearby trash can, and followed me. As we hurried across the road the first fat drops of rain splattered down on our heads, making us glad to escape into the car as quickly as possible—Stretch and I in front, as usual, and John behind Stretch in the backseat.

  As we traversed the narrower part of the spit back toward town the wind was strong enough for me to feel it shoving at the car, but not so much that it was an impediment to driving. Once in a while, when a bad storm blows in at high tide, they close the road to traffic, but that is rare. By the time we went up the hill to where the road turned left into its dogleg I had switched the windshield wipers on, but once we were off the spit into a more sheltered area the wind eased, hastening off to harass people elsewhere that were more exposed and, therefore, easier targets.

  “Where are you staying, John?” I asked as we crossed the Slough Bridge, wondering whether to follow the Sterling Highway west or turn right at the first light and head up to the main street.

  “At the Driftwood Inn,” he told me. “In a room that’s like a tidy cabin on a boat—very narrow, with not much flo or space, but warm and comfortable enough. They’re nice people and offer good coffee in the morning. I’ve spent most of my time outside anyway, exploring the town. But there’s a good pub just across the road.”

  “Duggan’s. I know it. Yellow building with shamrocks on the front.”

  “That’s it.”

  I turned left to go a block down to the hotel.

  “And there’s the bookstore I found yesterday,” he said enthusiastically as we passed it. “What a great discovery—crammed full of new and used books in every category you can think of.”

  “Andy’s place—the Old Inlet Bookshop. I love it—get lost for hours sometimes.”

  “Right again. I found a couple of Patrick O’Brian’s sea stories that I’d missed. This kind of weather discourages sightseeing, so I think I’ll curl up on the bed in my room, or on the comfortable-looking sofa in the lobby by their fireplace, and read the rest of the day away. I’m relieved not to be out on the spit, many thanks to you.”

  “No thanks necessary. Reading’s pretty much what I have in mind for myself this afternoon. You can eat at Duggan’s.”

  It took only a few minutes to turn another corner and pull up in front of the Driftwood Inn, where John climbed out, came around, and leaned down to the car window with a smile.

  “Thanks, Maxie, for the ride and the company. I really appreciate it.”

  “You’re more than welcome,” I told him. “If you have questions or need help, my number’s the only McNabb in the phone book.”

  “That’s nice of you. I’ll remember it.”

  As I considered being truly hospitable and inviting John for supper, I suddenly remembered that Becky expected me for the evening, so instead I asked how long he intended to be in town.

  “Haven’t decided,” he said. “The bus goes back to Anchorage on Monday and Wednesday mornings, so I’ll be here through the weekend at least, maybe longer.” He hesitated thoughtfully, then gave me an almost wistful half smile and said slowly, “Who knows? I like it here so far—interesting place—friendly people. Maybe I’ll decide to spend what’s left of my life at the end of the road.”

  “Some people have come for a visit and done just that,” I told him, thinking his comment was an odd way of putting it. I would have said the rest of my life, not what’s left.

  He watched as I turned the car and gave me a wave as I pulled into the street, heading back the way I had come. As I turned the corner, I looked and saw him gone and realized that I had never asked John where he came from.

  Before going home, I stopped at the grocery store and, after picking up half a case of wine in their attached liquor store, I spent half an hour wheeling a cart through the aisles for items I either needed or that caught my fancy.

  Like the post office, the grocery in Homer is as much a community meeting place as anywhere in town and a visit to either can turn into a social occasion at times. In the produce aisle, I ran into Karen Parker Bailey, who, of course, wanted to vent frustration about the work required after moving back to Homer from Hawaii, with all the unpacking of boxes and arrangement of furniture involved.

  “It’s more than I can manage,” she complained. “I can’t do much with the pain I’m still suffering. Would you have time to help, Maxie—like you did in Hilo?”

  Quickly I crossed my fingers behind my back before telling the lie that assured her I did not have the time, remembering the job of sorting, packing, and literally taking over to get her household goods ready to ship home, after the death of her husband, and a fall down a couple of steps that had broken both her left forearm and ankle. Knowing she wasn’t anywhere near as disabled as she claimed, that it had been several months since her accident and, bone now healed, casts off, she was not exhibiting any real need for assistance, but rather her usual reluctance and aversion to any job that required much effort—along with an unquenchable craving for sympathy.

  Wheeling the cart on past, I left her frowning resentfully after me as I ignored her se
cond plea and moved along to select the vegetables I needed to create a pot of stew that I intended to simmer slowly through the next afternoon: onions, celery, carrots, and potatoes. In the meat department I picked up a package of stew beef and, in the frozen food section, some packages of corn, chopped broccoli, green beans, and a half gallon of peppermint ice cream. From there I rolled the cart to the bakery to add two fresh loaves of French bread and a chocolate cake to the collection.

  Perhaps I would call the Driftwood Inn and invite John Walker for supper on Saturday—along with an acquaintance or two that he might enjoy meeting.

  THREE

  FRIDAY EVENING WITH BECKY AND LINDA was full of good food, conversation, and, of course, table games, which were really our excuse for getting together. The three of us have been friends for years and meet intermittently through the year, sometimes with another friend or two.

  Since Becky and I both live in Homer, we are more often at her house or mine. At least once a year Linda arrives from Anchorage by car or plane, and we drive out to the spit to catch a water taxi, which ferries us across Kachemak Bay to Niqa Island.

  There, high on a bluff, Becky has a cozy house that overlooks the most westerly of two shallow coves on Niqa Island. There we spend a weekend, or longer, taking walks, picking fat salmonberries for jam or jelly—if the season and weather are right—playing Farkel, Wizard, or dominoes in the evenings, sleeping long and eating well, laughing a lot, and simply enjoying each other’s company.

  In early November, however, the weather was too cold and unpredictable for venturing across the bay, so we gathered at Becky’s in-town house for the evening.

  “Hey, Maxie. Here you are! ” Becky said as she opened the door in response to my knock. “I tried to call twice. Once it was busy. Then I got no answer, so I knew you were on your way.”