When I got to the top of the hill above Custer I glanced back at the town. Unbelievably, Pamela was there, walking a quarter mile behind me. I shook my head. Did she really intend to follow me? I doubted that she was in the physical condition to keep up with me. She didn’t even have the shoes for it. If she thought I was going to stop and wait for her she was sadly mistaken.
The first three miles from the city were mostly uphill and Pamela quickly fell back until I couldn’t see her anymore. Less than a half hour from Custer she was nowhere to be seen. I wondered what McKale would have thought of the situation. The mother she had spent her life longing for was chasing me.
Four miles out of Custer I reached the Avenue of the Chiefs. I was still enamored with Korczak’s work (will forever be), so I took a short detour and walked up to the park entrance. There’s a ten-dollar admission fee to the park, and I didn’t have the time or inclination to walk all the way to the monument, so I just stood at the entrance and admired the work from a distance. I wondered if the massive sculpture would be completed during my lifetime. I hoped so. Even as an old man, I would definitely return to see the finished piece. Suddenly my heart ached. The idea of growing old without McKale filled me with intense loneliness. I turned back toward the highway and resumed my walk.
The road after Crazy Horse was mostly steep downgrade with wide shoulders and only a few buildings along the way, including a business offering helicopter rides to the monuments.
I stopped in Pennington County and ate lunch out of my pack. I had an apple, a granola bar, and a slightly smashed ham and Swiss sandwich I had purchased the day before at the grocery store in Custer.
As I ate, my thoughts returned to Pamela—along with my anger. I wondered how far she had walked before she had turned back. I also wondered how she had found me. After a few minutes I pushed her from my mind. The thought of her following me overwhelmed me with disgust. I finished eating then got back on the road.
The next few hours were ideal walking conditions—smooth, new roads with black asphalt, wide shoulders, clean air, and a beautiful mountain setting—something I appreciated more after my long walk through the desolation of eastern Wyoming.
The sun had begun its decline when I heard a car pull up behind me and roll to a quick stop, gravel crunching beneath its wheels. I turned around to see an aged, turquoise Chevy truck with a matching camper top, stopped about fifty feet behind me. The passenger side door opened and Pamela stepped out of the vehicle. She said something to the driver, then swung her bag over her shoulder and continued walking after me. I groaned. She’s as persistent as McKale, I thought. Maybe persistence is genetic. If McKale wanted something she didn’t stop until she got it.
After the truck drove away, Pamela shouted to me. “Alan, we need to talk.”
“No, we don’t,” I shouted back without looking. “Just leave me alone.” I hurried my pace. When I reached Hill City an hour later she was nowhere to be seen.
C H A P T E R
Three
I don’t know if poltergeists or ghosts
exist, nor do I care. There’s too much
I don’t understand about the world
I inhabit for me to worry about a
world I haven’t been to yet.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
During its brief heyday, Hill City was nicknamed “Hell City” or “One Mile of Hell,” since there was a church on each end of town with fifteen saloons in between them. The city was established during America’s centennial celebration of 1876, and was originally a mining town, only the second to be settled in the Black Hills.
Hill City was about twenty miles from Custer, most of the way downhill, which may seem an easier walk, but I was feeling the descent in my knees, which were throbbing. Darkness was falling when I started looking for a place to spend the night.
On Hill City’s main road I came upon a hotel called the Alpine Inn, a quaint, Bavarian-styled building with gingerbread trim and a wood-planked porch. Above the front stairway was a sign that read:
Fine European Lodging
I walked into an empty bar scattered with small round tables. To the left of the room was a door that led to a restaurant, which was surprisingly crowded. A woman standing near the restaurant’s entrance was watching me from behind a burled walnut reception desk. She smiled as I approached her. “Good evening,” she said.
“I’d like to look at your menu,” I said.
“No need,” she said. “We only have one item on our menu. Actually, two. Filet mignon, small or large.”
At first I thought she was joking but her expression remained serious. “Really?”
She nodded. “I know, it’s unusual, isn’t it?”
I had never encountered a restaurant like this, but judging from how crowded the place was, they appeared to be doing something right.
“I’ll have the filet mignon,” I said.
“Good choice,” she said. “Right this way, please.”
She sat me at a small table near the room’s back, inner wall. There were paper menus in a stand on the table, which, considering the restaurant’s limited selection, seemed a little odd.
A moment later my waitress appeared. She was a tall woman probably my age, with blond hair and a prominent nose.
“I’m Heidi,” she said. “Large or small?”
“Large.”
Not surprisingly, she didn’t write anything down. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Do you have juice?”
“Apple, orange, and cranberry.”
“I’ll have some apple juice. Can you mix that with cranberry?”
“Absolutely. One cranapple.”
“And some ice water.”
“Of course.”
Before she walked away I asked, “Do you know if your hotel has any vacancies tonight?”
“No, but I’ll check.”
A minute later she returned with my juice. “Here you are. And I checked on our rooms. Unfortunately, we don’t have any vacancies. We only have four rooms.”
I frowned. I had been looking forward to staying there. “Do you know of someplace else nearby I could stay?”
She thought for a moment. “I’m pretty sure there’s a bed-and-breakfast about a half mile north of here. It’s called the Holly something. Holly Inn, I think.”
“Along the highway?”
She nodded. “If you keep heading north you won’t miss it.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll check it out after I eat.”
My meal was brought out quickly—another benefit of a limited menu. The filet mignon was served with a lettuce wedge, homemade ranch dressing, and buttered Texas Toast.
“Is there anything else you need?” Heidi asked.
“No,” I said. “Are you always this busy?”
“Year round. The hotel is busy too. The rooms are nice.” An impish grin crossed her face. “Haunted, but nice.”
“Haunted?”
“Yes, but I probably shouldn’t tell you that.”
“How do you know they’re haunted? Have you ever seen a ghost?”
“No. But one of the other waitresses said she did.”
“And you believe her?”
“She’s never lied to me before. Besides, it’s not what she said, it’s how she said it. It happened in the middle of a busy Friday night. She was in the employee restroom behind the kitchen. While she was washing her hands she looked in the mirror. There was a woman dressed in eighteenth-century clothing standing right behind her. We all heard her scream.
“I went to see if she was all right and she was pale and shaking. She looked like she was going to faint. She quit on the spot. I ended up taking all her tables. She’s never set foot in here since.” She looked at me, studying my reaction. “Anyway, I better let you eat before your dinner gets cold. There’s more about the hotel on the back of the menu. Bon appétit.”
I cut into the steak. The meat was masterfully prepared and so tender
that, had I been inclined, I could have cut it with my fork. I took a few bites then lifted the menu. The hotel’s history was printed on the back, and I read as I ate.
Hill City was a placer gold mining town, founded during the western gold rush. Its success was short-lived, and the miners quickly moved on, leaving the town to two residents—a man and his hound.
In 1883, the town experienced another boom when tin was discovered, and an English mining company invested millions organizing the Harney Peak Tin Mining, Milling, and Manufacturing Company. The company built the inn—then named the Harney Peak Hotel—as a luxurious residence for the mining executives. Like the town’s previous mining venture, the tin rush didn’t last very long, and the town died again, until Mount Rushmore resuscitated the area, bringing in tourist gold.
In 1974, a German woman named Wally (pronounced Volley) Matush bought the Harney Peak Hotel and renamed it the Alpine Inn. By then, ghost sightings had become commonplace and the new management wasn’t shy about telling their guests that the hotel was haunted. Wally even requested to be buried under the hotel when she died so she could walk the halls with the other ghosts.
Reading about hauntings made me think about Pamela. I wondered what had happened to her since I’d left her behind. For the first time since she’d shown up, my anger had settled enough that I could objectively examine my feelings. In spite of my rage, I felt somewhat conflicted about the situation. Part of me felt that even talking to Pamela was a betrayal of McKale. Another part, perhaps a more civilized part, thought it wrong to not at least let her say what she’d come so far to say.
I pushed the conflict from my mind. Right or wrong, I had no desire to talk to her. If she was hurting, so be it. She had brought this on herself. McKale owed her nothing. I owed her nothing.
I finished eating, paid the bill, then picked up my pack and headed north up the main road in search of the bed-and-breakfast. I stopped at a small market on the way and stocked up on water and supplies: Pop-Tarts, apples, trail mix, salami, oranges, protein bars, jerky, a baguette of hard crusted bread, and a few canned items: soup, chili, and stew.
I asked the cashier if she knew anything about the bed-and-breakfast, but, disconcertingly, she had never heard of it. I wondered how that was possible in a town of this size. I went back outside and continued to walk, worrying that I had unwittingly passed by the house in the dark. I had walked another mile before I came to a sign on the side of the road that read:
The Holly House
A Bed and Breakfast Resort
I wasn’t sure where the resort part came from, as the place looked more like the Brady Bunch house than a fancy resort. The building was lit outside with flood lamps, revealing an exterior decorated with holly leaves and wreaths.
I walked around the house and knocked at the side door. I was met by a middle-aged woman who I assumed was the “resort’s” owner.
“May I help you?”
“I need a room for the night.”
“Welcome,” she said, smiling broadly. “My name’s Dawna. Come in.”
I stepped inside what looked to be the home’s living room. The room had dark red shag carpet and forest green walls, covered with framed prints of Christmas-themed watercolors.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Alan.”
“Pleased to meet you, Alan. We have five rooms available and a cabin out back. I’ll show you around and you can tell me which room you’d like.”
“Are your rooms haunted?” I asked.
She looked at me with a strange expression. “Not that I know of. Did you need a haunted room?”
I grinned. “No. Unhaunted is fine.”
Dawna led me through all five of the rooms, beginning with the Western Room, which featured a replica of Wyatt Earp’s revolver, the USA Room, the Bridal Suite, the Harley Room (undoubtedly patronizing the annual motorcycle event in Sturgis), and the Victorian Room, which was decorated with Dawna’s mother-in-law’s christening dress and a working, antique Victrola.
The rooms all looked nice and I didn’t care much about which room I stayed in, so I selected the Western Room for the pragmatic reason that it was closest to the front door. That and I liked its tub, which was just about large enough for a cowboy and his horse.
“Fine choice,” Dawna said. “For breakfast tomorrow I’ll be serving my festive breakfast casserole. What time do you think you’ll be wanting to eat?”
“I usually get an early start,” I said, pleased at the offer of something festive for breakfast. “Maybe seven. Possibly earlier.”
“I’ll have breakfast waiting for you. Have a good night.”
I went to my room and turned on the television while I let the jetted tub fill. The television was tuned to a reality show about people bidding on the contents of abandoned storage units. They should do a show about a guy walking across America, I thought. Just not me.
I turned off the television, undressed, then soaked in water hot enough to turn my skin red until I was ready to go to sleep.
C H A P T E R
Four
To say that one doesn’t know when to
quit is either an insult or a compliment,
depending on the outcome.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The next morning I woke to the sound of dishes clanking in the dining room. I checked the clock. It was nearly eight o’clock. I showered, shaved, and dressed, then packed up and went outside my room for breakfast. Dawna walked into the dining room about the same time I did.
“Good morning, sleepyhead. Glad I got up at five-thirty to get breakfast on.”
“I’m sorry. I …”
She waved her hand. “I’m just joshin’ you. I had another guest I had to get breakfast for. What would you like to drink? I’ve got coffee, orange juice, apple juice, milk, all of the above if you like.”
“Coffee and orange juice,” I said.
She walked back to the kitchen while I sat down at the table, which was set with a poinsettia print tablecloth and Christmas place settings trimmed in red and gold with holly leaf decorations. The centerpiece was a glass chimney and candle set in a holly wreath.
A few minutes later Dawna returned to the dining room holding a casserole dish and a silver serving spoon. “My festive breakfast casserole is one of our guests’ favorites,” she said. “It has pork sausage, cheddar, picante sauce, bread, and eggs. It’s delicious.”
“It looks good,” I said.
“It is.” She spooned a large serving of casserole onto my plate, then said, “Oh, I forgot your beverages.”
She went back to the kitchen, returning a minute later with my juice and coffee. She set the drinks down and sat down across the table from me, presumably to watch me eat.
I took a couple of bites, expecting her to say something, but she didn’t. She just sat there watching me, which, frankly, was a little uncomfortable. Finally I asked, “How’s business?”
She sighed. “A little slow but it’s picking up. It’s not tourist season yet. During Sturgis we just rent the whole place out. You know what Sturgis is?”
I nodded. “I had employees who went every year. The stories they would tell …”
“Oh yes, there are stories. Last year there was a woman on a Harley who called herself ‘Lady Godiva.’ I don’t need to tell you what she was wearing. Or not wearing.”
The town of Sturgis, South Dakota, is the epicenter of the world’s largest annual gathering of Harley-Davidson motorcycle riders. Every August, thousands of bikers, from business magnates to Hells Angels, descend on the town. There’s nothing else like it in the world.
“How far are we from Sturgis?” I asked.
“A little over fifty miles.”
“I’d like to see that sometime.”
“There’s not much to see this time of year,” she said. “’Course it’s not as wild as it used to be. It’s like Christmas—it got commercialized.”
Just then I heard a doorknob t
urn and the back door opened. I looked over as Dawna’s other guest entered the room. It was Pamela.
“Hi, Alan,” she said softly.
I stared at her in disbelief. “I thought you’d given up.”
“No.”
I looked at her for a moment then stood. “Fine. Follow me to Key West if you want. But you should get some better shoes.” I turned to Dawna, whose eyes were nervously darting back and forth between us. “I need my bill.”
“I’ll get it,” she said, standing quickly. She walked over to her cubbyholed maple desk. “It will be eighty-nine dollars for the night.” She held up a handwritten invoice. “Ninety-two fifty-six with tax.”
Pamela stared at me. “Alan … Just five minutes. Please.”
“I told you no.”
I handed Dawna my credit card, then, as it was processing, went back to my room and got my backpack. When I returned to the dining room, Pamela was still there. I retrieved my credit card, signed the bill, then walked past Pamela to the front door.
“Please, just hear me out,” she said.
“I told you yesterday, we have nothing to talk about. Nothing’s changed since then.” I walked out the door, slamming it shut behind me.
As I reached the other end of the parking lot, Pamela stepped outside. “You owe me,” she shouted.
I spun around. “What?”
“You owe me.”
A flash of rage engulfed me. “I owe you?”
She walked halfway across the parking lot to me. “Yes. You do.”
“For what? For abandoning a little girl? For ruining my wife’s life?”
She looked me in the eyes. “Her life wasn’t ruined. She had you.” She stepped closer, and her voice was calmer. “If I hadn’t been a bad mother, would McKale have been yours the way she was? Would she have needed you like she did? Would she have even married you?”
The Road to Grace Page 2
