The Mine (28 page)

Joel hated dumping even that much pessimism on the others, but he was tired of hiding what he felt and what he knew. Edith did not appear to mind. She told Joel that she valued the opinions of those with a direct stake in an issue, and few Americans had a more direct stake in going to war than men subject to the draft.

Edith also said she enjoyed talking to people with different life experiences. So for the next three hours, the woman with few visitors asked questions and the man with many questioners answered them. When she exhausted international affairs, she asked Joel about Montana, his job, and why her learned guest had never spent a day in college.

* * * * *

Grace listened to the stories almost as intently as her aunt. She had heard them often and never tired of them. But this time she paid less attention to what Joel said than to how he said it – and, with each passing hour, she noticed a change.

He spoke in hushed tones now and with little conviction. He rarely smiled or looked Edith in the eyes and answered her questions with minimal energy and noticeable economy, as if pushing out syllables were backbreaking work. Joel Smith was no longer the cocky, playful boy who had chased her around the Crypt or even the reasonably happy date she had brought to dinner but rather a hardened pessimist who had fallen into a funk that even fatigue could not explain.

Grace knew that Tom's draft status, the fight, and the daily barrage of depressing headlines had taken a toll, but she suspected that far more was in play. Each time Edith asked Joel about his goals or long-term plans he stopped talking or tried to change the subject. When he did discuss the future, he did so in terms of days and weeks rather than months and years. A condemned man exuded more optimism.

Deciding that he needed a change of scenery, Grace suggested that they see
Dumbo
that night at a theater downtown. The animated feature had opened to large crowds several days earlier and offered the kind of Disney escapism that might allow him to forget his troubles for a couple of hours. To her surprise, he agreed to go.

"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 silhouette 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 co-workers 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."