The sisterhood cheered.
Ginny stood up, lifted her glass, and smiled at Grace.
"Here's a toast to the birthday girl and the blushing bride to be!"
* * * * *
The non-party party finished at nine, after two girls left for the library and Linda left for the ladies' room. She gave back to Harlan's on three separate occasions. Grace provided comfort each time, helping her to a sink to wash her face and then to a glass of water to wash her throat. At the end of round three, she wiped a bit of celebration from the hem of her white cotton dress.
"Some birthday," Linda said. "I'm sorry."
"It's OK. Someone always gets sick at these things and I'm glad it wasn't me."
The friends laughed.
The Birthday Brigade decided early on to stay at Harlan's rather than hop from bar to bar. They agreed that they had all that they needed in the Hideaway and that Monday night of dead week was no time to pursue additional distractions – like men.
Grace could not have asked for a better time, given the circumstances. She could not have asked for better friends. All had taken time from their studies to celebrate her milestone birthday, even though she herself had celebrated with just two glasses of wine.
As the women pushed out the door and began their long walk back to the sorority, the sun slipped below the horizon and a gentle breeze blew in from the sound, rattling leaves and prompting some to button their sweaters. But no one complained. Grace loved this time of year, when Seattle's dreary wet season gave way to the best summer weather in North America.
She pondered her plans for the coming season, her final year of college, and, most important, her future with Paul. Oh, how he had surprised her Saturday night! Oh, how she had surprised herself by accepting his offer. Grace had dated only five men in her life, but she did not have to date more to know that her naval officer was a catch.
Ten minutes into the walk, Grace and Linda fell behind the pack and got caught on the wrong side of traffic when the others crossed East Forty-Seventh Street. As they waited for a caravan of cars to pass, Grace glanced to her right and saw a young man in a dirty sweatshirt and cowboy hat lean back on a bench and stare into space.
She paused to assess the figure and noticed that he was uncommonly handsome, in spite of, or maybe because of, thick brown stubble that covered much of his face. When he turned to face Grace, he locked onto her crystal blue eyes and offered a long, weary smile. She responded in kind. He did not appear to be a student or one of the many transients who passed through the university district but rather something else.
Grace peered across the street and heard shouts from the other side. Katie and others motioned frantically for her to cross. As the traffic cleared, she looked back at the man and gently waved a slender hand. He sat up straight and touched the brim of his hat.
Ginny greeted her first.
"What did you do? Stop to check the white sales?"
"No. I was just looking at a cowboy, over on the bench. He looked very sad."
"Well, I'm sure he'll find his horse. Come on. Let's go."
Grace put an arm around Linda and gave Katie her heavy purse. In the distance, dozens of moviegoers filed out of the Phoenician as impatient drivers in slow-moving cars revved their engines and honked their horns. The Ave was coming to life.
As she started down Forty-Seventh Street, Grace glanced back at the bench. It was empty. No one loitered nearby, and no one walked down the street. Satisfied that her cowboy had found his horse, she turned to join her sisters and mused of other things.
CHAPTER 20
Joel thought about mattresses as he walked north on the Ave.
He thought about the queen-sized box spring he had in his apartment, the waterbed he'd had growing up, and the king-sized memory-foam special in his parents' bedroom. He even thought about flimsy bunk-bed pads, the kind Saint Xavier's Mission had but couldn't offer when it told him there was no more room in the inn.
The pampered youngest son of Frank and Cynthia Smith couldn't remember the last time fatigue and hunger had gripped him like this. He gained new respect for those who spent each day walking the streets.
Joel also thought about the blonde. Who was she? And why had she stared at him? Was Joel Smith, world traveler, gold-card member, and former all-state linebacker, now an object of pity? He didn't think so. He saw empathy in those incredible eyes, not contempt. Still, he wondered.
As Joel proceeded down the busy arterial, he passed a few familiar sights. Some things had not visibly changed in fifty-nine years, such as two brownstone apartment buildings, a Mission Revival grade school in the Heights, and three taverns with colorful names. He stood before one, the Mad Dog, and considered his options.
The Mad Dog didn't have memory-foam mattresses for weary time travelers. But it did have a long sidewalk bench. Joel sat down on one end and extended his legs toward the other. He pondered walking to a nearby park but decided to stay put. The bench was hard but relatively comfortable. If necessary, he could make it his bed for the night.
He closed his eyes and thought of pleasant things: his mother's chicken cacciatore, the hot tub at home, Jana in a string bikini, Maui, and the blonde. He could still picture her face.
Miss Denmark has nothing on you.
Joel was about to drift off when a party of three crashed through the tavern door. Two men about his age escorted another to the other side of the Ave, where a narrow, unlighted alley between a redbrick law office and a used bookstore allowed for private conversations. An American flag flew in front of the office.
"I believe the sum was twenty dollars," Joel heard one of the men say.
"And I said I'd have it by Wednesday."
"You said that a week ago. Let's see your wallet."
Silence passed for a moment, and then another. Pleased that the misunderstanding across the street had been resolved to the satisfaction of all parties, Joel again settled into the bench and let fatigue take its course. He visualized Kapalua and another epic dispute. In this clash, Jana and Smiling Sarah fought over his beach towel. Blondie from Forty-Seventh Street, whistle in mouth, mediated the spat, which had gone into overtime. The bliss ended all too soon.
"That isn't going to do it. You owe us twenty, not ten."
"It's all I have. I'll give you the rest later. I promise."
"That's not good enough."
Joel hated the dull sound of fists hitting bellies. He hated that total strangers had interrupted his best daydream in weeks. Most of all, he hated that he would have to jump into the fray or tune out a nasty assault. Violence, he reasoned, belonged on football fields and in boxing rings, not dark alleys in Seattle, Washington. He jumped off the bench, donned his hat, and walked slowly across the Ave.
"OK, gentlemen, break it up."
The bill collectors, in sleeveless shirts and cuffed denim, turned toward Joel. So did their better-dressed debtor, who bled from both sides of his mouth.
"Well, take a look," the larger aggressor said. "It's John Wayne."
With pompadour hair, low bushy eyebrows, and a six-inch scar that ran across his chin, he was all set for Halloween and not one to talk. He laughed, sneered at Joel, and resumed his business, lifting the ragdoll to his feet before knocking him down.
"I said break it up."
Mr. Congeniality kicked his prostrate victim in the side for good measure, then spun around and briskly walked up to Joel. With twenty pounds on the peacemaker, he got right in his face.
"And what are you going to do if I don't?"
"I'm going to run your ass up that flagpole and then do your mother."
The bully nixed the small talk. He crouched, shifted his weight to his back foot, and threw a clenched fist at Joel's face. The right hook grazed an ear. When he reloaded and fired again, Joel caught his wrist, twisted his arm behind his back, and shoved him face first into an overflowing garbage can. The metal lid rolled into the street.
The man got up slowly and brushed coffee
grounds off his shirt. He lowered his shoulders, snarled, and charged with the fury of a wounded bull. Once again, Joel was ready. He stepped to one side, tripped the lout to the pavement, and jumped on his back. He grabbed a handful of hair and slammed his face into the ground.
"Do you give, or do we discuss your sister too?"
"I give."
Joel lifted the trash – the one on two legs – and kicked it hard to the curb. The man struggled to his feet, looked around, and appealed for help but found none. His scrawny sidekick had already grabbed the wallet and bolted. Stunned, humbled, and furious, the ruffian glared at Joel, extended the middle finger of his undamaged hand, and retreated north. It was over that fast.
Sirens pierced the still air, sending Joel's stomach to his toes. Though a night in the Iron Bars Bed and Breakfast had surprising appeal, he had had enough excitement for one day and just wanted sleep. He could picture the interview with Seattle's finest.
"And your date of birth, Mr. Smith?"
"Why, that would be June 7, 1978, Officer. The day the Sonics blew the Finals."
The sirens passed, bringing palpable relief. Then Joel looked at the man he had saved and wondered if he should not call someone, after all. He needed a helping hand, if not a doctor. Blood still flowed from his mouth as he sat up and grabbed his head.
Joel looked for something to wipe the blood, walking up and down the alley and even searching the garbage can. He drew the line at two oily rags.
"Stay here. I'll be right back."
Moments later he returned with two large handfuls of toilet paper from the Mad Dog and gave them to the man. He was still a little shaky but alert and on his feet.
"Here. Take this. You're a mess."
"Thanks."
The man wiped his mouth, ran a finger along his lower lip, and tucked in his blue button-down shirt. Blood had dripped on the collar and a pocket.
"No. Thank the next guy to use the toilet in there. I took all they had."
"That's funny." The wounded warrior dabbed a corner of his mouth. "I meant thanks for running those guys off. I didn't think they were going to get rough."
"Don't mention it. Besides, I didn't have a choice," Joel said. He smiled. "You guys interrupted my beauty sleep."
"Well, thanks anyway. I'm Tom Carter, by the way."
"Joel Smith."
The two shook hands, drifted over to the cement steps of the law office, and sat down. Before either could say a word, four talkative men exited the Mad Dog and walked across the street. One stared at Joel and shouted "Where's the party, cowboy?" before joining the others in a 1939 Packard sedan parked in front of the bookstore. They spun away from the curb, leaving the block peaceful once again.
Tom cocked his head and peered out of a puffy eye.
"I like your duds."
"You and half the planet," Joel said. He stood up, walked into the street to pick up the garbage can lid, and placed it atop the can before returning to the steps. "So what was this all about? Did you lose a bet?"
"Two, actually."
They both laughed.
"I would have paid them off too," Tom said. "I never welsh on bets – never. But I won't have the cash until later this week."
Joel studied his new acquaintance. Two inches shorter and a few pounds heavier, he was a nice-looking guy with a baby face, strong jaw, and short, light-brown hair that was parted to the side. Unlike the thugs he chased away, he also sounded educated.
"Are you a student?"
"I am, though not for much longer. I graduate in two weeks. I came out here to shoot some pool and clear my head. I studied non-stop all weekend. But it's back to the grind tomorrow." Tom brushed off his pants and looked up. "How about you?"
The question caught Joel off guard. Many people had commented about his attire, but no one had asked who he was or where he came from. The truth would not cut it. Though he looked, and probably smelled, like a wild man from Borneo, he needed a story that was a bit more credible.
"No. I just got off the train from Montana. I came here looking for work."
Tom squinted his eyes and stared at the man who had saved him from a savage beating. He wore a stained sweatshirt, a scraggly beard, and the aroma of unwashed skin.
"You didn't hop a train, did you?"
"I did."
Both laughed.
"That explains a lot. When was the last time you had a bath?"
Does a sponge bath in Spokane count?
"It's been a while. Is it that bad? I lost my sense of smell yesterday."
"You're a riot. You remind me of my girlfriend." Tom tucked the bathroom tissue in a pocket and then turned toward his friend. "Say, guy, do you have a place to stay?"
Joel pointed to the bench in front of the Mad Dog.
"My castle."
"I figured as much." Tom smiled. He put an arm over Joel's shoulder and led him back up the Ave. "Let's do something about that."
CHAPTER 21
"So you're the young man who occupied my trailer last night."
"I am."
Joel stepped forward and shook the hand of a barrel-chested bulldog of a man in the well-furnished living room of his university district home.
"Mel Carter."
"Joel Smith."
"Well, have a seat, Mr. Smith. We have a lot to talk about."
Joel walked around a walnut coffee table and sat down on the middle cushion of a plush silk brocade couch. On the other side of the room, Mel and Tom Carter, father and son, sat in matching upholstered recliners. A mahogany console radio stood between them.
"I'll be straight with you, Joel. It's not every day we take in a stray off the streets and welcome him into our home. I'm still trying to make sense of all this, and I'm not sure I like it." Mel put his hands together and leaned forward. "But Tom told me what you did last night, and I must tell you I'm grateful. He doesn't always exercise the best judgment."
"Thank you."
Joel let out a sigh. He had dreaded this meeting, mostly because he did not know what to expect. But now that he had some measure of Melvin Carter, owner and operator of Carter's Furniture and Appliance, he relaxed. He could see he was a reasonable man. A good day was getting better.
The day, ironically, had started on a bed on wheels, albeit one more comfortable than a rolling boxcar. Joel had slept soundly in an immaculate Airstream trailer, parked in a dirt driveway behind a three-bedroom Cape Cod house.
When he got up, he grabbed a shirt, underwear, and a razor provided by Tom and made use of a downstairs bathroom and a round porcelain-tub washing machine that looked a lot like R2-D2. By the time Sandra Carter returned home at noon from Tuesday pinochle, Joel was a new man. Tom introduced his mother to a clean-cut friend, not a mysterious drifter who, hours earlier, had roamed the streets with a hairy face.
"Tom tells me you're from Montana," Mel Carter said.
The statement brought Joel out of a daze. He tried to remember what he had told Tom the previous night, when he went from Joel Smith, time traveler, to Joel Smith, job-seeking cowboy from Big Sky Country. It was time to play the part.
"Helena," he said. At least that much was true. "My family is into ranching."
Joel remembered Walter Scott's quip about tangled webs and deceit.
"Ranching, huh?"
Tom sat in his chair, legs crossed, and nodded. No scrutiny would come from his corner.
"So why does a Montana rancher hop a train to Seattle?" Mel asked.
"Well, sir, truth be told, the ranching hasn't been so good lately. Beef is in a free fall. Chicken is cutting into the market."
"Chicken?"
"Sad but true. Consumers are on a white-meat kick and our operation hasn't been able to adjust. I couldn't make it in a chicken world, sir, so I hit the road in search of something better."
Mel smiled, shook his head, and looked at his plainspoken guest as if trying to decide whether he was a serial liar or a marketing genius. He shifted around in his chair and adjusted a pair
of black suspenders that cut into a white short-sleeved shirt. A pack of cigarettes bulged from one pocket.
"What kind of work are you looking for?"
"Anything. I just want an opportunity to prove myself and work my way up."
"Ever sell anything?"
I once sold Adam on protein shakes.
"Not recently, but I'm willing to try."
Mel glanced at Tom, as if seeking some sort of guidance, and then at the mystery man. He stroked his chin, rubbed his hands together, and leaned forward in his chair.
"Tell you what, Joel. If you mean what you say, I'll give you that chance. I run a home furnishings store just off campus. Come in with me in the morning, and I'll put you to work. If you can sell more than toasters in two weeks, I'll make the job permanent."
As Joel pondered a reply, a pretty, browned-haired girl, no more than eighteen, stepped into the living room. She glanced at the visitor, blushed, and turned toward the oldest male in attendance.
"Supper's ready, Daddy."
Brenda Carter took her leave but sneaked one more peek at Joel as she ambled across a dark oak floor. Rounding an arched entrance that led to a hallway, she stopped, popped her head back in the room, and peered at her older brother.
"Oh, Tom, I almost forgot."
"Forgot what?"
"Ginny's here."
CHAPTER 22
Sandra Carter knew fried chicken, the bane of the beef industry. She also knew gravy, biscuits, and corn on the cob.
Joel smiled to himself as he took stock of the food on the large, rectangular table, which occupied a fair portion of a well-lighted dining room. The fat grams alone could kill a herd of elephants. But he wasted no time digging in. Twenty-four hours earlier rotting fruit had looked like a feast. Now, he had meat and carbohydrates – and company.
Mel and Sandy took up most of Joel's time, asking questions about Montana, his family, and ranch life. Joel surprised himself by handling each query with aplomb. In his new, tightly written biography, he was not a free-spirited geology student who lived in an apartment complex ten blocks away but rather a restless rancher's son seeking something bigger and better in the big city.
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