The End of The Road (3 page)

“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 from 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 second 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.”

Linda came flying across the room to give me a hug.

“We were about to start without you,” she teased, stepping back with a grin.

“Ahh, well—I knew you wouldn’t start without me. I had a phone call from my son, Joe, in Seattle, that took a rather long time,” I told them, setting the sack with two bottles of the wine I had promised on the kitchen counter and removing my coat to hang on a hook by the door.

“Problems?” Becky asked from the kitchen, where she was cutting cherry tomatoes in half and adding them to a salad.

“Nothing I can solve. You’ve both met his lady, Sharon, and know that she has her own travel agency in Seattle. At a conference a week or so ago she had an attractive offer of space in a downtown location to start a second office in Portland. The drawback is that she would have to move to Oregon for the next year or so to get it going.”

“Portland’s not too far away,” Linda said. “About two hundred miles, I think. That’s about the same as driving from here to Anchorage—a little less, actually.”

Leaving one bottle of wine in the kitchen, I brought the other and Becky’s corkscrew to the table, uncorked it and poured us each a glass.

“I know,” I told her. “But with both of them working full-time—for Sharon that would probably mean six days a week to start with—how often are they really going to make that three- or four-hour trip? Joe’s afraid it would break up their relationship.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Becky came from the kitchen to the table and set a bowl of spaghetti down on it with a thump. “Why doesn’t he just marry the woman? She’s a honey!”