The Mine (34 page)

As Joel stood before the final resting place of Virginia Gillette Jorgenson, high on a hilltop in a leafy cemetery in Madison Park, he asked a question that had to be asked: Had she known? Had this intelligent, resourceful woman put the pieces together? Had she figured out that her beloved grandson was the same young man who had abandoned her friend in 1941? Could she have set aside skepticism about time travel or reincarnation long enough to admit that the two Joel Smiths of her life were one and the same?

She had been seventy-five when she died of lung cancer but had kept her wits to the end. Surely she had noticed that the seventeen-year-old boy at her deathbed bore a striking resemblance to her one-time friend. It is also possible that Grace had removed all doubt by showing her his letter or revealing its contents. In that event, Ginny would have known the truth from the start. Whatever the case, she had kept her thoughts to herself. She had died a stranger even to her husband and three children.

Joel pulled a clean rag from the back pocket of his jeans and gently wiped the engraved portion of the three-foot-high gravestone. He thought about his mother's words at dinner the week before. Ginny Jorgenson clearly had no use for ranchers and cowboys, and Joel just as clearly understood why. He had let her down. He had let all of them down. He tried to convince himself he had bolted for the noblest of reasons – reasons that were not difficult to find. Who would not want to see his family again? What honorable person could interfere with the lives of people he was never supposed to meet?

Yet Joel knew that his decision to run was rooted in a whole lot more. He had not wanted to serve in World War II and possibly leave behind a widow and a fatherless child, just as he
had
wanted to return to the comforts of a familiar, modern age. He wondered how many lives he had already altered, particularly for the worse. Staring again at the stone, he conceded that he had altered at least one. Whether he had affected more was still a mystery. After taking his last final exam the previous day, Joel had driven to the downtown public library and tried to learn what had become of his long-lost friends.

Some answers had come quickly and easily. Army Lieutenant Thomas Carter had indeed died in the sands of Tunisia but not before saving eight soldiers in his platoon from certain slaughter. The furniture salesman and playboy who had frequently and openly questioned his own courage had been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, posthumously, for uncommon valor in the Battle of Kasserine Pass.

Paul McEwan had survived Pearl Harbor but not the war. He had died in early 1945 at a hospital in the Philippines after contracting malaria. From Paul's obituary and other records, Joel had learned that Linda McEwan Rogers had married a naval officer and settled in Bremerton. She had taught for forty years in the public schools there, retiring with great fanfare in 1982. According to a local newspaper article, she had twice been named the school district's educator of the year. She was presumably still alive.

So was Katherine Kobayashi Saito. Joel did not need to spend an afternoon in a library to learn her whereabouts. He had the Christmas card she had sent his parents six months earlier. She lived in Portland, Oregon, with husband, Walter. She had four children, sixteen grandchildren, and a great-grandchild on the way. Even before reading the card, Joel had decided to contact her soon. If there was one person in his former circle of friends still willing and able to receive him, it would be the woman to whom he had left twenty-five hundred dollars.

There would be no contacting Edith Green Tomlinson. She had died a childless widow in 1960. Joel had found her lengthy obituary in the
Sun
, but it left him with more questions than answers. Edith had been preceded in death by her husband, her parents, and a twin sister, and survived by a brother-in-law and "legions of fans in the Seattle arts community," but apparently by no one else. Grace had not been listed among the deceased or the survivors.

And so the mystery continued. Joel had found no evidence that Grace had graduated from Westlake High School or the university or had even attended a sorority reunion. She had not been listed in any directories or vital records indexes or made the newspaper, as far as he could tell, in any way, shape, or form.

He had recognized up front the limits of searching for a person who probably carried a married name and who may have even left the country. Grace herself had said she had been happier living overseas. He would not at all have been surprised to see her name on a roster of Peace Corps volunteers. But on June 9, 2000, her name could not be found in any public records. She existed only in photographs and memories.

Joel finished wiping the gravestone and straightened Joe Jorgenson's flag. It was the least he could do for a grandfather who had taught him to fish and appreciate the virtues of patience, humility, and tolerance.

He took one last look at Ginny's name and asked her for forgiveness. He knew it was probably an empty gesture. If there was an afterlife, Ginny was badgering reporters at the
Heaven Gazette
and not hanging around a slab of marble. But he asked anyway. If nothing else, Joel needed to hear himself say the words. He needed to run through this hoop and others to achieve the one thing that still eluded him. Closure.

CHAPTER 67

She looked better than a soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend had the right to look. Fresh from her summer job as a lifeguard at Green Lake, Stanford Law-bound Jana Lamoreaux walked into the Mad Dog wearing a white tight-fitting blouse, a denim skirt, and sandals that accented legs that belonged on a billboard.

Joel had long appreciated her year-round features, like her long brown hair, amber eyes, and olive skin that would always play well with a jury. But for some reason, he thought they looked even better the day after they had graduated from college.

"Sorry I'm late," Jana said.

She slid into the unoccupied half of a secluded booth, grabbed the pitcher of India Pale Ale Joel had ordered minutes earlier, and poured a perfect pint. He marveled at the ease at which she handled suds. Jana could pour a gallon of beer into a teacup and not spill a drop or leave a head thicker than a quarter of an inch. Like Ginny Gillette, the former beauty queen was a girl who could play with the boys, on their turf, and not leave an ounce of her femininity on the sidelines.

Joel had picked the Mad Dog as the venue to discuss their future because it was comfortable, convenient, and symbolically important. This was, after all, where they had started.

They had met in the same booth in the spring of 1998 as sophomores with fake driver's licenses, obnoxious friends, and a desire to put recent, painful breakups behind them. Joel hadn't needed any coaxing to better acquaint himself with the vivacious history major. Jana was as beautiful then as she was now and shared a number of his interests, from football and fishing to the Gilded Age and the Enlightenment. Staring blankly at a poster on the wall, he drifted to better times and better places before she reeled him back to the here and now.

"How did your interview go this morning?" she asked.

"It went well, kick-ass well. But I won't get the job."

"Why?"

"They want someone with more experience."

"You're kidding. What do they call a summer internship?"

"A step in the right direction."

Joel loved the irony that had followed him through the entire interview process, which had run nearly three hours. In fact, he had thought of little else all day. Granted, he did not have experience in the oil industry. He did not have much experience in
any
geology-related industry. But he did have knowledge that could turn the entire field on its head. He thought of the serious fun he could have had educating his interviewers about fluorescent rock chambers that sent young men hurtling to the age of Rosie the Riveter. But that would have required risking phone calls to men in white coats. He had had enough excitement for one month.

He sipped his beer and surveyed the establishment. The Mad Dog was as old as the Canary in Helena and just as popular. But it had gone in a much different direction over the years. Whereas the Montana diner had embraced the past, the campus watering hole had charged into the future. Instead of Depression-era jukeboxes, brass cash registers, and celebrity photos, it boasted modern lighting, data ports, fifteen televisions, and sushi. Only its name and its exterior had not changed. Tom Carter would not have recognized the place.

"Do you have anything else lined up?" Jana asked.

"I have one more interview in two weeks, with a natural gas outfit. But I'm not in a hurry. I figure I've got another month before the commander sends me to a recruiter."

"Your dad never lets up, does he?"

Joel laughed.

"I'd think less of him if he did. What about you? Do you have any glorious plans before the Farm gets its hooks into you?"

"My parents want to take me to France in August. It's my graduation present. I'll probably go. OK. Duh! Of course, I'll go." Jana laughed. "Who turns up Paris, right? But I'm mostly looking forward to a quiet summer at the lake – and more time with you."

Joel offered a slight smile. She was not making this easy.

Jana extended a hand across the table in their booth and touched his wrist.

"I've missed that."

"What?"

"Your smile. I haven't seen it for a while. I thought you left it in Wyoming."

"It's that obvious, huh?"

"Joel, you haven't smiled in weeks. You haven't been the same since you got back, and you've been particularly quiet lately. Do you want to tell me what happened?"

Do you want all six months or Adam's condensed version?

"I've just been stressed about finals and the interview."

Joel kicked himself. His pathetic explanation was technically true, but it was about as complete as the face of the Great Sphinx. Would he fib his way through the twenty-first century too? Fortunately, Jana did not care.

"Well, maybe we can do something about that."

Joel topped off his glass and looked at Jana's earnest face. He could see wheels spinning behind her playful eyes and knew she had brought her own agenda to the pub.

"What do you have in mind?"

"I was thinking of a nice, long hike in the Olympics. Rachel and Adam are going backpacking this weekend at Sol Duc and want us to come along. It will just be for three days, but I think it would do you some good. It would do
us
some good."

Joel considered the message and the messenger. She had correctly sensed the drift in their relationship and wanted to right the ship. But he had asked her to the pub to increase the distance between them, not lessen it. As much as he wanted to go hiking and maintain some kind of continuity, he wanted to be fair to her.

Even so, he did not want to needlessly burn any bridges. Joel laughed to himself. Just the thought of that metaphor took him to a sunny meadow on Mount Rainier and a rainy doorstep only seventeen days and a stone's throw away.

Joel looked at his smart, lovely, considerate girlfriend and wondered what the hell was wrong with him. What kind of man dumped Miss Mercer Island? The problem, he concluded, was not Jana Lamoreaux or stress or unreasonable requests or an aversion to hiking in national parks. The problem was poor timing. He had not gotten over Grace.

Joel also had other plans for the weekend. Even before learning he would not get the oil company position, he had decided to take one last journey to purge his mind of unhelpful memories of a time and place to which he could never return. Unlike decisions about his future with Jana, that was a matter that could not wait.

"It sounds like fun and, like you said, it's probably exactly what I need. I could use a nature fix. But I think I'll take a rain check this time."

Jana slumped into the cushioned bench and pushed her half-empty glass to the side as an infectious smile gave way to an uncommon frown. She looked away for a moment and then turned to the man who had called this meeting.

"We're not going to make it, are we?"

Joel hated himself for putting her through this. He hated seeing the moisture in the corners of her eyes. He seriously wondered if anyone kept track of world records for broken hearts by assholes in the span of three weeks. If so, he planned to nominate himself. Jana deserved better and would no doubt find it in Palo Alto.

"I don't know. Believe me when I say that. I just know that I have a lot of thinking to do and need some time alone. I'm still looking for answers."

"OK."

Jana smiled sadly and put both of her hands on his.

"I hope you find them."

CHAPTER 68

Portland and Seaside, Oregon – Saturday, June 17, 2000

The journey started with a last-second detour. Joel had not planned to visit Katie Kobayashi Saito on his way to the coast. He had not planned to visit her on his way back. He instead had planned to clear his mind of complications and clutter and then write a letter easing his way in. Time travelers did not surprise eighty-year-old women by suddenly showing up on their doorstep.

But as he caught U.S. Highway 26 and slogged through traffic on the west end of Portland, he succumbed to temptation. Why come all this way, he thought, just to put off the inevitable for another day? When he approached the exit at Cornelius Pass Road, he threw caution to the wind and turned north.

A few minutes later Joel drove his RAV4 up a crooked access road to a small collection of pricey properties overlooking the lush Tualatin Valley. He checked a few mailbox numbers and finally pulled into the brick U-shaped driveway of a Tudor estate.

Japanese maple, black pine, azalea, and interconnected stone fountains and ponds in the spacious front yard gave the place an unmistakable tea garden feel, as did ruler-straight rows of weeping cherry trees on two sides of the property. Joel checked the mailbox again to confirm that he had not entered one of Portland's botanical parks.