A Step of Faith: A Novel Page 6

  He kept at his steak. “You’ve made up your mind. What’s there to talk about?”

  “Can we talk about why you’re so angry?”

  He looked me in the eyes. “Do you think that there’s something magical about Key West? That the moment you reach the city line your life will just miraculously change and everything will be good again?”

  “No, Dad, everything will never be good again.”

  He shook his head. “You need to have faith,” he said.

  “Faith in what?”

  “That life is still worth living.”

  “What did you think, that I was going to come home and abandon my walk?”

  My father’s demeanor softened. “No. But I was hoping.”

  I exhaled slowly, regaining my composure. “Look, I’m sorry. I know you want me to stay. But it’s not my path. At least not yet.”

  “If not now, when?”

  I looked at him for a moment, then said, “As soon as I figure that out, I’ll let you know.” The room fell into silence. Finally, I pushed back from the table. “I’m not hungry.” I got up and went to my room.

  The next morning I woke with a headache, which I hid from my father at breakfast. Most people would think it strange that we didn’t say a thing about our previous night’s conversation, but that was predictable. It’s just the way we communicated. Or didn’t.

  Around noon my headache eased some and I walked two miles to the grocery store for supplies, then returned home and laid out my clothes for packing. I felt more alone than I had on the road. I desperately wanted to talk to someone. But Falene was still a vapor and I didn’t dare call Nicole.

  I called Carroll to see if he had any news about Falene. He had nothing new to report but said he hadn’t given up. I told him I was leaving and gave him my cell phone number in case he found her. To my surprise, Nicole called later that afternoon.

  “Hey,” she said softly. “How are you?”

  “I’m so glad you called,” I said. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Me too,” she said. There was a long pause. “So you’re leaving tomorrow?”

  “You’ve been talking to my dad?”

  “He’s my accountant,” she said. “We talk every week.”

  “He’s pretty upset.”

  “I know.”

  There was another long pause.

  “I’ve managed to run off everyone I love,” I said.

  “Maybe we just all love you too much.”

  “Then I could use a little less love about now.”

  She laughed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I kind of screwed things up between us.”

  “No you didn’t. There’s nothing you could do to make me not care about you.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I feel the same way about you.” She breathed out into the mouthpiece. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Emotionally or physically?”

  “Let’s stick to physically.”

  “I’m really tired. I still get headaches.”

  “Maybe you should wait a few more weeks before walking again.”

  “I can’t. I’m going crazy here.”

  “I know. But you need to be careful. I don’t want to hear about any more hospital visits.”

  “I’ll be careful. And I think that getting away from here will help. I need to reboot myself, you know?”

  “Yeah, but you be careful out there. And if you ever need anything, call. I don’t care what time it is. You know I mean that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you right now?”

  “You can look out for my dad.”

  “Gladly,” she said. “He’s a good man.”

  “I know,” I said. “Thanks for calling. It’s really good talking to you.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s good talking to you too. Let’s talk again soon.”

  “I’d like that,” I said.

  “Alan.”

  “Yes?”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” I replied. I hung up the phone and went back to packing.

  To avoid a repeat of the previous night’s dinner, I made myself a tuna fish sandwich, then sequestered myself in my room. Later that evening my father knocked at my door.

  “Come in,” I said.

  He stepped inside. “I made tacos,” he said.

  “Thanks. I already ate.”

  “I know. I wrapped up two tacos in foil in case you get hungry later. They’re in the refrigerator.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He just stood there, nervously swaying. “What time does your flight leave tomorrow?”

  “Ten-thirty.”

  “Then we should leave by eight-fifteen. We’re going to hit rush-hour traffic.”

  “You don’t have to take me,” I said. “I can take a cab.”

  “You’re not taking a cab. We’ll have breakfast at seven-thirty. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He walked out of my room.

  The next morning we shared a long, quiet breakfast together. It was one of my father’s specialties, Swedish pancakes with lingonberries and pork sausage. I suppose he had made a statement by making one of my favorites. After breakfast I finished packing, then my father drove me to the Los Angeles airport. We said two words on the way. Literally.

  “United?”

  “Delta.”

  He pulled up to the Delta curb and put the car in park. I got out and pulled my pack from the back seat. My father got out of the car. His eyes were red.

  “You got everything?”

  “Yeah.” I walked over to him, leaning my pack against the Buick. “Thank you for everything.”

  He just nodded.

  I exhaled heavily. “I love you, Dad.”

  His eyes welled up, which I knew made him uncomfortable. He leaned forward for a quick hug, then stepped back and, without a word, gently squeezed my shoulder.

  I picked up my pack and walked back to the curb. I was near the airport door when my father shouted, “Hey, Al.”

  I turned back.

  “Be safe.”

  I smiled, then waved and went in to catch my flight.

  CHAPTER

  Thirteen

  I am back in St. Louis. I was so intent on resisting my father’s attempts to abort my walk that I ignored my own body’s warnings.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  After a ninety-minute layover in Detroit, I arrived in St. Louis too late in the day to start walking. I took the hotel shuttle from the airport to the Hyatt Regency at the Arch and planned for a restful evening. I still didn’t feel well and I was worried by how much the flight had wearied me. My recovery wasn’t nearly as complete as I had led myself to believe. This shouldn’t have surprised me. Dr. Schlozman had warned me that it could take as long as six months before I felt like myself again. I just hadn’t wanted to hear it.

  My room was on the east side of the hotel and had a view of the Arch. The sun, now in the west, gleamed off the monument’s stainless-steel surface, making it almost too bright to look at.

  The Gateway Arch is one of America’s most spectacular national monuments, and a symbol of the western expansion of the United States. A national contest was held in 1947–48, and Finnish-American Eero Saarinen’s design was chosen from more than 170 entries. Construction began on the memorial in 1963 and was finished two and a half years later. The Arch is a remarkable feat of engineering and, at 630 feet tall, the tallest man-made monument in the United States—nearly 100 feet taller than the Washington Monument and almost 70 feet taller than the Crazy Horse Memorial in South Dakota.

  For several minutes I lay back in my bed, my gaze fixed on the monument. Even though the Gateway Arch was designed as a symbolic gateway to the West, gates go both ways and it was fitting that I had returned to the Arch after my medical intermission. I had passed the halfway mark of my journey east without fanfare. The Arch made it official—I was on the downhill slope of m
y walk. But it didn’t feel downhill. I felt as if my mountain had only grown steeper.

  I rubbed my legs, wondering how my body would hold up on the road. When I was ten, I broke my left arm playing dodgeball at school. When my cast came off, I was surprised at how much smaller my arm looked than the other one and how quickly my muscles had atrophied. As I looked at my calves, I realized how the weeks in Pasadena had taken their toll. Even with my practice walks at home, I doubted I’d make twenty miles my first day. I wondered if I would even make ten. No matter. I wasn’t in a race. I closed my eyes and took a nap.

  CHAPTER

  Fourteen

  Everybody needs love. Everybody. Those who don’t believe that frighten me a little.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  My room was dark when I woke. I glanced over at the digital clock: 8:27 P.M. I got out of bed and washed my face with cold water, then took the elevator downstairs to the Ruth’s Chris Steak House, which was off the hotel lobby. The restaurant is one of the reasons I had picked the hotel. McKale and I had celebrated our first year of the agency at a Ruth’s Chris, along with Kyle Craig and his girlfriend du jour. It was a good time and one I would never forget—an evening of triumph and confidence and gratitude. I remember that McKale looked so incredibly beautiful that night. Indescribably beautiful.

  Seeing couples around me in the lobby intensified my memories and my loneliness.

  In this setting I understood something. I didn’t want to live without McKale. But I also didn’t want to live alone. I wasn’t born to be celibate. Refusing Analise in Iowa had taken all the strength I had. Everyone needs love. Everyone. And, as my dad was fond of saying, “If you build a fence between a cow and its water, it’s going to take down the fence.”

  Nearly four years ago McKale and I had talked about this very thing on our vacation to Italy. We were on a tour of the Roman Forum, standing near the ruins of the Temple of Vesta, when our guide told us about the three vows made by the Vestal Virgins. First was complete allegiance to the goddess Vesta. Second was a vow to keep the sacred fire of her temple burning. The third was a vow of chastity.

  The punishment for breaking the third vow was the most severe. If caught, the male lover would be whipped to death in front of the woman, then she would be wrapped in linen, given a loaf of bread and an oil lantern, then be buried alive.

  I asked our guide if, given the extremity of the punishment, any of the Vestal Virgins had ever broken their vow.

  “Oh yes,” she said solemnly. “Eighteen of them.”

  “Eighteen!” McKale exclaimed.

  “Does this surprise you?” the guide asked in her strong Italian accent. She shook her head. “It does not surprise me. Everyone must have love.”

  Later that evening, as we stood in front of the Trevi Fountain, McKale asked me something peculiar. “If I were to die, would you remarry?”

  I looked at her quizzically. “You’re not going to die.”

  “But if I did, would you remarry?”

  “I’ve never thought about it,” I finally said. “I’ve always assumed I’ll die first. Would you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I think I’d probably die of a broken heart.”

  I smiled and squeezed her hand. A minute later, after we’d started walking again, she said seriously, “If something happens to me, I want you to remarry. I don’t want you to live without love.”

  “Enough of this,” I said. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

  She stopped and looked up into my eyes with a curious gaze I’ll never forget. “You never know,” she said.

  I wondered what McKale would think of me with Falene. I knew that she liked her, which, frankly, was unusual. Most women took an immediate dislike to Falene just because of the way she looked, or, often, because of the way their men looked at her.

  McKale wasn’t intimidated by Falene—at least she never expressed it. I guess she was just confident in herself and her hold on me. Why wouldn’t she be? I had tunnel vision. McKale was everything.

  In spite of my melancholy, or maybe because of it, I decided to make my dinner a celebration of three things. First, passing the halfway mark of my walk. Second, returning to my walk. And third, surviving my tumor.

  I ordered the same meal I had the night I dined at Ruth’s Chris with McKale: sweet potato casserole with pecans, asparagus with Hollandaise sauce, and the Cowboy Ribeye steak. In keeping with my celebration, I complemented my meal with a small glass of red wine, and, alone, made a symbolic toast to the journey. “To Key West,” I said. I sounded pathetic. There were better things to toast. I raised my glass again. “To McKale.”

  I didn’t rush, giving myself time to digest both my food and the significance of the moment. When I’d finished eating, I ordered a decaf coffee to go, then went back up to my room. Again, I was surprisingly exhausted.

  Outside my window, the arch was lit by spotlights. I ran my bath and lay back in it, closing my eyes and letting my body soak. I wondered when I’d have that luxury again. Not soon, I wagered. I told myself it was just as well. I was getting soft, and it was time to get back to the road.

  CHAPTER

  Fifteen

  I have been taken in by a Pentecostal pastor who speaks openly of miracles and the “fruits of the spirit.” I don’t know if there are fewer miracles today or if, in times past, all unexplained phenomena was just ascribed to divine providence. It seems today that we see less spiritual fruit than religious nuts.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  I forgot to request a wake-up call and woke after ten, which upset me, as I had planned on getting an early start. I quickly dressed, then, taking my pack, went downstairs for breakfast. For the sake of time I opted for the buffet, which was quite good, and checked out of the hotel. Then, without ceremony, I resumed my walk.

  I don’t think the Gateway Arch can be fully appreciated until one stands at its base and looks up. In spite of my late start, I walked across the street to the monument. I was tempted to take the tour, but it really wasn’t an option. There was a security checkpoint at the monument’s entrance, and I had my backpack, which they wouldn’t allow inside—especially since I was still carrying the gun my father had given me after I was mugged outside of Spokane.

  There was no easy way out of the city and, after an hour of trying to navigate a labyrinth of roads and highways, passing through industrial areas of questionable safety, I finally just hailed a cab, which I took twelve miles to the Lindbergh Boulevard freeway exit. I got out near a HoneyBaked Ham store and began walking toward Highway 61.

  I was in a suburban part of St. Louis County and the landscape was green and pretty. I crossed the Meramec River before reaching the town of Arnold, introduced by a sign that read:

  ARNOLD

  “A Small Town with a Big Heart”

  It could just as well have read, Another small town with an unoriginal slogan, as I had seen the exact claim at least a dozen times before on my walk. The town was unremarkable in appearance as well, consisting of weather-worn aluminum-sided buildings housing used car dealerships, thrift stores, and hardware shops—the kind of commerce that springs up naturally in small towns, the way willows grow near slow-moving streams.

  Around two o’clock, just shy of ten miles into the day’s walk, I reached Bob’s Drive-In, which boasted the “Best Burger in Town.” The claim was probably more than hyperbole, as I hadn’t seen another hamburger place since I entered Arnold. Of course, claiming the title by default would also make them the “Worst Burger in Town,” but it rarely pays to advertise our faults. Sometimes, but rarely.

  Bob’s was a true takeout—there was no inside dining—and I stood in front of the boxy diner studying Bob’s sizable menu, which was hand-painted on a board hanging over three sliding-glass windows. I walked up to the middle window and rang a bell for service. A brunette woman in her mid-thirties slid open the window.

  “What can I get you?”

  I took a
step forward. “I’ll have a Pepsi and your Arnold Burger.” I looked back up at the sign. “What’s fried okra?”

  “It’s just okra. Fried.”

  I smiled at her description. “What’s okra?”

  She looked at me in disbelief. “It’s a vegetable. Some people call it gumbo.”

  “Like shrimp gumbo?”

  “Shrimp gumbo has okra in it,” she said. “It’s good. You’ve really never had fried okra?”

  “It’s new to me.”

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “I’m from the northwest.”

  “That explains things. What brings you to Arnold?”

  “I’m just passing through. I’m walking across America.”

  Her eyes widened. “Shut the door! What city did you start in?”

  “Seattle.”

  “Seattle! Wow. That is so cool. Tell you what, that Pepsi’s on me. Are you gonna try the okra?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Great. I’ll put your order in.” She walked away from the window and I heard her calling out my order to someone in back. A moment later she returned with my drink.

  “Here’s your Pepsi.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Alan,” I said.

  “Nice to meet you, Alan,” she said. “I’m Lori.”

  “Pleasure,” I said. “You’re from Arnold?”

  “No. I live four miles south of here in Barnhart. I’m telling you, you coming through here is the most exciting thing that’s happened in Arnold this month.”

  Hearing this made me a little sad for the people of Arnold.

  A bell rang and Lori said, “There’s your order. I’ll be right back.” She returned with a tray holding a hamburger wrapped in yellow waxed paper and a paper sack with my okra, which was lightly fried, the interior a greenish-yellow pod. She rang up my bill. “That’ll be six forty-nine.”