Paul arrived on a military hop from Anchorage to Juneau in his fatigues and camo jacket around noon on Tuesday. Because Pops no longer drove and there were no ride shares yet in Alaska’s capital, he took a taxi from the airport out in Mendenhall Valley into town. It was October, which meant Juneau was draped in its usual blanket of steady rain with low clouds hovering against the mountains on both sides of Gastineau Channel. He found himself gazing fondly at the landmarks that greeted him as the taxi turned onto Egan Drive. Thunder Mountain’s expanse tumbled off to the left towards the glacier, and Sunny Point jutted like a short, green thumb into the channel on the right. His heart seized a bit when they came abreast Lemon Creek a little further on, and he forced himself to concentrate instead on the fishing trawlers across the channel along the rocky shore of North Douglas Island. Twin Lakes appeared just north of the salmon hatchery, followed by the boat harbor and his high school, junior high, and elementary school, then the service station at the foot of Douglas Bridge where Pops had been a mechanic for over forty years. As the taxi curved into town, walls of snow-capped mountains made their impossibly sudden ascent on both sides of the channel—Mt. Juneau, Mt. Roberts, Mt. Adams, and the rest. The city’s center perched on its short shelf of land before the water’s edge with pastel-colored houses scattered against the hillsides amidst government buildings and gold mine remains. Thane Road disappeared into the distance to the south, along the city side, where the bay widened enough for the tour ships and ferries, with Sandy Beach just visible beyond the tiny town of Douglas across the water.
Pops was sitting on a bench in the lobby wearing his standard khakis, cardigan, and plaid flannel shirt when Paul pushed through the apartment building’s front doors. The old man used his cane to hoist his small, bent frame upright, extended his arms, smiled, and began to weep. They held each other in silence for several long moments.
Finally, Pops gave him a familiar pat on the back, stepped away, wiped his eyes, and said, “You look fine, soldier. It’s good to see you.”
“You, too, Pops.”
The old man’s smile widened. “Come on,” he said. “I’ve made soup.”
Paul’s mouth closed into a tight line when he noticed how unsteadily his grandfather led them to the elevator.
◊ ◊ ◊
They ate on stools at the counter in Pop’s kitchenette. When Paul asked him how he was feeling, he gave a customary grunt, mumbled something about his arthritis and diabetes being about the same, then made a gesture like he was shooing away a fly and asked about the upcoming deployment. He nodded somberly when Paul told him he’d just finished training to service U-2s, which his squadron would use for reconnaissance missions over Afghanistan’s central highlands on their deployment to Bagram Air Base. Pops changed the subject to news about mutual friends and acquaintances but, as always, made no mention of Paul’s mother. Many years ago, soon after her trial and conviction, Pops had removed all photos and reminders of his daughter from their shared home. Paul was in preschool at the time. He never knew his father. When he’d finally asked his grandmother about him on his sixth birthday, shortly before she died, she said she had no idea who he may have been.
After they finished eating and doing the dishes, Paul did a few small chores for his grandfather: changed a light bulb in the ceiling fixture, replaced a leaky shower head in the bathroom and ran a new caulk line above it, retrieved a box of winter clothes stored on a high shelf in the closet. By then, it was time for Pops’ monthly Elders Council meeting at the Tlingit & Haida Community Center up the street. Pops pulled on a poncho along with his Coast Guard veteran’s cap for the short walk there. Paul sat on a folding chair in the back of the center’s hall while his grandfather and four other elders clustered around a table arranged in the middle of the linoleum floor as a younger man with a too-short tie gave them a report on Tribal Family and Youth Services programming. Unlike Paul, the five men at the table were all full Native. He noted the almost identically still and attentive manner with which the elders listened, each nodding in encouragement now and then.
A few perfunctory questions and answers followed the presentation, genial goodbyes were exchanged, and Paul and his grandfather were back out on the sidewalk not much more than an hour later. Even though it wasn’t yet four o’clock, the day’s light had already begun its descent towards gloaming. But the rain had stopped, and it was unseasonably mild, so the two of them decided to walk down Willoughby to the wharf. It was too late in the year for tour ships and no ferries were in, so they had the harborside to themselves. They made their way through Marine Park and up onto the boardwalk, Pops’ cane tapping the worn planks ahead of their footsteps. A bank of fog crept up the channel from the south, hugging Mt. Roberts, and the low clouds that hid all but the base of the mountain’s tramway.
Pops pointed with his cane. “Remember when I first taught you to cast off that pier?”
Paul smiled. “I think I was nine.”
“Had to start where you had plenty of room before I could take you on a skiff or to a river.”
Paul chuckled and pointed himself. “I sure remember when we surprised that bear out at the end of Thane. I was too freaked out to fish afterwards.”
“Me, too.”
He looked quickly at his grandfather and said, “You never said so.”
Pops gave a dismissive snort. “Was just acting tough.”
“I know all about that.”
Paul stared straight ahead but felt his grandfather’s gaze. They walked in silence until Pops said, “You scared about this deployment?”
Paul shrugged. “A little, yeah.”
“I’ve read about those recent attacks on that base.” Pops paused. “But they say there’s been an increase in security.”
Paul nodded. His grandfather gave him one of his back pats, and they walked on in silence until they reached the end of the pier where they turned around. The streetlights along Franklin Street blinked on, and a scattering of early stars were visible where the clouds had separated above Mt. Juneau.
Paul took out his cell phone. “How about I call Bullwinkle’s and order a pizza for dinner? We can pick it up on the way back.”
“Your treat?”
“Of course.”
“Okay, then.”
◊ ◊ ◊
They ate on the sofa watching the news on TV. When a segment came on about the war, Pops switched it off with the remote. Rain had resumed, and except for its quiet thrum, the only sounds were the wet peel of a passing vehicle or a muffled voice elsewhere in the building.
After they finished eating, Paul cleaned up while Pops set up a tray table in front of the sofa and dealt two hands of gin rummy on it. Aside from some gentle chiding, they didn’t talk much as they played, and, as was their habit, didn’t bother keeping score. Paul noted a slight tremble in Pops’ hands that he hadn’t seen before but said nothing about it.
At one point while Paul shuffled, Pop asked, “You want me to turn on the radio? We got an FM station now that plays country and folk in the evenings.”
“I’m good with the quiet, if that’s okay with you.”
“Suits me.”
While Pops dealt the next hand, he asked, “You dating anybody these days?”
“Nah.” Paul hoped his voice sounded nonchalant, but his gut clenched.
“Shame.”
Paul gave a dismissive snort that he was surprised to realize sounded just like Pops.
When they finished a hand around ten, Pops said, “Well, that’s about it for me. Bedtime for this old fart. Seems to be getting earlier and earlier these days.”
“Fine by me.”
“You can go out, though, if you want. Track down some of your old buddies.”
“Think I’d rather just stay here. You know…we have less than twenty-four hours together.” He paused. “And I’m pretty bushed, too.”
Pops smiled. “You want the top again?”
“Sounds good.”
They took turns in the bathroom, pulled out the sofa bed, and got the extra quilt and pillow. They each stripped to their underwear and T-shirt, then turned out the lights. Pops got under the covers and curled away on his side. Paul stretched out next to him on his back, on top of the covers under the quilt with his hands clasped behind his head on the spare pillow. He waited to hear his grandfather’s breathing slow and deepen into sleep before smiling, turning on his own side, and closing his eyes.
◊ ◊ ◊
Paul rose just before eight the next morning, dressed, and started the coffeemaker. His grandfather still hadn’t roused, so he eased himself out of the apartment, leaving the door unlocked. There was another break in the rain as he walked down to Foodland IGA to shop. He bought mostly staples for his grandfather, but splurged on salmon, halibut, and steaks that he knew Pops would never buy for himself. On impulse at the check-out line, he added a bouquet of flowers, then carried the two heavy plastic sacks back to Fireweed Place. When he came through the apartment door, his grandfather was dressed and standing at the stove using a spatula to flip pancakes in a frying pan. He looked over at Paul, frowned, and said, “What’s all that?”
Paul set the sacks on the counter. “Bought you a few things.”
The old man shook his head. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“Wanted to.”
“I’ll pay.”
“Nope.” Paul took out the bouquet. “So, you have something we can put these in?”
His grandfather slid the pancakes in the oven to stay warm while they unpacked the groceries and arranged the flowers in a plastic pitcher next to the sink. Pops kept shaking his head and mumbling, but Paul could tell he was pleased. Afterwards, they lingered over their breakfast and coffee at the counter until Paul finally glanced at his watch and said, “Sorry. Gotta go.”
Pops’ nod was grim. Paul stood and reached for their plates.
“I’ll take care of those,” Pops told him. “You go on, get on your way.”
“Need a quick bathroom stop first.”
Paul closed the door behind him and used the toilet. He’d brought a travel toothbrush in his jacket pocket, but had forgotten deodorant, so rummaged through his grandfather’s drawers until he found Pops’ Old Spice stick. As he lifted it out, he saw an infant’s knitted bootie underneath. It was clearly old. At first, he thought it might be his own, but then realized it was pink instead of blue. A flush crept up his spine, and he felt himself blinking rapidly.
When he came out of the bathroom, Pops was holding the apartment door open for him. Paul met him there, and they embraced as they had the previous afternoon. Pops released him with several firm back pats and said, “You be careful over there, soldier.”
Paul nodded.
“And stay in touch…when you can.”
“I will.”
“All right, then.”
Paul stepped into the hallway and said, “You take it easy, Pops.”
The old man nodded, managed a small smile, and closed the door.
Paul waited until he was outside the building to call a taxi. The dispatcher told him they were short drivers and wouldn’t have one available for twenty minutes. Before he called the other cab company, a text appeared on his screen alerting him to a half-hour delay for the hop back to Anchorage. He looked out into the lightly falling rain, a thought slowly forming along with the memory of what he’d just come across in Pops’ bathroom. Then he stuffed his phone back in his pocket and began jogging up the street to the Federal Building, where he knew all the buses to the valley made a stop.
There were two idling at the curb when he got there, an express that went directly to the valley and one for the 7 Route. He boarded the latter, paid, and took an aisle seat midway back, just short of the side exit and away from any of the other handful of passengers. The bus’s doors clapped shut, its gears grinding as it crept away from the curb.
They turned right onto Egan Drive at Pops’ old service station, and Paul thought back to all the hours he’d spent with him there learning the trade. Memories of his school years passed with each building, as did those of fishing trips out of the boat harbor. Just beyond the Pioneer Home, they turned right onto Vanderbilt Hill Road and entered the small enclave of Lemon Creek, joining Glacier Highway a half-mile along. They passed the Red Cross building on the right and the Breeze In convenience store on the left, where Paul had sometimes ridden his bike for snacks as a boy after swimming in Twin Lakes. When the bus slowed and turned right again onto Davis Avenue, Paul sucked in his breath: he’d only made that turn a half-dozen times over the years, always by himself and for the same purpose.
They made a slight jog left onto Churchill Way, then swung right onto Lemon Creek Road. His heart began beating faster as they passed rundown houses here and there among the trees and finally came to the turnaround at the entrance to the Lemon Creek Correctional Center, the maximum-security prison that housed two hundred or so of the most serious felons in the state, one of whom was his mother.
The bus pulled up to the covered stop outside the correctional center’s gate and came to a halt, its doors clapping open again. Paul leaned across his empty seat, wiped away the window’s condensation, and trained his eyes beyond the prison entrance to the portion of the rec yard surrounded by tall chain link fencing topped with concertina wire. Even though he knew it was a longshot that any prisoners would be outside on break with the rain, and he doubted he’d even be able to recognize his mother if he saw her, he still searched the grounds for any sign of her. But there was only the empty yard, flanked by dull gray buildings against green mountains, drifting fog, and a low ashen sky. Something dropped inside of him like a stone falling in a deep, deep well, the same way it had on the few previous occasions he’d made it to that spot, and as it did whenever he allowed himself more than a fleeting thought of his mother. He was vaguely aware of the bus doors closing and its gears grinding again as he gradually retrieved his hand from the windowpane.
Paul didn’t notice the big woman who’d boarded and was approaching up the aisle until the bus began retracing its way up Lemon Creek Road. The woman lowered her girth into the aisle seat across from him, set a tote bag on her lap, and took a closed Polaroid camera from inside it, a snapshot dangling from its slotted end. Paul watched her pull the photo free and look longingly at it. In the photo, she stood dressed as she was now, in a green oilskin slicker and jeans, holding hands with a shorter man in a yellow prison jumpsuit, both grinning broadly. Both she and the man in the photo were part Native like him and about his mother’s age.
The woman brushed her fingertip across the photograph, glanced over at Paul, met his eyes evenly, and said, “My husband. Les.”
Paul nodded. “He’s an inmate there.”
She returned the gesture. “Thirty-year sentence. My weekly visit. That’s all they allow.” She smiled and said, “I’m Helen.”
“Paul.”
“You’re in the Army, Paul.”
“Air Force.”
“Les was Army. Honorably discharged after Desert Storm.”
Paul nodded again.
Helen seemed to study him, then said, “Why are you on this bus, Paul?”
He shifted in his seat. “Just flew down from Anchorage to visit my grandfather. Heading back to the airport now. We deploy in a few days.”
Her next nod was slower and more measured, her gaze steady but gentle. He swallowed over a sudden tightness in his throat.
Helen said, “You know, Paul, I have a gift. I can read palms, tell a person’s fortune. For ten dollars, I can do that for you, if you want. Maybe that would be a good idea before you leave. I think it would. I believe so, yes.”
The bus had made its way back down to the jog at Churchill Way. Paul took out his wallet with one hand and extended the other towards Helen, palm-side up. She took it in both of her own and held it on top of the camera. Very slowly and tenderly, she turned it this way and that, tracing lines with the tip of an index finger. Every few seconds, she made a slight humming sound as if in deep consideration.
It wasn’t until the bus had turned back onto Glacier Highway that she finally spoke again. “This is good,” she said. “You’ll be safe. You’ll return home unharmed.” She traced the crease in the center of his palm. “See this line here, Paul? It shows me that you’ll have a long, happy life. You’ll have good health and prosper. Are you married?”
He shook his head.
“Do you hope to be someday?”
“Sure.”
“You will. You’ll meet someone wonderful, raise a family together, and have true, unbroken love.”
Paul felt a burning behind his eyes as she caressed another line towards the base of his palm.
“And your grandfather will be fine while you’re gone, too,” she said. “Don’t worry about him. Do you have any other relatives?”
“My mother.” He bit his lower lip, then said, “She’s in the prison, too. Her name is Beverly.”
Helen’s eyes widened. “I know her.” Her fingers grasped his own. “She and my husband work together in the laundry. We’ve met.”
Paul bit harder at his lip but felt it quivering. Helen nodded. She said, “Your mother will be okay, too. She’s fine.”
In hardly more than a whisper, Paul said, “Thank you.”
Helen closed his hand in both of hers for several seconds before releasing it. The bus entered the sweeping curve at Central Avenue. Paul blew out a long breath, then opened his wallet, which held a ten and five-dollar bill. He handed Helen both. She dipped her head in appreciation, tucked the bills along with the camera and photo into her tote bag, and scooted to the edge of her seat.
“Well, Paul,” she said. “This is me coming up.”
Paul felt his eyebrows knit. The next scheduled stop wasn’t until the Fred Meyer store near the junction with Egan Drive, but the bus began easing to the side of the road below Thunder Mountain Trail. It came to a stop at the corner of Scott Street. There were no homes or buildings nearby until the sign for Switzer Village Trailer Park up the hill. Paul had only been there once; he’d seen plenty of dilapidated places in town, but none worse than that.
The bus doors clapped ajar, and Helen struggled to her feet. A breath of cold, damp air wafted in the open side doors behind them. She took a step towards them, then stopped, put a hand on Paul’s shoulder, and said, “I like your mother, Paul. She’s nice.”
Paul looked up at her. “Tell her I’m thinking of her. Can you do that? Tell her I wish her well.”
“I will.”
The big woman exchanged short waves with the bus driver and climbed down the steps. The doors clapped shut again behind her. She didn’t turn around, but Paul had time to see her pull the hood of her slicker over her head against the rain and start to trudge up the hill before the bus pulled away again onto the highway.
Paul looked down at the palm Helen had held. He would live a full life. Pops would be okay. His mother was fine; she was a nice person. Next week, she would get his message from Helen, and she would think of him. Perhaps she would smile. He hoped she would. He pictured her folding stiff, heated sheets from a dryer and realized it was the first context of any sort he’d ever had in which to imagine her. Paul smiled himself.
The bus made its final merge onto Egan Drive. In a few short minutes, he’d be walking from Nugget Mall over to the airport for his hop back to Anchorage. And a few days after that, he’d be on his way to the war in Afghanistan. He felt somehow less desperate about that. As much as he knew that Helen’s fortune-telling was phooey, he felt glad to have her words to remember when things turned cold or frightening, as he knew they surely would.
William Cass has had over 325 short stories accepted for publication in a variety of literary magazines such as december, Briar Cliff Review, and Zone 3. He has won writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal. A nominee for both Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net anthologies, he has also received six Pushcart Prize nominations. His first short story collection, Something Like Hope & Other Stories, was published by Wising Up Press in 2020, and a second collection, Uncommon & Other Stories, was recently released by the same press. He lives in San Diego, California.
