I hurried out of the house and into the darkness. I didn’t want him to see my tears. That big guy had always been a shelter I could run to in a storm, and now he just didn’t seem to be there anymore.
I HAD DECIDED TO TAKE A bus instead of a plane. That way I would have more time to think about what I would do when I stepped off in Seattle. Anna drove me into Boston to the Greyhound Terminal. Her four kids were in the backseat. In my pocket was an envelope that the neighbor had dropped off with instructions to not open it until I was on the bus. The handwriting on the front was Dad’s.
Anna stopped in front of a huge travel poster. It depicted a dizzy sweep of mountain peaks spidered with snow. “I don’t blame you,” she said. “They’re so beautiful and scary at the same time.”
I didn’t like the shivery tenseness building up inside me. A knot writhed in my stomach, untying and pulling tight again. Even though it was still an hour before my departure, I felt it was best to get the good-byes over with. I kissed Deena and Betsy first, then baby Joyce. Skip, the little man at eight years old, screwed up his face and pushed it up close with his eyes closed.
“Men shake hands,” I said. His hand was warm in mine. He laughed nervously, then turned away.
“Time to go, Anna,” I said. “If you need anything….”
She pressed her hair against my cheek, her arms tight around my back. “Jeepers,” she whispered. I kissed her. Her blue eyes glistened. Gee, I thought, she looks so much like Mom. She turned abruptly and walked away, the kids scurrying in her wake like baby quail. Deena turned to shout, “The mukluks, Uncle Sam. Don’t forget!” I tried to swallow the lump growing in my throat.
To kill time after checking my seabag, I decided to get a haircut. The barber left his newspaper almost reluctantly, motioned me to the chair, and tucked the apron hem into my collar in a tired way.
“Just a trim,” I said. “Not too much off the top.”
“Coming or going?” he yawned, flicking a comb through my hair.
“Heading out,” I said. “I’m off to Alaska.” The way it sounded sent a thrill through me.
“Married?”
“Uh-uh. Not ready for that yet.”
With sluggish motions he moved the electric clippers up the side of my head. “No hurry,” he breathed, half to himself. “Get yourself a bundle. Don’t go into it with nothing. You’ll be in debt for the rest of your life.”
There it was again. This man was serving his sentence, too.
I walked out smelling of hair tonic and sat down on a bench to examine my string of tickets. Wisconsin … Minnesota … North Dakota … Montana … Washington. They’d be new places for me. I’d seen Idaho and Oregon in my Civilian Conservation Corps experience, building a truck trail and dwelling at the Fire Guard station in LaGrande, Oregon. I had my wallet in one breast pocket and my Traveler’s Cheques in the other. Both flaps were buttoned down. When the loudspeaker announced loading time, I moved out, my small bag in one hand, my two fishing rod cases lashed together in the other.
The same feeling came over me that I had had so many times as a boy. I used to drag my sled up the hill that loomed white and awesome against the night. Once on its summit, I would wait until all the others were sliding away fast. Alone up there I felt kingly as I surveyed the down-swooping path of frost, my breath condensing in clouds and evaporating against the stars. I waited until all forward motion of the sledders had stopped. Then I rushed at the slope, slammed belly down on the sled, picking up speed, plummeting over the crust….
“Their ride is over,” I muttered to nobody in the bustling bus terminal. “Mine’s just beginning.”
Author’s journal, July 9, 1952
The big day at last. The knot of nausea in my stomach, writhing there as if untying. Almost wanting to throw up and yet I knew the feeling. I’d had it many times before. When you leave something, when you leave persons you love, you feel that way. You feel sick inside and wonder why the hell you have to leave.
CHAPTER 2
The Jumping-Off Place
The Greyhound growled out of the terminal, past the parked taxicabs and into the traffic stream of Boston. It was raining. I fingered Dad’s envelope out of my pocket, hesitated for a moment, then ripped it open with my thumb. His words were to the point:
I once told Anna you were lazy and irresponsible. You were wasting your education. I was wrong. You’re a restless dreamer. You can be so much more than you are. You’re holding out for what you want to do and you won’t settle for what you have to do. Keep following your star and please accept my apology.
I pursed my lips. “You were right the first time,” I muttered. “No need to apologize.” The seat beside me was empty. I hoped it would stay that way. I didn’t feel like talking. I had a lot of thinking to do.
I lay back in the darkness, listening to the singing of the tires in the rain. Trucks droned like huge hornets zipping past the window. I never realized before how much freight moved over the roads while most people slept. Those drivers hurtled their rigs through the dark with hours on their minds and a clock to beat. I dozed fitfully, waking now and then to the sounds of snoring or a baby crying, then drifting off into a limbo again. I was startled when the lights flicked on, and from far off the driver’s voice announced a rest stop. For a moment, I had no idea where I was.
In New York City, a frail, slight man with heavy-rimmed glasses sat down next to me. Before we left the city, conversation started to flow. At thirty-three, he was an eye surgeon. Here he was, just three years older than I, and professionally established. I was still groping.
“I make my living here in the city,” he said. “A very good living … and I hate it. The people are callous. If you fell down on the sidewalk, they’d walk over you before they stopped to help you get up.”
He told me how he had no time to himself at all, how patients came with their problems and left them with him to solve, how meetings of medical societies stole the precious moments of privacy that emergency operations failed to claim.
“So,” he said, “I’m going to my sister’s place for ten days and didn’t tell a soul where I was going.”
“I envy you,” I told him. “You’ve arrived. You’re right on course.” I confided that I still didn’t know what I wanted to do in life, but I was headed to Alaska to find out.
The doctor laughed. “Envy me? Why I’d give a whole lot to be going with you. When I started high school, everything was all planned. Mapped out. I’m sure life is much more exciting your way. The quest is much more stimulating than the goal.”
So we sat and talked, each envious of the other, each good for the other, and yet I felt that his was the better way to go. He was doing something worthwhile, contributing unselfishly of his time to society, and I was still a boy who wanted to play.
I didn’t like to see him leave when he got off the bus.
“It’s been a most pleasant experience,” the doctor said. He handed me a card and we shook hands. “If you’re ever in New York again, please look me up.”
“It would be fun to compare notes someday,” I said. I watched him hurry off, blurring into the crowd and the anonymity he sought.
SCENES FLASHED PAST THE WINDOWS OF the bus as we hurtled west. In Ohio, I was amazed at forests of television antennae. Chicago was in the throes of the Republican convention with “I Like Ike” placards, searchlights, and