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 my 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—espec
ially 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.”
I took out my wallet and paid her. “Thank you.” I carried my food over to one of the little tables. The burger and Pepsi were good. The okra I could pass on. I finished eating my burger, then said goodbye to Lori.
“What did you think of the okra?” she asked.
“I’m glad I tried it,” I said, finishing the thought in my head, so I know not to order it again.
“Glad you enjoyed it,” she said happily. “Can I refill your cup?”
“Actually, could you just put some ice and water in it?”
“Of course. You can just toss that, I’ll get you a new cup.” She returned a minute later with my water.
“Thank you,” I said. “Have a great day.”
“You too. Good luck on your walk.”
I shrugged on my pack and started off again.
Over the next several miles the landscape grew more rural, and homes and buildings became farther apart. An hour from Arnold, I reached Barnhart, the hometown of Lori at Bob’s Drive-In.
Two hours later the landscape changed to broad, green cornfields. It was already getting dark, and I began looking for a place to spend the night. In trying to prove to myself that I was fully recovered, I had done the opposite. My head was aching and I felt too exhausted to erect my tent, but the sky was threatening, so I started looking for a structure I could sleep under. After wandering a while I came to a church with a sign that read:
Connection Worship
Experience Pentecost
On the side of the church was an open, three-walled shed. I walked up a wide, gravel drive to the building and knocked on the door to the church. A minute later a corpulent, red-faced man, with curly, receding hair and a broad smile, welcomed me.
“Good evening. What can I do for you, my friend?”
“I’m just passing through town. I was wondering if I could sleep in your shed over there.”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be very comfortable. But you can sleep inside. We have an extra bedroom.”
“I really don’t want to be any trouble,” I said.
“I live for trouble,” the man said wryly. “Come in, come in.” He stepped back from the door and motioned me inside. “You can set your pack there on the floor. Can I get you a hot tea and some banana nut bread? One of our congregation brought some over this afternoon.”
“Really, I don’t want to be a burden.”
“What burden?” he said. “I was just about to make myself a cup of tea. I would enjoy the company.”
“I would love some,” I said.
He led me down a long, dark hall to a small, boxy kitchen with a glass-topped table for four. “Have a seat. I’ve got a fruits-of-the-forest blend herbal tea that’s quite nice. And there’s no caffeine to keep you up.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He turned a flame on beneath the kettle, then dropped four slices of banana nut bread into the toaster. He joined me at the table, putting out his hand. “I’m Pastor Tim.”
“Alan Christoffersen,” I said.
“Pleased to know you, Brother Christoffersen. Good name you have there.”
“How’s that?”
“Christ-offers-son. Not theologically correct, I suppose, but close enough. Could be ‘God offers Son,’ or ‘Christ, the offered Son,’ but any name with Christ in it is a blessing.” The toast popped up. “Would you like yours with butter?”
“Yes, please.”
He buttered the bread and returned to the table. Almost the instant he sat down, the kettle began whistling and he popped back up. He poured the steaming water into a teacup. “Honey or sugar?”
“Honey,” I said.
He brought the tea and honey over to the table. “Be careful, it’s a bit hot.”
I squeezed some honey into the cup, then tried a sip.
“I can get you some ice if it’s too hot,” he said.
“It’s fine,” I said. “It tastes good.”
“Good. Good.” He took a bite of bread. “Sister Balfe makes a mean banana bread loaf.”
I smiled at his choice of words. I took two Tylenol from my front pocket and took them with my tea.
“Headache?” he asked.
I nodded, then took another sip
of tea. “Your sign out front says to experience Pentecost. What does that mean?”
“Are you familiar with the Bible?”
“Some.”
“In the New Testament we read that following the resurrection of Christ, the spirit was poured down upon the Apostles during the Feast of Pentecost. The celebration had brought large crowds of people to Jerusalem, and the Apostles were given the gift of tongues and taught the people about Christ in their native languages.
“The event was prophesied by the prophet Joel, ‘And it shall come to pass in the last days, saith God, I will pour out of my Spirit upon all flesh: and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.’ In the Pentecostal faith we welcome such gifts.”
“People really speak in foreign languages?”
“Yes, they do. The Bible tells us that God’s the same today as He was yesterday. Why would the gifts change?”
“I guess you don’t hear about them much.”
“No, you don’t. Gifts of the spirit require faith. People today don’t want the gifts. They don’t want the mystical, they want something they can quantify. They want science. If someone today saw a burning bush like Moses did, they’d douse it with a fire extinguisher.” He smiled. “The gifts of the Spirit are the fruit of the tree of faith. The gift of tongues, healings and miracles are the blessings of faith. We live in an age of unbelief, but I promise you, miracles still abound. Are you going to still be in town on Sunday?”
I shook my head. “No. Sorry.”
“Shame. I think you’d enjoy our meeting. If you ever find your way back here, I invite you to join us.”
“Thank you. I will.” I wasn’t just being polite. His explanation of spiritual gifts made me curious to see them.
When we’d finished our tea and bread, I retrieved my pack and the pastor took me to a bedroom near the front entrance, a small room painted eggshell white with a simple twin bed without a headboard.