“What is it?”
I gave his question a moment of thought. “It’s a book about life as an eighteen-year-old young man, about growing up and growing old.”
“Sounds interesting.”
You have no idea, I thought.
Neither, it turns out, did I. Not fully.
Epilogue
August 26, 2017
It is prophetic, I suppose, my landing at the Seattle-Tacoma airport fifty years to the day after William wrote his first journal entry. Despite having traveled all over the world, I have never been to the Pacific Northwest. I’ve never seen the reason, though my good friend Thomas now resides in the Emerald City.
I get my rental car. I figure this is one of those glorious mornings I’ve heard about in the Pacific Northwest. At ten in the morning the temperature is comfortable. Not a cloud in the sky. I lower the window. The chill feels invigorating.
My destination is a place called Issaquah, which I’m told is twenty-two miles northeast of the airport and it should, according to the GPS on my phone, take me roughly half an hour to get there, though I have arrived smack dab in the middle of traffic.
I plug in and find a second route; this one avoids Seattle and weaves its way south around the southern tip of Lake Washington, but I soon find the 405 freeway a rolling parking lot. I sit back and relax. I’m not in any rush. I do not have an appointment. Some things are better discussed in person than over the phone.
I make my way east on the I-90 freeway. Traffic lightens. I will arrive before noon. Before, I hope, William has started his day, whatever that entails. I know little about him, which sounds odd to admit. An internet search revealed that he worked as a drug and alcohol rehabilitation counselor at a VA hospital in Seattle, which means he worked with veterans. He gave back. A property records search revealed he owns a home in Issaquah with a woman I assume was the wife he mentioned in the letter that accompanied his journal. An obituary in the Seattle Times indicated his wife died of cancer, as he wrote, and was survived by a daughter from a prior marriage. William’s LinkedIn profile provided that he retired not long after his wife’s death.
I could not find a phone number, neither a landline nor a cell phone. I’m uncertain whether I would have called. Even now, I’m not quite sure what I will say to William. I can’t very well say I was in the neighborhood and thought I would stop by. But I don’t think I will have to say much. I suspect he will know why I have come. I hope he understands.
The woman’s voice on my GPS instructs me to take the Front Street exit and proceed south through a quaint commercial district of one-story brick and wood-slat buildings. It looks like an old mining town, but with modern amenities. I stop at the only stoplight in town, which gives me the chance to look around. A theater. A Subway sandwich shop. A hardware store beside a cannabis store. A pharmacy and a grocery. I can see William walking these streets, far from his memories, happy. At least I hope he’s found happiness.
I proceed out of town and pass one-story houses that have become home to dental practices, an architectural firm, a State Farm Insurance office. Farther out I pass apartments, a Lutheran church. I wonder if William ever found God again. Front Street becomes Issaquah-Hobart Road and the density of houses declines and the space opens to trees and lush green lawns. Another mile and the GPS voice tells me to turn right. I proceed down a gravel road with white fencing and drive to a one-story clapboard home. A car sits idle in the carport. The home is a sky-blue color with a white porch railing. A porch swing hangs motionless from two metal chains. The front door is white with two asymmetric colored-glass windows in the corners. I am struck by the quaint and peaceful setting.
I push out of the car before I have the chance to talk myself out of this encounter, and make my way to the front door, which I find ajar several inches. I can see inside. The hardwood floors glisten, inlaid with a mosaic design running along the edges of each room, the pattern uninterrupted by any furniture.
The door creaks open, and I step inside to the smell of freshly painted walls and redone floors. The staircase is directly ahead of me; the wallpaper leading up the stairs is an old-fashioned country pattern. To the right, a lamp hangs over an empty rectangular dining room. To the left, the centerpiece of the front room, is a white brick fireplace. I can see William seated there, reading, his wife nearby. I can see holiday gatherings, a family sitting down at the table to eat a Thanksgiving meal. I realize I am embedding William in Norman Rockwell paintings from the book on the coffee table in the front room of my home.
My heart is breaking. I’m too late, I think.