Long Road to California Page 15

  Chapter 15

  Caleb Finding Answers

  Nina and I stand at maybe the prettiest lookout we’ve come across this whole trip, a bluff above the beach at Carmel. The Pacific actually does glow in the manner of those cheesy paintings they sell in town; beams of light pierce the perfect curls of the waves. Cypress trees hug the windswept bluffs, gulls cry, the spray shoots out like sparkling jewels as each wave crests and breaks toward the shore.

  It’s a testament to her state of mind that Nina hasn’t even lifted her camera since we arrived, but just stares outward. Seeing what I’m seeing, but not taking it in at all, I’m pretty sure.

  I bend down to unlace my grungy worn out hiking boots. “I’m going down there to wade. I don’t care if nobody else does. You okay?”

  “Yeah. Go ahead.” She shifts a little and squints toward the horizon. Doesn’t need to tell me she’s still processing everything.

  There are a couple people on the beach walking dogs. They ignore me as I roll up my pants and splash into the freezing but refreshing surf that laps at the shore. Nina and I have both commented on the way people here have looked at us and the dirty old truck. We’re wearing wrinkled, faded, crappy clothes, we both need haircuts, I haven’t shaved in several days. The truck, let’s just say, stands out among the Priuses and Audis and Mercedes that are the norm at precious Carmel-by-the-Sea. It’s a small taste, but a taste nonetheless, of how Grannie V and company got treated, heading up the valley, the whole Okie thing.

  Of course this truck still runs okay and all we have to do is drive away when we so choose. Our house will be ours again in just a few days. Last check in with the professor, everything is cool. His wife cleaned the place spotless, he says, and she’s looking forward to going home just as we are.

  Distance-wise, we’re not far at all. But we still have to swing back across 198 to Atwater, deliver the truck at last. Have a happy little gathering for whoever’s around, sit with the cousins and kids drinking beer and talking baseball, and catch a ride with Clint and his wife back to Oakland.

  And that’s not to mention the last bit of our mission here. I turn back toward Nina. She’s sitting now, zen like, peaceful as far as I can tell.

  Here’s the thing. We actually tracked down the guy, Vera’s Reno, at last. He died eleven years ago. But that’s not quite the whole story, as far as I can see – there’s a daughter and we’re going to meet her for lunch tomorrow.

  Nina’s really bummed though. I think maybe she had this idea we would find the guy and suddenly Grandma Vera would put back on her dancing shoes and waltz out of the old age home and into his arms? If I’m honest, maybe that’s a little of what I thought too.

  I splash back out of the bone cold water, and scramble into my shoes. Cajole Nina into walking around with me. We’re here at the beach by this cute little town. Can’t afford the pricey spa treatments or $100 organic meals but at least we can hike around and look at stuff. We’re not supposed to show up back at our weird little freebie off-the-grid hostel site until evening anyway.

  “At least it’s kind of genuine here,” Nina comments glumly, as we make our way back to the tiny streets and precious B&Bs and galleries of the town.

  Compared to Cannery Row in Monterey, I guess she means. Where the cannery was, where the guy had his near death experience. Where very little of the reality of that time remains – it was a mob scene of tourists and boutique stores, with only the occasional glimpse of the bones of the old buildings. Tiny anchors to the past.

  It was disheartening, walking around, and we wasted a good part of our first day tiring our feet out with no clue about the guy or for that matter anything about his life here. Finally found a museum for a little background, and hit up the historical society. Seeing our interest, a woman there hooked us up with an older volunteer docent.

  She gave us some better info about the history of the canneries, the huge fishing industry there and then its collapse in the 1950s. We didn’t know the name of the particular cannery, but at least got some familiarity, maybe some sense of how he spent his time here, back then.

  This morning, we came back and went out on the pier and at least hung around the outside exhibits of the big aquarium. Then when the library finally opened, we were able to view old newspaper articles on a microfiche machine. Nina found several references to fatal accidents in canneries during the late 1930s, and noted down the names of each. Then the librarian helped us cross reference those names to more current references to the name Reginald Smith, and up came the obit. Pretty likely our guy – the age was right and it mentioned that his surviving a cannery accident. I thought both of them would start crying at that point.

  But Nina just went very very quiet, the way she does. It was the gentle librarian who suggested we might still be able to locate the next of kin, all listed with full names and resident cities. So after all those years and all these miles, it took google about three seconds to give us a phone number for one Cara Smith-Rossi, beloved daughter and still a resident of Seaside, a town just north of Monterey.

  Nina made the call, while I stood next to her, trying to be supportive but unsure what to say or do. The librarian retreated a couple steps but kept an eye on us, same feeling I’d imagine.

  Nina’s end of the conversation was gracious, her professional consultant self – a quick identification of her name, her apologies for calling out of the blue, her very belated condolences about Mr. Smith. References to Vera Byrnes nee Granger, the acquaintance from all those years back. Then she listened. Then brightened, and her tone became more her own. Small protests, we wouldn’t want to impose, but we’d love to—and she’d flapped her hand at me for a pencil and paper. They arranged a spot to meet for lunch.

  Call ended, she told us that it was indeed the daughter and that she had actually heard of Vera Mae. It was almost like she wasn’t surprised by the call, just that it had taken so long. She would be happy to meet us and she’d love to tell us about her father; she was semi-retired, so short notice was no problem at all.

  So then we came here, having both had enough of walking around the touristy part of Monterey with no real sense of the place. And it’s funny walking along the dainty streets of Carmel as if we’re just on a regular little vacation. After all this time, at the end of our trip, the end of our search.

  “She said she would bring some mementos for us,” Nina says, repeating herself. “She has them in a box. It was like she was just waiting for the call. Eleven years later.”

  “Maybe she’s lonely,” I suggest. “Semi-retired, right? His daughter, how old would she be?”

  “The obit says they had a son and a daughter, and she’s younger. I don’t know, late 50s, early 60s maybe? Cara did mention she has adult sons.”

  We crest a hill and turn to look back down at the beach, just visible between the canopy of trees alongside the street. “That’s nice,” Nina mutters, reaching for her camera.

  I step closer to a nearby house, try to get the attention of a cat lazing in its doorway. Nina’s back, I think, relieved.

  Many shots later, we stroll along. Decide to eat here in town, laughing that we can find an early bird special. We’re a couple decades older than anyone else staying at the hippie camp, but veritable youngsters down here.

  Even the discount meal, pastas and splitting a salad, is extravagant compared to the rest of the trip. To the rest of the year, for that matter, but it feels okay for the occasion. We even get a half carafe of the house wine.

  Nina has said she doesn’t want to speculate any further on the daughter, the lunch, any of it. We’ve decided not to let Grandma Vera know about any of this yet, even our detour here. But that leaves us not much to talk about. Me, I’m happy enough to eat good food in silence. Just the same, I try to chat a little, get Nina going on the local photography.

  There’s a chill in the air back outside, and it’s getting dark. I�
�m relieved when she says we should just go back to our campsite, listen to tonight’s game in the tent.

  That we do, though the Giants go up early, and it’s a lot of Jon Miller rambling about life in the 1970s. Nina claims to like that stuff as much as the actual play by play, so I’m glad enough for her sake anyway.

  Late morning, we quietly pack up our stuff. Various other tents house snoozing Gen Y kids, whose mild partying we were able to tune out last night. Not knowing how long we’ll be this afternoon, we’ve told Clint we’ll bring the truck tomorrow. Likely we can drive part way there today and just hang at a state park or something, take a last chill day. And I want to find a library with wifi, catch up on email. I’m serious, I actually do. Somehow being near the end of the trip, being close to home, hell, maybe even knowing that that guy lived a pretty long life – it makes me want to jump back in.

  We drive back down into town and poke around the more residential area for a bit, in the pleasant low key neighborhood where Cara told Nina that she grew up. It reminds me a bit of Grandma’s neighborhood in Modesto, where we used to go when I was a kid. Funny, or maybe not so much when you think about it. Kindred souls and all that. There’s a bit of that old fashioned feel, even still, with neighbors saying hello, a “help yourself” sign by a bucket of dog biscuits, that sort of thing.

  Nina wants to make sure we’re not late, so we soon head to the little restaurant in Seaside. It’s small, unpretentious, and there’s easy parking. I’m liking this lady already.

  We take comfortable patio seats, and right at noon a smiling middle aged woman approaches. “You must be Nina and Caleb,” she exclaims, clasping our hands each in turn. “I’m delighted to meet you at last. Thank you for tracking me down!”

  We greet her back, settle in, take in the menus, place orders. I can feel Cara’s eyes on me.

  “I’m sorry to stare,” she says, with an infectious laugh. “But I remember to this day my dad saying how bright blue your grandmother’s eyes were. Yours must be just the same.”

  “They are, his mother too, that’s the first thing I noticed when I met the family,” Nina exclaims. “Vera was lovely as a young woman. She’s still got class – here’s a recent picture.” She holds up her phone and Cara gazes at it thoughtfully.

  “So your dad, he talked about Vera?” I ask. It feels awkward, I mean we didn’t even know about the dude until a few weeks ago.

  “Vera Mae, he always called her.” In fits and starts, lots of interruptions from Nina, she fills us in: Her father, Reno Smith, took awhile to recover his memory after the accident. Of course he remembered Vera, their relationship, but not things like her exact address, which he didn’t have on him at the hospital. So it was weeks before he was able to write to her, and by that time she was gone; his letters came back. His leg never fully recovered, he always walked with a limp, and was 4-F during World War II. He never went back to working at the cannery, but started working at and then managing a warehouse down by the docks, that sort of job coming available with so many men gone. That’s where he met Cara’s mother, who was then a young widow, having lost her husband somewhere over the Pacific.

  I don’t need Nina’s arched eyebrow to understand the parallel lines here – another pairing born of loss. Nina is quick to explain about Grandma Vera’s marriage, that she thought Reno had died and that Walter too was in mourning for his parents.

  Cara nods slowly. “Yes, my mother’s loss was very fresh when the two of them first met. She was widowed with a young son, my brother, and having lost her true love. But he rekindled something in her, I think. They courted for two years before they decided to marry, and by that time Dad was genuinely a father to my brother. Then I was born a couple years after that, so I only knew them as my happily married parents. But it was no secret in our household, that each of them was rebounding from their first loves. My mother was the sort of person who would only be strengthened, not threatened by the idea of Dad’s young love. I’m sorry,” Cara adds, dabbing her napkin to her eye.

  “How long ago did she pass?” Nina asks softly, reaching out a gentle hand.

  “Just over a year. Sorry, it just hits me sometimes.” She sits quietly for a moment, then rallies. “She would be just tickled to know I’m sitting here talking to a living relative of Vera Mae! And God knows, he would be too.”

  “Grandma told us that he finally caught up to where she was living, but it was after she was married to Grandpa Walt,” Nina says. “And I guess he didn’t want to interfere, or he figured she had moved on? Anyway, she didn’t even find out about this until much later.”

  “My understanding is that he felt he should bow out due to her marriage. But that he did make sure – he was reassured to know that they’d all gotten the story wrong, thought he’d been killed instead of his brother. He felt she would have waited for him if she’d known. Imagine what an awful time he’d had of it back then,” she continues, voice animated again. “He was laid up in a hospital for weeks, his younger brother had died, all his stuff got packed up in boxes that he didn’t even know about until weeks after that. Then by the time he writes a letter off to his girlfriend, she’s gone, moved away, the letters came back and he had no idea where she’d gone, and didn’t have means to travel.”

  We all three pause, and eat a little bit. Thinking about all the devices that keep people linked together now. I’m regularly bugged by kids that constantly text, that can’t look up from their phones – but I suppose I’d have to admit to a middle ground about the advances in technology. Say what you will about dumb videos and meaningless facebook posts, it’s not a bad thing that people can find each other more easily now.

  “Tell us more about him,” Nina says. “It sounds like he had a good long life, despite all of that. Grandma Vera did too, it’s obvious when you get to know her.”

  Cara’s smile is warm, genuine. I don’t really recall the photo of her dad, but just listening to her, I get a sense of a lively, friendly person. She tells us about both parents, because their lives were intertwined. The house where she grew up, that they fixed up and added on to, the vegetable garden. Nina and I both exclaim over Grandma Vera’s beloved gardens. Vacations – they rarely went very far. It was a bit challenging for her dad, his injured leg, first of all, and they weren’t terribly well off back then. But also, both her parents felt like they had come to a fine place that was hardly worth leaving. A long trip, in her childhood, meant a couple hours down the coast or up into the mountains. She always had a sense from both her parents that they were generally pretty satisfied with where they were.

  “I’m the same way, I suppose,” Cara adds. “My husband and I have lived in the same house for 20 odd years. Raised our boys there. We’ll travel a little farther, sure, but I don’t think any of us feel like we’re missing much not being world travelers. My younger son lives in Fremont, I think I mentioned. I drive up there on a regular basis.”

  That’s not very far from where we live, Nina hastens to tell her, and her words hang in the air for a moment. Weighing how it would sound to invite her to visit us, to visit Grandma Vera, I’m guessing – too much too soon?

  Perhaps Cara is thinking the same thing though, and they both burst out with the idea almost at once. “I’d love to meet her, but wouldn’t want to impose—“

  “I’m sure she’d be delighted, thrilled, wouldn’t she, Caleb?”

  “I think she’d like it,” I answer. “Now that she’s finally telling people her whole story.”

  “We didn’t know, for all this time, no one in the family knew except for Grandpa Walt, and he’s been gone for 20 years now,” Nina adds.

  “That’s a shame,” Cara says. “Well, better late than never. I would be honored to meet her.”

  “It would complete the journey, wouldn’t it,” Nina adds, eyes sparkling and sentimental. “Oh, you and Grandma Vera, I’d love for that to be the final picture
of them all!”

  “I’ll bring her all the letters,” Cara says. “I just need my husband to bring them from storage.”

  Nina and I exchange a glance.

  “Oh, he was a romantic, my dad,” she laughs. “He kept all Vera Mae’s letters, plus he hung onto the ones he sent that came back, all wrapped up in ribbon and stored away.” She stops, and fumbles in her purse. “Here are some photographs, at least.”

  “Vera doesn’t have any letters from Reno, she told me that back when she first told me his name from that picture,” Nina says softly. “I don’t know, I think she lost them, or maybe felt she had to throw them away.”

  “Do you think she would want to see them now?” I ask.

  “Absolutely,” Nina says. “And of course she would want to know what he finally sent, after she’d moved. I just hope she’ll let us see them.”

  Cara nods in agreement, both of them giving me a look like men are hopeless. The dude’s the one who saved the damn letters, I’d like to point out.

  She passes us the pictures, carefully holding the old fashioned scalloped edges. One I quickly place as Reno and his brother, rangy looking young men. Two candid shots of Vera as a grinning, budding young woman. For a moment, I see a spark of Lucia in her posture and her bright smile. And just one shot of the Vera and Reno together – he’s helping her carry a large basket. His hand over hers, their heads leaning toward each other, eyes merry and looking just delighted to be in one another’s company.

  “That’s wonderful,” Nina says, holding it out. I know she wants a copy for her picture project. I just hope we can recreate a sense of that passion in the after shot, the two of us, after all these years.

  Cara shows us a few more pictures, more recent, of Reno with her mother, and her and her brother as kids. Very 1950s looking, the haircuts and big boxy cars. But a happy young family, just what you’d say of photographs of Vera and Walt with my mom and her brothers from that era.

  To look at her, Cara must be around my uncle Frank’s age, Vera’s youngest son. It’s weird to think of them all growing up, not so many miles or years separating the families, but with no knowledge, nothing to bring them together. Well, until now, until us.

  Nina’s right (I know, as usual) that it would do Grandma Vera good to meet this nice woman, her young man’s daughter. To complete the tale that she has finally decided to tell.

  “Here’s one more thing,” Cara says, “and I promise I’ll dig out all those letters.” She holds up a faded handbill, an exact match to the one Nina has copied on her computer, the farm we couldn’t find.

  But it was there. They were there. It meant the world to a pair of people, once upon a time.