Double Eagle Double Cross, page 4
His thoughts returned to the conversation with Jim and Bob. He couldn’t imagine his father—the man who had seemed to enjoy nothing more than to raise his beer bottle as he ridiculed Mormons—actually thinking about joining the Church. The man who had cursed and sneered at the very idea of Charley going on a mission. The man who had offered him a car and to pay his college tuition if he stayed home. Charley ruefully admitted to himself that by doing so his dad had in a very real sense pushed Charley into a mission simply as a means of rebellion. Charley understood how that had not been the best reason to go on a mission, but at least he had stayed for the right reasons.
Charley had spent a restless night, and now, on a beautiful Sunday morning, he was on his way to church. The Florence Ward was the only ward in the building and thus met every Sunday at 10:00 a.m., which Charley thought was the perfect time. He arrived at 10:00 sharp, which was his intent, and so was able to slip into the back in the middle of the opening song. He remembered from past years the people of the ward being very welcoming and friendly, perhaps more so than in most wards because of the constant influx of tourists, but this morning Charley preferred anonymity.
Charley enjoyed the service. The first speaker spoke of his conversion in another state and then his subsequent move to Florence and becoming involved in member missionary work. The second speaker, a woman, spoke of moving to Florence during World War II, when she and her mother were the only members in her family. She spoke of how they had to drive twenty miles to Reedsport to go to church and how her mother had requested a branch be established in Florence, only to be sent a list of inactive and potential Melchizedek Priesthood holders. Her mother had labored for years in reactivation efforts until a branch had finally been established, the precursor of the current Florence ward.
After the meeting, Charley tried to scoot his chair back into a corner while the partition was drawn to prepare for the Gospel Doctrine class. His anonymity was spoiled, however, when an elderly gentleman approached and stuck out his hand.
“Hello,” the fellow said, “my name is Brother Johnson.”
“Nice to meet you,” Charley mumbled, vaguely remembering the man from before his mission but not offering his own name in return. He thought maybe he had deflected the unwanted attention, but it was not to be. Brother Johnson, it turned out, was the class president and so was in charge of welcoming everyone to class.
When most of the chairs were filled and it appeared most of the young parents had arrived from taking their children to Primary or nursery, Brother Johnson stood and welcomed everyone to Sunday School. The collegial chatter quieted as Brother Johnson introduced a family of four who was visiting from Utah and a brother of one of the members who was visiting from California. He then turned to Charley and asked, “Brother, would you please stand and introduce yourself?”
Charley would have preferred to answer no, but with some reluctance and a wan smile on his face, he quickly stood and mumbled that his name was Charley Sawyer and that he was staying for a few days out at Heceta Beach, and then he quickly sat back down. He hoped that that would be the end of it, but once again he was wrong.
“Charley Sawyer!” one gray-haired woman breathed in surprise and obvious recognition. “I’m Sister Sanderson. You probably don’t recognize me. I almost didn’t recognize you, what with your hair a little longer and such.” She turned to the other members. “You recognize Charley. He’s Brother Sawyer’s boy. Remember, he used to go to this ward before he went on a mission.” She turned to him. “To the Philippines, wasn’t it?”
“Japan.”
She turned back to face the class. “And then he was here just that one time a year or so ago, the day after the funeral.” She turned back to Charley. “It’s so good to have you here. We still miss Brother and Sister Sawyer. We’re so sorry for your loss.”
Charley nodded in acknowledgment, trying to wrap his mind around the reference to his dad as “Brother Sawyer.”
“Oh,” Sister Sanderson continued. “That was such a tragic thing, that wreck. Your dad had changed so much. Elder Wasielewski had such a powerful influence on him. He was going to be such a wonderful addition to the ward, and your mother was so happy. I remember her bearing her testimony and saying how much she wanted to tell you, but Brother Sawyer insisted that it would be better to be a homecoming surprise for you. And then he bore his testimony and talked about how you had been such a great influence on him and he wanted to be the last baptism of your mission.”
Charley was feeling a rush of emotions he couldn’t quite understand. His dad, the heavily drinking party guy, bearing his testimony? Anger welled up in him, but he couldn’t identify the source. Was he angry because his dad had kept it a secret? Or because Charley had never known the Charles Sawyer these people did? Or because these virtual strangers were throwing stuff at him that he didn’t know?
“He died because he was driving drunk,” he suddenly blurted, softly and quietly, ending in a whisper because he knew, even as he said it, that it seemed inappropriate. But it was not so quiet as to go unnoticed. The room seemed to be awash in an uncomfortable silence, but it only took a moment for Sister Sanderson to respond.
She sat forward in her chair and looked Charley straight in the eye. It seemed as if she were even scolding him. “Poo!” she said emphatically.
Poo? he thought, and it almost made him grin. Can you say poo in church?
“I heard those stories about finding bottles of alcohol in the car,” she continued, talking directly to Charley but also for the benefit of the rest of the class. “But I had come to know Brother and Sister Sawyer very well!” She was now shaking her finger at him in emphasis. “I’m telling you your father had not had one sip of alcohol for over six months. I can’t explain those bottles, but I do know the police never did any blood alcohol tests, and I don’t believe for a minute that accident had anything to do with Brother Sawyer going back on his word. He had made that promise to his wife, to God, to Elder Wasielewski, and to me personally, and one thing you know very well was that Brother Sawyer always kept his word.”
Chapter 5
Mac “Makanaakua” Bowman dropped the keys to her Mazda Navajo into her purse as she marched across the campus of Southern Utah University. The early-morning sun rose above the red-rimmed walls of Cedar Breaks National Monument, its rays chasing away the fall chill and illuminating the red and orange and yellow leaves that adorned many of the trees on campus.
Mac needed a diversion. Her summer had included a traumatic archeological expedition, but what had proven to be even more unsettling was her unexpected introduction to Peter’s grandson, Charley Sawyer. From the very first, it had seemed like they were being unwillingly pushed together during an awkward situation. They had both come to realize that under different circumstances they might have developed real interest in a more normal relationship, but those different circumstances just never seemed to appear. For the first time in her life, Mac found herself considering the possibility of taking the plunge into a relationship, and then, suddenly it seemed, Charley was gone. Sure, she knew he had gone back to Oregon to settle affairs, but her mind kept questioning if that was the real reason or if he really was just looking for an excuse to get away. She didn’t know whether to be excited, embarrassed, happy, or angry. What she was, was confused. It was that not knowing, that unresolved limbo that constantly wore on Mac’s mind, and she hoped this summons might provide her with relief.
Professor Robinson, Mac’s advisor in the Anthropology Department, had called her the night before, asking if they could meet today. She had jumped at the opportunity for a diversion. To her, “sometime tomorrow” had translated into “the earliest opportunity,” and thus she was walking briskly across campus while most students were still in bed.
Mac pulled the glass doors of the building open and walked briskly down the gleaming hallway, the rubber soles of her shoes squeaking loudly on the newly waxed tile. She turned and descended the stairway. As expected, she found Professor Robinson in her office, sitting behind her desk. Books and papers covered the surface in piles. Some of the books were open as though in recent use, but the professor was hunched forward, staring at her computer screen.
“Pull up a chair, Mac.” Professor Robinson smiled, glancing up quickly then back at the screen. Frowning in thought, she worked the mouse for a few more seconds then turned back to Mac. “How are you this morning?”
The professor knew nothing about Mac’s summer adventure—or about Charley—and for a variety of reasons, Mac wouldn’t share that information, so after a short pause she settled for the ever noncommittal, “Fine.”
The professor cocked her head to the side, her piercing gray eyes studying Mac in a concerned way that made Mac even more uncomfortable. “You seem to be a bit distracted this semester.”
Distracted didn’t even approach how she felt. She shrugged, struggling to maintain eye contact. “I suppose. Family stuff. Nothing big.”
“Anything I can do?” The professor seemed genuinely concerned, which only made Mac feel increasingly guilty.
Mac shook her head. “No.” She smiled wanly. “I’m good. Really.” She knew she didn’t sound very convincing but didn’t know what else she could do and hoped the professor would just move on to the reason for her invitation.
Professor Robinson sat back and studied Mac for a few more seconds, seconds that seemed to stretch out an eternity. Finally, seeming to come to a decision, the professor reached down and opened a lower desk drawer. “Maybe I can help distract you a little more.” She reached into the drawer and pulled out an object, which she placed in the middle of her desk. “What do you make of this?”
Mac reached her hand toward the object. “May I?”
“Of course.” The professor nodded.
Mac picked up the object to study it closer. It was a small leather satchel, too large to keep in a pocket but still small enough to hold in the palm of her hand. The leather appeared old and worn, the stitching crude, using leather thongs rather than thread. Mac’s eyebrows arched in curiosity. “Native American?”
Professor Robinson nodded. “That’s what I’m told.”
Mac turned it in her hand. On one side, in crude, handwritten lettering, was printed Tlowa’sk.
“I don’t recognize this. What does it mean?”
Professor Robinson shrugged. “Right now I have no idea.” Professor Robinson was an expert in several Native American languages and dialects. For her to not know the meaning of the word made this object all the more intriguing.
Mac carefully loosened the drawstrings and dumped the contents on the desk. She noted with some surprise that all the objects were related to the ocean—a crab shell, a snail shell, bits and pieces of what appeared to be some white disc-shaped object she didn’t recognize, an agate—all the pieces except one. A bright gold coin clattered on to the desktop, spinning in the light of the fluorescent lamps, lower and faster until it finally rattled to a stop. Mac glanced at the professor, who returned her gaze with one of amusement. Mac reached out and picked up the coin to examine it more closely.
It was a large coin, obviously American, yet not one Mac recognized. It was still quite shiny, which indicated it had not been in circulation much. She noted an eagle displayed on the surface with the date 1901.
“What is it?” Mac glanced up at the professor.
Professor Robinson sat back and smiled, recognizing that look of professional curiosity on Mac’s face. “It’s called a Double Eagle, a twenty-dollar gold piece. It was minted in San Francisco in 1901. It’s really quite rare and now worth far more than its face value.”
“How did it get in here?”
“That’s what I’d like you to find out.”
***
The hard, wet sand left a trail of footprints, disappearing occasionally where a wave had come up and washed them away. The waves would come rushing up the beach, almost reaching Charley’s feet before retreating, often undermining the next wave, causing it to stand still until finally giving up and receding back into the ocean. Other times, one wave would seem to ride on the back of another until finally jumping off and, with the added momentum, rush up the beach to swirl around his feet in victory, eroding the sand from beneath his toes. Charley remembered when he was little how he would chase those waves with delight. Now he simply slogged along toward the jetty, allowing the painfully cold water to have its way.
He had always loved these early walks on the beach, standing on the edge of the world and clearing his mind. This morning, he had more on his mind than usual. The revelations about his father, the suggestions that Dad was acting as a member in good standing and that maybe, just maybe, he had not died while drinking. Wow! But the thought kept intruding: what if the ward members were right and his dad had quit drinking? They were obviously naive or even blissfully unaware because the police had found numerous bottles of alcohol, most of them empty, strewn around both inside and outside the wrecked car. But what if the members, who insisted they were right, were, in fact, right? Where, then, had the bottles come from, and why had they been there?
The sun was just beginning to peek over the mountains, sending searching tentacles of pink across the few wispy clouds that remained in the sky. A thick fog bank lay out just beyond the breakers, but the sky above was mostly clear, and the morning sun promised to burn away the fog for a glorious, sunny day. Sea lions ranged along in the shallows, where the waves were only two to three feet deep, feeding on the small fish and shellfish that thrived in those tidal waters. Only thirty or forty yards from the beach, the playful creatures watched Charley curiously before disappearing under an oncoming breaker.
Charley was startled by a squeal and the sight of a baseball cap sailing out into the breakers on a sudden gust of wind. Reacting to the fairly common occurrence, Charley plunged through the surf toward the cap. The water came to just below his knees, so he ran with an exaggerated stride as though he were engaged in a football drill, lifting his feet completely out of the water with each leaping step. He soon retrieved the cap, floating between waves. Grasping it by the brim, he held the now dripping article at arm’s length and turned to face the beach, holding it up triumphantly.
Near the water’s edge, a girl jogged in place as she pulled earbuds from her ears. She was about five foot two or three, lean but not skinny, and appeared about his age. She wore a lime-green Nike warm-up jacket over a black shirt. Matching green running shorts and shoes and black running tights completed the ensemble. She also wore a smile on her face. All in all, Charley’s first impression was that she was quite attractive.
“Oh, thank you so much!” She laughed even as she continued to jog in place. The roar of the waves and the gusting wind seemed to catch her words and whip them away.
“No problem,” he called back, waving the hat in the air. A wave hit him from behind, soaking his cargo shorts to his waist. He rose on his toes in reaction and then began wading to shore. Wading in with the waves was much easier than running out against them.
“I was so totally caught up in looking at the waves and the sea lions; then that gust of wind came along,” she explained as she reached out and took her hat from Charley. She had taken off her sunglasses and now clenched them between her teeth as she replaced the cap on her head. Her eyes sparkled, and he couldn’t decide if she was flirting or simply happy to have her hat back.
Charley shrugged. “It happens.”
She tightened the strap at the back of the hat. Then her face skewed in concentration as she pulled her blonde ponytail through the hole in the back. “Butivul here, in’t it?” she mumbled before taking the glasses from her mouth and placing them back on her nose.
He nodded. “It certainly is.”
Then, after an awkward pause, she flashed him a wide smile. “Well, thanks again. Have a nice day.”
“You too!” He waved at her as she began to jog backward down the beach, still looking at him.
“Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.” She had to shout over the steady roar of the ocean.
“Yeah. Sure,” he called back but wasn’t sure if she could hear him.
She waved while flashing one more smile, turned, and continued on down the beach, working to once again get her earbuds back in place.
Charley watched her form retreating into the distance. Yes, that might be nice, he thought. At that moment, thoughts of Mac Bowman, the girl he had left in Utah, began to tickle the edges of his mind, but he thrust them away, arguing with himself that there was nothing decided between him and Mac. Besides, the chances of actually meeting this girl again were somewhere between slim and none. Nevertheless, an uncomfortable feeling of guilt tugged at the corners of his consciousness.
“Hey, Charley!”
The shout, so unexpected, pulled his eyes away from the diminishing form to search for the source of the voice. After a moment he saw movement. Somebody was standing between two of the small dunes about fifty yards up the beach, waving at him. Charley looked around to see if he might be waving at someone else, but after seeing nobody close, he tentatively waved back. It was then he began to suspect that the form was Jim. With some reluctance, he trudged up onto the softer sand that formed into small dunes around clumps of saw grass.
A lean-to of sorts had been erected between two of the small dunes that separated the beach from the dense coastal foliage. A brown tarp, weighted down near the back with a large piece of driftwood, was propped up in front by two long sticks that had been buried deep enough in the sand to support the tarp. Beneath the tarp were a few ratty blankets covered with sand, upon one of which reclined Bob. Jim squatted by a small fire near the front of the shelter.
“Hey, dude,” Jim greeted him as he approached. “Sit yourself down and relax for a minute.”
Charley was acutely aware of his wet cargo shorts, sand still sticking to his legs, and knew that if he sat, his shorts would be caked with sand. He glanced over his shoulder toward the freshness of the open sea and then back at the squalor of the small campsite. “Hey, thanks, but I’m just out for a morning walk, you know.” He tilted his head toward the surf as he said it, then feeling a bit guilty for being antisocial, he added, “So how are you guys this morning?”
