Leaving the creek and the bridge behind, Mitchell Anderson continued up a switchback portion of trail until he came to a parking lot. He had left his car near a log bench that overlooked the steeply wooded ravine he had just come up. The creek rushed along the bottom of the ravine, and from the vantage point of the parking lot he could look down and see a pickup-stick jumble of evergreen trees off to his right that had slipped into a section of the ravine after a prolonged, heavy rain had saturated the hillside. The afternoon sun had already passed well overhead, and now the ravine lay in deepening shadows.
Now in his late thirties, Mitchell still had the same wiry, athletic build he had in high school and college, when he had been a track-and-field runner. And his hundred and sixty-five pounds suited his five-foot, nine-inch frame well. With thick brown hair, a ruddy complexion, deep-set blue eyes that often revealed an ironic if not critical appreciation of others, his handsome Scotch-Irish face had something of the Appalachian, no-nonsense cragginess of the hard-rock miner. Black-and-white photographs from his father’s side of the family showed a set of ancestors whose lot had been mainly one of hardship and toil. His parents being fairly prosperous, he himself had avoided the onus of such an existence; but the firm line of his jaw and the oftentimes frank gaze he leveled at the world hinted at the ancestral similarity.
Using a bandana, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and the back of his neck and sat down on the bench. He shouldered his way out of the small daypack he wore and set it down beside him. He had eaten half of an energy bar earlier, and now, digging it out of a side pocket in the daypack, he peeled back the yellow wrapper and sat there eating the rest of it.
Mitch had arrived the day before on a Continental Airlines flight from London, England. He had checked into a downtown Portland hotel but had been unable to sleep much. The hike had been meant to counter the effects of jet lag, and, while he felt energized for the moment, he knew that later on he would probably crash into a deep sleep.
He finished the energy bar and, out of habit, folded the wrapper neatly and stuck it in the breast pocket of his fleece jacket. He looked at his watch, then slung the daypack over one shoulder and got up and went over to the rental car.
Leaving the parking area, he drove up the two-lane highway that for the better part of two miles meandered between stands of maple and alder mixed in with Douglas fir and western hemlock. Here and there, a private driveway shadowed up through the trees, or a house sat at the top of a grassy slope that dropped down to the culvert alongside the roadway. One or two of the driveways he passed had signs offering logging services, and another showed a picture of a bulldozer with a telephone number written underneath.
A quarter-mile short of a crossroads, he came to a mailbox at the end of a gravel driveway. Turning into the driveway, he drove another fifty yards, until coming to a clearing. In the clearing he parked next to a late model Mercedes station wagon sitting next to an aging green Volvo sedan. He didn’t know who owned the Mercedes, but he knew who the sedan belonged to. It was Heidi’s proud possession. She had owned it since her student days at Reed College, and she continued to drive it around town as a diehard exhibition of the egalitarian attitude she had maintained since then. Unlike a newer car, it signified solidarity with those of lesser fortune, and it identified her as someone whose values were not primarily materialistic. Despite whatever change of circumstance had occurred in her life since what she had often referred to as “my Top Ramen days,” she still held on to a passionate belief in social activism. Outwardly, her lifestyle had taken on many of the trappings of affluence—thanks, in part, to her civil engineer husband, a trust fund from her mother’s side of the family, and the inheritance of a house that, while itself modest, sat on prime real estate in an increasingly desirable though as yet unincorporated area of the city. By most standards of social progression, she occupied a solid niche in a pantheon of those whose lives count for the most; yet she herself had stayed conscientiously democratic.
After parking his car, Mitch got out and walked to a flagstone pathway that cut diagonally up a grassy slope and curved around to the front of the house her great-grandfather had built at the end of the nineteenth century. Her great-grandfather had been a lumber baron who had logged whole sections of nearby hillsides, and as an act of conscience had bequeathed to the city of Portland several tracts of forest that, over the years, had seen development in what had once been decidedly rural parts of the city.
Like an ancient but well-crafted, well-cared-for wooden sailing vessel, the house had withstood the vicissitudes of weather and climate. Set atop a prominent rise on one side of the clearing, its two stories faced out over the top of a heavily wooded area. In broad outline, it resembled a two-layered, square, but compact cake with white frosting. Its gray Mansard roof angled off gradually in four directions, and two dormer windows looked out from the front. One story below, slender white columns supported a porch overhang on the front of the house and along one of its sides. Forest green, ornamental shutters bordered each one of the elongated, Italianate windows, and out in front, to the right of the porch steps, a Sitka spruce towered skyward. Rosebushes occupied an area immediately under the porch balustrade along the front and the side. Farther out, away from the house, a green park bench sat in the center of the lawn in lone view of the treed expanse.
Mitch reached the top of the pathway and went up the porch steps. He rang the doorbell, and waited.
Heidi opened the door.
“My God, Mitch!” she said. “Is that really you, in the flesh? Where did you come from?”
“Got back just yesterday. How have you been, Tip?”
“How have I been? How you been, stranger? But don’t stand there—come in!”
Mitch stepped inside, and she gave him a big hug.
“It‘s nice to see you, too, Tip.” He laughed again.
“But this is such a surprise, Mitch,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. “Why didn’t you call me…let me know you were coming?”
“I wanted to surprise you. Why else?”
“You surprised me all right. How long has it been, anyway? And why didn’t you write more often?”
“I wanted to,” he said. “But I got caught up in events…”
“Events? You mean, like, you fell in love or something?”
“Not exactly.” He laughed. “But pretty close.”
“Are you here to stay awhile or are you going to run off again?”
“I’m going to play it by ear. See what life here has to offer.”
“Well, let’s go down to the war room and you can tell me all about your adventures. And, in exchange, I’ll tell you all the latest gossip—and then some!”
The “war room” was in the basement. In any other household, it might have been the family recreation area, complete with pool table, wet bar, perhaps a foosball table, and an array of comfortable couches and chairs. But in Heidi’s house the same area had been given over entirely to what she considered her calling. Here, amid a perennial clutter of magazines, books, newspapers, fliers, computers, a seldom-used Underwood, a printer, two desks, a filing cabinet, and several folding chairs, she conducted what often amounted to a one-woman enterprise in the interest of various causes. From here she had launched a campaign to prevent developers from acquiring a portion of Forest Park (ironically, some of the same land her great-grandfather had given to the city). She had also helped to organize food drives for the homeless and the hungry. Using the typewriter, she had put out articles exhorting the socially conscious to get involved in alleviating the plight of the homeless. More than once, she had taken a group of university students on a tour of several campsites the homeless had established for themselves under bridges and out-of-the-way tracts of undeveloped land. Not being content with the more conventional undertakings, she had even grappled with the notion of establishing her own radio station, operating out of this very room, as a way to broadcast her activist views. Though now, with the advent of the Internet and the rise of blogging, she had found a better alternative.
She rinsed out a coffeepot at the sink and put a new filter in the coffeemaker, and Mitch sat down in one of the folding chairs. Looking around the room, he noted the same posters that had been there previously, from times past: those of Che Guevara and Malcolm X, even one of Chairman Mao. But the revolutionary theme, though still very much in evidence, appeared to have been supplanted by another having a more contemporary relevance. One of the newer posters depicted a polar bear with a bewildered expression, perched on the edge of an ice floe. Another featured a South Sea Islander in a rowboat, holding a national flag aloft; a line of palm trees in the background had sunk beneath the ocean’s surface. Yet a third showed how much the glaciers in Glacier National Park had melted since the early twentieth century. Finally, a fourth portrayed a cityscape dominated by towering smokestacks discharging hawser-like contrails of black smoke. They all bespoke the foremost concern of today’s activist community, and they pointed to yet another area of activity ripe for someone of Heidi’s predilections.
When the beeper went off she filled two earthenware mugs with hot coffee and brought one over to Mitch.
“I didn’t remember whether you liked it black or with sugar and milk,” she said. “But I have cream in the refrigerator.”
“Black’s fine,” Mitch said, sipping the hot liquid.
With her own mug in hand, she sat down across from him. “Well, what do you think?” she asked. “But let me guess—you’ve already figured it out, haven’t you?”
Mitch smiled. “It’s pretty obvious, Tip. You’re into the global warming thing now.”
Her self-deprecatory smile acknowledged that, yes, he had guessed right and that, yes, as implied, her activism was characterized by a certain capriciousness.
“There’s so much that has to be done,” she said. “So many pressing issues. How is one to keep up with it all? I try to divide my time between all of them, but it can be so overwhelming.”
“Pick one and stay with it. I mean, you can’t do it all, Tip. And, if you try, you’re not using your time efficiently.”
“You’re absolutely right, Mitch. And, to tell you the truth, I think I’ve come to the same conclusion. I have to prioritize. And I have to do it on the basis of which issue is the most important…”
“And which issue would that be? Have you figured that out yet?”
“I think I have, Mitch. And you’ve just seen it for yourself.”
“Global warming—yeah, that’s pretty important. And, as an issue, it’s not gonna go away.”
“I’m afraid not. But what are you doing about it, Mitch?”
“I’m not doing much of anything about it, Tip.” He had to laugh. “I mean, yeah, it concerns me. I read the papers. I know about the loss of habitat, which endangers many animals. I know about the rising sea levels and so on. I’m not oblivious to its effect, believing that it’s all a hoax or a conspiracy involving ninety-five percent of all the scientists in the world. Worldwide, the climate is definitely changing, and you’d have to be living in a bubble to think otherwise. But—what am I doing about it? Listening to you, I guess.”
“That’s not much, is it?”
“No. It’s not much, and I could be doing more. But you’re leading up to something here, aren’t you? I can feel it.”
Amused at her own transparency, she laughed. “Am I that obvious?”
“Maybe not to someone else, Tip. But we go back a ways, don’t we?”
“We certainly do, Mitch. Would you like more coffee?”
“Yeah, I’ll have another cup.”
She refilled his cup and came back a moment later. “So, what are your plans, Mitch…from here on out?”
Sipping the coffee, he smiled to himself. He remembered only too keenly the first time it had happened, how he had succumbed to her fervor. Despite his initial reluctance, she had convinced him to attend a meeting concerning ways of ministering to Portland’s homeless population. Admittedly, it had seemed a worthwhile cause, and her solution (though partial, at best), to buy a “mercy van,” using church donations, had been within the realm of actually making a difference. And he had endorsed it with the plaudits one usually reserves for those occasions when to do otherwise would be boorish. Beyond handing out small change once in a while, he had never been particularly troubled by the homeless; they were someone else’s obligation. But he did welcome the chance to socialize. In fact, later on, thinking about it, he realized that his primary motivation for getting involved centered on just that reason.
As a fledgling writer, his life had become circumscribed by four walls and a window that overlooked a section of the city with a view of a pyramidal, snow-capped mountain in the distance. Apart from any satisfaction he derived from writing, the routine he had imposed upon himself had become stale in the ways most people take for granted. He simply didn’t get out and about much. He stayed too often to himself and missed out on those things that are needed to round out a person. Time spent with friends, romance, a healthy dose of travel, recreational activities, and so on, even family—all those things had suffered, and as a result he sometimes experienced a paucity of spirit that called for a specific antidote—spending more time with others.
As it happened, being with Heidi and her crew of volunteers had given him just that opportunity. Even distributing baloney sandwiches, chicken soup, used army blankets, fresh socks, wool caps, and other donated clothing one or two evenings a week and then sitting around afterwards, discussing how they might expand their efforts and reach more of the needy, had done much to offset the imbalance. Even if only in a small way it had provided him with regular social contact. What’s more, it had not detracted, as he had feared it might, from devoting time and energy to his own interest. He found he could write just as well, and, as someone discovering the benefits of a hot tub or a Swedish sauna, he came to appreciate the restorative effect. But he also came to appreciate something else.
Heidi was not a person easily resisted. She had a magnetic intensity, the kind one associates with the charisma of an Aimee Semple McPherson or an Elizabeth Clare Prophet exhorting her devotees to follow her into the hills to escape the impending collapse of civilization. She represented a female in the throes of a passionate clarion call to muster support for a favorite cause, and anyone weakened by susceptibility and caught in the line of fire more likely than not succumbed. Her persuasive power resided not only in the righteousness of whatever belief she espoused but as well in the vulnerability of her listener. Mitch had been vulnerable then; he would not be now.
He shrugged off the question by repeating his intention to play it by ear. He had nothing special or specific lined up for himself. His dad had left him with the means to pursue whatever independent course he chose. For the time being, he would reestablish himself here in Portland, getting an apartment and renewing friendships and acquaintances. But otherwise, he wanted to stay free and uncommitted. Perhaps start another novel, loosen up the engine of creativity, and get back into the lifestyle. Europe had been educational, as well as fun. But now he needed to get serious. The years passed too quickly to put off any longer the urge to do something meaningful.
Heidi understood all that and, indeed, sympathized with his sentiments. But she had own take on it. “That means you’ll have some free time, then, doesn’t it, Mitch?”
“I don’t know yet, Tip. I’ll have some free time, of course; I always have had. But once I establish a routine for myself, I’m not so sure that I will. It all has to play itself out first.”
“I wouldn’t want you to rush it, Mitch. But let me throw out a suggestion. Okay?”
“Nothing wrong with suggestions, Tip. That’s what suggestion boxes are for.”
“Well, this one isn’t going into a box, Mitch. It’s going right in your lap.”
“Okay, try me. I’m game.”
Heidi leaned forward in her chair. She rested her elbows on her knees and folded her hands together. Pausing for effect, she said: “Direct action, Mitch, the kind that goes directly to the heart of the matter—you know what that means, don’t you?”
“Huh, yeah, I guess.”
“Well, that’s what we’re into now…”
“Really?”
“Yes. You see…”
Over the next fifteen minutes, she told him about the group’s latest escapade. It had involved a foray into the industrial heart of a city responsible for more than its share of air pollution throughout the twentieth century. The pollution had come from power plants and steel mills and had spread over a wide section of the East Coast, and probably elsewhere. The group’s intention had not been to expose the source of the pollution or its lingering effects; both were well enough known and understood already. Rather, symbolically, it aspired to demonstrate a simple fact—the ubiquity of smokestacks, whether defunct or in use, had to be curtailed.
“Do you see what I’m getting at?” she said, finishing up. “We’re taking the bull by the horns here, Mitch…taking activism to a new level, beyond simple street protest and letters-to-the-editor. We’re engaging in acts of civil disobedience meant to spark widespread, immediate awareness. And what we did in Cleveland is only the first of many acts. There’ll be more to follow.”
Mitch looked at his friend, a woman he had known going on ten years. They had first met at a car wash she and her little band of activists had organized to raise money for one of their causes; he couldn’t remember which. On the surface, she had not changed much. The years had treated her well. The spark of effervescence that had captivated him in the beginning had not diminished. Her dark, slightly Mediterranean eyes still glowed like two watermelon seeds polished to a high sheen with gun oil. And the Spanish-black hair still fell carelessly down along her cheeks and onto her shoulders, accentuating an oval prettiness. A slight matronly pouch had formed under her chin and a complement of incipient crow’s-feet bespoke a certain passage of years; but otherwise she could easily have returned to her high school alma mater and, without arousing much notice, posed convincingly as a senior. Along with the spring in her step and the swing of her shoulders, she exuded a definite youthfulness; as much as for her intelligence, her optimism, and her convictions, Mitch admired for her that. Yet none of it hid the fact that an interior sea change had taken place. He couldn’t help but notice her compressed way of speaking now, as though biting down on each word to emphasize determination, even anger. She was not the old Heidi, who seemed to take things in stride, believing that the world would eventually be a better place, if only people cared more.
Had he used tobacco in any form, whether chewing or smoking it, he might have resorted to the classic ploy of filling a pipe, lighting a cigarette, or biting off a plug of snuff to give himself time to conjure up a neutral response. But he used the unfinished portion of his coffee instead.
Lifting the mug to his lips, he swallowed off a portion, then set the mug on a nearby table. Fastidiously, gaining an extra moment in which to think of something appropriate, he slid it farther onto the table, away from the edge.
Finally, looking at Heidi, he said, “My goodness, Tip, who would have thought? I mean, you’ve really gone big time, haven’t you? I’ve been gone a year, a year and a half, and my girl has turned into a revolutionary of sorts. But what’s next on your agenda? How far are you gonna take this?”
Heidi laughed. Whatever irony might have been there, she either missed it or ignored it. But feeling reassured, she said, “We’re still waiting to know about Cleveland. So far, nobody’s heard anything. Rick hasn’t contacted us, but we think that’s a good sign. It means he’s still out there, doing his own thing somewhere down in Arizona. To be on the safe side, though, we’re going to wait awhile longer before we take on anything else.”
“You’re really gonna keep up with all this, then? Is that it?”
“Of course, Mitch. You know me, it runs in my blood. And as long as there aren’t any setbacks.”
“What about the others? How do they feel about it? Scruples? Reservations? Second thoughts?”
Heidi dismissed the suggestion with a wave of her hand. “They’re all on board. They might have had some doubts at first, but they’ve seen what can be accomplished. We just have to be careful, that’s all.”
“Yeah, I would imagine that would be a primary consideration.”
“But, look, Mitch, why don’t you come to dinner next week? Everybody’ll be here. It’ll give you a chance to meet them all and to see for yourself what a strong commitment they’ve all made.”
“You wouldn’t be trying to recruit me, would you, Tip?”
“I’d be a liar if I said no.” She laughed. “But I’ll settle for moral support.”
“I’ve always been with you there, Tip; you know that. But, yeah, dinner sounds fun.
“Do you want me to bring anything?”
“Just yourself.”
Mitch started to get up to leave but caught sight of Jennifer, Heidi’s little daughter, coming down the basement steps.
“Well, look who’s here,” he said.
Her dark curls disheveled and rubbing her eyes sleepily, the little girl came partway into the room but stopped when she saw Mitch.
“It’s Jennifer, back from the land of Nod,” Heidi said. “Did you have a nice nap, honey?”
Without replying, Jennifer walked over to her mother and leaned against her knee. Cocking her head to one side, she looked inquisitively at Mitch.
Caressing her daughter’s hair, Heidi said, “You remember Mitch, don’t you? He’s the nice man who used to come to the house.”
Jennifer smiled shyly, then turned away.
“I suppose I should get her something to eat. Would you like to stick around, Mitch?”
“I really oughta be going. I still have to find an apartment.”
“But you will be here next week?”
“You bet!”
“We’ll all look forward to seeing you.”
“Great!”
Heidi walked him back upstairs.
They stood in the doorway. Savoring the warmth of two friends reunited after a long absence, they embraced. Then, as he crossed the porch and went down the front steps, Heidi held the door for him.
“Don’t forget next week,” she called.
“I promise.”