‘It will, without doubt, be the greatest eleven seconds of my adult life.’ He bent down to take her lips once more.
They laughed together, and Hannah kissed him tenderly a final time. ‘Good night,’ she whispered, ‘dream of me.’
‘Believe it.’
Mark walked down Miner Street towards Owen’s Pub in the October twilight. It had snowed lightly during the afternoon and the students in his history classes had been impossible to manage: they were convinced a storm was coming and they would wake to a school closure. Mark knew the snowfall was just a dusting, the sight of the buildings coated thinly in white refreshed him: it was as if the entire town had been given a coat of whitewash, a brisk autumn cleansing to rinse away the vestiges of the summer tourist season. His boots left unmistakable prints on the snowy sidewalk.
He was glad the weekend was coming, although it was likely the snow would mean the cancellation of their planned assault on Decatur Peak. Light snow in town could mean several feet above the tree line.
Idaho Springs on a weeknight was an interesting dichotomy: welcoming, colourful tourist shops that were completely devoid of tourists. Mark preferred it that way. Idaho Springs was a tourist stop – just that, a stop, never anyone’s destination – but that still meant several important perks for those who lived in town. Mark mentally tallied his favourites: first, a wide variety of news sources. Mark, a New York native, loved being able to pick up the New York Times or even the Boston Globe to catch up on news from the northeast. The second was great coffee, perhaps the town’s most important contribution to the state economy since the mining boom, with outstanding varieties, from Brazilian to Turkish, available every day. Just thinking about it made his mouth water.
He checked his watch and crossed Miner. Steven was slated to close the bank at 5.30, so Howard would have a thirty-minute head start at the bar. The roommates already had plans for their last pizza later that evening, but one never knew how the night would unfold, especially when Howard had a comfortable lead on the pack.
Coming through the front door of the pub, Mark had a moment of self-consciousness about being black. The bar was filled end-to-end with white people and although he knew most of them, it was at times like this he felt out of place. It didn’t often happen – he was known and respected by the local community because he taught their children at the high school – but even so, there were not many people of colour in the Springs and from time to time he felt strangely isolated, although he was coming to feel as if the town was his true home.
Those people rushing by on the interstate had no idea how gratifying it could be to live in the foothills. They were all in such a hurry to get to a destination; their stop here rarely merited more than a quick glance while buying an out-of-state paper or stirring sugar into an espresso.
Mark had been drawn to the mountains ever since he was a young boy, when his parents had taken him and his sister on a cross-country trip. The majestic beauty of the Rocky Mountains had made an indelible impression on Mark’s father: he had not wanted to leave. Mark’s parents had planned and saved for years for this trip; they had hoped to reach the Pacific Ocean and drink expensive wine on Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. Instead, their journey was stalled in the Rockies for several days.
It was as though Mark’s father could not force himself to drive west over the Continental Divide and on into Utah. Instead, they had gone hiking, taken mining tours, ridden the George-town Loop Railroad and even tried fly-fishing in the national park. While his sister had grown bored, Mark had been happy to remain in the hills. He knew, even then, that he would return.
Grainy 8"? 10" photos enlarged from snapshots of expansive mountain vistas had adorned the walls of the Jenkins home on Long Island and ten years later Mark’s father returned to help his son move into the residence hall at Colorado State University in Fort Collins. It was like coming home for both of them. Mark’s father had never forgotten the impact that trip had on him, and the strange way he had made such a powerful connection with the craggy peaks and lush green forests.
Standing in the doorway of Owen’s Pub now, Mark thought of his father and decided to call home the following day, then he moved into the crowd and began searching for Howard Griffin. Like any neighbourhood bar at 5.00 p.m., Owen’s was noisy, but it was crowd noise, the directionless, rhythmless, flat tones of people carrying on about politics, romance, October baseball and the coming ski season. Mark found weekends at Owen’s more enjoyable, when an elderly Italian couple provided music from a small stage in the far corner of the bar. Vincent and Maria Casparelli had been playing together since the fifties and Mark was convinced there was not a song in the entire jazz repertoire they did not know. Enthusiastic patrons would scribble barely legible requests on cocktail napkins and deliver them with a few dollars to the top of Maria’s piano. Vincent would glance at the napkins, nod telepathically to Maria and the duo would begin piece after piece without missing a beat. Vincent played saxophone, improvising between verses, but it was Maria who carried the act. Her jazz work verged on perfection; Mark rarely heard her recycle riffs, even though she played hundreds of songs, week after week.
Vincent invariably wore a suit with a Paisley ascot, his pork pie hat hanging on a wooden peg above the piano; Maria was dressed in the uniform of the serious piano matron: a dark skirt with a white blouse and a pink corsage accented with baby’s breath pinned over her breast. Buying Vincent a rye on the rocks late in the evening would always bring on a story about summers in the Catskills or playing nightclubs in New York City with Woody Herman’s band.
Howard Griffin was not difficult to spot. He was leaning against the bar expounding to a small group of twenty-one-year-olds that included Myrna Kessler, a former student of his. As he headed towards them, Mark overheard Howard’s sermon – he had obviously worked his way through several beers already.
‘-and anyone who’d ever seen him play would know that even if he did bet on baseball, he would never have bet on his team to lose. The guy had no idea how to lose. Either way, who cares any more? Put him in the Hall of Fame.’ Finding little agreement from the crowd of young drinkers, Griffin gave up. ‘Ah, you’re all too young to know him anyway.’ He spotted Mark and called excitedly, ‘Hey, Mark, over here.’
It was 5.45 p.m. before Steven arrived, and Mark immediately noticed his roommate looked nervous. Steven greeted the small group, placed his briefcase beneath the barstool and nodded to Gerry, the bartender, who brought him a dark draught beer. Howard, seeing Steven reach for his wallet, insisted Gerry add the beer to his tab.
‘Well thanks, Howard,’ Steven said, raising his glass to his boss.
‘No problem. Did the place get locked up okay?’ Howard pulled at a tortilla chip held firmly by a resilient piece of hardened cheese.
‘No, I thought I’d leave it open tonight; left the safe door open, too.’ Steven forced a smile and avoided eye contact with Mark.
‘No one loves a smartass, Stevie,’ Howard laughed.
‘Steven,’ Myrna corrected. Howard ignored her.
The group drank together for another hour as the noise level grew steadily more deafening. Mark watched Steven calm noticeably as he finished his third beer. It was obvious he had investigated the contents of the old miner’s safe deposit box and was now feeling guilty, but Mark decided it was not that heinous a crime. He just hoped Steven would manage to avoid getting into trouble for it. He called above the din of the crowd, ‘Hey, I’m heading up the hill.’
‘Wait; use my phone and we can pick dinner up on the way. I’ll just say goodbye.’ He turned to Howard, leaned over and shouted above the racket, ‘Hannah and I are getting together late tomorrow night. So don’t worry about closing up tomorrow afternoon, I’ll take care of it again.’ He would need a few uninterrupted minutes in the safe the following day; this was the answer.