Comfort & Joy

I coast forward. In a way I’m moving against my will now, being drawn forward.

I’m afraid to believe I may have found my town . . . and more afraid that I’ll be wrong again. There are only a few more turns left, here in the deep woods, and only Mystic and Rain Valley are near lakes.

I turn onto Cates Avenue and roll into Rain Valley.

In the middle of the road, I hit my brakes.

It’s “my” town.

And it isn’t.

I pull over to the curb and get out of the car. I can feel the moisture in the air, hear it drop from leaves and boughs and plunk into potholes in the road, but it isn’t really raining. By the time I reach the sidewalk, the sun is breaking through the clouds, gilding the grassy lawn. Dew sparkles on the green carpet.

I feel as if I’m in a Twilight Zone episode. The town—this town—is the funhouse mirror version of my remembered town. There is a park in the center of it—but it’s nothing like I imagined. There’s a gazebo in the center of the park also, its stanchions twined by wisteria that is moments away from blooming. Concrete benches and fountains are everywhere. Off to the left is a covered barbeque area surrounded by picnic tables. A shallow wading pond catches the slivers of sunlight greedily; its rippling surface seems to catch fire in streaks.

Leaning on my cane, I walk across the spongy grass to the main street of town.

My town was comprised of wooden buildings with big windows and cutesy names like the Wizard of Paws pet store, the Hair Apparent beauty salon, and The Dew Drop In diner.

I stop in front of Lulu’s hair salon. To my left is the Raindrop diner.

Only the ice-cream shop is exactly as I imagined it. And the church.

My version is so close that I feel weak in the knees, and so different that I am sick to my stomach.

Was I here or wasn’t I?

Am I crazy? Brain damaged?

Just as I imagined, the town is a sparkling jewel set against a backdrop of the endless Olympic forest. One million acres of trees and mountains and wilderness, without a road to drive through it. The street lamps hold hanging bask

ets now, their sides thick with brown vines and winter-dead geraniums. A few hardy pansies show their colorful faces.

I walk into the diner first. There is no wall of pamphlets, no man drinking coffee at the bar. There is no bar.

An older woman with a Lucille Ball–red beehive hustles toward me, smiling. “Welcome to the Raindrop. What can I do yah for?” She hands me a plastic menu.

“I . . . I’m looking for the Comfort Fishing Lodge. ”

The woman stops and frowns, her heavily made-up eyes almost close completely. “Honey, I’ve lived here for forty years. There ain’t no such place. But old Erv Egin, he’ll give you a hell of a charter. Come salmon season, that is. ”

“Is there any fishing lodge?”

She shakes her head. “We ain’t that developed yet, though the good Lord knows we could use a little tourism. There’s a motel out on Fall River that makes a mighty fine breakfast, and the resort out at Kalaloch, and that place up at Lake Crescent in Port Angeles, but there ain’t really fishing at any of ’em. Your best bet is a charter. In May . . . ”

“Daniel?” I whisper his name, feeling like an idiot. “He has a son, Bobby. ”

“You talking about the O’Shea’s? Out on Spirit Lake?”

My heart skips a beat. “There’s a Daniel who lives on the lake? And he has a son named Bobby?”

The waitress takes a step back. She’s eyeing me hard now, and I don’t think she likes what she sees. Her gaze pauses on the cane, then returns to my face. “Who are you?”

“My name is Joy. I’ve come a long way to find them. ”

“They’ve had their share of trouble in the past few months, and then some. What with the accident and all. They don’t need no more. ”

“I’ve had some trouble of my own. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt them. ”