Valdez, Alaska. April 3, 1964

The lone road to Valdez offered a slow, arduous journey in the pre-dawn haze. Sand and salt remained on the road since the last snowplows pushed through, adding to the mini-landslides which encroached from abruptly-carved hillsides onto the broken pavement. New tires flung little pebbles into the wheel-wells, making the tink-tink that punctuated the foreboding silence of the occupants inside the rental car.

Not an hour after sunrise, the 1963 Buick Riviera crept to a stop facing a wall of muddy snow and debris. Toppled cars, parts of buildings, and other rubble glistened in the mounds. It looked as though a giant child had shoved all of its playthings into piles.

Ben heaved a sigh and turned off the motor. “We’ll have to walk the last bit.”

He trudged around the front of the car, heavy fingers inadvertently cutting streaks of miniature blue rivers as they dragged through the grit on the hood. He waited at the open passenger door while his wife finished applying cherry red lipstick that perfectly matched her nails. She rolled her lips together, finished with a smack, then tucked her cosmetics into her handbag and stuck a hand out.

Ben grabbed the offered hand to assist Gloria from the car, but ignored the simpering smile that would normally evoke a deluge of affectionate words. He was too distracted by the surroundings to pander to her whims, and dropped her hand to open the back door for Grandpa.

Gloria huffed a cloud of fog into the chilly air and pulled a pair of kidskin gloves from her purse. She stared at the disarray that was once a town. “I don’t see how an earthquake could make all of this mess.”

“It wasn’t just the earthquake,” replied Ben. “It was the tidal wave.”

Gloria shook her head in disapproval, carefully guiding the gloves over each finger. “It’s just filthy. Why would anyone want to live in such a dismal place?”

Ben retrieved a duffle of cleaning supplies from the trunk. He thrust a smaller satchel of sandwiches, chips, and sodas into the large canvas and slung the strap over his shoulder. Then he wrapped his arm around Grandpa to help navigate the path to the house.

Obstacles, puddles, and a jutting crack ran the length of the street. A missed step in the crevasse could swallow a person’s foot, at the very least. The two men stumbled like drunken fools, arm in arm and weaving back and forth while they selected the best route through the gauntlet of sludge and rot.

Gloria placed a gloved hand over her nose and mouth when she started to gag at the scent of putrefaction. She followed the men’s footsteps, keeping her new rain boots pristine.

Odd pieces of what once was a town lay scattered everywhere. Ben nearly tripped over a strip of metal bearing letters. “Pinz? What’s that?”

Grandpa pulled the zipper of his brown parka up to his chin. He stared at the sign fragment. “Pinzon. A cafe. I don’t expect they’ll be serving for quite a while.” He gazed toward the sea, recalling the news reports and imagining the havoc wreaked less than two weeks ago.

The call of seagulls rang from the harbor. For a moment, Ben thought it was the sound of children. “Those poor kids,” he said softly.

“What kids?” Asked Gloria. “I don’t see any kids.”

“The kids that died when all this happened, Gloria.” Ben was clearly annoyed.  “Do you understand what happened here?”

Gloria’s dazed expression conveyed her ignorance.

Ben took a deep breath, then explained the events of March 27, 1964.

The Chena had navigated into the long, dog-leg shaped fiord, offloading the first spring shipment of produce and supplies on that Good Friday. Crew members were tossing fruits and candies from the deck to the excited children on the dock, who came out to greet the ship.

The initial 9.2 magnitude earthquake lasted over four harrowing minutes. Unstable earth at the waterfront crumbled, undermining the seafloor beneath the marina and pulling the Chena, and the dock with her, down toward the chasm. Then the first fifty-foot tidal wave swept into the harbor and lifted the vessel, hurtling her toward town.

“Since the entire harbor is nearly enclosed, the town kept getting hit with waves sloshing back and forth…like in a giant bathtub.” Ben looked at Gloria. “It wasn’t just one tidal wave that made this mess. It was a repeated beating. 32 people died, including the kids.”

Gloria nodded her understanding and wiped a tear from her cheek. She looked around to see neighbors silently sifting through wreckage, their faces etched with numb despair as they searched for salvageable belongings. Wisps of smoke still rose from the Union Oil tanks near the destroyed pier.

Grandpa shook his head and returned his attention to his own home. The trio cautiously climbed the front porch stairs, greeted by the scent of stale seawater and molding furniture. Each step creaked and groaned its version of the home’s sixty-year history.

The old man stopped at the landing and looked to the right. Ben followed his gaze to the worn tracks in the brick red paint where the rocking chair used to sit.

Grandpa rubbed his neck, then slowly ran his hand over the delicate scrollwork on the solid oak door before turning the knob. The rumble and resistance alerted them all to the warped floor.

Ben carefully slid in front of the elder and shoved the door. It screeched a gritty rejection of his efforts before acquiescing. “Not so bad.” He stepped inside and coughed as the stench hit him. “But not so good, either.”

Pictures and lamps lay tossed and broken on the floor. The clock that once sat on the end-table lay in a corner with a cracked crystal and hands stopped at 5:36. Three feet up the stark white walls, a line marked just how high the intruding water had risen. A brown stain remained like a wainscot.

Ben noticed the tracks in the dirt as he slid the sofa back to its old position in the living room. Its green fabric and mahogany frame were a sloppy mass of dull brown. “I don’t think we can save this,” he said apologetically. “I wouldn’t know how to remove the smell from the cushions”.

The hardwood floor displayed pockets of sandy mud where it had buckled. He looked in the bedrooms to find similar damage. Two twin beds furnished the first room, each adorned with finely sewn quilts stained by the silt. A paper-pieced spread in the second room retained its vibrant blues and greens on a significantly taller bed.

Moving through the house, Ben continued to evaluate each item of aged, handmade furniture and every memento, keeping mental notes of the inventory. Finally, he went to the kitchen and opened the cupboards. “At least we can save the pots and pans,” he called over his shoulder, trying to sound upbeat. “We could refinish the table and chairs; those are made of fine wood.”

Grandpa didn’t respond. He remained near the door, gazing at the scene.

“I don’t see much worth saving,” remarked Gloria, wrinkling her dainty nose. She pressed curtains to the sides to allow plenty of light, and opened any windows which weren’t broken. She tip-toed around the room, giving a wide berth to anything that resembled furniture, while wrapping her beige wool overcoat tight around her, lest it brush into any muck.

“Maybe something in the attic, Grandpa?” Ben opened the door to a narrow stairway. He checked each step for sturdiness. “Everything looks good up here,” he said, dropping the duffle bag with a thud.

He returned to the opening and reached down. A large, bony hand grasped his own and tugged as Grandpa slowly climbed. The old man’s lanky body had grown weak in recent years.

The smell from below was almost imperceptible in this small, musty space. Only Gloria could stand upright at the apex. She kept her knees bent, though, to prevent bumping her brown beehive on the rafters. The men remained stooped, Grandpa more so.

Dust danced in the morning sunbeams through the small gable window. There were old framed pictures stacked against the wall, a few books, a delicate-looking rocking chair, and a leather-bound trunk in a dark corner.

“Oh, my goodness!” exclaimed Gloria, perusing the books. Her breath, visible in the cold air, added to the dust in the light. “Are these first editions? These are worth saving!”

She thumbed through each hardcover, stopping at the front of one to read aloud, ‘To my dear friend Jennie. I can only hope Alaska proved more fortuitous for you than it did for me. Thank you for your kind attention to my tales. May you enjoy this one. - J’

“What book is that?” asked Ben.

Gloria snapped the book shut. She waved it in the sunlight to more clearly see the green fabric cover with gold lettering. “The Call of the Wild.”

Ben knelt in the dark corner, turned on his flashlight, and unbuckled the straps of the trunk. More dust flew as he opened the old relic. Inside were small, ornate boxes tied with faded ribbons, along with yellowed photos and letters. He delicately moved aside a stack of letters to find old newspaper clippings.

“Wow, San Francisco. I’ve never been there, have you?”

Gloria shook her head, still searching for more inscriptions.

As he sat back on his heels, Ben again surveyed the room and considered the time and cost to restore the house. “I think it was lucky this all happened while you were visiting for Easter, Grandpa. I don’t know that there’s anything left for you here. Do you want to move in with us in Seattle?”

“What an interesting idea,” hissed Gloria. She shot Ben a stabbing glare. “Something we should discuss, first?”

Ben shrugged and motioned to the surroundings in his unspoken response. “How can he live here?”

The elder didn’t notice the argument. The leather-bound vault held his gaze as if pulling him into distant memories. “I couldn’t leave them…” His voice was feeble. “I’m the reason we came here. I’m so sorry. It’s my doing. It’s all my fault.” The ticking of his wristwatch seemed to slow as tears crept onto his cheeks.

“What do you mean?” Ben asked. A faded photo caught his attention. The men wore suits and hats. White lace dresses adorned the woman and baby. All stiff and stoic, but eerily staring right at the viewer. “Grandpa, who are these people?”

The old man focused on the photo, sighed, and wearily sat down in the weathered rocking chair. Ben plopped down on the dusty floor, legs crossed under. Gloria placed an old newspaper under her knees and knelt next to the trunk.

A bent, bony finger rested on the colorless visage. “Well, that’s your grandmother there. She was about twenty-four when this was taken. She had beautiful dark hair, and she was smart!” Grandpa tapped his temple and winked at Ben. “She knew how to keep us all out of trouble, that one. And so devout!” He drifted into thought and murmured, “She was so important to so many people.”

“What made her so important?” Asked Gloria.

Grandpa pondered for a moment, then answered “She could write.”

Gloria looked at Ben and shrugged.

Ben lifted the photo back into the old man’s view.

Again, the thin digit traced the images. “That’s your father as a baby. This was his christening photograph. That’s me, the tall one…,” he trailed off, blue eyes filling with tears. “And that’s my brother, Buck.”

Ben studied the young man in the photo, who had a certain shine in the eyes, despite the somber face. “What happened to Buck?”

Grandpa took a moment to gain his composure, absentmindedly following the chiseled decoration on the armrest with his finger. He stared long at the photo, took a haggard breath, and smiled. “You know, you have your grandmother’s hazel eyes and your grandfather’s blonde hair.”

Ben was confused. He wondered if the impact of the devastation in Valdez was affecting the mind of the eighty-six-year-old. “What do you mean, Grandpa?”

“It’s my fault we came here to begin with. It’s my fault they died here. I suppose it is time to tell someone…and perhaps find a way to put it all to rest.”

“We have plenty of time, Grandpa,” Ben said, getting comfortable. Gloria shifted, adding rags from the canvas duffle to cushion her knees, and slowly picked through the items in the trunk.

“It all began in San Francisco in 1897,” said Grandpa with determination and relief. “I was nineteen years old. Times were hard.”