The Gateway Arch is one of America's most spectacular national monuments, and a symbol of the western expansion of the United States. A national contest was held in 194748, and Finnish-American Eero Saarinen's design was chosen from more than 170 entries. Construction began on the memorial in 1963 and was finished two and a half years later. The Arch is a remarkable feat of engineering and, at 630 feet tall, the tallest man-made monument in the United States-nearly 100 feet taller than the Washington Monument and almost 70 feet taller than the Crazy Horse Memorial in South Dakota.

For several minutes I lay back in my bed, my gaze fixed on the monument. Even though the Gateway Arch was designed as a symbolic gateway to the West, gates go both ways and it was fitting that I had returned to the Arch after my medical intermission. I had pa.s.sed the halfway mark of my journey east without fanfare. The Arch made it official-I was on the downhill slope of my walk. But it didn't feel downhill. I felt as if my mountain had only grown steeper.

I rubbed my legs, wondering how my body would hold up on the road. When I was ten, I broke my left arm playing dodgeball at school. When my cast came off, I was surprised at how much smaller my arm looked than the other one and how quickly my muscles had atrophied. As I looked at my calves, I realized how the weeks in Pasadena had taken their toll. Even with my practice walks at home, I doubted I'd make twenty miles my first day. I wondered if I would even make ten. No matter. I wasn't in a race. I closed my eyes and took a nap.

CHAPTER Fourteen

Everybody needs love. Everybody. Those who don't believe that frighten me a little.

Alan Christoffersen's diary

My room was dark when I woke. I glanced over at the digital clock: 8:27 P.M. I got out of bed and washed my face with cold water, then took the elevator downstairs to the Ruth's Chris Steak House, which was off the hotel lobby. The restaurant is one of the reasons I had picked the hotel. McKale and I had celebrated our first year of the agency at a Ruth's Chris, along with Kyle Craig and his girlfriend du jour. It was a good time and one I would never forget-an evening of triumph and confidence and grat.i.tude. I remember that McKale looked so incredibly beautiful that night. Indescribably beautiful.

Seeing couples around me in the lobby intensified my memories and my loneliness.

In this setting I understood something. I didn't want to live without McKale. But I also didn't want to live alone. I wasn't born to be celibate. Refusing a.n.a.lise in Iowa had taken all the strength I had. Everyone needs love. Everyone. And, as my dad was fond of saying, "If you build a fence between a cow and its water, it's going to take down the fence."

Nearly four years ago McKale and I had talked about this very thing on our vacation to Italy. We were on a tour of the Roman Forum, standing near the ruins of the Temple of Vesta, when our guide told us about the three vows made by the Vestal Virgins. First was complete allegiance to the G.o.ddess Vesta. Second was a vow to keep the sacred fire of her temple burning. The third was a vow of chast.i.ty.

The punishment for breaking the third vow was the most severe. If caught, the male lover would be whipped to death in front of the woman, then she would be wrapped in linen, given a loaf of bread and an oil lantern, then be buried alive.

I asked our guide if, given the extremity of the punishment, any of the Vestal Virgins had ever broken their vow.

"Oh yes," she said solemnly. "Eighteen of them."

"Eighteen!" McKale exclaimed.

"Does this surprise you?" the guide asked in her strong Italian accent. She shook her head. "It does not surprise me. Everyone must have love."

Later that evening, as we stood in front of the Trevi Fountain, McKale asked me something peculiar. "If I were to die, would you remarry?"

I looked at her quizzically. "You're not going to die."

"But if I did, would you remarry?"

"I've never thought about it," I finally said. "I've always a.s.sumed I'll die first. Would you?"

"I don't know," she said. "I think I'd probably die of a broken heart."

I smiled and squeezed her hand. A minute later, after we'd started walking again, she said seriously, "If something happens to me, I want you to remarry. I don't want you to live without love."

"Enough of this," I said. "Nothing's going to happen to you."

She stopped and looked up into my eyes with a curious gaze I'll never forget. "You never know," she said.

I wondered what McKale would think of me with Falene. I knew that she liked her, which, frankly, was unusual. Most women took an immediate dislike to Falene just because of the way she looked, or, often, because of the way their men looked at her.

McKale wasn't intimidated by Falene-at least she never expressed it. I guess she was just confident in herself and her hold on me. Why wouldn't she be? I had tunnel vision. McKale was everything.

In spite of my melancholy, or maybe because of it, I decided to make my dinner a celebration of three things. First, pa.s.sing the halfway mark of my walk. Second, returning to my walk. And third, surviving my tumor.

I ordered the same meal I had the night I dined at Ruth's Chris with McKale: sweet potato ca.s.serole with pecans, asparagus with Hollandaise sauce, and the Cowboy Ribeye steak. In keeping with my celebration, I complemented my meal with a small gla.s.s of red wine, and, alone, made a symbolic toast to the journey. "To Key West," I said. I sounded pathetic. There were better things to toast. I raised my gla.s.s again. "To McKale."

I didn't rush, giving myself time to digest both my food and the significance of the moment. When I'd finished eating, I ordered a decaf coffee to go, then went back up to my room. Again, I was surprisingly exhausted.

Outside my window, the arch was lit by spotlights. I ran my bath and lay back in it, closing my eyes and letting my body soak. I wondered when I'd have that luxury again. Not soon, I wagered. I told myself it was just as well. I was getting soft, and it was time to get back to the road.

CHAPTER Fifteen

I have been taken in by a Pentecostal pastor who speaks openly of miracles and the "fruits of the spirit." I don't know if there are fewer miracles today or if, in times past, all unexplained phenomena was just ascribed to divine providence. It seems today that we see less spiritual fruit than religious nuts.

Alan Christoffersen's diary

I forgot to request a wake-up call and woke after ten, which upset me, as I had planned on getting an early start. I quickly dressed, then, taking my pack, went downstairs for breakfast. For the sake of time I opted for the buffet, which was quite good, and checked out of the hotel. Then, without ceremony, I resumed my walk.

I don't think the Gateway Arch can be fully appreciated until one stands at its base and looks up. In spite of my late start, I walked across the street to the monument. I was tempted to take the tour, but it really wasn't an option. There was a security checkpoint at the monument's entrance, and I had my backpack, which they wouldn't allow inside-especially since I was still carrying the gun my father had given me after I was mugged outside of Spokane.

There was no easy way out of the city and, after an hour of trying to navigate a labyrinth of roads and highways, pa.s.sing through industrial areas of questionable safety, I finally just hailed a cab, which I took twelve miles to the Lindbergh Boulevard freeway exit. I got out near a HoneyBaked Ham store and began walking toward Highway 61.

I was in a suburban part of St. Louis County and the landscape was green and pretty. I crossed the Meramec River before reaching the town of Arnold, introduced by a sign that read:

ARNOLD

"A Small Town with a Big Heart"

It could just as well have read, Another small town with an unoriginal slogan, as I had seen the exact claim at least a dozen times before on my walk. The town was unremarkable in appearance as well, consisting of weather-worn aluminum-sided buildings housing used car dealerships, thrift stores, and hardware shops-the kind of commerce that springs up naturally in small towns, the way willows grow near slow-moving streams.

Around two o'clock, just shy of ten miles into the day's walk, I reached Bob's Drive-In, which boasted the "Best Burger in Town." The claim was probably more than hyperbole, as I hadn't seen another hamburger place since I entered Arnold. Of course, claiming the t.i.tle by default would also make them the "Worst Burger in Town," but it rarely pays to advertise our faults. Sometimes, but rarely.

Bob's was a true takeout-there was no inside dining-and I stood in front of the boxy diner studying Bob's sizable menu, which was hand-painted on a board hanging over three sliding-gla.s.s windows. I walked up to the middle window and rang a bell for service. A brunette woman in her mid-thirties slid open the window.

"What can I get you?"

I took a step forward. "I'll have a Pepsi and your Arnold Burger." I looked back up at the sign. "What's fried okra?"

"It's just okra. Fried."

I smiled at her description. "What's okra?"

She looked at me in disbelief. "It's a vegetable. Some people call it gumbo."