The car almost drove itself. It’s like that with interstates. Easy drive—three hours—Seattle to Sunnyside. The sky was slate gray, overcast—not a perfect fall day but no morning sun in my eyes. I listened to music—Adagio for Strings, Bobby’s favorite—and slipped into a zone where driving doesn’t interfere with sensing the engine’s rhythm or the mesmerizing ribbon of pavement or meditation.
I’d driven this highway thirty years ago with Bobby in the passenger seat. We listened to Adagio together. Bobby’s Navy career, perpetually at sea, made a relationship nearly impossible, but when we connected, there was magic. His quiet confidence was comforting. I felt protected—an unfamiliar serenity. We crammed months of getting to know each other into a few, brief visits—ten cherished days over five years. We wrote letters in those days before email. Or Bobby would call to say the ship was going to be in San Francisco or San Diego, and I would fly there. When the ship arrived in Seattle, I was already here.
We left for Sunnyside early that morning taking a picnic lunch. We hiked in the countryside in the afternoon and discovered the Golden Pheasant for dinner. The restaurant’s sign portrayed a vibrant, neon bird flying skyward in its undulating light—a metaphor for the flurried flight of our friendship. The sign occupied a commanding presence on the main commercial street. It was the essence of the town and impossible to pass without going inside. The ambiance, the exquisite Chinese fair, and space for quiet conversation met our expectations. The late evening drive back to my apartment in Seattle was a sweet sadness. Bobby left for the ship at sunup, and then I didn’t hear from him for twenty-five years.
During those years, I thought of Bobby often, but I never entertained the possibility of death. Life went on. I’d waited before. I couldn’t change what was happening. It would have been fruitless to try. Then an email arrived. At first, I thought it was someone playing a mind trick. The writer, however, knew the intimate details of our life together, especially that day in Sunnyside. The communication shifted to texting and photos, but no offer of visits. I accepted it. I wasn’t sure about rekindling memories that I didn’t want to tarnish, and twenty-five years changes people. We texted occasionally until the fifth Christmas. I had an address in South Carolina and had been sending birthday and Christmas cards. That year the card had traveled to Charleston and Knoxville and landed in Sunnyside before coming back to me in Seattle at the end of January. Could Bobby be that close? We’d been texting regularly in December, but afterward nothing. What had happened to Bobby? This time there was something I could do—go to Sunnyside and search for Bobby. I had to find out.
I arrived in Sunnyside before noon. I would have lunch at the Golden Pheasant and question some of the staff. I drove the still familiar streets through town to Edison Street. When I arrived, a flatbed truck and a huge crane were blocking the street in front of the building. I parked across the street, got out of the car, and watched in shock as the crane lifted the landmark, neon sign off the building and onto the waiting truck. I found a worker and asked why they were removing the sign. Was it broken? The restaurant, he said, had closed ten years earlier. A new place was opening. The sign had to go.
I asked if he knew Bobby but held out little hope.
No. He lived in Yakima. Didn’t know anyone here.
What about senior living or assisted living places? Were there any around here?
He knew of a place west of Sunnyside. I could check there.
I watched heartbroken as the truck began to pull away from what was once the Golden Pheasant. This had been our place—the thing we had together. Shivering from the cold, misty rain I hadn’t notice earlier, I sensed precious memories flowing away to mingle sadly with the rain on the black pavement below.
The worker noticed color draining from my face and asked if I was ok. I said fine, just disappointed about not having lunch at the famous restaurant. As I walked back to my car, I realized I didn’t want to know what had happened to Bobby. If there were news, it wouldn’t be good news. I had timeless photographs—Bobby sitting on a park bench reading a newspaper, standing on my rooftop deck framed by the harbor, smiling back at me youthful and beautiful. Captured in time, we could be young forever—forever together.