“It did break down,” I laughed, the memory washing over me like warm water. “Right outside East St. Louis. Alternator fried itself. We had to sleep in the back seat for two nights while I waited for a part to ship from Chicago.”
Jason looked at me, astonished. “You never told me that.”
“There’s a lot of things about your mother and me before you were born that you don’t know. We were just kids trying to figure out how to keep the tank full and the engine running.” I looked up at the arch. “Every great thing in this country was built by people who were terrified they wouldn’t finish what they started.”
We took the tiny, cramped capsule elevator up to the top. The observation windows were narrow slits looking out across the entire continent—farms stretching east toward the Appalachians, and the vast, flat expanse of the Great Plains rolling away toward the setting sun in the west.
“Dad,” Jason said quietly, pointing down toward the riverfront where barges drifted like lazy water beetles. “Do you think people ever really forgive themselves for doing stupid things?”
