Yellowstone Memories

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  Justin squeezed her hand back. “He’ll make it, ma’am. He’ll be fine. You’ll see. We’ll get him to the doc first thing in the morning, if this snow lets up.”

  Justin tried to size up their limitations: four freezing folks drinking melted snow and two injuries so far. Wet wood and blowing snow. A couple of crackers, some tinned butter and cheese, and a canteen of water. Dear Lord. He rubbed his face with his hand, groaning inwardly. Even the stiff, uncomfortable army cots and rubbery stewed tomatoes back at the camp seemed like heaven compared to this.

  Mr. Parker lay against his wife’s shoulder, a bloody cloth wrapped around his head. But his eyes fluttered open, and a faint smile curved his lips. “Oh thank God,” he moaned, rocking slightly back and forth. “Thank God you’re here. Frankie, oh Frankie—he brought help! I knew you would.”

  He reached out a waxy white arm to grip Frankie’s hand, and Justin saw Frankie dip his head slightly as if in shame, eyelashes fluttering. “Don’t thank me, sir,” he mumbled. “I ain’t done a thing to be proud of.”

  Before Frankie could lay clean his cowardice, Justin quickly knelt beside Mr. Parker. “He came as soon as he could, sir. I’m so sorry for your injury. I hate that you had to wait so long for help.” Justin ripped open the backpack and pulled out a wool army blanket, pressing it around his shoulders.

  “Yeah, and of all the rotten folks to find,” Frankie joked sheepishly, sounding like he’d bawl any minute if he didn’t lighten things up.

  Justin punched Frankie lightly in the arm and reached for another blanket, crawling over to Lia’s spot and draping it over her shoulders. She let go of Cynthia for a second, teeth chattering, her eyes dark in the dim half glow of the flashlight. Her hair hung wild and disheveled, wind-whipped curls hanging down in her face.

  “You okay? Can I see that ankle?” Justin reached for Frankie’s flashlight, not sure what he should do. Try to brace it, maybe, with some twigs and a bandanna, splintlike?

  Without meaning to, he stroked Lia’s hair out of her cold cheeks so he could see her face and how dilated her pupils were—if she could still speak or if the injury had sent her into shock.

  And without warning Lia suddenly reached out her arms, wrapping them around his neck in a clumsy embrace. “You came,” she whispered, her lips shivering so much that Justin could hardly make out her words.

  He was struck speechless for a moment, frozen in place. Not sure whether to move or speak, or even breathe. He’d killed her father, for goodness’ sake. What kind of scum would that make him here, now, to deserve or accept even an ounce of her affection?

  “Of course I came,” he finally said, holding her there for a warm second and then helping her back to Cynthia’s side. Tucking the blanket around her neck as she closed her eyes.

  “You must be Justin,” said Cynthia through shivers, the contours of her pretty face pale in the faint halo of light. “Lia said you might come.”

  “She did?” He glanced over at Lia with a start, but she didn’t seem to hear. “But I didn’t …” He narrowed his eyes. “How’d you know who I am? We ain’t met yet.”

  Cynthia shrugged. “Lia said you’d come for us and that you’d do anything to help.” She tucked the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “So I guessed it must be you. She said you grew up together, and she always thought you had a wonderfully good heart.”

  Justin’s eyes bulged. “She … she told you that?”

  “And she said her father loved you.”

  He smoothed the edge of Lia’s blanket in silence, the sudden lump in his throat choking out the words. Finally he tipped his head sideways. “She okay, Cynthia? She … uh … well, she don’t look so good.”

  Cynthia huddled deeper under the blanket, tears glimmering in her dark eyes. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “She’s awfully cold, and a couple of hours ago she started to talk nonsense. Something about her dad, and you, and … I don’t know. It didn’t make any sense to me.” She pressed her pale lips together. “Do you think she’s got hypothermia? We’ve been trying to keep warm, but it’s freezing out here.”

  “Hey Frankie, pass me that canteen, will ya?” Justin poured a little water in the tin cup, his fingers shaking in an unexpected mess of nerves, then held it up to Lia’s mouth to drink. Picturing her at the table with the jar of strawberry jam, her lashes dark and her manners humble and demure.

  “C’mon, Lia. Drink a little water.”

  Lia sipped, water running down her chin as she shifted forward stiffly, drawing up her good leg. “I’ll be fine. I just need to say good-bye first, and then we can go.”

  Huh? Justin narrowed his eyes and bent closer to hear. “What’d you say? We ain’t goin’ nowhere, at least not until this snow lets up.”

  She was delirious. She had to be.

  “I knew you’d come,” Lia murmured, turning her face toward Justin. A crack on her lips showing a faint red line of blood. Her eyelids closed, and the blanket slipped off one shoulder.

  Justin knelt just close enough to draw the blanket back up under her chin, tucking her fine curls of messy hair out of the way. Brushing out some dried pine needles that had clung there, little bits of bleached red-brown among nearly black.

  She needed lip balm for sure—Vaseline, or oil even—to keep her lips from cracking even more. He opened his backpack and flipped the top off the dented can of butter then smoothed his finger on the dull yellow surface. Running his moistened finger across Lia’s cracked lower lip.

  And as his breath stirred her hair, ever so gently, he leaned forward and touched his lips briefly and soundlessly to her forehead.

  If Lia noticed, she never said a word. But Justin felt as if his heart would soar right through the pines, exploding into little flakes of white brilliance, raining down across the snow-swept slopes of the Wind River Range.

  “We’ve gotta get a fire goin’ before they all freeze to death,” Justin said to Frankie under his breath, digging through his pack for the drab olive army-issue fire starter. It was made of rough cloth with a piece of flint, a steel striker, and a pile of fine, blond tinder that looked like horsehair. All cinched together with a leather cord.

  “What are we gonna use for firewood? Everything out here’s wet and frozen.” Frankie was shivering again. And no wonder—the temperature must’ve fallen another twenty degrees. Their breath misted, and Justin could barely feel his fingers.

  If he wasn’t careful, he might shiver and drop the spark, wasting good tinder and ruining their shot at starting a fire.

  “We’ll look for dry wood, both of us, up next to the trunks and outta the snow,” said Justin, wiping his damp hair out of his eyes with his sleeve. “You got your knife on ya?”

  “Got it.” Frankie patted his pocket. “Pine resin burns real well, too, and dead needles, if we can find some dry.”

  “Well, then, look for ‘em. We’ll shave the outer wood off the branches if we have to, to find somethin’ dry, and make a big enough pile to last us all night. If that fire goes out, we’ll have a doozy of a time startin’ it again.” He poked his head through the pine boughs, careful not to dislodge the snow.

  Frankie sniffled back a runny nose. “The snow ain’t that deep. We can dig down to the ground and start the fire right there in that open patch.” He pointed toward a small pocket of open ground close to the campsite.

  Justin bit his lip, twisting his head sideways to look up and make sure there was good clearance. They couldn’t have smoke doubling back into their dry alcove, forcing them to move to a wetter, colder spot. “Looks good to me, I reckon. Not that I can be picky. And we need a lotta wood, hear? Not just a stick or two. Plus enough twigs to start a bundle—and it might take us awhile to gather in this mess. I don’t got another coat or blanket. We’re just gonna hafta keel over of hypothermia gettin’ it, or we’ll all six freeze.” He grimaced up at the blustery sky. “And we probably ain’t gonna sleep. You with me?”

  Frankie met his eyes for a second, their character
istic goofy look turning suddenly sober. “I’m with ya. Here. I’ll hold the light.”

  “Don’t drop it.” Justin raised his eyebrows in a warning look. “C’mon now, and let’s get ‘em warmed up.”

  Frankie’s eyes looked glassy as he wrapped the bandanna around the steaming cup handle, squatting by the sputtering fire. “Reckon we’re all gonna make it, Fairbanks? Mr. Parker’s hurt awful bad.”

  “We’re gonna make it.” Justin spoke with more courage than he felt, reaching out to take the cup. “We gotta. I ain’t losin’ another father like I did last time.”

  “Like your pop?” Frankie looked up in sympathy.

  “No.” Justin spoke so quietly that a gust of wind and crackle of flame nearly covered his words. He turned his eyes down into the steaming cup. “Like Lia’s father.”

  “You mean …?” Frankie cocked his head in confusion, scrunching up his nose.

  Justin jerked his hand away as the hot metal handle burned through the bandanna. Its searing sting reminding him of crunching metal and squealing tires. The acrid scent of burning rubber.

  He sucked on a burned thumb for a second, wishing Frankie would just shut up so he wouldn’t have to spill the truth. But Frankie’s mouth just hung there in a bewildered grimace.

  “I killed her father, Frankie.” Justin spoke in a near whisper. “It was an accident. I told ya you don’t know nothin’ about me. And you sure don’t wanna be like me neither.”

  Justin got up and carried the steaming cup to Mr. Parker’s side, leaving Frankie sitting at the fire, his head gawking over his shoulder. Snow falling between them in fine white bits, like a freshly billowed curtain.

  Coyotes. Justin jerked his head up in a predawn gray, hearing the distant howls. Musical and ghostlike, eerie, seeping through the trees in mournful wails, yips, and barks. Falling and rising again, mingling together in shimmering chords.

  Coyotes normally didn’t bother anybody, but they, too, were unpredictable as wolves. They hid up in the peaks, driven back into lonely places by the ring of the hammer and blast of the shotgun.

  Justin snapped himself upright, rubbing his face with a dirty hand. He must’ve dozed off against the knobby pine trunk, his fire-prodding stick limp in his hand. The flames had nearly disappeared, but the wood still smoked.

  He forced his heavy eyelids open and crawled forward, tossing a branch into the fire and stirring the embers—poppy-orange under black coals, opening like a beautiful flower. He puffed on the ashes, shielding them from the wind and coaxing the glowing bits brighter and brighter. Feeding them twigs.

  Lia slept against Cynthia’s side, burrowed in the blankets, and even Mr. Parker began to rally a bit after cups of warm water. He’d propped himself up on an elbow and even asked about his camera, wondering if he’d smashed it to oblivion on the rocks.

  Justin scooted back from the fire as smoke spread in choking puffs, listening to the coyote songs echo through the snowy pines. Wondering if the snow had let up enough for them to try and make it down the mountain.

  He stood there between two spruce trees, shivering, arms crossed and hands pressed under his armpits to keep warm. His fingers, nose, and ears had survived the cold fine, but he still couldn’t feel his toes—even after he’d peeled off Frankie’s thin shoes and tried to warm his feet by the fire. An odd yellow-white color mottled his toes, never warming and never flushing rosy pink, which made his stomach lurch with fear.

  Losing a couple of toes was nothing compared to losing a father like Reverend Summers. But if Justin could help it, he’d like to keep his toes just the same.

  And during the cold-black hours of the night, it seemed that Justin had lost something else as well: the tendrils of trust he’d built with Frankie.

  Frankie obeyed him wordlessly, helped build up the fire, and—to his credit—even stayed awake and on the patrol against wolves, bears, and wildcats that might be attracted by the smell of food or blood. Brandishing a hefty limb in both hands.

  But he stood a cool distance away, head turned away and arms huddled. Twice Justin caught Frankie looking down at his own boots, laced there on Frankie’s feet, and then up at Justin’s face with a crushed look he couldn’t decipher. But when his gaze met Justin’s, it had skittered away like a nervous squirrel.

  “Hey, here’s your boots back,” said Frankie, as if attempting a smile, bending down to unlace them. “I done had ‘em longer than my fair share.”

  Justin scowled. “Keep ‘em, Frankie.”

  “Naw. Really. I’m good now.” And he stood on one foot, holding out a boot in the firelight.

  Dawn broke with light, lacy flakes in dizzy spirals, floating like dandelion fluff on the wind.

  Justin gathered limbs and branches, shaking off the snow, and stripped off the twigs and rough spots with his pocketknife. Forming a splint for Lia’s ankle first and then a stretcher for Mr. Parker. He’d already divided it up in his head: Frankie and Justin would carry Mr. Parker, and Cynthia and Mrs. Parker could support Lia between them.

  “You think we can head out?” Frankie spoke in that same guarded tone, looking at the fire.

  “Well, I’m makin’ a stretcher, ain’t I?” Justin flared, tired of Frankie’s childish silent treatment. “G’won and get one of the blankets so we can link the poles.”

  Frankie skittered off, and Justin hung his head in his hand, kneading his forehead. Wishing for a second he’d chosen Florida or Texas or somewhere warmer to join up with the CCC—and equally far away from Frankie White as Berea, Kentucky.

  But he’d stopped running. This was life, and he’d have to live it. Have to face it. Just like Lia did—one day at a time, one step after the next. Giving God glory and gracefully bending under the weight of life’s injustices.

  Justin set down his pocketknife and rubbed the toe of his boot, surprised that the feeling in his toes hadn’t returned yet. He’d been wearing his own boots for a couple of hours now, and he figured once they were good and cocooned inside leather, the blood would flow through the chilled flesh. Awakening the nerves with a stinging salute.

  He flexed his foot. Doc at the camp would help him when they got back; there wasn’t time to waste on worries now.

  “We’re all ready.” Frankie appeared under the dark fringe of pine branch, shouldering Justin’s pack. “All we gotta do is finish fixin’ Mr. Parker’s stretcher, and we can head out.”

  Justin nodded stonily and turned back to douse and dismantle the fire.

  But Frankie just stood there, the wind blowing through his hair and ruffling his grimy CCC shirt.

  “What?” Justin growled, whirling around. Throwing down the twig in his hand. “You wanna say somethin’, Frankie? Just say it and quit lookin’ at me like that.”

  Frankie didn’t speak—just stood there blinking like a bullfrog. He stuffed one hand in his pocket and scuffed the snow with the end of his broken shoe. “It was an accident, wasn’t it?” he finally said, looking up and meeting Justin’s gaze. He sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  “What was an accident?”

  “What happened with Lia’s father.” He dropped his voice, his breath coming out like smoke.

  “Course it was an accident, you moron. You think I’d do somethin’ like that on purpose?” Justin raised his voice instead of lowering it.

  Frankie ducked his head, looking embarrassed. “Course ya wouldn’t. I just thought … thought …” He bit his lips and pawed the snow again.

  “Thought what?” Justin got up and faced Frankie, his blood boiling so hot he had to remind himself that there were ladies around. As much as he felt like knocking Frankie White through a bunch of cedars, now might not be the best time and place to do it.

  “I dunno.” Frankie shrugged. “I thought you were just full a talk and all about that God stuff and about mistakes you said you’d made.” He met Justin’s gaze. “I thought ya figured you knew it all and hadn’t ever set foot in the real world. Shucks, like you were some kinda dandy or some
thin’.” His nose reddened, and he looked down. “I was the one who put ice in your bed to bring you down a peg. Know that?”

  “I know.” Justin snorted in disgust. “I shoulda strung you up for that.”

  Frankie blanched. “You mean you … you knew I did it?”

  “Sure I did. Cook saw you steal the ice from the chest and told me five minutes after.”

  “Oh.” Frankie swallowed and looked down.

  “And that stupid mountain rattler. You put it in your pack, and it crawled off.” Justin hugged himself in the cold. “I saw you lookin’ for it that day when I took your bird eggs. You know you coulda killed me or Ernie or one of the guys?”

  “I thought babies didn’t have venom! It was this big!” Frankie gestured wildly with his fingers.

  “Well they do, stupid!” Justin hollered, flaring up. Feeling that old itch to grab Frankie by the shirt collar and shake a lick of intelligence into him.

  Frankie stuck his hands in his pockets and scrubbed his shoes in the snow. He finally looked up. “And … you still come up here after me?” he asked in a small voice. “Even after ya knew all that?”

  “Sure I did. ‘Cause you’re an idiot.” Justin picked up a twig and started whittling it again.

  “Yeah. I reckon.” Frankie gave a half grin. Then he drew himself up taller, the grin fading. “But no matter what you mighta done, Fairbanks, I still think you’re swell.” He sniffled again, and Justin wasn’t sure if it was the cold or emotion. “Mighty swell.”

  Frankie’s throat quivered. “Truth is, I ain’t never done nothin’ good for nobody else in my life. All I’ve done is make trouble. I didn’t deserve to wear your boots, Fairbanks. You shoulda let me freeze.”

  “I might if you keep on talkin’ like that.” Justin clicked his knife shut and shoved it in his pocket, thinking of Reverend Summers.

  Frankie’s expression stayed sober. “I swear when I get back to camp I’m gonna try and straighten out my life. I’ll even give my rocks and stuff back to the lieutenant.”