Yellowstone Memories

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  “Don’t you start. You forgot your nail clippers last time and were begging to use mine.”

  “Me, begging?” Thomas grinned, a clean, salt-of-the-earth smile that made Alicia feel faint joy stir inside her. “You’re one to talk, always stealing my compass mirror to check your lipstick. You brought your own this time, didn’t you?”

  “Why should I? So long as I have yours, there’s no need to weigh down my pack with mine.”

  “Ha.” Thomas smiled again. “Lucky for you I brought two. One for you, one for me.” He slipped a little wrapped package from his back pocket and twirled it between two fingers. “You can thank me later.”

  Alicia stared as Thomas tossed the package onto the corner of her tray. “You didn’t. Those things cost fifty bucks apiece.” The package looked too big for a compass though. “What else did you stick in here?”

  “Be afraid. Be very afraid.”

  Alicia put her tray and coffee down and tore at the tape. “You wrapped this in a McDonald’s hamburger wrapper, Thomas! Gross. Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “That’s what I found on the floor of my Jeep this morning when I showed up at the airport.” He narrowed thick eyebrows. “Be glad I wrapped it at all.”

  Alicia pulled off the wrapper and made a show of wiping her hands on her napkin before reaching inside. There lay the compass, sure enough—he hadn’t lied. And underneath it?

  “Freeze-dried Sea-Monkeys?” She held up the plastic packet. “Are you serious?”

  But Thomas had already turned, slapping hands across the chow line with a big African American guy from another crew.

  Weirdo. Alicia smiled as she tucked the compass in her pocket. She marched through the rows of picnic tables, searching through the sea of yellow and olive green for a friendly face but wavered when she saw the back of Carlita’s ponytail next to a pair of too-big triangle earrings. Earrings owned by hateful Melissa Ramirez of the second Albuquerque crew.

  The last time she saw those trademark hot-pink plastic triangles they’d been on the dashboard of Miguel’s car.

  Alicia slipped behind a lanky fire captain, ignoring Jorge’s leering grin from across the crowded mess area—and searched for an empty space. She eased into a metal folding chair by a discarded paper plate and Mello Yello can, then set down her tray and steaming coffee, rubbing her tired eyes and trying not to smudge her eyeliner. She unwrapped a plastic fork and reluctantly poked at her beans, wishing for a second she’d stayed home.

  Alicia had always loved the thrill of smoke and flame, the adrenaline rush that pushed her into the heat with nothing more than a few government-issued tools. Sweat, ash, and the dull roar of falling trees clouded her eyes, making her feel half delirious with fatigue and odd exhilaration. Exhilaration that she, a no-name Mexican American who didn’t even know her own parents’ names, could help stomp the angriest inferno into sullen soot and embers—reducing the mighty giant to its knees.

  But this time even she felt outmatched as she stared at the smoke boiling up from the distant trees. Thick and sinister, as if it could swallow her alive.

  Perhaps if it did, things would work out better anyhow.

  Alicia played with the plastic top on her water bottle with her short fingernail, wondering what it would feel like to wilt in the white-hot heat, gasping lungfuls of smoky air. Burning branches raining down like hailstones, the forest exploding around her.

  At least she’d left things ready just in case.

  “So you ditched me, huh?” A familiar voice rang next to her ear.

  Alicia twisted around to look up at Thomas. “You again?” She smiled and pushed the dirty paper plate next to her out of his way, shaking the empty Mello Yello can. “You that desperate for a free soda?”

  “You know me well.”

  Thomas pretended to reach for the can as he sat down, and Alicia whacked him with it. “You’re such a goofball, you know that?”

  “Yeah.” He grinned, rubbing a brown hand over his face.

  “Don’t you have anybody else to sit with?” Alicia tried to keep her mouth straight as she tore off a tiny bit of her roll.

  “Me? Not really.” He unwrapped the plastic straw on his Capri Sun and punched it into the foil. “Nobody wants to hear about my French-speaking ferret or my rotten tomato collection. I dunno why.”

  Alicia stared. “A ferret. That speaks French.”

  “A cheap-o tape series I got at the library. Works like a charm. In fact, I’m gonna start paying him to give me lessons now.” Thomas bowed his head in a quick, silent prayer and then unwrapped his napkin and plastic utensils. “And the rotten tomatoes are for the seeds. I swear. Something about the acid eating away the seed casings so they sprout better.”

  Thomas stuffed a big forkful of beanie-weenies in his mouth and closed his eyes. “Man, that’s good stuff. What’s the matter with you, Sanchez? Don’t you eat?”

  “Gross. No.” Alicia sniffed the little piece of roll and grimaced before dropping it back on her plate. “Not on trips like these. Ugh.” She pushed her plate away and reached for her bottle of mineral water.

  “Are you kidding? It’s a hot lunch. This is tons better than the premade MRE lunches we get out at the spike camp. Meals Ready to Eat.” His lips turned up in a grin. “Or, better, Meals Refused by Ethiopians.” He smeared butter on his roll and took a big bite. “After a few days on the fire line, even those Sea-Monkeys will start to look good.”

  Alicia spluttered her water in an unexpected laugh. “Do I dare ask if they’re reconstituted the same way as our MREs?”

  “Just add water.” He shook a forkful of beanie-weenies. “So enjoy this while it lasts.”

  “No thanks.” Alicia poked her roll with her plastic fork. “This looks like it fell out of last decade’s army surplus. I’m not that hungry.”

  Thomas reached over his tray and picked up her roll. “What’s wrong with it? It’s bread. Not as good as my fry bread back home, but it’s edible. I got an extra.” He hovered his hand over her tray. “If you’re not careful, I’ll swipe yours, too.”

  Right. Alicia smiled, remembering how he’d voluntarily skipped lunch twice last year when the supply truck broke down—so the rest of the crew could eat. “Take my roll. I don’t eat white flour anyway.”

  “Huh?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Not at all? A dinner roll never killed anybody.” He shook it for emphasis: a shapeless round blob of pasty white.

  “You’re wrong.” Alicia wrinkled her nose. “That stuff’s terrible for you. Makes you fat.”

  “If you’re worried about health, quit using that chemical-saturated Equal stuff.” He nodded to her artificial sweetener packets. “It’s creepy.” Thomas narrowed black eyes at her. “Fat? Don’t tell me you’re on some crazy diet or something again. You’re all skin and bones, Alicia.”

  “Please.” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “I’m serious.” The mirth fizzled for a minute, and he put the roll down and dug in his jacket pocket. “Here, then, if you’re so all-fired hippie. Eat this.” And he tossed her a package of whole-wheat peanut butter crackers. “Eat something, for goodness’ sake, before you start sprouting Q-tips out your ears like that kid in ET.”

  Alicia blinked. “Elliot didn’t put Q-tips in his ears. That was in Better Off Dead—the John Cusack film.” She raised an eyebrow. “And that analogy made no sense anyway, regardless of which movie you’re talking about.”

  “Aw, no.” Thomas dug into his beans again with gusto. “You’re wrong about the movies. It’s right after the part where the creepy alien asks to phone home, and Elliot sticks his ears full of Q-tips. Haven’t you seen it?”

  “What? You’re totally wrong.” Alicia put down her water bottle. “You’re getting the movies mixed up again, just like you always do. That was Better Off Dead. The movie where the kid on the bike keeps saying, ‘I want my two dollars!’ ”

  “You’re making this up.” Thomas wiped his mouth with a napkin. �
�I told you, that’s ET, not Better Off Dead. I remember that kid on the bike riding through the mist. Think about it—after the Q-tips, they dress the alien in some kind of homemade pink New Wave frock for prom.”

  “No!” Alicia pounded the table. “That was Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink! Andie makes the dress and goes to prom with Duckie. Don’t you remember anything you see in the theater?”

  “You poor misguided soul.” Thomas gave her a pitying look as he scooped up his beans. “You must have gone a few years between viewings. How old are you again? Forty-six?”

  “Forty-six?” Alicia yelped, causing a wiry, white-haired crew boss to jerk his head in her direction. Thomas’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “I’m twenty-nine, you freak-o.” She reached out and slugged his shoulder. “Not as old as you, you old goat.”

  “Try again, chica.” Thomas winked as he bit into his roll. “Twenty-eight, baby.”

  “What?” Alicia’s eyes bugged out. “You’ve got white hair! You’re lying. You can’t be twenty-eight.”

  “Blame bad genetics for my white hairs.” Thomas reached into his vest pocket and tossed his driver’s license on the table without flinching. “Read it and weep.”

  Alicia glared at him then sneaked a peek at the license. “Right. Like that thing’s legit.” She shoved it back across the table. “Where’d you get it, a Cracker Jack box?”

  “Sore loser, aren’t we?” Thomas stuck his license back in his vest pocket then leaned back in his chair and stretched in victory. “So what was that about an old goat? I’d like to hear it again, if you don’t mind.”

  “Shut up.” Alicia crossed her arms.

  Thomas snickered and poked the packet of crackers across the table at her. “I win. Eat.”

  “I don’t eat peanuts.”

  “What?” Thomas threw up his arms. “What do you eat, woman? Frijoles?”

  “Beans? Don’t be disgusting.”

  “You’re Mexican, for Pete’s sake.” Thomas scowled.

  “So? I hate all that stuff. It’s full of carbs.”

  “Rice?”

  “No.”

  “Rutabagas?”

  “Be serious.”

  Thomas rubbed his forehead. “Come on. There must be something you like. Tell me. Your favorite food in the world.” He lowered his voice as if telling a secret. “Your last meal. What would it be?”

  Alicia studied him a second, thinking, then leaned across her tray.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Butter on Velvet Gold graham crackers.” She shook one of her Equal packets, avoiding his eyes. “My favorite foster mom used to make it. It sounds silly, I know. But when I’d had a rough day at school, she’d sit at the kitchen table with me and spread graham crackers with butter. They were wonderful. Crisp and sweet, with a little spread of creamy stuff across the top.” Alicia tried to laugh. “Disgusting, right?”

  “Not at all.” Thomas’s eyes sobered. “Velvet Gold graham crackers.” He wrinkled his brow in thought. “I remember those. They stopped making them awhile back, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah.” Alicia leaned her cheek in her hand. “Nabisco graham crackers aren’t the same at all. I sent some letters to different baking companies trying to find Velvet Gold, but apparently it’s defunct. I haven’t tasted those graham crackers since I was nine.”

  Thomas ate in silence as if wondering whether or not to ask and then raised his head slightly. “So what happened to your foster mother?”

  “Which one?” A flicker of irritation snatched at Alicia’s dark brows.

  “You had more than one?”

  “Seven, last time I counted.” Alicia’s tone took on a harder edge. “And if you’re talking about Mrs. Coffman, the one I ate graham crackers with, she died of a sudden heart attack at age fifty-two. Nobody knows why.” She checked her watch and turned away from the table, scanning the mess tent. “So what time are we supposed to be out on the fire line?”

  “I’m sorry.” Thomas didn’t move, except to raise his head.

  “About?” She looked up as if annoyed.

  “Mrs. Coffman. The graham crackers.” Thomas poked the rest of his beanie-weenies with his fork and chewed thoughtfully. “And the seven foster mothers. That must have been rough to feel bounced between so many homes, especially when you were so young.”

  The scent of smoke hung in the air in a sudden, unmistakable breath, and Alicia’s eyes felt warm. The way they did when bits of ash swirled on the horizon.

  “You don’t know the half of it.” Alicia ran a hand through her ponytail in a harsh gesture. “But that’s life, I guess, right?”

  “Sort of, but …” Thomas put down his fork and nested his chin in his hand. “I knew you’d been through a lot.” He sighed. “Tell me something. Were any of the foster mothers kind like Mrs. Coffman?”

  “No,” said Alicia crisply, dabbing a napkin at her lips and effectively ending the subject. “Not in the slightest. Now, where’d I put that compass mirror, or do I need to borrow yours again?”

  “One last thing.” Alicia reached out to stop Thomas as he gathered up his empty tray. “You never told me.”

  “Told you what?” He drained the last of his Capri Sun, and the foil packet made a slurping sound.

  “What would you want to eat for your last meal?”

  Thomas put his Capri Sun down and rattled it on the table while he thought. “I think I know.”

  “What?” Alicia balled up her napkin and pushed her mostly full plate away.

  “Whatever would make you smile like you meant it.” He winked and stood up then waved good-bye as he carried his plate to the trash.

  Chapter 3

  You’ve got your will written, don’t you?” Carlita called over through the gloom.

  Alicia jumped, blinking burning eyes into a pour of sweat from her hairline. Her mouth stammered as she scrambled for a reply. “What’s that supposed to mean? It’s not like people are going to be fighting over my betta fish.”

  She raised her voice over the roar of the fire and the shouts of the crew as they dug into the fragrant earth with fire rakes. The pines overhead still glowed bright green in the mid-afternoon sun, but just a few feet to the right they’d scorched like overdone marshmallows.

  “I mean we’re probably all gonna die out here.” Carlita paused long enough to wipe sweat from her neck. “Either from scorched lungs or smoke inhalation. This fire’s a monster! We’ve been chasing it for hours, and it’s done nothing but pick up speed.”

  She put down her pulaski fire rake and tied a dusty purple bandanna around her forehead—making her look like a fiftyish female Rambo. Thick, murky smoke boiled in from the huge swath of burned forest, and glimmers of orange still licked at a blackened stump.

  “Speak for yourself. I’m not dying out here.” Alicia coughed into her bandanna. “Maybe not, but I’m so mad at the Park Service I could spit.” Carlita shook her head in disgust. “If they’d put this thing out earlier, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Look at it!” She swept a filthy, ash-stained arm at the blackened stretch of forest. Rippling heat waves made the whole scene look hazy, as if Alicia were seeing underwater.

  “It’s not all their fault. This is the driest summer on record, and all this timber just waiting to burst into flame. We’ll put it out if it takes all week. Besides, I’ve seen worse.”

  “You’re a liar.” Carlita didn’t even look up. “You’ve never seen worse than this.”

  “Maybe.” Alicia hid a smile.

  “Maybe nothing. If this is what hell looks like, count me out.”

  “I don’t believe in hell.” Alicia stomped on a piece of ash that floated in on a warm gust. “Life is hell. That’s my theory.”

  “And when you die you go to heaven? Right. Like that makes any more sense than us digging the daylights out of a strip of land that’s just going to go up in smoke in an hour anyway.” Carlita made a face. “So anyway, you got your wish.”

  “My what?” Alicia
coughed and wiped her gloves on her ash-stained pants before gripping her fire rake. In a few minutes the whole line of firefighters would dig a single swipe into the soil with their fire rakes, in perfect succession, one after another. A step forward and another swipe—digging trenches into the furnace and whittling away at its mighty power.

  “Your wish.” Carlita nodded her head behind them.

  Alicia twisted around to see through the thick cloak of gray-black smoke. And there, barely visible through the gloom, came a glint of Forest Service sea green: Thomas’s fire truck rumbling through a distant dirt road. It disappeared behind a charred cottonwood, one of the dead branches still glowing with flame.

  “Give me a break, Carlita.” Alicia turned back, sponging her face with the back of her glove. “I told you I don’t like him like that. Really. Why don’t you give it up?” She watched as the last crew member down the line swung his fire rake, and then she stepped forward with the others. “I don’t care if he’s here. He’s just a friend.”

  “What?” Carlita spun around. “I was talking about them assigning us initial attack. Your wish. Remember?” She glared. “What were you talking about?”

  Alicia nearly dropped her fire rake. “Oh,” she mumbled, feeling her face color with embarrassment. “Sorry. I misunderstood you.”

  Carlita didn’t respond, stomping soot and soil from her boots as the crew boss shouted at them to put their backs into it. A wall of heat hit Alicia from the side with unexpected force, and hoses hissed as crew members rushed to keep the fire from spreading.

  “Really. I’m sorry.” Alicia wiped the sweat drops tickling the side of her face with a dusty bandanna, keeping an eye on the fire line. Ghostly orange flames flickered through the gloom, and she instinctively covered her head as a crash of falling timber reverberated through the woods. “I just thought you meant something else.”

  “Or somebody else,” Carlita muttered, gripping her fire rake to raise on cue. “I tell you what, for somebody who doesn’t like that Thomas fellow, you sure spend a lot of time thinking about him.”