by Janet Fox
“Sorry, miss.” A soldier, coming up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder. “Not allowed to go up there at night.” He thumbed at the springs. “Too dangerous.”
I turned away, anger churning in my gut. I’d had enough of men ordering me about for one day. “Not allowed” defined my life, as a woman, as a lady of class. “Not allowed” to run, “not allowed” to walk alone, “not allowed” to marry for love. At home in Newport, surrounded by comfort, I hadn’t appreciated how the life I led was governed by rules. I’d been oblivious; the shackles were soft. Now my eyes were opened by a father who’d betrayed my trust and by the rigid confines of this new raw life.
I flipped the stole over my shoulder and marched down the road away from the springs without giving the soldier the courtesy of a response.
Electric streetlamps glowed above my head as the last pink traces of light in the sky dimmed and streaked to red and violet and then to blue-black. I passed the clapboard curiosity shop fenced with elk antlers and the red-roofed barracks and staff houses of the fort. When I reached the last house in Officers’ Row, I stopped and stared through the trees into the vast wilderness.
The green dress was too thin as the cold night air settled over Mammoth. I pulled the stole tighter around my shoulders.
Mama was tied to this place. Despite what Papa believed, I still nurtured the hope that she was alive. She’d promised me she’d come back; and the things she’d said in her letter kept me holding on to that promise. Her letter. I would not break my own pledge to her, and so I still couldn’t say anything about it to Papa, but now its contents held deeper meaning. I’d reread it so often over the past year that I could recite it from memory, the creases in the paper soft with wear. It had not made sense before, but now I understood that this place was special to her and I felt my hope growing again. I’d find her.
I stared into the dark woods as if I were staring out over the gray ocean.
And Papa. He’d brought us here, and regardless of what he had told me, I didn’t think it was out of coincidence. I couldn’t read Papa’s motives at all. It was as if I were in the center of a great wheel spinning around me, with Mama on one side and Papa on the other. It was yet another thing that was out of my control.
I turned back toward the hotels as the cold and silence of the night settled on me and made me shiver.
Snap. I jerked my head at the sound. Some forty feet away, strolling through the encampment of buildings in determined indifference, was an enormous bear. I could make out its shape as it shuffled under the streetlamps that cast pools of yellow. It had a mountainous lump on its shoulders. Grizzly.
Graybull had told me what to do back in the coach: “You lie still and play dead.” I stood as still as stone, ready to drop to the ground. My shaking legs would be only too happy to oblige.
The bear stopped and swung its great head from side to side. The air was so still I could hear it grunt as if it were right next to me. I held my breath when every nerve in my body told me to run.
The bear hesitated. Could it smell me? There was no wind. The blood pounded in my ears. The massive head hovered. I remembered how I felt in the coach when those eyes, flat and driven by instinct, had met mine. Raw animal emotion—mine and the bear’s—could not be contained. A void opened before me, yawning at my feet, no different than if I’d been standing at the edge of the cliff. I feared I’d be sick or make some sound. It was all out of my control.
I watched the bear for what seemed an eternity.
Finally it moved on, with slow purpose, toward the back of the last house on the road.
I watched until it disappeared entirely behind the house. I waited a few more seconds before walking as fast as possible up the road in the opposite direction, thankful for the streetlights, thankful for the hotels, my breath quick and hard as the adrenaline coursed through me. As I grew closer to the Cottage Hotel I broke out in a run, my combs falling forgotten from my hair, the exhilaration of my close brush flooding me like joy.
I went straight to my room and locked the door. I collapsed on the bed, panting, my brown hair loose and tangled, my green silk gown soaked with sweat.
Chapter FOURTEEN
June 22, 1904
“It isn’t a question of any beauty”, said Maggie; “it’s only a question of the quantity of truth . . . That’s a thing by itself, yes. But there are also such things, all the same, as questions of good faith”.
—The Golden Bowl, Henry James, 1904
“IT WASN’T VERY CLOSE. I DON’T THINK IT KNEW I WAS there.” I could feel Tom’s eyes on me. I tried to be dismissive, even a little flippant, so he wouldn’t see my nervousness. I couldn’t meet his eyes because each time I did, my heart skipped a beat. My anxiety was not all about the bear.
“It wasn’t hungry, that’s all. Besides, you’re too skinny. Not much more than a mouthful. All bony legs and arms.” I did look at him then. I could have sworn he was trying not to laugh. There it was—that irreverence that kept me off balance. I wasn’t used to having someone needle me. And I was in a cranky mood.
I hadn’t slept, throwing my covers off in a sweat then yanking them back on in a chill, and I’d awakened late. It was noon now, and I had not set foot outside until an hour earlier. His teasing tipped me over the edge, even if I did like him. I spoke through clenched teeth. “And how many bear episodes have you survived?”
“You win.” He was grinning. “I’ve only watched bears from a safe distance.” He was trying to make me feel better. It worked. I relaxed and met his smile. “You were wise not to run. A griz can move at about thirty-five miles an hour.”
My smile faded. “Do you know anyone who’s been attacked by a bear?”
“It doesn’t happen often. Bears want to keep to themselves. Except around garbage, which isn’t fair to bears. We shouldn’t be feeding them. It’s the people who have a problem there.”
“So the bears have rights? More rights than the people?”
“They were here first.”
Tom was serious. I was still trying to shake off my exhaustion and the memory of that great hulking beast. I shook my head. “Still.”
“Still, he wouldn’t even be around here, looking for a handout, if we kept the garbage locked up.” I looked into Tom’s eyes. When he was solemn, they were stormy gray like the Atlantic. I could have looked into his eyes forever. It didn’t matter whether I agreed with him or not.
Our ice cream arrived. It was in the popular new cornucopia, which I’d first sampled when Papa and I’d stopped at the Exposition. Ice cream in a turned waffle with delicate tissue wrapped around the cone. We ate in silence.
Nothing about Tom felt familiar. He was hard to measure against the other men I knew. His opinions were confusing, and his teasing—I didn’t know where I stood. I hadn’t found a way to speak to him without feeling like a fool.
And he looked like he’d just stepped out of the backwoods. His shirt was clean, but plaid. I’d wager Edward thought plaid belonged in Scotland, not on his back in a dining room. And hiking boots in the National! Really, Tom was ridiculous.
Yet I wanted to reach across the table—right then, reach my arm over both our ice creams—and lift that lock of hair off his forehead, and then see him smile for me. Only for me. I would have followed his sea eyes into the bear’s teeth.
He glanced up. “Good?” His index finger pointed at my ice cream, now dripping down my fingers while I mooned.
I flushed right to my toes. “Thanks. It’s delicious.” I licked my fingers and I grasped for the sparkling wit that seemed to elude me in his presence. “Are you in Yellowstone for a while?”
“The whole summer.”
“You help your father?”
“Yes. I love this place.” He put his ice cream down and leaned across the table, as if to share a secret with me. “I wish I could just stay right here forever.”
I took a breath. Only six inches spanned the distance between our faces. “Why?” I whispered.
I laughed. I surprised myself, and actually laughed, openmouthed, in a way I hadn’t done in years. I threw my hand over my mouth. I’m sure I looked like a ninny. But for once, I didn’t care, because it felt wonderful.
And Tom didn’t seem to mind. “What about you? What would you like to do?”
His question sobered me right up. “I haven’t thought much about it.” I hadn’t done anything but think about it, but not in the way he meant. I hadn’t thought about what I’d like to do at all, just what was expected of me. My future in Newport had been forecast: marry well, entertain well. University? School was not for learning a trade, but was a way to put a proper finish on things, like polishing the silver. Now, of course, my avenues had narrowed. Marriage seemed my only hope. The thought of Graybull crossed my mind and I shut my eyes. When I opened them, I looked at my lap. “I’ve never thought about it. All I’ve done is help Papa with his papers.”
“He’s an architect, right? So maybe you could study architecture.”
“No! Don’t be ridiculous!” I met his startled glance. “Women don’t do that sort of thing.”
“Why not?” I could see he was serious. How could I explain?
“First of all, I’ve never met anyone who . . .” I paused. “My mother was an artist. Is an artist. And she taught me how to draw.”
“There you go. Art is a profession.”
I started to laugh again, not meeting his eyes. “You don’t understand. It’s just not done.” I could feel him looking at me, his entire attention fixed on me. His sincere expression pierced my soul. I liked the feeling. My cheeks flamed and I folded my hands. “I wish things were different. But where I come from, that’s the way it is. Ladies don’t have professions.” And a sadness came over me that threatened to sweep me away. I looked out the window at the curling steam.
“Would you like to go for a walk?” he asked.
I looked up at him with an enormous, grateful smile. I nodded, unable to speak. We left the dining room and walked down the road toward the barracks. Tom talked, leaving me free to listen to his warm voice.
“The Army has an outpost here. The soldiers protect the hot springs and wildlife from vandals and poachers. And people selling chunks of the rock formations.” I blushed at his tease, thinking back to my silly assumption about his father. He sensed my embarrassment. “Hey. You didn’t know. It’s just that people looking for souvenirs have done a lot of damage around here. Even Old Faithful has lost some of its cap.”
“Old Faithful?”
He paused, watching me. The sun sparked off the snowy peak behind him. “You don’t know a thing about Yellowstone, do you? Come on. I want to show you something.”
We picked up the pace now, walking down the road past the barracks. Swallows winged overhead, garrulous, dipping and turning. The breeze kicked up without warning, and I reached for my hat and realized that I’d left it and my gloves in my room. I tugged at the loose wisps of hair that swept my cheeks.
I watched Tom out of the corner of my eye. His head was up. He reminded me of a colt, enjoying the breeze, living for the moment. My stomach tightened into little knots. I wished he would reach out one long arm and take my hand, and then look at me with those eyes. I could almost match his long-legged stride, and that felt nice, too, this swinging movement next to Tom—both of which made me giddy.
“It’s not too far. Just over there.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. I like the walk.”
Our eyes met, and we exchanged a smile, and in that instant I thought my heart might melt.
“There!” Tom pointed. I shaded my eyes. Just below us was a large corral. Inside I could make out a dozen animals grazing. They were huge and shaggy. “Buffalo.”
“Buffalo!” Tom was right, I knew nothing of Yellowstone, but I knew enough to know that bison were nearly extinct.
“Only forty years ago, they were here, tens of thousands of them. One old-timer told me he saw a herd so large the plains were black as far as he could see. Black with buffalo. They went on forever.” Tom was quiet a moment. “There are about thirty left. That’s it. Most are there, the rest on an island in the lake. And these aren’t really wild. They had to bring domesticated bison up from Texas.”
I felt the need to impress Tom, somehow, and dragged up something I’d heard my grandfather go on about. “Killing the buffalo did help subdue the Indians, though. And so we could settle the west.”
Tom wheeled on me, his face alive with emotion. “Is that what’s important? White man’s way? Conquer and destroy?”
I took a step back, surprised by his outburst, my mouth agape.
Tom looked at me as though seeing me new. “Do you mean all of what you say, Maggie? I know, it’s just the way you were brought up. You can’t help it, can you.” He shook his head. “You’re a snob.”
I felt as if he’d slapped me, and the tears came to my eyes. “I’m . . . I’m only telling you what I know.”
“And what you know is what you’ve been told. And it’s wrong.” He was looking at the buffalo now, not at me. His voice was bitter. I wanted to say to him, “Then tell me something I don’t know. Tell me what’s right. I can learn.”
“Have you ever even seen a live buffalo before?”
I whispered a tiny, “No.”
“Look. Just look at them. Big, old, mean-tempered . . . they’re built to survive the cold winters and dry summers.” He turned to me, his eyes shining. “For the Lakota, a buffalo was a spirit guide. Their life support. The bison gave them everything they needed—clothes, food, shelter. Then here we come, big white man with big gun, and we took the animals down for sport, just shot them down. They’re big targets. Even a fool with a peashooter could hit a buffalo.”
“I didn’t know,” I whispered. Please, oh, please, don’t be mad. How was I supposed to know, when everything around me, everyone around me, for all my life so far focused on parties and balls and weddings and clothes?
He backed off a little, but only a little. “While you’re here on your little working holiday you’ll learn a lot.”
“We’re not on holiday.” I regretted the words the minute they left my lips. But I was exhausted and miserable, and all the confused feelings I’d harbored for weeks bubbled up. In my misery, I forgot that I was talking to Tom, forgot that I liked him and wanted to impress him with my so-called worldly ways. I only knew my life was upside down. “We’re moving here. We’re moving here, all right? My father lied to me, sold our home. My mother left us. And my grandparents want to own me. I’ve been betrayed, and I have nowhere to turn.” I burned with pent-up emotion now, and it steamed out of me, directed at him. “You think you know so much. You may be smart about animals and Yellowstone and nature, but you’re not so smart when it comes to a girl’s feelings. So, I’m a snob? Well, fine. At least I was brought up to behave properly and not call people names, thank you very much. You’ve never even faced a bear! Maybe when you face something really fearful, maybe when your life turns upside down, maybe when you confront something so awful you can’t imagine the world ever being right again, well, sir, maybe then . . .” I sputtered out like a dying candle.
Tom stared as if I’d struck him in the chest. I stood shaking, with my anger and loss all exposed and raw.
I couldn’t stand it. I whirled and strode up the road toward the hotel, taking brisk strides that caused my skirt to flap and flutter.
“I’m sorry.” I heard his voice from behind me. “I didn’t mean to . . .”
I stopped and faced him. “I need to write some letters, if you’ll excuse me. Then I’m going to dress for dinner. Me and my snobbish clothes.” I turned and continued my march back to town.
He caught up with me, but his face was averted. “Of course.” His long legs
matched my hurried pace.
I stopped again, my hands on my hips, and I glared at him. “And you could do with a cleaning up, you know. Looking decent won’t kill you.”
“Okay,” he said, drawing the word out. I watched as color rose into his cheeks.
I turned and continued stomping up the path, Tom matching me step for step while I tried to tuck my loose curls behind my ears, irritated that I’d forgotten my hat. It was a useless gesture.
And as we kept walking, the soft afternoon air swelled around us, and my temper ebbed. Tom was right there with me. What he’d said was so hurtful that I wanted to drop down into the grass and weep. But I had stood my ground, and he was still there, matching me stride for stride, when everyone else in my life had either abandoned me or wanted to control me. Mama, Papa, my grandparents, Graybull, even Edward and Kitty—they’d never matched me stride for stride like this lanky man whom I hardly knew, but whose eyes penetrated my very soul.
I marched on up the road, tortured, having no idea how to undo the pain that circled my heart.
Chapter FIFTEEN
June 22, 1904
Any schoolboy or girl can make good pictures with one of Eastman Kodak Co’.s Brownie Cameras. $1.00
—newspaper advertisement, 1900
At last I am sending you the photographic proofs, they are untoned therefore will darken by degrees in the light.
—letter from Evelyn Cameron to Kathleen Lindsay, a client, 1897
WE WALKED, NOT SPEAKING. THE PATH TO THE HOTELS felt longer on the return than it had when we set out. The swallows chittered above, and the breeze stirred the tall grasses, swish, swish. The sun washed the hills with a languid light. Tom and I shared a rhythmic cadence, our arms and legs moving together as if synchronized. It only made me feel worse, to think that we had some link yet we were so far apart. I glanced at him sidelong. He chewed his lip. I looked at my feet and chewed my own.
