“He wants to know if you want sweet pickles, too?”
Mellie nodded. Mr. Johnson not only had the best garden in the country, but he made his own pickles and jams and froze all the vegetables he could. Knowing him, he’d bring some surprise for Lissa also. When one time she’d accused him of spoiling the little girl, he’d looked hurt. “But she’s my only grandchild,” he’d said, and Mellie never mentioned such a thing again.
Lissa said goodbye and hung up the phone. She picked up her rabbit and, clutching the stuffed animal in one arm, wrapped the other around her mother’s slender hips.
“You need a snuggle?”
“Uh-huh.”
Mellie fitted the top on the roaster pan and, after sliding the pan in the oven, turned off the burner. Ignoring the breakfast dishes and the preparation mess, she scooped up her daughter and deposited the two of them in the rocker in front of the window, where the sun could warm her shoulders.
Laying her cheek on Lissa’s soft hair, she let her mind relax along with her body. For the first time in a while, things seemed to be turning around for them. She pushed with her toe and set the rocker to creaking in gentle harmony with the soothing motion. Within moments, Lissa slumped against her breast, sound asleep, Mellie’s eyelids grew heavy, and slowly the chair ceased its song.
A knock on the door sometime later roused Mellie from her nap. Gently, carefully, she lifted Lissa as she stood and laid her on the couch. Mr. Johnson always knocked three, pause, and one, softly so that if Lissa were sleeping, she might not hear. Mellie opened the door, her welcome smile wide. “Come in.” She kept her voice low so that Lissa could sleep on.
“Are you listening to the radio or television?” He, too, whispered, bending slightly from his former basketball star height.
She shook her head. “Come into the kitchen and I’ll put the coffee on.” They both glanced over at the sleeping child and, like coconspirators, tiptoed into the other room.
“Oh, it smells heavenly in here.” Charles Johnson inhaled once and then again. He set his basket full of goodies on the table, paused, then turned to Mellie, who was filling the coffeepot at the sink.
“Mellie, where did you say Harvey was driving truck?”
“Above the Toutle River, down by Castle Rock, why?”
“That’s on Mount St. Helens?”
“Yes.” At the slight quaver in his voice she turned to look up at him. “Mr. Johnson, what is it?”
“Mount St. Helens erupted this morning. I didn’t turn the TV on until I’d read the paper after church.”
Mellie fumbled for the burner with the coffeepot. “H-how bad?” Oh, God, not now. Where Harvey is, keep him safe, oh, God, please.
MAY 18, 1980
Jenn, come here! Now!”
Jenn bailed out of bed at the sound of her father yelling. Norman Stockton never yelled. He hardly spoke ten words in a row and usually in a near monotone unless he was really riled about something. Had the world come to an end or what?
She grabbed her short terry robe off the oak bedpost and shoved her arms in the sleeves as she clambered down the stairs. “Where are you?”
“Out on the deck.” Her mother answered as she most usually did to any question not directed to Norm personally and even then if one needed an answer in a timely fashion.
Jenn finger-combed her hair back, wishing she had a rubber band. She pulled open the sliding glass door that still stuck after all these years. Another of those things on her mother’s honey-do list that her father never looked at until the item ceased to function.
“Oh my God.” Tears burned as she spoke the words. “When did it start?”
“About eight thirty. Didn’t you feel the earthquake?” Clare glanced over her shoulder. “You didn’t put any slippers on. You’ll freeze your feet.”
“I guess not.” Jenn came to join her mother and father at the aged cedar railing. She sniffed back the tears, but one leaked out and meandered down her cheek.
“Instead of going up, she blew out the north face. Wish I’d had a telescope.” Norm never took his eyes from the spectacle mushrooming before them.
Moment by moment, the clouds of ash, rock, and steam billowed out, covering the mountain, filling the sky. Silver, black, gray, and every tone in between, heart-wrenching violence of an indescribable beauty.
“Where are you going?” Clare turned as Jenn left her side.
“To get my camera. I need to be recording all this. If I’d only known …” The slamming of the door cut off her answer.
Jenn ran back up the stairs, snagged her backpack and tripod out of the corner, started back down, and ran back to dig more film out of her suitcase. Praying five rolls were enough, she castigated herself for not stopping for more as she thundered down the stairs and out to the deck. With sure hands she pulled out the telescoping legs of the tripod, set it up, and screwed the camera body in place. All the while she kept an eye on the ever-expanding mountain. So much she was missing out on because she’d not been prepared. Lightning forked in the midst of the black and gray miasma.
Her father left the deck and returned in a few moments with a portable radio.
“Vancouver, Vancouver, this is it!”
She glanced at her father only to have him shrug.
“That’s the voice of volcanologist David Johnston,” said the radio announcer. “Mount St. Helens erupted at 8:31 this morning, sending a blast northeast that leveled trees and is sending an ash-and-debris cloud eastward. We have no idea of the damage so far, nor the death toll or what will happen next. The Toutle Valley is being evacuated, and everyone is ordered to stay away from the red zone. Rescue personnel are arriving, and sightseers will only hamper rescue attempts. We at KEX Vancouver will keep you informed as we receive more information here in the station.”
Jenn was putting in the third roll when she realized her legs and feet were indeed freezing as her mother had warned. While the sun was out, the temperature was still too cold for shorts.
“Here.” Her mother set a cup of coffee on the railing and handed another to her husband. “You want some breakfast now?” She dropped Jenn’s slippers at her feet.
Jenn took a sip of the coffee and shook her head. “Later maybe.”
Norm grunted, never taking his gaze from the cataclysm to the east.
“How come we never heard anything?”
“Beats me.”
Jenn glanced over at her father, who’d been cutting timber on the foothills of the Cascade Mountain range most of his life. Was that a tear she saw on his sunburned cheek?
“You could have been up there.” The thought dried her throat.
He nodded. “Happened on a weekday and I woulda been. A lot of us would.”
“You think Harry …” She stopped at her father’s shaking head.
“Unless he knew something earlier than anyone else—na, bet him and his lodge are blown off the face of the earth.”
“Or buried by debris.”
“He always talked about his secret tunnels and a stash of booze. If he got back there, perhaps he made it.”
Jenn knew her father didn’t have a great deal of respect for the foul-mouthed Harry Truman; the man was so cantankerous he’d offended nearly everyone at one time or another. Still, he’d always been good to her. Thinking back to the visit when she and Frank tried to talk him off the mountain, she had to blink before sighting a different lens. She resumed clicking the bulb every three to five seconds. Nine o’clock and the clouds had only grown bigger. What was happening up there? Agony ripped at her heart like the curved beak of an eagle tearing its prey. Talons nailed her to earth when she ached to fly free, fly closer to The Lady writhing in travail.
“Here, you might as well eat while you watch.” Clare set a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon on the deck railing. “Eat before it gets cold.” She handed Norm a plate also. “Don’t suppose we’re going to church.” She glanced at her husband. “Didn’t think so.”
“Better we stay of
f the roads.”
“Hadn’t thought of that.” She settled in the aluminum folding chair and began eating, like the others, keeping her gaze on the furious clouds that obscured the mountain.
By eleven if Jenn had heard the “this is it” call once, she’d heard it fifteen times. She removed her camera from the tripod and set it back in the foam slot in her camera pack.
“Where you goin’?” Her father kept his gaze on the east.
“Got to get more film, see if I can get any closer.”
“You can see more from right here than anywhere else,” her mother said.
“I might just come right back. You want anything from the store? It’ll be a few minutes till I get dressed.”
“Let me think on it.”
After cleaning off the rack of Kodak film at the grocery store, where the mountain was the only item of discussion, Jenn debated whether to return home or try somewhere else. The debate, if there really had been one, died when she found herself on the freeway heading south to Vancouver.
I have to get up there, see what is really going on.
An hour later, a curt voice informed her, “They’ve closed the air space, miss. No one is going up.”
Jenn slammed her hand down on the counter. Military. Surely they’re letting someone fly. Pearson Airpark wasn’t the only field within driving distance. She threw a “thanks” over her shoulder and headed for the door. Thanks for nothing.
“No matter where you try, they’ll say the same thing.”
Jenn waved over her shoulder and reached for the door handle, only to have it pulled open at the same moment.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite photographer.” Mitch Ross stepped back to let her pass.
“They won’t let you fly. Air space is closed.” Jenn stared toward the mountain, where the cloud rose fifteen miles into the stratosphere. How could the sun be shining, birds singing here, when forty miles north, her mountain was dying?
“I’m sorry we didn’t get to go back up there.”
“Yeah, me too.” Where was Frank? Had he taken that group up like he planned?
How many lives had already been lost?
“Do you get any special privileges as military?” Perhaps he’d take her with him as he had that other time. Although she hated being beholden to the guy, she’d do anything to get closer to the mountain, to see what was really happening. Radio reports were still so ambiguous.
“Not today. I was just going to reserve a plane for the first chance I can get. But from what I’m hearing, the red zone didn’t begin to cover the areas of destruction.”
“Did the sheriff go up, do you know?”
Mitch shook his head. “Darnedest story. Frank McKenzie overslept. Had some real hot customers when he didn’t show up on time, but I’ll tell you, bet they’re singing his praises now. And grateful to be alive.”
“I was up there. No one is allowed in except for emergency vehicles and rescue personnel.”
“On 504?”
“Right. No farther than Castle Rock on I-5.” Jenn wrapped her arms around her front. While the sun was glorious, here in the shade a breeze made her shiver. Or was it sympathy pangs for her mountain?
“Bet there’s enough turbulence around that poor mountain to wipe out any small plane that went up anyway. They’re routing the commercial flights clear out over the ocean.” Mitch dug a pack of chewing gum out of his shirt pocket and held it out.
“Thanks.” Jenn took a stick and peeled off the green wrapper, then the tinfoil. When the taste of mint hit her tongue, she realized she hadn’t eaten more than a couple bites in spite of her mother’s insistence, and here it was after noon. Her stomach reminded her of the fact at the same moment.
“I’d take you out to lunch, but I need to get back to the office.” Silk smoothed his tone, and one eyebrow arched above his sunglasses.
“I can take myself, thank you.” Why did he have to do the come-on bit? Was he even aware that his tone changed? Or was it some inherent gene that kicked in without his knowledge?
“I can let you know what I hear.”
“Thanks, so can the radio and television.”
“You have police band?”
She ignored him as she strode back to her pickup. How she wished she had police band, but if she gave that guy an inch, he’d take two football fields. Guess that agreement the other day in the plane only held true for that trip. He’d promised not to hit on her, but the promise sure hadn’t lasted long. You, fool, he might take you up when he goes.
He just invited you out to lunch.
Yeah, but he wanted more than that. His eyes said so.
She shifted into reverse and scoped the parking lot. There he was, just backing out. Honking her horn, she pulled up beside him, rolling her window down in the same motion. When he leaned across the cab and did the same, she sucked up all her pride and stuck her head out the window. “May I go with you when you go up?”
“Sure, how do I get hold of you?”
She gave him her parents’ phone number. “Thanks.”
He touched the brim of his hat. “See you.”
If it took sleeping with him to get up, then—so be it. Anything for her mountain. After one more look at The Lady, she headed back to her parents’ house, the house that had once been home and now felt as if she didn’t deserve to stay there. No matter how many times her mother commented on how good it felt to have her home, her dad hadn’t said much.
She took 205 northward. Might just as well have stayed on the deck with her parents. The cloud of ash and steam had drifted east and, according to the radio, was blanketing eastern Washington in ash heavy enough to obliterate the sun.
Since every time she looked toward the mountain she had to fight the tears, she fought to keep her focus on the road. Gawkers lined the shoulders at every spot where the mountain itself was usually visible. Still, all they could see was roiling gray to black clouds, shot periodically with lightning flashes.
East of Portland, up the Columbia River, Mount Hood glistened white in the sun as if nothing was remiss with his sister. Would Mount St. Helens ever be the same?
In order to keep her sanity, Jenn thought back to one of her thousands of visits to Spirit Lake, the mirror for The Lady on a clear day. Years ago, she and Baldy, the family black Lab, and her constant companion, had left the others at a multifamily picnic and walked on around the shore.
“Go get ’em, fella.” She tossed another pumice stone in the clear water. Baldy swam out to it and brought it back, since the pumice floated. When she tossed out a waterlogged one, he dove for it too, the lake so clear a pebble was visible twenty feet down.
Sitting on a log, she clasped her hands around one knee and watched a flock of mallards brake for landing. Baldy shook, showering her with half the lake, then sat by her side, most likely watching the ducks also. In the winter, he retrieved the ducks her father shot.
“I’m not going to stay here all my life, you know.” She wasn’t sure whom she was trying to convince, herself or the dog. “Soon as I get that diploma, I’m out of here. New York, here I come.”
Baldy leaned closer, making sure his ears were within reach of her hands. When she didn’t get the hint, he sighed, then whined low in his throat.
“I won that competition, you know.”
Baldy turned his head to gaze up at her, resting all his seventy pounds against her leg. Her jeans were soaked from his wet fur.
She could almost feel the dog’s presence as she brushed moisture from her eyes again. Like so many of her dreams, Baldy had died in the intervening years. Would she ever dare to dream again?
MAY 18, 1980
Mommy, you’re squeezing me.”
Mellie reined in her more than adequate imagination and loosened the lock she had on her daughter. “Sorry, pumpkin, I …” I what? I cannot hear, I cannot see, I cannot touch? For my sight is blinded, but for fear; my ears hear nothing but his voice. “I’ll be home Sunday night.” He had promised.
Here I am holding my daughter and I nearly squeeze her to pieces, all without knowing. God, you cannot take Harvey. You cannot leave Lissa fatherless. After all we’ve been through, you finally send a light in the tunnel, and now you snuff it out?
Don’t be silly, you’re borrowing trouble. Harv could be on his way home now, for all you know. The more rational side of her brain spoke softly, as if gentleness could pacify the panicked side.
“I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad tidings.” Mr. Johnson looked as if she’d been lashing out at him, screaming like the woman down the street who cussed worse than a drunken logger.
Come on, Mellie, get control here. She sat on a chair, still holding Lissa but more loosely now. Fighting to get air, to stop the battle waging in her head, she finally sucked in a deep breath. Why did she feel like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the air? She rotated her shoulders and shuffled her feet, all the while concentrating on each muscle movement, willing life into her icy body.
“Mommy, you’re scaring me.” Lissa put her hands on either side of her mother’s face and held her straight. Even so, her gaze wandered from right to left, tracking nothing.
“We don’t know anything for sure.” Mr. Johnson nodded, but while his words veered off, his head kept moving.
“True.”
“You got to keep the faith.”
“I know.” For Lissa’s sake if nothing else.
“You want me to turn on the TV?”
“I can do that.” Lissa slid from her mother’s lap. She took three steps and looked over her shoulder. “You want to watch cartoons?”
“Turn it to five.”
Lissa made a face but headed on into the living room without an argument. Within moments a news announcer could be heard but not understood.
“Mommy, look!”
The two adults exchanged sighs and made their way into the other room.
“… late breaking news of the eruption of Mount St. Helens.” A used car salesman waved toward a battalion of cars for sale, balloons bobbing above in the breeze.
“Try channel four.” In spite of the commercial, all she could see in her mind was the swift glimpse of virulent clouds of ash and steam and whatever else the mountain was sending up. Gray, black, all the colors of sorrow.
The Way of Women Page 10
