The Way of Women

by Lauraine Snelling

  Frank rocked the vehicle back and forth, reversed, and backed out onto the solid road. “We’re going to have to backtrack to a logging road. Can’t drive through that yet.”

  One by one the trucks turned in the narrow road and followed the Blazer about a quarter mile back to where a log barred the way on a turnoff. Two guardsmen jumped from their canvas-covered truck and rolled the log off to one side. Jenn waved their thanks as Frank shifted back into four-wheel drive and bumped up the hill.

  Frank clicked on his CB. “Any news on that sediment dam at the lake?”

  “Still holding, but the water’s getting deeper with all this runoff. You’d better be ready to get out of there quick.”

  “Thanks, Maybelle. What would I do without you warning me?”

  “Keep a zip on that lip, Sheriff.” The last was said with her traditional emphasis. “Or I’ll let the river have at you.”

  Frank snorted. “Over and out.”

  Back on the main road, the caravan topped another hill.

  “Well, will you look at that?” Jenn grinned at Frank, who smiled back. White-faced cows and calves grazed calmly on the grass along the road. “Some kept ahead of it all.”

  “But look out farther.”

  Jenn saw the trapped cows but focused her camera on the barn roof that sat on the surface of the mud as if floating. The red door to the haymow was only a foot or two above the gray. She swiftly changed lenses, took her picture, then followed the men out to the cows.

  A hungry calf trotted back and forth at the mud’s edge, crying for his trapped mother. The cow mooed in a frenzy, frantic because she could move only her head.

  Slowly, the rescuers slogged across the mud to the trapped cows. Using small army shovels, they dug carefully around the nearest animal. With mud up only to her belly, it didn’t take long to dig a trench to free her legs. One of the men slipped a halter on the cow’s head, and while he pulled, another pushed from behind. With a bellow, the cow lurched forward into freedom. She slipped and fell to her knees, but between the man on the halter and another behind, all of them slipping and nearly falling, they got her to the edge and to her hungry calf.

  The last cow lay farther out, only her head and upper back visible. She barely flicked her ears when they approached her. The men dug down on both sides of her and tunneled behind her front legs, freeing a space to thread sling and ropes. They did the same in front of the rear legs, everyone by now resembling “abominable mudmen.”

  “She’s a heavy one,” one of the diggers muttered, wiping sweat and mud from his face. “It’s going to take all of us.”

  “I’ll get the halter on her,” the boy said as he knelt in the mud to slip a rope around her neck and loop it over her nose for a makeshift halter.

  “All together now.” The men grabbed the ropes and heaved. Jenn clicked her camera; the cow moaned.

  “We can’t do this one.”

  “Please try again.” Jenn couldn’t keep the words back. What did she know about pulling cows from mud? In all her years in New York, she’d hardly seen any mud.

  Frank shook his head. “All together.” They strained, the sucking mud slowing releasing its captive. With a mighty heave the cow lay on her side, gasping as full breaths filled her tortured lungs.

  “Oh, you poor girl.” Jenn, her camera slung out of the way, knelt beside the cow. Rising, she glanced down in the hole to see a patch of red. “What’s that?” She turned to Frank and pointed down in the hole that was fast filling with water.

  One of the men dug a bit deeper to reveal a calf entombed in the mud.

  “Oh, her baby.” Jenn fought the tears that threatened, but when she saw the boy’s tear-striped face, she turned away and let the tears wash away some of the mud. “I know it’s life, but it sure isn’t fair.”

  “No one ever promised fair.” Frank turned back to the cow. “Let’s drag her across the mud and give her some solid ground to stand on.”

  By the time they got the cow back on her feet and left hay and water, Jenn felt like she’d been doing as much digging as the men. The stench of mud and death coated her hands and heart. What else would they find in their search for survivors?

  Two days later, her pictures of the men dragging the cow across the mud appeared on the cover of the Portland Oregonian. Jenn nearly cried again when she saw it.

  “Good job,” Frank said when he called.

  “Thank you. I’ve sold others. I need to thank you for letting me come along on these rescue operations.”

  “None needed. At least you have enough sense to stay out of the way.”

  “Yeah, and I finally got the muck washed out of my hair too. I keep thinking about Harry. You think he had any warning?”

  “Yeah, but when he felt the blast, if he wasn’t in his tunnel already, there wasn’t enough time to get there. And by now, he’d be out of air.”

  “Thanks, you’re such a comfort.”

  “He’ll be a folk hero now. Old man against the mountain.”

  “And he lost.”

  “All depends on your point of view.”

  Jenn found herself thinking of his comment more often than she’d have liked.

  MAY 22, 1980

  Mellie wished she could disappear into the seat of the car. “We’re almost home, Mommy.” Lissa turned to look up into her mother’s face. “Bunny’s happy too.”

  Mellie glanced over to Katheryn, who turned her head to share an encouraging glance. If she hadn’t known better, she could have pretended that Harv had gotten home already and was waiting for them. He would swing Lissa up to sit on his hip and put his other arm around her, so he could squeeze his two girls at the same time. Something he’d done just that way since Lissa was big enough. Before then, he’d held the baby against his shoulder and his wife tucked under his arm.

  The grass had grown half a foot since they were gone. She’d never started that lawn mower in her life. Old and cranky, it sputtered to life only through Harv’s loving ministrations.

  “How will I ever …?” She stopped, the enormity of it all rolling over her like those waves of mud that toppled houses and trees.

  “Hurry, Mommy, I have to go potty.”

  Mellie dug in her bag for the house keys. “I’m coming.”

  The house smelled lost and unloved. And cold. She reset the thermostat. “Would you like a cup of tea?” Kitty wound around her legs, her plaintive cry an echo of the lonely house.

  “Sounds lovely.” Katheryn rubbed her hands together. “When did Mr. Johnson say he would be home?”

  “Next week. He’s always been so good to us.”

  “He told me it was you and Harv who had been good to him.”

  Mellie filled the teakettle and set it on the burner. “Just being neighborly. Harv met all the neighbors not long after we moved here. He was always so friendly to everyone.” Not like me. What am I going to do?

  “Your message light is blinking.” Katheryn indicated the phone.

  Mellie’s heart leaped. Harv. No, never again. She rubbed her chest with the flat of her shaking hand. She crossed the room to press the Message button. The light blinked four.

  The first from Mrs. Robins, a neighbor. The second a hang-up buzz, the third a bill collector—she cringed that Katheryn could hear such a thing—the fourth …

  The doctor’s office. “If you could be here at three on Thursday, we can work you in.”

  Mellie’s gaze flew to the calendar. Today. And it was already one.

  “That at Fred Hutchinson?”

  “Yes.”

  “How quickly can you pack? You can spend the night at my house afterward.”

  “I’d better call them first and see if the slot is still open.” Mellie played the number back and dialed.

  She hung up, shaking her head at the same time. “That one was filled, but we already have an appointment scheduled for tomorrow at eleven.”

  “That’s at the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center up behind Swedish Hospi
tal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s see, that means I need to pick you up about nine thirty, unless of course you’d like to come home with me now.”

  “Mrs. Sommers, did you pet Kitty?” Lissa wore the cat draped over her arm like a shawl. Kitty’s back feet hung clear down to her knees.

  “No, but she sure is pretty.” Katheryn stooped down to stroke the purring cat’s head. “When you come to my house, you can play with Lucky. She’s my dog.” And she won’t have anyone to play with her anymore. Stop it. Remember, you promised you wouldn’t give up yet. There is still hope.

  Her knees creaked as she stood again. “Mellie?”

  “Uh-huh.” She looked up from studying the note on the table. A simple note that read, “Nearly out of dried cat food. I cleaned the kitty litter box. If there is anything I can help you with, let me know. I’m going to miss Harv too. He was a fine man. Mrs. R.”

  “He was a fine man, best thing that ever happened to me.”

  Katheryn could barely hear her.

  “Mommy, when is Daddy coming home?”

  The women exchanged a glance, both of them blinking hard.

  “How do I …?” Mellie gave Katheryn a pleading look.

  I’m no help. How do you tell a child the daddy she adores is no longer coming home?

  “I could go get the cat food for you.”

  Mellie looked as if she could keel right over. “Not now.” She laid a hand on Katheryn’s arm. “C-could you pray. I’ve got to tell her.” One tear rolled down her cheek as she sniffed back others.

  “Okay.”

  “Mommy?”

  Mellie scooped kid and cat up in her arms and headed for the living room, where a dark wooden rocker with floral pads tied in the seat and on the back sat in front of the square picture window. Curtains that might once have been floral to match the pillows hung straight on either side.

  Mellie settled them in the chair as she had done thousands of times. When Lissa leaned against her mother’s chest, Mellie rested her chin on the top of her daughter’s head.

  Wishing she could be anywhere else but here, Katheryn perched on the edge of the blue plaid couch, resting her elbows on her knees, hands clasped in an attitude of prayer. Would God hear her prayer when she had to force her words heavenward? Father, please make this possible for Mellie. Make it easy. How could a task like the one before them ever be easy?

  “Lissa, remember how Daddy said that when we die we go home to live with Jesus?

  “Uh-huh. He said Jesus loves us.”

  “Daddy went to be with Jesus.”

  “Really?” A smile lighted her pale face. “When is he coming back?”

  “He won’t be coming back.”

  “But I want to see my daddy.”

  “I know. Me too.”

  “Can I go see him?”

  “Someday, but not real soon.”

  “Oh. I think Jesus was glad to see my daddy.”

  “And he was glad to see Jesus.”

  “Yeah.”

  Katheryn slumped against the back of couch; sitting erect took more backbone than she had at the moment. She watched the two fair heads, hair so fine, the sun turned it to white gold, blue crescents under their now closed eyes.

  The creak of the rocker and the purr of the cat, a child laughing on the sidewalk outside, all parts of peace for the moment. Was this His answer to her prayer?

  Did Lissa understand?

  Do I understand? Katheryn pushed herself to her feet. When Mellie’s eyes fluttered open, Katheryn whispered, “I’m going for the cat food. Anything else you need?”

  “Milk.”

  “I’ll be right back. You decide if you want to come now or tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow, but that’s such a big bother.”

  “No, I’ll be here.” Anything will be better than being at home. The thought ran through her like an electric shock.

  MAY 22, 1980

  Jenn, your agent called, said it was imperative that you call him back today.”

  Jenn stared at the black public wall phone. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “He sounded really upset.”

  I’m sure he did. Herman Edelmeir was most likely frothing at the mouth. She’d told him she’d be gone two weeks, and here it was already three. And she hadn’t called him with her change of plans.

  Not that she had any plans, just living day to day. But at least she was living, feeling, thinking. She was alive again.

  “Jenn?”

  “I’m here, Mom. I’ll call him right now.”

  “Good, and Frank left a message too, said to call him at the office.”

  Jenn hung up the phone and glanced at her watch. Two. That made it five in New York, but good old Herman would still be in his office. Sometimes she was sure he lived there.

  She dialed, wishing she were anywhere but with a receiver against her ear, waiting to get an earful. He could make a two-ton bomb appear insignificant when he really got going.

  “Hi, Nancy, don’t you ever go home either?”

  “Hi, yourself. God’s been trying to get ahold of you.”

  “I heard.”

  “Where in the world are you?”

  I’m in the real world, that’s where. “Out here in Washington State, where the mountain erupted.” She knew that to New Yorkers, all areas west of the Hudson and particularly west of the Mississippi could as well have been frontier.

  “Oh, that. You came from out there, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I’m staying with my folks.”

  “Oh, well, I’ll put you through. Be prepared.”

  “Thanks.” Not really, why don’t I just hang up, call him back—in about a year?

  “Where in the …?”

  His tirade blistered her ear. She rolled her eyes and held the receiver a few inches from her head.

  “Are you finished now?”

  “No, not by a long shot. I understood when you said you needed a bit of time off, and I made excuses for you, but a bit of time does not extend to three weeks. With no word in between.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Magazines have deadlines, you know, and you have missed one now and another by next week.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He rode on without even acknowledging her apology. “If you don’t get your skinny—”

  “Herman! That’s enough! My rear wouldn’t be so skinny if you’d let up on the pressure. And if all you are going to do is yell at me, I’ll hang up right now.”

  His silence soothed her ear. Good, let him be shocked. She’d never before yelled back at him, just gone along with the schedule he set, one that kept him in Courvoisier and Ferragamos, dinners at Four Seasons, and tickets to first-run box seats. And nearly killed her.

  “You’re not going to go prima donna on me, are you?”

  No, I’m just trying to stay alive. And away from all that life that was killing me. She thought of the hangovers and uppers and downers, the nights and the rotten mornings, the guilt and the gore.

  “So, when are you coming back?”

  Like one of the lightning strikes that flamed trees up on the mountain, it hit her. I’m not going back.

  “You have”—she could hear the rustling, knew he was flipping calendar pages—“a shoot for Cosmo next Tuesday, they’ve already rescheduled it once for you, the catalog for Neimans and the location for Vogue in St. Thomas. And that’s the critical list. You want more?”

  Jenn wished she’d just told him she quit when she asked for time off. Then they could have gotten another photographer. Now they’d be strapped. Do I still care about my reputation or not?

  “Okay, here’s what I propose. Ask Cosmo to start on Wednesday instead of Tuesday.”

  “What do you have that is so almighty important there that you—”

  “Wednesday, Herman. And don’t just pretend, push. You’re good at that.”

  His muttering made her smile, though not a friendly action, more a triumphant one.
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  “That should give me two or three days to get to St. Thomas.”

  “That’s taking the chance that all goes well. You’re not leaving yourself any safety net here.”

  “So be it.” She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. “And anything else you have for me on your books, cancel them.”

  His roar could be heard clear across the street. Someone walking by turned and looked to see what was happening.

  “Herman. Herman. Just do it. We’ll talk later.” She hung the receiver back in the cradle.

  Thursday, and all she had left was five days, if she could get a red-eye out on Tuesday night. Five days. And she hadn’t flown up to the mountain again. Was there any way possible? She climbed in her pickup and stared at the racing gray clouds above. Not since the day of the eruption had there been sufficiently clear weather to see the mountain anyway. Forest Service and rescue planes and choppers were all that were flying.

  She ducked back out of her truck to the phone booth, address book with phone numbers in her hand. The man at Pearson Airpark barked a laugh when she told him she wanted a plane complete with pilot. “Lady, they might take the president himself up, but not you, nor me. Sorry.”

  Swallowing her pride, she dialed the number Mitch Ross had given her.

  “Sorry, but he’s out of the office. May I give him a message for you?”

  “Tell him J. E. Stockton called regarding an upcoming flight.”

  “And your number?”

  She gave her parents’ number and hung up again. Three strikes and you’re out.

  She dialed the sheriff’s number, and after a brief chat with Maybelle, Frank came on the line.

  “Things have settled down enough, so I could come for dinner tonight.”

  She groaned. “Mom has a thing at church, and I’ve got an appointment.”

  “Hot date?”

  “Get a life, Frank. If you call photographing the dinner hour at the Toledo shelter a hot date.”

  Should I tell him I’m leaving again? Why? What difference does it make to him? One less body for him to worry about.

  “Tomorrow night?”