by Linda Jacobs
“Dr. Haywood,” she said, “you look like hell.”
Clare did think Steve looked terrible, but she immediately regretted saying it. The paper he’d been studying wavered as he laid it down. Pale stubble on his chin outlined where he’d missed a patch shaving.
“You don’t look bad yourself.” Steve smiled. Despite the puffy bags around them, his gray eyes lighted. If he stayed off the sauce, he might turn out to be a decent looking fellow, with that blond hair and solid looking build.
“Thank you,” she said.
He tilted the straight wooden chair on two legs against the basement wall. This was the first time she’d seen him in his ranger’s uniform. Above his head, afternoon light shone through the window where he’d placed his summer straw hat on the sill.
“How’s the fray?” he asked.
“Almost a hundred-fifty thousand acres.” Because misery loved company, she went on, “The fire experts are predicting twice that.”
Steve’s dry-looking lips pursed into a whistle.
Clare looked at the stack of journals and books on the desk before him. “History?”
“The Nez Perce War of 1877.”
She’d been a jock in school rather than a scholar, but she’d listened when her family’s tribe was mentioned. That was her history, her blood that had made that trek. “My family has some Nez Perce in it.”
“Walt’s the historian.” Steve gestured toward the front room. “But I’ve been searching the records about the Nez Perce. I’d be happy to share what I know.”
Two hours later, she sat enthralled by the images he painted. If her great-grandfather had ridden with the Nez Perce on their freedom flight, he would have been seven years old. Mentally, she compared her callused hands to the tough planes of flesh that even a child must have wielded in those days. Superb horsemen and proud, even the young people had assisted in driving the herd.
“Those were difficult times.” Steve showed her a book with black and white photos of tribal leaders and groups on the reservation. Was one of those barefoot boys her great-grandfather William Cordon Sutton? Even with his fine English name, society must have viewed him as tainted by his half-breed mother’s blood.
Steve pushed the papers away. “I’m starving.” He looked at her as if deciding. “Let me buy over at the hotel restaurant.” Casual, not like asking for a date.
He stood and extended a hand. Golden hairs flecked its back and his square-nailed fingers looked sturdy.
Clare slid her hand into his. As a scientist, he didn’t bear the calluses that she did and she hoped he didn’t notice. A tremor in his fingers reminded her once more of the splendid waste he was making of his life.
Her temptation to continue their conversation passed when he said, “A cold one would do about now.”
“Thanks.” She moved toward the door. “But I believe I’ll get on the road.”
CHAPTER NINE
August 4
In her cabin at Old Faithful, Clare lay in bed with the same trepidation she felt each night, fearing dreams of death awaited. It was past one and she had to be up at the usual four-thirty. After driving back from Mammoth, she should be asleep, but it was difficult. Some nights, she read until late, and others, she walked. Last Friday she’d been able to read under the spotlight of a full moon.
Escaping into a book was one kind of therapy, but after a while, she forced herself to put it aside. On her walks, she absorbed the peaceful surroundings and wondered where her life was going. In many ways, she was reminded of when she used to walk to school and weave elaborate fantasies of what she was going to be when she grew up.
At five, she had wanted to win Olympic gold, already interested in swimming and other sports. At ten, the goal was to be a famous heart surgeon like the men in South Africa and Houston who saved lives. When she’d passed the fire station and had her face washed by Cinders their Dalmatian, she had never imagined ending up in a place like that.
But her summer nights’ dreams dredged forgotten memories of stopping in at the station and sampling stews concocted by a kindly older fireman who reminded her of Frank. Of becoming a sort of Bellaire Fire Department mascot and riding a ladder unit in the Fourth of July Parade. Of hearing the alarm and seeing the men—no women then—pile on their equipment and drive away to the blended wail of sirens. She had watched them until they were out of sight.
This evening at Old Faithful, Clare had made the two-mile round trip to the Morning Glory Pool through a gray landscape lit by stars. On the way back, she’d had a private viewing of Castle Geyser’s pale foaming rush against the darker sky. For the first time in years, she’d thought about having someone to walk with her.
In the early days of their marriage, when Houston’s summer heat gave way to sultry evening, she and Jay used to take strolls. Cicadas sawed their sharp song and water bugs skated on Buffalo Bayou’s low water. At first, Jay carried Devon in a pack against his chest and later he pushed the stroller. As their daughter grew, she’d run free, taking fifty steps to one of her parents’, flitting to investigate a rose or chase a lightning bug.
Devon had been the first to drop out of their walks, pleading homework, but Clare suspected TV. Then Clare moved from P.E. teacher to basketball coach with evening games and practices. As their lives diverged, those ritual strolls had slipped away almost without her notice.
Come to think, on nights when Jay was home, he’d carried on alone. Looking back, she wondered if he’d been meeting Elyssa Hendron or some other woman years before she suspected.
Over a week, and she hadn’t heard from Deering. Another man who’d dropped in for a brief test drive and evidently decided to purchase another model. Normally, that didn’t bother her, but with him, she’d felt a spark. On the other hand, maybe he was busy flying for another charter service. Women were allowed to take the initiative nowadays, too. Someday when she was at West Yellowstone, she could go to the airport and see about getting a message to him.
It was a shame about Steve Haywood. Where Deering was bold and cocky, Steve had a kind of vulnerability that made her want to put a smile into his eyes.
Steve opened his eyes to darkness. As the familiar shadows of his bedroom furniture seemed to harden before his eyes, he clung to wisps of dream.
When all else disappeared, the ghost of a sweet face remained. Not Susan, but Clare, who’d looked earnest and caring when he’d opened his eyes beside Yellowstone Lake. He focused on her, nut brown from the sun, tousled short hair falling over her forehead. He’d really wanted to have dinner with her, but what could he expect after the wonderful impression he’d made thus far?
Rolling over, he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep. Even in darkness, he envisioned the picture of Susan on the bedside table.
What would she think if she knew he dreamed of another woman?
His bare feet found summer’s grit on the hardwood hall floor as he headed for the kitchen without turning on a light. There the window revealed a streetlamp’s bluish glow between the rows of park housing and storage buildings. The clock on the fifties-vintage stove ticked, its hands pointing to three-forty.
Susan lay beneath the earth, dust to dust. Her lithe body, her spirited hands that coaxed music from everything, including, and most especially, him—that was but a memory.
He opened the cabinet beneath the sink. The last bottle in the house was the gin that had been on the coffee table when Moru came by. Steve preferred whiskey or bourbon, but he swallowed anyway, a deep convulsive contraction. And again.
Susan was ancient history, some black-and-white daguerreotype, no more alive than a picture of Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce or the stark image of charred trees against the night.
Ashes to ashes. The liquor burned and he drank again. The pungent aroma was hot with alcohol and laced with the exotic licorice, lemon, and juniper that gave gin its distinctive nose.
Why are you doing this to yourself? Clare’s eyes were pools of sadness that had reached to include h
im.
Susan would have wanted him to live, not to sleepwalk through his existence.
Steve gripped the edge of the sink with one hand while he poured, hearing the gin gurgle down the drain.
“Up early, Steve?” Ranger Shad Dugan said from behind his desk.
It was just past six. In full uniform, Dugan had probably been working since five, moving his mountain of paperwork. A big sandy-haired man with a ruddy face, Dugan had over twenty-five years in park management and told everyone that red tape was the worst part of his job.
“We need to talk,” Steve said.
Dugan removed his tortoise-shell reading glasses and indicated a chair.
Steve sat and held his coffee in hands that already trembled. That didn’t usually hit until noon, but pouring the booze down the drain instead of his throat came with the consequence. “Moru came to see me yesterday.”
Dugan nodded. “What’d you decide?”
This was going to be tricky. How to explain that he wanted to change, but the last thing he needed was one of those funny farm places. The ones where you were miraculously cured as soon as the maximum number of days on your insurance expired.
“I know I’ve got a problem,” he began, “and that something’s gotta give.”
“That’s a start.” Dugan might have been playing poker, for all the expression in his eyes.
“Here’s the thing, though … I want to stay in the park this summer. With the fires, I feel like I’m needed.” Steve tried to go slowly, but the words tumbled out. “I would hate to see the natural burn policy scrapped without a proper review.”
“There’ll be plenty of time to fight over that when this is over. Until then, you can consider it put aside.”
“We’ll need information about burn patterns and how they affect the different vegetation types. Some of the research Moru and I are starting on burns and their recovery should finally come to fruition.”
Dugan sighed and turned his mug in steady hands. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
Fear clutched at Steve. That padded room was looking more real by the minute.
His boss swiveled toward the sun coming over the long shoulder of Mount Everts. Slanting cliffs of thick outcrop marked the face of the mountain that bordered the east side of Gardner River canyon. The river wound down to join the rushing Yellowstone in the gateway town of Gardiner. In 1959, the United States Geological Survey had settled on two different spellings for the river and the town.
Dugan steepled his fingers and let the silence lengthen. Then he cleared his throat before speaking. “I thought about what I’d do if you wanted to stay.”
Steve’s heart thudded. If he got canned, where would he go?
“I can’t blame you.” Dugan turned back to him, unsmiling. “Nothing like these fires has ever happened in Yellowstone and I wouldn’t want to miss it, either.” He stood and walked from behind his desk. On the wall hung a clipboard, holding the fire maps that had been released daily since July 25 by the Unified Area Command. Dugan put a finger on a spot in the northeast quadrant of the park, midway between Canyon and Tower Roosevelt. “I’ve got a man on Washburn that needs relief.”
Mount Washburn, southwest of Mammoth, rose to ten thousand feet, a natural vantage point for a fire tower. “You can go up,” Dugan offered, “but I need someone I can count on to call out every new smoke. Cold turkey on the booze.”
“I’ll go today.” Steve tried to sound confident.
Dugan clapped a hard hand on his shoulder. “Let me warn you. If anybody who talks to you on the radio thinks you’re drinking, I’m gonna send a chopper and pluck you off that mountain.” His broad face might have been carved of Mount Everts’ sandstone. “You won’t stop until you’re out of Yellowstone for good.”
Clare watched the troops from Fort Lewis dig line on their first trip into Yellowstone. If she breathed deeply, there was almost a hint of moisture in the air, but that was illusion, the last of the morning dew evaporating in a forest of ‘kiln dried lumber.’
On the North Fork front, the fire burned quietly through duff. Tendrils of smoke curled, the only sign that combustion was taking place beneath the carpet of needles.
There was no need for Clare to be on edge, but another bout of nightmares had her keeping a close eye on her charges. Garrett Anderson had chosen a training area that should be safe, even if the prevailing winds kicked up strongly. Her plan was to work through midday and be out of range when afternoon heat took the lid off the pressure cooker.
It was training, but somebody could still get hurt.
After Frank had been buried, Clare had not returned to the station, making only one weekend trip to work at the Texas A & M fire school. Since Buddy Simpson, her boss there, had made the call to Garrett Anderson, she felt she owed it to him not to plead the stress that was keeping her away from the station house.
Even so, she had awakened early on Saturday morning for the two-hour drive and hoped for a weather cancellation. When she arrived in College Station, the sky, blue-white with Gulf Coast humidity, promised a scorching day.
By the time she finished briefing the volunteer fire department of Toro Canyon, Texas, it was at least a hundred degrees. Each labored breath felt like the air was strained through a wet towel. Although she wasn’t going to fight the fire today, she dressed out alongside the others. Well-worn running shoes were exchanged for rubber boots, the fire coat of rough Nomex, snapped and clipped. Her short hair, already sweaty at the back of her neck, went under the Houston Fire Department helmet where it would swiftly saturate.
The loading terminal was only one of a number of scenarios used for training firefighters from all over the state. Behind the tanks stood the mock-up of a train. Down the road were authentic replicas of a ship’s deck, an eighteen-wheeler, and a faux apartment building. Each exercise had a staging area, an open-walled shelter used for lectures and storing the students’ gear.
Clare had done most of the exercises and she knew well the feeling that the dragon was about to bite you on the ass. She saw it now in the faces of the Toro Canyon team; a heightened awareness while trying to look like they could give a shit.
She steeled herself and turned the propane valve to light the loading terminal. With a whoosh of ignition, orange flames billowed around the metal tanks and catwalks, accompanied by the open-throated roar of escaping gas.
Six firemen wearing heavy canvas coats, turnout pants and rubber boots tightened up on the hose. The man in front popped the valve and a fog of spray kept the flames away from them.
The team moved forward in a phalanx with their helmeted heads tipped down. One step, two, they counted in unison, until they were almost beneath the tank’s overhanging catwalk. Fifty feet away, another group of firefighters wielded their own hose, focusing a stream on the rear of the tank.
No matter how many times Clare watched an exercise on the simulators, it was never the same. Even with identical physical equipment and fuel, the air temperature, humidity and winds made all the difference. Now, on the two-story control tower that overlooked Brayton Field, an orange windsock signaled a wind shift.
“Back it up, back it up,” she shouted to the first team over the roar of the fire. “Do it now!”
The group on the hose retreated, one steady, controlled step at a time, toward a flight of metal stairs leading fifteen feet up to an elevated walkway. Before they could get out of range, flames billowed down over the catwalk rail and enveloped the first three persons on the hose. The man in front jerked his head like a dog shaking off water.
“Power cone,” Clare ordered.
He twisted the nozzle from the fog setting to a narrower stream. Clouds of steam rose and wiped out her view of the team.
After what seemed a long time, but was really three seconds, the heavyset fireman who had manned the front of the hose staggered into the open. Big Jerry Dunn, the Toro Canyon Chief, stripped off his hat with its clear acrylic face protector and dropped it. He clutched his han
ds to his face.
The exercise fell apart. Clare ran to shut off the valve and the last of the fuel burned more quietly.
The Toro Canyon boys helped Jerry to a wooden bench beneath the open-walled shelter. She bent to look at the burn that covered his lower left cheek and chin. “Second degree.”
Thank God. In the moment when she’d seen Jerry abandon the drill, she’d imagined the worst. Another man down on her watch, and these guys probably knew she’d been the one with Frank Wallace when he died. News traveled fast in the community of fire.
What could she have done differently? She’d turned the valves the prescribed angle to release the propane at the appropriate pressure, had called the change from fog to power cone when the wind shift called for a stronger stream.
Jerry got up heavily and took off his canvas jacket and turnout pants to reveal jeans and a navy T-shirt that proclaimed Love a Firefighter in white letters. He gulped water out of a paper cone Clare filled from an Igloo jug and dumped a cupful over his sweat-soaked reddish hair. Jerry was perhaps thirty-five, but he looked like a big kid.
Opening her emergency kit, she felt the men’s eyes on her back. She straddled the dusty bench next to Jerry and pulled out a piece of gel-soaked gauze. Everyone here was as qualified as she to administer this kind of first aid, even if her Houston training and experience outstripped being volunteers in a smaller town.
Gently, she swabbed the dust and sweat away from Jerry’s burn, being careful not to break the dime-sized blister that had swollen at the center of the reddened patch on his cheek.
Jerry looked at Clare. “Tell me more about what we should have done out there.”
“Like I told you in the briefing, communicate, communicate.”
“That fire was pretty noisy.” Jerry furrowed his forehead. Beads of sweat stood on his skin and Clare felt droplets trickling down her side.
Fifty yards away, smoke began pouring through chinks in the metal shutters of a two-story brick building. It made her think about her own trip through that sealed mausoleum, a place she’d gotten into and thought she would never escape. Suffocating smoke turned out the lights and a hand on the hose was the only lifeline.
