Yellowstone Memories

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

Justin’s hand shook slightly as he pulled the battered paper from his pocket, holding it out. His face blazed with shame.

  The lieutenant’s mouth opened, his eyes round as river stones. “You?”

  “Yes sir.” Justin forced himself to raise his chin and meet the lieutenant’s eyes.

  Color pooled first in the lieutenant’s flat cheeks then up to his forehead. “You?” he thundered again, louder this time. Reaching out and grabbing Justin by the collar, jerking his face close. “You told that White kid to disobey my orders?”

  Bits of spittle spattered on Justin’s face, and he struggled to swallow. “Yes sir.”

  The lieutenant stared at him, eye to eye, the red veins bulging around black pupils. Then he flung Justin away in disgust. “I don’t believe it.”

  Justin kept his eyes down and calmly straightened his clothes. The same wool pants he’d had on since Saturday afternoon, snow-sodden and wrinkled. The lower inches shredded and muddy.

  “Why would you do a thing like that?” The lieutenant eyed him fiercely. “You’re one of the best in the camp. Maybe the best of all.” He pounded out points with his index finger on his weathered palm. “You show up to work early and stay late. You’ve never missed formation, stayed out sick, or gone missing after the weekend. You’re passing all your studies with high marks. Why, you’ve never even gotten a demerit. Fairbanks, this is ridiculous! I don’t buy it.” He swiped an arm through the air.

  “It’s true, sir.” Justin forced himself to meet the lieutenant’s eyes. “The whole thing was my idea. Frankie saved them all by hunkering down in an enclave by the rocks and building a shelter and starting a fire. They’d have died if it wasn’t for Frankie.”

  The words stung like sharp sleet cutting into his skin, but Justin didn’t lower his head.

  “Why … why he wouldn’t even accept my boots, sir.” Justin gestured with his head. “Go see for yourself if his shoes ain’t fallin’ to pieces.”

  The lieutenant stared at him a second, jaw twitching, and jerked open the door. Letting in an icy gust of wind. Warmer than on the ridge but still chilling Justin enough that he had to stiffen his arms and back to keep from shivering.

  Justin heard him stalk to the next door, rap on it, and then demand Frankie White’s shoes from the infirmary. Then he stormed back into his quarters and took out a pipe, banging the tins as he shook out the tobacco. He smoked in angry silence while voices rattled outside, muffled by the thick log walls.

  “Sir.” A private rapped on the door and opened it, holding out a wooden crate with Frankie’s shoes inside. The thin soles had split and broken, crusted with mud and snow. Dirty laces fraying.

  The lieutenant stalked over and took the box, staring down without a word. Puffing stiffly on his pipe. Then he shoved the box on his desk and stalked over to the window, smoking in stony silence.

  “Why’d you do it, Fairbanks?” He finally spoke, his words tense and brittle.

  Justin swallowed, letting his pulse slow before speaking. “I’m in love with a girl, sir. I wanted to show her the falls.”

  The lieutenant snorted in disgust, shaking his head. Mumbling something under his breath that sounded like a curse. “What do you know about love anyway? How old are you, twenty-two? Twenty-three?”

  Justin fixed his eyes on a pine knot in the wall in humiliation. “Nineteen, sir.”

  “Nineteen,” spat the lieutenant, shooting him a laugh of derision. “Barely outta high school. I bet you wouldn’t know what love is if it kicked you in the pants. All you boys are alike, you know that? Mooning over the first female that bats her eyelashes at you and turning your brain to mush. I thought you were different.” He turned his back again, staring out the window at the empty trees. “That dratted redhead. I never should have let her come into the camp, turning all my recruits into fools.”

  Justin’s eyes flickered closed, grateful that Lieutenant Lytle hadn’t singled out Lia. By some stroke of luck he’d protected her, as if wrapping her in a blanket. That was her way, all right. Plain and humble, without an ounce of ostentation. Maybe she wasn’t so much to look at like some of the other gals, but her beauty was hidden inside—like crystals in a geode. Locked and closed for one man, who would delight in her quiet radiance and strength the rest of his life.

  And whoever he was, Justin knew he’d be a lucky guy.

  The lieutenant spun around. “So that’s the kind of recruits I’m raising here, is it? Self-centered, ignorant imbeciles who lose their senses over a dame and put people’s lives in danger?”

  He eyed Justin angrily, puffs of fragrant smoke curling up to the log ceiling. “Do you know I was going to promote you, Fairbanks?”

  The words caught him unawares, like a mountain lion pouncing soundlessly from behind. Knocking him to the ground.

  “Sorry, sir?”

  “I was going to promote you. You’ve stood out to all your leaders—they’ve all recommended you. I was going to make you assistant foreman. The papers are ready.” He gestured to his desk. Then he shook his head bitterly, turning away. “But you’re not ready yet. When I think of what you did, why, I oughtta …”

  He stomped over to his desk and dropped down in his chair, massaging his hair with his hands. Then he grabbed up the papers that Justin assumed were his and tore them into shreds, emptying them all into the trash bin. Like little bits of hateful falling snow.

  “If it weren’t for your good record, I’d be puttin’ you on the next train to wherever you’re from. And if I catch you anywhere near that redhead, I just might do it. Understood?” He took out his pipe and tapped it on the desk. “But I promise you one thing—it’ll be months before you see the outside of the kitchen again in your spare time. Maybe years. And I hope you love push-ups ‘cause they’re going to be your best friend. You can start by giving me a hundred right now. Count ‘em off.”

  Justin got down on his knees, the stiff right one complaining, and pushed himself up on his boots and palms. Still not feeling anything in his toes.

  “One,” he grunted, pushing himself up and then down again, touching his nose to the pine floor. “Two. Three.” The strain on his sore knee ached, and exhaustion strained at his weary back. He swore he could smell the food from the mess hall like a cloudy mirage.

  “Louder, Fairbanks! I can’t hear you!” barked the lieutenant, taking out a fountain pen to write something. Demerits, maybe? An order to put Justin on the roughest work crew at the camp or consign him to the kitchen for eternity?

  “Four. Five.”

  And Justin squeezed his eyes shut, fixing his mind on the one thing that had brought him peace through all these painful years: an image of Jesus, arms outstretched on a bloody cross.

  Taking Justin’s sins and nailing them there for eternity.

  Chapter 11

  Frostbite.” Doctor Hollowford turned over Justin’s foot with knowing fingers. “Yep. On both feet. See the yellowish tissue there?”

  Justin leaned back on the white enamel examining chair, a groan slipping through his lips. His stomach and biceps screamed from endless push-ups, and the lukewarm meat loaf and boiled cabbage he’d downed in the mess hall had dissipated in five minutes. He’d dragged himself to the mess hall in disgrace, Lieutenant Lytle bellowing after him not to show his face in his quarters again.

  “You’re kidding. How bad is it?” Justin rubbed his weary face in both hands, ready to throw himself in his cot, bury his head under warm blankets, and sleep for the rest of the week.

  At least someone had brought him a change of clothes, trading his dirty wool pants for clean khakis and warm socks. Ernie got him a clean coat and mittens from surplus, and now he just needed a warm bath and some shut-eye.

  The doctor studied his feet a minute, turning the toes over in the light. “I’ve seen worse. But we need to get this flesh warmed up, or it could turn into gangrene.” He glanced up at Justin. “Ain’t gonna feel like a back rub, son. You ready for that?”

  “I don’t got much
choice, do I, Doc?”

  “Nope.” Doctor Hollowford shot him a wry smile. “But you’ll feel a lot better after we get some feeling back in these toes. They’ll probably blister a bit, but if we get ‘em thawed out, I hope you won’t lose any tissue.”

  “You hope.”

  “That’s what I said.” He shot Justin a sympathetic glance.

  Justin leaned back in the examining chair and rolled his head back and forth, wondering how he’d gotten in this mess in the first place.

  “You’re legal, ain’t ya?”

  “Sorry?”

  “For me to pour you something stout. You gotta be older than twenty-one.” The doc washed his hands in a basin, looking over his shoulder at Justin’s hefty frame and angular face. “You drink, don’t you, son?”

  “Me?” Justin’s mouth turned sticky.

  “It’ll help with the pain. I promise you that.” The doctor dried his hands on a towel and reached for the cabinet handle where he kept his medicines. “I’ll pour you a glass. It’ll warm you up, too.” He touched Justin’s cheek and forehead. “No symptoms of hypothermia, but you’ve got some windburn on your face, and a little extra heat in your veins won’t hurt. Can’t have you catching pneumonia, can we?”

  Justin shook his head, staring up at the log ceiling. “I’m nineteen, Doc.”

  “You?” The doctor hooted, his hand hesitating on the cabinet door. “What’d your ma feed you, lard and molasses?”

  Justin’s lips tipped in an unexpected smile. “I wish she had.” He pressed his lips together at the thought of the warm burn of liquor oozing down his throat and forcefully turned his head away. “No drink. But thanks anyway.”

  Doctor Hollowford scrunched his brow inquisitively, tightening the loose knob on the cabinet. “No? You sure? It’s for medicinal purposes. It’s not like you’re tipping bottles on the job. I’ll write you a medical note if you need one.”

  “No.” Justin spoke so loudly and firmly that the doctor turned around in surprise. “No thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  “Well.” Doctor Hollowford patted Justin’s head like a fond father, reminding him for a brief instant of Reverend Summers. “Lie back then, and let’s get those feet warmed up.”

  Justin gripped the sides of the chair as the doctor filled a basin with warm water, testing it several times with a thermometer. Then he rolled up Justin’s pant legs and gently took his right foot in his hand.

  “I still don’t feel nothin’,” said Justin as the doctor immersed his foot in the basin. Only the tops and soles of his feet felt warm, bathed in velvety liquid and gratefully free of snow-chilled shoes and boots.

  “You will, son.” The doctor lifted a sympathetic eyebrow. “You will.”

  Justin had a secret. When it came to pain, he was a wimp. A big wimp. Despite his tough exterior, he’d bawled like a baby that day he hammered his thumb. Once he was in the lavatory building and far from the other guys of course.

  And when the excruciating electrical tingle coursed through his right foot, he jerked so hard he almost upset the basin. He splashed water all over the doctor and the lower row of cabinets. Doctor Hollowford had to yell and force his leg back in the basin—calling for somebody to come help hold Justin down.

  Two army medical assistants rushed in, gripping him one on either side and pushing him back down in the chair. They held his leg in the basin while Justin alternately twisted, moaned, and sweated. They pinned down his left leg, too, as the pain began to tingle in almost unbearable bursts.

  Through his agony he heard a knock at the door and a familiar voice that sounded too soft to be another doctor.

  When he opened his wet lashes, there were Lia’s eyes—looking down at him with a face of startling compassion. Pink lips pressed together, and her hair barely damp and combed.

  He searched for words but found none. Except the cries that welled up from his lungs and throat—and the sudden regret that he hadn’t accepted the doctor’s glass of whiskey.

  No. No. That was all wrong. He gritted his teeth against the pain, glad he’d said no. He’d say it again if he needed to, out loud, just to enjoy the breathless freedom of, for once in his life, giving orders from his head and not his flesh. Putting his foot down and charting his own stubborn course.

  Justin felt warm fingers lace through his—soft fingers, smaller and so much finer than his—and somehow the pain seemed to ebb a bit. He gripped her hand tightly, hoping he wouldn’t crush it, but she neither flinched nor pulled away.

  The doctor pulled up a stool behind Lia, and she sat, pulling her long skirt and coat to the side with one hand. Never letting go of his hand or his gaze.

  When Justin’s tears ran down his cheeks in damp streaks, she wiped them with her palm.

  The pain ebbed sometime after dark, the jolting, blinding bursts replaced by the dull ache of swollen flesh. Some needle pricks and a rush of something numb in his feet. The doctor and two medics worked side by side with shiny instruments, heads bent over Justin’s feet. Probably removing the dead skin and flesh.

  His toes had blistered, and when they’d finished cleaning the wounds, Doctor Hollowford wrapped them gently in gauze bandages. Moving carefully around sleeping Lia, her head resting on the edge of the examining chair where Justin lay.

  He opened groggy eyes, dull with pain and throbbing muscles, and passed a hand over her head. Twining one of her soft curls between his fingers and bringing it briefly up to his lips.

  The most beautiful color he’d ever seen, a black-brown of painful regret laid to rest.

  When Justin awoke, he no longer lay on the examining chair. He had a hazy recollection of being moved, half carried and half walked, to a stiff infirmary cot in the back room—where he dreamed in fitful, exhausting spurts, hour after floating, convoluted hour. The bandages still circled his feet, stiff and immovable, and someone had covered him in an itchy wool army blanket. He blinked and yawned, gazing around at the empty cots and slats of light streaming through closed shutters.

  Justin groaned, his body sore and toes aching, and sat up just enough to see Lia’s empty stool in the sterile white examining room. “Doc?” he called, his voice sounding like a bullfrog’s ragged croak.

  He heard the squeak of shoes on the pine floor, and Doctor Hollowford poked his head in the door. “Well, well. Rise and shine. Although it’s a little late for that.” He wiped his stethoscope with a cloth. “How do those feet feel?”

  “Like they’ve been stepped on by a moose.” Justin rubbed his face. “Are all my toes still there?”

  “For now.” Doc smiled gently, lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “We’ll have to see how the tissue responds, but I’m hopeful it’ll heal up all right if it doesn’t get infected. You’ll have to use crutches for a while though, and stay off your feet a bit.”

  A stab rushed through Justin’s chest as he pictured the work crews along the green woods, fresh morning sunshine slanting through the pines as he raised a hammer or reached out to grab a board. Doing something bigger, better, than he’d ever done with his life. Filling his lungs with fresh mountain air, his body ragged from sweaty exhaustion—and never happier.

  “Where’s Lia?” Justin glanced at the light through the window. “Who?”

  “The girl who was here.” He rubbed his arm over his face, trying to jog his groggy memory. “She sat with me, didn’t she?”

  “Oh, that little gal.” The doctor held up his stethoscope to the light, squinting. Wiping at another spot. “Your girlfriend, I reckon?”

  Justin’s heart missed a beat, lurching as if he’d lost his balance. “No. A friend.” He felt his blood beat faster, warmer, at the very idea that he could call Lia Summers a friend. “A good friend. Where is she?”

  “Dunno. She woke up when we moved you back here to sleep, and I haven’t seen her today. The folks she’s with are heading out though. Chad Parker suffered a pretty bad concussion, and I’m sending him to Jackson to get better help.”

  “Jack
son?” Justin jerked upright. “Have they gone yet?”

  The doctor glanced at his pocket watch. “Probably. It’s a long drive.”

  “All of them?”

  The doctor tipped his head at Justin. “I’m assuming so. Why?”

  Justin started to get out of bed, trying to roll his injured, bandaged feet to the floor. Unrolling his pant legs and reaching for the next cot to brace himself.

  “You nuts, boy? You don’t even have crutches. Hold on and I’ll help you. But you’ll be on bed rest for a couple of days, and—” The doctor turned at a knock on the door and held up a finger. “Hold on. Let me get this, and I’ll show you how to use the crutches.”

  Justin finished unrolling his pants, barely hearing the doctor, and dug on the nearby chair for his socks. He desperately needed a shower, a shave, and a toothbrush. A cup of steaming coffee after sleeping on the chilly cot and about three plates of the heartiest food Cook could dish out.

  He’d just tried unsuccessfully to stuff his swollen, bandaged foot into a scratchy wool sock when Doctor Hollowford rapped at the door. “Justin?” He poked his graying head in. “Lieutenant Lytle’s here to see you.”

  “The lieutenant?” Justin dropped the sock on the floor, his heart hammering. “What have I done now?”

  The door opened, and in strode the lieutenant, all stars and buttons and badges. He slammed the door behind him, and sleek boots tapped across the hard floor in staccato beats. Justin could smell the crisp wool of his uniform mingled with the pungent scent of pipe tobacco.

  “Sir?” Justin tried to scramble to his feet.

  “For pity’s sake, Fairbanks. Sit down.” The lieutenant waved an arm and drew his black brows together in a look of irritation as he seated himself on a nearby cot. “Tell me something. I’ve been trying to figure this out since last night, and I’m hoping you can shed some light on my little quandary.”

  Justin drew back. “Shoot,” he said. “Sir.”

  The lieutenant leaned forward, making the cot squeak. “Explain this.” He jabbed a finger into his calloused palm. “If Frankie White refused to take your boots, then why do you have frostbitten toes and he doesn’t?”