by Janet Fox
Revelers poured out onto the veranda, surrounding us, and the spell broke. Soldiers on horseback herded the elk off the parade ground. Suddenly, rockets roared into the night sky, whistling and screaming, fire in the blackness. The hills reflected the light, scattershot. People laughed and cheered and there were huzzahs and toasts to our nation’s birthday. I stood inches away from Tom and felt as though the fireworks came from inside me.
At one giant blast, I took Tom’s arm without thinking and felt his fingers fold over mine, warm and strong. Finally, when the last blast crescendoed and the night grew still, the crowd roared its approval and then began to disperse, drifting into carriages and hotels. The fireworks inside me had not quieted as Tom and I stood together, touching, not moving.
Behind us waiters and busboys cleared the hall. Outside, the evening faded into quiet with only a small number of laughing couples left around us. The stars reappeared in the black sky above. My hand still rested on Tom’s arm, his fingers still covering mine; the current between us was electric. I could not speak.
He broke the silence, his voice soft. “Can I walk you back to the hotel?”
I took a breath. “We moved. We’re in a house on Officers’ Row. That’s home, for now.”
“Good!” He pulled away a little, but he was smiling. “That means you’re staying.” I wanted to ask if that made him happy, but my tongue was in a knot. I was off balance once again with him, this time from shyness and longing. All I could do was smile.
We walked down the road in silence and I left my arm linked with his. We reached the cottage and he turned to face me.
As I looked at him something moved in the shadows behind. I stifled a yell, throwing my hand up over my mouth, and I backed away as Tom spun around. Fear gripped my heart. Bear.
But it wasn’t a grizzly. Kula stepped into the circle of light cast by the streetlamp.
“You!” I said, relief flooding me.
Kula glared and said nothing but turned on her heel and marched up the steps and in through the Millses’ door.
Tom started after her. “Kula!”
“You know her?” I had regained my bearings and was annoyed with her, both from the fright she’d given me, and also at what she’d interrupted. And there was still that haunting feeling she raised in me each time I saw her.
“I’ve met her a few times. She does washing. Comes around to the camp to take things up or drop them off every week or so.” He stared at the house where she had disappeared, and not at me. “Does she live here, then? I never knew.”
“She’s a maid. She works for the Millses.” I remembered the jealousy I’d felt when I heard that Isabel and Edward knew each other. This was far worse. I folded my arms over my chest.
“She does good work. She’s nice. I’ve thought maybe she was part Crow, with those cheekbones. Do you know anything else about her?” Tom still looked at the house, and not at me.
“I wouldn’t know a thing. She’s just a maid.” Jealousy made me speak without thinking. “She’s rude, as you can see. She doesn’t know her station.”
He turned and looked at me then, but his eyes were ice. “So?”
“She’s a maid.” I wanted to kick myself, watching his reaction.
He stepped away from me. All I could see was the reflection of light in his eyes, like two sharp pins. “You know, Maggie, just when I think you’re all right, you come up with these obnoxious comments.”
I struggled to keep the tears in. I wanted to say something, anything, to win him back, but words melted away like butter.
“Who are you, Maggie? A spoiled, rich debutante or a decent girl?”
I couldn’t answer. My throat was thick with stopped tears.
“I’d like to think you’re decent and you just don’t know any better.”
I could think of nothing to say. Nothing.
He took another step away and I wished I had the courage to reach my arm out to him. “See you around.” He moved off, and I felt the world collapse inside me.
He was yards away when I whispered, “Good night,” and dragged myself inside the house.
Instead of lighting the parlor lamp, I stood in the window and watched Tom as he walked beneath the streetlamps lining the row. He appeared, vanished and reappeared, as he drifted from one to the next pool of golden light until he vanished completely, swallowed into the inky dark.
Chapter NINETEEN
July 5, 1904
“We Never Sleep”
—motto of Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency, founded 1850
“ISN’T THERE ANYTHING?” I ASKED THE CLERK AT THE mail depot. “Not a single letter?”
“Nothing,” he said, and turned away.
“Can you check on telegrams? Maybe a telegram has come and been misplaced.”
The clerk turned back, leveling his eyes at me. “Miss, we deliver telegrams immediately.”
I could tell I’d insulted him. “Of course you do.” I turned to leave, then turned back. “If anything comes . . .”
“I’ll let you know right away, miss.” He was most annoyed with me now. It was all over his face.
“Right. Thanks.” I made my way back to our lodgings through the clear morning light. I’d written the letter to Grandpapa two weeks earlier; I thought I would have heard from him by now. Since my awful parting from Tom last night, I knew I had to escape from Papa’s prison, no matter the cost.
There had been a few days when Yellowstone hadn’t seemed so bad. When despite the misery of Papa’s lies and Mama’s absence, despite Graybull’s obnoxious attentions, despite the low conditions in which we lived, despite the loss of my Ghost, my season, my things, when Tom had made this place appealing. But I could not rely on small moments that could be banished by Tom’s cold shoulder and Kula’s interference.
It was just a little spark of jealousy on my part, for pity’s sake. I spoke stupidly; but Tom’s response had been so harsh. Kula was a servant, after all. I kicked at a stone in the road. Ugly thoughts circled me like buzzards. Without Tom I had no reason to like Yellowstone, no reason to stay here. I wished for the hundredth time that I had held my tongue. I wished for the thousandth time that he hadn’t been so curt. He was probably gone from my life forever.
So I looked back to my grandfather to come to my rescue. To come and take me home to Newport, where at least my prison would be comfortable, and my future secured. Edward might like me again, and I could pick up the pieces of my life. Mama would come home as she’d promised. I kicked another stone in the road. I’d get over Tom, surely.
This waiting for my grandfather was frustrating. This mooning over Tom more frustrating still.
I arrived at our little house. Papa was off somewhere—he seemed to have endless appointments since we’d moved into our cottage. I hung my hat by its ribbons on the hall hat stand. The dining-room door was open and Papa’s papers were scattered across the broad table.
I drifted in. I’d never pried through his things, just helped him as he directed. Now my disappointments enclosing me, and my renewed desire to have my old Newport life back, sparked my curiosity. Perhaps Papa had some information here that I could use. I felt a sneaky guilt, sifting through his secrets, but also a reckless misery.
I lifted blueprints: They were additions to various hotels in the Park and sketches for buildings in the rustic style so popular here. Other papers were scattered in untidy piles. I picked up one stack and leafed through it.
A letter caught my eye. Attached were several copies of a photograph of Ghost.
I ran my fingers over the picture, feeling the tears well up. Ghost. It was high time I got Grandpapa to take me home. Beneath the photograph was a notice for a princely price on Ghost: $400.
I gripped the letter, wanting to rip it to shreds. Papa had no right to have done this to me. Ghost wasn’t property; Ghost was my friend, my only friend, it felt like now. I pocketed one copy of Ghost’s picture in a tiny theft. Hah! My jaw was tight, my lips were pressed to
gether. Once I returned to Newport, leaving Papa alone, maybe then he’d suffer the way he made me suffer now. Maybe then he’d understand what it meant to lose everything you loved. I rubbed my eyes hard with my palm and went at my task anew.
There were dry business letters regarding Papa’s employment in the Park. There were bills and receipts; the numbers on these were shocking. I had not known much about our finances in Newport, but I could see here that Papa had not been lying: He had lost everything. Our debts were enormous. Some of the letters from creditors were threatening. If he had not sold our things, he’d be in prison.
I spent what felt like hours looking through these papers. They made me feel sick. I hadn’t seen how far he’d fallen after Mama left, how his work had suffered, all as a consequence of her disappearance.
I touched Ghost’s picture in my pocket, feeling painfully aware of my selfishness. Papa did know, after all, what it was like to lose what you loved. He and I both knew. I wondered what I would have done had he taken me into his confidence and let me know of our situation earlier. Would I have let go of Ghost on my own?
I rifled deeper. I uncovered a telegram, dated March 20, 1904.
CERTAIN COMPLICATIONS STOP UNABLE TO FIND TRAIL STOP MAY BE DEAD AFTER ALL STOP GOOD NEWS JOB WAITING GET HERE SOON AS POSSIBLE STOP JOHN
I dropped the papers and placed my hands on the table, trying to still the room from spinning me straight off the face of the earth. I backed away from the table.
Complications. Dead.
My mind circled the words around and around. Mama. Papa had been searching for her and Uncle John had been helping him. But it didn’t make sense. Papa had been so happy that day he heard from John—there had to be more. I had to understand. I grabbed the entire stack of papers—letters, telegrams, documents—and ran upstairs to my bedroom. I locked the door and then spread all the papers out on my bed in a broad fan.
I prayed I could resolve the mystery, find the answers at last. The stories of Mama and my future were written in these papers. I could feel it.
Here: a long letter from Uncle John dated April 6. It was full of John’s ebullient descriptions of Yellowstone, his work, his companions, and on and on, of little interest to me, until
I’ve engaged some Pinkerton men, and they report that they have found evidence of a trail. But, Charlie, this may not lead in the direction you think. Are you sure you want me to pursue this? Think of Maggie—is this fair to her? I don’t mean to intrude, but perhaps your fixation is unhealthy.
I reread the paragraph over and over. Of course Papa’s fixation was unhealthy, anyone could have seen that. But what direction, what evidence, what trail . . . ? My hands shook and I leaned over the papers and rested my fists on my bed and let my hair fall out of its pins and over my shoulders. I had to do this, I had to know.
I resumed my search, flipping page after page. Finally, this, from John on May 23:
Success! But the trail goes hot and cold. Suggest you come out at once to assess. And other good news regarding employment.
It was dated after the telegram. After the “may be dead.” Mama could indeed be alive.
I sat down in the chair across the room, holding this letter in my trembling hand. “Success!” I read again and again. Mama could be alive. Papa was keeping all of this from me.
I grabbed another stack of papers, dropping the ones not of interest to me on the floor, careless now, desperate for news. Here was one, very early, addressed to Mama before her disappearance.
15 August 1903
Mrs. C. Bennet: We regret to report we have been unsuccessful in our attempts to locate your subject.
All avenues have proven fruitless. Should you wish to continue your search, the fee will double and must be remitted in advance. H.K. Wilkinson, &c., Private Investigative Specialists
It was baffling. Mama had been searching for someone? But who? I was missing something, I had to be. I pawed fruitlessly through the remaining papers, tossing them aside in a general mess. Nothing. I sat on the floor, my head swimming, trying to pull myself together, trying to make sense of everything I knew.
It didn’t make sense. Both Mama and Papa had hidden things from me; and from one another, I suspected.
I got up on wobbly legs and took from the box on my dresser the folded letter that Mama had left for me that I’d kept these many months and buried it in the pocket of my skirt.
I threw my shawl about my shoulders and went outside. I needed air. I needed to clear my head, to think. I crossed the parade ground, making a wide arc around the four elk grazing languidly in front of a knot of tourists. Holding my skirts, I started up the hill to the springs and then veered off on the path that led into the woods.
“Miss!” The voice from behind me was unmistakable. I stopped and turned.
“Why, Caleb. I’m correct, am I not? It’s Caleb?” I smoothed my skirt and gave the familiar soldier my prettiest smile. “What can I do for you today?”
“Can’t go alone into the woods, missy.” He marched up and planted himself between me and the woods above.
My smile became fixed. “Why not?”
Caleb drew himself up. He was a self-important little man. I’d had enough of self-important little men. “It’s very dangerous to be on your own in the woods.”
“Is it a rule?” I asked, all sweetness.
“Hey?” He seemed surprised.
“A rule. You know, like running near the springs.”
He seemed put out. “Not precisely.”
“Well, then.” I tugged the shawl tight about my shoulders and pushed past him and continued up the path. My words came out staccato. “I’ll go where I please.” Fearful woods and wildlife or not, I was sick and tired of being ordered about. Papa, Graybull, Grandpapa—they kept secrets from me, treated me like property, made all the decisions in my life, and I’d had enough.
His call from behind me reeked of frustration. “Missy, I cain’t be responsible.”
I kept walking. “Then don’t be,” I stopped and looked back at him. “Oh!” I pointed over his shoulder at a group of tourists. “Are they defacing the rocks?” They weren’t, of course, but I suspected he would follow me and I wanted rid of him.
He turned, confused. “Hey!” he called down to them. Defacing rocks needed his attention more than the prospect of a girl walking alone. He twisted back to me, “Don’t you go off, missy!” he yelled, then he turned and ran down the hill shouting after the tourists, “Hey! Hey!”
I swept on, more determined to assert my independence than to avoid an unnamed threat.
The day was clear following a cool night. I climbed higher up the hill, into the trees. The path skirted the edges of the springs and I glimpsed the hot-spring terraces through the pines as I walked. Even in the trees the ground was white with sinter; there were abandoned and lesser springs everywhere. The smell of pine mingled with the smell of sulphur and the whole of it was quiet.
I came out on an overlook suddenly, and immediately stepped back, my stomach lurching with the vertigo. I touched the trunk of a nearby pine to steady myself as I looked across the view and not down. Anything but down. I kept a safe distance from the edge and kept my hand on the tree, my fingers on the rough, solid bark.
The sky went on forever, over the peaks, over the distant snowcaps, and it rolled up and over me into a sharp robin’s-egg blue hung with clouds like piled foam. I’d been so tied up in the cottage that this was the first expedition walk I’d taken in Yellowstone alone in the two weeks we’d been here. I took a deep breath and it was like inhaling that blue, the air was so clean, the pine smell pungent and tarry.
I took Mama’s letter from my pocket. I didn’t need to open it. I knew it by heart.
. . . There is something I must do. There is someone I left years ago to whom I must return. You must promise—swear on your love for me—not to tell your father. He will not understand, and knowing that I’ve made this choice will only serve to bring him pain. I will be goin
g away, now, and may not see you for a long time. But I’ve neglected a trust.
Sometimes we do things because we’ve been told that society holds them to be important. Don’t believe that, Maggie. Believe in yourself. Take chances. Find true love, no matter where, and hold on to it. Don’t let go.
Don’t ever let go. Remember, dear heart—nothing is more powerful than love.
I stuffed the letter back into my pocket, buried it deep. I believed Mama was alive. She’d been searching for someone, and when she came up empty in Newport, she had set off to find them. Papa had known of her search; he had this information about Mama, and had lied to me. Papa had lied to me so many times in the past year that his lies were a web of confusion.
“Don’t let go . . . nothing is more powerful than love.” Tom roared back into my mind and I gripped the trunk of the pine tighter. Thank you, Mama, for that sage advice. I’d try to follow it the next time I met someone I liked, since I’d so utterly mucked up this one.
A twig snapped and I heard something grunt behind me. I froze. Fear sucked the strength from me. All other thoughts vanished and were replaced by the memory of the bear swinging its head back and forth, back and forth. I turned in barely perceptible movements, my throat tight, not daring to breathe. I was ready to fall to the ground and lie there as still as death.
It was a doe, a tiny fawn at her side, two sets of brown eyes huge with fear, mirroring mine.
Eyes of a doe, in the strangled moment of death, in a painting hanging on the wall of a house on the other side of the continent, a painting that hung above my desperate mother while she bled onto white silk.
I cried out, and at the sound of my cry the doe coughed, then turned and leapt across the clearing behind, to the edge of a small hot spring that bubbled a sickly yellow, the sinter around it fragile like ice in a melting pond. And before I could breathe, the doe stumbled onto the sinter, which cracked and gaped, and she dropped into the boiling water like a rock, dying before she could finish her scream of pain.