by Janet Fox
Had the Atlantic felt like this when Mama had vanished over the cliff? I began to grasp the reality of drowning. Was this what it felt like, Mama? A serene calm . . . I stopped moving. I thought about slipping under the water, about the cold green water that would fill my lungs, about the sense of peace that must be my last thought.
It was so cold, so cold in this lake, like liquid glacier. I felt so tired. Heavy. These heavy legs and arms pulled me down. Weights. The shore. So far, like the wrong end of the camera lens.
Slipping beneath the water, drifting like seaweed—there was no void here; cold sapped me of fear. That’s what it felt like. Peaceful, blissful. Why not? It would be easy to do what she did. To escape.
From beneath me, I felt a hand pushing, pushing.
First I thought, magic! A mermaid. Then, Mama. Mama’s arms wrapped around me and pushed me out of the water. Her long black hair streamed through the water, her hands pushing; I was dimly aware, my eyes were so hard to focus. I was sure I was being carried toward shore. Mama was there, carrying me back. I turned my head, and met her eyes, and she looked at me, so sad. So sad, like the doe, before her face disappeared into the green light of the water.
“Mama!” It wasn’t even a whisper because my throat was frozen tight. Her impulse had been to move toward love, to find her child. She’d slipped on that rocky cliff—she must have. I was sure that she hadn’t chosen to die. All her decisions had been made for her; but I could follow a different path. I could make my own choices. Live fully, impulsively, live on the edge if need be, or die by bits and pieces as my soul was swallowed by the shallow things in life.
At this instant I had to choose whether to quit and succumb, or to face life and all its pain.
My foot scraped something hard, and I shoved against it. I nudged at the rock and it nudged back, sending me toward the shore. I lifted out of the water, head back, like a newborn infant, and the shock of air bit into my skin. I gasped and, in a fog, knew that I was crawling onto the rocky edge; and as I pulled out of the water into the wind, I felt a deep ache.
I’d been in the water for less than a minute, but it felt like a lifetime. I lay on the rocks, shivering uncontrollably. I knew that if I didn’t get dry I’d freeze to death right there. I crawled hand over hand to a sheltered spot on the rocks, my body shaking in violent shudders.
The sun was out, and I leaned back against the rocks, seeking their warmth. It seemed to take forever to seep into me. My long hair was matted; I had a splitting headache. The more I warmed up, the more I shook. I fought with my clothes, tugging as my hands trembled. My cotton underclothes, even my stockings, seemed pathetic. I was grateful that I’d worn the tweed suit. When I was dressed, I sat in the sun, willing my body to recover. The pain in my head was excruciating.
I looked at the dark lake. Mama was not there. No one was there. Had I imagined it? No. I believed in magic. I stood, shaking, and went to the camera, still waiting for me where I left it.
Staring down the viewfinder, I framed the picture. I focused into the water where it was shallow enough to show the rocky bottom, the rocks forming a soft pattern of light and dark. In that narrow world, there was only shape and form. Everything in the picture was finite, in the moment. My stiff fingers worked the lens with difficulty, but I managed.
The steamer blew its horn, and I knew they were missing me. I packed up and worked my way back along the shore, my wet hair pinned up but still dripping icy streams down my neck. I thought about what I would say to Kula to explain myself. I rounded the cove and saw the Zillah and a number of tourists, including Kula, watching my return. I knew how odd I looked with my soaking hair and full-body shivers. The tourists gathered on the dock stared at me and whispered. Kula grabbed my arm and pulled me along.
“I slipped,” I lied.
“You’d better get inside.” I was grateful that she didn’t scold me, that she didn’t ask me what I’d really done. She found a blanket and draped it over my shaking shoulders as the steamer made passage back over the lake. I watched Dot Island grow small.
Graybull paced the dock; I could see him from a distance as the Zillah approached the landing. The desk clerk had evidently informed him of our unauthorized excursion. He was furious, and hissed at me through clenched teeth when we docked. “Where have you been?”
“I wanted some photographs.”
“No business going without me! Such a state. Your hair. Disgraceful!”
“There was spray. Waves. And some spitting rain on the island.”
He turned toward Kula. “I gave you a task. You failed.”
Kula drew herself up, straight and proud, her lips a tight line. She walked two paces behind us on the way back to the hotel.
“It was my idea to go out there. Kula tried to stop me. When she couldn’t, she decided she’d better go with me.” I was getting good at lies. They were a useful weapon.
Graybull turned on Kula. “Is this true?”
Kula didn’t answer. She remained mute and defiant, her dark eyes seeming even blacker as she looked at him.
“Of course it is,” I said. “I wanted to get some photographs.”
“You are not to leave without my permission again, Margaret. Kula, see to it.”
“I’m going to my room,” I said. “I have a headache.” I’d taken one step, only one, a big step but yet . . . I discovered what I wanted but not how to get it. I found something of Mama but couldn’t complete the circle. I would not live a life without love, but I wasn’t sure how to create that life. I made only one choice out of a vast ocean of possibilities.
I could feel the walls of my prison pressing in on me.
In my room, I stared out the window. Kula drew me a bath, then left me. After soaking for an hour, I pulled on my silk robe and sat down at the desk. I wrote to Kitty for the first time in days.
Dearest Kit,
I hope your debut will be beautiful. And that you are
enjoying your season. I have no need of either, now, for
I am engaged to a very wealthy man. Isn’t that exciting?
Oh, and I’ve discovered that my mother is indeed dead.
And that scandal had surrounded her, including some
astonishing surprises, so her disappearance did in fact
A huge round splotch marred the words as one of my tears fell on the paper.
It was a beautiful afternoon, the wind had kicked up even more, and little whitecaps foamed on the lake. I sat and watched the water sparkle in the sunlight, and cried for everything I had lost.
Chapter THIRTY - TWO
July 17, 1904
The black and brown bears are becoming so numerous as to be an actual nuisance if not dangerous. All hotels are nightly invaded by from six to eight of them. The slop bones and waste materials furnish all the food they need. They have become too indolent to hunt for themselves.
—“Uncle Sam’s Big Menagerie,” Sundance (WY) Gazette, November 25, 1898
“THEY FEED THE BEARS EVERY EVENING,” SAID GRAYBULL.
It was two days since, as Graybull put it, I’d made a spectacle of myself on my Dot Island excursion. Papa had just returned from Canyon, and Mrs. Gale, Papa, Graybull, and I walked out behind the Lake Hotel before dinner. We hadn’t yet experienced the bear feedings and Graybull had finally insisted on it.
I’d kept to myself these past two days, feigning illness and taking meals in my room. Kula had disappeared without informing me; but I owed her a debt. She’d disobeyed Graybull for my sake. So I’d been alone, not even seeking out Mrs. Gale’s company. I needed to think, sort things through.
Mama was gone. Truly gone. And I missed her. I spent hours sitting at the window of my room overlooking the lake. Each afternoon, the clouds gathered into great lenticular stacks, then settled into the red dusk. I let myself think about Mama as I watched the lake spark diamonds, but I knew I had to let Mama go.
I had a brother. Would I like him? A year younger than me—we might be friends. He held a
piece of Mama.
I was still trapped—Graybull had a hold over me through his hold over Papa. I couldn’t spurn Graybull; Papa, Grandpapa—both either needed or wanted this attachment. This part of my life was a house of sticks: pull one out and the rest fell down.
First, I had to try to determine what Papa knew about my brother. I hadn’t told him that I spoke to Uncle John, nor that I knew about Mama. I couldn’t talk about Mama yet. As we gathered in the lobby to walk out for the bear viewing, I set in: “How was your trip? Was it productive?” I almost never expressed an interest in his affairs; I could sense his surprise at my questions.
“It was fine,” he said.
“Is the hotel there attractive?”
“Not really. A new one is to be built.” He pulled on his mustache.
“Any other interesting news?”
“No.” I waited; he pressed his lips together, the discussion closed. I would learn no more from him.
There was plenty of afternoon light as Papa, Mrs. Gale, and I followed Graybull to the stands set up to overlook a grassy clearing where they fed the bears. A soldier kept us from walking farther, and we settled onto the benches. Then I saw why we were held back. Four black bears scavenged at a pile of rotting food. From time to time they stopped and sat on their haunches, or stood up sniffing the air. We were close to them, but it wasn’t like seeing the grizzly.
“Isn’t this marvelous?” Graybull asked. “At Canyon there’s even a captive bear on a chain for our entertainment.” Our entertainment. I thought about Tom and what he’d think about a captive bear. Just the passing thought of Tom sent my stomach into somersaults.
I watched a cub scampering around its mother, bleating. The sow turned over a large log and stuffed her nose into the scraps. Then she looked up, staring into the crowd.
“I don’t like it,” I said. I remembered the doe and her bleating fawn.
“What?” said Graybull. “Why ever not?”
“They shouldn’t eat our food,” I said. They were Tom’s words, and I was proud to use them.
“Oh, come now, Maggie,” said Papa. “They’re animals. It can’t hurt them. Aren’t they scavengers, at any rate?”
“Quite,” said Graybull. “This helps to keep them happy and well fed. And, it’s a park attraction.”
“And why do we have to interfere with nature?” Interfering men were wearing a groove on my nerves.
“My dear Margaret,” said Graybull, as if he were speaking to a small child, “it is up to the superior human race to control nature.”
“Control?” My voice was sharp. “Why do men always want to control everything around them? In fact, why do they think they are able to control everything around them?” I had to be careful; I was stepping over the bounds. I still had no place to turn. I bit my lip and looked at my hands before looking back up.
Graybull gazed at me, frowning. “Believe that splash of cold water the other day has made you a bit snappish, my dear.”
Papa gave an embarrassed laugh. “Maggie’s mother had some radical ideas. I’m sure she didn’t introduce them to Maggie.” He looked at me and ran his fingers over his mustache. Yes, she did, Papa. More than you know. I grew impatient again.
“Ah,” said Graybull. “Can’t have that, now, can we?” He smiled, his tongue dashing through the gap. I felt my face burn.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Mrs. Gale placed her hand on my arm. “Margaret, please come with me,” she murmured. “I’d like your help with a photo.”
I turned away from the men, my skirts swirling in a frustrated flounce.
Mrs. Gale set up the camera and asked me to shoot the picture. I waited until one bear turned its head toward me, then captured it. Its animal eyes were right on me. Those flat animal eyes meeting mine. Then I felt the weight of my own captivity. I was alien to the bear; I was akin to the bear. As much as I feared the bear, we weren’t so very different.
“The right time will come,” Mrs. Gale said as she put away the film, “for you to stand up for yourself.”
“Why not now?” I knew why not now. But I wanted to hear her thoughts.
“You are very young. Your father will come around. Remember, he’s still grieving.”
“So am I,” I whispered, furious. In fact, I was grieving now in a way I’d never admitted before.
“Of course you are. But he doesn’t know how to handle it, nor how to handle you.”
“He can’t wait to be rid of me.” I fought for words. “He wants me out of the way.” Now that he’d found a son, I was only a burden. Marry me off to someone rich—that solved every problem.
“All your father hopes is that you will be cared for. Give him time.”
I felt anger rising unchecked. I was seeing things around me with a different eye. I was alone, and feeling more betrayed with every moment. I watched the bears as they foraged, and then, one by one, they drifted like ghosts into the woods. The tourists began their return to the hotel, and the men rejoined us on the path back to our own dinner.
We walked in silence until Mrs. Gale spoke. “Margaret may have a point. It is a new century, after all. Maybe it’s time for some new ideas.” I glanced at her quickly, grateful.
“Possibly,” said Papa. He looked at me, and I saw in that look something of the way he had sometimes looked at Mama. Uncle John was right: Papa feared I was like Mama. Maybe I was. Maybe each day I grew more like Mama. And now that I knew she was gone—maybe I had to acknowledge Mama in me.
“I think it’s high time. High time for new ideas.” I said it loud, and tore off my hat to punctuate the comment, so that the breeze caught loose tendrils of hair and chucked them about my face.
Graybull took my arm. “Dangerous,” he said, dismissive. Then, abruptly, he leaned over and kissed my cheek, his coarse whiskers scratching my face.
I recoiled, appalled, feeling branded. I was nothing more to him than a possession. Like Ghost. Acquired.
He took my gesture the wrong way. “Such an impulsive thing.” He sounded pleased with himself.
“I think you mistake me,” I said through gritted teeth. I could barely control myself. This man repulsed me.
He raised his eyebrows, his smile now frozen.
“Maggie, dear . . .” Mrs. Gale began.
“I’m not impulsive,” I said, for the second time in a few days. But now I meant it in a different way. “I know exactly what I want.”
Graybull’s eyes darkened. “I’m all for spirit. So long as a woman knows her place.”
My feelings welled up. “Spirit is one thing I have in spades.” Inside me, rising from a hidden part of me, kept under wraps for far too long, grew the spirit of my mother. Not the madness, but her strength, her fortitude. I’d unleashed it in the water. I unleashed it now, when I admitted to myself that she was gone from me forever. I held my hat in one hand; I reached up with the other and pulled out first one of my hairpins, then another, until my hair flew loose in the evening breeze; as my hand worked I never took my eyes off Graybull’s face.
Graybull regarded me for a moment, uncertain, then turned away. Papa stared and I couldn’t read his expression, and he, too, turned away. Mrs. Gale gave me a wry smile and followed the men.
I waited for a few minutes as they went on ahead. I turned and looked after the bears. They had all disappeared into the darkening woods.
I would discover the answer to who I was, who I wanted to be, on my own. The deep blue of Yellowstone dusk hung over me like an arch.
Chapter THIRTY -THREE
July 18–19, 1904
I walked out on a rock & made two steps at the same time, one forward, the other backward, for I had . . . looked into the depth or bowels of the earth, into which the Yellow[stone] plunged . . .
—“Narrative of a Prospecting Trip in the Summer of 1867,” diary of A. Bart Henderson
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, GRAYBULL, MRS. GALE, AND I SET off to travel to Canyon. Papa was to remain at the Lake Hotel. Kula arrived back in my
room just as we were preparing for departure; I was proud of my newly acquired packing skills until I saw how quickly she stepped in and, with her deft hands, finished the job. I asked for no explanation of her absence and she offered none.
We arrived at Canyon Hotel in the early evening. At dinner I looked furtively around the dining room. My brother might be among the waiters, or perhaps he was a diner at one of the other tables. There—that dark-haired boy who looked like Papa; no, he was too young. Or there—he had a mouth like Mama’s, a little . . .
It was like searching for a needle in a haystack; and it hurt like a needle driven into my palm, thinking of what Mama had suffered in never knowing what had become of her own child.
I retired to my room after dinner. When I opened the door, Kula was standing at my dresser. She whirled around and I spied something clutched in her hand.
I put my hand to my throat; for once I was not wearing the cameo, and now it was not on the dresser where I usually placed it. “Kula?” I was puzzled. “What’s that?” I pointed to her hand.
Kula’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t open her fist. She acted like a cornered animal, angry and defensive.
“What are you doing?” I whispered. Hurt rose in me, the pain of betrayal. I trusted her; I didn’t understand.
Kula’s mouth curled in a sneer. She squared her shoulders. “I was going to take it to someone. For a gift.” She turned and dropped the cameo, with a hollow rattle, onto the dresser, where it caught the light. She walked to the other side of the room. “It wasn’t for me. I don’t even like it.”
I went and picked up the pin, still warm from her hand. I was bewildered. My voice came out in a whisper. “How could you do this to me, Kula?”