by Lou Cadle
He yanked his T-shirt up over his nose and mouth. He wanted to rub his eyes, he needed to rub his eyes. But he knew not to, somehow knew that was a bad, bad idea.
He staggered blindly up the road. He ran into something. A tree? Between keeping his eyes mostly closed and the cloud of ash raining down on him, he was having a hard time keeping on the road at all. And how would he find his family? He let one eye open just a crack, hoping his lashes would filter out the worst of it.
Out of the dim world, a big dark shape appeared, moving at an angle past him. A black bear, almost close enough to touch. Jim’s heart leapt into his throat as he stopped dead, but the bear cared no more about Jim than Jim cared about an ant. It kept running until it was swallowed in the fog of ash.
Mother. Father. Lida. The thought of getting back to them propelled him forward again. He stumbled on, wanting shelter, knowing there was none, not nearer than the car.
It seemed forever before he finally staggered to a stop in a pool of yellow light. His father had parked the Kia in the middle of the road and had the lights on. The ghostly car didn’t appear until he was right upon it.
Jim found the back door and pulled it open. He tried to brush himself off but the damp stuff clung to him, and he saw it was useless.
“Get in!” called his father.
Jim climbed in next to Lida, who gripped her wildflower book. His mother turned and asked him, in Hmong, if he was hurt. His parents made a great effort to only speak English to Jim and Lida, and that his mother had reverted to her native tongue told him how anxious she was. He reached forward and she took his filthy hand. “I’m sorry,” Jim said.
“But are you hurt?” she insisted, in English.
“I don’t think so.” Letting go of her hand, he reached up to brush some of the ash from his face. It stung. He said, “It feels like a sunburn.”
His mother looked more worried. “I have nothing to help you.”
“I’ll be fine, Mother. But I’m getting the car filthy.” The rest of them had only the lightest coating of ash. They must have left almost everything where it was at the campground and jumped right in the car. Had Jim not picked today to freak out, he could have too. Anything wrong with him, he realized, he had earned.
His mother said, “Father worried a mountain demon was let loose.”
The thought of adding loosened demons to whatever else the volcano was throwing at them seemed overkill to him. The material world was scary enough right now. Why imagine the magical one?
“We must go,” said Father, and he put the car into gear. Jim snapped on his seat belt and peered anxiously through the front windshield. How could his father see the road? From the back seat, it was invisible. The headlights reflected off the ash in every direction. It was noon at the latest, Jim guessed, and yet through the side window the ash darkened the world so that it looked like dusk out there.
He said softly to Lida, “Are you okay?
She nodded. But she didn’t look okay. Her face was pale, her lips pinched. She looked less like the happy child he was used to and more like a worried old person.
Jim’s hands itched. He looked down and saw how coated with ash they were. His T-shirt wasn’t any good for wiping them off. It too was coated, and where he had pulled it up onto his face, it was darker, with damp-looking black splotches where his nose and mouth had been, creating a Halloween mask version of a human face. His mother and father were focused on driving now. He couldn’t bother them for a towel or tissue, if that’d even help, which he doubted. He’d have to live with it. His eyes itched and again he had to struggle mightily against the urge to touch them. At last, he tucked his fingers under his legs, pinning them there.
The car slipped, the rear of it coming around, as if they had hit a patch of ice on a bridge. Jim’s father somehow got the skid under control, but he slowed further. At this speed, Jim could easily have outpaced the car.
For long minutes, they drove in silence, tension filling the air. Twice more, the rear of the car fishtailed. Jim could see no way they’d make it back to the highway at this rate.
They were driving north, down the same slope Jim had just run up. There was no other way out but this road. With the ash coming down steadily, the road would only get worse. Jim’s mother turned on the radio and scanned through the frequencies, but she only got static. Shouldn’t there have been radio? The creepy thought struck Jim that they were dead, had driven far from the realm of life and into some strange in-between world of ash and solitude and no other people. He shivered at the idea.
The back of the car spun again and, this time, came around a full 180 degrees. Lida made a small whimpering sound. “Don’t worry,” he said to her, though he was plenty worried. The spin stopped. The car’s engine died.
Father turned the key and the car coughed, but it died again immediately.
Back in eighth grade, they had seen two videos about Mt. St. Helens and one had spent several minutes on the Yakima ashfall. “It might be the air filter,” Jim said, surprised to remember the detail. “The ash clogs them. Pop the hood and let me out.”
“No, you stay here,” said his mother.
“It’ll only take me a second.”
“I go,” said his father.
“No,” said Jim. “I’m already filthy with ash. No sense all of us being. You guys stay in here.”
“You know how to fix this?” asked his father.
“Yes.” He had taken a half-term of auto shop in the winter; he could gap spark plugs, change oil, change tires, replace fuses, fuel filters and air filters. His father finally nodded his permission and Jim took a deep breath, held it, and sprang from the car. Fumbling the hood open, he popped the cover off, pulled out the air filter and banged it against the front bumper hard, five or six times. He flipped it upside down and banged it a few more times. He couldn’t look through it to see if it was any cleaner; the air was far too ashy out here. He slipped the air filter back in, replaced the cover, and slammed the hood.
Inside the car, he let out his held breath and took grateful breaths of clean air. Cleaner, at least. A bit of ash was floating around inside the car, too, clearly visible when the his father flipped on the dome light to turn around and check on him.
Jim tried to remember how far away from the highway they were. And how far from there to the edge of the ash cloud? Would the eruption get worse?
Jim’s father started the car again and this time, it stayed running. He steered them down the road again and they made their slow progress onward, slipping more and more often. They bumped into a tree on one skid, but at this speed, none of them were hurt.
Ten minutes later, his father stopped. “See that?”
“What?” asked his mother.
“The sign for campground turnoff.”
“And?” said his mother, fear and worry turning her voice sharp.
“We should see if anyone is there. To help.”
What could anyone else do to help? Jim wondered. They’d be as bad off as the Vangs.
Some bit of silent communication was passing between his parents. Jim knew enough to recognize it was happening, but he had never figured out half their codes.
His father steered the car to the left and bumped into something invisible in the ash. He backed up, tried again, and this time, he found the road that curved off into the campground. It took them five minutes to make the quarter mile into the parking area. Out of the gloom rose a shape, a trailer. They drove past it to the dead end but saw nothing and no one else. Jim’s father made a k-turn and went back to the trailer.
The car coughed and died again.
“You want me to see if anyone is in that place?” Jim said.
“Yes,” said his father.
“And I’ll clean the air filter again. Pop the hood, please.”
He dealt with the air filter first. Then he stepped over to the trailer and followed its wall until he came to the main door. He pounded on it. No answer. He grabbed the handle, and to his
surprise, the door opened. “Hello?” he called. He stuck his head in and looked around. Nobody. “Hello?” he called more loudly.
Jim climbed into the trailer, half-afraid he’d get shot as an intruder and shut the door to keep out the swirling ash. He looked around. It was like a house in miniature. Kitchen, sofa, dinette, an easy chair. An inside door at the rear that led probably to a bedroom or bathroom. “Is anyone here?” he called. No sound.
He jumped outside, got back into the car, and said, “It’s unlocked. No one is there. I don’t know why not.”
“No truck,” said his father. “They must take the truck somewhere.”
“Will they come back?” asked Lida, the first thing she’d said during the drive.
“I think no, not now.” His father looked back at Jim and Lida. “Jim needs to wash. Air is maybe cleaner in there for more time longer than in car. We will go in there to wait. Maybe it will stop soon.”
Jim reached for the door handle again, but his father stopped him. “We will all go at once. Open car door once only. Take water from back of car. Open trailer door once only too. We must keep good air inside as long as we can.”
He looked back and saw a jug of water in the rear next to his mother’s wok and some odds and ends. He grabbed the water and said, “ready.” Lida clung to her book.
They all dashed to the door of the trailer and Father opened it. They slipped inside, his father last, and he closed the door behind them. He locked it and gave it an extra pull.
Jim kicked off his shoes and left them in the little depression by the door where two steps led up. His family was all taking off their shoes too and leaving them lined up against the wall by the door.
Father went through the door to the rear room and came back. “The ceiling hole over shower was open. I shut.” He motioned to Jim. “You come back into shower.” He said to Mother, “You find clothes to fit Jim.”
So weird. His father was honest to a fault, would never steal, would never enter a house uninvited, would never take someone’s clothes, but he seemed willing to throw out all those rules of a lifetimes without hesitation. It brought home to Jim how serious their situation was.
Jim went back and found a tiny bathroom, tiled in white, with a coating of gray ash on the floor where the open vent had let it inside. He glanced up and saw the vent, with a pile of bigger gravel piled atop the screen there. His father followed him. Jim stripped and stood in the shower. He turned the faucet, but nothing came out.
His father nodded, as if he expected it, and said, “I find controls.” He went away and, a few minutes later, water sprayed out. Cold water. Jim shivered but made himself stand where he was. His torso was almost clean but his arms, head, and hands were filthy. Gray mud sluiced off his arms and down the drain. Bracing himself against the cold, he closed his eyes and stuck his head under the spray. Man, that was really freezing. He shuddered involuntarily. He grabbed for a bar of soap and drew it through his hair. When he tried to wash his arms, he realized they hurt. A lot. So did his face, his forehead especially. The soap made it worse. He looked down and saw splotches of vivid red on his arms. Here and there, a chunk of skin had peeled away. He was burned worse than he thought. He picked at a loose bit of skin. Ow! Man, he wouldn’t do that again.
He let the water run over his face. He dabbed at his eyelids. Grit stung his eyes. He cupped his hands, filled them with water, and forced himself to open one eye as he ducked his face down into the water, blinking furiously in the pool of cold water. He did this three times with each eye. They still felt scratched, and a bit numb from the cold water, but he thought they were clean. Teeth chattering with the cold, he shut off the shower. A towel hung on the door. Someone else’s towel, though, which he didn’t want to use. He stood and dripped for a couple minutes before stepping onto the bare floor. There was a cabinet below a sink and he opened that. No towel, but a stack of a half-dozen washcloths. He took them all out and dried himself on them, soaking the cloths one after the other, using the last one to scrub at his hair. Then he used them to mop up the ash on the floor, and he shoved them all into a corner with his clothes, remembering at the last moment to rescue the shaman bracelet from his pocket. He had to turn on the shower once more to wash his hands of the ash he’d picked up while cleaning.
Again, he examined his arms. His mother was going to faint when she saw those burns. Maybe there was something for them in the medicine cabinet. The door to the bathroom opened and his father handed him a sweatshirt and sweatpants and backed out to give Jim room to dress. The clothes were a bit tight, but at least they were clean. In the medicine cabinet, he found a tube of antibiotic cream and a box of bandage strips. He grabbed them up and opened the door to the hall.
His father was waiting outside. “You look better.”
“I feel better.”
“You did well with the car, knowing what to do.”
His father didn’t praise lightly. Jim said, “Thank you.” It was good luck that he’d had the shop class so recently. If this had happened next year, or the year after, he might not have remembered what to do.
“It is good to pay attention in school, you see? And this is time for you to grow up,” his father said, lowering his voice. “I don’t think I can drive the car more. Too slippery. If we crash on mountain, then what?”
“Okay,” said Jim.
“But bad things might happen.”
As if bad things hadn’t happened so far.
“And I need for you to keep doing well, like with the car. You quit being a boy now. The family needs you.”
“Okay,” said Jim, but he didn’t know exactly how he was supposed to do that.
“You listen to me.”
“I’m listening.”
His father studied him, finally saying, “Go show your mother you are well.”
In the main part of the trailer, his mother had found a saucepan and tea bags and had set about heating water. She had a scissors and was decapitating the tea bags, pouring out the brown tea leaves onto a saucer. It made him feel a little better, seeing her doing something so normal in such bizarre circumstances. Lida sat at the dinette table, her wildflower book still grasped in both hands, as if it were some talisman that might protect her from what was happening outside.
Mother came over and examined him. She saw the burns on his arms and face and made a worried sound. Silently, he handed her the tube of cream and bandages. He sat down by Lida and let his mother smear the stuff over his burns. It wasn’t so much that he wanted to be like a little kid and have his mother play nurse to him, but that he knew it would comfort her to do it. Okay, maybe it would comfort them both.
When she was done, and Jim had two dozen bandages decorating his arms and forehead, Father came back into the room. “I checked all windows are closed. We are safe in here.”
For now, Jim thought. “How long—” he began, but then he looked at his sister and her strained face. Never mind. His father couldn’t answer how long they’d be trapped here, and his mother wouldn’t know, either. They’d stay as long as they needed to. At least they had water. Would the ash seep in the cracks of the windows, though? Was it like that horror movie he saw with the evil mist that you could no way keep out?
The water on the stove hissed as it came to a boil, and his mother went to make them tea. Lida, who would normally get up to help, seemed in shock, rooted to her seat. “Hey, Leed,” he said. “Show me some of the wildflowers you’ve collected.”
She blinked at him, dazed.
Seeing a light switch overhead, he flipped it on, making an island of light over them, and sat by her. “Show me in your book. Let’s see how you’re doing at identifying them.”
Slowly, she put the book on the table, but her hands did not release it. Jim rested his hand on hers and said gently, “Only if you want.”
Under his fingers, her grip slowly eased. She opened the book, turning pages carefully, and plucked out a white flower on a long reddish stem. The colors were fading n
ow. Jim looked in the book and compared her sample to the picture on the open page. “I think this is it. Good job with the I.D.” Her silence was starting to scare him. “Why don’t you read to us about it?”
She shook her head.
“Okay. How ‘bout if I do, then?”
Slowly, she pushed the book toward him. His mother served his father tea, then served Jim, and finally Lida as Jim read aloud more than he had ever wanted to know in his life about lousewort.
When he was done, his mother said, “I think we had when I was a child. I remember a flower much like this, in mountains there.”
“Maybe it was a medicine?” he said.
“If so, I have lost that knowing. I know to put ginseng on your burns.” She looked worried again.
Jim pushed the book back toward Lida and said, “show us the next.” And in this way, they passed an hour, and Lida relaxed a little, was even willing to say a word or two in response to his questions. When she did, Jim felt like he’d accomplished something more important—and harder—than anything he’d done so far this week.
His mother hunted through the cabinets, muttering about the food they had left back at the campsite. Jim sat, longing for a game or computer to distract him. His father sat with his eyes closed, napping or thinking. Lida was stroking the edges of her book where it sat on the table, no longer holding it in that death grip.
A creaking came from overhead. They all looked up, except his mother, who was focused on her work in the kitchen. Then another creak, louder. As he watched, the center of the trailer ceiling visibly buckled and something up there snapped, like a breaking stick.
“Shit,” he breathed. For once, his father didn’t say anything about bad language.
“What is it?” said Lida, her voice high and tense.
“The roof,” said his father. “The stuff is maybe too heavy on it.”
“That’s right,” said Jim. “I think it could collapse with the weight of the ash.” With them under it.