The current problem lay with his latest love affair, the most insidious of his life. Her name was Helen, Mount St. Helens to be exact.
Ross had been posted to the Corps of Engineers Portland office when he’d made captain a year earlier. His chief responsibilities were the dams on the Columbia River, specifically the expansion of Bonneville Dam, thirty miles upriver from Portland, Oregon.
Hooked on danger, he climbed mountains. It made him feel in control, sure of his own strength, and if he slipped sometimes, the surge of adrenaline beat any drug high available to man. With him life was always the thrill of the chase.
He’d been to the top of St. Helens before he even moved his family to their new post. The climb was strenuous but not dangerous. She was called the cream cone by climbers; a long walk with little rock work. On later climbs he had explored her more challenging faces.
Wednesday, March 27, had begun like any other, except he wasn’t running the hour ahead he had planned. And so with, “Sorry, no time for breakfast,” he kissed Karen goodbye as he flew out the door. The kiss he blew toward his eighteen-month-old son, perched on her hip, missed.
“Remember dinner with the Fromsbys,” Karen called after him.
“Right.”
“Not now!” Cars had already begun to line up as he approached the I-5 freeway. The bridge between Portland and Vancouver was up. Mitch, waiting for the tug to push two connected barges under the span, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He adjusted his tie in the rearview mirror and caught sight of the frown lines between his eyebrows.
“Cool it, buster.” His self command had the desired effect. He slumped back in the seat, turned off the engine, and opened his briefcase. Might as well make the best of the time. The paperwork he was always behind on didn’t give a fig where he did it.
Half an hour later he handed his secretary the forms he had reviewed. “Sorry, I’m late, Carol. The bridge was up. My one day in the office this week, and that had to happen.”
“Don’t worry, it’s only eight o’clock. But the phone’s been going crazy.” She handed him a sheaf of messages. “Most of those came in yesterday, and I couldn’t reach you. I numbered them by priority.” She checked her calendar. “You have a staff meeting at noon. I’ve ordered sandwiches.” She glanced up. “Anything else?”
“No.” He shook his head while grinning at her. “You’ve covered everything, as capably as usual. Thanks.”
The hours evaporated. At eleven thirty he called for another cup of coffee, relieved to be able to see his desk in between the dwindling stacks of triplicate forms. He rolled his head and neck around, trying to touch his ears to his shoulders. Desk work always tightened him up more than being on site.
The meeting touched on the possibilities of an eruption on St. Helens due to all the earthquake activity the last few days. Mitch felt himself come alive at the discussion, especially when the presenter said the seismograph reports were almost a continuous line because the tremors were so close together.
“But none of them are very strong?” Mitch knew only what he’d read in the newspaper the nights before.
“No, but they are coming closer to the surface. Something is happening under that peak, and if it goes like the ones in Japan, it could be disastrous.”
“But it could be nothing, too,” Mitch said.
“True. At this point we don’t know what will happen.” The older man rubbed a hand across his balding dome. “But I feel we should be prepared for the worst.”
Mitch tossed the reports on his desk when he returned to his cubicle. A morning shot he’d taken of The Lady graced one of the sand-colored partition walls. Pink tinged, she greeted the sunrise with majestic nonchalance. He stared at the picture, trying to visualize what was going on beneath her. God, I’ve got to get up there and soon.
With a groan he settled back at his desk and picked up another report. The army would someday suffocate in paperwork. The intercom buzzed. “Phone call from Seattle. He says it is urgent.”
“Thanks.” Mitch pushed the button as he lifted the receiver. He leaned back in his chair, glad of the reprieve. “Ross, here.”
“She did what?” He slammed his heels back on the floor, his chair at immediate attention. “I know there’s been earthquake activity there the last few days.” He listened intently, all the while shaking his head. “Well, I’ll be … We have a real live, active volcano right here in our own backyard.” He dropped the handset in the cradle and called to his crew. “Get the radio. We’ve got ourselves a hot one.”
Radio reports throughout the afternoon reiterated what he’d heard. David Johnston, a geologist monitoring the situation from the base of St. Helens, said, “A vertical explosion could spew ash five to ten miles into the air. It’s not as precise as predicting the birth of a baby,” he continued. “It might not erupt in this episode, but it’s heating up. It could be minutes or months.”
The news announcer continued after signing Johnston off. “A mudflow estimated at up to two thousand feet in length is pouring down the northeast face of the 9,677-foot mountain, and gray-brown ash covers the snow all the way to the tree line.”
Mitch tried to picture the scene in his mind. But he had no frame of reference. He checked back to the commentator.
“Two crescent-shaped crevices have opened up from the new crater, extending through the wall of the ancient crater.”
Mitch knew of that crater. He had explored it several times, wondering at the power that could create both mountain and hole.
“Rapid snowmelt and mudflows appear to be the greatest threat,” the commentator continued. “Mudflows have been known to travel at sixty miles per hour on cushions of hot gas. They can cover tens of miles once unleashed. As a precaution, Pacific Power and Light will be lowering the levels in the reservoirs …”
Mitch knew all about that. Draining the water system was standard operating procedure. He shook his head. SOP. Standard Operating Procedure. What was SOP in this case when no one knew what was going to happen? So far there had been no reports of damage. The last eruption in 1857 had blown debris as far as Montana. Other team members from the office floated in and out, eager to discuss various possibilities.
He’d finally left the office at six, after forcing himself to clean up his entire backlog.
“And who knows,” concluded a different announcer, “how long this one might last? Are we at the beginning or the end?”
Good question, Mitch thought. Hoping to pick up more coverage, he switched to another station on his car radio. He looked longingly at the planes parked at Pearson Airpark. But they’d said the airspace within ten miles and twenty thousand feet of the mountain was restricted. Besides, it would be too dark soon. I’ll go up tomorrow.
Blast. He’d promised the boys a trip to the zoo if the weather was nice. But wasn’t a mountain erupting forty miles away more important than seeing the monkeys?
He shook his head. Not to kids it wasn’t. Karen would kill me if I reneged now.
APRIL 15, 1980
She woke with a start.
Her mind searched the haze of the party the night before. Whose hand was this that groped her breast, even in sleep? The miasma of stale sheets and spilled booze stung her nose as she lifted the covers. With the stealth of an attacking savage, she slipped from the bed, picked up her clothing, and, through glazed eyes, found the bathroom.
With wisdom learned from similar mornings-after, she left the light off, both to keep from alerting the supine man in the bed and to keep from catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She knew only too well what she looked like at the moment. And that sight would remind her how far she’d fallen.
She dressed, made it out the door, and down the hall without detection.
Stiletto heels stabbed the concrete of a New York sidewalk. In rhythm with her steps, she lacerated herself for her actions.
Why?
Why the coke?
Why the men?
And the most im
portant question of all: Why live?
As the dawn chill penetrated her fog, she brushed drooping strands of hair from her eyes and the corner of her mouth. Early morning commuters trickled up from the subway. The smell of fresh coffee both enticed and repulsed her nauseous stomach. The celebrated face of the ’70s was coming alive again. But no one would recognize her; most never did, even when she looked her best. The face only showed itself to the eye of the camera.
The face she lived with every day had moved behind the camera. Now her name carried the distinction, Jennifer Elizabeth Stockton; better known in the current mags as J. E. Stockton, ex-model, current fashion photographer extraordinaire.
She pulled her mink coat closer. She’d always maintained a model’s leanness, but lately gaunt better described the body she ignored in the mirror. Along with a few other choice and not so gentle names. She thought of herself as permafrost in the tundra. Even when the surface melts, the frozen core reigns.
Two blocks later her right heel snapped off in a steel grate. Cursing under her breath, she hobbled to the corner and whistled at the first taxi she’d seen that blustery morning.
She leaned back on the seat, eyes closed against the cabby’s questioning glance in the rearview mirror. Her address was all she could force past lips now clenched against the tremors rocking her body. She breathed deeply, forcing herself to swallow the bile bouncing in her throat.
When the driver stopped in front of her apartment building, she thrust several bills into his hand and threw herself from the vehicle just in time to heave her guts into a planter. She vomited again and yet again. Sanity ebbed away, and a black cloud was taking over when the familiar voice of the doorman penetrated her stupor.
“Now, miss.” A strong arm that half led, half carried her inside accompanied the voice. His Irish brogue deepened in his concern. “And you’ll be all right in a moment, here.” He locked the front door with his free hand and then helped her across the marble foyer and into the elevator. When her knees buckled, he caught her up in brawny arms and punched the button for the penthouse.
Her second waking of the day felt little better than the first, but at least she was alone—in her own apartment—in her own bed. Flat on her back, willing the world to stand still. She stared at the twenty-by-twenty-eight, triple-matted, and framed photo on the wall. Rosy-topped Mount St. Helens in all her evening glory. Jenn had taken the shot from the north end of Spirit Lake to catch the full reflection. The Lady and the lake. With a sky so blue it hurt her eyes, she had felt the fir needles under her feet and heard spring singing in the moving bows above her. It had been her last weekend living at home, before she left, seeking fame and fortune, for the Big Apple.
The ache to see her mountain again pierced her numbed senses. But since the eruption, she couldn’t bear to see the changes in her mountain. While she’d watched every newscast, read every word written about it, and commiserated with her parents when they called, she’d refused to go home. Made all kinds of excuses. Sure, she’d been busy, had deadlines, had premieres to attend … Today she knew she had made a putrid hash of her life and couldn’t live without seeing The Lady one more day. Maybe it was time to do something that truly mattered to her. Two hours later she boarded a flight to Portland Oregon. J. E. Stockton was going home.
As soon as she snapped her seat belt, she closed her eyes and slipped into a no man’s land of shifting shapes and feelings. Her head hurt.
Captain Mitchell Ross folded his army-green dress jacket and carefully placed it in the overhead compartment. He started to loosen his tie but stopped when he looked at the woman in the window seat. Interesting face, he thought and wondered about the body hidden in the expensive mink coat. She never stirred when he sat down and buckled his seat belt. Either she was ill, the smudges under her eyes testified to that, or she was exhausted, or …
Jenn resurfaced as she sensed someone invading her space. She’d felt him sit down. Her seat mate was obviously a man, his aftershave expensive and sexy. She allowed her lashes to raise a fraction of an inch and found herself looking into the dark blue eyes of the officer staring at her.
“You’re awake.”
“I haven’t been asleep.”
“Are you all right?” His elbow pressed into her from the armrest shared between their seats. “You look like—”
“Hell?”
He grinned, showing perfect teeth. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t go that far. I thought more along the lines of ill.”
“You could say that.” She turned her face to the window, hoping to discourage him. She’d seen that light of interest too often, in too many men. She refused to play the game—not now, not ever again.
Slightly disgruntled at such on obvious, even rude, turnoff, Mitch settled back in his seat. Rarely was he forced to play the part of pursuer. He loosened his tie and dug in his breast pocket for a pack of chewing gum. Ordinarily he would offer a stick to his seat mate. He glanced again at the woman in mink. If she stayed bundled up like that, she’d have heatstroke. He shrugged. Not his problem, but she looked bad.
Mitch smiled to himself as the plane gathered power, thundering down the runway. He heard the fine-tuned roar deepen and the frame shudder just before the wheels left the concrete and the aircraft thrust itself into the ascent. His fingers itched to be on the stick, his feet on the pedals and his eyes scanning both the horizon and the instrument panels. Pilots always have more fun than passengers, he thought. Or at least, most of the time. Other flights as a passenger had been most profitable, in terms of pleasure, that is.
While Jenn slept through the drinks and meal, Mitch settled in for a boring flight. He’d flirted mildly with the flight attendant, strictly out of habit, and tried to ignore his seat mate. When he leaned his seat back and closed his eyes to catch a few winks himself, even his years of military conditioning failed him. He’d slept standing against a German wall and curled in a Korean foxhole, but the aura of the woman in the mink precluded any rest for him in the plane seat next to her.
Disgusted at his reaction, he turned and let himself study her. God, she was thin. What was she, one of those anorexics? He checked her emaciated left hand. No wedding ring and no evidence of a recent removal. Long fingers and recently manicured nails with soft pink polish. No artificial nails. He liked that. Her body was effectively hidden in the coat.
But her face, he permitted his stare. High cheekbones, strong chin, straight nose—cataloged they sounded ordinary, but there was strength there and a hidden seductiveness. His fingers itched again, this time for a camera. He’d bet three months’ pay that face would come alive through the all-seeing lens.
“Finished?” Her voice slashed through his reverie. She didn’t bother to open her eyes.
Mitch smiled, a disarming smile that covered a multitude of pranks when growing up. That same grin usually devastated his female companions. Not in this case.
He tried another tack. “Do you hate everybody, or is there something about me you particularly dislike?”
Jenn snorted. She flicked her fingers like one would to shoo away a bothersome insect. “Look, soldier boy, I tried to give you a polite hint. I don’t want anything you have to offer. I’m not interested. Now, is that cut and dried enough for you, or do you need a memo from your commanding officer?” She hadn’t even the energy to glare at him, but that lack pounded exclamation points behind her statement.
Mitch stared at her a fraction longer. Nothing in her face betrayed the vitriol with which she’d just doused him.
“No wonder you’re so comfortable in that coat—must be mighty cold in there.” He shook his head. “Pardon me, ma’am, for bothering you.” He faced front. “Maybe next time we meet, you’ll be in a more humane mood.”
Jenn didn’t bother to answer. Whatever makes you think there will be a next time?
Turbulence over the Rockies reminded her that she had a stomach. She felt it flutter back in place after a vertical drop. Another quick dip, and the morning’s
nausea forced her to think of the bag in the magazine pouch in front of her. Don’t be stupid, her inner voice prodded. You have nothing left to heave. What do you want to do, make a complete jackass of yourself again? Let this army jock think you need his strong arm? Come on, J. E., where’s this control you’re so proud of?
Jenn breathed deeply once, then again, and let her spine slump against the seat. She dropped her chin into the cushion of the mink collar and allowed the relaxation to permeate her body. She swallowed past the bile crowding her throat and, with a super convulsive effort, choked down the bitter phlegm. Her eyes remained closed until the flight captain’s voice broke into her consciousness.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be on the ground in Portland in about ten minutes. You can see Mount St. Helens steaming off to the right. As I’m sure you all know, she’s been puffing off and on for several weeks now. Our flights between here and Seattle have had some spectacular views. Those of you on the left can see Mount Hood. There’s some speculation that he could blow too, if St. Helens really lets go. I hope you’ve had a pleasant flight. The crew and I thank you for flying the friendly skies.”
Jenn leaned her forehead against the window, her heart aching at the gray tears staining The Lady’s once pristine slopes. Spring coming to the Pacific Northwest meant peaks still glistening from a late snowfall or cloud cover on the many dismal days. Today the clouds had parted to show the steam rising from the crest of the peak like vertical puffs from a locomotive champing to leave the station. The tear that sneaked past her iron will and rolled down her cheek gave mute testimony to her pain. J. E. Stockton had come home.
MARCH 28, 1980
Rockin’ and arollin’, eh?” Frank clamped the phone between ear and shoulder.
The Way of Women Page 3