The Way of Women

by Lauraine Snelling

  Harry Truman’s string of cuss words blasted his ear.

  “Okay, old man. I hear you. So things are falling off the shelves up there on the mountainside, and your cats are ricocheting off the wall in fear.” Frank nodded to the young officer who beckoned from the doorway. “I gotta go, Harry. I’ll try to get up there tomorrow.”

  “There’s a woman outside who says her son ran off, hasn’t been home for three days.”

  “Why’d she take so long to get on in here?” Frank paused as his desk shuddered. Another one. The quakes were coming closer together. Swarms, the government guys called them.

  “She says she tried to call us but could never get through. I’m kind of wondering if—you know—she’s all there.”

  “Now, that’s a police term if I ever heard one.” Dumb young punks were supposed to get some kind of training at the academy, just not sure what kind. Two o’clock and it feels more like five.

  They’d had a meeting just this morning with some of the government hotshots, some saying the mountain could blow any second, others saying it could be years. No one knew what was going on, and he was gettin’ on to not caring. Just let him run his office and get out of his way.

  “Maybelle, honey, could you check your records? See if we got any calls from …” He glanced to the deputy.

  “A Mrs. Betty Jones.”

  “How old you say her boy was?”

  “Fourteen?”

  “And did she check with his friends?”

  “Said so.”

  “And he’s not been to school?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Bring her …”

  “No calls listed to that name, Frank.” Maybelle glanced to check on the waiting room. “Is that her?” Her whisper made the deputy draw closer.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “I see.” She turned back to Frank. “Let’s go back to your office.”

  Frank reviewed his study of the woman wearing baggy gray sweats, her mousy hair pulled back in a club. Her swollen face showed the ravages of tears, or something.

  He followed Maybelle down the hall. “What is it?”

  “Poor woman.” Maybelle sighed before looking at the sheriff. “Her only son died three years ago. She’s been hospitalized at Steilacoom off and on.”

  Frank felt himself shut down, like a door slamming in his head. He kept from uttering the words he was thinking, only because he knew Maybelle would be offended.

  “How about if I take her home with me?”

  “Right. Maybelle Hartman, keeper of lost waifs.”

  “You have any other suggestions?”

  The floor trembled beneath their feet.

  “Guess we’ll have to get used to them, right?” Frank motioned toward the floor.

  “Makes my heart near to stop, but guess so. What do you say?”

  “Sure, take her home for the night until we can get ahold of her doctor.”

  “They might just put her back there.”

  “Would that be so bad? At least she’d be safe.”

  “She’s not a danger to anyone. Just lookin’ for her boy.”

  Frank watched his dispatcher leave the room. All heart, that woman, but don’t cross her once she gets her mind made up. He turned back to his paper-shrouded desk. If only a big wind would blow through and take all the forms and reports away.

  I could be just like that woman. The thought made his stomach clench. I need a drink. He glanced at the clock. With no emergencies he could leave at five. Leastways that’s when he was supposed to leave. He should stay and clean up this mess.

  When five rolled round he was out the door and on his way home. He passed the bar without a qualm. No one was going to drive him home tonight. He had plenty on hand, and besides, he didn’t feel like talking with anyone.

  Sometimes laughing and BS-ing fit his mood, but tonight—tonight he wanted to be alone. Tomorrow was the day.

  Some anniversaries were better forgotten. If only he could.

  Three years since the worst day of his life.

  In spite of her expectant tremors, the first blast caught her by surprise. She had hoped to seep the pressure off bit by bit, but the heat within crescendoed until she could feel her snowy mantle begin to melt and slip away, a lady’s shawl discarded in haste. Ash dirtied her spring gown of white. Tears formed a gray brown-stream pouring from a wound in her crater. While the initial discharge relieved some of her turmoil, she realized that the pressure remained. The worst was yet to come.

  APRIL 18, 1980

  Sorry, miss. You can’t go any farther.”

  Jenn frowned at the young trooper. She knew he was only doing his job, but that fact did nothing for her spirits. She donned her “charming” smile. “Look, I grew up here. I know this area like the proverbial back of my hand.” She peered at his nametag. “I also know, Officer Tanner, that you can make exceptions to any rule. Can’t I sign a release that says I’m going up at my own risk?”

  “I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “Governor Ray said no exceptions. I’m just obeying orders.”

  Jenn thrummed her fingers on the steering wheel of her rented four-wheel-drive pickup. Getting up to Spirit Lake gnawed like a rabid badger at her insides. “Look …”

  “What’s the problem, Tanner?”

  Jenn turned her head at the commanding voice. It sounded vaguely familiar.

  “This lady insists on going up to Spirit Lake, Sheriff.” Officer Tanner stepped back from the truck window at Frank’s gesture.

  “Now, ma’am, I’m sure Officer Tanner here has explained the situation.” McKenzie tipped his hat brim back with one finger.

  “Hello, Frank.” Jenn removed her oversize dark glasses and turned in the seat to face him. Would her childhood idol even recognize her?

  “Well, I’ll be blowed over.” Frank’s smile made it all the way to his hazel eyes for the first time in months. “Jennie’s come home.” He turned and grinned at the young officer as if he should be excited too.

  Jenn flinched at the diminutive. Jenn was okay, J. E. better, but Frank wouldn’t know that.

  “Yes sir.” Officer Tanner glanced back at the cars lining up behind the pickup. “Uh, maybe since you know this person, you could, um …”

  “You’re right. You go deal with those others, and I’ll take over here.” Frank waved in dismissal. “Thanks, Tanner.”

  Jenn studied Frank briefly during his exchange with Tanner. The man had aged! He looked like he could barely crawl out of bed. Had his family’s tragedy made him physically ill? When he turned back and leaned closer, she caught a whiff of whiskey. Did it take a drink to get him out of bed every morning? Her musings failed to alter her smile. What were they? Two of a kind?

  “Sorry for all that.” He extended his hand. “Welcome home.”

  “I won’t be home until I get up to the lake. Can’t you do something about that?” Her eyes darkened with intensity. “I have to get up there.”

  “I know you do, squirt. You and The Lady always had a special affinity.” The ancient nickname slipped out without his awareness. “Park your truck over there and come with me. I have to go up and try to talk old Harry Truman out again. Won’t do any good, but it’s a great way to spend the morning.”

  “Thanks.” She felt like bouncing in the seat, just like she used to. Strange, so many memories she hadn’t thought of for years. What is happening to J.E. Stockton? Man calls her squirt, and she immediately regresses to that tomboy who tagged along behind Frank even after he joined the county force, even after he brought home his bride.

  She parked her truck at the back of the parking lot and swung her camera and daypack out in one fluid motion when she stepped from the cab. The camera was an extension of her soul, her graceful body a product of years of grueling dance and ramp work. She started to lock the door but brought herself up short with a small grin. She was home. No one locked houses here, let alone cars. Cowlitz County was a far cry from the crime-ridden city where she ma
de her living.

  She opened the door of the forest-green Blazer and froze. The massive German shepherd facing her from the seat lifted one lip slightly. The growl remained in his throat, audible only to Jenn. An expletive escaped before she clamped her mouth shut.

  Sig watched her, waiting for her next move.

  “Frank. Call off your dog!” Jenn matched the monster, stare for stare. He was magnificent. Frank laughed, a carefree sound that Jenn failed to appreciate.

  “Backseat, Sig.” He rumpled the dog’s alert ears and thumped him on the shoulder. With a thrust of his powerful hindquarters, the animal pushed himself over the seat. He assumed his sitting position on the rear seat, tongue lolling, eyes still on the woman.

  “She’s a friend, Sig. A friend.” Like a soldier ordered “at ease,” the dog immediately relaxed and, with a quick swipe of his tongue, cleaned the sheriff’s right ear. Frank wiped his ear dry and extended a hand to pull Jenn’s backpack into the center of the seat. “You’re not afraid of him, are you?”

  “No. Just respectful.” She followed her gear in. “Eye to eye, no one with any brains would argue with him.” Jenn looked over her shoulder to accentuate her point, then slammed the door. “I’m ready when you are.”

  When Frank failed to move, Jenn glanced up. At the intensity of his gaze, she locked herself into an assumed nonchalance, one of the poses for which the camera made her famous. Her head tilted slightly as if resisting his gaze.

  Frank studied her, his piercing stare wandering from the top of her head, lifeless hair easily tamed with a bone clasp, to her eyes, the purple shadows under them huge in her face. He noted the hollows under the cheekbones, the once strong chin, now all bone, her neck no longer graceful but gaunt. “You look like something out of a death camp. What has that city done to you? Or what’ve you done to yourself?” He grabbed her chin in brutal fingers and turned her face to the light. “You fall or someone work you over?” The bruise on her temple tried to tell its own story.

  “None of your business, Frank McKenzie.” The ice in her voice belied the fire in her eyes. “Besides, look who’s talking.” She jerked her chin free, conscious but uncaring that there’d be another bruise. “You’re only forty-four. Yet you look sixty—and a sick sixty at that.”

  “Yeah. Well, I guess I earned my scars the hard way.” The cynical bite in his tone contradicted the desolation in his eyes.

  “And you think I didn’t?” Blue eyes locked with hazel, as if the two were sworn enemies rather than friends who’d been separated for years. Jenn gave up the contest, hating the emptiness she saw in his soul. “Frank.” She laid her hand on his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d have gotten over that by now.”

  “I know. What’s a wife and kid in the grand scheme of things?”

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Yeah. I know.” Frank worked his hands loose from the steering wheel. He shifted the Blazer into first, checked his side mirror, and pulled out onto the road. “Let’s go rout out old Harry, squirt.” He reached over and patted her knee. “Maybe he’ll pour us some of his special stock as a welcome home for ‘the face of the seventies.’ He has one of your magazine covers up on his wall, you know. Along with all the other celebrities who’ve visited the lodge. Says he knew you before when …”

  It was obvious that they were to return to banalities, so Jenn buried her ravaged feelings and dug her camera out to mask any pain in her eyes. Why could this man crack her armor with a few choice words when no one else had even nicked it in the last years? And heaven knows, they’d tried.

  The gray clouds scudding overhead matched the turbulent, gray river. Both mirrored Jenn’s feelings. The brief flareup with McKenzie only served to deepen the depths of her grayness. She was counting on the mountain to bring her back to life, but each milepost they passed intensified her fear rather than heightening her anticipation. What if the mountain were dying too? Don’t be stupid! She cut her thoughts off. Mountains don’t die. Only people and living things die. And dreams. And hopes. She glanced at the hard profile of the concentrating driver. And those you love. Dying is hard, but murder? She tried to comprehend how he must have felt. The horror eluded her, but empathy and its cousin sympathy found a home. She shifted, staring out the window, to hide the drops seeping from her eyes. When that failed, she rolled her eyes upward, clenched her jaw, and commanded her emotions back into their burrow. Who was she crying for anyway? Frank? Herself? The Lady?

  The weathered cedar siding of Mount St. Helens’ Lodge melded into the lowering mist as Frank parked in the empty parking lot. Spirit Lake needed a clear day to mirror the proud peak. Today tips of white on the rolling waves were the only color in the murky lake. Mount St. Helens hid herself in the gunmetal clouds. The brisk wind off the lake gave Jenn an excuse for the moisture in her eyes as she stepped from the cab. She fished in her pocket for a tissue while pulling her gear out with her left hand. With her pack slung over her shoulder and her camera around her neck, she finally had both hands free to blow her nose and wipe her eyes.

  Frank beat her to it. His hard fingers gripped her chin, gently this time, as he tilted her face upward. He wiped each eye, the tear path over her jaw, then handed her the handkerchief. “Blow.”

  She mutely obeyed and handed the red square back. He nodded. “That’s better.” He stared into the eyes still brightened by the tears he’d been aware of but refused to comment on. He unclenched his jaw by conscious effort. “So I’m a sick sixty.” He shook his head. “Let’s see what Harry’s serving this morning.” He transferred his grip to her elbow and aimed her toward the lodge. At Sig’s short, sharp bark, Frank shook his head. “Sorry, fella. Stay. You drive those cats of Harry’s crazy.” Frank slammed the door. The sound was lost in the moaning of the wind in the giant Douglas fir trees that sheltered the aged building from storms off the lake.

  They ducked their heads and clattered up the worn stairs to the lodge as the first squall whipped through the windbreak and spattered giant tears across the landscape.

  “Anybody home?” The wind wrenched the door from Frank’s grasp and slammed it against the wall. He shoved Jenn inside, then stepped out to pull the door securely shut behind him.

  Jenn shook the drops from her hair while allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom. The main lighting came from a roaring fire in the rough rock fireplace, since the storm had darkened the windows. “Harry,” she called, raising her voice against the wind. “You here?”

  Frank took her elbow again and led her across the cavernous room. “Harry!” He thumped the scarred wooden counter. A ragged-eared tomcat, jarred from his nap on the counter, leaped to the floor and disappeared around the corner.

  “I’m comin’. I’m comin’. What’s your hurry?” Harry shuffled through the door still muttering, gray hair standing on end, bulbous nose and cheeks stained a permanent blush from his favorite beverage. He stopped, peered at the couple through sleepy eyes, then a grin split his face from ear to ear. “Well, I’ll be …” Harry finished his sentence with his trademark run of profanities. He nodded as if confirming what his eyes told him. “Ya growed up, kid.” He wiped his hand on his pant leg and reached for Jenn’s hand. “What’n blazes are you doing up here? Thought you’d forgotten all about us, you’n all that big city glamour.” He glanced back at the picture on the wall. Even in the dimness, the striking beauty of the face on the cover of Time magazine arrested one’s attention. He peered at the woman in front of him, then back at the cover. He stared at her a lifetime, his woodsman’s eyes trained to note minute detail. He nodded, a barely perceptible motion. “Had to come home, did ya? Back to The Lady?” He squeezed the hand he still held and grasped her elbow with the other. “You poor child, why’d ya wait so long?”

  While Jenn usually hated pity, she felt the moisture rising again at the depths of his scrutiny. It stabbed like needles, piercing her soul as she held his gaze.

  “I don’t know, Harry”—she swallowed—
“but I’m here now.” The needles lanced the pustules deep within where she’d buried her bitterness and disappointment and left them to fester. She clenched her teeth and squeezed his hand, fighting against the incipient tears. “So, Truman, what’s happened to your famous hospitality? Frank promised me you’d kept a good supply up here and …”

  “And, darlin’, you need a drink. Cocoa, Frank?” He grinned up at the sheriff leaning on the counter. “Or …?”

  “Always the comedian, aren’t you?” Frank thumped the old man on the shoulder. “Let’s have some ‘or,’ and make it a stiff one. By the way, I brought you a couple of cases of Coke. ’Fraid you might run out.”

  “If you ain’t a real friend.” Harry led them toward the bar. “Got plenty of Schenley. Stuff goes pretty far now, since those busybodies in Olympia won’t let nobody come up here.” Never able to say three words without cussing, some of which he ran together and used as one adjective, he busied himself behind the counter as Jenn and Frank perched on the stools in front of the bar. He set up three glasses, ice, whiskey, and topped them off with Coke from a can, but not much of the latter. After sliding two drinks across the bar, he raised his own. “To comin’ home, darlin’. To comin’ home.”

  Jenn swallowed against the rising tide and raised her glass in salute. The barely diluted whiskey burned a path through the gathering tears and warmed a puddle in her middle. What’s happening to me? she thought. I don’t cry and mush about like this. Get your act together, girl. Tears don’t belong in your life. You’re tough. Remember? She coughed and slid her empty glass back across the counter.

  “Last time you was here, you was too young for my special brew.” Harry refilled the glass, the Coke barely staining the amber Schenley. “Now, you want a second? Quicklike—what’s gone on with you, girl?”

  “Just fill it up, Harry. The story’s much too long and boring.”

  Frank watched the by-play, already on his third drink. He’d poured his own after the first splashed down and begged for a chaser. By now he could feel the glow creeping around his gut and out to his extremities. He sipped, finally taking time to allow his tongue some appreciation of the smooth, warm whiskey flavor. His eyes and mind searched for clues to Jenn’s comment. Whatever had happened to her, it certainly wouldn’t be boring. She bristled like a baby porcupine before it had any sense, ready to throw its quills at any distraction. Frank glanced down at the tabby cat twining around his ankles. Sig would have a field day with cat scent all over him. At the same moment, the ratchety chir-r-r-r of a raccoon preceded a sleepy bandit face from the dark end of the bar. Cat and coon shared the premises on an equal basis, but for the top heavy number of felines.