He inhaled, breathing in clear crisp air with the nip of evergreen laced with fresh coffee. When the gold rim succumbed to stronger light, he tossed the dregs of his coffee at a struggling pine seedling and headed back to camp. If they were going to have fish for breakfast, Brian had to get out of the sack.
“Come on, Son, the trout are calling our names.”
Brian rubbed sleepy eyes and pushed out of his sleeping bag. “You already started the fire. Didn’t you sleep?”
“Like a king. I’m hungry for trout, how about you?”
“Bet I get the first one.” Brian pulled his clothes out of the sleeping bag, where they’d kept dry, and shivered into pants and sweatshirt. He sat on a log to pull on his boots.
They picked up their gear and headed for the creek, not ten yards away.
David felt his shoulders relax as he worked his line free and cast into a dark pool just up creek. The fly hardly lighted before a trout struck.
“I got one,” Brian sang out.
David looked over his shoulder to see his son reeling in a brownie that leaped and fought all the way. “Way to go, Son.” He kept his own line taunt, letting the fish have enough line to fight but not loose enough to spit free.
“We gonna take some home?”
“Your mom would love trout for dinner, if we can catch that many.” David slipped his catch into the bag at his waist and prepared to cast again. If life could get any better than this, he didn’t know how. The mountain had accomplished her healing again. He laughed to himself. God, it’s not the mountain that heals me but you. I just seem to listen better here. I don’t know why the cares wash away when I get out in the woods like this, but they do. Why do I wait so long, make myself and others so miserable?
He worked the long tip until he had enough line free, and then he cast, the fly settling in a patch of silver. The fly floated slowly toward the ripples. Nothing.
“Got me another one.” Brian’s laugh brought a smile to his father’s face.
David drew his line in and cast again, back to where he’d caught the first one. With a zing that gave him the same rush, a trout hit it and tore for deeper water.
Ah, Katheryn, how can you forgive me for the way I’ve acted? You keep loving me no matter what. Somehow I’ll make it up to you.
They stopped with six trout, four of which came from Brian’s bag, and while David cleaned the fish in the creek, Brian built up the fire, hauled out the frying pan, and set the bacon grease from the morning before and the cornmeal on the wooden table.
“Ready?” David laid the cleaned fish on the table. Brian handed him the plastic bag of cornmeal-flour mix and set the frying pan on the crackling fire.
There is no fragrance like sizzling trout cooked right after catching it in a camp like this. David inhaled again, watching as Brian carefully turned the browning trout over in the pan.
“You’re doing a great job, Son.”
Brian grinned over his shoulder. “Thanks. You and Mom taught me.”
David rubbed the top of Brian’s head. “You’re a good kid, you know that?”
“Get your plate.”
David pushed the coffeepot over a hotter spot and took his plate back to the table. One bite and he shut his eyes to better savor the rush of flavor. “Perfecto.”
Brian sat across the table. The trout disappeared as if by magic, leaving both of them with satisfied grins. When Brian belched, they both laughed.
“Let’s get packed up. Get those trout on ice as soon as we can.”
“Dad, look!” Brian pointed toward the mountain.
David turned. A puff of ash rose from the new crater, as if the mountain burped. While they watched, another cloud, darker and more dense, grew. David grabbed for his camera. He pointed it at the mountain, clicking as the clouds roiled and reared, when it looked like the entire north face was slipping downward.
“Brian, we gotta get outta here. Run!”
“I’ll get the—”
“No! Run!”
They tore off down the trail, making about fifty yards when the blast hit them.
MAY 18, 1980
Oh my God, look!”
Frank spun around, following the pointing finger. “The mountain.” A whisper only, as if his vocal cords strangled at the magnitude of the sight.
Ash, steam, and roiling clouds climbed higher by the moment, billowing, filling the eastern sky. The mountain itself was not visible from where they stood in the parking lot in Toutle, the parking lot where over a hundred cars waited to follow Frank up Highway 504 to Spirit Lake.
The police-band radio squawked from his dashboard. “Mayday, Mayday. Mount St. Helens has erupted. Alert, everyone, Mount St. Helens has erupted. Oh my God, the north face is going!”
Frank leaned inside and grabbed his mic. He held it against his chest as he watched the ash cloud grow. How could a mountain be blowing up and life here, so close to it, go on as if nothing were amiss?
“Sheriff! What do you hear?” The property owners who’d been ready to have his head served barbeque style for being late only a few minutes ago now congregated together, some crying, others still open-mouthed in awe at the terrible beauty filling the eastern sky, climbing higher and wider into the stratosphere.
“What’s going to happen?” One of his deputies kept his voice low so as to not panic the gathered crowd.
“I have no idea.” Frank shook his head. His mind finally kicked into gear, and he realized only seconds had passed since the first shout, seconds that felt like minutes stretching into a time warp. He dropped his mic back in the cradle, ordered Sig to stay, and walked to the rear of the Blazer. Popping the rear door, he reached inside for a bullhorn. The squawk as he turned it on served to galvanize him into action.
“Okay, folks, we obviously won’t be traveling 504 this morning, so I suggest you all head on home immediately. We need to clear this area for emergency vehicles.”
“Thank God we weren’t up there.”
“Or on our way. If we think the Toutle is flooded now, just wait a while.”
One woman came up to Frank. “Sorry for being so angry with you. God sure took care of all of us today.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Frank touched the brim of his hat. Amazing how his head had cleared its alcohol-induced fog after the dispatcher’s phone call. Shock did that to one.
MAY 18, 1980
Maybe they’ll come home early.” Katheryn stretched her arms over her head, pushing against the headboard. She flexed her toes and rotated her ankles. You’d better get going, or you’ll be late for church. You could stay home and write, finish another chapter before they get home. After all, how often do you get this kind of quiet? And besides, you’re on a roll.
She tried to ignore the inner argument while slipping her arms into the sleeves of her chenille robe. “Hurry home, David. I have such magnificent news.”
Lucky whined at the door. Out of habit Katheryn had closed the bedroom door the night before. Lucky slept on a folded blanket at the foot of the bed. While she’d been known to sneak up on the bed when Katheryn slept alone, last night she’d stayed on the floor.
Katheryn closed the window that she kept open a crack even in the coldest months, slid her feet into sheepskin slippers, and led the way down the stairs, Lucky’s toenails clicking beside her on the dark oak risers.
“There you go, girl. Looks to be a lovely day.” She inhaled a breath of spring as she watched the dog pause at the edge of the deck and sniff the air. She couldn’t help but do the same. Someone had started a fireplace or wood stove, the narcissus blooming in one wine-barrel tub sweetened the mix, and, sure enough, the skunk had visited again during the night. How such a wild creature could manage in a suburban development like theirs was beyond her. She watched as Lucky did her business in the designated area, then followed an invisible trail over to the six-foot cedar fence. Tail wagging, Lucky checked out the immediate area, returned to the depression, and gave it a thorough sniff test.
Katheryn poured dry dog food in the ceramic dog dish Kevin had made one year in an art class. She added a dessert topping of canned food and set the dish on the floor to the appreciative thwacking of the dog’s tail against the side of her robe.
Church or no, the discussion still waged.
She inhaled the coffee fragrance when she opened the can to measure grounds into the percolator. Today could be deemed a good day for smells. Have I included any in Brandy’s story? Or am I missing out on that one of the senses? What about the other senses? What about taste and hearing?
Once showered, dressed, and with industrial strength coffee in hand, she headed back to her office. The clock on her desk read ten the next time she came up for air, thanks to a rumbling stomach and a ringing telephone.
“Oh, go away.” She swept her now dry but not styled hair back from her forehead. Picking up the phone and clamping it between shoulder and ear, she kept her fingers on the keys.
“Hello … Oh, good morning, Mother.”
Typing while listening wasn’t terribly hard for someone who routinely juggled three balls at the same time. “I know. I’m glad you are having a good time. Florida must be heating up by now.”
She got Brandy in trouble once more and pulled the page out of the roller.
“Oh, our good news … Susan felt the baby move for the first time. I forgot to tell you that last time we talked.” She held the ten typed pages by the side and tapped them on the desk, creating the order of another chapter.
“You did what?” Her smile widened as she punched the three holes and inserted the pages in the growing notebook. “Is he nice? What does he do for a living? You sound positively giddy.” Katheryn leaned back in her chair and gave her mother her full concentration. “Bernie what?” Doodling with one hand, she shook her head at the design of linking hearts that appeared from under her pencil. She’d not heard such joy in her mother’s voice since before her father’s death two years earlier. And while Jessica Woods had said no one could ever replace her Ronald, the tone said differently now.
Katheryn fought a pang of resentment, banishing it with the sword of grace. Her mother certainly deserved some happiness at this stage in a life that had never been easy.
“Can I tell the family?”
Lucky wandered over from her spot in the sun on the carpet and placed one paw on Katheryn’s knee. Switching from doodling to petting the dog took no concentration, and it soothed her as much as it did Lucky.
Her stomach rumbled again. “So, when will you be home?” Jessica had flown to Florida to visit her sister back in February, sure that she’d stay only a few weeks, which turned into three months.
“He asked you to what?” She sat upright, dislodging the dog in the jerking of the chair. “Ah, I don’t know. Do you have to be in such a rush? I mean, come on, Mom, we haven’t even met the man. Surely you should come home first and let him come visit you … us and …” She pushed her hair back again, electricity standing strands on end while the rest swept back to hang limply. Why hadn’t she done her hair? Set the hot rollers? Put on her makeup. She could always deal better with a crisis when she had her armor in place.
“Mom, please, no, I’m not saying you are making a mistake …” Even though he could be some gold digger after her money. While Jessica was not wealthy, she had a home all paid for and enough in the bank and investments to live comfortably for the rest of her life. Her husband had provided well for her.
“Mother, please don’t cry. I’m not judging Ben or Bernie or whatever his name is. I’m sure I will love him to pieces, but please, come home and let’s all talk this over without any pressure. David will—I mean, all of us want to meet him first, and if you do decide to marry again, I really want to be there.” She stared out the window, noticing the geranium needed both watering and pruning.
Sensing her unease, Lucky laid her head on Katheryn’s knee and whined for attention.
“Good, I’ll talk to you again this evening, and yes, of course, if Bernie is there, I’d love to chat with him.” What kind of a man would be in such a hurry? What’s his agenda? “Bye, Mother, and give Aunt Estelle a hug for me.” I’ll just bet she approves, if it would get you moved down there. Of course she’s a great judge of men. She’s only had four husbands, tried all kinds.
Katheryn hung up the phone, reminding herself that she was being unchristian and judgmental without knowing all the facts. But what a shock! Why had her mother not mentioned this man before? Why did she have such an unpleasant taste regarding this whole thing? Boy, will David have something to say about this.
“Come on, girl, time for some brunch, since I missed breakfast a long time ago.” Strange how the house seemed lonely today when most of the days her men were gone off to work or school anyway. Was it because David hadn’t called like he usually did during the day, just to touch base? Although he hadn’t been doing that so often these last months either. One thing she’d learned about depression, the person suffering from it had a hard time thinking of anyone—but himself. “Should call it the ‘me disease.’ ”
Lucky wagged her tail, glanced toward the cupboard where the doggy treats were stored and then back to Katheryn.
“All right, I get the picture.” She dug out a treat, and the crunch of teeth on the rock-hard food filled the quiet kitchen.
Katheryn opened the cupboard doors and stared at the boxes and cans therein. Too late for cereal, too early for tuna. She moved to the fridge. Too early for salad, the leftover lasagna probably wore a gray-green dress by now, too lazy for bacon and eggs. She reminded herself she had planned to bake an apple pie for David—his favorite.
In a few minutes, she took mug and filled plate back to her office and the waiting manuscript. Brandy, here I come. If I can keep going for a couple more hours, I’ll have the rough draft finished—a major accomplishment. More good news to share. David, hurry home.
“Nuts.” The ringing phone jerked her back from Brandy’s world. She glanced at the clock as she reached for the receiver, wishing she could ignore the persistent whine as other authors she knew did. She had a perfectly good answering machine, which was rarely used other than when no one was home.
“Hello.”
“Mom.”
At the tone of Susan’s voice, Katheryn bit back her request to talk later. “What’s wrong?”
“H-has Dad come home yet?”
“Nope, he said late afternoon. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I hope. Have you had the television or radio on?”
“When I’m home alone? Get serious.”
“Ah …”
“Just spit it out, honey, you’re making me nervous.” Katheryn stared at the calendar on her desk. David Larson’s cartoon of an ant heap usually made her smile. She picked up a pencil to doodle with.
“Mom, Mount St. Helens erupted this morning at about eight thirty. Do you have any idea what—where Dad was camping?”
Katheryn’s pencil dropped to the floor. Frozen in place. Nothing moved; not breath, not heartbeat, not corpuscle.
“Mom!”
Katheryn blinked and wet her lips with her tongue. “I … I’m here.”
MAY 18, 1980
Daddy’s coming home, Daddy’s coming home.” Lissa spun in a circle in the middle of the kitchen floor.
Mellie watched her daughter, resisting the urge to reach out and grab her to keep her from falling and possibly bruising. These brief bursts of energy, reminding her of the way life used to be, when Lissa danced and sang her way through each moment, were treasures to b
e hoarded, stored in the secret places of her heart. She forced herself to sing along.
Lissa wound down into a heap on the floor, still smiling, her arms wrapped around her middle. “Do you think he’s already left?”
“No, he said he’d leave around four, or as soon as he delivered his last load.”
“And he’s going to stay home?”
“We’ll see.” So much depends on … Mellie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. As soon as she had dinner in the oven, she and Lissa would take a long bubble bath together. They’d play with the bubbles and make fancy hairstyles with the shampoo froth. She glanced at the clock. Ten. If she cooked the roast on two hundred, it would be melting tender by five or six.
“Mr. Johnson would like to come for dinner.”
“I thought of that too. Do you want to call him?” Mr. Johnson lived next door and over the last two years had taken the place of the grandfathers who lived too far away to be a regular part of their lives. Not that they particularly wanted to.
Lissa held the receiver to her ear. “What is his number?”
Mellie repeated the number slowly so Lissa could dial. “Tell him around five.” She kept one ear on the conversation as she chopped onions to season the roast. Lissa’s giggle said Charles Johnson was teasing her in the gentle way he had that always brought a sparkle to her daughter’s eyes.
“He said he would love to come, and can he bring something?” Lissa held the receiver against her chest.
“Ask him if he has any of his frozen corn left.”
Lissa relayed the message and giggled again. “Do you want five pounds or ten?” She deepened her voice in imitation of their neighbor.
Mellie laughed too. “Tell him enough for four people for dinner.”
The Way of Women Page 9