Riding the Flume (2 page)

“Francie!” Her mother stood with her hands on her hips and looked up at her daughter. “How many times . . .” she began.

Francie shifted so her body was covering the hole and shoved the bag and message back inside. She could only hope that her mother hadn't seen it. She took a deep breath, willing her heart to slow down, trying to look like nothing had happened. She glanced down at the top of her mother's head. Her shining hair gleamed in the last rays of the evening sun, and it was all still pinned neatly in place. Her mother had walked all the way from town, and Francie knew she'd been working all day in the hotel, but her dark brown skirt and white shirtwaist looked as fresh as if she'd just dressed. “I know,” Francie said. “You don't have to tell me.”

“I think I do,” her mother answered, steadying the ladder as Francie made her way down. “You must not be listening. I've told you over and over that I don't want you to come here, but here you are.”

Francie hopped from the lowest rung, climbing over the bulging roots of the ancient stump. She grabbed the ladder and lowered it to the ground, grateful that her mother's eyes seemed to be fixed on her and not the broken rungs of the ladder. “The loggers are working miles away from here, Mama,” she said. She searched her mother's face for signs of anger but found only a kind of patient sadness that made Francie's heart twist painfully. She wanted somehow to assure her mother there wasn't any danger, but she knew it was hopeless. Her mother would always think the woods were dangerous.

Francie placed her hand on the side of the huge tree stump. “Mr. Court asked me to count the rings of this old stump last month when he was staying at the hotel. He wanted to know how old it was when they cut it down. I've got to twenty-five hundred, and I'm not done yet.” She carefully kept her eyes away from the hole. She wanted to examine the message in private, without her mother looking over her shoulder.

“Mercy!” Her mother took a closer look at the tree stump. “Twenty-five hundred years old?”

“More than that,” Francie said. “Maybe three thousand or even older.”

Her mother shook her head and clicked her tongue against her teeth. “It's a shame,” she said almost under her breath. “Even if Thomas Connor's money is practically keeping the hotel in business, it's still a shame.”

The two of them turned away from the stump and headed down the path toward town. “Your father will be back from St. Joseph tonight, and I don't want anything to upset him,” her mother said, giving Francie a pointed look.

In other words, thought Francie, her mother didn't want her father to know she had gone to the basin again. Both her parents thought it was too close to the logging operation, too dangerous, even though the loggers had moved way over to the east end of the basin two years ago.

She probably shouldn't mention Mr. Court, the newspaperman, either, and the promise she'd made to him. Mr. Court had spent most of his week in the mountains tramping around in the woods and observing the logging operation. “I'm going to run a series of articles on the Sierra Lumber Company,” he told Francie when she'd summoned the courage to ask him about it one evening. He was a quiet man with a shy smile, but his eyes looked like they could see right inside you. Francie thought she would not want to make him angry.

When Mr. Court had arrived, everyone expected he would write about the great work of the lumber company, supplying wood for homes across the nation. Father wasn't
so welcoming when he found out Mr. Court was against the logging, though he could hardly ask him to leave the hotel. But Father certainly wouldn't be happy to learn that Mr. Court had enlisted Francie's aid in learning more about the sequoias.

Francie watched her mother pick her way carefully along the path and wondered what she really thought about the logging. Father was in favor of it, of course. And she knew from her father's grumbling that there were more and more people like Mr. Court who were against it. Her mother would never contradict her father, Francie knew that. But in her own heart, did her mother think it was wrong to cut the big trees?

Francie stopped on the rise and looked back into the basin. Here and there a sequoia had been left standing. They even looked ancient, she thought. Their tops were rounded, worn down by the centuries. Their branches were twisted like old Ben's arthritic fingers, but they seemed calm and majestic as if they'd seen too much of life to be surprised at anything. And these were the smaller trees and the ones that grew on the hillside in such a way that the loggers already knew they could never be felled without shattering. The broken trunks of the really big trees littered the field before her—these were the ones that shattered when they fell or when the loggers tried to blast them into pieces small enough to transport to the mill. Sequoia stumps filled the area like the enormous footprints
of some monster hopping willy-nilly through the mountains. From here they didn't look that big, she thought, but she knew better. There was a stump up north that had been used as a dance floor—it was said that thirty couples were able to dance on it at one time. And these stumps were bigger than that one. She squinted her eyes almost shut, trying to remember what it had been like before the Sierra Lumber Company had moved in.

She must have followed Carrie here, trailing behind her as she'd wandered among the trees. She didn't remember seeing her sister put messages in that hole, but it would have been like Carrie to do it. She had followed her sister everywhere in those days, keeping up as best she could, watching Carrie ride the wildest horse, hike the hardest trail, climb the highest tree. Carrie had known the names of all the plants that grew in the mountains and all the animals who lived there. Carrie had made it to the summit of any mountain she decided to climb. “You can see to the end of the world,” she'd tell Francie when she returned. She'd laugh when Francie would fall off her pony or stumble over her own baby feet on a level path. “You'd better stay away from the top of the mountain,” she'd tease. “You're sure to fall off.”

Francie shook the memories away. “But I'm still here,” she whispered. She turned and followed her mother back to town.

• • •

It was just plain bad luck that brought James Cavanaugh along the road from St. Joseph at the very time that Francie and her mother were hurrying back from Connor's Basin. They heard the quick trot of horses' hooves behind them and stepped off the rutted dirt road to let the rider pass. But instead he pulled up beside them.

“What are you doing out here?” Francie's father asked. “Who's watching the hotel desk?” His mare, always a little skittish, sidestepped at the noise and the irritated jerks he gave to the reins. He looked down at his wife. “She's been at the basin again, hasn't she, Mary?”

“Herbert can manage very well.” Francie's mother answered his first questions but ignored his last. “After all, that's why we hired a desk clerk, isn't it?” She looked down and brushed off her skirt with restless fingers. “We've only been gone for a few minutes.”

Francie's father gave a short, mirthless laugh. “You may have been gone only a few moments, but I'll wager Frances has been away most of the afternoon.” He looked at her. “Is that right, daughter?”

Francie sighed. “I was counting the rings of that old stump—you know, the first one they cut in the grove.” She raised her chin. “Mr. Court asked me to find out how old the tree was. I've counted 2,500 rings so far, and I'm not done yet.” She saw a flicker of interest cross her father's face, but it died instantly.

“Yes, well, we did know those trees were old—that's
why they're so big.” He gave her a hard look. “But you know very well I don't want you wandering alone in these mountains.” He touched his heels to the mare's sides and moved his hand up on her neck. “We'll talk about this at supper,” he said over his shoulder as the mare trotted on toward Connorsville.

Francie and her mother exchanged a look. “I'm sorry, Mama,” Francie whispered. “I really wasn't doing anything dangerous.”

Her mother sighed. “I know,” she said. “But he worries so much about you.”

Francie shrugged. That wasn't quite the way she'd describe it, but it would help nothing to get into that argument now. Francie followed her mother to town and thought instead about how soon she could get back to take a better look at that message.

E
ven before she stepped into the kitchen, Francie could smell the stew her mother had left simmering on the stove. The rich odor of beef and potatoes made her mouth water.

“Please set the table,” Francie's mother said, tying her apron on over her skirt.

“Yes, ma'am,” Francie answered. She went to the cupboard and brought plates and silver to the table, but after one look at her father's grim face as he sat waiting for the meal, her eagerness for supper faded. She laid the places in silence and was careful not to meet her father's eyes.

Francie helped her mother carry the steaming dishes into the dining room, and at her mother's signal, took her chair. She watched as her mother ladled potatoes, carrots, and chunks of tender beef onto her plate, but worry sat like a stone in her stomach, and she knew she would not be able to eat.

“For what we are about to receive,” her father prayed, bowing his head and folding his hands, “may the Lord make us truly grateful.”

“Amen,” murmured Francie and her mother. Francie kept her head bowed and watched out of the corner of her eye. After her mother took the first bite, Francie and her father could begin to eat. For too many long minutes, the only sound at the table was the gentle clink as silver touched china. Francie picked up a roll, broke it into pieces, and began nibbling on one corner.

She jumped as her father put down his fork and cleared his throat. “Frances,” he began, “please explain to me why it was so important for you to visit the basin today against our wishes.”

Francie put the roll down on her plate. “I'd promised Mr. Court, Father. He's writing an article on the sequoias for his paper.” She met her father's eyes. “I couldn't break my promise.”

Francie's father frowned. “So instead you broke our rules.”

“But, Father,” Francie said, “this is important.”

Her father's frown grew darker. “And our rules are not?”

Francie bit her lip. “That's not what I meant,” she said. She took a breath. “What I meant is that Mr. Court is going to write an article for his newspaper. He wants to stop the logging of the sequoias. He thinks it's a waste.”
She leaned forward, her eyes on his face. “It is a waste, Father. You know it is.”

Her father picked up his napkin and placed it beside his plate. “What I know is that the logging has kept us in business,” her father said, his voice turning hard.

Francie saw her mother's warning look, but she couldn't stop. “Mr. Court says they could log the other trees that don't take so long to grow and leave the sequoias,” she persisted.

“Each one of those big trees can supply enough wood to build forty, five-room houses, Frances! They're our economic future!” He shook his head. “I will hear no more talk about it. And you may not go to Connor's Basin anymore,” he added. “It's entirely too dangerous for a young girl.”

“You let Carrie go anywhere she wanted to,” Francie burst out before she could stop herself. Even hearing that name caused her parents such pain that her sister was rarely mentioned in the household.

Her father's face turned pale.
I've gone too far this time,
Francie thought. But she couldn't go back now.

“That was entirely different,” her father said. His voice had sunk almost to a whisper. “Carrie was capable . . .”

Francie dug her fingernails into her palms under the table, and the prick of pain reminded her to hold her tongue. She took a deep breath. “Father, I'm careful,” she said, trying to keep her voice low. “That's what I've learned since the landslide. I don't take risks.”

She looked up at his blank face—his eyes were dull and without emotion. She knew it wasn't any use. She pushed back her chair and stood up, the anger boiling up inside her like a volcano. “I'll never be as perfect as your wonderful Carrie, will I, Father?” Hot tears sprang to her eyes, but she ignored them and kept staring at his flat, expressionless face. She wondered suddenly what it would take to bring some feeling back to him. How far would she have to go?

When she heard her mother's soft whimper, remorse washed over her. How could she be so cruel? She hung her head, but the words of apology didn't come.

There was a long silence. Then finally her father spoke. Even his voice sounded flat. “I don't think we need to continue this conversation any longer,” he said. Carefully he folded his napkin and stood up. “My rule still stands. You may not go to Connor's Basin. Do you understand?” He glanced once at Francie's mother, as if making sure she, too, understood the rule. Then he straightened his waistcoat and left the room.

Francie stood with her head bowed, listening to her father's footsteps, hoping he'd come back. She heard the creak of the kitchen door as he opened it. There was a pause, as if he were standing in the doorway waiting, and her heart seemed to jump into her throat. But then the door slammed. She heard him go down the porch steps. He must be going back to his work at the hotel, she thought. He wasn't going to change his mind.

Her mother was leaning her head into her hands, and her shoulders were shaking. “Mama?” Francie knelt beside her mother's chair and put her hand on her arm. “Mama, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to cause you pain.” She sighed. “It's just . . .”

Her mother raised her head and wiped away her tears with her fingers. “Why do you anger him so?” she asked, touching her daughter's cheek. “If you just wouldn't provoke him, he wouldn't feel like he had to punish you.”