Yellowstone Memories (44 page)

“You’re serious?”

“Fifteen people. They were supposed to build fences and repair one of the ranger stations out by the lake, pave trails and walkways—stuff we’ve been waiting for and needing for years. But they sent me a text message saying they’d decided to lobby against Wall Street instead.”

Jersey tightened her hands, remembering how she’d had to scrub elk blood from her phone before picking it up to read the text message. “So instead of actually coming out here and doing something that needs to be done, they’re going to stand in lines chanting inane messages about corporate evil and lobbing broken bottles at police officers. Way to go helping with conservation and protecting the parks, guys.”

Taka sat there in silence, not even bothering to retort.

“We had everything ready. The building materials and showers fixed for them to use and everything. But”—Jersey flung her hands up—“I should have known. This isn’t the first time a volunteer group has stood us up, and it probably won’t be the last. We don’t have enough funding to fix the boardwalks and put up fences to protect the geothermal features. And that’s what I’ve got to tell Don in my report: that we’re sunk. Basically. Without repairs, some of the lesser known geysers are going to disappear forever. We can’t hold back the downhill process anymore.”

Jersey spat out a sigh. “People simply don’t see the parks as something worthy of preservation—or if they do, they always think somebody else will do it. But they forget that we are the ‘somebody else.’ ” Her voice trailed off. “And I don’t think I’m going to stay around and watch the wilderness die a slow death.”

A battered station wagon buzzed up the road in front of the vet clinic, and a whiff of cloying, pungent-smelling antiseptic tickled Jersey’s nose on the breeze.

Taka was staring at something. Tipping his head ever so slightly to see past Jersey’s head. “What?”

“Leucanthemum vulgare.”

Jersey turned, feeling her hands curl into fists.

“Oxeye daisies.” He gestured toward a sloppy planting of flowers in a spread of faded bark mulch. “They’re classified as noxious weeds in Wyoming.”

She relaxed her hands, meeting Taka’s dark eyes for a second. “Yes.” The breath seemed to go out of her. “You noticed.”

“Certainly. In Australia in 1907, one single variety of venomous weed killed seven hundred bovine livestock animals.
Leucanthemum vulgare
grows aggressively, multiplies rapidly without natural controls such as native herbivores or soil chemistry, and adversely affects native habitats and croplands. Noxious weeds are injurious to humans, native fauna, and livestock through contact or ingestion or both.”

Jersey sat back on the bench and crossed her arms. “Well said, Mr. Encyclopedia.”

“But somebody planted these on purpose.”

“Exactly.” She raised a finger. “Because nobody cares. They’re pretty, right? So what’s the harm in a couple of daisies?” She gestured over the parking lot. “But the seeds have probably already spread across the road. Maybe already up to that ridgeline. And no matter how many times I say that oxeye daisies are threatening native species and killing beneficial insects and competing with native cereals and grains, nobody listens. Exactly the way nobody listens when I say to stay out of the geyser pits or not to hunt in the park—or that we need funding for maintenance and repairs. Natural features don’t fix themselves. And I’m tired.”

Taka turned his tea mug around. “But somebody needs to tell people, Jersey. That’s your job.”

“Forget it.” Jersey sighed and bent over, resting her head in her hands. “I’ve got my thirty-days’ notice all typed up,” she said quietly, hoping nobody from the ranger’s office could hear. “I’ve found a job back in Chicago—a good job—and I think my time here is done.”

Taka spilled his tea. Right down the front of his shirt. “You mean you’re going to leave the Park Service? For what?”

“A normal eight-to-five job.”

“At what, a company?” He sponged his shirt with a cloth handkerchief from his jacket pocket.

Jersey didn’t answer right away, dragging the side of her hiking boot against the concrete sidewalk. “At a cell phone company, okay?” Her words came out harsher than she meant. “It’s a good job. I’d make somewhat close to the amount I do here after six years on the job.”

“But you’ll pay more than double in rent.”

“So what?” Hot anger flushed her cheeks. “What does it matter to you if I leave anyway?”

Taka looked up at the stars briefly then turned calmly to face her. “Are you sure that’s what you want, Jersey?”

His question hung in the air like a whiff of SUV exhaust from the main road—lingering after the dust settled. A soft wind blew, scuttling a Burger King wrapper across the sidewalk. “Everybody thinks being a park ranger is such a glamorous job, but it’s not.” She crossed her arms. “It’s demanding. It’s frustrating. And frankly, much of the time it’s unappreciated.”

She tipped her head sideways to scratch her head, which felt itchy under her hair and that ranger hat. “Don’t get me wrong. I love my work, and I don’t do it for thanks. But if it’s not making a difference, then why bother? I could get ten hours of sun on my face by feeding people through turnstiles at an amusement park—and a lot less stress.”

“Of course you’re making a difference.” Taka folded his handkerchief and blotted some more.

Jersey paused, momentarily distracted by the idea of a grown man who carried a cloth handkerchief. Most men she knew, like Nelson, either used (1) a battered KFC napkin from the car dash or (2) his sleeve.

“My work makes a difference to who, Taka? The few retired hikers who volunteer to come pick up trash? Or the kids who really get excited about butterflies and deer and want to go into conservation or wildlife studies?” Her eyes softened. “Possibly. But I’m not so sure anymore. Most of the time I’m just confirming what they already know. I’m not teaching them anything new.”

A Schwan’s delivery truck rumbled along the shrubby road in front of the vet clinic, its headlights splashing bright artificial light through the patch of oxeye daisies.

Taka finished his tea then sighed and started to gather up his Thermos. “Still,” he said softly, his movements echoing on the hard wooden bench. “I think it means something that you still tell people the truth.”

Jersey sipped the last of her tea and handed him back his mug. “Maybe.”

“No,” said Taka sternly, not smiling. “Not maybe. There’s nothing greater in life than to speak the truth with your whole being—your whole life—as if nothing else ever really mattered. Because it doesn’t.”

He leaned forward, his eyes as black as the scoop of obsidian sky overhead. “Living out God’s truth is the most beautiful thing in the world, Jersey. Art beyond comparison. The only thing that ever lasts.”

Jersey sat there, frozen, staring at a crack in the sidewalk. And as if in slow motion, Taka reached into his pocket and pulled out a mechanical pencil with a too-long syringe of spiny lead. He twirled the end on a long, loose strand of Jersey’s hair that had escaped its messy bun, and it twinkled in shadowy copper strands.

“Did you ever think that one day this hair will lose its pigment?”

“What?” Jersey snatched her hair back. “And give me that pencil, too, before you poke somebody.” She grabbed it, wishing he’d brought his ridiculous onion pencil case. “And what does my hair have to do with anything?”

“We’re finite.” Taka’s voice came out raspy, so quiet she had to lean forward to hear it. “Our days are numbered. You should wear your hair down.” He snatched his pencil back and stuck it defiantly in his pocket, right next to the bird’s nest. “It’s beautiful. It’s part of your truth—part of who you are. You should take pride in who you are and what you do and celebrate it—celebrate your Creator—with every single breath. That’s what I do. And I’ll do it for the rest of my life—no matter what anybody else thinks.”

And with that, Taka got up and ran a hand through his thick hair, making it stand up in garish black spikes. Glasses askew. And he walked a few paces away, staring up at the moon with a face full of pure wonder, as if he’d never seen it before.

H
iya, Jersey. You awake?” Phyllis’s anxious voice chirped into Jersey’s cell phone as she struggled to force her eyes open. A stream of sunlight poured across the foot of her bed in a lumpy rectangular shape, creating a halo around the caramel-blond hairs of her cat Gordon’s belly.

“Phyllis?” Jersey rubbed her face and sat halfway up in bed, careful not to kick Gordon as she rooted around for a clock on her bedside table. 8:10. Not an ungodly hour compared to the four-thirties and five o’clocks she usually pulled. “Shorty didn’t die, did he?”

“Huh? No. Not that I’m aware. The only reason the vet called the ranger station was to tell us that they found one of ‘
our’
researchers asleep on the front bench when they unlocked this morning and to ask if he was all right.”

“Taka.” Jersey slapped her forehead and let her palm drag down her face. “Something is seriously wrong with that guy. I’m not kidding.”

“Did you know he rides a unicycle? Nelson found out that one from a friend of his at Caltech.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“And he used to foster kids through social services, too. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Me either.” Jersey grimaced. “Would you trust your kid with a man who rides unicycles and sleeps on benches?”

Phyllis laughed, but it sounded thin. “Well, anyway, are you still going this morning?”

“Going?” Jersey stared at the clock with bleary eyes, trying to register what the numbers were saying. “Going where? To pick up Taka? No. Let him get his own ride home—the weirdo. Maybe we should drop off a unicycle at the vet’s.”

Phyllis paused again. “No, Jersey. To church where that good-lookin’ pastor speaks. You said you were going today.”

“Church?” Jersey sat up straight, running a hand through her mass of wild hair as the awareness sank in. “Right. Of course—it’s Sunday. Hold on a second. Why, are you coming, too, Phyllis?”

She didn’t answer, and Jersey heard faint shuffling on the other side. Phyllis’s muted voice as she spoke to someone in the background.

“Hey, if you want to come, I’ll pick you up.” Jersey swung both feet over the bed and wiggled her toes in the rug. “No problem. So long as my front door opens of course. It’s been giving me fits again. I had to use the kitchen window for a solid week until the repair guy finally showed up.”

The line stayed silent, and Jersey tentatively took it as a yes. Which was usually how Phyllis went about her sporadic church visits—not quite daring to mouth the request herself out loud.

“I’ll be there in half an hour. If you’re not out on the porch, I’m telling Don you agreed to do my report for me.”

“What? No way!” Phyllis shrieked. “If you think I’m going to sit in front of that broken computer and hack away at some ridiculous piece of rubbish that isn’t worth the—”

Jersey clicked the phone off in the middle of Phyllis’s harangue, as she always did. Smirking to Gordon. “You lazy stinker.” She rubbed his ears. “If somebody paid me a buck for every hour you sleep, I’d be a millionaire. And then I wouldn’t have to do funding reports for Don or anyone else.”

Gordon gave a toothy grin in reply, reminding her of Shorty, and yawned—showing the corrugated pink roof of his mouth and pointy little teeth that left marks in leather mice, plastic bottle tabs flicked across the kitchen floor, and an old sandal of Jersey’s that now defied recognition.

Jersey dragged herself to the kitchen for coffee then through a warm shower of hard, sulfur-scented water, which her ten-dollar-a-trim hairstylist swore did a number on her hair.

Her hair. Jersey ran a hand through it, staring at her reflection in the mirror and remembering Taka’s words in the shadows outside the vet clinic, the moon pouring down pale on her gingery strands.

He was correct about one thing—she was losing pigment all right. Right there—a long silver-white one glinting in the overhead light. And there, another one. And two more. How had she never noticed these? Or had she even bothered to stop and check after she pulled off her ranger hat in the evening, scalp and armpits sweaty from hiking through mud pits?

Jersey dug in her bathroom cabinet drawer for some tweezers and plucked out the gray. Then she fluffed her long hair with her fingers and noticed—for maybe the first time—a dull haze of broken fuzz along the back of her hair where she tied it back in its knot. She leaned forward, studying her reflection, and then rooted through messy bottles and cleaning products under her cabinet. Searching for the sample packet of repair serum her hairdresser had scolded her to use like … oh, eight months ago.

She scrubbed the serum through her hair, inhaling its lavender-y sweetness, and dug through her closet for something to wear to church. Her hands stopped on the ubiquitous baggy gray sweatshirt she usually lived in on weekends.

But as she pulled it out of the closet, it felt … wrong. Like cheating.

Instead Jersey rinsed out her hair and sprayed on an ancient conditioning spray, another stylist freebie, and stood in front of her closet again. Instead of the sweatshirt, she found herself tugging on a pair of nice jeans (that is, the ends weren’t completely ragged). What else? A camel-colored button-up shirt that made a foil for her gingery hair—split ends and all. A coppery woven blazer since the sky looked a bit cool.

Yep. That did the trick. Jersey turned in front of the mirror, surprisingly self-conscious at the play of colors and tailored shapes that suited her tall figure. She wasn’t a whale, exactly, but she wasn’t a toothpick either. Somewhere in the vague “thirties” definition of average, which included a bit of spread and slide from a once-tight abdomen and slim hips.

But still. That was her truth anyway: Jersey Peterson, thirty-three. And yet still a woman under all those split ends and masculine-shaped ranger’s digs.

She should probably look through her drawer for that coral pink lipstick, or at least some earrings, but the ranchers who frequented her little white clapboard church in their muddy boots wouldn’t care one way or the other.