Kiss the Morning Star (14 page)

Kat frowns. “I feel kind of weird, buying a shower. Like some kind of transient.”

“Well, we
are
transients, Katy.”

“Yeah, I guess.” She kicks at a clump of dirt on the trail.

“So. Should we go shower?”

Kat cracks her toes. “Yeah.” A pause. “Separately, huh?”

Insta-blush. Why am I such a prude? “Yeah. You want to go first?”

We peek in and find a dressing room and a shower stall. “You can come in,” says Kat. I sit on a small metal folding chair while she undresses; it’s weird now to see her naked, and I look away. How stupid is this? We’ve been naked around each other a million times in the past six years. Kat steps into the shower and I look into the silver metal mirror nailed to one wall.

I stare myself down. What the hell? Why is every thought in my head about sex these days? I remember how I thought about hooking up with Shaggy, and why? Because he was nice to me? Because I didn’t love him? And then there’s Seth…even now the thought of Seth’s smile, the feel of his heart beating against my cheek sends a thrill over me that embarrasses me and excites me and seriously,
What the hell
? I shake my head, looking away, undressing for my own shower.

I unbutton my jeans, sliding my hands over my hips, my fingers pausing on the spot under my tattoo where Kat’s fingers had lingered. I can almost feel her hand there. My head spins.

“It’s just sex,” I say out loud, to myself, to my reflection. One hand travels lower, pressing hard. It’s just sex. No big deal. Nothing to be ashamed of. In the room next to me, Kat turns off the shower, and I hear a satisfied sigh. I wonder—an idle thought—what would happen if I kept this up, if I were to let Katy walk in while I’m…my breathing falters at the image, and I hurriedly pull my hand away and start undressing matter-of-factly, ignoring the waves of heat and steam and wet. I wrap my towel tightly around myself just as Kat emerges, also safely tucked into her own fluffy towel.

Kat smiles. “I had this sudden feeling that there was like a camera in here or something,” she says. “I hate it when I get that feeling, like someone’s watching me.”

I laugh, a little shaky but not noticeably so, I hope. “Yeah, ew, especially in the shower.” I take a step closer. “Looks like the water was hot.”

We have a slightly awkward moment passing each other between the two rooms, and then I close the little curtain and hang up my towel on the hook in the corner. I’m so shaky and weak that I wish I could sit down or even lean on something, but a glance at the cinder-block walls tells me that’s not the best idea. Instead I take a couple of deep breaths and shake my head to clear it. Seriously, this is getting out of hand. I turn on the water, and it is still hot—scaldingly so—and for a moment I’m able to lose myself in the bliss of the water beating against me, washing away the grime.

“I’m filthy,” I say, under my breath. Shame settles over me like a familiar refrain, the kind of song you don’t really like but can’t stop singing. What would my father say? What would he do, if he knew that while I professed to be seeking God and praying to my mother I was really getting tattoos and doing drugs and thinking about sex all the time? I lather my hair roughly, my fingernails raking across my scalp with sharp little digs of guilt and shame and fear.

We wake to the sound of raindrops on the tent, running down the skylight in long wavering lines. “It’s raining,” says Kat.

“Your powers of observation are amazing.”

“We still going?”

I roll on to my side, curling up in my sleeping bag. “It’s not supposed to last more than a few hours.” I can barely get the words out between yawns. “We already got our permit.”

Kat groans. “But I’m so comfy here.”

“I’ll make us some coffee.” I sit up, unzipping my bag. “You go ahead and take it slow.” I pull my rain shell from the bottom of the tent and zip it up. It really is dismal out there, but I’m determined.

Kat burrows back underneath the covers. “Sounds good,” she murmurs sleepily.

I emerge from the tent into a gray drizzle. The day is warm despite the rain, and I can imagine the way the heat will hang on us once this rain dries up. I boil water for coffee, using a little bit to brush my teeth first, spitting into the fire pit. The raindrops make little smoky puffs as they hit the ashes, and I lean my head back in my hood. The rain rolls off my face.

When the coffee is ready, I unzip the tent and hand in a steaming cup. “Oatmeal?” I lean into the tent, dripping on her. “Or I could make eggs? We’ll be stuck with oatmeal on the trail.”

Kat sits up, her dark hair tousled like a sleepy child. She looks hopeful. “Would you really make me eggs? With some cheese on them?”

I nod, sipping my coffee. I kind of want to kiss her, but there’s a line I can’t cross, initiative I can’t take. Can’t, can’t…I can’t even touch her. I sit back on my heels, under the vestibule. “I’ll make fried potatoes, too.” I will cook for her instead.

“That would totally get me out of bed,” she says.

“Well, good. ’Cause you’re in charge of packing up the tent.” I smile and stand up, heading over to get the cooler out of the backseat of the car.

An hour later, the rain is still falling, though it’s just on the heavy side of sprinkling, really. I’ve got the dishes washed up, and everything is packed for the trip, distributed between the two huge backpacks.

“Are you ready?”

“I guess,” she says. “I don’t really know how you get ready to walk seventeen miles into a grizzly-bear-infested wilderness with only the shit you can carry on your back, but if you think this is going to help us find God, well, who am I to argue?”

I smile. “All right, then. Let’s go.”

Nine hours later, give or take, Kat and I lean against a tree in the Park Creek campsite cooking area, sharing a foam mat to keep our butts dry. She sighs. “So that was like eight miles, then?”

“Well, more like seven, actually.”

“And tomorrow we’re doing ten?”

“It will be easier, I promise.” I’m full of shit. “I mean, maybe it won’t rain.”

“Or it could freeze, and my boots will be two solid chunks of ice.”

“At least we didn’t run into any bears.” We spent most of the hike singing loudly.

“Yet.”

“Yeah. I guess that’s why we cook over here and sleep somewhere…else?” I nod toward one of the little trails leading away from the cooking area.

Kat breathes out a long shuddery sigh. “Why are we doing this, really?”

“We’re finding proof of God, remember?” The words come easily, but I hear how empty they are. “Nature, you know. It’s on the list.”

“I know that, but what do we expect to find, exactly? What is this place going to show us about God’s love?” She waves her hand aimlessly at the natural world around us.

I don’t have an answer to that. I mean, are we seriously looking for God to be lounging against a tree, speaking in tongues or something? Do I expect the water in my plastic canteen to transform into wine? “Maybe we can understand God better out here, away from all the distractions. Maybe here in the wilderness, I can focus on my meditation. Maybe God will speak to me.”

Kat stretches out full length on the ground, her spine crackling. “This isn’t like the Old Testament times, though, Anna babe. And you’re not Moses, wandering the desert.” She tries to rub her own back. “Couldn’t God just send out an e-mail? Start a blog?” Kat laughs. “It’s okay, Anna babe, I’ll stop bitching now. I’m just tired.”

My smile is as weary as hers. “No, you’re right. It’s silly. I just…I mean, okay. Think of what our bodies have done today. Isn’t that pretty amazing? And, like, look at this.” I pluck a tiny purple flower from the grass beside me. “Everything is so perfect and amazing. I don’t know why I can’t accept this—this little flower, or my own body, or gravity, or I don’t know, a grizzly bear—as proof that there’s a God.”

Kat takes the flower. “What do you think would be different, if you could? How do you think faith would change you?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Maybe it wouldn’t. The whole question is depressing. I stand up and stretch, rubbing my fingers over my hips, which feel hot and sore. “My hip bones are piercing through my skin.” I run my fingers over my tattoo, which is completely healed.

“Ha, my hips are fine.” Kat folds down the top edge of her pants and pats her own rounded hips. “I knew these curves were good for something! Too bad it’s something I despise with every fiber of my being!” She laughs.

“That’s not fair. Give it a chance.” For once, I don’t even think about it; I reach out and run my fingers over Kat’s hips, tugging her closer. I think of that evening we sparred on the trail, the longing, and I wonder, Is this it? “Hey, did you bring your gun?” My fingers freeze as though they may encounter deadly metal at any moment. I can barely suppress a shudder at the thought.

“Are you kidding?” says Kat. “That thing is heavy. Hell, no.”

“Good,” I say. “That
thing
makes me nervous.”

“Having your hands in my pants makes me nervous.”

Yeah, no kidding. I manage a laugh. “No way. Katherine the Invincible? Scared of an innocent like me?”

“Maybe a little.” She pulls away. “Grab that mat, let’s go check out the bedroom.”

“Scandalous.” My heart is fluttering. Is this happening? “You think our packs are okay just lying here?”

Kat rolls her eyes. “Um, hello? We’re eight miles into the woods. Nobody’s going to steal them.” She fishes her sleeping bag from the bottom compartment of her backpack and nods toward the nearest trail.

We meander through the woods, finding the little wilderness outhouse and three tent sites. “I like that one back there the best,” says Katy. “It’s the most private.”

Privacy. Eight miles into the woods. My mouth is dry.

“It’s okay,” she says softly. She leads the way to a little grassy hollow and spreads out the foam mat and sleeping bag. “Sit with me,” she says, patting the mat beside her. “I’ll roll a joint.”

I hesitate. This is scary. There’s something in Katy’s eyes, some determination that simultaneously thrills and terrifies me. I look around the clearing, at the beauty of the rain-glazed foliage. Time seems to stretch out and lengthen like the sleeves on an old sweater tucked around my fingers and wrapped around my chest, for protection. I wait, uncertain.

“You should take off your boots, Anna.” Kat doesn’t look up from the Baggie and her project. “And sit down already.” One hand pats the foam beside her. So close.

My chest. It’s exploding. I obey, unlacing the wet hikers and extracting my tired feet. I sit on the edge of the wide foam mat and wiggle my toes in my new pink wool socks. “Wow, they’re dry. That’s amazing.”

Kat smiles. “Here, can you light this so I can take mine off? I’m totally going barefoot. I don’t care if it’s muddy. My feet feel like they’ve been serving some hard time in those boots.” She peels off her socks and wiggles her toes, the nails now painted a deep red. “Feel nature, little toes!” She kicks her feet through the weeds, laughing. Raindrops bounce this way and that off the tall, wet grass and sparkle in the hint of sun. “You got that thing lit yet?”

I look down at the joint. “I don’t know how, Kat. I’ve only ever seen you do this. Once.” I sit cross-legged, my feet still snug in their pink socks.

“Ah, well, it’s time you learned then,” says Kat, and just like that she’s…in my lap, basically. Her hands are up underneath my shirt, and then, well, more than her hands. Oh, god. I’m still struggling to light the joint as Kat’s mouth travels over my stomach and ribs, moving up gradually…

“Got it,” I gasp, just as Katy unhooks the clasp of my bra and then…“
Oh
.”

Kat sits up and pulls her own shirt over her head, and then her sports bra. I feel the smoke turning a lazy spiral inside me; I can tell already that whatever part of me pulled away from this the other night on the trail—that part is all curled up inside me, sleeping blissfully. In its place, a dizzying hunger.

Katy pulls me down beside her on the mat, both of us on our sides, face-to-face. Our eyes meet.

“I think I’m good, probably,” I say, waving off the joint. I’m stuttering, stupid. “I mean, I’m…yeah, I’m good.” Without intention, my hands and then my mouth move closer, and I smile into her skin when I hear the hitch in her breathing. The heat of our bodies is a stark contrast to the chill of the air.

“Anna, are you sure about this?” Kat’s voice sounds tight, strained, and I can feel the weight of the longing she is holding at bay, equal to or greater than my own.

Am I sure? A pause. “Yes, I’m sure.” The words are barely audible, but Katy nods and kisses me, and once again, I feel myself unwinding, weaving—a merging of heat and heartbeats. I can’t breathe.

“
Katy
.” My whole body twists under the tension of her tongue.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say. For a moment I am so lost, the dancer in the back row who hasn’t learned the choreography. Then Kat’s fingers touch my face, twine into my hair; I smile, hold her eyes for just a moment, and the distance between knowing and not knowing seems to disappear.

I don’t know why it’s such a big deal—losing your virginity. Aren’t there a million first times in life? And even in sex?

I thought of my first time as an awkward-but-necessary hurdle that I was anxious to clear. My lingering virginity was an obvious and uncomfortable liability—like eczema or something—and I wished I could just be rid of it. Maybe it’s awful to even admit this, but I didn’t want this first time to be about feelings; I definitely didn’t want it to be about love.

Love. Talk about terrifying. But this—this first time with Katy—well. So much for everything I thought I wanted.

“Did you hear something?”

I lift my head. “I can hear your heartbeat.”

Kat struggles to sit up, spilling me off to one side. I protest as I land in the damp grass.

“Shhh,” hisses Kat. “I’m serious. I hear something.”

Kat picks up her pants and gets one leg through, but stops when we both hear the noise. “I swear to god, somebody’s messing with our stuff,” she says, jumping up.

“That sounded like…our cooking kit, maybe?” I scramble to my feet and follow after Katy, who is already hopping down the path, struggling to get her other leg into the purple yoga pants as she goes.

“Kat, wait!” I whisper-shout. My wool socks squish into the mud on the trail, water seeping between my toes.
Ick, ick, ick.
Out in the open now, no longer huddled with Kat under the sleeping bag, it’s chilly out here, and goose bumps rise all over me. I hug my arms around my upper body as I stumble after Kat toward the cooking area. “Kat!” I call a little louder, but she doesn’t listen, too intent on following the distinct banging sounds coming from up ahead. What if it’s another group of campers, just arrived? What if the banging is their own pots and pans as they cook up something for dinner? What are they going to say when two half-naked girls burst in on their food preparations?

Lost in this panicky thought stream, I run right into the back of Kat, who has stopped short on the edge of the cooking area, her pants forgotten in a tangle around one foot. “What the…?” My whisper trails off as the huge shaggy brown head swings up in a casual swivel, turning away from the shredded pack in front of it and focusing its watery brown eyes on us, frozen in fear and shock at the edge of the clearing.

The bear is enormous. Its dark, shaggy fur hangs heavy and matted over its haunches, rolling in a giant ruff around its neck, smeared with rain and mud and other things. It looks nothing like bears do in family movies, where a clever dog will bare his teeth protectively and the bear will turn tail and run. This bear is solid; the rank smell of him permeates the clearing, establishing his jurisdiction. This is his home, and we have trespassed.

“What do we do?” Kat whispers from the side of her mouth. “What did that ranger guy say?”

I think back to the interpretive sign at the ranger station, but all I can remember is Kat’s hand slipping into my jeans. I blush, a stupid thing to think right now. The bear moves his head back and forth, still looking at us with his tiny dark eyes.

“I don’t remember.” The bear swings its head back over to the backpack and takes a swipe at it with one huge claw, shredding the nylon and scattering a bunch of clothing across the log bench behind it. “Holy shit, we’re dead.” I clutch Katy’s arms, trying to pull her backward, but Kat resists.

“No, I’m pretty sure he can’t see us if we don’t move,” she says in a stage whisper.

The bear, satisfied with his display of power, turns back to us, his head shifting from side to side rhythmically. He moves up onto two legs—a giant. Kat, no longer so sure of her plan to remain motionless, turns as though to run, but I catch her and hold her back. “No,” I whisper, remembering something from the sign or from our conversation with the ranger. “You were right. He’s having trouble seeing us. That’s why they stand up like that.”

We’re standing in the shadow of the trees; the bear is in the small clearing made by the fire ring and benches. The late afternoon sun, which has been fighting the rain clouds for the last couple of hours, filters down into the clearing at a low angle—not terribly bright, but it’s possible that it’s shining right into the bear’s eyes.

“We’re supposed to back away from it.” The details are coming to me, but not fast enough. I remember something else, how bears will do a fake charge, how you shouldn’t run, no matter what. The bear swings its head back and forth, making grunting sounds, and I know it’s going to come at us. “Katy, don’t move.”

Strangely, I find that the terror coursing through my system as the bear charges—its body undulating in awe-inspiring ripples—only makes everything come into a clearer focus. Instead of seeing my life flash before my eyes or freezing in panic, it’s as though everything slows down; every detail is sharp, every sense acute. I step in front of Katy, standing as tall and straight as I can.

The bear runs toward me, fast. I can see the moisture on his muzzle, can practically count his long yellow teeth. I hear the breath puffing out of his nostrils in agitated snorts, and it takes every bit of my will power to keep from screaming. At what feels like the last possible second, the bear veers off course and stops, whirling around with amazing agility.

Kat’s arms are clasped around my waist, her face buried in my hair. I hold still, trying to watch the bear, but I keep my eyes averted, hoping he won’t charge again, fearing that he will. What if we can’t stand still for another pass? I know if we run, the bear will attack us. Newspaper headlines come, unbidden, to my mind.
Hikers Found Naked, Mauled
. Humiliating. The bear lopes toward us again, this time a little slower in his approach, but still terrifying.
It’s just a bluff,
I tell myself, squeezing Katy’s hands.
He’ll turn to the side again.
But what if he doesn’t?

The bear veers, grunting fiercely, so close this time I can feel the ground tremble, the heat and the deadly weight of him, and I squeeze my eyes closed. As though out of reflex, a prayer springs to my lips, but I don’t pray to any God; I pray to the bear.

Please, Bear. We respect you and we’re sorry for invading your home. We’re leaving, now, and we hope you will accept our apologies and forgive us our trespasses. Please, Bear. Amen.

Out loud, I keep my voice low and monotone, holding my arms out somewhat from my body and keeping my eyes averted. “Please, Bear. I am Anna. This is Katy. We’re only passing through. We’ll be gone before you know it.”

The bear stands about fifteen feet from us, on all fours, facing away. I walk backward, talking steadily, pushing Katy back behind me. “We’re leaving now, Bear, no worries. We were dumb to leave our packs out like that, and I hope you won’t come back here now and mess with people just because we were so stupid.” I move back another step or two, and the bear stands up on its hind legs once again.

Katy makes a strangled sound, pressing her face hard into my back. I need something to distract it, something we can leave behind to slow it down, in case it decides to pursue us. I look down and see Kat’s purple yoga pants, still tangled around one ankle and covered with mud. “Kick your pants into the trail,” I say. “Please, Bear, we mean no harm. Just let us go.”

The bear swings its head from side to side. Oh, god, if we can make it through this I’ll…oh, who knows what I’ll do, but something impressive. Something important. “Please, Bear. You have no use for us.” Kat wiggles her foot out of her purple pants, and I shove them forward on the trail with a slow movement, pushing Katy back another couple steps. Now we’re well into the cover of trees, and I hope with every fiber of my being that the bear will lose interest in us

We step away—now twenty-five feet away, now thirty. The bear drops back down onto four legs, and I stop. “Wait a minute.” My mouth is dry.
Please, Bear. Please, Bear
. “If he charges again, don’t move. If he attacks you, play dead. Curl up in a ball and cover your neck. Don’t make a sound.”

She whimpers, and I feel her trembling behind me.

The bear retreats, and I hear the sound of nylon tearing as he turns his attention back to our packs.

“Are we still alive?” Kat asks, when we finally get back to the sleeping mat. “Did we actually escape the freaky psycho-bear?”

“Hey,” I say, defending the bear. “It’s not his fault. We were idiots, you know. That bear could end up hurting some other campers, and it’s all our fault for leaving those packs like that. Now I don’t know what we’re going to do, or how we’re going to get ourselves and all our junk back to the car tonight.”

Kat shakes her head. “No way, Anna. I’m not going back there. I’ll cut straight through these woods. I’ll climb over these huge logs and scale the cliffs and whatever it takes just to not go back anywhere near that freaking bear.” She pulls at the edges of the sleeping bag as though trying to wrap it so tightly around her that she can disappear. “I don’t care about ‘leaving no trace.’ I want to get out of here like yesterday. I’ve had it with nature, grizzly bear style.”

I nod. “That’s okay. I’ll get the stuff myself. It’s actually probably better if only one of us goes. Anyway, if I get attacked by the bear for some reason, you’ll be able to go for help and at least they’ll know where to start looking for me.”

Kat rolls her eyes. “Way to go, Anna. Make me feel all guilty. Now of course I’m going to help you since you’re so unbelievably idiotic. It’s not like I can just leave you to be eaten by that monster.”

“I’m not getting eaten. I’m going to wait until it leaves. Then I’ll go and grab the packs.”

“How about we just run in the opposite direction until we get to the car? We can lock ourselves in and call the rangers from our cell phone to let them know we don’t want all our shit back because we’re halfway to, like, Los Angeles or something.” She shudders. “Somewhere without wildlife, anyway.”

I laugh. “I thought you said danger is exciting.” I can’t believe I’m being so coy. I don’t even blush.

She laughs, but it’s a shaky one. “Not standing naked in front of a bear the size of the free world as he contemplates whether he thinks it’s worth it to reach over and snap your neck with his massive fucking claws.” She lowers her voice. “Did you
see
those claws, Anna?”

“I think we’re safe.” I honestly have no idea if we are or not.

“Maybe we should make some noise?”

“You’re right. There could be another one.”

Kat lunges toward me and grips my arm. A tiny whimper escapes her. “Anna babe, will you promise me something?”

“What is it?”

“If we get out of this alive, will you promise me that we don’t have to go out in the wilderness again? At least not with bears?”

“Come on, you have to admit it was amazing to see him like that, so powerful. And I mean, if that isn’t God, then I don’t know what is.”

Kat’s eyes are skeptical, but they soften as she reaches for my hand. “Thanks for keeping everything together back there, Anna babe.” Her voice is barely audible. “I sort of freaked out, didn’t I?”

“You did fine. We both did what we could.” I shake my head. “I’ve only ever seen you scared like once or twice, you know. You see me break down every other minute.”

“Oh, come on, Anna. You’re like Indiana Jones or something.” She leans in close, her breath tickling my ear.

“I don’t go looking for danger,” I say, but I have a hard time forming the sentence, and an even harder time getting the breath to say it.

Kat laughs. “The world is a dangerous place, I guess,” she says, her lips brushing against my neck. “I’m just glad you’ve got my back.”

By the time we decide it’s safe to make a grab for our stuff, the sun has already sunk low; it touches the peaks of the range of mountains to one side, and the light angling through the trees is fading fast. We discuss the logistics of two exhausted people moving a gigantic heavy pile of ripped-up equipment out of the woods. In the dark.

We approach the food area singing loudly, holding hands, but the bear appears to be gone. Remnants of packaging and shredded nylon litter the entire area, and we scramble around the site, cleaning up.

“We have to make
sure
there isn’t any food left around here,” I say, but the light is fading fast.

Both of the packs are useless, so we load all the gear onto the middle of the sleeping bag and lash the ends to a big stick. When we finish, it’s almost dark.

“I’ll go ahead since I have the headlamp.”

Kat nods. “I’m just glad to have pants on again.”

I take a look around the little camp, saddened by the fact that our stay here is cut short. I thought maybe we’d find enlightenment in the wilderness; instead we’re facing another grueling hike in the dark, with this awkward burden on a makeshift pole. All I really want is to eat some dinner and get some sleep.

“This is going to suck,” says Kat.

I start down the trail—the dark, muddy expanse of it. “Yeah, pretty much.” My legs tremble, my shoulder aches, and my stomach growls. I shake the bear bells with one hand while gripping the pole on my shoulder with the other. I stumble under the burden, so far from divine.

The dark trail seems endless, but at last we reach the car, bruised and sore and covered in mud, just as the sun is making an appearance in the east. We collapse on the gravel of the parking lot, barely noticing the rocks beneath us.