From Here to Paternity

'No, but I'm a mother for life.'

I can't win, Jane thought wryly as she headed for the lost-and-found. If I don't pay enough attention, I'm uncaring. If I show too much concern, I'm overbearing.

The saving factor was that time passes and teenage girls eventually grow up. Her mother had once told her that about the time her daughters got to be nice young women she could actually like, they went away. There were days when Jane felt that that time couldn't come soon enough.

The lost-and-found was an old-fashioned cloakroom just off the entrance to the hotel. She joined another woman who was rummaging among the items on the shallow shelves. Jane had brought along a heavy jacket and a good, warm stocking cap, as well as insulated boots that were cozy but made her walk like a robot. She added a soft wool muffler and a pair of darkly shaded goggles. Fearing her fur-lined leather gloves might not be warm enough, she put on a fat pair of padded mittens over them. She took a quick glance in the mirror on the back of the cloakroom door and decided the look was Pillsbury Doughboy-ish, but practical.

She waddled out the front door of the hotel and began to follow the road back up toward the Eagle's Nest group of cabins, where she would set out from. Unfortunately, as she toiled chubbily up the hill, she met a couple of young women coming down the road. Jane was sweaty and out of breath. They were all spandex, long, easy strides, flowing tresses, and breezy tans. I don't think I looked twenty-five when I was twenty- five, Jane thought grouchily. As soon as they were out of sight, she sat down on an artfully fallen tree at the side of the road to catch her breath.

By the time she'd reached the condo, she realized that she'd badly misjudged in the matter of wardrobe. It was cold, but the air was so thin and dry that it didn't feel cold. In fact, when she was in the sun, she felt downright hot in all those layers. She decided to shed several of them before continuing. Patting herself down, she found her room key in her back trouser pocket and let herself into the cabin.

A pretty young woman with glossy black hair in a bun was sitting on the floor.

'I'm sorry, I must have the wrong—' Jane babbled.

The girl rose quickly. 'No, no. You must be Mrs. Jeffry. I'm here to clean. I was just petting your dog.'

And sure enough, as she got up, she revealed Willard, belly-up, on the rug in front of the fireplace.

'He probably told you he'd been abandoned and that nobody loved him. Right?'

The girl's dark eyes sparkled. 'Right. And that he hadn't been fed for four days.'

Jane shook her head. 'He's such a liar.'

'I think he's a big sweetheart. Are you trying to get out of that jacket?'

'Yes. I know it looks more like a seizure of some kind, but the zipper's stuck, I think.'

The young woman helped her. Up close, she was stunningly pretty, with high cheekbones, slanted eyes that looked faintly Oriental, and a nose that was merely strong now and would become dignified and possibly even imperious when she was older.

'Thanks! I was beginning to think it was going to take the Jaws of Life to get me out of that jacket.'

'You're wearing a whole lot more clothing than you need to, Mrs. Jeffry.'

'I discovered that too late. And I'm Jane, by the way.'

'I'm Linda Moosefoot.'

'You're an Indian.'

'Yes, I know.'

Jane smiled. 'I'm sorry. I should have known that you'd noticed.'

'You're trying very hard to figure out if I'm serious about my name, aren't you? It strikes people that way. But within the tribe, it's a common name. My brother always says we should just be happy it wasn't Elkballs or Badgerpiss.'

'Have I offended you by calling you an Indian? Do you prefer Native American?'

'Oh, God! No! That's just trendy twaddle in my opinion. Anybody who's born in this country is a native American as far as I'm concerned. Your people might have originally come from Ireland or Germany or wherever and found my people already here, but only because we'd come over the land bridge from Siberia before that. Human beings are all immigrants on this half of the globe.'

'Why, that's a fascinating concept,' Jane said.

'Not original, I'm afraid. A college professor of mine said it and I recognized the truth of it.'

'Are you in college now?'

Linda had gone to the closet and was unwinding the vacuum-cleaner cord. 'Yes. I'm just helping out over the semester break. The Smiths are always looking for extra help over the holidays.'

'Do you go to college locally?'

'No. Yale, actually.'

'That's a long way from home,' Jane said.

'In more ways than just geography,' Linda replied. 'You know what's best about being back? Nobody from around here thinks Moosefoot is a weird name. Everybody's gone to school with a Moosefoot or had one of the Moosefoot girls as a bridesmaid or employed a Moosefoot to put on their last roof. I'm not a token anything here. There are people at school who are forever trying to make me represent an entire race. Like I'm not entitled to individual habits and opinions and traits. You know, a professor — a grown man who should have known better — once said to me, 'I didn't realize Indians were left-handed.' '

Jane laughed. 'Boy, do I ever know what you mean! My dad traveled all over the world and took us along. I grew up being told that I was representing my whole country and that if I chewed my braids or didn't clean my fingernails, people would think all American girls were slobs. To my parents' credit, they didn't claim this was fair or right, just a fact of life.'

'Lots of facts of life aren't fair, I guess.'

'Am I keeping you from your work? I'm sorry. Tell you what. I need an excuse to sit down and get my breath before I trudge off again. Use the time you would have taken doing the girls' room and have a cup of coffee with me, would you? Doing their room would be a waste of time anyhow. They'll trash it again the minute they come back.'

'Sounds good to me,' Linda said.

When they were settled, Jane on the sofa, Linda back on the floor with Willard, Jane said, 'Do you know there's some kind of demonstration going on at the main lodge?'

'Oh, right. Is that today? You mean HawkHunter, don't you?'

'What's it all about?'

'Hmmm, I'm sorry to say I haven't followed it all closely enough to talk with any kind of authority. I've been working here since I started my break. Something about the Flattop.'

'The Flattop?'

'The mountain — well, hill really — behind the resort. It's called that. Some of the elders seem to believe it was once a burial ground, I guess. I'd never heard that before, but I don't always pay as much attention to the old stories as I should. Anyway, HawkHunter's a lawyer, you know, and it's part of his contract with the tribe to represent their interests. They're afraid that somebody's going to build a ski lift and disturb the graves up there. When word got out that Bill Smith was at the point of selling the resort, I guess somebody got concerned that the new buyers would do something like that.'

'But Mr. Smith wouldn't have?'

'Oh, no. Bill has always been good to the tribe and the tribe's been good to him. He's an old-timer, you know.'

'I haven't met him. Is he elderly?'

'He is, but I didn't mean that. I meant in the sense of being an old-fashioned Colorado type. Live and let live. Mind your own business. Don't antagonize your neighbors. Help without asking for thanks. Don't try to reform anybody. It's a very distinct mind-set. Anyway, he has it. And if he'd wanted to build a ski lift and the tribe said there were graves there, he'd have just respected it without question. But nobody knows about some unknown buyer. The tribe's unhappy that Bill's retiring, but nobody would butt into his business.'

'But HawkHunter is doing exactly that, isn't he? Butting in, I mean.'

'Well, yes, I guess he is.'

'Look, Linda, I'll be honest with you. The reason I'm interested is because my friend's husband is one of the