50. Jeremy

Installation of the exhibit had been progressing, and Davis had sent him various photos of the new taxidermy display cases, complete with their new signage. Davis had been insistent that they hire someone to narrate the labels for accessibility, a series of audio clips that could be accessed by QR codes on each label. When there was no budget to be found for a professional narrator, Yesenia, a fellow Ranger, had mentioned that she had done theater productions in undergrad and had offered to narrate and refused compensation. “You’re doing something special here,” she had told Davis, and Jeremy had to clench his fists under the table to stop from leaping across the room and hugging Davis.

Jeremy listened to the label narration as he drove up, surprised at the warm timbre of Davis’s coworker’s voice, then switched to the audiobook of Braiding Sweetgrass that Davis had recommended. Davis was waiting on the front porch with Mary Anne when Jeremy pulled into the gravel parking lot. The dog had bolted off the front porch when his engine quieted, her cold nose immediately bumping against Jeremy’s hand when he opened his car door.

“Well, at least someone is happy to see me,” Jeremy said, to which Davis rolled his eyes. Jeremy pulled his small leather duffel out of the back seat, to which Mary Anne had given her standard sniff test, then sauntered over to the porch. “Hey, baby,” he said to Davis, who was sitting on the three steps that led to his porch. He wanted to wrap his arms around Davis, kiss him on that stoop, but he waited until they were inside, the door locked, the blinds drawn.

Jeremy found out that the more time he spent in the mountains, in the national forest, the more at ease he was. He wouldn’t call himself “comfortable” while out here, and he certainly wasn’t going to attempt mountain biking in the next decade or so, but he found that he could find small bits of beauty in the lack of urbanization, the quiet moments when it was just a low hum of insects buzzing while Davis and Jeremy watched Mary Anne sprint down the trail while they walked (he refused to admit he was hiking) or when they shared a cup of tea in the rocking chairs on Davis’s back porch. He had even, last week, purchased a new pair of hiking shoes which were a beautiful dusty violet color. Jeremy left them at Davis’s house, along with a few shirts, boxers, and a pair of joggers that had found their way into a drawer in the top left of Davis’s dresser. In return, Davis had left a pair of shorts, three pairs of socks, and a sweatshirt that Jeremy absolutely, definitely did not wear to sleep.

He absolutely was not borrowing another sweatshirt right now, walking (not hiking) to an unknown destination on a Saturday morning. Davis had woken Jeremy up when he got up, which was unusual, and then said he was going to leave Mary Anne at home, saying that Mary Anne wouldn’t enjoy where they were headed, which was even more unusual. Jeremy slid his feet into his hiking boots, already a bit dirty from their walk with Mary Anne the night before, and hopped into Davis’s truck. Davis pulled up a playlist of Motown that accompanied the men as they bounced down a forest service road. Davis shared stories of his aunt and gram singing Motown, and Jeremy talked about the public radio station that had been a constant presence in his home growing up. Sharing memories with Davis didn’t bring up the constant pain in his chest that often accompanied talking about his parents. In fact, it sometimes felt like they were still around, two people who were unalike and in love watching over Davis and Jeremy, an odd match themselves.

Davis navigated the truck onto a road that was less clear, and they began to climb up.“I’m glad we’re not biking this,” Jeremy quipped.

“It’s not even that bad of an incline,” Davis quipped back, shaking his head. “I’ll get you back on a bike someday.”

“Doubtful. I’m very happy to have you just drive me around. Where are we headed, anyway?”

Davis swerved to avoid a large boulder in the middle of the road, then grinned. “I wanted to show you something.” Reaching the top of the road, Davis pulled into a turnoff and cut the engine, then hopped out of the truck. He quickly maneuvered around to the passenger side, opening the door for Jeremy.

“Is it a long hike?” Jeremy said, looking at the new metallic water bottle he had purchased last week. “Should I bring water?”

“Nah,” Davis said. “It’s a five-minute walk at best.” Jeremy followed Davis up a small path, which revealed a small structure on the rocky top of the mountain. A study base, constructed of what, to Jeremy, looked like an older way to form concrete, topped by a small wood building with windows. A simple staircase led to a single door, painted a forest green with the USFS logo on the outside, locked with a padlock and heavy metal chain.

“What is this?” Jeremy asked, searching his brain for an architectural style that seemed right.

“It’s a fire watchtower, built around 1908. People used to staff these all the time. They’d live here to try and spot fires so rangers knew where to go.” Davis climbed the staircase, then fished in his pocket, pulled out a key, and unlocked the padlock. “Come on in and look.” Jeremy took the stairs two at a time and followed Davis into a single room. It was crowded with an older metal desk on one side and a few cabinets, all in a mint green color that told Jeremy they had been installed during the 1940s. The windows allowed in the light, tiny specks of dust dancing in the sunbeams. Davis stood by a large circular table, smiling. “The national forest owns the tower, but this one isn’t staffed right now. I made sure that I took the only key, told my boss that I wanted to do a survey of the towers now that fire season is starting. To see if we want to use them.” He looked out the window, then back at Jeremy. “But really, I just wanted to make sure that no one would interrupt us.”

And Jeremy knew what this meant to Davis, realized that he had taken a number of precautions to create this space for the two of them in the forest. Jeremy looked at the windows, not a blind in sight, and appreciated the view that much more.

“This was updated by the CCC during the Depression and doubled as an air raid lookout during World War II,” he explained. “It’s like the mountain version of a lighthouse,” Davis explained. “We still rely on people in some of these towers during fire season to spot the first signs of a fire. Even in this day and age of drones and satellites, putting a real person here is the most effective way.” Davis ran his fingertip over the map on the table next to him, complete with complicated-looking equipment on it. “I thought that, you know, after the art museum, you would appreciate this. Because of the human element.”

Jeremy opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. He loved it when Davis talked about his expertise, impressed with the way he could connect science and history in a simple message. But it was the fact that he’d thought about Jeremy and how he would understand all of this that left him almost speechless. Honored. Loved.

“How does it work?” Jeremy asked, taking in the collection of old photographs, metal equipment, and topographic maps that looked like nothing more than squiggles to Jeremy. Davis had tried to explain what the distances between the lines meant last week, but Jeremy’s brain had focused on the way that Davis’s fingers had tapped over the map rather than the cartography lesson.

“It works like this,” Davis said, turning him around and pressing him against the counter that projected from the windows. “You look out at the trees and make sure we’re safe. Let me know if you see smoke, because that means a fire.”

Jeremy scoffed. “I know what smoke means,” he protested, but he did scan the horizon, imagining how daunting it would be to survey this entire landscape. “And what will you do while I watch?”

Davis answered by dropping to his knees.