The Wicked Sister

by Karen Dionne

  Peter and I documented everything with photos against the day that we might have to put it all back, then boxed up the rifles and ammunition and carted them off to a storage unit we rented in Marquette. When Peter’s family came up for Christmas and his grandfather saw what we had done, I thought he was going to have a heart attack. But after Peter explained that it was this or install a security gate across the gun room’s wide arched open doorway, which he knew his grandfather would have had a fit about because he had already made it clear that we were not to make any physical changes to the lodge, his grandfather backed down. I think the other relatives were secretly pleased. As far as I know, there’s not a hunter in the bunch.

  The second thing we did after we moved in was convert half of the old barn into his-and-hers office space. Luckily, Peter’s grandfather’s decree didn’t extend to the outbuildings. We also set up an office for Diana between ours so she wouldn’t feel left out, and so we can keep an eye on her while we’re working. It’s a beautiful space, the kind of dedicated learning area I would have killed for when I was her age, furnished with an antique child-sized desk and chair we found in one of the bedrooms along with an overstuffed armchair for reading and floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with what might quite possibly be the largest collection of stuffed animals in the entire Upper Peninsula, and all the DK and National Geographic Kids nature books I could find. Peter thinks the NASA-approved star maps I plastered on the ceiling and the highly detailed mobile of the solar system I hung in the middle are a bit much, but we don’t yet know which field of study will catch Diana’s interest. The key to making this work, we both agree, is keeping our daughter occupied with interesting and challenging projects. There’s nothing Diana hates more than being bored.

  So far, it seems to be working. Naturally, there have been a couple of hiccups along the way, as you’d expect after making such a major lifestyle change, but aside from a dozen shredded stuffed animals, we made it through the winter without any major blowups or disasters. (Diana claimed she was dissecting her stuffed animal collection, which is actually rather charming and precocious when you think about it, considering that both of her parents are wildlife biologists—never mind that the toys she destroyed cost several hundred dollars to replace.) All in all, I think she’s doing better.

  I wish I could say the same for Peter. In hindsight, September was a terrible time for us to move because the amphibians he was planning to study were about to go into hibernation. Sure, there was wood to chop and snow to shovel and gas for the generator to fetch and groceries to purchase and books and scientific journals to catch up on along with an assortment of household repairs to keep him busy, but for a highly intelligent and creative person like my husband, these were hardly a satisfactory trade-off for teaching. Add in the fact that last winter was especially brutal, with fewer sunny days than normal and twice the average snowfall, and it’s no wonder he got depressed.

  To be honest, I’m struggling, too. I should have realized that moving four hundred miles from the place where William Yang died wouldn’t be far enough to purge me of his ghost. I think about him every day. Every time Diana runs into a room, or slides down the stairway railing, or rides her bike around and around in our circular gravel driveway, or bumps her head, or skins her knee, I think about how these are things that William Yang will never do and my heart breaks all over again. At times the weight of his death is so crushing I think maybe I should go for counseling. I understand I wasn’t responsible for what happened. No one could have foreseen that the boy would wander into our yard and fall into our pool, and if that lack of foresight means that I am to blame, then his mother is, too; how did her son find his way into our backyard in the first place, and why didn’t she keep a closer eye on him? Yet I still feel as though I need to somehow make amends. I read in his obituary that William’s favorite toy was a stuffed teddy bear, so I decided to study black bears in his honor. Peter thinks I should study the half-dozen bald eagle breeding pairs that nest in the swampy area by the lake, but I’ve always loved bears, and I honestly feel that my research into their numbers and habits will make an important contribution. A healthy population of top predators indicates a healthy ecosystem, but all around the world, balanced ecosystems are becoming increasingly rare as wildlife comes under pressure due to environmental destruction and human encroachment that force animals who have no business living in close proximity to get along. The opportunity to study an area that’s been in ecological stasis for decades offers a unique and valuable perspective, and this isn’t only my opinion; the biology professor at Northern Michigan University I consulted, and who agreed to act as my ad hoc advisor, thinks so, too.

  Which is why, after reading everything about Ursus americanus I could get my hands on over the winter, Diana and I are crouched behind a large boulder near the base of the east cliff on this chilly April afternoon waiting for the bear Diana named “Rapunzel” to come out of her den. Technically, Diana is supposed to be with Peter today per our agreement that she would split her days equally between us now that we are both back in the field, but Peter says her noisy footsteps and nonstop chatter scare his frogs away. I guess my bears are more tolerant.

  The day is sunny but cold. All the snow has melted except on the shady side of the boulder we’re hiding behind. My feet are frozen, but I stand as still as possible and keep my binoculars trained on the opening. The den is dug beneath the roots of a large pine growing partway up the side of the cliff. Because of the late start last fall, this was the only den I could find before all the bears on our acreage holed up for the winter, which means that this is the only bear I was able to collar while she hibernated in her den, and thus is the only bear I’ll be able to track throughout the spring, summer, and fall—an inauspicious start to my research project by anybody’s standard. Next year, I’m going to have to do a lot better.

  “I’m cold,” Diana whines, and not for the first time. “I’m tired. I’m hungry. I want to go home.”

  I lower the glasses and squat down beside her to give her a hug. Her nose is dripping, and her cheeks are red.

  “I know you’re hungry, sweetie. Mommy is, too. But you know we can’t bring anything to eat when we’re in the field.”

  A bear’s sense of smell is seven times more powerful than a dog’s, and bears can pick up a scent from as much as a mile away. After feeding off her own fat reserves for six months and nursing any cubs, I guarantee this bear is a lot hungrier than we are. Even something as insignificant as a granola bar or a handful of nuts in a ziplock bag could make us a target.

  “Just a little longer, I promise. You want to see Rapunzel’s cubs, don’t you?”

  Diana nods.

  “And you remember Mommy promised that if you stay very still and don’t frighten her cubs, you can name them?”

  Diana nods again. “How many babies does she have?”

  “We won’t know until they come out of their den.”

  Which is another lesson learned. If I had waited to collar this bear until after she’d given birth, not only would I know how many cubs she’d had, I would have been able to weigh and measure the cubs and take blood samples for DNA testing to begin establishing their family tree. Still, crawling into this bear’s den while she slept and putting the radio collar on her knowing that she was capable of killing me with a single swipe of her paw was such an amazing experience, I think I can be forgiven for being overeager.

  I train the glasses on the opening again. Black bears commonly give birth to between two and four cubs, but the number of fertilized eggs that implant in the mother’s uterus after she mates in June depends on how much she weighs the next fall when she goes into her den. Black bears will eat almost anything: blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, thimbleberries, Juneberries, buckthorn berries, blackberries, and dogwood berries; wild cherries and apples; acorns, beechnuts, and hazelnuts; grasses, leaves, and clover; bees, ants, and hornets. Normally the
ir varied diet affords them plenty of opportunity to bulk up, but the summer just past was very dry. From all over the Upper Peninsula there were reports of hungry black bears raiding gardens and bird feeders and beehives and garbage cans—even killing a chicken or a lamb when the opportunity arose. This bear was so underweight when she went into her den, we’ll be lucky if she has even a single cub—a possibility I have been extremely careful never to mention in front of Diana.

  At last, I see movement. I tap Diana’s arm and hand off the binoculars. “Shh. Get ready. She’s coming out.”

  Diana lifts the binoculars, which are far too big and heavy for her, and squints through them like a miniature naturalist. She looks so cute, my heart swells. I make a mental note to pick up a smaller pair for her as soon as I’m able to get to a sporting goods store.

  “I see her! I see her!”

  “Shh. Remember, we have to be very quiet.”

  Even without the binoculars I can see that this bear has lost a great deal of weight. She stands in the opening for a long time, blinking as if she is surprised to discover this bright new world of color and light, then slides down the rocky scree not fifty feet from the boulder we’re hiding behind and lumbers toward a patch of fresh, green grass.

  “Where are her babies?”

  “Shh. Just wait.”

  “I don’t want to wait. I want them to come out now.”

  Diana stomps her foot and smacks the binoculars against the boulder, then plunks down on the ground with her arms crossed and her back toward the den. I snatch up the binoculars. Thankfully, the rubber field casing did what it was supposed to do. I grit my teeth. It’s all I can do to keep from smacking her. I understand she’s cold and hungry and tired; that Diana is not a naturalist, but rather a nine-year-old girl with a short fuse and a penchant for throwing temper tantrums. Expecting her to watch and wait with me for hours is too much to ask.

  She sticks out her lower lip and refuses to look at me or to speak. As I train the binoculars on the opening again, I can’t help but smile. Diana has no clue that in giving me the silent treatment she is doing exactly as I want.

  I watch and wait for a long time. Just as I am beginning to think that my prediction has come true, and there will be no cub for Diana to name, I see movement. I can hear whimpering from inside the den as Rapunzel ranges farther and farther away.

  “Diana. Come here.” I pull her to her feet and point her toward the opening and hand her the binoculars as Rapunzel’s cub gathers the courage to leave the only home it has ever known and crawls into the sunlight.

  “Oh!” she exclaims. “Look!”

  Quickly, she claps her hand over her mouth. But I don’t scold her for her outburst. I am just as surprised.

  The cub is white.

  White. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. Albino bears are extremely rare. I can’t recall a single sighting in the Upper Peninsula, possibly not in the entire state. An albino black bear was shot by a hunter years ago in Pennsylvania—which, unbelievably, was perfectly legal—and a mother black bear and her albino cub were spotted walking along a highway in Ontario more than a decade before that, but these are the only instances that I’m aware of. There’s a subspecies of black bears in British Columbia called “Kermode bears” in which twenty percent of the population is white, but their coloring is the result of a genetic mutation and not true albinism. Outside British Columbia, the odds of seeing a white bear drop to something like one in a million. One in a million. Incredible to think that such a rare and special bear cub was born right here in our very own woods.

  “Is it a ghost?” Diana whispers.

  “It’s an albino. This means Rapunzel’s cub was born without any coloring in its skin or fur, like the pictures in your coloring books before you color them. Native Americans call white bears ‘spirit bears’ or ‘ghost bears,’” I add, which makes her smile.

  “I’m going to call him ‘White Bear.’”

  “White Bear is a great name. Here. Let Mommy have a look.” I reach for the binoculars, and in the awe of the moment Diana gives them up without a struggle. The cub looks like a small white cloud against the den’s opening: pure white fur, pink eyes, tiny pink nose. It seems healthy, maybe five or six pounds, well within the range I’d expect for a cub that was born while its mother slept last January. I have no idea what its albinism will mean for its future. Certainly, its coloration will make it easier for me to spot it, but it will also put the cub at a distinct disadvantage. Up to half of all cubs die during their first year anyway from drowning, den cave-ins, hypothermia, starvation, and infections from injuries. That this cub is white will make it particularly vulnerable to the biggest threat facing young bears: other bears looking for a quick and easy meal.

  I hand the binoculars back to Diana and take out my camera. Peter is going to go nuts when he sees these pictures.

  Suddenly, a rock flies into the camera frame. The cub startles and shies away. Before I can process where the rock came from and why, there is another.

  I whirl around as Diana is about to throw a third.

  “Diana! What are you doing? Stop that!” I drop my camera into my pocket and grab her arm to pry the rock from her fingers. She pulls loose and throws the rock anyway. The cub squeals from the unlucky hit and tumbles head over heels down the slope. Diana laughs and claps.

  “Why did you do that?” I yell as the cub scrambles to its feet and runs off squealing to its mother. “That wasn’t nice. You could have hurt the cub. You could have killed it!”

  “Mommy. Look.” Diana points behind me.

  I turn around. The cub’s mother is staring straight at me, wagging her head slowly from side to side and growling a warning.

  Quickly, I push Diana behind me. “Stay absolutely still,” I hiss. “Don’t move.”

  The bear runs several paces toward us and stops, swinging its head and chuffing. I scoop up Diana and plop her down on top of the boulder as the bear raises up on its hind legs and paws the air, then drops down on all fours and lands with a heavy thwump. I swear, I can feel the ground shake.

  “Is she dancing?” Diana sounds more curious than afraid.

  “It’s a warning. She’s telling us to leave her baby alone and go away.”

  The bear runs forward again. I step out from behind the boulder and stand as tall as I am able. The key to facing down a black bear is to make yourself look and sound as threatening as possible. Lie down and play dead, and you will be. Or so I’ve read.

  “Go on! That’s enough. Get back! Go away!” I shout and wave my arms.

  “Go away!” Diana echoes.

  “That’s right. Good girl. Make as much noise as you can.”

  We clap and yell. The bear raises up on its hind legs again and opens its mouth wide and roars. Saliva drips from its jaws. We’re so close, I swear I could count its teeth. This bear could easily snatch my daughter off the boulder if it wanted to. But to do that, it’s going to have to go through me.

  “Mommy?” Diana says in a small voice. “Is Rapunzel going to eat us?”

  “Not today,” I reply through gritted teeth. I run straight toward the bear, yelling and flapping my arms. “Go on! Get out of here! Leave! Go!” If I had a rifle, I swear I’d shoot it.

  The bear drops to all fours. Behind it, the cub mewls. The bear looks from me to the cub and back to me; then with a final warning chuff, it turns and stalks off into the forest. The cub follows.

  I sink down with my back against the boulder. My hands are shaking, and my legs are so weak I don’t think I could run from a kitten. If Peter finds out about what just happened, I’m going to be studying bald eagles whether I want to or not. First thing tomorrow, I’ll start construction on a bait station with an observation blind. It’s just too dangerous to observe bears out in the open. Or at least it is as long as my daughter is around.

  “Can I get down n
ow?”

  “Of course. Scooch over here to Mommy.”

  I get shakily to my feet and hold out my arms as Diana slides across the boulder and jumps into them. I hug her until she squirms, then set her on her feet.

  “Did you see her, Mommy? Did you see her? She was so mad!” Diana shifts excitedly from foot to foot. Her eyes dance.

  Once again, I am in awe of my daughter’s fearlessness. Diana has to know that this wasn’t a game, that we were in real danger, that things could have turned out very differently if the bear had decided to attack.

  “Diana, why did you throw rocks at the cub? He’s just a baby. You could have hurt him. How would you like it if somebody threw rocks at you?”

  “It was a speerment. I wanted to see if the cub would run and he did!”

  An experiment. Fury replaces terror. I can’t believe she threw rocks at the cub for no reason other than she wanted to see what it would do if she did. What kind of person even thinks of such a thing? Where is her compassion? Her empathy and fellow feeling for a creature smaller and weaker than she is? What in God’s name is wrong with my daughter?

  I take a deep breath and stash my camera and binoculars in my backpack. “Come on. Rapunzel and White Bear aren’t coming back today. It’s time to go home.”

  As Diana trots along cheerfully beside me, it occurs to me that once again, my daughter has gotten exactly what she wanted. Maybe the real reason she threw rocks at the cub was to make the bears go away so we would go home. Or maybe I’m giving her too much credit. Either way, I can’t have her interfering with my research like this again. I gave up my career once because of her, I am not going to do it a second time. I refuse to spend my days at the lodge supervising my daughter while Peter is in the field. There has to be a way to work things out. Diana’s a smart girl; she can learn.