Dreaming the Bear

by Mimi Thebo

  The oven and the microwave and the shower still all seem really wonderful. Like they were invented yesterday or something.

  I decide I’d better move the freezer stuff first because I’ll be too tired to do it when I get home. Dad’s just stuffed it all into the animal-proof barrels, so I lay it out on the porch to try to organize it. He crumpled up all the boxes and torn some of the wrapping. It’s a mess. I prop the door open and get some freezer bags, trying to save what I can.

  Somebody gave us a whole deer last year, and I know that goes in the bottom of the freezer. Mum doesn’t like the taste, and Dad is conflicted about it, he says. He told Tony to take some of it home, but Tony forgot.

  It’s not until I’ve already buried it in the freezer that I suddenly realize—I’ve got all this meat….

  Sunlight on a billion ice crystals. Without sunglasses it is blinding. It is also beautiful. Light dances through the air—refracted, reflected off innumerable crystal facets. The landscape glitters, like the idea of diamonds. People ski through a dream of diamonds.

  There is a steady drip-drip. Every so often the covering snow becomes too wet, too heavy, to lie on branches, and a cap of it crashes to the forest floor. I struggle with a heavy pack and my snowshoes and kick shut the door of the cabin. The entire snow sheet on the porch’s roof creaks and thunders and slides. I am, for a moment, inside a wall of snow. Then it explodes at the bottom of the porch steps. I jump and curse.

  Shrugging into overalls and a coat, I leave the coat unzipped, the red hat shoved into my pocket. Briskly at first, I begin shoeing toward the hill.

  Wet snow sticks to the shoes. I have to stop every six or seven yards and use my poles to free my treads. Twice I am almost hit by falling snow from the pines. I begin looking up as well as down. It’s slow going.

  I’m breathless by the time I reach the bottom of the hill. I look for tracks, bear droppings. There aren’t any.

  “Hey!” I shout. My voice echoes in the forest. Birds fly away. Little rustlings and squeakings stop. The silence that follows is shaming, somehow. “Hey,” I shout again. “It’s time to get up!”

  The bear finally appears. She peers down and sniffs the air.

  I go up ten or fifteen feet and anchor my poles in the snow. I call softly, “It’s me.”

  The bear makes a keening, whining noise. She paces along the edge of the ledge.

  “Come down,” I say. “It’s time to get up.”

  The bear extends her good arm down into the snowpack, but when she brings the arm with the hurt shoulder forward, she moans. For a moment it looks as though she will tumble headfirst down the steep slope, but she scrambles back and moans again, this time in frustration.

  I continue climbing. Halfway up the hill I stop again to catch my breath. The bear peers over the edge and tentatively reaches to pat the snow with her good arm.

  “You can’t, can you?” I ask.

  The bear snorts and growls, pacing along the ledge again.

  I take a few more steps. I keep looking up at the bear. But she makes no more attempts to leave.

  As my head is about to come level with the ledge, I hesitate again. The bear looks down and calls imperatively. Come here!

  I swallow. I can see how I look when I force my fear down my throat.

  “I’m coming,” I say. I unhook my pack and slide it up. When I can see over the parapet, the bear has retreated to the cave. She sits up to groom her shoulder. I move cautiously forward.

  “Does it hurt?” I ask. I crouch down onto my knees.

  The bear lumbers forward and sniffs at my chest and throat.

  My hand shakes as I pet the huge head.

  “I have something for you,” I say. Slowly, I edge back to my pack, and the bear resumes grooming her wound.

  The venison is inside four plastic bags and tucked into an animal-proof food canister. I wasn’t taking any chances. My hands shake as I undo it. I have to be quick. The moment the bear smells the meat…

  As soon as I open the first bag, the bear’s head comes up, sniffing. As quickly as I can, I spill the deer shoulder across the ground, almost to where the bear is sitting.

  The bear noses the meat and then looks piercingly at me. I find myself explaining, “I thought you might need—”

  That’s the end of our conversation. The bear concentrates solely on her meal. I watch for a while, and then tidy the ledge. I kick the bear’s excrement over the side and heap some fresh snow to where she drank before.

  “Well,” I say to the feeding bear, “I’ll see you later.”

  I retrieve my pack and slide off the ledge, to begin the slow steps down. Once, I forget to clean the snow buildup from my shoes, and slide ten feet or so, nearly losing a pole.

  Chapter Eight

  I have no idea what I’m doing. But she can’t get down.

  I know I’m being stupid. I know I should be telling the rangers about her. But I don’t know what they’ll do. They’ll probably shoot her.

  Maybe she’s just weak, because of her shoulder. If I feed her a bit, she might get strong enough to come down. And then that will be it. She’ll go her way, and I’ll go mine.

  The thought makes something catch at the back of my throat. For a second I don’t know whether I’m going to cough, or cry, or just stop breathing forever.

  But then I’m okay and thinking about making salmon fish cakes for dinner. And rice. Bears like fish, don’t they? Maybe I could save her some.

  I have no idea what I’m doing.

  Can grizzly bears feel gratitude? Why should they? They live alone most of their lives. When they are together they seem like very young toddlers; aware of one another but with no intention of interacting. They will often fight over food or over a special place. Their mothers tenderly care for them, and it certainly seems the cubs and mothers love one another dearly. But once the cubs are grown, they may never see their mothers again. Worse still, they may not recognize them if they do.

  To whom would a bear feel grateful?

  —

  I am almost all the way back to the cabin when suddenly, I can’t move. I immediately have black spots, and my head hurts.

  I drag a step and then another. The snow is building up on my snowshoes, but I just can’t get it off. My arms are too weak to push it away with my poles. Now I have to raise my feet higher and higher to take each step, and it’s slippery.

  I don’t know how I get to the porch. But we have a canoe stored there and I sit down on it, leaning on my pack against the wall. My poles drop from my hand, and I sleep in the warmth of the dancing sunlight.

  I don’t even hear the snowmobile. I just feel Jem shaking my arm and calling my name.

  I open my eyes. I say, “Oh, hell. The fish cakes,” and try to get up. Jem pushes me back down.

  “How far did you go?” he asks.

  “Just up that hill, where the path forks. Not far.”

  He is kneeling down, taking off my snowshoes.

  “You’ve got the wrong shoes on. These are for powder.” He looks up at me. “You must be totally whacked.”

  I rub my eyes. “I’m okay now,” I say. Jem pulls my hands down and looks at my fleece gloves.

  “You’ve got fur all over your gloves.”

  I’m suddenly aware that I’ve got a big pack on my back, with a food canister full of bloody plastic bags inside it. I say, “Could you get me a drink of water?”

  And while he’s gone I shrug off the backpack and push it under the canoe. There’s an awful lot of stuff under that canoe. I have to push hard.

  I take off my gloves and put them in my lap. I don’t want him looking for them, thinking I’m hiding something. Though I am, of course.

  “There’s fur on your coat too.”

  I make a big deal out of drinking my water. I hand him the glass and then purposefully stagger a bit when I stand up. He’s quick to grab me.

  “Everything smells,” I complain as we go inside. “Can you put my coat and stuff in the
washer for me?”

  He looks at my gear when he shoves it in. “You’ve got fur on your overalls as well.”

  I’m on the sofa. I say, “I’m sorry, is it a problem? Do you want me to do it?”

  “No,” he says. “I just wondered where you picked up all the fur.”

  I stand up. I say, “I made some blueberry muffins. I’ll put the kettle on for tea.”

  Just like I knew he would, he says, “No, I’ll do it. You sit down.”

  And the subject is dropped.

  —

  The fish cakes turn out well, and I sneak half a salmon into the food canister in my pack under the canoe. I’ll add some frozen venison in the morning, and that ought to keep her going over the weekend.

  Dad goes on and on about the snowshoes. He talks to me like I’m an idiot. I read somewhere that the Inuit have something like forty words for “snow.” Well, my dad has a snowshoe solution for every single one of them. Boring is not the word.

  We all go up to bed after the dishes are done. Dad wants to get an early start, and Jem has baseball practice in the morning. I wash and brush and get into bed. Bed still feels like the best place on earth. I am reading a book I’ve read before and love. I feel cozy and warm and nice.

  Dad and Jem come to say goodnight. They stand in my doorway, stripped down to their base layers and socks. Dad says, “What’s all this about being covered in fur? What did you get up to today?”

  I say, without looking up, “Oh, you know, I was hugging a grizzly bear.”

  Dad says, “Ha-ha,” and kisses me goodnight.

  Jem rolls his eyes. He says, “Goodnight, stupid,” and shuts my door.

  I feel very clever, and I want to tell Sue all about it so badly that I reach under my pillow for my phone. It’s a reflex. But my phone is at the bottom of my underwear drawer, not even charged. And Sue wouldn’t understand anyway.

  Dad is still home when I come downstairs the next morning. He is putting bolts into the logs of the cabin, so that I can hang my outdoors clothes on carabiners to air. He has his climbing gear out on the table.

  “We’ve got to be careful about water usage,” he says. I think I’m supposed to feel guilty about washing my overalls and coat so much. But I don’t. He knows I don’t, so he adds, “And anyway, we’re not making much money on this project. They’re not meant to be washed every day.” Okay, so now I feel a bit guilty. I must look guilty anyway, because he shuts up about the great crime of me washing my clothes.

  I pick up a little metal pulley and start thinking.

  I’ve done my share of rock climbing. In our family that means I’ve done a lot. I’ve used most of the stuff in the climbing bag, but I haven’t ever set a bolt. If we’re climbing someplace that doesn’t already have climbing routes, Dad puts bolts in the rock, so that we can hook the ropes to them and not fall to our deaths if one of us does something stupid.

  I follow Dad out to the porch and watch from my seat on the canoe. I ask all kinds of questions about how you go about placing bolts into rock, and he seems really happy to answer. He shows me special glue and stuff and goes into great detail about flaky rock and hard rock and drilling angles.

  Then he looks at his watch and gets all worried because he’s running late. I say that I’ll put the stuff away, so that he can take off sooner, and he thanks me.

  I feel a little guilty again about fooling him. But it doesn’t last long.

  I have a lot to do today. I have to pack for town. I can wear real shoes, jeans, a dress and tights….I can wear a wool jacket, my cashmere cardigan. But I haven’t seen a fashion magazine for months, and I don’t want to look like a goof. I also don’t want to look all classic and buttoned-up and preppy. It’s tricky.

  I play music, loud, with the door to the porch propped open. The singer’s voice warbles with emotion.

  Not far away, a pack of wolves warbles back.

  I might have been playing music a little loud. I don’t even hear the snowmobile. I’ve got a ton of meat and some climbing gear in my pack, which is just sitting there, by the open door, where anyone can see me taking it all out into the forest.

  Then this huge stranger just walks into my house unannounced. He’s covered in black and wearing dark sunglasses. He looks like every hit man in any movie you ever saw. My heart races as I fumble with the remote control for the stereo and turn it off.

  Then he takes off sunglasses, and I see it’s a woman. It’s Nancy, who is going to help with cleaning. She’s just pretty big.

  She smiles. “Guess you’re a teenager, all right,” she says. “My daughter used to love to blast it.”

  Wolves are howling, not too far away.

  Nancy laughs. “You got them going. They musta liked it.” She kicks off her boots and steps inside. “I’m more of a country-and-western girl myself.”

  I make her a cup of tea, and Nancy talks to me about what needs doing and what she should cook for tonight and for the boys over the weekend. I show her what’s left in the freezer and the store cupboard and the fridge. I think there’s still tons of food, but she says, “I’d say it’s about time Marcus got his butt into town to stock up.” She likes my menu ideas. “You’re real creative.”

  I feel like I should stay and help, but Nancy pushes me out the door. “If Doc Hudson told you to get fresh air, you’d better go and get it. Marcus says you get real tired in the afternoons.”

  I sit down on the canoe and put on the wet-weather snowshoes. I wish she’d go start doing things, but instead she watches me. “That’s right,” she says. “Under there. That’s right,” as if she’s in charge of me getting my shoes on.

  And then there’s nothing for it. I pick up the pack, and I can’t help but huff a little, getting it on my back. It’s so heavy.

  “What’s in there?” Nancy asks, just like I was afraid she would.

  “I’m trying to build up my wind.”

  She nods, like carrying a bunch of rocks on my back would be a sensible thing to do. “That doctor. Some people think he’s got funny ideas. But we think the world of him up here.”

  That’s because you’re all gung-ho, outdoor nutcases like Dad and the kids at school, I think.

  And finally, finally, after watching me shoe into the trees, she shuts the door of the cabin.

  This pack weighs a million pounds. Thank goodness I have on the right shoes. Dad and Jem know what they’re talking about. It’s a whole lot easier, and the WD-40 they sprayed on the bottoms works really well. It’s almost like walking.

  A bear paces the ledge. Back and forth, back and forth. The swing of her torso is impossibly heavy. She is astonishingly graceful. Every movement shows her power.

  And then, her shoulder catches, seizes somehow. It’s horrible to see; like a slashed painting. Something beautiful is destroyed when she limps and staggers.

  She complains vigorously, nose in the air, moaning. Shakes her shaggy head.

  And continues pacing, with the remains of her ursine grace.

  “Hey,” I call. “Hey.”

  The bear peers down. Roars her impatience.

  “All right, keep your fur on.”

  Now the ledge extends, snow free, down over two feet. I watch myself look at it. What I thought was a hill is really a cliff face. I’ll never get up here when the snow is gone.

  I begin climbing the wet, slippery snow. It makes neat stairs, though my poles are sinking deeply into it. I see myself wavering back and forth and know it is a struggle to keep from falling.

  The bear is alternately shouting and calling.

  Toward the top, I lose my patience and shriek at her.

  Her face peers down at me over the edge, quizzical. I watch myself shake my head.

  “I’m doing my best!” I shout, and then say it nicely. “I’m doing my best.” I hurt everywhere.

  I give her the food and kick all her poo off the edge and try to tidy up as much as I can.

  When I leave she is trying to eat the frozen deer carcass. I ge
t all the way down to the ground before she remembers me and looks down over the edge of the cliff.

  She looks down and kind of whimpers. I guess she wanted a hug.

  Chapter Nine

  Nancy is gone when I get back, and I go straight upstairs to pack, after anchoring my overalls and my coat on the carabiner. Although I don’t need to, because I didn’t cuddle the bear. I didn’t know she wanted a cuddle. I thought she only wanted food. I guess she wants both.

  I have no idea what I’m doing.

  The thing with the bear has really rattled me, and I nearly pack slim-legged jeans and loafers, when I know the loafers and jeans look dreadful with socks, and I also know it won’t be warm enough to go without them.

  My mind is all over the place.

  She looked sicker than she did before. She’s not getting better. She’s getting worse. Being awake isn’t helping her.

  And I’m not sure I’m feeding her enough.

  I have no idea what I’m doing.

  I take all my clothes out of the bag and start again. Jeans. Leather boots. Denim skirt. Blue wool coat. Hot pink cashmere. White T-shirts. Stripy scarf. Rosebud earrings. Pajamas, washbag, makeup. Done, done, and done. That wasn’t hard, was it?

  All the bending and lifting finishes me off. I can’t even be bothered to clean the other clothes off the bed. I curl up around them and sleep.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty.” Jem is in the doorway, with Tony, and they are laughing at me curled around my neatly piled clothes.

  “I’ve made a pot of tea, and Nancy has made some iced buns.”

  Tony smiles at me, his lazy, sweet smile that makes my heart thump in my chest. “Cinnamon rolls,” he corrects Jem. “They’re called cinnamon rolls.”

  I could listen to Tony Infante say “cinnamon rolls” all day long. I’m sure I blush.

  We go downstairs. Tony has printed out a list of what movies are showing in Bozeman, and we read them and argue about what I should see. When Dad comes back the dinner is beef bourguignonne, and Nancy has made crepes that we microwave. Guess she’s a bit creative herself. Dad gets out a bottle of wine, and we are all allowed a little glassful.