“No,” says Dad cheerfully. “Today is strictly pleasure.”
Eloise looks up annoyed. “Virgil, you’re missing it!”
Virgil goes back to his scope quickly and starts snapping off shots. Dad sets up for us so I get to watch all three people disappear into their work like water into sand.
“Nice views,” whispers my dad.
After a few seconds he lets me look. I see a good-size grizzly swatting at two adult wolves. There’s not a chance that these wolves are going to get back breakfast, but they seem to be making a point about the bear’s manners.
Dad touches my arm. “My turn.” He’s as excited as I am. This cracks me up, since he’s old. Well, he’s not that old. But he’s my dad, so that’s old to me.
I hold my binoculars up to try to get an outline. I can see the grizzly lean back without moving his body away from the carcass. The wolves circle, one darting while the other distracts, but the bear is having none of it. He lets out some snorts and then a real roar. The bear lunges across the carcass and nearly gets a piece of the darting wolf. The wolves retreat. The bear is slower than the wolves but not too slow to chase them for a good hundred yards. The wolves disappear into the trees, and the bear plods back to his breakfast. It occurs to me that it was the wolves’ breakfast, too. And they have expended a lot of energy, twice, for nothing. Being a predator isn’t for wimps.
“Cutting it close,” says Virgil.
“It’s what they do best,” says Eloise. “Now who is this guy, KJ?” She smiles at my dad like he’s a new car.
Dad straightens up ever so slightly. “Glad to meet you, Eloise. Samuel Carson.”
I don’t like this posture-adjusting one bit. I’ve seen as many old movies as any other sixteen-year-old girl in America, but chemistry is not allowed between Eloise and Samuel. I saw Virgil first, and I don’t double with parents.
What I have going for me is that Eloise isn’t really my dad’s type. If he ever dates, which is never, he goes out with skinny women with tidy hair who think he is the smartest person on Earth, because they definitely aren’t. Eloise probably knows more about wolves than wolves do. And she’s not exactly a supermodel under all that flannel.
“Samuel Carson. That sounds like a pretty serious name. Are you serious, Mr. Carson? Because your daughter is downright morbid.”
“Just because she talks about killing Virgil all the time doesn’t make her morbid,” says my dad.
At this point I feel it’s important for our parents to stop getting to know each other. “Dad, do you think that grizzly has cubs?”
“Do you see cubs?” he says, looking back in his scope.
“No, but I just thought . . .”
Eloise jumps in, “Looks like a male to me. About three, don’t you think, Sam?”
“Maybe four,” he says. “Looks like he’s in good shape.”
“Better than those wolves, I’d guess,” says Eloise. “The older one of them was limping to start with. Hard to get much action if you’re starting to fall apart.”
“You can say that again,” says Dad and laughs.
Okay. Teatime’s over. I’m bringing the heat. “Boy, Dad, it’s sure nice of you to give up bow hunting to bring me out here,” I say. “I know how you look forward to this season.”
“This is a great way to enjoy my season, honey. Glad I could take a day off and come. Maybe I’m getting sentimental, but sometimes I’d a lot rather watch a wolf or a grizzly get an elk than get one myself.”
“We’re glad you could make it, too,” says Eloise. “Always nice to meet another aficionado of the predator experience.”
I’m out of ammo. I look at Virgil.
“I’d like to go down and get some more shots from a different angle. Anyone else? Mr. Carson?”
Virgil is amazing.
After Virgil and Dad leave, Eloise gives me the eye. “Are you setting me up with your dad?”
“No,” I nearly shout. “He snores and never talks, and he always thinks he’s right.”
“So he’s male then.”
“Yeah, really, really male.”
Eloise chuckles at me. “They all are, honey. Even Virgil. But don’t worry. I’m not looking to take extra luggage home from Montana.”
“Good. No. I mean . . . I mean I talk too much.”
“I like how you talk, but you need to relax. Let’s talk about something depressing for your little newspaper article. That ought to set you back to rights.”
“I’d like that,” I say.
“Did you hear there’s a group in Park County raising a stir because elk hunters aren’t doing as well this year? They say the wolves are hunting the northern range herd to extinction. It’s hard for me to believe they’re serious. Every fool with an orange vest knows when there’s no snow the elk stay up higher. And you could suntan this October.”
“What are they going to do?”
“Who knows? Every time you turn around there is some bonehead trying to blame the wolves for something else. Next thing you know they’ll be the cause of love handles and tooth decay. All joking aside, I believe something’s brewing. These extreme anti-wolf groups are drawing crowds. And there’s always somebody that thinks they can get the bad old days back again.”
“I don’t think people in town are like that. Not most of them anyway. Besides, I read a report that says wolves are good for business.”
“That depends entirely on your business, honey.”
We go back to watching the bear. After devouring a few more slabs of elk, the bear stashes his loot in a marshy part of the pond and moves off for a morning stroll. The guys come back and we all make awkward small talk until Eloise moves out into the crowd to visit with some of the wolf watchers. One woman has traveled here from Denmark. Her husband passed away a year ago, and she is finally doing some things she has always wanted to do. I hate it when old people say things like that.
“Do you like it here?” I ask.
“The wolves I like,” she says. “Americans, not as much.”
“Now, that’s funny,” says Eloise. “I always think of us as kind of the same deal. Except Americans eat more salads.”
Suddenly there’s a gust of surprise from the retired couple from Snowflake, Arizona. The man turns to Eloise and whispers, “It’s her.”
“Nine-F?” asks Eloise.
Virgil clicks into his scope and starts snapping shots off like crazy. My dad hogs his scope but doesn’t say a word.
“Who?” I say to Virgil softly.
Eloise whispers over to me, “Nine. The Rose Creek alpha female.”
I try to remember my homework. “The famous one who had pups after her mate got shot to pieces outside the park?”
“The very one. She’s a dandy. But it looks like she may have lost her niche.”
“Her pack kicked her out? Why?”
“Competition. In this case we think it’s her daughter’s doing.”
“That’s pretty heartless.”
“Survival of the fittest,” says Eloise.
Everyone is quiet for a minute. My dad finally gives me a peek through the scope. I watch Number Nine tear off some of the bear’s stash. She drags an entire leg off to eat nervously under a tree. She’s gray and thin but most wolves are thin. She looks fine to me except she’s alone. After she’s gulped a few bites she lifts her head and jogs off with the leg dangling from her mouth.
After another stretch of nothing but ducks to look at, we head into Cooke City for lunch. We find a diner and order everything on the menu. Eloise and my dad hit it off like old college roommates. When my dad, the tightwad, orders dessert, I can’t take it anymore and tell everyone I’m going out to look around town.
“Don’t get lost,” Dad says.
Right. Cooke City is about the size of most people’s drive-ways, with about as many people living there, especially this time of year. My dad likes to say the only people that live in Cooke City year-round are the types that like to get naked and drive
their Harleys up and down Main Street shooting a gun.
I get to the first gift shop before I feel Virgil standing behind me. “Looking for a T-shirt? That one with the pink Indian girl is nice.”
I don’t turn around. “You think they like each other?”
“They’re just wildlife geeks.”
“Really?” I say hopefully.
“My mom has been divorced a long time. She doesn’t seem to mind it all that much.”
I don’t say anything. I feel a cloud settle in my chest. What if Virgil becomes my stepbrother?
“You worry too much,” says Virgil.
“How do you know?” I say.
“Your face twists up like a wet rag.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I say, and try to untwist.
“We’re only here for the school year anyway. You’ll have your dad to yourself in no time.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “When do you leave?”
“When school gets out. My mom has to get back to her job at the university. It’s been fun to live with Aunt Jean though. She’s really weird.” Virgil raises his eyebrows and looks side to side like a lunatic.
“Do you want to see the town?” I say.
“I thought the diner was the town,” says Virgil.
“Such a snob. They have a hotel with a bar.”
“Impressive.”
“And two blackjack machines.”
“Can’t get more excitement than that.”
We walk out onto the abandoned street. A small storm is looming over the top of Pilot Peak. A drizzle starts before we get a block up the street and by the time we get to the Mine Road we are drenched. A giant crack of light splits open the sky and booms through the town. I don’t see exactly where the lightning hits, but the air feels electric. We turn around and run for the diner. The sound of the rain slaps the puddles that fill the muddy road. A jacked-up truck drives past and sloshes us from a pothole.
The lightning flashes again and the thunder rattles a tin roof nearby. Virgil pulls me toward a stand of trees and shouts, “Here.” He looks upset.
“What’s wrong?” I say.
His shaggy hair drips into his face. “That lightning is right on top of us.”
I suppress a smirk. “Don’t you get lightning back in Minnesota?”
“We prefer depressing drizzles. It builds character.” Virgil hugs himself and shakes. “I can’t believe how fast that came on.”
“You know what they say around here. You don’t like the weather, just wait fifteen minutes.”
My teeth start to chatter loudly. Virgil looks me over for a second and then puts both his arms around my arms and squeezes. “Your head’s going to fall off if you keep doing that.”
My teeth keep chattering, but Virgil warms me up in a hurry. I’m not good at this, but I figure Virgil isn’t either. I look up. I can feel mud on my cheeks and forehead. He has a big clod by his mouth. I slip my arm out to clean it off and he plants one on me. Not a dweeby high school kiss. A real kiss. A Montana rainstorm kiss. My teeth stop chattering.
Virgil is a good kisser. Disturbingly good.
“Had a few girlfriends back in Minnesota?” I want to hit myself as soon as I say it. It just pops out.
“A couple.”
Yeah, I’ll bet a couple.
“You?” says Virgil, smiling wickedly.
I shake my wet head. “You’ve seen the selection.”
“Good point.”
He kisses me again. I can taste mud in my mouth and something else I’m not altogether sure about. Then the lightning fractures out in the street next to us. We both jump and fall away from each other.
Virgil grabs my arm and says, “Let’s run.”
We jog through the mud and rain together but stop at the entrance to the diner. Even diners in Cooke City draw the line at mud-caked teenagers. My dad and Eloise are drinking coffee and laughing. They don’t even see until we knock on the glass.
Virgil is holding my hand. I wonder if my dad will care. It’s fine with me if he does. Everything’s fine with me, including the mud and the cold and the stuff at school. Even if Virgil is going home in six months, and even if my dad is having lunch with Eloise. If it got me to this place, right now, it’s all fine.
So I smile at Dad though the window and wave a muddy hand. He waves quickly and then goes back to talking to Eloise. He’s like a dog on point. How can he do this to me?
Eloise turns and waves to us, too. Her smile is light and airy. All the pucker has gone out of her face. There is a soft light from the kitchen that shines across the two of them. Virgil looks at me and smiles and then lets go of my hand. Lets it drop like a rock in water. He says to me, “You never know, do you?”
“Know what?” I say, rubbing my arms in the cold.
“What the weather’s going to do next around here.”
Thanksgiving Turkey
INGREDIENTS:
My Dad
Eloise
INSTRUCTIONS:
Stuff with Gross Middle-Age Flirting
Roast until Dead
Thanksgiving Side Dish
Mashed relationship with Virgil
Thanksgiving Dessert
Aunt Jean said she thought my dad was
too young for Eloise. Delicious.
15
THE PERSONALS
IT’S THE DAY after Thanksgiving. I sit at my computer in my flannel train pajamas and Elmo slippers. The snow has finally come, and the west entrance is closed to cars until spring. It’s a long drive around, about four hours one way. I could do it alone if I could wiggle out of work I guess, but I can’t handle doing the drive as a blended family. So today I settle for tracking the wolves on the Internet.
In the next room Dad is getting ready for his date with Eloise. He’s singing. I might as well pick out my bridesmaid dress.
I read, “The wolves are beginning to disperse. The battle for territory and pack alignments will heat up in the coming cold until at last the rituals of winter culminate in the breeding and denning of the deep winter months.” The battle for breeding territory. I could add a few paragraphs on that subject from personal experience.
Eloise was right when she said there was trouble brewing though. People are talking about the elk numbers. And they aren’t happy. Some are talking about getting the whole Endangered Species Act listing overturned and wiping the wolves out again. I found one Web site with a wolf-killing ammo ad and a detailed recipe for poison meatballs.
The whole thing makes me sick. Or maybe that’s the stale smell of Eloise’s turkey that still fills the house.
She brought over everything for dinner but her wedding china. And she brushed her hair back. And she wore perfume! Virgil spent most of his time talking to Dad about tracking wildlife and then sat in the corner and read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Aunt Jean and I talked about her cat’s digestive issues. One big happy potentially incestuous family.
Dad knocks on my door. “Anybody home?”
He comes in and stands with his hands in his pockets. He is pressed and combed. His teeth even shine. Finally he says, “How’s the homework?”
“Fine,” I say.
“Is this shirt presentable?”
Dad never asks my advice about anything. He certainly never asked me if he could date Virgil’s mom. I say, “It’s fine.”
“Thanks,” he says, and then just stands there. “I should be back around . . . hmm . . . not really sure.”
I repeat one of his standbys, “Nothing good happens after midnight.”
Dad actually blushes. I want to kill myself.
I look at the last edition of the school newspaper. Virgil’s photos of the bear and the two wolves sparring are brilliant. I drift. If my dad and Eloise get married where will we live? Will I have to move to Min-e-sooda and live platonically in the same house with Virgil? Isn’t that child abuse?
I have Cap’n Crunch for dinner. I try to do a math work sheet, but I end up watching
the snow falling outside the kitchen window. I wonder what Virgil is doing.
I type:
Dear Addie,
My father’s love life is Ruining mine. I met the perfect guy and then my dad came along and developed a midlife crush on his mom. Now my MR. Perfect treats me like I have the bubonic plague. What should I do?
The Miserable Girl Next Door
Delete.
I nod to the houseplant and say, “Just tell him your feelings. Boys love that.”
I walk around my room and look at different editions of the paper I’ve posted up. Virgil’s pictures make our column look impressive, but Addie’s column is the hit of the year. How can un-extirpated wolves compete with bad breath?
I read more entries from the wolf watchers. There’s a buzz about the Crystal Creek pack’s invasion of the Druid’s territory. The mighty Druids got stomped. Outnumbered and outmaneuvered, the Druid Peak pack was chased off Specimen Ridge like a bunch of rank puppies. One report says, “Druids tucked their tails and ran.”
I imagine mean old Number Forty barking the retreat to her pack. I turn to my plant. “You just never know, do you?”
I’m eating my third bowl of Cap’n Crunch when there’s a knock at the door. I jump to my feet. I look through the kitchen window at the front door and see a dark hood. I take a kitchen knife out of the drawer. The hood is creepy.
“Hello?” I say through the door.
“It’s Virgil. . . . I want to talk to you . . . about the newspaper.”
I open the door. He’s covered in two inches of snow. “You came over at ten thirty at night to talk to me about the newspaper?”
He smiles. “I don’t know which is scarier, the knife or the train pj’s.”
“Do you want to come in?”
He sits on my tiny couch. I put away the knife and turn on the TV set because I don’t know what else to do. I sit on the floor. When I’m alone with him everything inside me purrs like a giant cat. I have to actually control the impulse to rub my back against his leg. We look at the TV and listen to a man talk about killing his wife.
Kristen Chandler Page 10