Kristen Chandler

by Boys; Other Things That Might Kill Me (v5) Wolves

  Kenner has labeled himself THE EXTERMINATOR.

  I turn to Dad and Eloise. Dad is stone-faced, but his buddies are clapping and yelling, “That’s right.” Eloise looks like she’s ready to draw blood. Suddenly I am surrounded by people cheering.

  Kenner’s friends go ballistic, chanting, “Ex-ter-min-ator! Ex-ter-min-ator!” Kenner raises his sign over his head and yells, “Ye-ah!”

  It’s like a dead wolf pep assembly.

  Addie says, “He looks ridiculous.”

  I can barely bring myself to look around, I’m afraid I’m going to hate my whole town. The float moves on and is met with loud cheers. No one has cheered this loudly for any other floats, not even for the frozen Presbyterians.

  Sondra is openmouthed. “Could this town be any more backward?”

  “They could stone women who wear pants, but they’re too damn busy painting their necks red,” shouts Eloise.

  Dad’s friends go quiet. I put my head down. I feel trapped and ashamed of everyone. Then I hear jeering. Someone shouts, “Get ’em off the road.”

  I jerk my head up hopefully, but quickly realize the people aren’t yelling at the truck of hunters. People are booing at a car following the truck. Then I recognize Jean’s Cadillac. Across the top of the car is a billboard that says WOLVES FOR A BETTER YELLOWSTONE. On the bumper is a billboard that says THEY WERE HERE FIRST.

  Aunt Jean shouts, “There they are!”

  Inside Aunt Jean’s gold Cadillac I see Dennis’s glasses, attached to Dennis’s grinning face. Next to him, also grinning, is Virgil. The windows are down and they are waving at the booing crowd like they just won Miss West End. Behind the Cadillac is a flatbed trailer covered in sculpted snow and ice. The project.

  I turn and face Eloise, then Dad. Both look petrified. Only Aunt Jean is amused. I hear a few isolated cheers from the crowd. It’s hard to see, but I can make out Mr. Muir and his wife clapping wildly not far up the street. Next to them, the town librarian, Ellen Stevens, is politely applauding. And I see Gary and Deena Harper, the hippies who run the bike shop, cheering and holding up their lighters. Mostly I hear booing.

  A bar of car spotlights rigged over the top of the trailer shine onto the most elaborate snow sculpture I have ever seen. There is a mountain ridge swooping down to a riverbed. Elk the size of cats graze next to a buffalo. There are ducks in the riverbed. There is an eagle on top of a giant icicle, so it looks like it’s flying. And in the center of the sculpture, dyed bright orange, are two wolves. They must have used a backhoe to get all that snow on there.

  He’s out of his mind to drive this thing through the heart of town. But it’s brilliant.

  Like an anthem, the wail of wolves comes booming from the car. The prerecorded howls fill the street and drown out the jeering crowd. I think everyone is finally looking at what Virgil has done. It’s so beautiful it can’t be real. The trailer glistens. Sondra and I go crazy. Even Addie cheers. A few other people cheer and clap. Then a few more. Then a few more.

  Eloise shouts, “Virgil!” I don’t know if she is barking his name out of terror or pride.

  Virgil waves at her, and then at me, as he passes.

  I yell, “Go, Virgil! Go, Dennis!”

  Then, in this perfect moment, where everything seems brilliant and possible, a shotgun is fired from the other side of the street. In slow motion I watch the center of the sculpture explode. The entire sculpture collapses. Inside the car, I see Dennis’s and Virgil’s heads tip forward. I scream and run into the street, followed by my dad. Virgil looks up. His face is bleeding. Dennis looks up. I keep running.

  Then everyone is shouting and running.

  Officer Farley rushes the car from the other side. A man in camo follows him and pulls Dennis out of the car by his coat. I can’t tell if the man is trying to protect Dennis or punch him. Officer Smith grabs the man, and the man hits Officer Smith in the stomach. Then everyone starts hitting each other.

  Then everyone is shouting and running.

  I can’t see Virgil in the car anymore.

  Someone swings a fist past my head. I duck behind my dad. We keep moving. Then somebody connects with the side of my dad’s head and my dad goes down. I drop to the ground to get him, and my hand is immediately crushed under someone’s boot. I shove off the person’s boot and yell, “Get off me, you cow!”

  I look up the leg and find a familiar face. Mr. Muir says, “KJ, my word. Are you all right?”

  “Somebody punched my dad,” I say.

  Mr. Muir grabs Dad’s hand and helps him up. “Samuel, you have blood coming out of your ear.”

  Dad says, “I hit something hard when I landed.”

  “You need to see someone,” says Mr. Muir.

  Dad says, “What?”

  I yell, “Dad, can you hear me?”

  “Stop yelling,” he says.

  Mr. Muir pats Dad on the back. He leans down to me and says, “Clean it real good, and I’ll drive him into Bozeman tomorrow.”

  The fighting is over almost as quickly as it started. Most people leave in a hurry. I guess no kids will be sitting on Santa’s knee tonight at the pharmacy. I see Sondra, Dennis, and Dennis’s parents huddled together. Addie and Kenner are both gone. Kenner’s posse of morons is gone, too. I see Officer Farley and Smith cuffing two men and throwing them on the curb. But I see no sign of Virgil, Eloise, or Aunt Jean. I turn to Dad. “Did you see Virgil? I think something happened to his face. I think he was bleeding, too.”

  Dad stands but tips to one side. He grabs on to me to steady himself. “Virgil will be all right, honey. It was probably just a stray pellet. If they’d been aiming at him he’d have more than a little blood on his face. But I hope the police find that fool with the shotgun before Eloise does. He won’t stand a chance.”

  “I hope Eloise tracks that guy down and peppers him. I hate this whole town.”

  Dad doesn’t seem to hear me. He looks down the dark street where Virgil’s car sits empty. The car door on Virgil’s side is still open. He covers his ear with his glove to stop the bleeding.

  He turns to me. “Don’t blame everyone for the actions of one fanatic.”

  Dad can say what he wants, but we both know there was more than one fanatic here tonight. There was a truck full of men wearing camouflage and a whole town full of people cheering for them. There was a street full of people hitting their neighbors. I feel like I just woke up in a town full of strangers.

  Dad staggers again. “Just dizzy,” he says.

  I put his arm over my shoulders, and we walk home in the broken flashes of Christmas lights that line the streets, mindlessly blinking.

  18

  SIDE EFFECTS

  NO ONE ANSWERS the phone at Aunt Jean’s. I help Dad clean and pack his ear. It takes a long time. I get him ibuprofen, beer, two pillows, and seven blankets.

  “Are you trying to bury me?” he says.

  “You should be fine.” He doesn’t look fine.

  “What was Virgil thinking?” he says, more to himself than to me.

  “I don’t know. Maybe that he could show people . . . that wolves belong here.”

  “With an ice sculpture? KJ, people that scratch to make ends meet don’t think like that. They don’t care about the idea of wolves, they care about their livestock, they care about staying out of debt. And for some folks, hunting is their religion.”

  “But people do care about the idea of wolves. I mean, last year more sheep got killed by bald eagles than wolves, and you don’t see anybody shooting them in parades.”

  “Honey, the kid’s got nerve, but what good did it do? Did he change any minds tonight? Did making a big scene do more harm or good?”

  “I thought you liked wolves.”

  “For crying out loud, I’m not talking about what I like.” His tone is razor sharp. “I like a lot of things. I like being able to hear out of both ears. I like having you in one piece. I like not making enemies of every hunter from here to Chicago. Because I like bein
g a guide and paying my bills. This is about reality. And the reality is that wolves make people crazy, including you.”

  I know better than to prolong an argument with Samuel Manning Carson, especially when he’s been on the wrong end of a fist. I go to the kitchen and make him a sandwich. I put the stool under his feet. I turn on the TV. I put my hands in my pockets.

  “Oh, get out of here, would you! Tell Virgil I thought his sculpture was . . . well . . . it was beautiful. Stupid as hell, but beautiful.”

  I know it costs him something to say anything nice about Virgil. Part of him probably wishes he’d been the one shooting. He wouldn’t have missed. I hug his shoulders gently.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  He pulls away from me. “Get.”

  “Don’t drink all that beer before I get back, you might have a concussion or something.”

  He throws me a dirty look and I bolt for the door.

  I speed across town in Dad’s truck, spinning over the ice. All I can think about is the look on Virgil’s face right before and after the shot. The two images flash back and forth appearing to almost blend together in a nightmarish composite. I feel numb.

  I knock at the door. No one answers. I lean against the door and yell, “It’s KJ.”

  Eloise’s steady voice calls back, “In here, honey.”

  Virgil and Eloise are at the kitchen table. There is a first aid kit sprawled everywhere. Eloise is cleaning Virgil’s blood off his face with gauze. My feet freeze to the floor.

  “Virgil,” I whisper. “I would have come sooner. My dad got punched in the ear.” It sounds funny when I say it, but nobody laughs.

  Eloise says sharply, “Town is full of rotten drunks. How’s he doing?”

  “His ear’s torn up. We’ll have to see in the morning.” I can’t stop staring at the holes in Virgil’s face. I’ve seen my dad hurt before. I’ve seen my own face bloody and bruised. But blood doesn’t belong on Virgil’s face. “Virgil . . . are you . . . I’m so sorry.”

  “Could you come stand over here by this kid,” says Eloise. “I think he’d like a little distraction.”

  Virgil smiles at me and I unfreeze. “Hey,” he says, and winces.

  I stand next to his shoulder. I can see the puncture wounds from the pellets: three swollen pinpricks in the shape of a triangle. Even as I look at the holes, I can’t believe Virgil has been shot. By someone I know, in the middle of the Christmas parade. He reaches and grabs my hand.

  Eloise puts on a large ugly bandage. “We called his dad, and after he got done telling me I’m a bad mother, he said there isn’t anything else we can do tonight. He said to get X-rays of his chest in the morning to make sure nothing’s in there we’ve missed.” She glares at Virgil. “I’ve checked every inch of your parka and there wasn’t any sign of a hole. Except the one you must have in your head to enrage a city full of drunk, armed elk hunters and ranchers. Haven’t you ever heard of writing your congressman?”

  “Does that work?” I say.

  “I’m fine,” he says.

  She nods. “I’ve got an errand to do now. Can you watch him for me, KJ? And Aunt Jean, if she wakes up? She was pretty shook.”

  “Where are you going?” I say.

  “To the police station,” she says.

  I think about what my dad said. “What are you going to do?”

  She looks at me fiercely. “I don’t own any firearms, so don’t worry. Of course that doesn’t mean I couldn’t do it with my bare hands.”

  “Mom,” says Virgil, with a tenderness that startles me. “Be careful.”

  “Don’t worry about me. You just rest now,” she says, and walks out of the kitchen without looking back at her injured son.

  As soon as Eloise is gone, Virgil slumps in his chair and relaxes. “Weird, huh?” he says.

  “It’s insane. You look really tough though.” My mind goes back to his story about breaking his best friend’s nose. “But are you . . . mad? You know?”

  He sighs. “No. But I want to lie down.”

  I pull him up to standing and walk him back to the room I haven’t seen since I insulted him. He’s added more photos. His blankets are still swirled up with clothes. I shove the clothes onto the floor and organize the blankets. He climbs in the bed. I sit down next to him. His closes his eyes.

  “Your dad hates me now,” he mumbles.

  “He said he thought the sculpture was beautiful.”

  Virgil opens his eyes. “Does that mean I’m forgiven?”

  “I don’t know what it means. Not any of it.” He smells like bandages and medicine. He breathes quietly. I say, “That was the most amazing sculpture I’ve ever seen.”

  “Did you like it?” he says, drifting.

  “I loved it. You’re a genius.”

  “Don’t go anywhere for a while, okay?”

  I think, in a blurred way, of my dad at home alone, surrounded by old blankets and beer. I wonder if he’ll fall asleep with the TV on. I promise myself I will leave as soon as Eloise gets back. “Okay.” I put my head down at the foot of the bed. “Just till your mom gets back.”

  I wake up when I hear the phone ring. Virgil’s feet are in my face. The sun is coming through the window. I look up and see Virgil sound asleep, lying crosswise from me, buried in his hair. This might be a romantic moment if I wasn’t about to be flayed alive by my father. I can’t believe I just fell asleep and then snoozed until morning. I hear another ring. Dead. I am completely dead.

  I bolt to the kitchen. I hear Eloise say, “Thank you. He’s doing fine. How’s your ear?”

  Eloise looks up at me and shoos me with her hand. “She’s on her way. I asked her to watch Virgil and Jean while I went to the police station. I’m sorry about that.”

  Eloise’s face narrows as she listens to the receiver. Her mouth shrinks to a bitter pucker. Finally she says, “I hated to wake her.”

  After another ugly pause she says, “Oh, please. You knew exactly where she was.”

  Eloise waves me toward the door again. I step slowly, unable to turn away from the approaching disaster. Wait for it.

  Eloise shouts, “So what if they did sleep in the same room. I gave him enough valium to tranquilize a polar bear.”

  Eloise is many things but diplomatic isn’t one of them.

  As I step through the screen door I hear Eloise say, “Hope you get feeling better, Samuel. You might try some valium yourself. And maybe your doctor could prescribe something for being a pain in the ass.”

  When I get home Dad does not speak to me when I talk to him. He is watching the news. His face has puffed up and the bruises are getting their color. I am overwhelmed with BDG (Bad Daughter Guilt) but I don’t know what to do. Feeling guilty makes me mad, and being mad just makes me feel more guilty. I go into the kitchen and bang around some pots and pans while I pretend to clean. Finally I storm into the other room and say, “I fell asleep. It was an accident.”

  He looks at me in total disgust. He stands up and leans on the chair. Here it comes. “You’re not like them, KJ.” His voice is low and deliberate. He’s been thinking about this. “You don’t have a rich dad or a PhD mother. You don’t have a ticket to travel around the world. You aren’t going to get a free ride to a fancy university. If you piss off the whole town you can’t make a phone call and leave. If you get pregnant, or just get your heart ripped out, that’ll be your problem, not his. In a few months, he’s leaving.”

  “Dad, nothing happened,” I blurt out.

  My dad sighs. “Katherine Jean, around here you have to clean up your own messes. And you’re making one with him.”

  He goes to his room with an ice pack and doesn’t come out until Mr. Muir calls and offers to drive us into Bozeman to see Mr. Muir’s ear doctor.

  “No thanks,” says Dad. “I’ll live.”

  Mr. Muir shows up about ten minutes later. “Most dads with a teenage daughter might be grateful for a bad ear, but I think you’d better think about the long term here, Samuel.
You want to be able to hear her apologize later in life, right, KJ?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  My dad eventually agrees to go, but tells me to stay behind and clean up the house. “I hate a mess on Christmas,” he says.

  “I’ll have it done by the time you get back.”

  Mr. Muir says, “We’ll be gone most the day, so don’t worry if we’re late.”

  “She won’t,” says my dad as he climbs in the truck.

  I call Sondra for sympathy. Sondra’s mom says that Sondra is “visiting” Dennis.

  “Not sure what that’s about,” says her mom, her voice low and grainy. “He always struck me as a ninny.”

  “Ninnies don’t draw fire in a local parade,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.

  “Yeah, I guess he’s got that going for him. I had a soft spot for outlaws in my youth. All it ever got me was Sondra and a jack squat credit rating.”

  No wonder Sondra needs a pet.

  Finally I call Addie but not for sympathy. From Addie I want answers. I start out fine, but I’m up to rant speed before I can stop myself.

  “I mean someone fires shots into a crowd and nobody even cares. Somebody has to know who did it, right?” I hear a baby fussing near the phone.

  “It wasn’t Kenner or William, if that’s what you mean,” she says. Her voice is bouncy. The baby stops crying, but I hear gurgling sounds.

  “Are you sure? I mean did you see them not shoot at the float?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “They both hate wolves and Kenner hates Virgil.”

  Addie’s voice gets more shrill. “That doesn’t mean he did it.”

  “Somebody did it. And somebody saw who did it.”

  “Well, at least you’re right about that much. But don’t hold your breath for people to turn in someone they know, for someone who doesn’t even live here.”

  “Dennis and Virgil live here.”