Kristen Chandler

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

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I guess I don’t,” I try to slow down. I know this isn’t helping. “Would you tell me if you knew?”

  “KJ, you’ve got an attitude problem. You think everyone is immoral just because they don’t agree with you.”

  “I don’t like people who shoot at my friends.”

  “So you just automatically assume that it’s Kenner or William. They’re ranchers so they’re bad guys.” The baby cries into the phone. Addie says, “All right, little guy. Hey, I have to go.”

  “Whoever shot that gun broke the law.”

  “There are all kinds of laws, KJ. And around here, taking care of your own is at the top of the list.”

  I hang up the phone feeling worse that I can remember. I have enough guilt and anger in my veins to boil off my skin. I need to work.

  I trudge to the grocery store and try to avoid eye contact with anyone, since I hate my whole town today, even the snowmobilers, who are just cold tourists. I keep my head down in the checkout aisle except to say hello to Harmony, the woman at the register. I wander slowly toward the street but dread going back into the cold. I look up at the bulletin board that Mr. Gardner, the owner, keeps for public announcements. What I see nearly makes me drop my bags.

  WOLVES DESTEOY LIVES

  Join the statewide referendum to remove the “Yellowstone” wolf.

  Please help send a message to the bullies in Washington. With enough signatures we can put wolves on the ballot, where they belong. If we stand strong, we can get rid of the wolves once and for all.

  Protect yourself!

  Sign now!

  Fourteen people have signed the petition. Kenner’s mom is at the top of the list.

  I turn back to Harmony. “How long has this been up?”

  “I think somebody put it up this morning. What does it say?”

  I walk out of the store into the snow without answering. It says something bad just got worse.

  All the way home I tell myself one angry ranching family can’t destroy the Wolf Recovery Project. You can’t just overturn the Endangered Species Act because it makes some people mad. This case has been argued in courts for years before the wolves were reintroduced. On the other hand, there were fourteen signatures in one morning. Apparently there’s a lot more than one angry ranching family. I’ve read enough to know that history isn’t on the side of the wolf.

  It takes a skin-peeling shower to heat me back up. I mop the floor, make dinner, wrap our pathetic Christmas presents, including my own, do the dishes and six loads of laundry. Still no dad. I put the dinner in Tupperware and start on the bathroom. The house is silent except for running appliances. I don’t call Virgil. He doesn’t call me. I go to sleep on the couch, waiting for my dad to come home. Christmas is in two days.

  Fa la la la la.

  KJ’S CHRISTMAS DINNER JOKES

  Q: How do you know a wolf is full?

  A: He stops breathing.

  Q: How do you know a rancher’s full?

  A: He stops complaining about wolves. . . .

  (He’s saving that for dessert.)

  Q: How do you know my dad’s full?

  A: The beer’s gone.

  19

  GIFTS

  ON CHRISTMAS MORNING I get hiking boots from Dad and an orange in my stocking that I put in myself. It’s goofy, but oranges are one of my favorite traditions. Eating big fruit always makes me feel like the sun is shining somewhere. I make cranberry pancakes. I put on Christmas music. I give Dad books and new gloves. He barely talks.

  At noon the doorbell rings. It’s Sondra.

  “Alleluia,” I say. “Come in.”

  “Can’t,” she says. “Mom’s a psycho on Christmas. Not to be left alone. But I have something for you.” She winks.

  I don’t have anything for her. I run into the house and bring her back my hulking orange. I put it in her hand. “I wrapped it myself.”

  She winks again. “Good work. I can’t even see the tape.”

  “That’s probably because you wink too much.”

  She gives me a stiff good-bye hug. She stands back and looks at me. “Merry Christmas, KJ.”

  “How come we weren’t friends until this year?” I say. “You’re so nice.”

  “I don’t know. I never really noticed you that much, I guess.”

  I close the door. In a few years, I’ll probably think about what Sondra just told me about myself. Right now, I focus on her present. It’s in a shirt-size box but it could be anything. She’s wrapped it in a paper grocery bag that’s been cut to fit perfectly. I didn’t know Sondra was so domestic. I shake it. It feels heavy like a book. I don’t want to open it right off. I love not knowing what it is. But I want to know what it is. But I don’t. Geez.

  I walk past Dad into my room and look at my box. Sondra is full of surprises. Finally I can’t stand it. When I take off the lid I am very glad I am being surprised in my room.

  The first thing I realize about my present is that it’s not from Sondra. The second thing I realize is that I’m not breathing. I let some air out manually and sit down on my bed. In the box is a framed picture of me lying on a rock, writing in my journal. The light of the Lamar Valley shimmers behind me, illuminating the tall grass. The robin’s-egg sky is layered with clouds. There is a halo around the rock. Even with me in the picture, it’s beautiful.

  There is a note taped to the glass. It says, “For Wolf Girl. Love, Virgil.”

  I read the words over and over and over.

  WOLF NOTES

  Happy New Year, West Enders!

  That was certainly a memorable Christmas!

  No word yet on who fired their shotgun into a crowd of men, women, and children. Three stray pellets hit Virgil Whitman in the face.

  The police don’t have any suspects and they don’t want to talk about their investigation.

  As a Result of the fighting that happened after the shooting, one nose, two parkas, one ear, and the town’s Reputation were messed up pretty badly. Two men were arrested for disorderly conduct, but were later Released so they could go home for Christmas.

  The other casualty of this parade gone haywire was the magnificent snow sculpture created by Virgil Whitman and Dennis Welch. When asked what he thought about being shot at in a hometown parade, Dennis Welch said, “It was like being in a movie.” Virgil Whitman had no comment.

  We welcome your comments, if you have any. . . .

  LETTERS TO THE EDITOR

  Whoever shot at Dennis and Virgil is totally lame.

  Anonymous

  Dennis and Virgil don’t know anything about Ranching. If they’d ever had to take care of cattle, they might not think wolves were so *#%! beautiful.

  Anonymous

  That was the best Christmas Stroll I’ve ever been to.

  Clint

  20

  INVERSIONS

  IT’S THE FIRST day back at school since the shooting. We’re watching a feature film on sexually transmitted diseases in Health. Virgil is sitting next to me, reading under his desk. Kenner is sitting two seats in front of us, yucking it up as if nothing has happened.

  Virgil’s face is still red but the swelling is gone. Everybody’s been talking about the shooting, like it happened last night, not two weeks ago. Virgil is a celebrity. In typical Virgil fashion, he seems oblivious to all of it.

  Me—not so oblivious. I am trying to keep from punching Kenner in the mouth.

  Kenner leans over to Road Work and says, “Hey, what do you get when you cross a tree hugger with a wolf?”

  Road Work says, “What?”

  Kenner says, “The big bad faggot.”

  Road Work laughs like he gets it.

  Virgil keeps reading.

  I lean forward and say, “What do you get when you cross a rancher with a sheep?”

  Kenner and company glare.

  “Two flocking idiots.”

  “KJ the Retard,” says Kenner, “gettin’ fierce.”<
br />
  Cue laughter by mental midgets.

  Coach Henderson, the health teacher says, “Quiet.” Quiet is important to Coach Henderson. In addition to being a teacher, he’s also the football coach and a fireman. He needs this class to catch up on his sleep.

  Kenner whispers cheerfully at Virgil, “Hey, wolf faggot. Your girlfriend’s sticking up for you.”

  I say, “At least he doesn’t double-date with his brother—the same girl.”

  Kenner stands up. Virgil stands up, too, but he walks out of the room without a word.

  “Do you men have a problem?” says Mr. Henderson to Virgil’s back. The door swings shut.

  I say, “Posttraumatic stress.”

  “Oh,” says Mr. Henderson.

  Kenner flips me off and turns around. I’m so mad I nearly miss the romantic moment where the girl tells the boy she has an STD.

  On the way out of class Road Work gets up slower than the rest of the mob and bumps into to me with his wall of a body. He says, “Besides, Addie’s not dating William anymore. She was only doing it to make Kenner mad.” He says this like it somehow proves something.

  I say, “Well, shoot. She should have asked me. I’m good at that.”

  I see Virgil in the hall on his way to English. I don’t know what to say.

  He says, “Don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Fine,” he says.

  I walk away, fine as a switchblade.

  Virgil walks into the lunch room with Dennis. Dennis is grinning. “Anybody here want my autograph? I just wrote on a third-grader’s lunch box.”

  Virgil says, “It’s going to his head.”

  “As opposed to your face?” says Stewie, laughing.

  “Hey,” says Virgil, touching his new scar.

  “It’s totally cool—you’re like a war veteran, only younger,” says Clint. “Do you score pain meds for that?”

  “Please!” wails Addie, slapping her mashed potatoes with her spoon.

  “Please what?” I say. Anybody but Addie can tell Virgil and Dennis not to make a big deal of this.

  She glares at me. “Look, KJ, I wish it wouldn’t have happened as much as you do. I just wish everyone would stop talking about it.”

  “I thought we’re supposed to tell people our true feelings. Don’t you love that?”

  “Relax, KJ. It’s okay,” says Virgil.

  “How is it okay?” I say.

  “Because Addie’s right.”

  The table is silent except for the sound of Virgil pulling his precious homemade salad out of his recycled bag. I dump my tray and head for the library.

  In math I get zero out of five on my quiz. Mandy grades my paper. She writes me a note in her fat curly handwriting. “Nice job!” She puts a frowny face inside my zero. It’s exactly how I feel.

  I try to jog home, but the sidewalk is icy. The town is swallowed in a winter inversion. The trapped air is dirty and bitter. I hope Dad hasn’t been busy today. Lifting things up and down is misery for him. And we both know whose fault it is he’s miserable. I speed up, but the faster I run, the more I slip.

  The store is empty. The register is unattended. I call hello and get no answer. I walk to the office in the back and find Dad lying on the camp cot in the corner, sound asleep. His face is the color of his sheets and there is blood on the pillow.

  “Dad?”

  Nothing. I push on his shoulder and he opens his eyes. “Hey, are you okay?” When he finally sits up he clears his throat but doesn’t answer.

  “Is your ear hurting you?” My BDG is in overdrive.

  “I want you to close tonight.”

  “You’re bleeding again.”

  Dad lies back in the bed and looks up at the ceiling. It scares me.

  “How’s school?”

  “Great.”

  We sit in silence. Finally he says, “You’ll have to do your homework in the shop. I don’t want you to use me as an excuse for getting behind in school.”

  “No problem.” What I love about Dad is that he never takes a day off criticizing me. He’s committed.

  “That’s my girl,” he says. “Tough like your mom.”

  I hate it when he compares me to her. Luckily it doesn’t happen very often. “Why don’t you go home, Dad? Sleep on a real bed.”

  “I’m serious about this,” he says, sitting up awkwardly. “College admission boards don’t care what your reasons are. They want results.”

  “Got it,” I say.

  “I look at results, too,” he says, and hobbles out the door.

  By six it’s actually busy. People have to wait for help. One man leaves before I can finish answering his questions about pack trips. If Dad were here, he’d be furious.

  By seven, the crowd starts to thin and I get my bearings again. I can make eye contact and small talk. Then I look over and see a man lifting a T-shirt. Mid-twenties, raggedy beard, thick arms, and a big puffy coat. I watch him put the shirt inside his coat and keep looking around the store. He circles the store looking at flies and camping gear for a few minutes. It’s going to be bad either way but I know what I have to do. He starts for the door. I step from behind the counter. He’s a foot taller than I am. The old me would just let it go. Too embarrassing. Too many ways I can screw this up. Wolf stare, I think, come on.

  The store has an audience of fifteen or so people. The red blotches on my neck start before I can even get over to talk to him. I say quietly, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “About what?” he says in a tight voice.

  I look him in the chest and say, “The shirt in your coat.”

  “What?” he says loudly.

  I look up at his face, “You need to pay for that shirt.”

  “What shirt?”

  Everyone looks.

  I say, “Under your coat.”

  He opens up his jacket with his hands still inside the pockets. He has big padded pockets, but the shirt isn’t visible. He says, “What shirt?”

  I look up at his face. His mouth is puckered. I know he still has it but I don’t dare ask to look in his pockets. I flinch. “My mistake.”

  “It sure is,” he says, and walks out of the store with righteous indignation and my dad’s shirt.

  “My mistake,” I say to everyone staring at me.

  A gray-haired woman standing close to me leans forward and whispers, “Don’t you worry about it, dear.”

  The shoppers go back to their grazing. I go back to my register.

  When work is over, I lock up and run home. My lungs ache from the cold, but I run anyway. I tell myself it’s not my fault that creep stole a shirt. Dad is fine and Virgil doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m just running because I’m cold.

  Wolves are supremely social animals, and when expelled from their natural pack, they are supremely lonesome.

  Thomas McNamee,

  The Return of the Wolf to Yellowstone

  21

  REPERCUSSIONS

  WHEN I WALK into the police station, Officer Farley is sitting at his paper-strewn desk rubbing a cigarette into his full ashtray. His face is red and slightly bulging. I was hoping to talk to Officer Smith.

  “Hi, Officer Farley. Could I ask you some questions for the school paper?”

  “You supposed to be in school, KJ.”

  “On my way. Do you have a minute?”

  “Make it quick.”

  “I wondered if you had any leads on the shooting.” I try to keep my voice respectful and my chin down. I pull my pad of paper and pen and hold it conspicuously in front of me. Officer Smith is nowhere to be seen.

  “That is a police matter, young lady, and you are late for school.”

  “It’s for school, for the newspaper. I’m the editor. We’re doing a follow-up story on the shooting at the parade.”

  Officer Farley glares at me. “Well, Miss Editor, I have work to do and it’s against the l
aw to miss class.”

  “No leads on the shooter then?”

  “Shooter?”

  Farley’s eyeball-popping disgust is interrupted by the phone ringing. After a few introductions Officer Farley’s eyeballs start popping out again. Oddly enough he looks right at me as he’s talking.

  “No foolin’. Right out of the ground?” he says into the receiver.

  “How many do you have out?”

  He pauses, then continues, “I certainly will. I have her right here in fact.”

  I look around. I’m the only “her” in the room. He scribbles words on paper and hangs up the phone.

  I say, “Is something wrong?”

  He grinds the cigarette in the tray like a sore. “It seems that someone tore down a fence at Martin’s ranch last night. Bunch of their cattle got loose. One got all the way to the highway. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?”

  “I was at home last night.”

  “How ’bout your boyfriend?”

  The welts on my neck are erupting. Curse my skin. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Fine . . . the hippie?”

  “The hippie was playing bingo with Aunt Jean at the Senior Center last night, late.”

  Officer Farley gets ugly when he’s irritated, and he’s not all that nice to look at to begin with. He says, “It’s entirely possible that the fence at Martin’s was pushed down by the cattle themselves. Cows will do that. But the problem is that Mr. Martin seems to think that it has to do with people in town thinking his son is responsible for the Christmas parade shooting. You have any idea about where that rumor might have gotten started?”