Kristen Chandler

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

  Dad’s coming late so I need to save him a seat: a seat that isn’t right next to Eloise and that isn’t right next to people who are violent, crazy, or obnoxious. So in other words, outside. I look around. On one side of the room are the environmentalists, on the other side are the ranchers and the hunters. I see Mr. and Mrs. Martin. I see William, too, but he’s standing up against the wall by himself. He looks about as comfortable as I do. I unfold the chairs I tripped over and stow away in the back.

  I am surprised by all the strangers. There are guys with ponytails holding Buffalo Nation posters, and women in camo, families that have the wind-worn look of ranchers and farmers, Jackson Hole types in fur-lined dress coats, and a whole bunch of women sitting together who look like grown-up Sondras.

  Virgil comes through the crowd toward me. He doesn’t look mad at me anymore. “What are you doing back here? Are you afraid to sit next to me?” He smiles. After a cold front it’s nice to see the sun again.

  I laugh. “I like keeping my back to the wall.”

  “Not a bad idea,” he says.

  “You aren’t going to exhibit any ‘artwork’ tonight, are you?”

  “Um, no . . . I’m here on assignment,” he says, pointing to the camera around his neck.

  “Me, too,” I say. I pull out my pad and pocket tape recorder. I pluck my pen out of my pocket and drop it.

  Virgil picks up my pen and hands it to me. “You dropped your writing utensil.”

  “Thanks,” I say, smiling. It’s funny, but having Virgil remember that embarrassing moment relaxes me.

  At the front of the room there’s a bustle of activity with mikes, chairs, and speakers. I see Mr. Buck.

  “Is that him?” Virgil says.

  “Yep,” I say. “I can’t believe he came.”

  Virgil steps in close. It’s the closest he’s been to me in a week. For a split second I’m Virgil blind, which is not bad actually. Then I hear one of the Buffalo Nation guys sparring with one of the ranchers across the room. Virgil says lightly, “Better be careful what you ask for I guess, missy.”

  “I guess,” I say, feeling sick.

  Virgil takes my hand. “Don’t forget to duck.”

  “You’re the one that needs a bodyguard,” I say.

  “Aunt Jean put some bear spray in her purse.”

  “That’s just what we need,” I say. “A room full of blind hunters.”

  Virgil squeezes my hand and moves back into the crowd.

  When Dad comes in he looks tense and miserable. I say, “Do you feel all right?”

  “It’s been a long day,” he says.

  “Why don’t you go home? I’ll catch you up in the morning.”

  “I hate to miss a good public brawl . . . but I might have to take you up on that.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s always another brawl.”

  Officers Smith and Farley come in and sit down in front, conspicuously armed.

  Dad motions up front. “Who are all these people?”

  I talk into his good ear. “The lady in the middle is the Federal consultant. She’s supposed to take comments and keep the peace.”

  “Good luck,” says Dad.

  “The guy next to her is Ed Buck, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife guy. Not sure what I think about him.”

  “Does he work for the government?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  “Next to him is the guy who got all the money together to pay ranchers for the livestock the wolves kill.”

  “Yeah, I’ve read about him,” he says, shaking his head. “Bet he wonders what he got himself into.”

  “In the front row is the guy who got the petition going in Red Lodge saying that the wolves are killing all the elk and cows and sheep and unless we hurry up and get the wolves back out of Yellowstone we’re all going to get brain cancer.”

  “Really?”

  “Not really. He’s a state rep.”

  “How do you know all this?” says Dad, staring at me.

  I shrug. “The Internet?”

  “Obviously you have too much free time.”

  I don’t say anything to that.

  “It’s not like they’re going to get rid of the wolves by signing a petition. Too much has happened,” Dad says.

  “I hope you’re right,” I say.

  The Fed lady tries to call the meeting to order with a gavel-banging tantrum. “Tonight we’re here to give you some information and to find out what you people think of having the wolves back. Nothing gets decided. Anybody acts out of line we throw him or her out. Clear?”

  Civil discourse. Yeah.

  Then Buck pulls out the PowerPoint and gives a history lesson.

  First he talks about how there were once two million wolves in the United States, and nowhere more plentiful than in the greater Yellowstone area. Then he shows slides of dead wolves strung up in rows, and a few people clap.

  He talks about how wolves were killed off in the park by the mid-twenties and how the elk and deer ate the grass-lands and mountainsides down to dirt and the stream banks washed away because there were no trees left to hold the soil together. How other species declined in a domino effect and even elk and deer had problems because of diseases caused in part by their overpopulation.

  Then he moves on to an overview of the fifty years of environmental wrangling that resulted in the government bringing fourteen wolves into the park and fourteen into Idaho under the Endangered Species Act. There is a lot of booing and cheering in the audience.

  The Yellowstone wolves were kept in pens for a year to make sure they wouldn’t just run back to Canada. During that time every news agency in the world showed up to photograph the wolves, and the day they were released into the wild, wolf mania began. People have been streaming into the park hoping to see them ever since.

  Now the wolves have dispersed throughout Wyoming, Idaho, and Montana. Other native species have diversified. Forests and streams are recovering. For better or worse, the elk and deer numbers are way down. And livestock and pets have been lost. Ranchers on the edge of bankruptcy have one more battle to fight. It’s a compromise of failure and success.

  The crowd is restless.

  He finishes up by saying, “The wolves can be a pain in the neck, and heaven only knows plenty of you’d like to see them gone, but I think our time would be better spent talking about a way to make this work.” He gets a few catcalls. Then he says, “And I’d like to thank the young woman who invited me here tonight. Is KJ Carson here? She promised you’d be a lively bunch.”

  Holy smack.

  Everyone looks around. I freeze. Dad looks down his very long nose at me, and he doesn’t look happy. “Katherine Jean, you called him?”

  “Yes?”

  He leans back in his chair and shakes his head. “This is your idea of cooling things off. Didn’t you learn anything from Virgil getting shot?”

  “Civil discourse, you know.”

  Some helpful type yells, “She’s back here, Buck.”

  Dad shakes his head. “Stand up. You started this.”

  I bob up and then melt back into my seat.

  Mr. Buck says, “Give her a hand. This is a kid with some spunk.”

  There is weak spurt of applause.

  Sondra yells, “You go, girl! Wolves rock!”

  Dad pulls his coat off the back of his chair. “You go, girl. I’m going back to work.” He walks into the crowd. I want to follow him but I can’t. I’ll have to explain when I get home. I didn’t lie to him. I just didn’t tell him I called Ed Buck.

  “Questions?” says Mr. Buck.

  A man raises his hand and says, “You ever seen what a wolf does to a herd of sheep?”

  “They eat them,” says Mr. Buck. A few people laugh. “Next question?”

  I sit in my chair, motionless, while my insides redecorate.

  A man yells, “Shoot, shovel, and shut up! Shoot, shovel, shut up!”

  Others join in and the Fed la
dy has another gavel tantrum. “Pipe down or I’ll cancel the meeting.”

  The shovel cheerleaders simmer down.

  The Fed lady says, “We are now ready for comments. Make a statement, in three minutes or less. Then sit down and shut up.”

  A line forms to the microphone.

  Ben from the garage says, “Wolves are a Washington conspiracy. Take ’em back to Washington where they belong!!”

  “Wolves are the heart of this country,” says a woman covered in turquoise.

  A guy decked out in camo says, “Put ’em on the ballot, and we’ll show you where you can put ’em.”

  “Wolves are returning balance to the ecosystem,” says a man with a clipboard.

  An old-timer follows him. “You ever try to balance a dead herd of sheep, buddy?”

  One of the estrogen set hustles up to the mike. “Which you get paid for . . . without having to kill them yourself.”

  “Hunters like to eat, too. What rights do we have?”

  “What rights do the animals you kill have?”

  “The right to remain silent.”

  Cheering and a gavel tantrum ensue. Virgil appears next to me. “You didn’t tell your dad?”

  “I thought he’d be mad,” I say.

  Virgil snaps off a shot of the family in front of us and the parents glare at him. He says, “You were right.”

  The Federal lady yells, “Quiet down! Or this meeting is over.”

  “You’ll have to forgive us,” says Jonathan Daniels, a snowmobile operator, to the Fed lady. “Some of us haven’t had this much fun since the Christmas Parade.”

  Half the crowd sniggers.

  Eloise stands up and gets in line behind Daniels. I take a deep breath. Daniels turns, looks at her, and then clears out.

  Virgil puts down his camera. “Oh, man . . .”

  Eloise’s voice cuts across the packed room. “First, I wish I found this topic as amusing as Mr. Daniels. Unfortunately the last time this town had any kind of exchange of opinions about the wolf, someone shot at my son.”

  “Here she goes,” says Virgil.

  Eloise continues, “Second, since my son has a souvenir from living here implanted in his face I feel that I am a property owner of sorts. We own a piece of your history. In part, it’s a history of courage and idealism but largely it’s a history of opportunity squandered. Now your history is that the wolves are back. That’s history. You can sign all the petitions you want, that’s the law now. And thug violence isn’t going to chase the wolves away either. You have a chance here to make a deal with your future, or you can stick your head in your hat and leave. But people who behave like Neanderthals aren’t just endangered. They’re dead meat.”

  Loud angry boos fill the air. People are yelling. Mothers are tucking their kids in their laps. Virgil says, “You two . . .”

  “What?” I say.

  “That’s it,” yells the Fed lady.

  Officer Farley raises his hands. “People! People!”

  Suddenly Tom from the Cowboy Hotel store runs in from the back. He is still in his coat. He has snow in his mustache. “Hey. Hey.” His eyes are wide open. “Where’s the Fire Department? We got a blaze at Sam’s shop.”

  25

  A HOT TIME IN THE OLD TOWN TONIGHT

  I SHOVE THROUGH the crowd onto the street. Smoke hits my lungs. Virgil runs next to me. The fire alarm goes off at the volunteer fire station. I’ve heard that alarm plenty of times, forest fires are a way of life around here, but this time the noise sickens me. The alarm is for our store, my father.

  In the heavy air the smoke stays low, choking the streets. I slip on the ice. Virgil grabs my arm. “He’s all right,” he calls over the noise.

  I don’t say anything. He has to be all right. I’ve already lost my mom.

  When I reach the store, black smoke is everywhere. Flames leap out of the back of the store while the face of the store is dead and motionless. I gag on the ash in my throat.

  Coach Henderson yells for people to get out of the way. I search the rim of people forming in the street. Neighbors are sprinting to the scene with buckets and extinguishers, but I don’t see my dad. Every freak from here to Missoula is suddenly here to watch our store burn. I feel Virgil’s arm. “Keep looking,” he yells, and drags me into the crowd.

  I don’t see my dad.

  Even in the subzero weather the sickening heat is everywhere, burning into our clothes and skin. People are shouting.

  “KJ?” says Virgil. He looks at me funny. “Cover your mouth. Let’s go around back.”

  We push through more gawkers and then swing behind the fire truck. Two volunteer firemen yell at each other. Smoke, snow, noise, and flashing orange lights all roil around me. I keep moving without moving. I hear sirens.

  Suddenly I don’t know where I am. I hear the sirens, popping wood, and shouting, but I disappear in the smoke, even to myself.

  “KJ? Hey!” Virgil is pointing.

  I look into the smoke and see what I think is Dad’s head. It’s him. He’s standing next to the unmistakable frame of Big Larry from the gift shop next door. The two men are back from the main fire, spraying the huge campfire extinguishers from the store on the smoking bushes. I choke again.

  Virgil grabs my shoulder. “Whoa,” he says, and then pulls off his shirt. I realize he’s still wearing his camera. “Hold this over your face.”

  I do what he says and walk away, to Dad.

  I stand behind him.

  He turns. He looks at me and then past me. He looks angry.

  I feel Virgil behind me. I hand Virgil his shirt.

  “Can I help?” says Virgil.

  “Do you ever wear clothes around my daughter?” says Dad.

  “What happened?” I feel the ash burn in my throat.

  Dad coughs. “We nearly have this contained but you’d better get away from this smoke.”

  Three men I don’t recognize push us out of the way and run another hose into the back door of the store. Maybe it was a good thing we had everybody in three counties here tonight. After a few horrible minutes the flames quiet, but smoke blooms everywhere with the water. I see the guts of the store through an open wall. I can’t tell how much they saved. Some of it.

  “How did it happen?” I say.

  “Someone set a fire in the garbage bin and it jumped,” says Larry.

  I say, “Could it have been an accident?”

  “They cut off the lock on the Dumpster to do it,” says Larry. “That doesn’t seem like an accident.”

  Dad gives me the look. The one that says, Hold onto yourself. He says, “I was resting in the office with the lights off. I heard a truck in the parking lot. It lurched as it pulled away. Backfired like . . . a fart. I kind of drifted off for a second, wondering about it, until I smelled smoke.”

  “If you’d fallen asleep . . .”

  “I didn’t,” he says. “And whoever set the fire didn’t know I was there. They would have had to be stone stupid to drive right up to the store and park like that if they thought I was here.”

  “They must have figured you were at the meeting, Samuel,” says Eloise, arriving behind Virgil. “Must have thought the whole town would be at the meeting.”

  Dad squints at both of them. “Apparently a few people missed it.”

  I say, “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s a little late for that,” says Dad, looking off into the smoke of his shop.

  “Don’t you dare take credit for this fire, KJ,” says Eloise. “We have no idea who or what started this. And if someone did start this because of the wolves . . .” The idea seems to stop her for minute. “It just shows that you must be doing something right to make a person capable of being this mad.”

  “You know, Eloise,” says Dad. “For an educated woman you can be genuinely stupid. I would really appreciate it if you and your son would stop filling my daughter with asinine ideas.”

  “Dad,” I say. “They didn’t do this.”

 
“Well, they may not have lit the match . . .” He shakes his head at me and walks through us to talk to the firemen standing at their truck.

  Eloise kicks the blackened snow with her boot. “I handled that pretty well. Virgil, will you walk me home?”

  “Just a second, Mom,” he says. “I’ll catch up.”

  Virgil walks around the scene and takes pictures of everything. True to form, most of his pictures aren’t of the fire. He takes a lot of shots of the giant burned-out garbage can and the snow around it. He gets some great close-ups of the tire tracks that lead up to the garbage. Like we could match those?

  Larry and I stand watching. Stupid as sticks. Finally Larry says, “Need to feed my dog.”

  I put my hand on Larry’s arm. “Thanks for being here.” He shakes his big shaggy head. “You’re dad’s a nice guy. Folks sure hate them wolves though.”

  Virgil walks back to us and takes our picture. “Larry, you have a big cut on your head. Do you want me walk home with you?”

  Larry looks out from under his blood-smeared eyebrow and then spits in the snow. “Nah, I’m good.”

  Looking at Larry I start to make a list in my head of all the bad things that have happened since I got interested in wolves: Virgil and my dad getting hurt, Mr. Muir’s store getting smashed up, maybe the Martins being vandalized. It’s possible that someone accidentally lit the Dumpster on fire behind our store after accidentally busting open the lid. But it’s hard to imagine on the night of the meeting on wolves that a store that’s owned by the father of a wolf lover can catch fire by coincidence. So this is round two, and my dad, who has patiently tried to stay out of this thing, is the big loser again.

  I say, “I have to go find my dad.”

  “Good idea,” says Larry, walking off.

  My eyes are burning. I look at Virgil. “When I saw that smoke . . . I couldn’t have handled tonight without you.”

  Virgil tips his face to mine. “No way. You’re the Wolf Girl, right?”

  Wolf Girl? What a joke. The idea that I could be some kind of new, braver version of myself, that I could make a good difference instead of screwing everything up, is an absurd fantasy to me now. A fantasy that could have cost my dad his life.

  Virgil touches my shoulder. “But hey, you have some serious repairs to do here. And the less you see of me for a while, the better.”