Kristen Chandler

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

  The Internet picks the story up. Pro-wolf and anti-wolf Web sites. Liberal and conservative Web sites. People-with-nothing-better-to-do Web sites. Joss and Mandy forward a link to an inventive picture of me holding bleeding wolf pups, with the caption “Blood on Her Hands.” I unplug my computer.

  I’m an example of all that’s wrong with the environmental movement, teenagers, and America. Maybe I can get a recording contract.

  Mr. Martin calls Virgil. We’re not invited to come back.

  Virgil and I sit next to each other in every class, but we don’t talk. Addie, Sondra, and Dennis don’t talk much either. Kenner ignores us. His friends aren’t so quiet. They chuck notes in class, and Road Work asks me if I’d like go hunting with him and his friends after school. Joss and Mandy offer to buy me a new flashlight. I see Virgil getting shoved at lunch. A girl I barely know bumps me in the hall, completely by accident of course, and knocks my books out of my arms. Addie’s old friends won’t speak to her. The typical shunning. I wouldn’t care, except it reminds me of what I have done.

  My friends stick together. But we walk around with an invisible boundary between us and the other kids at school. We tried to do something a different way. We wrote the paper and then we made the paper. Now we are like the United States of Failure.

  At home Dad doesn’t say a thing.

  He doesn’t put away the fire extinguisher either.

  Wolves and livestock don’t mix. That’s the reason they were eradicated back when. It’s nice to say that maybe they will learn to coexist. And that can happen for a day or two, or a year, whatever. Wolves mean dead livestock. And that means out of our pocket when you have dead livestock.

  Martin Davis, fourth-generation rancher,

  Paradise Valley

  35

  SEEING IN THE DARK

  WHEN I WALK into Dad’s room he rolls over and looks at me wide-eyed. I say, “I can’t sleep.”

  “Why not?” he says.

  “I need some fresh air.”

  “Open a window.”

  “I need to walk.”

  “I need to sleep.”

  “So sleep,” I say.

  “Wait,” he says. “Do you want to talk?”

  “Not really.”

  “Don’t be gone too long. . . .” he says, and rolls back over in bed.

  I grab some things and head out in the dark. It’s early May so it’s still freezing at night, even though the snow has melted in the valleys. I start for the tree house. When I get there I keep going. I have to keep moving.

  The petition vote is a week away. If it passes, the wolves’ presence will be weighed in the balance again. The voters will decide if they think the Wolf Reintroduction Project is working and then Washington will decide if they agree.

  If wolves are taken off the Endangered Species Act the states will be in charge of what happens. The states will have the option to let people hunt wolves everywhere outside the park. Maybe even inside the park. If wolves can be shot on sight they won’t last long. Weapons have improved a lot since the wolves were wiped out last time.

  My feet are heavy. I walk into the park along the river. The steam from the black water hangs at the banks. I listen for life but I can hear only the river, gorged with winter runoff.

  I start thinking of all the ways there are to die of stupidity in Yellowstone. Certainly walking alone at night when winter-starved bears, buffalo, and moose are knocking about has got to be up there in the top ten. My problems ought to be solved within an hour or two.

  I wonder about the lone wolf I saw this winter. I know she or he has to be dead or gone, yet I can’t help but hope that I could catch a glimpse or hear this wolf one last time. I leave the river path and head into the foothills, then veer toward the mountain ridge. It feels good just to walk.

  My bearings get less dependable, and when I see a stray dirt road below me I walk toward it. The night is diluting into gray. The returning birds chatter in the pines. I can smell the boggy grass in the marshes below me. Despite my best efforts, no animal gores, gouges, or gobbles me up.

  Then I see the truck, William’s Frankenstein truck, idling in the middle of the dirt road with the driver’s door swinging open. This is a long way from the ranch and an unlikely hour to be working, even for William.

  The hair on my arm stands up. I step softly as I make my way toward the truck.

  First I see Will’s black work jacket and beanie. As I get closer I see his breath floating upward. He’s breathing hard. He half buries something in the ground that looks like game and then hunches over three different bushes doing something with his hands. Something horrible.

  He’s setting snares.

  Does he know what those things do? Of course he does, I tell myself. That’s why he’s doing it. So the wolf, coyote, or dog that comes for that meat will stick its head into one of those snares and then slowly, painfully choke itself to death in piano wire.

  The smart thing to do would be to wait until he’s gone and take down the snares. “Hey, Will,” I call casually.

  He startles. “Hey, what’s up, KJ?”

  “Yeah, what’s up?”

  “Not much,” he says picking up his shovel.

  I feel the blood in my face. I say, “You can go to jail for that.”

  He shakes the dirt off his shovel. “Wolves are out of style, haven’t you heard?”

  I walk to one of the bushes and pull the line with my hand. It’s woven into the sticks of the bush, ready for a fight. “These . . . it takes up to an hour for an animal to suffocate.” I can’t find words I’m so angry.

  “Yep,” he says. His eyes narrow in on me.

  “It’s also illegal.”

  “What are you going to do about it? Tell your friend at Fish and Wildlife? He actually liked blowing those wolves away. Get your newscaster buddy out here? I don’t think he’s interviewing screwups today.”

  I grab the snare out of the bush by pulling up instead of back. It comes loose but leaves a red line on my hand. I make a fist and shake the line at Will. “You are setting snares inside the park. No matter what happens with the petition, it’s still going to be against the law to trap wolves in the park.”

  He voice rattles. “Whose law? Is it anything I have any vote about?”

  “Will. What are you talking about?” I know Will hates the wolves, but this is crazy. You just never think someone who has passed you the butter would set up animal torture devices.

  He stands with his arms crossed against his chest. “Don’t I have the right to protect my home, to stop these creatures from spreading into my territory?”

  “Not like this. It’s against the law.”

  He reaches down and picks up his shovel. He says, “Sometimes the laws are wrong. I have the right to keep my family safe.”

  “Strangling wolves isn’t taking care of your family, it’s sadistic.” Then something ugly occurs to me, and it’s out of my mouth like bad milk. “What else have you done?”

  He taps the shovel lightly in his hands. He says, “You’re a self-righteous baby, KJ. You play games that hurt people and sometimes people will hurt you back.”

  “Will, you aren’t like this.”

  “What am I like, KJ? You and Addie figure that out?”

  Will gracefully lifts the shovel to his shoulder like a bat. I feel my stomach come up in my throat. He says, “Swing, batter-batter.” He swings the shovel and I jump. The shovel doesn’t even come close to me, especially since I’ve jumped about ten feet in the other direction. He laughs. I’m ridiculous.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I say, shaking all over.

  He says, “Turns out, that’s a pretty long list.” Then he walks over to the bait he’s put out for the wolves. He digs it out of the ground. “But there are some advantages to being me. I know there are things a lot scarier than getting hurt. Like watching your family’s business die. Like watching someone you care about get hurt. You got the stomach for that?”

  “
What’s that supposed to mean?” I say. Is he talking about his family or mine?

  He carries the bait back to the truck and drops it into the bed. It lands with a wet thud. He says, “Have a nice day, princess.” He climbs into his crappy old truck and drives away. The engine lags and then pops. Just like a fart. Just the way Dad described it.

  As surely as any pullet in the yard, I was a target,

  and I had better respect what had me in its sights.

  Wallace Stegner, Where the Bluebird Sings

  to the Lemonade Springs

  36

  RIGHTS OF SPRING

  “WHERE HAVE YOU been?” Dad says to me when I walk in the door.

  “On a walk. I woke you up and told you when I left.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, I did,” I say, dropping into a chair.

  “How long you been gone?” Dad has felt sorry for me since I got the cattle and wolves killed at the Martins’ but he’s still nursing a bad ear, a business in the red, and a grudge against Virgil. I can’t say as I blame him.

  “I don’t know,” I say. I walk past him into the bathroom and close the door. I wash the cuts in my hands. It was hard to get the three snares out without tools, especially since I was so mad I couldn’t think straight after Will left.

  I go out to the table and hand Dad a roll of adhesive bandage. “Can you wrap them?”

  He looks at my hands and then at me. “What happened?”

  “You aren’t going to like it.”

  He inspects the front and back of each hand. “So what else is new?”

  “Tell me again what the backfire sounded like on the truck you heard the night of the fire.”

  Dad’s face tightens. “You’re right. I’m not going to like it.”

  “Tell me,” I say.

  “It had a chug delay and then a backfire. A lot of trucks have that.”

  “I ran into Will setting snares with bait, inside the park.”

  “Snares?” Dad isn’t in love with wolves right now but I know what he thinks about snares. And the kind of people who set them. Then he catches up to what I’m getting at. He grimaces. “What does this have to do with the fire?”

  “You should have seen him, Dad. He said he was protecting his family, that he had the right to protect them any way he needed to.” I leave out the part about Will swinging a shovel to scare me and then threatening to hurt “someone I care about.”

  “It’s wrong but it still doesn’t light a match,” says Dad, the attorney.

  “He was driving that old truck of his. I’ve never heard it before. But it’s distinctive.”

  “So you just assume that because he’s illegally setting snares and he has an old truck that backfires he’s the one. KJ, I’ve taught you better than that.”

  “You have taught me, Dad. You’ve taught me to listen to my instincts. You’ve taught me never to back off when you know you’re right. This time I’m right. And I’m not backing down.”

  “You have nothing, KJ. A hunch. From the look of your hands you don’t even have the snares anymore.”

  “But you could identify the sound of his truck, right? It doesn’t sound like other trucks.”

  “Of course not. KJ, listen to yourself. You have nothing but wounded pride. And if you start spreading it around without proof . . .”

  “This has nothing to do with my pride.”

  Dad keeps wrapping, tighter and tighter. He says, “I think it does. And your obsession with Virgil.”

  I yank my hand back and the tape tears. “Dad! You aren’t listening to me! Will started the fire, and even if he didn’t mean for you to be there, you could have died. He’s dangerous.”

  Dad throws the adhesive tape on the countertop and walks in a half circle. He comes back to me with his finger shaking in my face. “I have listened. I have listened until I’m blue in the face. You are going to listen to me for a change. This is so far over the line. . . . You are to say nothing about this to anyone, least of all Virgil and Eloise. You are going to stay in this house, do your homework, work at the store, and keep out of the Martins’ way.”

  I shove his wagging finger away from me. “And when this petition passes? When it’s legal for people like Will to start blasting wolves all over kingdom come?”

  “They are animals, KJ! Grow up,” he yells.

  “You won’t let me, Dad.” I walk to my room and close the door.

  I wait until I hear the front door slam and then I call Virgil.

  He says, “The road opened through the park today.”

  “How soon can you be here?” I say.

  “What should I bring?”

  “A sleeping bag.”

  Virgil pauses and then says, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  I don’t pack much. I can’t think that far ahead.

  I should clean myself up. But all I can think about is how furious I am. I stumble around my room and find a hair-brush. I take off my shirt and put on a less dirty sweatshirt over the top of a bra that my aunt gave me before I actually had breasts. I stare into the mirror. I have bags under my eyes so dark I look like a prize fighter.

  I check the Internet for wolf activity. Pups have been sighted for numbers Forty, Forty-Two, and one other beta female. For Forty-Two’s sake this is bad news. This might be the end of Cinderella. And it’s not the happy ending either. If I let myself think about it my head will fall off.

  Virgil gets to my house in a hurry. He acts nervous when he comes to the door. His hair’s a mess. The collar on his T-shirt is frayed. He stands sideways and keeps his hands in his pockets, squinting in the harsh spring sunshine. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” I say, throwing on my pack.

  He smiles and lights up the doorway. He says, “Did you know that you’re beautiful?”

  We take Jean’s Cadillac. We don’t talk much until we get to Madison Junction. I don’t tell him about William. I just want to drive and be with Virgil for a while.

  There are migrating bison all over the roads. Little orange babies wriggling along after their mothers. Prehistoric papas block traffic as if it didn’t exist. Canada geese squawk along the river’s banks preening in the new grass while a brace of ducks float tails-up down the river. It’s America’s best spring parade.

  “Is your dad okay with this?” Virgil says lightly.

  “No.”

  Virgil slows for a stray calf. “So I’m going to get arrested?”

  “Do you mind?”

  Virgil doesn’t smile. “Tell me what’s going on, when you’re ready.”

  As we weave up past Gibbon Falls, I watch the mountain fall away from my side of the road. I feel carsick. Dad will be coming home soon for lunch and when he sees I’m gone Eloise is going to get a phone call.

  We stop in Mammoth for gas. Elk are everywhere, feeding on the Forest Services’ domestic grass buffet. I call my house and leave a message. “I’m with Virgil. No hankypanky, I just need some time. I’ll call in the morning.”

  When I get back to the car Virgil grins. “Have I ever told you how much I enjoy getting in trouble with you?”

  “This ought to be your kind of weekend then.”

  We don’t hurry. We stop with three other vehicles to see a black bear yearling digging around near the Petrified Tree. A coyote jogs along a hill just before the Tower-Roosevelt turn-off. I drive for a while. Virgil takes pictures of everything but seems obsessed with wildflowers. He kisses my arm. Everything is waking up, including me.

  “Virgil,” I say. “What if you know something horrible about a person who isn’t always horrible?”

  “Your dad is a pain in the butt, KJ, but I wouldn’t call him horrible.”

  “Not my dad. What if you are going to cause bad stuff in order to stop that person from being so awful . . . but if you don’t other people might . . .”

  “I’m not so good at hypothetical.”

  I say, “Can I have the licorice your mom sent?”

  My mind circles
back to Cinderella. I tell Virgil about what I read on the Internet.

  “Maybe they’ll just kick her out,” Virgil says.

  “That’s how it works, I guess.” I say. “Payback’s an alpha female.”

  At last we drive into the Lamar Valley. I roll down the window and let the cold air blow my foggy thoughts out of the truck. The smell of pine fills the car. In spite of everything, the space in this open range makes space in me, for things that are still possible. The snow blankets the higher ground, but the plain is sprouting life. The buffalo are here en masse, gorging on the new grass while their calves charge in all directions. Elk lounge in the lodgepole. Eagles and ospreys perch in groups. Cranes and herons crisscross the sky while pronghorn dart in the meadows. The Serengeti of the West is in full swing.

  When we turn at Slough Creek I feel the old excitement. We drive up to the campground on the gravel road. A solitary man stands on Dave’s Hill as we pass. We recognize him and stop to ask what he’s seen.

  “Didn’t see it myself but I just heard that mean old Number Forty kicked the stuffing out of Number Forty-Two tonight. Getting too hard to see anything now, but I heard it was a bad one.”

  “Did Cinderella, I mean number Forty-Two, get up?”

  “Yeah she got up, but she crawled off to her den on her belly. Getting ugly up there, ain’t it?”

  I thank him politely. I wonder if the wolves have any idea how entertaining their misery is to our species.

  As we’re leaving the man says, “Hey, did I see you two on the news the other day?”

  Virgil says, “Must have been somebody else.”

  By the time we set up camp and eat it’s nearly dark. Slough Creek is bear central so we don’t cook anything, and we put everything edible—but us—in the car. We sit close to the fire and each other to stay warm. I can’t stop my brain from looping around about William and my dad. What if William tries something again when I’m not there? What if I’m exaggerating this whole thing? Who did he mean by “someone I care about”?