Death of a Wandering Wolf

by Julia Buckley

The servant girl hugged the wolf around the neck and promised to serve him for her whole life. The sun was setting, and she could see the devils accumulating in the trees. “I’m afraid,” she told him.

  “Climb on my back,” said the wolf.

  The girl climbed on his back, and the wolf moved boldly through the woods.

  I took a picture of the page and then sent it to my printer. I took the printed sheet to my counter. Beneath the story and the picture, I wrote, “You are my wolf protector. And I am devoted to you.” I signed my name and put the paper in a file folder so it wouldn’t get wrinkled. I grabbed an unopened bottle of Pálinka that my grandparents had given me for Christmas, packed one Tupperware container full of kiflis and another with the last of the székely gulyás that he had enjoyed the night before. I tucked it all into a bag and headed for the door. “I’ll be back soon,” I told my cats.

  The phone rang. With a sigh, I put my things down and snatched up my landline.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi—Hana? It’s Eduardo Cavallero.”

  “I’m sorry? I think you have the wrong number.”

  “It’s Eduardo. From Katie and Eduardo.”

  I dropped into one of my kitchen chairs. “Oh, Eduardo. Sorry about that. I just—you never call me.” I made sure that my tone indicated that he would have no reason to do so.

  “Yeah, and I’m sorry to bother you. I just—if you have a minute—I wanted to get your advice.”

  Oh no. “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I suppose you know that Katie and I broke up. At least, she broke up with me. And in all honesty, I can’t figure out why. We were having a good time, we were a good fit, you know? And I still can’t figure out what I did wrong.”

  His voice was suddenly so vulnerable that I felt a burst of pity. “Oh, Ed, you didn’t do anything wrong!”

  “What?”

  “Katie just—she probably just needs to see other people. She needs a basis for comparison. That’s why all people are supposed to date around before they settle down, right?”

  “Yeah, I suppose, but, the thing is, I think she was happy with me. And now when I see her at work, she doesn’t look happy. I don’t like seeing her face that way. Katie should always be smiling.”

  He earned huge points with me for putting the focus on Katie. I wondered for a moment if Katie had made a mistake. “Listen, Ed. I’m not sure what sort of advice you want, but—”

  “Well, obviously I want to know what I can do to win her back. She must have said something to you. Was I boring? Did she think I was lazy or impolite?”

  “No, no, listen. It’s not about you so much. It’s about Katie. She’s a romantic. She wants—romance.”

  His tone was aggrieved. “I was romantic! I always pulled out her chair for her at restaurants, and I sent her flowers on her birthday.”

  Blech. “Ed, this is none of my business.”

  “I want you to make it your business. Just for one minute. Do you think I’m good for Katie?”

  “You seemed to be.”

  “Do you think she misses me?”

  “Yes. But maybe just as a friend.”

  “What? Why?”

  I sighed. “Listen. I’m just giving you my perspective now, not Katie’s, okay? I cannot speak for Katie.”

  “Okay.”

  “But if a man aspires to be my lover, and not just my friend, then I want to know that he wants me. That he feels passionate about me, not just friendly. I don’t need a brother; I already have one. Katie has three. You know what I’m saying?”

  I heard a scratching sound. He was writing it down. “So what would you want a lover to do?”

  Erik Wolf’s face appeared in my mind’s eye. I longed, in that instant, for things to be as they were. “I would want him to look at me like he doesn’t see anyone else, because he actually doesn’t see them when I walk in the room. I would want him to have trouble keeping his hands off me—not in an aggressive way, but in subtle ways. Touching my hair, my elbow, my fingers. Always keeping contact with me, keeping our connection. I would want him to think of me when he was away from me, and to let me know he was thinking of me. With texts, or calls, or little poems he writes about me in the margins of books. I would want him to show up to visit me unexpectedly because he said he missed me. To tell me that my dark eyes haunt him. I would want thoughtful gifts—not expensive ones! Just little things. A perfect orange from the store, because he knows I love them. Or a little pad and pen for my telephone table because he noticed I didn’t have one, and on the first page he’s scrawled my name a hundred times.”

  “You’re talking about your boyfriend,” he said accusingly.

  “Just a couple of those were real examples. But he is very romantic. And he doesn’t have to try, Eduardo. He’s romantic because he is into me. So it’s effortless. He’s following his inclinations. You see what I’m saying? Katie wants something authentic, not something forced. If you’re not passionate about her, well—let her find someone who is.”

  “I get that.”

  “Do you? Because the problem now is that she asked for space. So you can’t be obvious about any of those things. My best advice would be to go super subtle. Compliment her without expecting a response. Give her a little gift, but then leave. Don’t hang around waiting for her to love you. It would be best at this point if she came to you, right? But you have to leave that little trail of bread crumbs.”

  “Hana.”

  “Yes?”

  “This has been very helpful. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I felt a rush of trepidation, regretting now that I’d talked to Eduardo at all. But what was I to do? End the call without speaking to him? I had socialized with him on numerous occasions, and he was a nice person. I couldn’t be that rude to him. Still, I didn’t want him to think that I was somehow conspiring with him behind Katie’s back. “Listen, Ed. Like I said, this was just general advice. I’m not speaking for Katie.”

  “I know. And I’m not going to be obnoxious, or stalk her, or do some other idiot thing. I just needed some perspective, and you have provided that.”

  “You work at an ad agency. You make a living creating pleasing words. You should be able to come up with the perfect campaign to win a woman’s heart. But here’s some more advice: less is more. She will not be impressed with an orchestra or a mariachi band or something outside her window.”

  “Like I said, I won’t be an idiot.”

  “Okay, great. I hope it works out for both of you.”

  “Me, too. Thanks, Hana.”

  I said good-bye and ended the call, then caught Cleopatra’s eyes. She sat in front of me on the floor like a gray cloud, her eyes disapproving.

  “What? I didn’t do anything. He called me, Cleopatra.”

  She twitched an ear and began licking a paw with an indifferent air. Her brother roamed in and butted his head into her side. I laughed. “You two keep each other company; I’m going to go. But I’ll be back soon.” I gave them both kisses on top of their fuzzy heads. Then I grabbed my things, locked the cats safely inside my place, jogged down to the car, and began my journey to Erik’s apartment.

  He lived about ten minutes away from me in North Riverwood. Once, when he had thought I was in danger, he had driven to my house in six minutes. I still marveled at this, especially when I noted once again how many traffic lights there were. Had he run them all? I felt a blend of pleasure and horror at the idea that Wolf the policeman might have risked his life for me.

  I flicked on the radio and sang mindlessly with Adele, watching the autumn color flash past my window. Adele finished singing, and the Beatles started up with some sad ballad. Kelly Clarkson had sung almost all of “Breakaway” when I pulled into the parking lot of Erik’s building. He lived in a tall dark-brick structure with shuttered windows. I had only been here a few times
, since normally he came to me and I made him dinner. The first time he had brought me home I’d been thrilled by my admission into the personal space of the very private Wolf. I had investigated his bookshelves and the knickknacks on them, the art on his walls, but soon enough he pulled me to his couch, and that was where we remained for the entire evening.

  He had eventually given me a key; he said I should have it in case he ever locked himself out, or if I ever left something at his house and needed to retrieve it while he was at work. Basically, it had been a gesture of trust. I hadn’t used the key. Until now.

  I grabbed my bag and marched up to the front door. Surely he would forgive me, when he came home and found my homemade card and gifts of food and brandy? I let myself into his little foyer, past the mailboxes where the name “Wolf” was on the very last box, and to the elevator at the end of the room. I took it to the third floor and walked down to number 304, feeling suddenly shy. With a burst of courage, I thrust the key into the lock and turned it, then eased in with my bag.

  Wolf’s place looked as I had remembered it. He had left a couple of lights on; did he do that for security reasons? I moved toward his kitchen and set down my card on the island in the center of the room. I knew that he tended to stand there and drink his coffee while scrolling through his messages. He would certainly find it soon.

  I turned to his stainless steel refrigerator and looked at the two magnets on the door—one from Brookfield Zoo and another, a figure of a little man wearing a backpack that said “Trekker.” Of course—the family business. A third magnet, a Tyrannosaurus rex, held a small piece of paper on which were scrawled the words “Meeting on Friday, 9 a.m.”

  I wondered if the note were old or new. I peeked into his refrigerator and found it mostly empty, although it held some cans of Diet Coke, a pack of string cheese, some yogurt, and a dish covered in tin foil. I slipped the székely gulyás inside, but left the Pálinka and kiflis on the counter, along with my note. I wanted to scrawl an additional comment at the bottom of the card, and I scanned Wolf’s countertops for any sign of a pen.

  It was at this point that a person came around the corner, and I yelped in surprise. We stared at each other, wide-eyed and shocked. It wasn’t just any person: it was a beautiful woman—a ridiculously beautiful woman—with a tall, willowy frame, long ice-blonde hair in a casual-yet-elegant braid, cool blue eyes, and carefully sculpted brows. My brain whispered, “Wolf’s revenge.”

  But what my mouth said out loud was “ahhhh,” the same sort of sound I might have made if she had punched me in the stomach.

  She recovered more quickly than I did. Her mouth curved into a smile—a beautiful smile, of course—and she said, “Well, who have we here?”

  “I’m Hana,” I said. “Do you—are you a friend of Erik’s?”

  She laughed. And then, somehow, she walked into the kitchen again. Or that was how it seemed for an instant, when a woman who looked just like her came around the corner and stood at her side. “We have a visitor,” said the first blonde woman.

  “I have a key,” I said, in an attempt to justify my presence.

  “A key,” they said in unison, and then exchanged a glance. “Well, this one must be serious, then.”

  “I’m sorry?” I asked. My fear and shock were slowly being replaced by annoyance. I had introduced myself. Who were these rude women? Why did Erik have beautiful blonde twins in his house? “I didn’t catch your name,” I said to the first woman.

  “I know who you are!” she said, her face suddenly animated. “You’re the Hungarian girl!” Her smile was broad; she was almost laughing. I was being mocked.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” I repeated, my voice cold.

  Now both of them were laughing. “Oh, my—such spirit.” The first one stuck out her hand. “I’m Runa. This is Thyra.”

  I had just heard those names somewhere . . . Oh God. Erik’s sisters.

  I shook the hand she offered. “He never told me you were twins,” I stammered. “I only just found out yesterday that he had sisters.”

  Thyra sniffed. “Figures. He keeps the family at a distance. But that’s nothing new. He keeps everyone at a distance. That’s why you are quite a surprise, standing here in the kitchen like a little apparition.”

  “I—brought him some food and a card. Normally I would just text him, but he’s—upset with me.”

  Runa flipped her thick braid over her shoulder and patted my arm. “He’s sensitive, our little brother. When he was a kid, we would tease him, and it would drive him into his various hiding places. He still loves being solitary.” She studied me for a moment with her amazing eyes. “How did you two meet? He mentioned you when we had breakfast a couple of weeks ago, but all we could get out of him was that he liked someone and she was Hungarian.”

  “Hungarian American,” I said. “My mom was born there; I was born here.”

  “Okay,” Runa said. Her eyes had traveled to my hair. “Thyra, look at this.” She leaned forward to lift some auburn strands. “Look at it in the light. The color is amazing. Couldn’t you just see it, with the Høst line?”

  Thyra stepped forward; they both towered over me and displayed a bizarre interest in my hair. “Oh yes! Can you imagine, under the studio light?” Her gaze left her sister’s face and landed on mine. “Have you ever done modeling?”

  I had not expected that question. “Modeling? Like—clothing? No.” I let out a short laugh. “I work at a tea house.”

  This distracted Runa. “A tea house? That place on Wild Heather Road?”

  “Yes. You know it?”

  She nodded. “You have those monthly book events. I’ve gone to two of them. They’re very fun. And the food was delicious. Remember, Tee? I asked you to come with me, but you wouldn’t read the book.” The blonde sisters mock-glared at each other.

  “Yes, that’s one of our most popular events. How funny that you’ve been there. You probably met my mother and grandmother, then. They run it with me. Or I run it with them, I guess.”

  Runa leaned in. “Your grandma! She’s the one who tells fortunes? I wanted her to do mine, but the line was too long after my last event and I had to leave. Now that I have a connection, I’ll ask her to do it sometime. My new friend Hana will let me in.”

  Thyra was still assessing me with her cool blue eyes. “Now, back to the modeling. Would you be willing to do a photo shoot? You have a good look. Pretty but relatable. And that hair would be perfect for every single one of the pieces in our winter line. It would complete them. Just some additions for our website and Instagram advertising.”

  I shook my head and folded my arms. “Who are you? I mean, what do you do?”

  They blinked at me. “Wow, he really has told you nothing, huh?”

  “Not a thing.”

  Runa put her arm around her sister. They looked like some beautiful two-headed goddess. “We own a company in the city. Norwegian woolens, the best in the U.S.A.”

  I must have looked uncertain, because Thyra said, “We’re called Ulveflokk.”

  “What? Oh my gosh, my friend was just talking about you yesterday! She’s a huge fan. You two run that company?”

  Runa nodded. “Our baby. This is why we have no real babies. We’re always at work.”

  “Except when you’re here?” I asked.

  They shook their heads, dismissive. Runa said, “We wanted to look at our brother’s clothes. See what needs replenishing. We’re nosy big sisters. Erik’s private, and we rebel against his privacy.” They grinned twin grins at me.

  “I bought him one of your sweaters just yesterday. Did you see it in there?”

  Thyra’s eyebrows rose. “From the winter wheat collection. You got him that? A very good choice.”

  “I thought—my friend and I—that it would look good on him. We found it at a garage sale.”

  She frowned. “It
was in someone’s garage?”

  “No, his house. And it was an elegant sale. He was an artist, and he was selling paintings and things. He’s famous.”

  Runa looked interested. “I collect art. What’s his name?”

  “William Kodaly.”

  She clapped her hands once, like a teacher telling the class to settle down. “I have a Kodaly!” She turned to her sister. “The True Love painting! That’s by him.” She returned her attention to me. “I’m jealous. You met him?”

  “Yes.”

  Thyra laughed. “Why do you look so sad about it?”

  “It’s a long story,” I murmured.

  “Does someone die in the end?” Thyra asked, still half laughing.

  “Yes.”

  I’m not sure how it happened—perhaps it was because I hadn’t yet processed Will Kodaly’s death, or perhaps being grilled by Erik’s sisters made me nervous, or perhaps I was sad that Erik was being distant from me. But with that one word, I began to cry.

  Suddenly the blonde, sophisticated Wolf sisters were transformed into motherly souls, ushering me to Erik’s table, turning on the heat under Erik’s little red teakettle, and dabbing at my tears with tissues out of a box they produced from the next room.

  Slowly they got the story out of me, their faces compassionate but also nakedly curious. I told them about poor William Kodaly, and the fact that Erik was now investigating his death while the three of us sat in his house uninvited. I frowned at them, but they shrugged back at me, unconcerned.

  Thyra stared me down with her uncanny eyes. “That’s sad about the artist. I hope Erik catches the killer. But I think there’s more getting you down. You said, before, that Erik was upset with you. Why is that? Is it making you sad?”

  I sighed. Perhaps these two could offer the objective opinion I needed. So I told them even more. About my grandmother, and the fact that I had recently learned she had psychic abilities, and that my mother seemed to have inherited them, and that perhaps I had, too. I told them about the light around my grandfather and my father. About the light I didn’t see around Erik. And the fact that I had told him so.