Second Nature (19 page)

Trappers moved quietly and they knew what they were looking for, but in October the hunters came, ready to shoot at almost anything. They would take down deer or moose, beavers or wood ducks; occasionally, they would shoot each other. Once, Stephen found a man before anyone else could get to him. The man’s friends, the ones who had shot him accidentally, were convinced they had gotten a bear, which they intended to let bleed to death before they followed its trail. So the hunter died by himself in a clearing, and Stephen watched, shivering, as he did. After the hunter had stopped breathing, Stephen slowly approached; he crouched down beside him, even though he knew he should run. He had never seen anything like this close up before, not since he’d come here, and he had a knotted feeling inside his stomach. The face seemed too much like the one he saw when he had knelt down to drink from the clear pool. He backed away from the man; he refused to be like this thing. He didn’t care what he saw. He didn’t care if he needed to run on two legs, because when he went flat-out and felt the wind against him he might just as well have been running on all fours.

He had difficulty catching his breath in that clearing; there was the acrid smell of gunpowder and human flesh. It made perfect sense to avoid men; they all knew what could happen if you didn’t. One October, when Stephen wasn’t more than eleven or twelve, they had failed. The pack was big then, fifteen, including yearlings and that spring’s pups. It was a good season for deer, and they may have been lazier than usual; the afternoons were still warm enough to lie in the sun, especially if your belly was full. The men came against the wind, but that was only one reason they were at an advantage. These hunters carried rifles with telescopic sights, expensive things they had bought in Detroit, with enough scope and power to get a hit before their scent was picked up.

The oldest wolf was shot first. He was ancient, nearly eighteen ; for several years he’d had to eat the meat regurgitated for pups. Three of his toes had been chewed off by a steel trap; two of his ribs had been badly broken, years before, during an encounter with a moose. They could hear the instant of his death, and it took just another instant to know what they had to do. Before the old wolf had collapsed to the ground, the rest of them were running. They ran as one creature with a single mind, except for two reckless pups who panicked and headed for the open field and were shot straightaway. The others took off through the woods, where it was harder to be tracked and, if they got far enough away, nearly impossible for a man to see through the trees.

More of them fell before they reached the deepest part of the woods, and those who were left ran so hard and fast they barely touched the earth. One minute Stephen was with them completely, blood pounding in his ears, skin torn by brambles and low branches, and the next he could no longer see even the most awkward yearling’s tail. They had disappeared right in front of him. There were no paw prints, no trail, just the trees that grew on top of each other, blocking out the light from above. The men were still coming, he knew that, and because he could not escape by running, Stephen had no choice but to go upward. This was a skill that amazed his brothers; they often ringed a tree when he climbed it, barking or making confused little yelps. Now, he threw himself at the tallest pine and hauled himself into the branches. He scrambled higher and higher, quickly, tearing the skin off his palms as he grabbed at the wood. He went farther than he’d ever been before, up where the owls nested, and he didn’t stop until he had reached the sky.

They came so close that he could hear their voices: ugly, rough sounds that made him feel sick. He could smell their sweat and their smoke; they were clumsy as they navigated through the thick growth of trees, and the earth shuddered beneath their feet. Stephen was not nearly as foolish as the pups had been. He did what he’d been taught to do: he didn’t move a muscle, not even when his arms and legs were riddled with cramps from hanging on to the tree. He slowed his heartbeat until it was quiet as a mouse’s. Had the men thought to look up, they would have believed he was a piece of wood, a twisted branch set perilously high. Long after the hunters had gone, Stephen stayed where he’d found safety; he was there all through the night. He could see every star from where he was perched; the moon was so close he might have been able to touch it, had he been willing to let go of the branch he had wrapped himself around, even for an instant. At dawn he heard the wolves calling for him, and when he answered, the sound of his own voice sent a chill through his body. It seemed to him that a single voice was the saddest sound on earth, far worse than the thud the old wolfs body had made when it collapsed to the ground.

By the first light they had found him; they circled the tree, and because they had run hard they left a ring of bloody paw prints. Counting Stephen, there were only eight of them left; the bodies of the rest had been tied up and dragged through the woods, back to the men’s camp, all except for the old wolf, who hadn’t seemed much of a trophy once the men examined him. From the arms of the tree where Stephen had hidden all night, the ground seemed much too far away. He was afraid to come down, as if all his terror had been released now that the danger was past. From somewhere inside him he remembered pictures in a book: a long-tailed animal had chased a sparrow into a tree but then was too frightened to come back down. Men in a big red truck had to come to the rescue.
Ding, ding
went their bell.
Clack, clack
went their ladders.

The wolves started calling to him from down below, with such clear, strong voices that he found he had more courage than he had believed. He climbed down slowly, carefully, in a hail of pine needles that smelled incredibly sweet. When he reached the ground, the wolves who were left rushed him; they bumped against him, and took his hands in their mouths, making sure the scent of the men was off before they went any farther into the woods.

By the time he came face to face with the dead man, he was a man himself. That is, he had reached his full height and weight and was as fast as he would ever be. If he couldn’t quite keep up with his brothers, he could do a good job trying, so that he almost never lost sight of them. He traveled with his three brothers, the ones he had raised when the big dog died. They had broken away from the other wolves because they were an efficient team, especially now that Stephen used a sharpened rock to make up for his inferior claws and teeth. Each of them knew exactly what the others thought and felt; the biggest of them was the leader, but it was a mild leadership, since there were few disputes or conflicts. Of all his brothers, this big silver wolf was the one Stephen loved best. They slept close together on cold nights, and in the summer they pulled brown ticks out of each other’s skin. Sometimes they went hunting alone, just the two of them, and they never had to exchange signals. Each knew what the other wanted, completely, as if they shared one mind.

Sitting in the clearing with the dead man, Stephen felt much too far from his brothers. It wasn’t just loneliness, it was more than that: the sight of the dead man had somehow removed him from who and what he was. He couldn’t take his eyes off the dead man’s rifle; he reached for it, but as soon as he touched it he had to drop it again. It had burned right through his flesh. He might still have been crouched beside the body when the hunter’s friends finally tracked down their counterfeit bear, if the silver wolf hadn’t come for him. Stephen knew he was there before he saw him, and when he looked up, his brother was there on the edge of the clearing. His winter coat was coming in and he seemed huge, though he couldn’t have been more than ninety pounds. Still, Stephen was unable to move; he rocked back and forth on his heels, grieving for something he had never seen or had or been.

The silver wolf came into the clearing then, slowly, because of the gunpowder stench. He stood beside Stephen, and although he could smell the scent of men, he began to sing. Stephen closed his eyes and leaned his head back; he heard his own voice join with his brother’s. All that day, Stephen’s brother kept close to him, and by evening Stephen was no longer thinking about the man he had found; although from then on, whenever he bent beside still water to drink, he closed his eyes so that he could not see what he was.

Sometimes, now, when he dressed Richard Aaron, or when he bathed him, Stephen realized that the old man was about ninety pounds, the same weight as a full-grown wolf. But Old Dick was six feet tall and so gaunt his bones poked through his skin. When he was lifted from his bed, he seemed to fold up, like a piece of paper. Ninety pounds of muscle and heart could be unstoppable, but all that was left of Old Dick was the heart, wrapped inside a miserable bundle of flesh. Touch him with one finger and he’d bruise. Leave the window open, just the slightest bit, on a cool October night, and he’d cough for days afterward. As the twilight came earlier, Stephen spent more time sitting beside the old man, but there was no longer much of a reason to read to him, and often they didn’t even speak. There were times when Stephen felt certain that Old Dick was sleeping, but no, his eyes were open; he was calmly watching the shadows on the wall.

“Looks like a giraffe, doesn’t it?” Old Dick said once, in such a strong, pleasant voice that Stephen was completely confused until he saw the shape the lamp cast on the other side of the room.

One afternoon, when the light was cool and bright, Stephen went into the kitchen to fix their lunch, and when he returned he found Old Dick crying. All at once Stephen realized what had been happening during those hours when they didn’t speak: he had been learning how to tell what it was Old Dick wanted just by looking at him. That he should ever know a man as well as he knew one of his brothers was disturbing, but it was also a simple fact. Stephen put their plates of soup down on the night table, then bundled Old Dick in a blanket, the heaviest one he could find, and carried him downstairs. It was nothing to carry him. Stephen felt he could have gone on forever, but he stopped in the center of the lawn, where a pile of scarlet leaves was scattered on the grass. This was all Old Dick wanted, to see the sky, not through glass but as it truly was, a blue dome so brilliant it could bring tears to a man’s eyes.

THE DOCTOR PASSED RIGHT by his son one windy day and didn’t even recognize him. He truly didn’t know him, his one and only boy, not until Roy reached out and grabbed him by the arm.

“What’s wrong with you?” the Doctor said.

“Me?” Roy said. “You’re the one walking around in a daze.”

“The hell I am,” the Doctor said.

He was hopping mad, and the wind didn’t sit right with him; it was a foul sort of wind, with a yellow edge to it. Before evening the thin branches of young crab apple and peach trees would begin to snap off with sulfurous pops. Just the sort of thing earwigs and beetles would search out in the spring, and once they found their way into a fruit tree the damage couldn’t be reversed.

“Did you take my advice? Did you even try to get her back?” The Doctor had to shout against the wind; the collar of his coat flapped against his neck.

Roy grinned and cupped one hand over his ear. “What?” he said.

The Doctor eased up and smiled in spite of himself. He clapped Roy on the back. “Idiot,” he said.

They decided to go over to Fred’s for coffee, even though Roy was on duty and the Doctor had been set to go home and put up his storm windows.

“You warned me,” Roy said, once they were settled in a booth. “I got married too young.”

“Yeah, well, you’re getting divorced too young, too,” the Doctor said. Then he ordered a plate of hash and a black coffee.

“I’ll have a Poland Spring water,” Roy told the waitress. “So?” he said, when he saw the Doctor’s look of contempt. “I’m more health-conscious now than I used to be.”

“Next thing you’ll tell me is that you’re a vegetarian.” The Doctor laughed. “No,” he said when Roy looked away, embarrassed. “Not you. Robin drove you crazy with all that brown rice.”

“Maybe she was right,” Roy said. “Maybe I was a total fucking blockhead.”

“Now there you go,” the Doctor said, appraising his hash as it was set in front of him. “That’s something we can agree on.” He began to eat, far more pleased than he’d expected to be. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

Roy laughed out loud. His father was a great guy, but there were some things he just didn’t get. He was what George Tenney called a black-or-white man: Right or wrong. Do it or shut up about it. Not a single shade of gray. Those sorts of clear-cut choices weren’t so easy for Roy, not now. He had kept on seeing Julie Wynn for a while after Robin threw him out. Why shouldn’t he? Julie was pretty, and a good, easy fuck, never asking for anything like a commitment. The only problem was that as soon as he could have another woman he didn’t want her. Just knowing that, that he’d been playing some kind of game with himself, unnerved him. Everything seemed suspect, including his own feelings. He hadn’t even realized that he was in love with Robin until Stephen reminded him that she was no longer his wife. Then he remembered why he’d wanted her in the first place, and why he wanted her still.

“I’m not doing anything about it,” Roy finally said to his father. “Pretty much what you expected.”

The Doctor put down his fork and pushed his plate away. “You know what every father tells his son eventually?” He placed his hands flat on the table. “I wish you’d listened to me. Just once.”

The Doctor looked so serious that Roy felt like reaching out for his father’s hand. Instead, he poured himself more Poland Spring.

“That hash is going to harden your arteries, and then you won’t remember whether I took your advice or not.”

“Here comes your just reward,” the Doctor said. “Sooner or later he’ll put you through the wringer. Then you’ll understand me.”

The Doctor nodded out the window and Roy turned to see Lydia and Connor walking toward the diner, their arms around each other. Roy knew all about this. Michelle had called him a while ago, nearly hysterical, demanding that he do something, and quick.