There Will Be Bears (6 page)

“Did I ever tell you how you got your name?”

About a million times, but he loves telling this story, so I play along.

“Uh . . . Tyson chicken?”

“
Mike
Tyson.”

“The guy with the tattoo on his face?”

“Former heavyweight champion of the world. He was known for his unpredictability. One time he took a bite out of Evander Holyfield’s ear.”

“That’s cool.”

“When you were born, I was holding you up to my shoulder and you bit my ear. Well, you gummed it, at least. Oh, man, it was so funny. A little Mike Tyson.”

“But Dad, I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

Mom snickers.

Rock Springs, Wyoming, is this typical suburban-looking city that sits pointlessly in the middle of sagebrush and nothing. Why people decided to settle here, I don’t know. Why didn’t they settle in the sagebrush ten miles north or south of here? What made this sagebrush better than that sagebrush?

The Sunrise Village Nursing Home is just one hotel-shaped building, three stories tall, with a maze of sidewalks winding through empty flower beds, brown grass, and benches. It’s warmer out, and with all the snow melting, it feels more like spring than fall.

Dad pulls into a parking space next to Gramps’s pickup, which looks out of place next to all the new and clean cars. I go to the back of the SUV, waiting for him to pop the hatch. But after everyone gets out, he hits the button on his key fob and the horn honks twice.

“Dad.” I wiggle the handle on the hatch. “My duffel bag.”

“We’re not staying here. We got a couple of rooms at the Hampton Inn.”

“Oh.”

Now how am I going to get Gramps’s hunting stuff?

The wide glass doors slide open when I press the big button with a handicap symbol on it.

“Hello, how can I help you?” The receptionist lady’s head peeks over the fake granite countertop. Everything in this lobby is cheap. The plants are plastic. The chandeliers, which flicker like candles, are just flame-shaped lightbulbs.

Dad says, “We’re here to see my father. His name is Gene.”

“He’s in room two forty-one. Take a left when you get off the elevator.”

We pass an open room with tables and a wall of windows. The more alert old people are playing cards quietly together or talking to visitors. But then there’s this one really old lady and she doesn’t have any color in her face. She’s in her wheelchair facing the window, wearing a bib that’s covered in brown snot. Her hands are strapped to the armrests. Her head is bent back like her neck is broken. No one is paying any attention to her.

I knew nursing homes could be bad, but I wasn’t expecting this.

“Come on, Tyson.” Dad places his hand on my back and guides me to the elevator.

The elevator dings and opens up for us on the second floor.

A stench of pee and cleaning supplies hits me. There’s a lady vacuuming who doesn’t seem to notice or care that there’s this old guy attached to an IV unit standing there, not talking, not doing anything. He has a big wet spot on the crotch of his jeans.

Dad was telling me on the ride up that this is a “state-run” nursing home. He said it isn’t going to be as pleasant as some of the other places they checked out, but it’s what we can afford. I just . . . Does Gramps really belong in a place like this?

“Gross,” Ashley whispers, pinching her nose as we walk past the old man.

I punch her good in the shoulder.

She shoves me back. “Ow. You jerk.”

“Show some respect, won’t you?”

“Hey, you two,” Dad whispers. “Cut it out.”

We arrive at room 241. The numbers are polished, but the gold veneer is chipping. Just minutes ago I was all about seeing Gramps. Now I’m terrified to find out what lies beyond this door.

Dad knocks. “Dad? You in there?”

No response.

Dad opens the door and says, drawing the words out, “I brought visitors.”

Mom, Dad, and Ashley go in, but I can’t and I don’t know why.

I peek inside. The room is small — like an economy-size hotel room — and drab from the sunlight coming through the gray curtains. There’s a flower-print sofa and a boxy TV atop a stand. There’s a little round table with two chairs.

My family goes into the adjoining room and Dad says, “There you are.”

“Hi, Gramps,” Ashley says, like he’s some sick man in a hospital bed.

Mom looks at me with an encouraging smile. “Come on.”

No. My feet are like cinder blocks. I can’t move. I’ve wanted to see Gramps all week, but not in this place.

She takes me by the hand.

Gramps is sitting on his perfectly made bed and looking out the window. He has on his red-and-black flannel shirt, his shiny black shoes, and his favorite Henry Feed and Tractor Supply hat. He doesn’t look horrible, but he’s definitely skinnier.

On his nightstand, there’s a faded picture of him and Grandma at their wedding reception. His hair is jet-black and she already has her poofy grandma ’fro. They look so happy together. And it’s just the strangest feeling seeing this picture here instead of in the living room by his reclining chair.

Everything is out of place.

“Go on, Tyson,” Mom says.

I can’t say how I feel with an audience here.

I sit by him and say, “I brought Jenga.”

He looks at me.

“It — it’s in the car, but Ashley can go get it.”

A smile finally crosses his lips, and he pats me on the knee. “It’s good to see you, kid.”

I throw my arms around him and squeeze him tight. I breathe in the Old Spice.

“We made reservations at Red Robin,” Dad says. “We should get moving.”

With my arm still around his shoulder, Gramps replies, “I’m not very hungry. We had a big lunch in the cafeteria.”

“Ooh, what did you have?” Mom says.

“Chicken and dumplings.”

“That sounds delicious.”

“Have you been following your diet?” Dad asks.

“Yes, Lee, I have.”

Diet?

“I’m not hungry, either,” I say. “You guys go without us.”

Mom checks her watch. “We’ll be back in about an hour. Tyson, you call if anything happens.”

“We’ll be fine,” I say.

As soon as they leave, I turn to Gramps and say, “You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”

He shakes his head. “I’m only allowed to eat from a strict menu. It’s horrible.”

“What’s that about?”

He draws out a deep sigh and moves to the other room. On the end table beneath a pull-string lamp is the stuffed elk and my card, standing upright.

“I suppose it’s just a part of getting old,” he says.

“Did you like my card?”

He takes a seat on the couch and grabs the stuffed elk, drawing his finger across the little bullet hole on his temple. “You’re not supposed to shoot an elk in the head.”

In Great American Hunter you get double points for head shots. But all I say is “Oh.”

He’s annoyed or angry. I would be too if I were living in a place like this. I mean, why is he here? He’s not like the other residents who get around in wheelchairs or who can’t even remember their own name. I mean, seventy-seven’s not
that
old.

Gramps says, “You shoot him in the shoulder. Try and get a head shot and you’ll be tracking a dying animal for miles.”

“Um, I got your letter. All your stuff is in my bag. You want to leave when they get back?”

“There isn’t going to be a hunting trip this year.”

“But you said in your —”

“In order to pay for the nursing home, I’ve had to sacrifice a few things.”

“Dad said this was a state-run nursing home. Doesn’t that mean the government pays for it?”

“Not all of it.”

“If money’s the only issue, maybe I could help. How much does Brendan charge?”

“Forty-five hundred for the two of us.”

“Oh.” I had no idea it cost so much just to shoot some animal. “Then let’s hunt with someone else. Or we could go it alone. I mean, we don’t need a hunting guide.”

“That grizzly is acting up.”

“You think it’s just one bear?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s gotta be Sandy. She’s been living in Bridger-Teton for over twenty-five years, and she’s earned a nasty reputation. Even charged at me one time, scared me half to death.”

“The bear’s a girl?”

“She’s got the meanest face you can imagine.”

“I’m sure the odds of running into her are probably like one in a thousand.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Whatever. I’m not afraid of a girl bear.”

“Well, do you think you could pack out six hundred pounds of elk meat on horseback? By yourself?”

“Don’t underestimate me. Besides, I’ll have you right by my side.”

Gramps rubs his hands together, and his skin creases in a hundred different places. I imagine that if I opened the window, he would rustle in the wind, just like sheets of paper.

“I’ve never underestimated you. But Tyson, you are greatly overestimating me.”

I want to hunt. I want to be hiding in the timber, camouflage paint on my face, my rifle resting on a fallen tree. In the crosshairs of my scope, there’s a six-point elk grazing in the open. My finger is resting on the trigger. And I get him right between the eyes. I mean, in the shoulder.

Now it’s not going to happen. For the rest of my life, I’ll just be some wad who plays hunting video games while eating pizza and I’ll never have anything interesting to say to Karen. I’ve seen her profile. She hunts, she loves fishing, she goes hiking and rides horses with her parents. I wouldn’t be able to keep up with her.

I’m tired of being the indoor kid. I wish I had muscles like Bright instead of this shapeless baby fat.

And I want Gramps to be proud of me. I’ll show him I can get a mean farmer’s tan and take a girl out and ride horses. He’s the only person in the family who has a sense of adventure. Dad’s so weak and always scared of everything, ninety percent of Mom’s life is on her computer, and I don’t really know what Ashley does, but she’s always in her room. I’m not like them. I’m like
him
.

We have to go, guide or no guide. With or without a place to stay.

Mom, Dad, and Ashley come back an hour and a half later. Not even a second passes before Dad fires a stern glare at me, the Jenga box in his hand.

“Can I see you in the hallway?”

He must really hate Jenga.

Outside Gramps’s room, he goes, “I’m not going to yell, but I ought to ground you until you turn eighteen and go off to college.”

Now’s probably not the time to tell him I have no plans to go to college. “What?”

“Two rifles and a box of ammunition. I went to get Jenga and found them in your duffel bag.”

Oh, right.

He says, “How did you get into your grandfather’s safe?”

I can’t rat Gramps out . . . but I also can’t come up with a lie on the spot.

“Tyson.”

“Yes, sir?”

“One of the rifles in your duffel bag had the safety off.”

“But they weren’t loaded.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. He’s so disappointed in me, I can feel it. “What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know. I was thinking since we’re going to be here this weekend, Gramps and I could go to the Tetons. I brought our elk tags.”

“No hunting.”

“He paid eight hundred bucks apiece for those tags. They can’t just go to waste.”

Dad takes a deep breath and lowers his voice a little. “I understand how much this upsets you — I truly do — but the answer is no.”

“Are
you
going to take me?”

He takes a second to come up with “You know I have to work.”

“Dad, you told me we could go.”

He shakes his head. “It’s simply too dangerous.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Your grandfather isn’t well.”

“What’s wrong with him? You can tell me if he has cancer. Is it cancer?”

He opens the door, ready to end this conversation. “You’re too young to understand this stuff.”

“God, give me some credit!”

So we go back into Gramps’s cell and act like everything is okay. We play Jenga on the little table by the window — Mom and Ashley take the two chairs and the rest of us stand, waiting for our turns to come around. Ashley is constantly checking her phone. Mom acts like every piece she pulls from the Jenga tower is as important as defusing a bomb. Dad doesn’t say a word, and he
always
picks a middle piece.

For a moment I forget we’re in a nursing home instead of at a hunting ranch. For a moment, the situation is tolerable.

The tower gets tall and wobbly and there aren’t a lot of safe moves left. I search through the remaining pieces. None of them budge. Maybe I could go for that last middle piece.

“The red wire or the green wire,” Gramps says. “Pick a piece and lose, already.”

He’s not angry. He’s just being his usual cocky self. I crack a smile when I wiggle the piece free.

He takes my spot and pokes and prods for the one loose piece that’s just not there. The tower wobbles, and then it comes crashing down. But it wasn’t his fault.

“Ashley!” I say. I totally caught her kicking the table. “What the heck?”

“Sorry.” Her cheeks flush and she slouches back. “It was an accident.”

“Why can’t you pay attention?”