Hear the Wolves

  No, not my daddy’s gun.

  This was my grandfather’s gun.

  This was my father’s gun.

  Now it’s my gun.

  The old Sloan carried a .22 fit for rabbits and squirrels and quail. This Sloan uses the gun she needs and doesn’t hesitate to take down a grown wolf, or a grown man, if they pose a risk to those she loves.

  I stare at Nash before lowering the rifle and striding forward. When my eyes fall on Ms. Wade, my stomach threatens to upend itself. Good thing there’s nothing in there.

  Ms. Wade is missing the glove on her right hand, and it’s clear a wolf was yanking on her wrist. Her jacket is torn open, and the layers beneath are lifted so that I can see white, creamy infection oozing from those four holes in her side. There are no teeth marks on her stomach, and for some reason that comforts me.

  Her legs are another matter.

  From hips to ankles, her pants, jeans, and thermals are torn through. In one place above her knee, I can see where a wolf became too impatient to wait for its meal. Ms. Wade stares blankly at the ceiling, and though I may be imagining it, she seems peaceful.

  Please let her have died before the wolves came.

  It’s heartbreaking, that this can be my only hope for her. Not that she was surrounded by her boys when she went, and maybe by a few of those little grandchildren. Not that she was in her own home, under a handmade quilt. But rather, that she wasn’t alive when eaten by wolves.

  “We have to bury her,” I say, staring at that tender pink color rolling off her that, in death, somehow shines even brighter.

  Nash strips off Ms. Wade’s jacket and tosses it to Pilot. Every nerve in my body strains to stop him as he pulled at her. But I remember Pilot’s hands, and I know Ms. Wade would tell him to take it, that it’s too cold out to act thickheaded.

  Even with the five of us, we are only able to dig a couple of inches into the snow. We use rocks and sticks and our stiff fingers, but it’s not nearly enough. Before we cover her, I lay my .22 mag across her chest and drape her arm over the barrel should she need it in the great beyond. Then we mark the surrounding trees so that we can find her when we return with help.

  Mr. Foster stands at her head and speaks of a shepherd and green pastures. Of souls and the valley of the shadow of death. More words he undoubtedly read in a book. But I can’t listen. If I do, the ice in my chest might melt. And I’ll lie down next to Ms. Wade and won’t move.

  When Mr. Foster stops talking, Nash reminds us we are only a few stops from the river, that we’ll be in Vernon tomorrow night now that we can travel faster.

  My hands clench at his attitude.

  The basset hound puts its nose to the fallen wolf we’ve ignored, and sniffs. Then he yaps twice before Pilot picks him up and holds him close.

  With hunger gnawing at my gut, and sorrow threatening to overtake my body, I take the first step away from Ms. Wade.

  Mr. Foster bows his head. “Goodbye, Norma Jean.”

  We’ve walked maybe thirty feet before we hear the excited howls. Before we turn and see—far in the distance—those greedy wolves digging up Ms. Wade.

  Keep going. Get to the river. One foot in front of the other. I hold these commands in my mind, repeating them over and over, and I’m able to move my right foot, then my left. Right, left. Right, left.

  Elton’s stomach growls, causing my own to clench and cramp. As the snow drifts lazily over our shoulders, I keep my head down and focus on what it will be like to have my father and sister by my side once again. The loss of Ms. Wade makes me want them here, now. But more than that, it makes me think of my mother. Of that day by the river. The sun shone through the trees like it was drawn to Mama as she lay on her back, hands tucked behind her head.

  “What do you see when you look up?” she asked me.

  I squinted at the leaves, wanting to please her with the right answer. “There’s a beetle crawling on that tree. See it?” I pointed.

  Mama’s smile widened. “You notice the details in your surroundings; that’s good. But what do you feel?”

  I looked at the leaves again—orange and red and yellow—and I looked at the trees, old and wise and strong. I looked at the sky, the wisps of white clouds and a blueness so rich it looked like one of my mother’s paintings. These things didn’t make me feel much, but I knew that was wrong. So I peeked at Mama from the corner of my eye, her blond hair spread across the blanket. Her eyes bursting with life, when so many other days they were dull. Her slender hands beat a quiet rhythm on the ground beside her, and she radiated joy.

  “I feel happy, Mama,” I said quietly.

  She turned her head toward me then, and her smile stretched all the way to my heart. Sitting up, she examined her ruby ring in the light. Then, with a beat of hesitation, she slipped it off her finger. “You should wear this today,” she said, sliding it onto my thumb.

  I curled my hand around it carefully, terrified it would fall off. How many times had I seen that ring bring a smile to Mama’s face when it seemed nothing possibly could?

  “Go and explore. I want to think on my next painting.” She winked then. “Even brilliant artists such as ourselves need a plan when creating.”

  I wore that ring the rest of the morning, and through the afternoon. But I must have forgotten to keep my hand curled, because at one point I looked down and it was gone. I’ll never forget the look on my mama’s face when I told her I’d lost it. She tried to smile, to say she hated that old ring, but I saw the sadness creeping into her eyes once again. A sadness that didn’t disappear for weeks after we returned from the river. A sadness that led Mama to leave us all behind.

  I didn’t force my mother to leave, I knew.

  But I made her so sad she couldn’t stay, and wasn’t that the same thing?

  Ms. Wade would tell me, No, it’s not the same thing at all. And that is why I already miss her so much it makes my legs tremble.

  “Look at that.” Nash’s voice tears me from my self-pity. He’s pointing at something in the distance. When I peer closer, I make out what it is.

  A wolf lies in a trap similar to the one we saw two days ago. And even though I just watched a half dozen of its kind getting at Ms. Wade, I still shudder at the sharp, glittering teeth snapped tight on the wolf’s body.

  As we plod closer, curiosity driving us to crane our necks, I realize the trap has the wolf’s front legs in its grasp. Then I realize something else—

  The wolf is breathing.

  “It’s alive,” Elton says, bending down to inspect the animal.

  “Not too close,” I warn.

  Elton remembers himself and pops upright. He steps backward, and I lay a hand on his shoulder. Elton stares at it with a strange look on his face. Like he’s rarely been touched with kindness.

  Pilot’s voice grazes my good ear. “Sloan—”

  The wolf stirs. It opens its eyes, sees us, and scratches at the snow with its back paws. The whine the animal releases cuts deep. I want to hate this creature. I want to kill it with the butt of my gun because it doesn’t deserve a swift death.

  But at the same time …

  Those pleading eyes stare up at me with such terror. It’s in impossible pain, half-starved, and now here we are—five humans looming over its trapped body. How threatening must we look? Can it see the hunger in our eyes?

  My tongue flicks unconsciously over my split, bleeding lips, and my stomach rumbles imagining the wolf crackling over one of Elton’s fires. I’d spare a shirt to get the fire started. I might burn every last scrap of clothing I have if it meant a full belly.

  The wolf tries desperately to flee, but after it strains against the trap, those awful teeth ripping through its legs, the wolf yelps and collapses. Lying on its side, the wolf stares up at me with one darting yellow eye. Its chest heaves as I bend down, studying it closely.

  You killed her, I think, though I know it isn’t true.

  “Maybe … maybe we should leave it,” Mr. Foster says quie
tly.

  I hold my rifle across my chest like a pageant queen’s sash, and find that no matter how much anger I hold, I can still see past my sorrow to the frightened animal. This wolf is alone. Abandoned by its brothers and sisters, its family pack. How many days has it spent out here alone in the cold? Had it given up before we arrived?

  If we would kill this animal in order to survive, my mind whispers, then are we so different?

  I rise to my feet, and the wolf fights against the trap a third time.

  I turn around to say … what? That we should leave it? That we should free it?

  That we should treat it the same way its pack mates treated Ms. Wade?

  But when I look behind me, all I see is Nash Blake. He’s powering toward the animal, arms raised above his head.

  “What are you—?”

  The look on Nash’s face is wild, not quite human. His lips pull back from his teeth and his eyes are as round as the stone between his hands. He brings his arms down, quick. I hear the sickening thud as he smashes the rock against the wolf’s rib cage.

  Shock shoots through me, sets my heart to racing, and Pilot’s dog to barking. I grab Nash’s arm and try to pull him from the wolf, but he turns and shoves me with all his strength. I fly backward, hit my head against a tree. The wolf’s panicked cries ring through my skull as Nash brings the rock down again and again, until everything is quiet.

  Nash’s chest rises and falls rapidly while he wipes the wolf’s blood from his face and jacket. “There,” he says as bile rises in my stomach. “Because none of you chickens would have done it.”

  “What is wrong with you?” I climb to my feet, one hand on my head.

  Pilot reaches out to steady me, eerily quiet.

  Nash scoffs. “Let me guess? You would have rather used our last remaining bullet to do the job.”

  I point at Nash. “You didn’t just kill him. You beat that wolf to death for fun.”

  “Look, I’m hungry!” Nash roars. “And I’m tired of being out here. We need to eat. We need to move. And we need to get to Vernon. I don’t … I don’t feel good, all right? It’s a shame what happened to that woman, but she was old. Her husband was already in the ground, and now she is too. They’re together. That’s a good thing, right?”

  Nash tosses the rock onto the ground and dusts his hands off.

  And Pilot points my gun at his father.

  “There is something wrong with you,” Pilot says, his voice flat. “You’re not like the rest of us. You must see that.”

  “Pilot … ” I try to get my gun back, but he steps toward his father.

  “This is the second time today you’ve had this gun pointed at you,” he continues.

  Nash raises his hands, slowly.

  “Sooner or later,” Pilot adds, “someone’s going to pull the trigger. I’m not saying it’s going to be me, because I got Mom to think about. But I want you to remember I pointed it at you. I want you to remember I had my finger on the trigger.”

  The basset hound whines at Pilot’s feet, and the boy lowers the rifle. I snatch it from him.

  Nash rolls his shoulders back and stares down his nose at his son. “You think I’m scared of you? You think having a gun makes you a tough guy?” Nash smiles his nasty smile. “You hate me, that’s fine. I know I wasn’t a good dad. Better than my own, mind you. But I’m sick and tired of you hanging on your mama like she never did a wrong thing in her life.”

  Nash scratches his forehead, leaving behind a streak of sticky red blood. He opens his mouth to say something, and stops himself. Then opens it a second time. My stomach flips wondering what’s so horrible that even Nash hesitates to say it aloud.

  “You know your mama didn’t want you, right?” Nash says, his words a bullet through our hearts. “She told me so. Said it every day until you showed up.”

  Pilot shakes his head. “Shut up.”

  “Sure, after you was born she decided to be mother of the year and all that. But that was only ’cause she felt sorry for you. We could see you weren’t smart right from the beginning.”

  “Stop lying!” Pilot yells.

  “That kind of regret? Not wanting a baby even when it’s yours? You can’t tell me that feeling goes away. Not completely.”

  “That’s enough,” Mr. Foster says, but he doesn’t move. We’re all frozen. Linked by a feeling that this moment between father and son is dangerous, and that if we say the wrong thing? Step in the wrong place?

  Boom.

  “You’ve been a burden on your mama since the beginning. And maybe you hated me, but at least I wanted you. At least I didn’t curse your existence.”

  Pilot’s arms tighten at his sides. His teeth grind.

  Pilot is a bomb tick-tick-ticking.

  And his daddy? Well, he’s the man pulling the clip with his teeth.

  Pilot’s basset hound presses against the side of my leg, aware of the tension and afraid. Always afraid.

  Elton squares his slim shoulders, dusted by the snow. “You know what I think?” the boy says to Nash. “I think you’re sad. You’re sad because if you die like Ms. Wade, no one will care.” Elton lets that sink in, and Nash’s face scrunches like Elton is an idiot. But I see it. I see in the man’s eyes that he’s thinking on this. “Pilot would be upset though. If you died. No one would understand why, but he would be.”

  Nash looks from Elton to Pilot, and as much as he tries to hide the reaction, I can see that what Nash wants more than anything—more than getting to Vernon or winning Pilot’s mama back or having a bowl of roasted lamb right this very second—is for Pilot to say it’s true.

  But Pilot only squares his shoulders, looks his father dead in the face for a long moment, and then turns and walks away.

  This time, I know exactly what to do. I follow him. Not because my lasso is around his waist. But because one winter day two years ago he reminded me that people care.

  And now it’s time to repay the favor.

  I find Pilot sitting in the snow, back against a tree, head in his hands. His dog sits between his legs, wet nose resting on his knee.

  “There you are, dog. I’ve been looking all over for you.” I act surprised to see Pilot. “Oh, hello to you too, I suppose.”

  My joke falls flat.

  I squat down beside Pilot, moving close enough that our arms touch before I can overthink it. “You want me to go away?”

  Pilot shrugs, but he also lifts his head. “The worst part is I know he’s telling the truth. My dad is a bad person, but he’s not a liar.”

  I chew my lip, feeling like this is bigger than I am. If Ms. Wade were here …

  I shake my head and push down the sadness and shock of what happened to her, and try to focus on Pilot. “So … ” I start carefully, “what if your mom didn’t want you in the beginning?”

  Pilot winces, and I think, Stupid, stupid.

  “What I mean to say is, sometimes people don’t know they want something until they get it. And maybe that thing for your mom was you.”

  Farts moves in front of me and lies down on my boots, getting his dog slobber all over them. I rub a hand over his back because I know the animal is every bit as cold and hungry as we are.

  When Pilot doesn’t respond, I keep flapping my lips. “It’s like with you,” I say with a small smile. “When you … when you found me. I hated you, right? I hated that you saw me when I was weak. I hated seeing you every day after that because it reminded me of something ugly.”

  “Is this supposed to make me feel better?”

  “The thing is,” I continue, concern making my tongue thick, “I guess I started to like you somewhere along the way. I mean, I still told myself I hated you. But I knew I didn’t.” I take a deep breath. “Seeing you at school every day? It reminded me that someone out there cared.”

  “I looked for you all day when you were lost,” Pilot says, his voice small. “At night too. I was furious that we weren’t doing a real search. All of us in a line and stuff.”


  I lay my hand on Pilot’s arm. My fingers tingle where they touch his jacket. “I think your mama was scared about bringing you into a life that had your daddy in it. But once you were here … Oh, Pilot. Can’t you see how much she loves you? You saved her. If it weren’t for you, she’d never have left that trailer, would never have started selling goods out of that little barn.”

  “My aunt sent money so Mom could build it into a proper store,” Pilot says, almost smiling. “That made my dad so mad.”

  I nod and give Farts a good scratch behind his ears.

  When I glance over at Pilot, I find him staring at me.

  “Did you really want me to leave you out there?” he all but whispers. “That morning I found you, you said—”

  “I remember what I said.” I turn away, shame coloring my face.

  “Did you mean it?” he asks softly.

  I chew the inside of my cheek. Think about keeping that humiliation inside, where I can feed it and care for it and watch it grow. But instead, I say, simply, quietly, “Yeah. I did.”

  Pilot nods like this makes sense. Then he fills his lungs, scrunches up his face, and replies, “I was thinking stuff like that when you gave me those gloves.”

  I look at him square in the eyes, and he gives another small nod as if to tell me it’s true.

  My skin burns knowing this new information about Pilot. I’m sad for him, but also relieved that I’m not alone. That I wasn’t the only kid in Rusic thinking thoughts dark enough to swallow me whole and stop my heart. Heck, maybe there are hundreds of kids in the world like Pilot and me. Maybe thousands. All of us just dangling from silver threads, fearing—and sometimes hoping—that someone will cut the strings and we’ll all fall down.

  Before I can think better of it, before I remember the scared girl I’ve become, my color so yellow it glitters, I lean over and kiss Pilot on the cheek. His skin is impossibly cold beneath my lips, but I don’t cut the gesture short. I stay there for a moment—pulse racing, skin tingling—and let him know I mean it.

  When I pull back, Pilot’s eyes are big with surprise. He searches my face for a long time. So long I forget how to breathe. Then he looks down at his hands as I silently urge the abominable snowman to snatch me up, chomp on my head, and save me from my mortification.