Emory’s Gift (23 page)

“No!” I shook my head wildly. “Don’t you get it, Dad? Don’t you get what I did?”

He plainly didn’t get it, and I was forced to speak the words, my anguish pouring out.

“When she slipped into a coma, I wasn’t there to be with her. She was alone, Dad! Her last moments of being aware and I left her alone!”

My dad’s eyes were brimming with tears. “God, is that what you think? She was asleep, Son; she was at peace. She wasn’t aware of anything. Her coma was just like a deeper kind of sleep, that’s all. No one can say when she went from one state to the other. She didn’t know you were even there. You didn’t abandon her.”

He bit his lip. “And I should never have left you alone with your mom. It was my fault. I let
you
down, Charlie. But I’ll never do that again. Understand? I’m your father and I’m sticking with you and I will never let you down.”

His grip on my shoulders was so tight it was almost painful, but through it flowed all of his strength, and all of the steel he’d built up as protection against a harsh, betraying world was now enveloping me instead of shutting me out.

I felt at that moment that the wound that had been inflicted on our family when my mom got sick had finally started to heal. We hadn’t managed to forge a bond over the common loss of Laura Hall, but the odd quirk of fate that had brought Emory the bear into our lives was somehow bringing my dad and me together—together, as it would turn out, against most of the rest of the world, or at least as much of the rest of the world as was able to penetrate Boundary County, Idaho.

chapter

TWENTY-FOUR

IN 1974, the county seat of Boundary County—Bonners Ferry—was subject to so much flooding that a lot of the buildings in the lower areas of town were up on stilts. Over in Montana they were working on an enormous dam designed to end the periodic inundations, which was finished a year later.

The courthouse, though, wasn’t up on stilts. It was a massive structure built of white stone in 1940 by the WPA. (I’d managed to write a report about it in the sixth grade without ever actually learning what the WPA was.) Carved into the rock by the people struggling with the Great Depression were three massive reliefs respectively showing loggers, miners, and farmers, each faceless and gray, appearing crushed under the burden of their labors. It was oppressive and grim, giving no hope to us as we mounted the steps and passed beneath their impassive countenances.

But what I found most intimidating was the courtroom itself, the sheer, vast emptiness of it.
You are small,
the giant space told me,
and we are large and powerful.
It was so isolating to sit at the table up front with my dad while Herman Hessler and four men I didn’t know clustered at another table on the other side. No one was talking, so every time my dad nervously cleared his throat the sound echoed off the walls.

A deputy was up front. He had a gun on his hip, but mostly what he seemed concerned with was filing. He kept rearranging folders, ignoring us.

A woman dressed in a severe brown suit sat quietly at a small table—the court stenographer. The deputy ignored her, too. He was apparently really good at filing papers.

Then the judge entered and the deputy said, “All rise,” but I was already on my feet, hoping to score some points by being first.

I had expected a really crusty ancient guy with hair like Thomas Jefferson, but the judge was a woman, and she wasn’t as old as I expected, either, with youthful cheekbones. She put on glasses that had brown frames matching her hair and read through her files, then looked at us.

“All right,” she said. “Everyone may be seated. This is a hearing, and I want to keep it informal.” Her eyes found me and softened. “My name is Judge Reimers.”

One of the men at the table next to us stood up and said he had a motion. He was there to represent the Idaho Guild of Animal Rights, and he just kept talking and talking while the judge looked at him with increasing exasperation until finally she interrupted.

“No, I’m not going to entertain motions at this time. As I was saying, I want to keep this informal. Will that be all right with you, Counselor?”

The man dropped his eyes and sort of mumbled that he thought it was a swell idea. The court stenographer silently recorded everything, her face so completely expressionless she could have replaced one of the WPA workers carved in stone out front.

The judge told her bailiff to have my dad swear to tell the truth and the whole truth. “Well, let’s get right to it,” she then said. “Do you have a bear living inside a building on your property, Mr. Hall?”

No
. I wanted to shout.
He comes and goes.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Judge Reimers regarded my father for a long minute.

“Your Honor, if I may,” the attorney from IGAR said, standing up. The judge shot him a
no, you may not
look and he sat back down.

“You do know that harboring a bear … it’s a grizzly bear, Mr. Hall?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Harboring a grizzly bear is not only against the law, but it’s dangerous as well. You have a child.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I gave my dad an incredulous look. Wasn’t he going to say anything else?

“What happened? Did you find it as a cub?”

“No, Your Honor,” my father said, shaking his head. “He just sort of came up on my boy one day in the woods and followed him home, more or less.”

“I see.”

The judge held her glasses as if not sure she wanted to wear them, looking through the lenses at the papers on her desk. The court stenographer sat motionless. “I guess the Fish and Game Department has already considered relocating the animal.…”

The man from IGAR stood up and this time was determined to talk. “If I may, Your Honor, relocating the animal is contraindicated because he is too socialized. The odds of an attack, or a return to the site of his dependency, are too great.”

Judge Reimers frowned at the man. “Are you under the impression I did not read your brief?”

“Well, of course not, Your Honor.”

“So why are you telling me something I already know?”

He didn’t have an answer for that one. I felt my heart soar with hope: she obviously didn’t like the IGAR man one bit.

The judge returned her gaze to us. “As I was about to say before I was interrupted,” she said meaningfully, “Fish and Game has already looked into relocation and doesn’t believe it would be successful. We can’t just take it to the Canadian border and let the creature go.”

Mr. Hessler was nodding. His hat was on the table in front of him and he was touching it a little, probably aching to pick it up and start tossing it.

“We also, I understand, have looked into the idea of a zoo—”

A
zoo
! I must have gasped out loud, because the judge stopped and gazed at me. Her expression was sympathetic as she continued.

“Though I guess we can’t find a suitable location and the matter, or so I’ve been led to believe, is urgent.”

The IGAR man shifted in his seat but froze when the judge impaled him with a sharp glance.

“Mr. Hall. You’ve got some people pretty worked up. They’d like to file charges against you. You do understand that, don’t you?”

My dad nodded, swallowing. The stenographer raised her eyes to the judge.

“Please answer out loud, Mr. Hall.”

“Yes, Your Honor. I understand.”

“But my primary concern here is for the safety of the community. I also, if there’s room, must consider what is best for the animal. You do understand, a bear who feels free to wander around people’s homes—that bear poses a very real threat. What would happen if a family came home and surprised a full-grown grizzly foraging in their garage? That’s a tragedy I can’t allow to happen.”

This was such a mischaracterization of Emory that I wanted to jump out of my seat.

“I can’t explain why this animal has decided to become friends with you, but unfortunately, there’s a long, sad history of interaction with bears in this part of the country, and the people always come out on the losing end.”

“But he’s not just a bear!” I cried, anguished.

My words seemed to echo around that empty courtroom for a full ten seconds, ringing in my ears while the judge regarded me with stern yet gentle eyes. “What’s your name, son?” the judge finally asked in quiet tones.

“Charlie Hall.”

“Well, Charlie, you’re not old enough to participate in these hearings. This is something for grown-ups to decide, okay? I’m sorry, but I have to ask you to sit still.”

Sit still while she decided that Emory had to be killed, she meant. I gave my father a long, beseeching look. He said he would never let me down, but if we didn’t do something, these people would decide to send men with guns to shoot my bear. My father regarded the pain in my eyes, biting his lip. He glanced over at the man from IGAR, who was sitting stone-faced, and at Mr. Hessler, who was watching back with sad eyes.

“The law is clear when it comes to situations like these,” the judge said.

Like these?
Like these?
Since when had there ever been situations like these?

Dad cleared his throat, standing back up. “Charlie’s right, Your Honor.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hall. Right about what?”

“It’s not just a bear. In fact, it might not be a bear at all.”

You could have heard a fly walking on the ceiling, it was so quiet in that place. My father had a look on his face that I recognized—he didn’t enjoy what he was doing, but he was determined to go through with it.

“Did you not tell me earlier you had a bear on your property?” the judge finally asked.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“I’m not clear on what you are trying to say. Do you mean not just a bear because, as a pet, it is a member of your family?”

“No, that’s not it. I’m trying to say that it’s a bear on the outside, but not … it’s not a bear on the inside, Your Honor. It’s something else entirely.”

“And what would that be?”

Dad closed his eyes as if he were jumping off the high dive at the pool. “It’s a Civil War soldier named Emory Bain. He was apparently killed in battle, wounded and killed, and now he’s come back as a grizzly bear.”

Mr. Hessler’s mouth was open. The judge was giving my father a penetrating stare, as if trying to figure out if he was crazy, or joking, or what. Even the stenographer reacted, a flicker passing through her eyes as she silently made note of what my father had just said.

It was more than the man from IGAR could take. “Your Honor…”

The judge held up a hand like a crossing guard and he shut up. “Why do you believe this, Mr. Hall?”

“Because the bear wrote the words on the wall of my barn in red paint, Your Honor.”

“He wrote … what, exactly?”

My dad’s eyes raised up to the ceiling and he recited it all. “‘I, Emory Bain, was a private in the Third Regiment of infantry from Grand Rapids. In May of 1862 pursued Rebels at Chicka … Chickahominy, was wounded and took fever, and now I’m back with a message.’”

The judge blinked at him. “Civil War.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

More silence.

“You saw the bear write these words in paint in your barn?” the judge finally asked.

“No, ma’am.”

“Did your son see it happen?”

“No, Your Honor. He came home and the words were there.”

The judge held out her hand, demonstrating what it would be like to have a stiff paw. “How would a bear paint words on a wall?”

“Believe me, Your Honor, I’ve thought that through and I have no idea.”

“But you nonetheless believe the statement was written by the bear.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Why, Mr. Hall, would you believe such a thing?”

My dad put his hand on my shoulder. “Because my son told me and he wouldn’t lie to me, Your Honor.”

I felt my throat tighten at this declaration of trust. I found I couldn’t look at his face for fear of starting to sob right there in the courtroom. I focused all of my attention on Judge Reimers.

“Well.” The judge looked down at her desk for a few seconds, mulling things over. Then she raised up her eyes and looked at the bailiff. “I’m going to take fifteen minutes or so in chambers.”

“All rise,” the bailiff intoned smoothly.

“Thank you, Mr. Hall. Everyone. I’ll be out in a few minutes,” the judge said. She left the room and the deputy immediately went back to his filing.

My dad and I exchanged glances. I was frightened and hopeful. Mr. Hessler stood, grabbed his hat off the table, and came over to see us, tossing it lightly in his hands like he always did.

“Hey there, George.”

“Herman.”

“You didn’t say anything about this soldier boy idea before.”

“I guess I thought it would sound crazy,” my dad responded.

Mr. Hessler nodded, a small smile twitching in the corners of his mouth. “Sort of does, George.”

My dad shrugged.

“No doubt in my mind he’s a special kind of bear, though. The way he is with your son, I never imagined such a thing before.”

Mr. Hessler regarded us both for a moment with eyes that were not at all unfriendly. Then he deliberately looked away from us, first up at the courtroom deputy, then over his shoulder where all his allies were sitting at the other table. The IGAR attorney was speaking vehemently with the other men in suits and they all kept staring at us. Mr. Hessler leaned in, lowering his voice.

“You know, if it was me, I’d take Charlie and leave.”

This obviously surprised my father. “Why? We’re not finished here.”

Mr. Hessler’s expression was patient and kind. “Yes, we are, George. You know the judge isn’t going to come back through that door with anything other than an order to euthanize that grizzly, and then we’ll be out there to take care of it straightaway. You understand? If you leave now, though, you’d have a head start.”

My dad was letting the words sink in. I had never heard the term “euthanize” before but got the general idea and it froze my blood in my veins.

“I imagine that if we show up at your place and the bear’s not there, there’s someone who will want to go hunting for him,” Mr. Hessler continued.