Fauna (26 page)

“Yes,” she said, blinking. “Faye.”

The question had always been with him. He’d never put it to Faye—she’d had a terrible habit of letting his queries hang. Grandmother, on the other hand, generally did her best to respond, especially when the two of them were alone.

Grandmother, what’s that noise?

That’s a red squirrel. He doesn’t much like us walking through his patch
.

Grandmother, what are you doing?

What’s it look like? I’m washing the clothes
.

But, where’s the washer?

We don’t have one, Darius
.

Of course not. There wasn’t even hot water in the taps. She set the kettle on to boil a dozen times a day. Still, he kept on.

Not even at the laundromat?

Not even there
.

She was making bread, punching the dough down in its bowl, when he began edging up to the big one.

“Grandmother?”

“Mm-hm?”

“With bears, there’s a mother and there’s the cubs.”

“That’s right, and you know if you see cubs, you need to watch out—the mother’s never far.”

“I know. But there’s a father too, right?”

She paused, her fist mired in the dough. “That’s right, but it’s the mother who watches over the cubs.”

“Do I—did I have a father?” He breathed carefully as Grandmother withdrew her hand from the bowl. The air between them was yeasty, close.

“You did, yes.”

“Was he—”

“He was a man your mother worked for.”

“Faye had a job?”

“She did. She was a cashier at the Tomboy Market in town.”

Darius tried to see it. Faye with her hair tied back and one of those jackets that were really more like shirts. Green maybe, the same as her eyes. Or red. Faye smiling as she set a bag of apples on the scale—the yellow kind she liked. Fingers thin on the number keys, but nimble. Maybe even strong.

“She worked Saturdays mostly. After school now and then, but your grandfather didn’t like her missing the bus home. Well, he didn’t much like her working there, period.”

“Because of my father?”

“Not exactly. Not at first, anyway. Afterwards, certainly.” She looked down at her gooey hand. “He—the manager—he wasn’t very kind to your mother. Not once he’d got what he wanted.” She rubbed at her palm, rolling up little pills of dough. “She told us he gave her no choice. That got her in
enough trouble, but I always wondered if maybe she wasn’t fibbing. Not that I blame her. It got her out of here.”

“What did?”

“You did, Darius.” She looked at him then, her gaze hungry. “Sometimes the only way to get something done is to let it happen. Do you understand?”

He managed to unfreeze his neck and nod.

“Good.” She turned back to her bread. “Good.”

It wasn’t Darius’s fault. If Grandmother had never told him, he never could have let it slip.

Grandfather was late coming home from the mill that day. It was nothing to worry about; Grandmother had given him a list of what Faye and Mrs. Miske had called groceries but Grandfather called supplies. Darius had an idea that women generally did the food shopping, but when he’d asked Grandmother about it once, Grandfather had backed through the kitchen door with an armload of wood and answered for her. “Have to drive to get into town.”

“I can drive,” Grandmother said.

He dumped the wood alongside the stove. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

She flushed. “Well, yes. I don’t … I haven’t had a licence in years.”

Now, as the truck came nosing down the snowy drive, she said only, “Go on out and help.”

Darius dragged on his coat and boots, slipped out into the cold and presented himself alongside Grandfather’s saw-dusty thigh.

“Come to make yourself useful, I see.” He dropped the
tailgate so it lay flat, pulling against its chains. Darius saw a crowd of brown paper bags, two open-topped boxes and a sack of flour the size of a second child.

“Yes, sir.”

The old man bent as far as the board at his back allowed, snapping forward at the waist like a shotgun breaking open to take its load. Darius had watched Grandfather crack his twelve-gauge and push the shells in both barrels with his thumb.
It’ll be yours one day, Darius
. The old man’s face softened when he said it, the way it did whenever he ate something sweet.
The Lord help you if you lay a finger on it before then
.

The tailgate tucked into his lap, Grandfather snatched a bag by its scruff and dragged it toward him over the rutted deck. “See if you can manage that.”

Darius held out his arms. The bag was heavy—three sloshing bags of milk and more—but he hugged it to his chest, shuffling to the front step so nothing could trip him up. Grandmother met him at the door, taking the bag just as he feared it might fall. “Good boy. Back you go.”

Darius didn’t drop a thing. His thin arms cried so he could almost hear them, but he helped and helped until the truck bed lay bare and Grandfather shut the tailgate with a clang.

Inside, Grandmother was busy unpacking. “Here, Darius.” She set him up on a patch of floor not far from the wood stove, giving him the job of flattening the bags.

“Pack of thieves,” Grandfather said, angling himself down into his chair.

Grandmother twisted the lid off the flour jar. “Who’s that?”

“Them at the co-op.”

“Oh.”

“Jack up the prices for the skiers, never mind folks who actually live here.”

Darius tucked the sides of the first bag in neatly, the bottom closing up tight like a jaw. Grandmother snipped the flour sack’s cat-eared corner. Setting the jar down on the floor in front of her, she hoisted the sack up between her knees and began to pour. When the spout jammed, she bounced to get the flour moving again, like the sack was a little white pony and she was going for a ride.

“I’ve half a mind to take my business elsewhere,” Grandfather said.

It wasn’t telling. You had to mean to do it if you were telling, and Darius didn’t even know he was going to speak. “You could go to the Tomboy Market.”

“What?” Grandfather generally took a minute to rise from his chair, but by the time Darius looked up, he was already on his feet. “What did he say?”

“Ron—”

“Shut up.”

“He just—”

“I said, SHUT UP!”

Grandmother dropped the sack, flour sifting over the floorboards. She stood up straight, chin down, hands working in her apron’s folds.

Darius fought the urge to open one of the paper bags and crawl inside—head first, and somehow the rest of him would have to fit. Grandfather seemed to be made of nothing but boards now, the way his limbs creaked and swung. He walked stiffly into his bedroom, and for a moment Darius thought it
might be all right to breathe. Then the old man was back, stalking straight for Grandmother, his fist doubled, wound up in something dark. The buckle gave it away. Pronged and bright, it matched the one still gleaming at Grandfather’s waist. The old man couldn’t strip his belt from its loops with a flourish; the board at his back might slip. He needed a second belt. A twin.

When he hooked his arm around Grandmother’s shoulders and manoeuvred her out the kitchen door to the backhouse, Darius knew a leavening streak of relief. At least he wouldn’t have to watch. He learned soon enough that listening could be just as bad. Covering his ears did little. He felt every lick of the leather, every piteous yelp.

Grandmother wouldn’t look at him when they traded places, him rising in Grandfather’s grip, her slipping to the floor. He took his punishment as he imagined she had, pants down, hands braced on either side of the seat. The sulphurous breath of the open hole.

The second belt didn’t come out often; long stretches went by between transgressions gross enough to warrant its use. Sometimes Grandmother was the one to slip, as when she forgot to turn the stewpot down and wasted two whole fresh hares. Sometimes it was Darius, letting the fire die when he was meant to be feeding it, or sneaking a scrap of chicken skin during a particularly long grace. There were times, too, when Grandfather took them both out to the backhouse again, folding one then the other under his wing; usually when they’d been in on something together—baking a batch of coconut squares and wolfing them all before he got home,
washing the pan but forgetting about the toasted, tropical smell. Darius never knew which order to hope for. Grandfather might tire and lighten his hand after the first beating, or it might just serve to warm him up.

On the whole, though, the pair of them did their best to behave, and so the belt often lay coiled on his grandparents’ dresser for months at a time. Darius took to stealing into their room to check if it was still there. The first half-dozen times he only looked, but by the time he turned nine, it had become necessary to make contact with his hand. The buckle a bright chill. The leather slick, surprisingly warm.

Coyote Cop’s Blog

Friday, May 30, 2008

Your not the only one who can look things up on the web soldierboy. The indians or whatever your supposed to call them had something else to say about the coyote which was that he was always sneaking around and messing with peoples minds. So think about that.

You just don’t get it do you? Damn right coyotes are generalists. They have made a meal out of just about everything out there and now they are coming for us. Watch your pets Toronto. Watch your kids. Hell watch your step. Only I guess the problem is most of you don’t even know what to watch out for.

Some of you have been asking how to be sure what your looking at is a coyote and not something else.
Well if your out in the country theres a slim chance its a wolf. Of course coyotes tend to be smaller, but theres not much difference between the biggest eastern coyote and the littlest algonquin wolf. That said, there are a few dead giveaways. If the tail stands straight out when it runs chances are its a wolf. Coyotes keep theirs hanging straight down. Also watch out for ears that look too big for the head they belong to. The main thing though is the feeling. I have only ever seen a wolf from a distance but I can remember just how it felt. And more to the point just where. It was in my neck. Coyotes I’ve seen up close and the feeling is nowhere near your neck. Down low in your guts is where you feel it. As low as they go.

In the city it gets a little harder knowing whats what. Theres not much question with most dogs but anything with husky in it can be confusing. Especially with coyotes mixing their dirty blood up in things. Anyway here again the tail is a good bet. Dogs most often keep a curl in theirs.

Wherever they live coyotes are good hiders. You can be standing a couple of paces from one and never know he’s there. They leave clues though. Maybe you think those are all dog tracks in the park. Take a closer look sometime. Coyotes leave oval tracks with the front nails pinched together and the side nails tucked in tidy so sometimes they don’t even show.
Dogs make a rounder print with the claw marks splayed. Also, dogs leave a sloppy trail running all over the place the way they do but a coyote knows what he’s about. Look for those neat little tracks laid down in a definite line. Maybe you think no way it can’t be because the trail runs right by the swings where you take your kid to play. Well think again. And pay attention to the turds you come across too. If you see one left in the middle of the path and especially where 2 paths cross chances are its coyote. It might be all dark and wet or it might be full of hair and bones but either way it will smell more like skunk than dog shit. This time of year you should be on the lookout for dens too. Those bushy slopes all along the Don Valley are just about perfect. If you see a pile of dirt look for the hole it came from and if you find one be sure and let me know.

Oh and one more thing. Another coyote calling card is the way he gets into his kill. If you find a deer carcass that has been eaten out under the tail you can bet coyotes are to blame. Think about what they would do to your body given half a chance. This means you soldierboy. Think about what they would do to you.

POSTED BY Coyote Cop at 6:17 AM

soldierboy wrote …

Believe me, I know all about how soft human bodies are, my own included. So coyotes go in under the tail. So what? Nobody’s going to take the deer to the butcher for them, are they? Maybe it is kind of rough, but it’s nothing compared to what humans do.

The cursor blinks. There’s more to be said on the subject, Stephen knows, but he seems to have hit some kind of wall. A mud wall. Dust-coloured where it isn’t spattered with blood, waist-high in some places, higher in others. It’s hot to the touch while the sun beats down on it, cool when the passage of untold hours brings shade.

Stephen’s hands are trembling. He posts the comment, clicks to quit the browser and stands.
Are you sure you want to quit?
He clicks again. Yes, quit it.
Quit
.

Passing from the office to his bedroom, he lowers himself to the floor. After a moment he stretches a hand beneath the bed. The kits cry weakly as he works the latch, woken from the deep comfort of a post-bottle sleep. His remorse is sudden, almost crippling in its strength. Why can’t he just leave them be? The big tan is the first to open its eyes. He can’t help but reach for it. Its fierce little body is getting stronger, more substantial with every feed.