Lone Wolf A Novel (17 page)

My mother shook her head. “Edward. How are you going to—”

“And he has to ride in the front seat,” Cara interrupted. “He gets carsick.”

I had zipped up my coat. “In case you were even wondering,” I told her, “Dad’s condition is the same as it was last night.”

Cara smiled at me then. It was the first real smile she’d offered me since I came home. “But not for long,” she had said.

Redmond’s Trading Post is a sorry anachronism from a time before 3D and Sony PlayStations—a poor man’s Disney World. In the winter, it’s even more depressing than it is during its high season. Closed to everyone but a few animal caretakers, it feels like the land that time forgot. This was only reinforced by the sight that greeted me the minute I hopped over the turnstiles and let myself into the park: a faded animatronic dinosaur with icicles dripping off its chin that roared at me and tried to swing a massive tail mired in snowdrifts.

It felt strange to walk up the hill to the wolf enclosures, as if I were peeling back years with each footstep, until I was a kid again. As I passed by one of the pens, a pair of timber wolves trotted along the fence line with me, watching to see if I might lob a rabbit over the chain-links as a treat. My father’s old trailer stood at the crest of the hill, above the enclosures. A curl of smoke pumped from the woodstove vent in the trailer, although when I knocked no one answered.

“Walter?” I called out. “It’s Edward. Luke’s son.” The door swung
open at my touch, and I found myself knocked backward by a memory. Nothing had changed in this trailer. There was the sofa with foam cushions that had been ripped by the teeth of countless wolf pups, where I had read dozens of books while my father gave the daily wolf talk to the trading post visitors. There was the bathroom with a toilet flushed by a foot pump.

There was the narrow bed, where everything had gone to hell.

This was a bad idea; I never should have listened to Cara; I should just go back to the hospital . . . I slammed my way out of the trailer, and heard a whistle of bluegrass coming from the wooden shack where the fresh meat brought in for the wolves was refrigerated. I poked my head inside and found Walter in a butcher’s apron, quartering a deer with a gigantic knife. Half Abenaki, Walter is six foot four and bald, with spirals of tattoos up both arms. As a kid, I’d been alternately mesmerized and terrified by him.

Walter looked up at me as if he was seeing a ghost.

“It’s me,” I said. “Edward.”

At that, he dropped the knife and folded me into a bear hug. “Edward,” he said. “If you’re not the spitting image . . .” He stepped back, frowning. “Did he—?”

“No,” I said quickly. “Nothing’s changed.”

I glanced outside the abattoir, where a trio of wolves were staring at me from behind a fence. My father used to talk about the wisdom in a wolf’s eyes; even a layperson who comes in contact with the species will often feel unnerved the first time he is face-to-face with a wolf. They don’t just look
at
you; they look
into
you. Maybe, I thought, Cara had a point.

I’d called Walter last night from my father’s house and had explained his condition, but now I told Walter why I’d come here today—namely, what Cara felt a wolf encounter would do for my father. He listened quietly, his mouth twisting, as if he could chew on the plan and spit out the bits he didn’t like. When I finished
speaking, he folded his arms. “So you want to bring a wolf into the hospital.”

“Yeah,” I said, ducking my head. “I know it sounds ridiculous.”

“The thing is, you don’t know how to handle a wolf. Just cause it looks like a dog don’t mean it
is
one. You want me to come along?”

For a moment I gave this serious consideration. “It’s better if I’m alone,” I said finally. That way only one of us would get in trouble.

I followed Walter out of the abattoir, down the hill to the enclosures. As we approached one fence, a pair of gray wolves bounded toward him. The smaller one only had three legs. “Morning, boys,” he said and pointed to the one that was racing back and forth in front of the fence, completely unimpeded by his lack of a limb. His gaze slipped like a splinter under my skin. “That’s Zazigoda,” Walter told me. “His name means
lazy.
Your dad, he’s got a sense of humor.”

Walter reached into the game pouch of his jacket and tossed a frozen squirrel into the woods at the rear of the enclosure. The other wolf trotted off to claim it as Zazigoda waited for his own reward. But instead of taking another squirrel from his jacket, Walter extracted a brick of Philadelphia cream cheese. He tore off a corner, and Zazi began to lick it. “Milk products calm ’em down,” he explained.

I vaguely remembered my father telling me how an alpha female who knows she’s going to give birth soon might direct her pack to kill the lactating doe in a herd of deer, simply because she knows the hormones running through the prey animal’s system will take the edge off the emotions of those that eat it. Then, by the time the pups are born, the rest of the pack will be more mellow and likely to accept them.

“We rescued Zazi,” Walter said, moving into the enclosure without any hesitation. “A hunter found him when he was about a year old. His leg had gotten caught in a bear trap, and he chewed it off.
Your dad played nursemaid. The vet said he was a goner; he was too weak; his wound was infected; he’d be gone before the end of the week. But Zazi, he blew those odds away. You know how in life, there are people, and then there are
people
? Well, there are wolves, and then there are
wolves.
Zazi’s one of those. You tell him he ain’t going to make it, and he’ll prove you wrong.”

I wondered if this was why Cara wanted me to bring Zazi, in particular. Because his story so closely mirrored what she wanted to happen to my father.

Walter looked up at me. “Since your dad nursed him, he’s always been more comfortable around humans than a wolf ought to be. Great with kids, great with film crews. That’s why we’ve always used him for community outreach.” He dragged a crate into the pen and easily loaded the wolf inside. “One day we were at a school with Zazi. Your dad, he likes to pick a couple of kids from a class to come up and touch the fur of a wolf, hands on, if you get what I mean. To make them curious but not terrified about wolves. But he eyeballs the kids to make sure he’s not picking the class clowns, and before he does this, he lays down the rules—mostly to keep the wolf safe from the kids. If a kid moves a certain way, or comes up too fast, or just doesn’t pay attention, all hell can break loose.”

Walter leaned down to the mesh wire at the front of the crate and let Zazigoda lick his knuckles. “One day an aide brought a kid with special needs up to the front of the room. Kid was maybe ten years old and had never spoken a word; he was in a wheelchair and had profound disabilities. The aide asked if the boy could touch the wolf. Now, your dad, he didn’t know what to say. On the one hand, he didn’t want to turn the kid away; on the other hand, he knew that Zazi could easily read anxiety and could turn on the boy quickly, thinking he had to defend himself. Zazi’s not a hybrid; he’s a wild animal. So your dad asked the aide if the boy could communicate any signs of fear or distress, and the aide said no, he couldn’t
communicate at all. Against his better judgment, your father lifted Zazi up to the table, where he could be eye level with the boy’s wheelchair. Zazi looked at the boy, then leaned forward and started licking around his lips. Your dad leaned forward to intervene, figuring Zazi had smelled food, and that the boy was going to freak out and push Zazi away. But before your dad could pull Zazi back, the boy’s mouth started working. It was garbled, and it was hard to hear, but that boy said his first word right in front of us:
wolf.
”

I leaned down and grabbed the handle of the crate with Walter, beginning the long climb uphill. “If you’re telling me this to make me feel any better about taking a wild animal to a hospital, it’s not helping.”

Walter glanced at me. “I’m telling you this,” he said, “because Zazi’s no stranger to miracles.”

It’s actually something Walter has said that gives me the idea:
Just cause it looks like a dog don’t mean it
is
one.
Since no one would ever be stupid enough to bring a wild animal into a hospital, folks who see me with Zazi will assume he is a domestic animal instead. That means all I have to do is come up with a valid reason to have a dog there in the first place.

The way I see it, I have two options. The first is a therapy dog. I have no idea if they use them at this particular hospital, but I know there are trained volunteers who bring Labs and springers and poodles into pediatric wards to boost the spirits of the sick kids. From what I understand, these dogs are usually older, calmer, unruffled—which pretty much leaves Zazi out of the running.

The only other kind of dog I’ve ever seen in a hospital is a Seeing Eye dog.

At a gas station, I buy a pair of hideous, oversize black sunglasses
for $2.99. I call my mother’s cell, to tell her that I am on my way and that she should meet me in my dad’s room, with Cara. Then I park in the hospital lot, as far away from other cars as I can get.

The front seat has been moved back on its runners to accommodate Zazi’s crate, which takes up every inch of available space. I get out of the car and open the passenger door, eyeballing the wolf through the metal door of the crate. “Look,” I say out loud, “I don’t like this any more than you do.”

Zazi stares at me.

I try to convince myself that when I open this crate the wolf isn’t going to sink his teeth into my hand. Walter’s already put a harness on him; all I have to do is attach the leash.

Well. If he does bite me, at least I’m already at the hospital.

With brisk efficiency I open the crate and snap the heavy carabiner onto the metal hook of the wolf’s harness. He jumps out of the crate in one smooth, graceful motion and starts tugging me forward. I barely have time to close the car door, to whip my sunglasses out of my pocket.

The wolf takes a piss on every lamppost lining the walkway into the hospital. When I yank on his leash once to get him moving, he turns around and snarls at me.

If the volunteers sitting at the welcome desk of the hospital think it’s strange to see a blind man who’s dragging his dog, instead of the other way around, they don’t say anything. I am blissfully thankful that we are the only ones in the elevator that takes us up to the third-floor ICU. “Good boy,” I say when Zazi lies down, paws crossed.

But when the bell dings just prior to the door opening, he leaps to his feet, turns around, and nips my knee.

“Shit!” I yelp. “What was
that
for?”

I lean down to see if he’s drawn blood, but by then the doors have opened and a candy striper is waiting with a stack of files.
“Hi,” I say, hoping to distract her from the fact that I have a wolf on a leash.

“Oh!” she says, surprised. “Hello.”

That’s when I realize that if I’m blind, I shouldn’t have known she was there.

Suddenly Zazi starts loping down the hall. I struggle to keep up, forgetting about the candy striper. An Amazon of a nurse follows. She is taller than me, with biceps that suggest she could probably beat me in arm wrestling. I saw her the first day I came to the hospital, but she hasn’t been at work again until today—so she doesn’t recognize me, or question my sudden new disability. “Excuse me, sir? Sir?”

This time I remember not to turn around until she calls me.

“Are you talking to me?” I ask.

“Yes. Can you tell me which patient you’re here to see?”

“Warren. Lucas Warren. I’m his son, and this is my guide dog.”

She folds her arms. “With three legs.”

“Are you kidding me?” I say, grinning with my dimples. “I paid for four.”

The nurse doesn’t crack a smile. “We’ll have to get clearance from Mr. Warren’s doctors before the dog can go inside—”

“A guide dog can go in all places where members of the public are allowed and where it doesn’t pose a direct threat,” I recite, information gleaned from Google on my phone after my sunglasses purchase at the gas station. “I find it hard to believe a hospital would violate the Americans with Disabilities Act.”

“Service dogs are allowed into the ICU on a case-by-case basis. If you’ll just wait here for a second I can—”

“You can take it up with the Department of Justice,” I say as Zazi starts pulling hard on the leash.

I figure I have five minutes max before security gets here to remove me. The nurse is still shouting as Zazi drags me down the
hall. Without any direction from me, he leads me through the doorway of my father’s room.

Cara is cradled against the canvas sling of a wheelchair; my mother stands behind her. My father is still immobile on the bed, tubes down his throat and snaking out from beneath the waffle-weave blanket. “Zazi!” Cara cries, and the wolf bounds over to her. He puts his front paws on her lap and licks her face.

“He bit me,” I say.

My mother has backed into a corner, not too thrilled to be in the same room as a wolf. “Is he safe?” she asks.

I look at her. “Isn’t it a little late to be asking that?”

But Zazi has turned away from Cara and is whimpering beside my father’s bed. In a single, light leap, he jumps onto the narrow mattress, his legs bracketing my father’s body. He delicately steps over the tubes and noses around beneath the covers.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” I say.

“Just watch,” Cara replies.

Zazigoda sniffs at my father’s hair, his neck. His tongue swipes my father’s cheek.

My father doesn’t move.

The wolf whines, and licks my father’s face again. He drags his teeth across the blanket and paws at it.

Something beeps, and we all look at the machines behind the bed. It’s the IV drip, needing to be changed.

“Now do you believe me?” I say to Cara.

Her jaw is set, her face determined. “You just have to give it a minute,” she begs. “Zazi knows he’s in there.”

I take off the sunglasses and step in front of her, so that she has to meet my gaze. “But Dad doesn’t know Zazi’s here.”