The Bear in a Muddy Tutu (15 page)

“Just stay behind me,
”
the cop whispered.
“Out of my line of fire.
”

“Yeah, I’m right here,
”
answered Bagg, as the pair crept onto the patio and made their way between the round tables. Bagg noticed the sweat dripping down the back of the officer’s neck
,
despite the cool afternoon and the nice breeze. In fact, the entire back of the cop’s uniform shirt was drenched in sweat.

“Busted right through the screen,
”
Gates
said to
Bagg, as they looked at the hole where the animal had obviously busted right through the screen. Bagg reached around the cop to pluck a torn strip of pink taffeta
snared on
the broken wire.

“What do you make of this?
”
Bagg whispered, offering up the taffeta.

“Fuck if I know
.
”
The
cop
bent
down, about to squeeze through the jagged hole in the screen.

“Wait
.
”
Bagg grabb
ed
the cop by his black leather belt with his left hand. With his right hand, Bagg reached for the doorknob and pulled the door slightly ajar.

“Right
.
”
Gates
straightened
up,
took
the doorknob and slowly
opened
the door.

The building had two rooms. The front portion was divided in half, with space on the near side for golfers to place orders, while orders were taken from the other side of a high counter running the length of the room. At the far left side was one of those hinged countertop doors you
saw
in bars
that
the employee
lifted
and
duck
ed
under.

Against the wall behind the counter
was a grill, with huge steel vents disappearing into the ceiling.
It was hot,
and
the smoke from
charcoal-black pieces of what was probably old meat
was
silently
being
sucked into the vent.
In the middle of the back wall was an open doorway leading to the kitchen and prep area.

The cop
look
ed
around,
blinking,
as
both men let their
eyes adjust to the dark room.
Gates
then stepped inside in big, slow, almost comically arcing strides, as if stepping across a river on rocks a little too far apa
rt.
He
held the
gun
at arm’s length, the barrel darting from spot to spot in quick, twitchy motions.

The first section of the front room was clear. No wild bears whatsoever.

“We gonna keep goin’?
”
Bagg asked, and the cop
,
who’d
seemed frozen, jumped a bit at
his voice. “This bear’s awful quiet for being crazy rabid.
”

“Shhhh,
”
Gates
hissed. “C’mon.
”

The pair ducked under the counter
;
Gates
had his gun darting and dancing again, while Bagg wished he’d packed a flash. It was too dark in here for a good photo of a thrashing, crazed bear.

“Look,
”
Gates
whispered,
pointing
the
gun
down to a greasy wet spot on the linoleum floor. Bagg noticed
that
the gun was shaking and the officer’s hands were
glistening with
sweat.

“You hea
r that?
”
Bagg asked
, as a low uneven rumble seemed to com
e
from the next room where the food was prepared. They were hunkered down below the grill, about five feet from the kitchen doorway, listening.

“It sounds like snoring,
”
Bagg said.

“No, it sounds like a bear,
”
Gates
answered in a sharp whisper, spittle flying from his
mouth
. “Now, shut up and stay behind me.
”

“Still sounds like a snoring bear,
”
Bagg repeated under his breath, as
Gates
edged forward. Bagg had gotten a look at the cop’s too-wide eyes,
which
show
ed
mostly
white. Talk about crazy rabid.

From the arched doorway to the kitchen, the two men stood side by side, shoulders pressed together. One was armed with a
gun
; the other, a Canon T90 single lens reflex camera with a short zoom lens, not recommended for indoor use unless used with a flash. Bagg could feel the heat radiating off the cop. It felt like a sick heat, the kind
that
com
es
from so
meone with a really
high
fever
, or
someone who
ha
s
a bad infection deep down inside
.

*
*
*

Gates
spotted the bear, semi-h
idden and waiting for its
opportunity to pounce. He pinned the end of the Glock
9mm
si
ght
on the beast across the room
,
and suddenly the newspaper guy crowding him in the doorway became invisible, or wasn’t there at all. Instead,
Gates
could sense his father’s eyes, could hear the condescending laugh meant to show off for his asshole friends.

Officer
Gates
could feel his heart trying to burst out of his chest, and his mind slipped back to the first time he
’d ever hunted
, his father kicking him hard in the leg when he didn’t get out of bed
right away
. He’d been ten
years old and it was opening day of deer season
. H
e
had been
forced to climb up
a
ladder formed by two
-
by
-
three boards nailed to a tree trunk and sit
shivering in a
stand.
Gates
remembered being frozen to the bone, miserable and wanting to leave. But he
had been
stuck sitting on an
upside
-
down bushel basket
on a platform his father had built years before
, som
e twenty feet up in the tree’s crotch
.
Gates
had been peeing over the side when a big eight-point buck c
a
me walking along the game path
that
his dad had built the stand above. He reached for the Browning twelve gauge his father had given him, br
ought
it up to his shoulder in slow motion
,
and
pointed
the barrel down at the buck.

It
was
a clear shot. The young
Gates
stood with feet spread at shoulder wi
dth, the stock tucked tight in
his armpit, and locked the sight onto the front left shoulder of the deer.
Gates
’ thumb clicked
the safety off
,
and his
delicate
index finger curled around
the trigger and began squeezing, easy, just like he’d been told
. But something
was
wrong. The harder he
tried to squeez
e, the less his finger
want
ed to react. He
beg
a
n
hear
ing
his own breathing
—
like somebody out of breath
was
standing real close
—
and his heart
beg
a
n
to thump. The boy’s wrist
sh
ook and
rivulets of sweat
broke
ou
t on his cold forehead, stinging
his eyes, as the shaking spread from his ri
ght arm
to engulf
his entire body.

At some point, the deer looked up at the human in the tree, huffed once
,
and danced off into the woods, white tail flashing a mock surrender.
Gates
was
left there shaking, unable to put the gun down, unable to do anything.

“You shouldn’t have
made fun of me like that,
”
Gates
told his father
, but he
was
no longer
up in a tree stand, looking down on dead,
frost
-
covered leaves
.
Gates
wasn’t a ten
-
year
-
old anymore
;
he was an officer of the law, sworn to protect and serve. He was
an important
man.

“You better just shut up and pull the trigger
’
fore you wet yourself
.
”
He heard his father's voice as if he was there
;
then
his father
laughed that awful, mocking laugh.
“You sorry little sumbitch couldn’t drop a
deer
, but you expect to take down a bear? You’re a
goddamn
laugh riot, boy!
”

Gates
held the gun out
toward the bear but couldn’t quite steady the barrel
. Sweat was dripping into his eyes
,
and he had to keep wiping them clear with his shoulder.

“Pull the trigger, you little fuckwad!
”

“Shut up!
”
Gates
screamed.
On that cold morning in the woods, h
is father had walked up to him, laughing and pointing
at
h
is son shivering in the tree stand, t
he deer
long gone. The boy stood
on the crooked pieces of timber, the muscles in his arms cramping, not yet able to lower the shotgun. His father laugh
ed
because he’d forgotten to pull up his pants when the buck walked past
;
he still had his little pecker out in the cold. It
was
just a coincidence that his father used the same path as the deer and
stood
in the line of fire.
Gates
remembered being tempted to try the shotgun trigger again.

“Put the gun down,
”
Bagg said
.

“Pull the trigger!
”
Officer
Gates
shouted, and it was somehow his father’s voice. But his hands shook even harder, and the sweat poured into his eyes even worse.

“Pull the fucking trigger, you little fuckwad!
”
he screamed, but his finger refused to follow orders, and his arms and entire body quaked in
a
violent struggle between muscle and brain.

“It’s wearing a tutu!
”
Bagg shouted
into the cop’s ear
, shoving the torn piece of muddy
pink material
he’d removed from the screen door into the cop’s face
.
Pink
,
Gates
thought, the
same color his father’s white long johns had once turned when his mother tried to wash out
spatters of
deer
blood. His father smacked her good and hard for that.
He’
d
screamed
that
it looked like a fucking
tutu and to throw them in the goddamn trash
.
“The bear i
s wearing a fucking tutu! It’s some kind of
pet!
”

“I have to,
”
Gates
tried saying, but his jaw muscles were locked just as tightly as the rest of the muscles in his body.
The lenses of his thick glasses had fogged over.