Wolves, Boys and Other Things That Might Kill Me (19 page)

“Oh, sure.” I pause, suddenly getting a view of how this conversation must sound to Mr. Buck. It feels like seeing myself in a public mirror and discovering a gaping hole in my pants. “I’m KJ Carson. I live in West End with my dad. He’s a fishing guide. I’m sort of his assistant. But I also write this column for the high school newspaper about wolves, which is where some of the trouble started. But I think the real trouble is that people need to start talking to each other about this, instead of shooting each other.”

Mr. Buck’s voice goes up a notch. “Shooting each other?”

“Well, a little. I mean, I may have overstated that, considering that my friend didn’t die and they were probably aiming at his ice sculpture, not him.”

“I assume you mean the shotgun incident where a young man was injured during a parade.”

“You know about that?”

“Yeah, I know about that.”

That imaginary hole in my pants is getting bigger. “Well, so I just thought if people could hear what you have to say and talk about . . .” In the back of my mind I hear Addie’s voice. “. . . their feelings . . . it might help.”

“Miss Carson. It’s an expensive thing to have a public meeting. Not only do I have to come out, but we have to rent a building and then hire a recorder, a hearing officer, and a secretary. Then we need security people. All that costs money. The government isn’t in the business of group therapy.”

I don’t say anything for a minute. I let my brain catch up to my mouth and what Mr. Buck has just said. Finally I say, “How much does it cost if this initiative against the wolves goes on the ballot? How much does it cost if somebody bashes in another store window? Or takes another shot and doesn’t miss?”

Mr. Buck chuckles. “Yes, wolves are expensive little buggers.”

“Don’t you need to have more meetings anyway? I mean you might as well have it here as anywhere else. At least you know you’ll draw a crowd.”

“How many would you say?”

“Everybody I know and all their ticked-off cousins, grandmas, and drinking buddies.”

“Sounds about right. Can you hold on?” Mr. Buck doesn’t say anything for a minute but I can hear him rustling papers. Finally he says, “Two weeks soon enough?”

“Two weeks? You can set it up that fast?” I feel the cheeseburger I had for lunch jiggle in my stomach. Holy smack.

“We like to strike while the iron is hot. And your area’s been getting pretty hot.”

“Too hot if you ask me.”

He clucks his tongue, like he’s writing something down. When he finishes he says, “Miss Carson?”

“Yes?”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen. Almost.”

“That’s about what I thought.”

“Does it matter?”

He chuckles again. “Just to me,” he says, and hangs up the phone.

COMMUNICATION BREAKDOWN

I COME EARLY. Everyone else in town has the same idea, and there is a line out of the lodge at five thirty. The Union Pacific railroad built the old dining lodge in the twenties, back when the railroad went through town. The rough bark walls are braced by stone pillars that look like they could withstand the caldera blowing. Might come in handy tonight.

When I get inside I see Virgil, Dennis, and Sondra milling around next to Eloise. I walk toward them and trip on a set of folding chairs propped against the back wall. The chairs clatter to the floor in a loud, explosive way. The whole room, especially me, jumps two feet sideways. At least no one throws a punch.

Dad’s coming late so I need to save him a seat: a seat that isn’t right next to Eloise and that isn’t right next to people who are violent, crazy, or obnoxious. So in other words, outside. I look around. On one side of the room are the environmentalists, on the other side are the ranchers and the hunters. I see Mr. and Mrs. Martin. I see William, too, but he’s standing up against the wall by himself. He looks about as comfortable as I do. I unfold the chairs I tripped over and stow away in the back.

I am surprised by all the strangers. There are guys with ponytails holding Buffalo Nation posters, and women in camo, families that have the wind-worn look of ranchers and farmers, Jackson Hole types in fur-lined dress coats, and a whole bunch of women sitting together who look like grown-up Sondras.

Virgil comes through the crowd toward me. He doesn’t look mad at me anymore. “What are you doing back here? Are you afraid to sit next to me?” He smiles. After a cold front it’s nice to see the sun again.

I laugh. “I like keeping my back to the wall.”

“Not a bad idea,” he says.

“You aren’t going to exhibit any ‘artwork’ tonight, are you?”

“Um, no . . . I’m here on assignment,” he says, pointing to the camera around his neck.

“Me, too,” I say. I pull out my pad and pocket tape recorder. I pluck my pen out of my pocket and drop it.

Virgil picks up my pen and hands it to me. “You dropped your writing utensil.”

“Thanks,” I say, smiling. It’s funny, but having Virgil remember that embarrassing moment relaxes me.

At the front of the room there’s a bustle of activity with mikes, chairs, and speakers. I see Mr. Buck.

“Is that him?” Virgil says.

“Yep,” I say. “I can’t believe he came.”

Virgil steps in close. It’s the closest he’s been to me in a week. For a split second I’m Virgil blind, which is not bad actually. Then I hear one of the Buffalo Nation guys sparring with one of the ranchers across the room. Virgil says lightly, “Better be careful what you ask for I guess, missy.”

“I guess,” I say, feeling sick.

Virgil takes my hand. “Don’t forget to duck.”

“You’re the one that needs a bodyguard,” I say.

“Aunt Jean put some bear spray in her purse.”

“That’s just what we need,” I say. “A room full of blind hunters.”

Virgil squeezes my hand and moves back into the crowd.

When Dad comes in he looks tense and miserable. I say, “Do you feel all right?”

“It’s been a long day,” he says.

“Why don’t you go home? I’ll catch you up in the morning.”

“I hate to miss a good public brawl . . . but I might have to take you up on that.”

“Don’t worry. There’s always another brawl.”

Officers Smith and Farley come in and sit down in front, conspicuously armed.

Dad motions up front. “Who are all these people?”

I talk into his good ear. “The lady in the middle is the Federal consultant. She’s supposed to take comments and keep the peace.”

“Good luck,” says Dad.

“The guy next to her is Ed Buck, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife guy. Not sure what I think about him.”

“Does he work for the government?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, there you go.”

“Next to him is the guy who got all the money together to pay ranchers for the livestock the wolves kill.”

“Yeah, I’ve read about him,” he says, shaking his head. “Bet he wonders what he got himself into.”

“In the front row is the guy who got the petition going in Red Lodge saying that the wolves are killing all the elk and cows and sheep and unless we hurry up and get the wolves back out of Yellowstone we’re all going to get brain cancer.”

“Really?”

“Not really. He’s a state rep.”

“How do you know all this?” says Dad, staring at me.

I shrug. “The Internet?”

“Obviously you have too much free time.”

I don’t say anything to that.

“It’s not like they’re going to get rid of the wolves by signing a petition. Too much has happened,” Dad says.

“I hope you’re right,” I say.

The Fed lady tries to call the meeting to order with a gavel-banging tantrum. “Tonight we’re here to give you some information and to find out what you people think of having the wolves back. Nothing gets decided. Anybody acts out of line we throw him or her out. Clear?”

Civil discourse. Yeah.

Then Buck pulls out the PowerPoint and gives a history lesson.

First he talks about how there were once two million wolves in the United States, and nowhere more plentiful than in the greater Yellowstone area. Then he shows slides of dead wolves strung up in rows, and a few people clap.

He talks about how wolves were killed off in the park by the mid-twenties and how the elk and deer ate the grass-lands and mountainsides down to dirt and the stream banks washed away because there were no trees left to hold the soil together. How other species declined in a domino effect and even elk and deer had problems because of diseases caused in part by their overpopulation.

Then he moves on to an overview of the fifty years of environmental wrangling that resulted in the government bringing fourteen wolves into the park and fourteen into Idaho under the Endangered Species Act. There is a lot of booing and cheering in the audience.

The Yellowstone wolves were kept in pens for a year to make sure they wouldn’t just run back to Canada. During that time every news agency in the world showed up to photograph the wolves, and the day they were released into the wild, wolf mania began. People have been streaming into the park hoping to see them ever since.

Now the wolves have dispersed throughout Wyoming, Idaho, and Montana. Other native species have diversified. Forests and streams are recovering. For better or worse, the elk and deer numbers are way down. And livestock and pets have been lost. Ranchers on the edge of bankruptcy have one more battle to fight. It’s a compromise of failure and success.

The crowd is restless.

He finishes up by saying, “The wolves can be a pain in the neck, and heaven only knows plenty of you’d like to see them gone, but I think our time would be better spent talking about a way to make this work.” He gets a few catcalls. Then he says, “And I’d like to thank the young woman who invited me here tonight. Is KJ Carson here? She promised you’d be a lively bunch.”

Holy smack.

Everyone looks around. I freeze. Dad looks down his very long nose at me, and he doesn’t look happy. “Katherine Jean,
you
called him?”

“Yes?”

He leans back in his chair and shakes his head. “This is your idea of cooling things off. Didn’t you learn anything from Virgil getting shot?”

“Civil discourse, you know.”

Some helpful type yells, “She’s back here, Buck.”

Dad shakes his head. “Stand up. You started this.”

I bob up and then melt back into my seat.

Mr. Buck says, “Give her a hand. This is a kid with some spunk.”

There is weak spurt of applause.

Sondra yells, “You go, girl! Wolves rock!”

Dad pulls his coat off the back of his chair. “You go, girl. I’m going back to work.” He walks into the crowd. I want to follow him but I can’t. I’ll have to explain when I get home. I didn’t lie to him. I just didn’t tell him I called Ed Buck.

“Questions?” says Mr. Buck.

A man raises his hand and says, “You ever seen what a wolf does to a herd of sheep?”

“They eat them,” says Mr. Buck. A few people laugh. “Next question?”

I sit in my chair, motionless, while my insides redecorate.

A man yells, “Shoot, shovel, and shut up! Shoot, shovel, shut up!”

Others join in and the Fed lady has another gavel tantrum. “Pipe down or I’ll cancel the meeting.”

The shovel cheerleaders simmer down.

The Fed lady says, “We are now ready for comments. Make a statement, in three minutes or less. Then sit down and shut up.”

A line forms to the microphone.

Ben from the garage says, “Wolves are a Washington conspiracy. Take ’em back to Washington where they belong!!”

“Wolves are the heart of this country,” says a woman covered in turquoise.

A guy decked out in camo says, “Put ’em on the ballot, and we’ll show you where you can put ’em.”

“Wolves are returning balance to the ecosystem,” says a man with a clipboard.

An old-timer follows him. “You ever try to balance a dead herd of sheep, buddy?”

One of the estrogen set hustles up to the mike. “Which you get paid for . . . without having to kill them yourself.”

“Hunters like to eat, too. What rights do we have?”

“What rights do the animals you kill have?”

“The right to remain silent.”

Cheering and a gavel tantrum ensue. Virgil appears next to me. “You didn’t tell your dad?”

“I thought he’d be mad,” I say.

Virgil snaps off a shot of the family in front of us and the parents glare at him. He says, “You were right.”

The Federal lady yells, “Quiet down! Or this meeting is over.”

“You’ll have to forgive us,” says Jonathan Daniels, a snowmobile operator, to the Fed lady. “Some of us haven’t had this much fun since the Christmas Parade.”

Half the crowd sniggers.

Eloise stands up and gets in line behind Daniels. I take a deep breath. Daniels turns, looks at her, and then clears out.

Virgil puts down his camera. “Oh, man . . .”

Eloise’s voice cuts across the packed room. “First, I wish I found this topic as amusing as Mr. Daniels. Unfortunately the last time this town had any kind of exchange of opinions about the wolf, someone shot at my son.”

“Here she goes,” says Virgil.

Eloise continues, “Second, since my son has a souvenir from living here implanted in his face I feel that I am a property owner of sorts. We own a piece of your history. In part, it’s a history of courage and idealism but largely it’s a history of opportunity squandered. Now your history is that the wolves are back. That’s history. You can sign all the petitions you want, that’s the law now. And thug violence isn’t going to chase the wolves away either. You have a chance here to make a deal with your future, or you can stick your head in your hat and leave. But people who behave like Neanderthals aren’t just endangered. They’re dead meat.”