Wolves, Boys and Other Things That Might Kill Me (9 page)

Virgil says, “Deep thoughts, Mom,”

“I know. I scare myself sometimes,” says Eloise.

Eloise goes to work, and I stand aside so Virgil can take pictures.

“I don’t think Forty-Two’s going anywhere today,” says Virgil.

“Why?” I say.

“Take a look.”

I stare into the lens and see Forty-Two’s legs and head above the grass. Forty-Two is sprawled out in full submission, licking at Forty’s legs. Forty looks straight ahead, indifferent. I have to look away. It’s one thing to relate to the things I read in Eloise’s books; it’s another to see the behavior played out at the end of my binoculars.

I know that wolves’ survival depends on their hierarchical system, but this feels all wrong. Why does Forty-Two take it? The memory of the wolf I saw killed crawls in my insides like a poisonous spider. “I saw a wolf pack kill another wolf this summer for doing the same thing. The Nez Perce pack, I think. The wolf was submitting like that and they shredded it.”

Eloise says, “We always say ‘survival of the fittest,’ but I think with wolves it’s more ‘survival of the most aggressive.’ Physically there’s no reason for Number Forty-Two to be the kicking bag, except that she’s not willing to fight Forty to be anything else.”

“Are wolves just born alphas, betas, and omegas?”

“We used to think that, but what we’ve found by living so close to wolves is that there is a fair amount of transition. Age, injury, pups, offspring all impact a wolf’s social position. Wolves can actually take all those roles in a lifetime.”

“So what makes the difference between Forty and Forty-Two?”

Eloise looks off at the Specimen Ridge. “The thing about an alpha, male or female, is that they can lead. When things get desperate they attack instead of retreat.”

It occurs to me that I’m the luckiest student Eloise has ever had. I get to have the professor all to myself and skip the tests.

“Why do you study wolves?” I say.

“I’ve wondered about that myself, KJ. I didn’t start out to study them, that’s for sure. But the more I learned about them the more I was fascinated. They are tenacious killers, but they also sing and play and live in families. They go hard and go home. I respect that in an animal, any animal.”

“Do you think it’s going to work, having them here?”

“I hope so. For Yellowstone’s sake. Having them back in the food web gets the elk off the aspen. More aspen means more beaver habitat, which means more streambeds holding together and more fish. When there are more fish and the streams are healthier everything is healthier.”

“You talk too much, Mom,” says Virgil.

 

Shortly after the licking episode the entire pack breaks camp. We sit in the turnout, glued to the scopes, hoping they’ll come back, but they don’t. I lose track of time. We go back to the car and eat an early lunch, then wander around to a few other pullouts with no sign of activity. I start looking for other wildlife, watching the water, wondering what the fishing is like today.

We move up to Dave’s Hill by Slough Creek. I spot a badger in the field below, so Virgil and I leave Eloise and scurry down through the rocks.

A trumpeter swan circles over our heads. Its thick call echoes in the valley. The swan’s honking is joined by the clickety-clack of a sandhill crane and the trilling of the meadowlarks. In the pond below we can see cinnamon teal and loons circling on the water. All but the swan will be gone in a few days. The trees and grasses are coated in the fall light. The ground has that worn gray look it gets right before it snows. I see fish rising in the pond as the sun starts to set. This would be romantic if Virgil didn’t think of me as a homophobic bumpkin.

He’s fixated on the badger. “I got a shot of him but it’s no good. He went underground.”

“Sorry,” I say.

“Life’s too short,” he says, smiling.

“I
am
sorry, Virgil.”

Virgil puts the cap on his lens. “I’m going to run down and see if I can get a shot of those teal.”

I find a rock to sit on while Virgil entertains himself. Eloise is nowhere to be seen. I let the slanted sunlight move across as I work on my article. I keep seeing Number Forty-Two licking Number Forty. It makes my skin crawl.

What is the story here? If the wolf I saw die this summer was killed for backing down, why is Forty-Two allowed to stay with her pack for the same behavior? And if the outnumbered wolf I saw this summer had resisted, would things have been any different?

We move to a hill near Tower Junction. Virgil gets a great shot of a beaver on the river. The Wolf Mafia is out in full force this evening, along with a few locals. Everybody’s looking for a show.

We stand on the hill watching a meadow across the road that Eloise says has been popular this fall with the elk. She stands patiently assessing everything in her field of vision. I watch her percolate with understanding. In a weird way, she reminds me of my dad. I shudder.

After twenty or so minutes, she says “Rose Creek pack, dead ahead.”

I see five wolves in my scope, but the fading light makes it difficult to see them in detail. Three of the wolves duck into the grass then reappear at the edge of the elk herd. The leader runs at one of the smaller elk and the others follow in a flanking formation. Their running is smooth, connected, and tight. Invisible rhythm.

The leader lunges at the elk’s hindquarters, and the elk bucks and kicks. The wolf holds on for an instant and then is thrown to the ground. The other wolves jump to replace the alpha, but they’re not fast enough to get their dinner. The injured elk moves to the center of the herd and the herd jogs to safer grazing. It’s all over in a few seconds. The wolves head up into the trees away from the elk with the leader galloping full steam.

Eloise says, “Did you see that? That alpha got kicked square in the chest and he just popped up like toast. That’s fast food the hard way.”

“Doesn’t that hurt him?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” says Eloise. “Most wolves don’t live past their sixth birthday.”

I fade to the back of the crowd while people in front of me start to put away their scopes. I feel someone watching me from behind so I turn around. There on the ridge above me, less than thirty feet away, are six magnificent wolves standing in a row. They are watching us watch them.

I hear someone behind me say, “Oh.”

In the center of the wolves, two great gold eyes stare into mine. He’s huge. Too big to be a female. The other wolves drop back quickly as people turn and see them, but the black wolf stands his ground.

His eyes are incandescent yellow. I stare at those glaring eyes and they stare back at me. I am not afraid. He is not afraid. Something lights inside of me, ignites. I am not afraid. There is nothing to be afraid of. Then he spins and lopes straight up the rock, his tail sweeping the air behind him.

Virgil, Eloise, and I follow the pack with our scopes. We see more wolves traveling above, but we’re losing light so spotting is difficult. The pack appears and disappears as they traverse the steep ridge. Eloise says they are working down to get to the other wolves across the highway.

We run along the road with our hi-tech binoculars. It gets colder and harder to see. Everyone else is gone. We are alone with the howling shadows. We follow in the dark. Then the howling stops and the show is over.

When we get back to Eloise’s car she climbs inside to make notes. Virgil and I stand outside in the dark. We listen to the echo of snipes. Virgil looks through his telescope at the stars. He shows me Venus and Jupiter and its six moons. In spite of what Virgil thinks of me, I am sparkling from the inside. I want to yelp with the wolves, but the wolves are quiet, so I am, too.

“Did you get something to write about?” says Virgil.

I don’t know if he’s making fun of me, but it doesn’t matter. “Could you believe that? The way he looked at us.”

“You mean the way he looked at
you
,” says Virgil. “He looked like he was out for blood.”

“I didn’t feel scared.”

“What did you feel?” says Virgil.

“I don’t know,” I say, wondering myself. “I felt, I feel,
different
.”

Virgil stands next to me in the dark, close but far away. He laughs softly. “So, what, you’re Wolf Girl now?”

I laugh, too. “Shut up, Virgil.”

But I do feel different.

My mind hums. The spell of the day is wrapped around and inside of me. Eloise says wolves aren’t people, but I wonder if people can be like wolves.

ANTHROPOMORPHISMS

I LOOK AS haggard as Mrs. Baby, minus the water retention. I have been working on my wolf article in between school, homework, and the shop. Late last night I took the article to Virgil’s house. I read it out loud to the whole family in the kitchen.

Virgil snorted in his hot chocolate. Not sure that was a good thing.

Eloise said, “What’s with all the anthropomorphism? You know better than that.”

“Mrs. Brady says I write like a textbook. She wants me to punch it up,” I said.

Aunt Jean said, “Mrs. Brady is a dingbat.”

Eloise sighed. “All right, dear. Get their attention. But shorten it a bit. And then grow up and never write like that again.”

I went home, fretted about artistic integrity, and then made the article half as long and twice as punchy. At three I cracked my math book to get ready for the quiz. I finished right before my morning alarm went off.

I put my article on Mrs. Baby’s desk next to Virgil’s shot of Forty-Two licking up to Forty. The detail in the picture is astounding. It could be the cover shot for
National Geographic
.

“You look a little rough this morning, KJ.”

“I didn’t copy it out of a book this time.”

“Glad to hear it, dear,” she says.

I watch each student walk up and dump their stories on top of mine. She takes Virgil’s photo and holds it up so everyone can see it. “You all see this? Virgil has outdone himself with this shot.”

Virgil the perfect. Virgil the brilliant. But she’s right.

I look over at Virgil. His ears are pink.

Mrs. Baby says, “It’s such a sweet shot. Look how much these two wolves love each other.”

Virgil says nothing. I can’t stand it.

I say, “It’s not really love. That one is licking the other one to keep from getting thrashed. You can’t tell from the picture, but the one standing is ruthless. The one on the ground is the one they call the Cinderella wolf.”

“Cinderella wolf? That’s the biggest load of crap I ever heard in my life,” says Kenner. “Nature boy’s done his job dressing up a cold-blooded killer.”

“Well,” says Mrs. Baby, “he certainly has. I think it’s a lovely picture. How did you get it?”

Virgil shrugs. “I guess it’s all about the angle.”

“Well, it’s nice to have quality photography for a change,” Mrs. Baby says. “Now, everyone gather round the team table.” We groan. I love Baby, but she should really teach kindergarten.

“Remember . . .”

Dennis says, “Fair, fun, and friendly!”

I feel my eyes rolling out of my head. I wish she would just make him editor and get it over with. I sit next to Kenner and Addison. I come out of my stupor enough to notice that Kenner’s hand is wrapped in a bandage. Addison is hovering.

“What happened to your hand?” I say.

Kenner glares at me and then at Virgil.

Addison leans forward and says, almost in a whisper, “They had some stock get out last night. They think a wolf pack spooked them. Kenner was helping and cut his hand.”

Sondra sits down next to me. She says to Kenner, “Are you okay?”

Kenner ignores her. Addison leans forward and whispers, “His dog is missing.”

“I had a dog like that,” says Sondra. “But he always came back when I put treats out for him.”

Addison purses her lips at Sondra. “Cow dogs don’t just run off.”

Mrs. Baby says, “Kenner, I don’t see your article on the football game.”

Addison says, “He got hurt . . . working.”

Mrs. Baby puts her hand where her hip used to be, “Is he unable to speak, too?”

Kenner shoots a look of disgust at Mrs. Baby.

She flutters her hands in the air. “Well, whatever. Addie, how is the column going?”

“Good! I have three people that sent something in for this issue.”

“Great. We can use that to fill up most of Kenner’s space. But we need some mention of the game. Dennis can you write a quick paragraph?”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Brady,” says Dennis.

Kenner doesn’t say anything about being replaced by Dennis, but I think he’s going to get a cramp in his face if he doesn’t relax his jaw a little. When class is over I notice that Kenner is limping, too.

I follow him out. “I’d like to interview you for the paper.”

He keeps walking. I can see from Addison’s reaction that he heard me. I see the wolves, running straight at the elks’ feet. I step a little faster. “Hey, Kenner, I’d like to interview you about what happened.”

He stops and looks at me. “Why? So you can make me look like a bloodthirsty redneck?”

“No,” I say. I have the feeling I should back off. That’s what I would normally do. “I want to interview you so I can tell the rancher’s side of the story. I need someone to tell me about that.”

“I’ll pass,” says Kenner. Kenner’s a big guy, but there is something beat up, even defeated, in the way he’s holding himself steady. Maybe I smell blood. Probably I’m just a jerk.

“I’d only write what you tell me to,” I say. “Just your words, as long as they’re printable.”

“Well, they ain’t.” Kenner never says “ain’t.”

I say, “Addie, what happened?”