Fauna (31 page)

It’s a soft night, the air gentle, almost damp. Lily kneels beneath a quarter-moon in the grass out front of her tent, drawing the brush through Billy’s fur. She’s come to love the little clearing. Maybe no one will ever find it, and they’ll be safe here together for good. Or at least until the first big snow.

Billy sighs as she rakes the dark slope of his back. Her arm is getting tired, but she can hardly give up when he loves it this much. He deserves it, too, after being so good with Kate’s two cats. It was an uneasy truce, vibrating with mistrust, but it held. The three of them might even come to like each other, given time.

Besides, left untended, Billy’s lovely coat would soon degrade to the state it was in when she found him. She was walking the twilit shoulder back from the arena, skates in hand, when he came bounding out of the scrub. They were strangers to one another, yet she felt no fear. It was as though he’d belonged to her since weaning. As though he’d broken her heart by going missing but had finally found his way home.

They were both still babies, Lily not yet twelve, Billy full height but only half as solid as he would become. She laid a hand to him and felt the evidence of neglect—untold twigs and burrs, great clots and shingles of felted fur. After sneaking him into the garage, she smuggled out three cans of Chunky beef soup to keep him busy, and set to work with an old brush of her own. It was the wrong tool for the job. In the end she had no choice but to cut the whole mess away.

Clipped down to a centimetre of fuzz, he could no longer
hide the hunger he’d endured. It may have been what saved him. She’d never dreamt she’d be allowed to keep him, but it turned out the sight of a naked, emaciated dog could touch even a rotten heart. Or it might have been simpler than that. No favour without a price tag. No debt that doesn’t come due.

Lily lays down the brush and looks up at the skinny moon, a massive claw left hanging in the sky. She knows what’s really up there—the pocked and stony sphere, the earth’s fat shadow playing tricks—yet she can’t help but believe in what she sees.

Closing her eyes, she works her hands into Billy’s neck ruff, feeling for ticks. So far there’s been no mention of Mowgli picking parasites off his fellow wolves, but he must have; it wouldn’t be fair to keep those clever fingers to himself. Baloo, too—why wouldn’t they like bear blood? It’s hard to imagine one latching on to Bagheera, though. Piercing that perfect black hide.

She’s had a few herself—one in her neck, a few in her armpits and crotch—but in general they seem to prefer the taste of dog. She hates the idea of them clinging to him, forcing their little heads into his flesh.

It was Stephen who taught her how to get them out. The third time she visited the wrecking yard, Guy wasn’t around. The pretty-boy who came when she buzzed seemed to know all about her, and leaving would’ve meant finding Billy’s breakfast elsewhere, not to mention going without something to read.

After following Stephen back to the kitchen at a safe distance, she filled the kibble bowl to overflowing then crossed quickly to Guy’s room. When she returned with
Never Cry Wolf
in her hand, Stephen was kneeling in front of her dog.
She knew the flush of unreasonable panic she always felt when Billy made a new friend. It turned to shame when Stephen showed her the three black bloodsuckers he’d found.

“You’re bound to miss a few in a coat like this,” he told her. No way to take that but as a kindness. “You know not to twist them out, right? Don’t pop them while they’re dug in, either. Just pinch in tight against the skin and pull, slow and steady, until you feel it release.”

Having ploughed through Billy’s mane, Lily shifts to the rich hunting ground around his ears. Sure enough, at the base of the left one, her thumb stumbles on a swollen nub. She gets in tight with her nails and tweezes, lifts the tick and the skin it’s anchored to, and counts off the seconds in her head. At seventy-seven the fucker finally lets go.

She could flick it into the bushes, but what if it finds its way back, crawls up onto Billy and bores into him again? Better to finish the job.

Lily combs the grass, feeling for a suitable leaf. She rolls the tick up in a long, lightless tunnel then crushes the tunnel flat. It’s a good method, quick and clean. Not, however, entirely satisfying. Some part of her—a small part wholly within her control—would prefer to do it the dirty way. Press the bloated thing between her fingers. Feel the greedy bastard pop.

A
month passed before Jim Dale came gunning up Edal’s driveway again. She stepped out onto the porch as his truck shuddered to a halt, her mind already leading him across the yard to the path that began between the two red pines. She would name every tree they passed, not in a show-offy way but as a kind of conversation, though he would speak little, if at all. Noises would suffice. Closed-mouth sounds of approval, the odd whistle of disbelief.
Stupid
. She didn’t know why he’d come, but she could be sure it wasn’t to go for a walk.

“Hey there, Edal.”

He remembered her name. What was more, he said it as though it were normal, like Donna or Christine.

“Hi, Mr. Dale.”

He smiled. “Jim’ll do. Your mom and dad home?”

“My mom’s working.” She hesitated. “There’s only my mom.”

“That so. Well, come on over here, I’ve got something I want to show you.”

She was dressed like a hobo—baggy cut-offs and her Aerosmith T-shirt with half the band rubbed away. She felt her lack of footwear keenly as she walked toward him. She hadn’t thought to slip on her runners when she’d caught sight of the truck, had thought only of rushing out to meet him so he wouldn’t see inside the house.

He turned, reaching for something on the passenger seat. When Edal saw him straighten up with a liquor store box in his arms, she felt a tightening in her chest. Books. She couldn’t refuse—it was rude and it might hurt his feelings. And anyway, how could she begin to explain?

He set the box down on the hood, loosened its crossed flaps and lifted out a handful of white fur. Edal heard herself squeak. She accepted the kitten without question, folding it to her chest. Up close she could see its eyes weren’t exactly a pair—one blue, the other leafy green.

“Somebody left a whole litter on my doorstep. Do you believe that? Six of them. I found folks to take the others, but nobody wanted this little guy.”

Nobody wanted the white one? The one with the blue and green eyes? “How come?” Edal said softly.

He took one of the kitten’s front paws between a finger and thumb. There were two, maybe three extra toes. “They’re all like that. One of the back ones is worse.” He let go the paw. “So, what do you think?”

Edal shifted the kitten to one hand and took hold of his splayed paw. He didn’t squirm. If anything, he relaxed, surrendering his small weight and considerable warmth, watching her through his mismatched eyes.

“I’ll take him.”

“What about your mom? You think—”

“It’s okay,” Edal blurted. “She already said I could get a pet.”

“Is that right?”

“For my birthday.” Her face felt suddenly raw. She was unused to outright lying; Letty rarely paid sufficient attention to give her cause.

He said nothing, and Edal saw he was making his mind up to come back another time, when her mother was home.

“She says I need somebody to play with,” she said quickly.

His mouth changed then, softening in the black circle of his beard. “No brothers or sisters?”

“Nope.”

“Neighbours don’t have kids?”

“What neighbours?” She squeezed the kitten’s paw and felt seven or eight claws slip from their little pink sheaths. “My birthday’s next week.”

“In that case,” he said, “happy birthday to you.”

It was the best present she’d had in years. When Nana and Grandpa Adam had been the ones doing the wrapping, the thrill of picking open bows and peeling back tape had been exquisite. Letty’s gifts generally came in brown paper bags. Edal wouldn’t mind always getting books if she could at least see some sense in the titles her mother chose. She used to try following Letty’s line of thought: Nana liked knitting, so maybe she thinks I want to learn how to crochet; or, she knows we do French in school, so maybe she figures I know German too.

A name for the kitten came to her moments after Jim Dale drove off, his arm crooked out the window in a lazy
wave. Its paws weren’t so strange, especially if you stopped thinking of them as paws. The toes were like petals, radiating from the central pad. She would call him Daisy. Whoever decided all flowers were girls?

Daisy could live in her room. He’d be safe there, thanks to the padlock. It was hard to imagine leaving him alone all day while she was in school. Maybe she could take him along, smuggled inside her Mack. The other kids might make fun of his paddle paws at first, but they’d think his eyes were cool.

Only three weeks remained until summer holidays; after that she could stay home with Daisy all the time. She could play with him in her room when her mother was around, take him out in the yard whenever Letty drove off to clean somebody’s house or burn up her wages touring the region’s sad little Sally Anns. At some point Edal would own up, appearing with a grown-up Daisy slung around her neck. He’d be heavy by then. She’d wear him like a
lead-weighted fur collar
, the way Jimmy Watt wore Edal the otter the day he carried her back to Camusfeàrna when she’d run away from home. Even Letty would fall for him then.

It was a good plan, one Edal went over and over like an elaborate picture she was colouring in. That first night, she played with Daisy for hours, baiting him with wiggly fingers beneath the sheet. At length he tired of the game and began to groom himself. Edal watched his little tongue work, wondering if a mother had taught him—or if, like herself, he was good at learning things on his own.

Once clean, he began to knead her chest. His claws came out once or twice, but he put them away the moment she
tapped his toes. Satisfied, he settled in to sleep, his head cradled in the dip at the base of her throat.

She woke in a strip of moonlight to find him gone. She turned back the yellow blanket, then the sheet with its worn pattern of ferns. Not there. She stood up, careful where she put her feet. After a moment she went down on all fours, dropping her face to the floorboards to look at the world his way.

He wasn’t under the bed. Or the dresser, or the little brown desk. She didn’t think kittens could flatten themselves like bats to slide under doors, but she opened the closet just in case. Rummaging through the laundry basket, she knew a moment’s elation when her fingers met the nap of an inside-out sock. She bit her lip and felt inside her runners, her ankle boots. She delved into the bag of stuffed animals she couldn’t quite seem to throw away. Not one of them responded to her touch.

Edal began to hum, a single droning note. She backed out of the closet. The crack beneath the bedroom door was slimmer still, an impossible squeeze. Sitting back on her heels, she saw the dormer window she’d left open. The screens weren’t in, not since Grandpa Adam last took them out. But Daisy was too little, wasn’t he, to climb up all that way? She crawled closer. Close enough to see the tear in the checkered curtain, the dangling threads. It came to her then, clear as anything: more toes meant more claws.

Edal rose up on her knees and looked out. The slant was steep, but maybe not too steep for a kitten with grip to spare. Surely the curling asphalt shingles would afford some kind of hold. She pictured Daisy slipping and catching himself, inching down toward the volunteer alders that crowded up against the house. In her mind’s eye he managed the leap with
ease. Landing in leafy chaos, he let the bobbing branch settle before clambering inward to the trunk. From there he made his way to ground level. Down among the coyotes and the foxes. The shadowy minks.

Or maybe he never even got that far.

He would’ve stood out like a pale invitation against the scabby shingles. The threat could’ve come swooping from behind, silent wings and saucer eyes, horned head rearing as the talons closed. Poor Daisy, pinned between the tilt of the roof and the sparkling black cavern of the sky.

She could call Jim Dale, summon him from the darkness where she imagined him lying alone. He would come, wouldn’t he? And what if he did? He’d find out she couldn’t even be trusted to look after a kitten. He’d see her for the stupid kid she was.

Better to go looking for Daisy on her own. She crept downstairs in her pyjamas, slipped on her flip-flops and took the flashlight from its hook beside the door. The porch steps felt off-kilter. The grass licked her ankles and left them wet. As she swung her beam up onto the roof, swishing it to and fro, mosquitoes caught wind of her breath-scent and came to feed.

Daisy was so light—how could she expect to find proof of his passage? All the same, she looped her beam over the yard, searching for pressed-flower prints in every patch of telling ground. In any case, tracks were only one aspect of what
Tracking: The Subtle Art
had referred to as “sign.” If the killer had come on foot, there would be a fresh trail through the grass. If it had arrived by air, there might be pellets, regurgitated and let fall from its tree. A feather come loose when it struck.

If it was in fact an owl, there were a few things Edal could be sure of. For starters, it had no teeth;
Ontario Birds
had taught her that. Bird bills were nothing more than overgrown jawbones covered in something like horn. Like the jaws of snakes, they hinged top and bottom to swallow their victims whole.

G
randmother waited until Darius was old enough to keep a secret before she showed him the book. On the way back from the school bus that day, he told her about the video they’d watched in class, the giraffes and the elephants and, best of all, the pride of lions.

“Pride?” she said.

“That’s what they call it.”

When they stepped into the warmth, she carried on to his room without pausing to take off her coat. He followed to find her down on her knees on the rug, sliding her hand under the dresser, as though she were pushing a fat envelope under a door.