Fauna (34 page)

She swivels the chair round to face him. “You have?”

“Yeah, well, soldierboy has. You should take a look at those too.”

“Take a look at what?” Guy says, stepping through the office door. Billy rouses himself and goes to greet him. “Hey, Billy-boy.” He pats the dog’s side. “Take a look at what?”

Lily glances at Stephen, who directs his gaze to the floor.

“Okay,” Guy says, “I’ll start. I see there’s a fresh mound of dirt around back.”

Again Lily takes her cue from Stephen, who nods but keeps his mouth shut.

“Well, what is it?”

Lily takes a breath. She found the body, she should be the one to say. “A coyote.”

“What? Where did you—”

“You’d better take a look at this.” Stephen’s voice is calm. It helps steady Lily’s nerves.

“Yeah,” she says, “pull up a chair.”

The three of them read over the whole thing, Stephen reaching for the mouse to guide them, post to comment to post. When they reach the bottom, Guy sits back, running both hands through his hair. “Holy shit.”

“I should’ve said something after the first post,” Stephen says. “I thought, I don’t know … I thought I could get through to him.”

Lily laughs, short and sharp. “You think you can get through to a sick fuck like that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Stephen’s face is miserable. “I guess not.”

“Lily,” Guy says gently, “are you sure it’s a good idea, you camping out down there?”

“Maybe she could stay here—” Stephen begins.

Lily stands abruptly. “I can take care of myself.”

“We know you can,” says Guy. “We know. It’s just—”

“I have to get to work.”

Stephen steps back to let her pass. “You have a job?”

“Yes, I have a job.”

“Where?”

“Yeah,” Guy says, “where?”

She wants to say
none of your business
—maybe even scream it—but it suddenly hits her that this is nowhere near true. At the door she turns to face them. “The Precious Pearl, okay? I’m the dish pig at the Precious fucking Pearl.” The quaver in her voice only makes her madder. “Happy?”

They nod.

“Good. Come on, Billy, let’s go.”

soldierboy wrote …

Buried explosive devices—now where have I heard that idea before? You never did say what this war of yours is about, so here’s a theory of my own. You’re scared. Never mind that it makes no sense, you’re scared shitless of coyotes and you think if you kill them the fear will go away. Well, guess what? The fear doesn’t live in the coyote. It lives where you feel it, down deep in those guts you keep talking about. And look what’s happening to you in the meantime.
You’re the kind of guy who squats in the bushes for hours on end just hoping for the chance to watch a fellow creature suffer a painful and terrifying death. And even then you’re not satisfied. You have to mess with the body. Maybe you figure taking a piece of it with you will make that low-down feeling stop. So how’s that working out for you? I’m willing to bet, paw or no paw, you’re still walking around scared to death.

POSTED AT 10:48 AM, May 31, 2008

She’s just out walking—maybe down to Queen Street for a gelato, maybe all the way to Cherry Beach to watch the dogs run. Out walking, nothing more.

Edal turns at Mt. Stephen Street like a streetcar following its rails. At the gate, she presses the buzzer with a trembling finger. Fights a ridiculous urge to run.

This time he appears in the kitchen doorway. He’s wearing the rawhide jacket; the fringe work dances as he jogs toward her across the yard. She feels suddenly, sickeningly overdressed. Navy blue shorts and a white sleeveless top—what is she, a sailor? She misses her uniform. Longs for it. She’s never known how to dress.

Guy pats the tow truck as he passes it, as though its blue flank were sensible of his presence, desirous of his touch. Edal steps out from behind the sign, showing herself in full. “Hi.”

“Hi, yourself.”
Led Zeppelin
shows where the jacket hangs
open, the name in red, the dirigible itself cracked white against black. He draws the key up on its chain, fumbles a little with the padlock—the first time she’s seen any part of him unsure.

Stepping into the yard, she finds herself scanning the place for Stephen, uncertain whether she wants him to be there or not.

“All on my ownsome,” Guy says behind her, the padlock chucking shut in his hand. “Stephen’s out walking his dogs.”

She turns to him. “He has dogs?”

“He volunteers down at the shelter.”

“Oh.”

He tucks the key away. “We ought to get you a copy made.”

“What? Oh, no, I—”

“Why not? You’re a friend, aren’t you?”

She feels her face grow hot. The day’s turning close, the air ever so slightly tarry. First smog advisory of the year.

“Come on.” He touches her elbow briefly. “I was just going to exercise Red.”

It’s what she’s been hoping for without knowing it. They’re halfway across the yard when the phone sounds its bygone peal.

“Shit.” Guy wheels and pelts for the office. “Back in a sec.”

He banks to take the corner, as though he’s got a motorcycle beneath him, or a horse. In his absence Edal becomes aware of the parkway. It would be like living alongside a waterfall, only minus the rainbows, the cool, clean air.

“Sorry,” he calls, jogging back. “Pileup on the Gardiner.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You want to stick around?”

Edal looks at her feet. She can see herself sitting on his doorstep, getting thirsty, maybe even heat-stroked, while she waits for him to return. Stephen or Lily showing up to find her passed out in the dirt. “I should probably get going.”

She lifts her eyes to the zeppelin on his chest. It floats for a moment, then buckles as he twists to shuck off the jacket. He gives it a shake, swings and settles it across her shoulders. “You fly him.”

She looks up. “Me?”

“You know what to do, don’t you? You watched me.”

“I guess.”

He raises both hands to the neck of his T-shirt. “It’s the same key as the front gate. You’ll have to let me out.”

It’s a simple enough gesture, him lifting the silver chain up over his own head and guiding it over hers. The key settles at her breastbone. She takes it between her finger and thumb.

The red-tail’s getting tired. Its wings spread slowly now, grudgingly, and it looks darker somehow, as though its feathers have been oiled. The last few passes, it’s glared at Edal with what she can only interpret as rage.

The rawhide drags at her arms. Reaching the door end, she skids and spirals round in time to see the cloud cover part. Light like a knife through grubby wool. It cuts across plumage, a gleaming, seconds-long span, until the hawk contracts to land in its tree. Edal stops, panting hard, hands on her knees. Suddenly the rawhide is unbearable. She straightens to struggle out of its muggy hold.

“Hot?”

Edal lets out a small cry. Stephen stands watching her, just outside the cage. “You startled me.”

He blinks, black lashes sweeping. “Where’s Guy?”

“He got a call.” She pauses, gulping air. “Pileup on the Gardiner.”

He stares a moment longer. “Want something to drink?”

The kitchen is cool, a boxy air conditioner humming in the window beside the door. Edal pulls a chair out from the table and sits.

Stephen opens the fridge. “Iced tea okay?”

“Sure.”

He watches the drinks in his hands as he approaches, like a child afraid to spill. Placing her glass on the table, he sits down opposite with his own. His cheeks are flushed, but so far as she knows they generally are.

“Thanks.” She drinks, ice shunting against her teeth. “So, dog walking.”

He looks up.

“Guy mentioned. It’s good. They go nuts cooped up in there all day.”

He nods, takes a mouthful and sets down his glass.

“How many do they let you take out?”

“Only one at a time. You get the easy ones at first, until they figure out what you can handle.”

“You’re good with them, I bet.” Somehow this is the wrong thing to say; the lashes drop, as though in answer to some internal twinge. “I’ve seen you with Billy,” she adds, “that’s all.”

His smile comes back halfway. “He’s great, isn’t he?”

“He’s a beauty.” Probably best to leave it there. She lifts her glass and drains it.

“Want some more?” he asks, already rising.

Edal’s never been good at knowing when people are just being polite. Not enough practice. Better to leave early just in case. “Okay, thanks.” It must be the thirst talking, all that moisture she sweated out. At the same time, she becomes aware of a need to pee. “Mind if I use the bathroom?”

He unseals the fridge door. “Go ahead.”

It’s a small room, uncluttered, surprisingly clean. Paper on the dispenser, almost an entire roll. The toilet’s an old one, the bowl yellowed with age, but the seat shows no splashes, no errant hairs. No need to crouch.

The sink and surrounding counter are of a piece, one of those hard plastic slabs with a seashell-shaped depression. A little grime around the taps, but nothing unusual. There’s a cake of white soap in a shallow, ribbed dish, a can of Barbasol and two plastic Bics. Two toothbrushes and a pinched tube of Crest in a cheap black mug.

Edal washes her hands. No hand towels—that would be downright spooky—just a couple of what look to be beach towels, one garish as a fruit salad, the other navy blue with orange tropical fish. She lowers her nose to the fish towel—Guy’s towel, she decides, the more mature of the two. No funk, not even a hint of mildew. No false-flower detergent smell either. Just towel. Used recently to dry a clean man. She draws another deep breath through her nose before using it to dry her hands.

When she emerges, Stephen is standing beside the table, holding her full glass. “Want to see something?” The look on his face is disarming—he could be ten years old.

“Sure.”

He sets the iced tea down and turns, stepping quickly to the bright green door—the door to what is, almost certainly, his bedroom. Not ten years old, Edal reminds herself, twice that. She follows several steps behind him and halts in the frame.

The room is deep like the kitchen, neat and spare. An old four-poster stretches along the far wall, its head lined up with the door that must lead through to the office. Stephen hasn’t much to his name. Hooks on the wall dangle T-shirts, a couple of pairs of jeans. Runners and a pair of sand-coloured boots lined up on the floor beneath them. Heavy, lace-up boots. Edal’s eyes skip again to the bed. Plain tan sheets, a single grey blanket tucked tight. The pieces shift a moment longer before clicking into place—his knack for silent approaches, his unnerving, straight-backed stance. Even now, as he lowers himself to his knees at the bedside, his movements are quiet and controlled.

For a moment, Edal imagines he’s about to pray. Is that what he wanted to show her? Is she expected to join in?

Only now he’s on his hands and knees, then knees and elbows, reaching beneath the bed. Whatever the treasure is, it must be fragile; he pulls it toward him with care. Edal steps into the room, peering past his rounded back. A mid-sized dog carrier comes into view. She draws alongside him and kneels.

There are four of them, eyes wide open, hands reaching through the metal grid of the carrier door. Raccoon kits, five, maybe six weeks old. One gives a whickering cry.

“Hey, fuzzballs,” Stephen says, and the kits break into a squeaking chorus. “Okay, okay.” He shuffles back on his knees and stands.

Edal looks up. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll be right back.” He turns and slips out the door.

She stares after him for a moment before turning back to the kits. Their cries are working on her, causing her to feel vaguely upset. She considers rising to see what’s keeping him, but thinks better of leaving the babies alone. Kits, not babies. For God’s sake, they live in a cage under a bed.

When Stephen returns, he’s carrying a cookie tin. Standing up in it, like rubber-capped toy soldiers, four undersized baby bottles. He kneels carefully, setting the tin down between them.

“They can all get going together for once,” he says softly, handing Edal two bottles. “No squabbling.”