In The Garden Of The North American Martyrs (14 page)

Wharton glanced out the window. “Actually,” he said, “those are ponies. Shetlands.”

She didn't answer.

It rained hard, then cleared just before they came up the drive to the house. Ellen got out of the car and looked around skeptically. In the distance the mountains were draped with thick coils of cloud, and closer up in the foothills the mist lay among the treetops. Water ran down the trunks of the trees and stood everywhere. Wharton picked up Ellen's bags and walked toward the house, naming wildflowers along the path.

“I don't know what you're trying to prove,” Ellen said, “living out in the middle of no goddam where at all.” She saw George and shouted and waved. He dropped the board he was hammering and ran to meet her. She knelt on the wet grass and hugged him, pinning his arms to his side. He tried to hug back but finally gave up and waited, looking over Ellen's shoulder at Wharton. Wharton picked up his bags again. “I'll be in the house,” he said, and continued up the path, his boots making a sucking noise in the mud.

“House?” Ellen said when she had come inside. “You call this a house? It's a barn or something.”

“Actually,” Wharton said, “it's a converted stable. The government used to keep mules here.”

“I'm all for simple living but God Almighty.”

“It's not so bad. We're getting along just fine, aren't we, George?”

“I guess so.”

“Why don't you show Mother your room?”

“Okay.” George went down the passageway. He waited out
side, holding the door like an usher. Ellen looked inside and nodded. “Oh, you set up a cot for me. Thank you, George.”

“Dad set it up. I'll sleep there and you can have the bed if you want.”

Wharton showed her what was left to see of the house. She hated it. “You don't even have any pictures on the walls!” she said. He admitted that the place lacked warm touches. In the summer he would throw on a coat of paint, maybe buy some curtains. When they came down from the loft where Wharton worked Ellen took a package from her suitcase and gave it to George.

“Well, George,” Wharton said, “what do you say?”

“Thank you,” George said, not to Ellen but to Wharton.

“Go ahead and open it,” Wharton said.

“For Christ's sake,” Ellen said.

It was a book,
The World of Wolves
. “Jeez,” George said. He sat down on the floor and began thumbing through the pictures.

How could Ellen have guessed at George's interest in wolves? She had an instinct for gifts the way other people had an instinct for finding the right words to say. The world of things was not alien and distasteful to her as it was to Wharton. He despised his possessions with some ostentation; those who gave him gifts went away feeling as if they'd made Wharton party to a crime. He knew that over the years he had caused Ellen to be shy of her own generosity.

“Why don't you read in your bedroom, George? The light here is terrible.”

“He can stay,” Ellen said.

“Okay,” George said, and went down the hall, not lifting his eyes from the page.

“That wasn't as expensive as it looks,” Ellen said.

“It was a fine gift,” Wharton said. “Wolves are one of George's obsessions these days.”

“I got it for a song,” Ellen said. She put a cigarette in her
mouth and began to rummage through her purse. Finally she turned her bag upside down and dumped it all over the floor. She poked through the contents, then looked up. “Have you got a match?”

“No. You'll have to light it from the stove.”

“I suppose you've quit.” She said this as though it were an accusation.

“I still enjoy one every now and then,” Wharton said.

“Did you read what that doctor said who did the post-mortem on Howard Hughes?” asked Ellen, returning from the kitchen. “He said, ‘Howard Hughes had lungs just like a baby.' I almost cried when I read that, it made me so nostalgic for when I was young. I'd hate to think what my lungs look like, not to mention my liver and God knows what else.” She blew out some smoke and watched it bitterly as it twisted through a slant of light.

“Howard Hughes never let anyone touch him or come close to him,” Wharton said. “That's not your style.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Only that there's always a certain risk when we get close—”

“You didn't mean that. You think I've got this big love life going. What a laugh.”

“Well, you did.”

“I don't want to get into that,” Ellen said. “Let's just say I like to be appreciated.”

“I appreciated you.”

“No. You thought you were too good for me.”

Wharton denied this without heat. During most of their marriage he
had
imagined that he was too good for Ellen. He had been wrong about that and now look at the mess he had made. He stood abruptly, but once he was on his feet he could not think of anything to do, so he sat again.

“What's the point, anyway?” Ellen asked, waving her hand around. “Living in a stable, for God's sake, wearing those boots and that dumb hat.”

“I was wearing the boots because the ground is muddy and the hat because my head gets cold.”

“Who are you trying to kid? You wear the hat because you think it makes you look like Pierre the Trapper. Ees true, no?”

“You've made your point, Ellen. You don't like the house and you don't like me. Actually, I'm not even sure why you came.”

“Actually,” she said, “I came to see my son.”

“I don't understand why you couldn't wait until June. That's only two more months and you'll have him all summer. According to the terms—”

Ellen snorted. “According to the terms,” she said. “Come off it.”

“Let me finish. I don't have to grant you visiting privileges. This is a courtesy visit. Now if you can't stop finding fault with everything you can leave, and the sooner the better.”

“I'll leave tomorrow,” Ellen said.

“Suit yourself.”

Ellen bent suddenly in her chair. Piece by piece, she picked up the things she'd emptied onto the floor and replaced them in her purse. Then she stood and walked down the passageway to George's room, moving with dignity as if concealing drunkenness, or a limp.

 

At dinner George announced his intention to acquire a pet wolf. Wharton had entertained a similar fancy at George's age, and the smile he gave his son was addressed to the folly of both their imaginations. George took it as encouragement and pressed on. There was, he said, a man in Sinclair who had two breeding pairs of timber wolves. George knew for sure that a litter was expected any day now.

Wharton wanted to let George down lightly. “They're probably not real wolves,” he said. “More likely they're German shepherds, or huskies, or a mix.”

“These are real wolves all right,” George said.

“How can you be sure?” Ellen asked. “Have you seen them?”

“No, but Rory has.”

“Who is Rory?”

“Rory is an acquaintance of George's,” Wharton said, “and Rory does not have the last word on every subject, at least not in this house.”

“Rory is my friend,” George said.

“All right,” Wharton said, “I'm willing to accept Rory's testimony that those are real wolves. What I will not accept is the idea of bringing a wild animal into the house.”

“They're not wild. Rory says—”

“Rory again!”

“—Rory says that they're just as tame as dogs, only smarter.”

“George, be reasonable. A wolf is a killing machine. It needs to kill in order to survive. There's nothing wrong with that, but a wolf belongs in the wild, not on a chain or locked up in a cage somewhere.”

“I wouldn't lock him up. He'd have a lair.”

“A lair? Is that what you're building?”

George nodded. “I told you.”

“George,” Ellen said, “why don't you think about a nice dog? Wolves really are very dangerous animals.”

George did not want a nice dog. He was willing to admit that wolves were dangerous, but only to the enemies of their friends. This carried him to his last argument, which he played like a trump: a wolf was just exactly what they needed to help them get rid of the sniper.

“Sniper?” Ellen said. “What sniper?”

“He means poacher,” Wharton said. “George, I'm at the end of my patience. A wolf belongs with other wolves, not with people. I don't approve of this habit of turning wild animals into pets. Now please drop the subject. And stop playing with your food.”

“What poacher?” Ellen asked.

“I'm not hungry,” George said.

“Then leave the table.”

George went to his room and slammed the door.

“What poacher?”

“Someone has been doing some shooting on the property. It's nothing serious.”

“There's someone running around out there with a gun and you say it isn't serious?”

“This used to be public land. I want people to feel like they can use it.”

“But this is your home!”

“Ellen—”

“What have you done about it? You haven't done anything at all, have you?”

“No,” Wharton said, and got up and left the room. On his way outside he stopped to talk to George. The boy was sitting on the floor, sorting through some junk he kept in a cigar box. “Son,” Wharton said, “I'm sorry if I was short with you at dinner.”

“It's okay,” George said.

“I'm not just being mean,” Wharton said. “A mature wolf can weigh over a hundred and fifty pounds. Think what would happen if it turned on you.”

“He wouldn't turn on me. He would protect me.” George shook the box. “He would love me.”

Wharton had intended to go for a walk but decided it was too slippery underfoot. He sat on the front steps instead, hunched down in his coat. The moon was racing through filmy clouds, melting at the edges. The wind had picked up considerably, and Wharton could hear trees creaking in the woods beyond. Gradually the sky lowered and it began to rain. Ellen came out and told Wharton that he had a phone call.

It was the woman from the commune. She was going to be leaving the next day and wanted to come up to say good-bye.
Wharton told her that this was not possible just now. The woman was obviously hurt. She had once accused Wharton of not valuing her as a person and he wanted to show that this was not true. “Look,” he said, “let me take you to the station tomorrow.”

“Forget it.”

Wharton insisted and finally she agreed. Only after he hung up did Wharton realize that he might have Ellen along as well. There was just one bus out on Sunday.

Ellen and George were lying on the floor, reading the book together. Ellen patted the place beside her. “Join us?” Wharton shook his head. They were getting on fine without him; he had no wish to break up such a cozy picture. Anyway it would hardly be appropriate for him to go flopping all over the floor after scolding George for the same thing. Still restless, he went up to the loft and worked. It was very late when he finished. He took off his boots at the foot of the ladder and moved as quietly as he could past George's bedroom. When he turned on the light in his own room he saw that Ellen was in his bed. She covered her eyes with her forearm. The soft flesh at the base of her throat fluttered gently with her breathing.

“Did you really want me to stay with George?”

“No,” Wharton said. He dropped his clothes on top of the chest that served as dresser and chair. Ellen drew the covers back for him and he slid in beside her.

“Who was that on the phone?” she asked. “Have you got a little something going?”

“We saw each other a few times. The lady is leaving tomorrow.”

“I'm sorry. I hate to think of you all alone out here.”

Wharton almost said, “Then stay!” but he caught himself.

“There's something I've got to tell you,” Ellen said, raising herself on an elbow. “Jesus, what a look.”

“What have you got to tell me?”

“It isn't what you're thinking.”

“You don't know what I'm thinking.”

“The hell I don't.” She sank back onto her side. “I'm leaving Vancouver,” she said. “I'm not going to be able to take George this summer. That's why I wanted to see him now.”

Ellen explained that she did not feel comfortable living alone in the city. She hated her job and the apartment was too small. She was going back to Victoria to see if she couldn't find something better there. She hated to let George down, but this was a bad time for her.

“Victoria? Why Victoria?” Ellen had never spoken well of the place. According to her the people were all stuffed shirts and there was nothing to do there. Wharton could not understand her and said so.

“Right now I need to be someplace I feel at home.” That brought Ellen to another point. She was going to need money for travel and to keep body and soul together until she found another job.

“Whatever I can do,” Wharton said.

“I knew you'd help.”

“I guess this means you don't have to go back tomorrow.”

“No. I guess not.”

“Why don't you stay for a week? It would mean a lot to George.”

“We'll see.”

Wharton turned off the light, but he could not sleep for the longest time. Neither could Ellen; she kept turning and arranging herself. Wharton wanted to reach out to her but he wouldn't have felt right about it, so soon after lending her money.

 

George woke them in the morning. He sat on the edge of the bed, pale and trembling.

“What's wrong, sweetie?” Ellen asked, and then they heard a shot from the woods. She looked at Wharton. Wharton got out of bed, dressed quickly, and went outside.

He knew it was Jeff Gill, had known so the moment he heard the man's name. It sounded familiar, as things to come often
did. He even knew what Jeff Gill would look like: short and wiry, with yellow teeth and close-set, porcine eyes. He did not know why Jeff Gill hated him but he surely did, and Wharton felt that in some way the hatred was justified.