The Animals: A Novel (30 page)

He spent most of the day trying to get the snowmobile to run, pausing only briefly to heat up a frozen burrito for lunch. His uncle had purchased the machine new soon after Bill had arrived at the rescue twelve years ago and it had served him well in the intervening years, but now when he pulled at the cord it simply would not start. He removed the fuel lines and the filter and carburetor and then reassembled the machine and then pulled and pulled and pulled at the cord.

When he reentered the office, the snowmobile still did not run but his hands had gone numb from the cold and his patience was finished. The phone was already ringing as he came through the door.

North Idaho Wildlife Rescue, he said into the handset.

Don’t hang up, man, Rick said. His voice was calm. Quiet. And Bill did not hang up. Did not even breathe. I just want to talk for a minute. That’s all. Can we just do that?

I thought you were gone.

No, Rick said, I’m still here.

He could feel the handset in his grip. Cold plastic. I don’t have what you want.

Can we just talk? Just for a little while?

Leave me alone, Bill said.

I just want to talk for a minute, goddammit, Rick said, an edge in his voice now, and when Bill did not respond he said, more calmly, Let’s say you and me grab a beer.

Grab a beer? Are you serious?

Yeah, I’m serious. You owe me that much, Rick said.

Not after you went and talked to Jude. That’s crossing the line and you know it.

What line is that? I’m just trying to get your goddamn attention. You make it pretty near impossible. What else was I supposed to do?

You’re supposed to go back to Nevada.

I just want to talk. We’ve been friends for a long time. Don’t you owe me that much?

The drawing Bill had made as a child hung on the wall in its cheap wooden frame, faded with age but still recognizable as a bear, the animal’s head much larger than it was in life, its eyes blue, and underneath it, in red crayon or marker: MAJER. He could not imagine being the child who had made such a drawing, and yet there was the proof. He thought of Jude. Of the boy’s drawing of the wolf.

Twelve years, Nat, Rick said. Twelve years I’ve been locked up.

Shit, Bill said. He looked across the room to where the heater hissed a constant stream of kerosene-heated air into the room. All right, he said at last. All right. He already regretted saying the words.

AN HOUR
later he entered the Northwoods Tavern to find the bar well attended despite the storm, a dozen or more patrons laughing and drinking and carrying on under the illumination of the same neon lights that burned ceaselessly in apparent disregard of the blizzard. Across the room, Rick sat at a table near a dim frosted window, a bottle in front of him. He looked at Bill as he came through the door, the expression on his face indicating no emotion at all, not even recognition, as if glancing up at something inanimate: a stone, a tree, a stick.

Bill had spent the hour between Rick’s phone call and their meeting working on the snowmobile and jerking repeatedly at the pull cord, all the while snowflakes filtering in through the open door of the equipment shed and his heart riding in his throat. He adjusted the choke and pumped the gas and then pulled and pulled and pulled and at last, to his relief and surprise, the machine caught and warmed up enough that it would idle without throttle.

He had loaded it into the back of the truck, driving the machine up the metal ramps and tying it to the bed so it would not slide while he drove. The rifle remained under the seat in the zippered case with the dart gun. He did not know what he would do with such a weapon but he had held it across his lap for a moment before returning it to the space under the seat and exiting the truck.

At the bar he ordered a beer and the bartender told him he was mixing up some hot toddies and then asked if he wanted one.

I’m not even sure I’ll be here long enough to finish the beer, Bill said in response.

The bartender nodded and handed him a bottle and Bill crossed the room to where Rick sat, staring at him dolefully as Bill took the chair across from him at the table. Here I am, he said.

Here you are, Rick said. Fat Nat with a beard.

Rick’s coat was unzipped and Bill could see the edge of a tattoo at his throat. You got tatted up in prison, he said.

Rick laughed, a short harsh scoff. Yeah, he said, as if it were obvious to all.

You been back to BM?

Why would I go back there?

I don’t know, Bill said.

You?

Not for a long time.

Rick lifted his bottle but did not drink from it. Battle fucking Mountain. What a shithole, Rick said. You know, when I first showed up there, you told me your dad was in the CIA. Do you remember that?

I didn’t say that.

Oh yeah you did, Rick said. Every fucking thing that came out of your mouth was a lie, right from go. Now your whole life is a lie.

What’d you want to talk to me about, Rick?

He shook his head. I’ve been up there to your little zoo, he said. I’ve seen all those animals in their cages. You’ve got yourself a little prison up there.

I’m gonna ask you this again and then I’m gonna leave. What do you want?

I want to know what you get out of that.

Out of what?

Out of turning your back on your people and coming up here to run a fucking zoo. Because I’ve been thinking about it for a long time and it doesn’t make any sense. I just can’t figure you out.

Rick’s skin looked both pale and gray simultaneously, as if he had grown old too quickly, his features carved into a thin membrane of flesh embossed upon a network of sinew.

There’s nothing to figure out, Bill said. They need someone to take care of them. So that’s what I do.

You let me rot in prison and let my mom die and turned your back on everything because you decided to take care of some fucked-up animals out in the middle of nowhere?

I made a life for myself.

Yeah yeah, Rick said, you’ve said that before.

Then I guess we’re done, Bill said.

He started to rise but then Rick leaned back in his chair, the beer in his hand. I think you’d better sit and listen to me so you know what’s coming next, he said.

Bill stood for a moment, watching him, and then lowered himself to the chair again. His jacket remained zipped and buttoned. Look, I know I did some things I shouldn’t have, he said, but it’s not anything I can change. I’ve already said I’m sorry.

A man with a feathered dart in his hand passed the table and seemed to survey both of them in turn as if sizing them up for a brawl. Hey, the man said, you two guys up for a dart game?

Not this time, Rick said.

Your loss, the man said, striding to where the dartboards hung on the wall in a slim alcove at the back of the bar. Someone closer to the door, behind Bill, burst into laughter.

I don’t know what else you want me to say here, Bill said. I’m sorry about what happened. I’m sorry you went to prison.

Yeah, everyone’s sorry, Rick said. He looked beyond Bill now, farther into the bar. Then he said, You know Susan wrote me a few years ago.

At the sound of her name, even after all these years, he felt his heart stutter in his chest. Oh yeah? he said.

Yeah, maybe four or five years ago. She married some guy out in Lemmon Valley. Had a couple of kids and everything.

Good for her.

That’s not the point. Point is, she told me about you and her when I was in prison the first time.

Me and her what?

Oh come on, man, Rick said. Now you’re just acting stupid.

The bottle on the table. The wet ring it made.

She said she just wanted to come clean about everything and that she was sorry but she had to get on with her life. So that was like the final piece of the puzzle, you know? I mean, you guys all just left me behind and didn’t even look back once. And here I am with shit-all to show for it. Everyone gets a fresh start and I’m left holding the bag? I don’t think so.

Bill lifted his beer and drank. He could taste nothing. Nothing at all.

Why’d you leave me there, Nat? Rick said.

He looked away for a moment and then looked back. I couldn’t have gotten to you in time, he said.

Bullshit.

I don’t know what else to tell you. It all went to shit so fast. There wasn’t any time to think.

You shouldn’t have had to think.

He sat watching him, the gray ghost that had once been his friend. Then he said, It just doesn’t matter anymore. You gotta move past it.

Doesn’t matter? It was twelve years of my life. Because of you, man. The whole fucking thing. That’s what I realized in prison. Everything that got fucked up in my life was all because of you.

I don’t know what to tell you, man. I really don’t.

Rick sat looking at him.

We done?

Fuck we are.

If you keep asking me the same thing I’m gonna keep giving you the same answer.

You fucked this up, Natty, Rick said. Just like you fucked up everything you ever touched. You really fucked this up.

You don’t know me anymore, Bill said.

Oh, I know you. You haven’t changed that much.

Yes, I have.

I don’t think so, Rick said. He smiled again, that thin shining line.

Bill sat looking across the table at him, his mouth dry, heart thumping away in his chest, Rick staring into his eyes. I don’t know what else to say, he said at last. I’m sorry for what happened. I’m sorry for how it worked out.

Not as sorry as I am.

Why’d you want to see me, Rick? Why are you even here?

I’ll tell you why, Rick said. His voice was cold now. I came up here to see what happened to the money but also to find out what happened to you. He shook his head slowly, dolefully.

This is what happened to me, Bill said. Now go home.

Rick looked up at him now, his eyes wet and clear. Go home? he said. I’m not done talking. He smiled now, his gray teeth shining in the bar’s neon signage. I gave you a chance. I want you know that.

A chance for what?

Redemption, he said.

What’s that supposed to mean? Bill said. His voice was steady but he felt as if he was shaking inside, his skeleton trying to loose itself of his skin.

It means I’ve been waiting twelve years to pay you back, Rick said. Now I’m the one done talking. Pay for my fucking beer. He stood quickly.

Rick, Bill said.

And at that word Rick spun, suddenly and without warning, his hand clamped to the back of Bill’s neck before he could even flinch, Rick’s face so close that he could smell the burning scent of his breath. You think you’ve changed, Rick said. The shit I did in prison just to survive you couldn’t even begin to imagine. And let me tell you this, my friend. I know where you live and where your girlfriend lives and where she works and where her kid goes to school. So you just think about that.

You’re making a mistake.

I’m not the one making a mistake. Not this time.

Bill’s voice was thin through his teeth. I’m sure we can figure this out, he hissed.

Let’s find out, Rick said.

He released his grip then. Bill knocked his chair over in his haste to stand, the table lurching forward and both beer bottles tipping. Rick! he yelled, but the man was already halfway across the room and then was at the door and then was gone.

Bill glanced slowly around the room, fists clenched and trembling, beer splashing the floor at his feet. The jukebox played its song of cowboys and lost love. Then he ran headlong for the door.

In the blowing snow, the yellow Honda was turning out of its parking spot, its chained tires whacking the surface of the concrete like muffled machine gun fire, the taillights a faint red blur as the car braked and then slid forward. Bill called his name again as he came down into the parking lot, his feet slipping everywhere but somehow reaching the car as it slid toward the asphalt of the highway, his fists battering the yellow curve of the roof, screaming that name again and again as the car pulled out and away from him, its tire chains flopping in the snow, pulling out onto the highway and into the darkness of the storm.

THE DRIVE
to Bonners Ferry would have taken fifteen minutes on a clear day, but the snow was blowing sideways across the road and the pickup seemed to shift across that landscape as if adrift. They had plowed, had probably plowed many times, but the blizzard was so thick that he could sometimes not find the roadbed at all. And yet he kept moving forward, the snow a tunnel that seemed to curl in upon his vision, not opening up but closing upon him like a fist and the road continuing forever toward a destination that seemed, in the storm, to move farther and farther from his rolling tires.