The Cage (7 page)

She was getting some good background pictures in spite of the awkwardness of the gloves she had to wear against the cold. The people all looked off slightly to the left. They talked, sipped coffee and ignored her.

As Beryl shifted the camera, she saw something white to the left of her. She thought it was a refrigerator. She continued to snap photos. After another three pictures, she realized the people were watching the fridge. She turned toward it. Two yards away from her stood a large white bear. Even with the two feet of van added to her own height, the bear towered over her. She'd never seen such a large animal so close. It breathed her smell in, no noise, but she saw its nostrils open and its chest expand. She felt her mind still like the water of a pond.

She remembered her dream, dove down into the van, hitting the back of David's knees and taking him with her. His camera cracked against the roof as it came through. Looking up she saw a large paw questing about the hole in the roof, black pads, yellow nails. Claws scratched against the metal of the van. From the front seat Butler and Jean-Claude looked back dumbfounded, still holding their coffee.

Beryl jumped up and, keeping her head back, turned the little handle to close the roof. From the half-closed sunroof she heard her first polar bear sound, a small irritated chuff. Then the muffled
whump
of weight hit the side of the van,
knocking Beryl down. She watched out the windshield as the bear stalked slowly away with the fat-bottomed pride of a senator. People in the other cars were laughing.

In that first moment as Beryl had faced the bear, she'd thought it was going to move its paw toward her and they would again begin to dance.

“Shit shit shit,” David said as the bear walked away. “I didn't get it on film.” He ran to the front of the van and filmed what he could of the bear's retreat.

Butler began to guess excitedly at the bear's size. He offered out each of the numbers with pride and possession, as though in guessing the animal's height or weight, he laid claim to it. “Standing—nine feet tall,” he said. “A thousand pounds. Paws—twelve inches wide. Medium-size one.”

Jean-Claude kept his face turned from the rest of the group while they talked about the bear. So far he hadn't talked much with any of them. He looked out over the trash in the direction the bear had gone, to where the tundra ran, interrupted only by oceans, for the width of the world.

That second night in the Arctic Beryl dreamed again of the bear. This time they were sitting across from each other at a candlelit table where two large silver domes covered the plates in front of them. Beryl's date sat with the natural grace of the active. His fur gleamed with health. His body was too large for the table and his legs and feet pressed over into her side of the table. She tried to keep her feet decorously tucked under her chair, but he needed even that area, and his heavy weight leaned against her no matter which way she moved. She pitied him for the depths of his need. She wondered if he would be offended if she removed her plate from the table and ate her food off the ground. His black nose wrinkled slightly at the smell of the food, and the corners of his mouth were wet. The waiter's hands reached smoothly forward to pull the covers off the food.

The next day they saw thirteen bears. The garbage dump was thirty miles from where the animals gathered in greatest density, and Beryl knew that their migration to this area had only begun. The bears would continue to arrive for another month. Still, at least one bear was visible at all times, snuffling through the garbage, gnawing on a tire or walking purposefully toward the van.

The bears seemed to be willing to give anything a try as food, eating the foam rubber out of couches, tugging the seats off snowmobiles, chewing on vinyl car roofs. Standing up in the van Beryl saw one bear sniffing a closed can of paint, putting his teeth to each edge, curling his lips back, then turning the can over to try again. Each time the bears found something they considered edible, they looked content, chewing hard, strings of drool rolling from their mouths.

One bear found a deflated plastic clown with a bell in the bottom, the type little kids punch. Each time the bear chewed on it, the bell rattled. The bear swiveled her ears toward the bell, slapped at it halfheartedly with a paw. Beryl dropped her head back down through the sunroof, told Jean-Claude to drive closer, to a spot up sun of the bear.

As she zoomed in on the bear's half-closed eyes and exposed black lips, the bear chewed gingerly through the clown's red button vest. The plastic squeaked.

Butler spoke from the front of the van. “Up here in the Arctic there's almost nothing that's naturally poisonous. The plants are all edible. No poisonous snakes or insects. Polar
bears are born curious. No caution in them. They explore just about anything new, chew on it. With humans, this hasn't worked so well. The bears'll seek out each new garbage dump, campsite and oil rig. Sniff all around, lap up some antifreeze. Get shot out of fear.”

David and Beryl quickly worked out their bear watches. Only one of them filmed or photographed at a time. The other swiveled about in the small sunroof, steering clear of the lenses, staying watchful. They were constantly pressed up against each other, either back to back or front to back. They moved their legs in unison.

Pressed against him, Beryl felt the way he worked with the camera, the way he braced his legs, shifted his weight, focused, the silent vibration of the camera pressed against both of them. She saw firsthand his ability to predict which direction a bear was going to turn, while she, who was able to see outside of the limiting focus of the lens, wasn't able to guess at all. Once, when he had followed the leisurely, rambling path of a young bear for over twenty minutes without making a mistake, she'd turned to look at his face and saw his lip lifted in concentration, the sharp whiteness of his teeth gleaming below.

When David saw it was time to retreat, he would cradle her shoulder, push gently down. She responded immediately. During her turn to warn, she pulled gently on his sleeve. They descended smoothly. By the end of the day, she understood that he was probably gay. She had no more problem leaning up against him than she did against her mother.

Each time they left the sunroof, they sank as one creature, winding the top quickly shut after them. They would hear from outside a snuffling above or below, the rasp of hair coarse as a brush against the metal of the van, a thumping against the side. They would wait. Whenever a bear began to approach the front or back windows, Jean-Claude would turn the car on, shift the gears to reverse or forward as needed. He would hold the brake delicately down as they all looked through a thin sheet of glass at the creature padding forward.

The bear would approach slowly, its wide back swaying. About ten feet away it would push upright, its long neck and head rising higher than their van, its belly spread broad and strong. The bear would stand in front of them, sniffing, uncertain, then step closer, holding a single clawed paw out for balance. The van would roar in reverse. They would all laugh nervously while Jean-Claude circled the vehicle around, moving to another spot.

Each time a bear stepped in closer, Beryl imagined it charging forward, Jean-Claude frantically stepping on the gas, the van rocking backward, the bear running faster, the glass breaking, cold air suddenly in the van, blood on Jean-Claude and Butler. Jean-Claude trying to get out of his seat, the bear reaching in …

Driving back into town for lunch, Beryl asked David why Jean-Claude allowed the bears to get so close to the van.

“Oh,” said David. “It's the same as safaris in Africa. There the tops of the jeeps are open. I mean right on open, not
even a screen, so everyone can stick their heads and cameras out of the van and lean over the side to take pictures of the lion or cheetah taking a nap five feet away. And I mean literally five feet away. Conceivably any lion could just hop right into that hole, make scrambled eggs of everyone inside and no one could do a thing. But it never happens. The lions aren't quite sure what they want to do. Contrary to popular belief, humans aren't high on their list of edibles. They'd rather chomp on an antelope. They're confused by the jeep's smell and metal exterior. So enough time passes and the lions get used to the jeeps. They get used to cameras, to the smell of mint deodorant, to Kansas accents rolling across the savannah saying, ‘Oh, isn't she pwetty!'”

Beryl looked over her shoulder at the dump. She could still see a young bear rolled onto her back, staring up at the sky, chewing thoughtfully on a hiking boot.

During lunch back at the hotel, Butler made a number of jokes about how well David was getting to know Beryl.

“Hey, David,” Butler said. “You get tired of guarding Beryl in that tiny little sunroof, I'll take your place.” He made some clicking noises to show enjoyment. Butler smiled at Beryl as he said it, his thick lips curved. He didn't seem tense or embarrassed. He seemed to think she'd enjoy the joke as much as any of them, perhaps even more.

Butler wore cologne. He smelled all the time of sweet musk and heat. He wore his shirtsleeves rolled back on his flat large forearms. Beryl's forearms were freckled, golden-haired and thin. At one time she'd worked seriously at weightlifting,
but although she'd doubled the amount of weight she could handle, her arms only looked longer and more sinewy. The glistening heavy men in the health club could bench-press three times her body weight with sharp grunts of satisfaction. She'd moved about them with a constant sense of fear. Once one of them stepped backward laughing at a joke and slapped her hard into the cold metal web of a Nautilus machine. The man moved away and apologized but Beryl had still felt a hot flush covering her neck and arms. If Beryl and Butler had stood back to back, the top of her head would nestle neatly into the hollow between his shoulder blades.

Beryl looked at the other men for their response to Butler's joke. She'd be spending a month with them. She tried to look impassive. David looked uncomfortable. Butler laughed hard enough for them all. For a moment Jean-Claude looked away from the tundra to Beryl. In his brief glance she felt a connection, a message passed that she couldn't yet understand. Then he turned back, scanning for bears. His hands lay loose on the steering wheel. They hadn't let go the entire day.

Butler laughed awhile longer. He had one of those complete laughs that Beryl normally liked. The skin of his forehead rolled back as though he were surprised, his eyes opened and then his chest and shoulders began to shake up and down. He laughed like a young muscular Santa Claus. Beryl imagined him laughing like that and a girlfriend leaning up tight against him, blissful, shaking with his movement. Beryl hoped her own life would never depend on his judgment.

That afternoon it started to snow. The flakes fell thick and wet, covering the garbage of the dump with a pure layer of white. The bears moved through the snow, white on white. She saw them for the first time against a background other than old couches and broken glass. They merged into the blank beauty so that only the black triangles of their noses showed, their dark eyes. The snow muffled all sound except the wet squeaks beneath the pads of their feet and their heavy snorts as they stuck their snouts deep into the snow and sniffed for the scent of food.

When it got dark Jean-Claude drove them back to the hotel. Beryl sat by the window of her room watching the flakes twinkle down by the hotel's spotlight. The snow flattened everything. It erased the cars, the road and the mailboxes. Houses became magical palaces of sugar and ice. She had always imagined the North Pole this way, only there would have also been elves working cheerfully and flying reindeer pawing restlessly in their stalls.

A car turned the corner, drove slow and cautious down the street. The polar bear police car. It had two spotlights and a siren on the roof. The spotlights circled patiently across the snow.

The next day the gleaming snow covered everything and danced in the wind, shimmering pure in the sun and thin air. The sky above glittered with the light hard blue of thick glass. That evening when she came in from staring out at the snow and bears, her eyes hurt, a slow headache built up
from the base of her skull. She had a hard time adjusting to the relative darkness of the hotel and grazed her hand along the faded velvet of the wallpaper as she walked slowly up to her room.

In the sun the colors of the snow and the bears and the sky reminded Beryl of when she used to get bad fevers as a child. Her temperature would frequently go up to a hundred and five or six. She would pant, her upper lip sticky with the sweat of her effort, her mouth open for her thick tongue. Her parents would take her to the hospital, stand about her bed and hold her hand. They stared in fascination at her pale face with its bright red spot of color on each cheek. She knew each time it happened that they thought once again how unwise they'd been to have a child this late in their lives. They didn't have the strength to deal with these unexpected events.

After a few times watching their worry, when she got a fever she would take the thermometer out of her mouth whenever they looked away. When they began to look back, she would slip it quickly back in, keeping her tongue away from it, holding it tight between her cool teeth. Each time they asked her, she'd smile and say she was feeling better, she would get up soon.

Once when she was seven the fever had been worse than ever, but by then she'd gotten better at pretending. Her parents had still looked worried but hadn't taken her to the hospital. When Beryl moved her head on the pillowcase the
rasp of its material had filled her head. Each thread had crackled and snapped in her ear so harshly she wanted to scream. The slow drip of mucus down her throat kept her awake with its insidious slide. The room glittered. The illness was bad. It was very bad and it got worse during the night. The room seemed to be lit even though it was dark. The air seemed bright and warm and stuffy.