History of Wolves(10)

Boots, swampy wool socks, scaly yellow toes. I shook my head.

“Take off your jacket then.”

I kept it on. The room felt poured in sunlight. The uriney kind, pale and thin and hot. For a second, I worried that my mother might see me here, across the lake and through the window. Then I remembered how black those glass triangles were in daytime. There was nothing for her to see.

“Take off your shoes,” he said.

“You’re being a despot, Paul,” his mother told him.

“Depspot,” he repeated, mechanically.

“Like a patriarch, only worse. Telling everybody what to do. Without being voted into power.” Patra was at the counter, filling a pot with water. I remembered how this went from watching her. Soon there’d be mugs, plates draped in steam. Soon she’d be cutting things for us.

“Let’s cook something,” she suggested. “Come on in, Linda.”

Paul clutched at my hand. “Take off your shoes,” he pleaded. “Take off your shoes. Take off your shoes.”

I didn’t bend down. I didn’t use a voice especially reserved for talking to children. “No, thank you,” I told him, but too quietly for Patra to hear. Almost hissing. “Let go of my hand, okay?”

The kid looked up at me, confused. As if I’d told him to take off his own face.


Within twenty minutes, we were eating butter on spaghetti noodles and fluffy green salads made of some kind of lettuce I’d never seen before in my life. The leaves curled up around my fork. I moved stiffly in my jacket, clumsy but careful as I lifted my mug of tea and sipped. My boots still weighed down my feet. I buttered my wedge of toast and sweat clean through my bottom layers, through my T-shirt and flannel. I didn’t mind. Deep in my mug, the tea bag floated like something drowned, but it tasted bright as spring, like mint and celery. The steam made my nose wet, my eyes blurry. Patra had cut cherry tomatoes into brilliant red coins.

“I’m going to tell Leo about you,” Patra said. “He was sure that it was only old hippies and hermits this far from town. He said to watch out for bears and quacks.”

“There is ducks,” Paul agreed.

“Leo?” I asked, my eyes swimming.

“Dad,” Paul explained.

“He’s in Hawaii,” Patra added. “Doing March’s numbers, looking for protogalaxies. Getting the charts started.”

“Oh, Hawaii,” I nodded. I tried to say it like I’d been there recently myself, and found the food disappointing, the locals unfriendly. I shrugged. As if I’d already wasted too much of my life looking for the so-called protogalaxies on tropical islands.

“Hey!” Patra said to me. “Speaking of which!” She’d been untangling Paul’s noodles with a knife and fork, laying them out in long parallel lines across his plate. She paused. “We should call your mom, right? We should let her know where you are, in case she’s thinking about fixing you dinner. Here.” She reached back with one hand and pulled something from her pocket. “The Forest Service has a tower”—she gestured vaguely behind her—”and Leo put up a big booster on the roof, so! You can get reception if you go out back, next to the telescope.” After a moment she added: “Sometimes.”

Cautiously, I took the cell phone she handed over. It was heavier than I thought it would be for its size. Years later I would deliberately throw my cell into the river—I’d rack up a bill so high, they’d cut the service and my phone would be useless—but at the time I’d never held one before. For just a moment I sat feeling its weight, examining its rounded plastic shape and the rubbery stem of the antenna. Then, careful not to knock anything with my jacketed elbows, I pushed back my chair and crossed the room.


Outside on the deck, it was almost night. Out in the newly cooled air, my jacket felt unbelievably light, almost as if dissolved. I stood still and let my eyes adjust to the rustling darkness. Among all those shadows, the telescope seemed oddly alive. A great elongated bird—mutant heron—perched on a plank of wood and watching me. I watched the lake, ignored the telescope. Last of the ice gone, last of the sun browning the choppy surface. A bobbing loon drove down into the water.

Finally, having put it off, I set my eyes on my parents’ house.

No one had turned on the lights, which was nothing special. My father, no doubt, was drinking beers with Quiet in the shed. Most nights my mother stitched her quilts at the table by the stove until it was so dark she nearly stabbed herself with the needle. And then, as if surprised, as if shocked by another day ending—yet another day handed over—she usually lit a lantern or started the generator out back, which turned on the lamp in the kitchen. She did this as if affronted. “Why didn’t you tell me it was so dark?” she’d ask if I were there, if I were huddled over some last bit of homework. I don’t know why it pleased me so much to let night sneak up like that. I don’t know what it had to do with me at all—but it was true, I almost always did know it was dark, and so it felt like luring her into the same trap over and over.

Got you, I thought.

Though the lake was very narrow here, it was two miles around by foot—an hour’s walk through the woods—to my parents’ cabin. There it stood: half-shingled, sided with woodpiles, dark behind the pines. A muddy black path wound from outhouse to toolshed to cabin door. It was sixteen-by-twenty feet inside, including my parents’ room and the loft, including the living space with its iron stove and scrap-wood table. I’d measured. In the darkening evening, I could just make out a thread of smoke pulling up from the pipe chimney. I could just barely see the shadows of dogs swimming through the shadows of pines.