History of Wolves(32)

So when I knocked on the Gardners’ door, there we all were. Four panting dogs, one freaked-out cat, Patra looking a little shocked, and me—trying to keep from grinning.

“Found him,” I said.

I turned and, tightening one elbow around Drake, lowered my other hand to the dogs. They lay down on the gravel, reluctant but happy now, because they thought this meant the cat was theirs. “Stay,” I said, feeling like some mini-god, some deity of dogs. I wanted Patra to see this, the control I had.

Then I slipped past her with the cat and went in.





10


THE INTERIOR OF THE CABIN WAS DARKER THAN USUAL. The summer foliage was out in full and shaded all the west windows. Though it was midafternoon, there wasn’t a patch of direct sunlight in the main room, so it took me a moment to see Leo in the easy chair in the corner, and a moment more to see Paul there, too, on his lap. Leo’s chin was balanced on Paul’s head. Paul was wrapped in a quilt, his orange-blond hair parted over each of his eyes. Something about those two inverted Vs of hair exaggerated an especially childish look Paul had. Had he always been so young? Nestled in the quilt on his father’s lap, he looked barely past toddlerhood, barely past being a baby.

Patra moved behind me, closing the door. At that, Drake wrestled free from my arms. No one said anything as the cat crept, ears back, around the couch, then flattened and disappeared underneath. With Drake gone, with the door closed, the room fell into a hush. That was Leo, I could tell. That was his influence.

“Well, thank you, Linda,” he said.

And Patra from behind: “That’s a relief—isn’t it, hon?” To me: “That’s such a relief.”

She wasn’t whispering exactly. She was just speaking carefully. She was wearing the same thing as when I’d seen her last, her U of C sweatshirt and leggings. In one hand was a browning apple slice, which she set so tenderly in the trash it was like she was finding it a nest. “Want a glass of water or something, Linda? Want some juice?”

In his cocoon of blankets, Paul said, “Some juice?”

I looked over at him again. “Is he still sick?”

I learned in that moment that this was not a question I was allowed to ask. From his chair, Leo frowned up at me, as if I’d said something rude or inept. Paul, as if prompted to mimicry without even having seen his father’s face, frowned too. They really looked nothing alike. Paul was round faced and blond haired, like Patra. Leo the astronomer was gaunt and gray haired, bushy browed. His thick moustache made him look somehow like a man from another century. He wore glasses, which had slipped to the tip of his nose and made him seem, though he was sitting, like he was looking down from a perch. He wore black slippers. His khaki pants were rolled up once at each cuff.

Patra put her hand on my arm, a gesture that might have been a friendly warning. “Paul’s fine,” she said.

Leo nodded. “He’s had a demonstration, in fact. Right, kiddo?”

There was that word again, with its curious ring of accomplishment. But before I could wonder about it out loud, Paul was pulling one arm out from under the quilt and waving it in my direction. His arm was buried to the elbow in the leather glove, which he moved like a puppet. “We’re going to see the tall ships tomorrow,” he said.

“The tall ships?” I asked, confused.

“You know those old-fashioned boats with the sails?” Patra asked.

“The maritime festival in Duluth?” Leo added.

Patra continued, “We thought we’d do a little trip. We thought a trip to Duluth would be nice. A change of pace, right? Have you been, Linda?”

“To Duluth?” I hadn’t, but I didn’t want to admit that.

“To see the tall ships?”

That was an easier question to answer. “No.”


Later, in preparation for the trial, they kept asking why I didn’t pose more questions from the beginning. What was your first impression of Dr. Leonard Gardner? How would you describe the couple as parents? What kind of care, exactly, did they provide? It was hard to explain that I didn’t ask questions because they were both only exceptionally, almost excruciatingly, kind. When Paul started talking with such excitement about the tall ships, Patra came over with a glass of amber-colored juice and kneeled in front of him. He slurped down the juice within seconds, handed the glass back to her. But she did not stand just yet—she lay her head down on his quilted lap. Leo stroked her hair and Paul did, too, with his one gloved hand. I felt ashamed to see this, and at the same time I couldn’t take my eyes off them. I could do nothing but stand there silently, tracing the rough cat scratches on my arms. Finally one of them murmured something, and Patra scooped up Paul, carried him off into the bedroom. I went into the kitchen and found a pot in the drainer, which I filled to the brim with water for the dogs. As I was doing this, Leo stood up too. I could hear his knees cracking from across the room.

He walked silently, though. He moved on padded soles across rugs.

Not a single window was open, though it was hot this time of day and very humid. There was a strong smell in the house I hadn’t noticed a week back, when I’d been there last. It was not a bad smell, just intimate and particular—faintly sweet, full of unexceptional secrets: ripe fruit, kitty litter, laundry detergent, maybe the slightest whiff of sewage from the bathroom. Leo made his way toward the kitchen, sat at the table, and asked a few distracted questions about my family. “Twenty acres along the east shore,” I said, when he asked about the range of our lot. “They’re mostly retired,” I hedged, when he asked what my parents did for a living.