James Smith - Hybrid

“Amy said the white man caused that.”

Dieter thought it better to read a little more background before getting any deeper into the discussion. “That’s interesting.”

“I had a dream last night,” Michael said. “It was kind of scary.”

“You mean a nightmare?”

“I was running. Running very fast down a dirt trail with lots of other people and—”

Rusty barked loudly from the back deck. Dieter rushed to the door as the dog kept barking. Megan was nowhere in sight. He shouted for her as he charged down the steps and into the yard. He should never have done it. He should never have let her go outside in the yard alone. It was a stupid mistake, but Michael had taken his mind off of—

“Surprise!” Megan popped out from under the deck behind him, laughing.

He turned to catch her as she ran into his arms, then stooped to his knee and looked directly into her eyes, breathing rapidly. He held her chin up with his thumb and finger, trying his damnedest not to lose his temper. “When I tell you to stay on the deck, Megan, I mean it. Do you understand me?”

She nodded and frowned, then twisted away from him and scampered up the steps.

Michael stood on the porch. “She was only playing a game, Dad.” He followed his sister in and slammed the door behind him.

Dieter drifted into the kitchen with aspirin tablets in his fist. He reached for the bottle of Early Times nestled under the sink, then walked out onto the back deck and sank into the weathered rocker. The kids had gone to bed early that evening, both still upset with their dad’s unusual bout of anger. He couldn’t blame them—he was upset with himself.

He hitched up his boots on the log banister and stared out on the trees and fields as the crickets and tree frogs sang out too damn loud. Fumbling with the aspirin in the palm of one hand, he clutched the whiskey bottle with the other. He’d overreacted with Megan. Inexcusable. Why was he so much on edge?

One thing was for certain—the summer with Amy hadn’t worked out. Even her tribal stories—once filled with harmless moral lessons—were now scaring hell out of his son and causing him nightmares. The fact she was soon leaving turned out to be well-timed. No matter what she thought, Michael was too young to get deep into scouting at his age. What did she know about things like that?

A spotlight lit up the corner of the yard. It was a good idea to keep it on every night. When he leaned back and closed his eyes, the image arose of the nearly decapitated body in the funeral home. No report had yet come through on what the coroner had found on the autopsy. Why? Meanwhile, everyone kowtowed to Yellowstone’s chief ranger, a jackass who dismissed any claims of wolf attacks with a wave of a hand. End of discussion.

He stood, uncapped the whiskey bottle and dropped the aspirin into the neck of it one tablet at a time, then twisted the top back on, moved to the far edge of the deck and heaved the bottle into the pine trees. He was tired, angry with himself. Angry with everybody.

He had put it off too long. It was time to go over Chief Jack Corey’s head.

Thesun drifted below the snow-capped mountain tops as Charlene and her friend from the East reached a grove of tall willow trees dangling like green ghosts over a slow-running stream that gurgled over smooth river rocks. She sat on a log to pull off her shoes and socks. Her ragged pair of sneakers didn’t quite fit right—size and a half too big.

Marilee wouldn’t mind that she had borrowed them, she was certain of that. No doubt at all because they were good to each other and didn’t have many other friends. Actually, didn’t have any other friends, but they had each other.

Charlene slid down from the log and leaned back against it. In the afterglow of the sunset, steam from a distant geyser climbed high and vanished in spirit-like wisps. While she munched on trail mix excavated from the corners of her pockets, she cogitated on the sight of her companion gathering firewood. How clean and handsome he looked as he squatted there, trying to coax the kindling to burn. He had to be smart, he was going to college, so he’d catch on eventually that it don’t do no good to use green twigs.

Wasn’t her place to say anything. He’d figure out on his own that the smaller dead limbs that snapped instead of bending would make for proper tinder. She dug up another M&M and two peanuts from a wrinkle deep within one pocket and quickly popped them into her mouth before he caught her.

Soon, smoke drifted upward and a tiny yellow flame glittered. He finally got the water boiling over his sorry excuse for a fire and he dumped in freeze-dried packages of peas and carrots and some fancy chicken. The meal tasted like cardboard with salt and spice, but she scarfed down what she was offered. He saved a little more for himself.

By the time the high country’s evening chill arrived, they were snuggling close to the rosy embers, holding hands. They sipped hot tea and waved the stinging smoke away from their eyes. She massaged the back of his hand with the tips of her fingers and gently stroked his knuckles. A man’s hand softer than hers seemed strange. Weird, really. She didn’t know if he liked having her around because she wasn’t smart and would never lie to herself about being pretty either. She thought long and hard about it all, but it didn’t matter.

He sprung to his feet. “How about dessert, Charlene?”

Her eyes opened wide with delight. “You gotta Baby Ruth, slugger?”

She watched as he jogged through the weeds down to a willow tree by the stream and cut off two small branches with a pocketknife while the tree thrashed about him in the wind. He then shaved off the leaves and sharpened both pieces into a fine point. When he returned, she jumped up, wrapped her arms around her shoulders, and slowly backed away. He strolled to his backpack and fumbled around inside it until he found a package of marshmallows that he waved above his head. “Have you ever roasted these?”

She paid no attention to the question but pointed to the willow branches. “What you plan to do with them switches?”

“Watch me!” He tore open the package, plunged a stick into the center of a marshmallow, and held it out over the fire. A sweet caramel smell soon drifted her way. He slipped the brown melting lump from the stick and blew on it. Instead of puckering his lips out like you would when you blow out candles on a birthday cake, he stretched his lips back and pulled the upper one down over his big front teeth. They formed a slit instead of an “O.” Ever so gently he blew through the slot like a girl.

She wrapped her thumb and forefinger around his wrist and chomped down on the gooey treat. Squishing it with her tongue, she swallowed hard, and then mumbled through puffed cheeks. “My word, slugger, you sure know how to cook.” She licked each finger, pausing to suck on a sticky thumb and grin.

He quickly placed more kindling on the fire and flames flared inside the circle of stones. They roasted marshmallows until the bag was half-empty, all the while giggling and feeding each other like real lovers. Staring into the night sky, he said that he’d never seen so many stars. It didn’t make sense. Why would there be more stars in Montana than back East?

“Look,” she shouted and pointed her stick at a brilliant light streaking low across the sky. “A shooting star.”

“Did you know that it’s not really a shooting star, Charlene?”

“Is too. I seen lots of them on dark nights.”

“It’s actually a meteor.”

“I read that once,” she replied. “But have you noticed when you say ‘me-te-or’ you sound hard and serious-like. You have to keep your mouth wound up all tight. But when you say ‘shooting star,’ you have to speak softer and pucker up your lips.” She slowly repeated the phrase. He seized on her invite and lowered his head to her face. She cuddled closer to him and burrowed into his bulky sweater that felt like the belly of a lamb against her face, but reeked of burned pine. They lay holding onto each other and staring down into the smoldering logs when the howl of a solitary wolf rolled in on a gust of wind.