Christian Kiefer - The Animals

He returned to the couch and handed it to the boy. Wildlife of the Intermountain West . The pronghorn antelope stood looking back at him from the cover without expression.

Cool, Jude said. He pulled it from the ziplock and removed the rubber band and sat flipping through the pages. What are these marks?

The page was open to pen-and-ink drawings of two lizards — zebra-tailed and collared — both of which had large blue check marks next to them. That’s stuff I saw with my own eyes, Bill said.

Everything with a check mark you saw?

Yep, he said.

So you went to the desert?

I grew up in the desert.

Really?

Really and truly.

Jude flipped back to the cover. What’s that?

Pronghorn antelope, Bill said.

Have you ever seen one?

Oh yeah. In eastern Oregon.

You’ve been everywhere.

He smiled, faintly. Not really. Just kept my eyes open.

The boy stared at the book in his lap. A full page of bats, all line drawings. Free-tailed and big-eared and pipistrel. Kangaroo rat, mountain vole. Ducks and woodpeckers and warblers. So hopefully that’ll help some, if you have to draw some other kinds of animals for school.

Yeah totally, the boy said.

Grace had come into the living room from the hall. Time for bed, kiddo, she said.

The response was a long, drawling whine but the boy rose nonetheless, snatching the wolf drawing off the couch next to him and then returning to give Bill their customary hug and high five. ’Night, Jude said.

Good night, buddy.

Thanks for the book.

It’s a good book, he said. I’ve had it a long time.

How long?

Since I was just a little older than you.

No way.

Yes way, he said. I’ll come say good night in a little bit.

They retreated farther into the house, down the hallway that led both to Jude’s room and to Grace’s. Bill remained where he was for a time and then went to the table and sat and flipped through a small pile of mail there. Bills and circulars. At the bottom of the stack was the new issue of National Geographic and a paperback, The Tibetan Book of the Dead , its black cover emblazoned with a circle cut by three arching red waves. He paged through it absently but the words made little sense to him. Light-paths of the wisdoms. Bardo of karmic illusions. Near the center was a blurry and poorly rendered image labeled The Great Mandala of the Peaceful Deities, and he stared at that for a time. A circle containing a series of smaller circles, each of which contained, or seemed to contain, a figure or figures, perhaps human, perhaps not.

When Grace entered the room, the book was still in his hand. You’re not going to join a cult or something, are you? he said.

Maybe.

You’re reading this thing?

Sort of. It’s from that lady Fran who had to put her dog down. She said it helped her guide Chuckles into the afterlife.

Chuckles is trapped with a bunch of dead Tibetan guys now. He’s probably pissed.

Probably. It’s pretty hard to read. I don’t know what I’m supposed to get from it.

Maybe she’s trying to brainwash you.

Wouldn’t that be nice? Grace leaned in behind and wrapped her arms around his chest and neck. Jude’s waiting for you.

He closed the book and stood. Don’t go anywhere, he said. Then he moved down the hall and into the boy’s room. The bed was a mess of blankets and stuffed animals, and as he entered the boy sat up out of that quilted space and said, Boo, and then giggled.

Ah, Bill said, staggering backward into the hall, you scared me.

You’re a scaredy-cat, Jude said.

It’s true. I am. He came and settled on the edge of the bed. Wildlife of the Intermountain West rested on the small white nightstand, returned to its ziplock, the antelope staring through the plastic into the mild twilight of the room. The sight of it there produced a strange and involuntary shiver through his body.

Jude lay back on the pillow, his wet child’s eyes staring up at him. Will you take me to school in the morning? the boy said.

Probably.

Probably as in yes?

Probably as in yes.

Good. In the truck.

Ah, he said, it’s the truck, is it?

The truck’s fun.

What’s wrong with your mom’s truck?

Nothing. Yours is just funner.

I guess so, Bill said. He waited, looking at the boy. Then he said, Ah, heck with it.

Heck with what?

I’ve been wanting to ask you something.

Ask me what? the boy said.

Well listen, champ, I was thinking of asking your mom something.

I thought you were gonna ask me something.

I am, I’m gonna ask you if I can ask her.

You’re silly.

Bill smiled. You’re probably right, he said. So I was thinking of asking your mom, maybe, if she’d want to get married. So we could be together all the time. But I wanted to make sure it’s OK with you first.

Would we get to live with you at the animals?

I don’t know. We’d all live together for sure. Maybe not at the animals though. My trailer’s pretty small for everyone to live in.

So you’d live here?

We’d have to figure that out.

The boy lay there on the pillow, looking at him thoughtfully. What about my dad?

Your dad’s still your dad and he’ll always be your dad. I’d be what you’d call your stepdad.

OK, Jude said.

OK?

Yeah, that sounds great. Let’s do that.

He smiled and Jude smiled.

Don’t tell your mom, though. It’s supposed to be a surprise.

When are you gonna ask her?

I don’t know, he said. It needs to be special.

Are you coming to Fall Festival?

What’s that?

At my school. Fall Festival. We’re singing a song about Thanksgiving.

Oh yeah, your mom told me about that. Yeah, I’ll be there.

You can ask her then. At Fall Festival. That’ll be special.

He smiled. Good idea, he said. Maybe I’ll ask her when we get home after.

Yeah, Jude said. He giggled, pulling the blanket up around his mouth. It’s a secret, he said.

Yes, it is, Bill said. You in for a bear hug?

The boy nodded and Bill scooped him up in his arms and pulled him against his chest and the swell of his belly and squeezed him tight, roughing his beard against the child’s cheek. Again, Jude said. And once more. Good night, buddy. He brushed Jude’s hair from his forehead as the boy turned on his side, his eyes slipping closed for a brief moment and then opening again. Sleep well. Dream good dreams, Bill said.

The boy’s head nodded against the pillow and Bill rose quietly and stepped into the hall and returned to the kitchen table once more.

The Tibetan book was still there but Grace had extracted the National Geographic from the mail pile and she sat at the table peering down at an open page, the brown curls of her hair turning over her wrinkled forehead. He leaned against the wall by the corkboard with its barrage of notes and notices and calendars and scraps of paper and watched her.

There’s a bunch of wolves in here, she said. This guy here reminds me of our Zeke.

Yeah, he said. Poor guy.

We’ll find him someone, she said.

I hope so.

Maybe we need to be looking in Minnesota.

Fish and Game’s gonna make it a lot harder now than it would’ve been.

We need to figure that out too, she said.

Fast.

I’ll make some calls tomorrow. Maybe to the zoo in Boise.

I don’t know if it’s gonna matter. That new DCO seems pretty hell bent on closing us down.

It’s probably not as bad as you think.

I don’t know about that.

Don’t give up so easy, Grace said, smiling faintly.

I’m not.

You sure?

No.

He was standing behind her now and she reached up to stroke his beard. Before her on the table, the magazine was open to a series of small photographs boxed in gray, indeed some wolves among them. One chased a flock of ravens. Another looked askance at the photographer. Black spruce and jack pine. Heron and eagle and nuthatch. From a frostlike tuft of red and green lichen peered forth the empty socket of a deer skull. Sunset birds. Slick waterways snaking through black spindly branches. Places not unlike his own forest and yet so different. The foliage. The feel of it.