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“You want me to ask my mother?”
“I’d appreciate it. I wouldn’t be any trouble. Say, that’s a big ranch up there.”
“That’s Mr. Hollister’s place. He’s a writer. Three of his books have been made into movies.”
The man pushed the sun visor across the driver’s window as he drove past the archway over Albert Hollister’s driveway and did not look at the rock-and-log house up on the bench or glance in the direction of the barn or the horses in the north pasture.
“Imagine that, a man who makes movies tucked away here in the backcountry. This life is sure full of surprises,” he said. “Is that your house in that green hollow at the end of the road? If you ask me, you have yourselves a regular paradise up here. It’d suit me to a T.”
I HAVE ALWAYS LOVED and welcomed the rain, even though sometimes the spirits of the dead visit me inside it. During the summer, when I was a child, no matter how hot the weather was, there was a shower almost every afternoon at three o’clock. The southern horizon would be piled with storm clouds that resembled overripe plums, and within minutes you would feel the barometer plunge and see the oak trees become a deeper green and the light become the color of brass. You could smell the salt in the wind and an odor that was like watermelon that had burst open on a hot sidewalk. Suddenly, the wind would shift and the oak trees would come to life, leaves swirling and Spanish moss straightening on the limbs. Just before the first raindrops fell, Bayou Teche would be dimpled by bream rising to feed on the surface. No more than a minute later, the rain would pour down in buckets, and the surface of the Teche would dance with a hazy yellow glow that looked more like mist than rain.
For me, the rain was always a friend. I think that is true of almost all children. They seem to understand its baptismal nature, the fashion in which it absolves and cleanses and restores the earth. The most wonderful aspect of the rain was its cessation. After no longer than a half hour, the sun would come out, the air would be cool and fresh, the four o’clocks would be opening in the shade, and that evening there would be a baseball game in City Park. The rain was part of a testimony that assured us the summer was somehow eternal, that even the coming of the darkness could be held back by the heat lightning that flickered through the heavens after sunset.
The rain also brought me visitors who convinced me the dead never let go of this world. After my father, Big Aldous, died out on the salt, I would see him inside the rain, standing up to his knees in the surf, his hard hat tilted sideways on his head. When he saw the alarm in my face, he would give me a thumbs-up to indicate that death wasn’t a big challenge. I saw members of my platoon crossing a stream in the monsoon season, the rain bouncing on their steel pots and sliding off their ponchos, the mortal wounds they had sustained glowing as brightly as Communion wafers.
The person who contacted me most often in the rain was my murdered wife, Annie, who usually called during an electric storm to assure me she was all right, always apologizing for the heavy static on the line. Don’t ever let anyone tell you this is all there is. They’re lying. The dead are out there. Anyone who swears otherwise has never stayed up late in a summer storm and listened to their voices.
The rain drummed on Albert’s fireproof roof through Wednesday night and into the early-morning hours until it quit at dawn and left the pastures pooled with water and the trees smoking with fog. When I looked out our bedroom window on the third floor, I saw an animal emerge from the woods on the north end of the property and step through the wire back fence and enter the pasture. I thought it was a coyote, one of several that came onto the property in the early hours to dig pocket gophers out of their burrows. Then I realized the color was wrong. Its fur was black, flecked with silver, its shoulders heavy, its step quick and assured, its muzzle pointed straight ahead and not at the ground. The horses in the pasture were going crazy. I realized I was looking at a wolf, perhaps the leader of a pack that had come in from the Idaho wilderness west of Albert’s ranch.
I put on my coat and half-topped boots and went downstairs and removed Albert’s scoped ’03 Springfield from his gun cabinet. I also scooped up a handful of .30-06 cartridges and dropped them in my coat pocket. Albert was drinking coffee in the kitchen, dressed in pajamas and slippers and a robe. “Where are you going with my rifle?” he said.
“There’s a wolf in the north pasture,” I said. “It’s after your horses.”
“We’ve never had wolves.”
“You do now.”
“Don’t shoot it.”
“You want to take care of it?” I said, offering him the rifle.
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
I could hear the horses whinnying and their hooves thudding on the sod and splashing through water. I went through the mudroom and out the garage door and ran toward the pedestrian gate in the north pasture. The horses were in full panic, running in circles, corkscrewing, kicking blindly behind them. The wolf was moving through the grass in a half crouch, increasing its speed, its jaw hanging loose. I pressed five rounds into the Spring
field’s magazine and locked down the bolt. Inside the gate, I passed the barn and, on the far side, saw the wolf splash through a pool of water, drops of mud splattering its muzzle and forequarters. I twisted my left arm through the leather sling on the rifle and threw the stock to my shoulder and swung the crosshairs of the telescopic sight on the wolf’s rib cage.
The wolf seemed to sense that a new factor had entered the equation. I saw it look directly at me, its nose black and wet and filled with tiny lines, the nostrils dilating. I moved the sight four feet in front of the wolf and squeezed off a round. Fire jumped from the muzzle, and the loud carrack echoed off the hillsides. I saw a jet of mud and water fly in the air.
The wolf went back under the fence, the wire twanging on the steel stakes, a fence clip popping loose. I thought the wolf would keep moving, but I was mistaken. It went up the slope and disappeared behind a boulder, then reappeared next to a cedar tree and stared at me. I put the sight right on its face. There was a gray scar below one eye and another scar on its chest. On the front right paw was an area almost entirely clean of fur, as though the animal had stripped off its skin in a trap.
I ejected the spent cartridge and pushed another forward in the chamber and locked down the bolt. I moved the crosshairs to the base of the boulder and fired. The round was a soft-nose, and it flattened into the rock and powdered the air with a dirty mix of lichen and rock dust.
The wolf bounded through the trees and up the hill. I worked the bolt again and fired one more round for good measure and heard it strike a hard surface and whine across an arroyo with a diminishing sound like the tremolo in a banjo string.
“Did you hurt it?” Albert said behind me. He had pulled his trousers on over his pajamas and was wearing rubber boots and a flop-brim Australian hat.
“No. I didn’t try to.”
“I’m glad. They’re protected, unless you or your livestock are in danger.”
“Your livestock are in danger.”
“I’m glad you didn’t shoot it, regardless. Come inside and have some coffee.”
“You never had trouble with wolves?”
“No. It’s probably operating by itself. I doubt it’ll come back.”
