Theft (26 page)

“Raymond's not here,” Brenda said.

Simon made a whistling noise. “Well don't talk to me before you talk to Raymond. You gotta go see Raymond first.”

“I've already seen my father. I need your help with something,” she said. She told him that she'd spoken to Raymond, that he'd been arrested. Then she outlined the wild-ass plan her father had laid out for her and Simon.

A
FEW MILES SOUTH of Raymond's, she saw her father's truck sitting by the side of the road, desert heatwaves trembling around the crate that held Ciela. She ramped up her prayer now, the song rising up in her as a way of burning off the fear that frayed her edges. She swung down from the truck, felt her breath catch in her chest, and walked fast to the crate. She looked inside. Either way it happened, it would feel the same to her—if the wolf was alive, if it was dead—she was scared as shit of both options. She stood, now, at the back of the truck, looking in. There was no telling what lay in front of her, if that heap of animal was sleeping and breathing, or if it had quit living. The crate turned everything dark, outlined by the blinding sun. “Shit,” she whispered, to herself; then she took a step closer. When there was nothing, she leaned in toward the metal bars of the crate and blew lightly, and just then the entire crate jolted forward toward her, and the sound the wolf made was nothing less than a scream so humanlike it could have been a child, the sentient quality of that cry. She leapt back, stumbled almost to the ground, and it was okay. It was even good, this fear she felt, because it was something. It was tangible and real and goddamn if she was not there, on the reservation, doing something good for her blood-father. He had not disowned her when she left him before. “They're the most bonding creatures on earth,” Raymond had said to her, long ago, speaking of wolves. She understood now what he had meant by the power of the bond that is family. She understood that it had far less to do with blood than she'd imagined when she was a kid. It had to do with love. Raymond, this wolf, Zeb—these had created the family she chose.

Brenda stood a distance from the crate. She knew that the other wolves would be nearby, that they would stay for a few days, waiting. There was no way she'd be able to lay eyes on them, but she knew they were around, watching her, maybe even counting
on her to come through for Ciela. She felt somehow dedicated to them. It felt good, that responsibility.

She leaned on the truck, waiting for Simon now. When she saw his red El Camino come lumbering down the road, she flagged him down. The size of the car made Simon look even smaller than she remembered him, but that didn't keep her from wrapping her thick arms around him and smothering him with a huge hug. Simon blushed, and the white stubble on his chin brightened. He laughed in the same way he used to laugh years ago. He had a hard time breaking that hug with Brenda. Eventually, he patted her on the back and let go. Then the two of them set to work.

It took some maneuvering of the vehicles to get things started. She had to drive her rig to Raymond's place, leave it there, pick up Raymond's keys, and drive back to Ciela with Simon. “You sure we're up to this?” she asked Simon.

“Doesn't look to me like we have a choice, does it?” Simon said. “We can leave Ciela here to die in the sun. We can take her to WWA, where who knows what'll happen to her. Or we can do what Raymond told us to do.”

“There's no vet we can take her to?” she asked.

“It's illegal,” he said. “Working on these wolves. There's one guy who works with Raymond.
Just
with Raymond.”

“Hell,” she said. “This is crazy.”

Simon laughed. “You've been away from the reservation too long if you think
this
is crazy.” She laughed right along with him this time. Because Simon was right. Things happened here, absurd things—like carrying a wolf in a crate to a
Snack-n-Pump
—but somehow things felt right, not absurd, not on this land. She listened to the jumble of voices on the radio stations Raymond had preset in the truck. She couldn't help but laugh a little more.

In the parking lot of the store, she pulled the truck into the only sliver of shade, a knifelike strip cast by the building itself. There wasn't too much to say to Simon now. There was just work to be done. So Simon and Brenda took to ripping down the racks of Slim-Jims and bison jerky that Raymond had so tidily organized
and priced several nights earlier. They hauled most of what could be eaten into the stock room and into the men's and women's bathrooms. Then they locked the front door of the store.

The
Snack-n-Pump
was far from empty now, but it was as cleared out as Brenda and Simon were going to get it. The last arrangement Simon made was to take a couple of big buckets from the shelves and fill them with water. The two stood looking at each other now. “Well,” Simon said.

“Okay,” Brenda said.

They walked to the bed of Raymond's truck and tossed a thin tarp over the crate to blind the wolf to their presence. After that, they scooted the crate with Ciela in it onto the open tailgate. Already, Simon's worn cowboy shirt was wet with sweat, and Brenda was now wishing she'd gotten a drink of water when they filled the buckets in the store. On three, they lifted the crate and waddled awkwardly to the back door, breathing hard and grunting. Once inside, they stood on both sides of the crate. The door could swing open on a hinge, or it could be lifted like a guillotine. With her hands covered by the tarp and her heart slamming to remind her she was doing something important, Brenda reached down and unlatched the door. The two looked at each other, counted breaths, and on three, they pulled the tarp up and the door open.

If she was healthy enough, Ciela would step out, and if Simon and Brenda hauled ass enough, they might make it out of the store before the wolf knew she was free, or at least, free enough to shop at the
Snack-n-Pump
. Brenda was the first one out the back door, and she held it for Simon. When he slammed the door shut behind him, the two of them collapsed against it. “Shit,” Simon exhaled.

“Holy shit,” Brenda said, and the two of them wilted at the knees.

T
HEY SPENT THE NEXT few hours sitting in front of the store, staring through the smudged plate glass window, waiting for any sight
of Ciela. If tourists came by, they shooed them away. “Inventory,” Simon explained. “We're closed today for inventory.”

“Inventory usually takes place
inside
the store,” one businessy-looking traveler said.

“It's Indian inventory,” Simon said. “It's different.”

The guy looked down at Simon, confused, then walked away.

“Try and call Raymond,” Simon said, after hours of seeing nothing but the cash register and the half-cleared aisles and no sign of Ciela. “See if they let him out yet. Tell him what's going on. It's worth a try,” Simon said.

Brenda dialed and then clicked the end button when Raymond's voicemail came on after one ring. “Shit.” She hung up the phone. “We need Raymond.”

“If she was well enough, she'd have left the crate by now,” Simon said.

Brenda shook her head, disbelieving. “Could've broken her leg. Something simple like that. Something that keeps her from walking out of her crate, but not from living.”

“Could be something like that, sure,” Simon said. They both kept looking through the window. After a while, Simon said he was heading home for the night.

“I think I'll stay,” Brenda said, and she watched Simon drive away. Come midnight, she curled up in the cab of her father's truck and slept, the smell of sage wafting through the open windows.

T
HE NEXT DAY BROKE more fall-like than the days before it. Sunrise harbored a gentle chill, and the red clouds didn't seem so much full of fire as they were plump with the colors of autumn. Still, by eight o'clock, the back of Brenda's neck was sweating and she was thirsty and ready for something to eat. She checked the store one more time, saw nothing out of place.
There were no words that made her feel better now. Not her usual swearing at nothing, not her usual complaints. It was just silence, this kind of blind optimism that she would not let die, not this time.

As she turned the key in the truck engine, she had to admit that her optimism was beginning to flicker out. She drove the stretch she remembered to Raymond's favorite burrito wagon. Maria was still running the place, and Brenda ordered without introducing herself, taking a quiet pleasure in her anonymous return. There was just no celebration in her right now, so when Maria handed the Styrofoam container to her and thanked her like a stranger, Brenda just said, “Yes, thanks,” and plunked two quarters in the empty tip jar.

On the way back, she tried Raymond again. Nothing. She called Simon. Nothing there either. And then she parked the truck and got out.

Standing in front of the store were six people she'd never seen before: four kids, two adults, their faces pressed against the glass. The kids were excited about something, and Brenda had a feeling it was not Slim Jims or red licorice. “Store's closed,” she called out, hurrying toward them.

But the man turned away from pressing his face onto the plate glass. “You know what's going on here?” he said.

Brenda's back straightened. The man had the look of awe on his face, not the look of wanting to use the restroom or buy a Coke. He said, “We've been trying to call someone,” he said.

“No,” Brenda said. “There's no need to call anyone.
No
.” She pushed her way through to a front row position at the window and there, in the store, sitting under the swamp cooler on top of an endcap display of Coke, sat Ciela. She was curled up, head resting on her haunches in a way that let Brenda know she was probably not feeling well. But when anyone at the window would move just a little bit, that wolf's lip would curl into a beautiful snarl.
Good wolf,
she thought to herself.
Holy shit
, she kept saying inside.
Holy, holy, holy shit
.

“It's okay,” Brenda said. “We're not open for business, but it's okay.”

“This some Indian ceremony or something?” the woman asked.

“Yes, it's an Indian ceremony,” Brenda said. “It's a private ceremony, though.”

“Bullshit,” the man said. “There's no Indian ceremony in a frickin gas station store.”

“We try to keep up with the times,” Brenda said, echoing a line she'd heard her father say a dozen times when she used to help him in the store way back when. Whatever she said to them, it worked. The people straggled slowly to their car and moved on.

She couldn't stop looking at Ciela. That wolf was sitting there like the
Snack-n-Pump
was her new territory, these aisles of road maps and 10-40 oil her new home. Those cold coke cans probably felt good on her injured hip. Brenda opened her phone and called Simon. This time he answered. “Come up,” she said. “You gotta see what I'm looking at.”