Wild Life (5 page)

In the morning, Erik lay awake, dreading having to see Big Darrell. To his relief, he heard the kitchen door shut, followed by the sound of the truck starting up. He got up and watched from the barn as Big Darrell drove off. Evidently the beet harvest continued, even on Sunday, and Erik was glad of it.

When he walked into the house, Oma made a big to-do over him and Quill, asking how they'd slept and what they'd like for breakfast.

“Eggs would be great,” Erik said. “Please.”

“Erik,” Oma said softly, “you musn't mind Big Darrell. He—has a lot on his mind.”

Erik was still too angry to answer, even if he could have thought of something to say to that.

She continued apologetically, “He called this morning. Dr. Bob is going to come for the—for Quill—later today.”

Erik felt his jaw clench in fury.

Oma blinked, looking as helpless as he felt. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

After a long silence, she sighed and looked down at Quill, who was sitting by Erik's feet. “Now what on earth are we going to feed
you
this morning?” she asked. “I guess it'll have to be ham and eggs for you and Erik both, how does that sound?”

Quill thumped her tail. As Oma busied herself cooking, Erik examined Quill's face. There was a little swelling, but it wasn't bad at all, and she seemed to be acting just fine.

Oma handed Erik a plate of fried eggs, cooked crispy on the edges the way he liked them. She told him she was going to church and asked if he wanted to come along.

“I'll just stay here. Dr. Bob's coming, remember?” he said bitterly. He reached for his fork and began to eat, barely tasting the food.

Oma broke several more eggs over the remaining ham and toast, and placed the dish on the floor for Quill. “Well, my friend will be coming for me soon,” said Oma, “so I'd better get ready.” After a moment, she said suddenly, “I suppose you think I'm silly not to drive.”

Erik, surprised, looked up.

Her eyes were shiny with tears again as she said, “I used to. But I stopped after”—she hesitated for a moment, wide-eyed, then plunged ahead—“well, I stopped after we lost
Dan
.” She paused again, then took a deep breath. “There. I said it.”

Erik licked his lips and swallowed uneasily, not knowing what to say.

“Did your mother tell you about your uncle Dan?” Oma asked.

He nodded. Quill, maybe sensing the tension in the room, came over and placed her head in his lap. He stroked her ears as Oma continued.

“After we got the news about Dan, I had two accidents in the car in one week. I couldn't even say how they happened. I don't know where my mind was. I haven't trusted myself to drive since then. And now it's been so long, thirty-four years, I can scarcely believe it…” Her voice trailed off.

She looked so small right then, and so forlorn, Erik hurried to say, “I don't think you're silly, Oma.”

“Thank you, Erik.” She smiled wanly and added, “I expect Big Darrell does.”

Erik wanted to tell her he didn't care what Big Darrell thought, but he kept silent. Big Darrell was her husband, after all. And Erik kept having the feeling there were things happening that he didn't understand.

“It felt good to say Dan's name out loud just now,” Oma said. “I say it all the time in my prayers, of course. But Big Darrell doesn't like me to talk about Dan.” Her voice low, she added, “He stopped going to church after Dan died. He doesn't pray. He says—he says the God who allowed his son to die is dead to him.” She looked at Erik with eyes full of sorrow, and whispered, “Poor Darrell.”

This confused Erik even further.
Poor Darrell?
he thought. Was she crazy? To hide his discomfort, he got up and took his empty plate to the sink to wash it, and was relieved when Oma said she was going upstairs to get dressed for church.

Erik took Quill outside, unable to sit in that sad kitchen for one more moment. Angrily, he picked up a stick and threw it as hard as he could. Quill chased it, picked it up, ran back to his side, and sat. When Erik held out his hand, she very gently opened her mouth and allowed him to take it.

A wave of affection and regret swept through Erik, and he dropped to his knees to hold Quill's smooth ears and put his face to hers. How could he stand to give her up?

Oma's friend pulled into the driveway, and Oma came outside dressed for church. “There's a coffee hour after the service,” she told Erik, “and I'm on the cleanup committee afterwards. Then Rosemary and I have more decorating to do for the Harvest Festival. So I'll be gone until, oh, about two o'clock or so. Are you sure you'll be all right?”

“I'll be fine,” Erik told her.

She looked as if she might be about to say more. Then she gave her head a quick little shake and said, “Okay, then. I'll see you after church.”

She waved as the car pulled away, and Erik waved back halfheartedly.

As if to remind him of what they were supposed to be doing, Quill threw the stick for herself by tossing her head to send it flying. Erik could have sworn she grinned at him before she ran after it.

It was almost impossible to remain grouchy when Quill was so rambunctious and cheerful, but the reality of Erik's situation was beginning to sink in—hard. It was Sunday. Dr. Bob was coming soon to take Quill. Maybe, just maybe, he'd have been able to stand being here if he had Quill to keep him company. But without her? All he had to look forward to was starting at a new school, where he didn't know anybody and had no friends. Everything about Fortuna, North Dakota, seemed strange and foreign, and Erik had every reason to think the kids would be different, too. What if all the guys were as weird and unfriendly as Big Darrell?

He thought about what Oma had said about Big Darrell and Dan, and his mind returned to the bedroom at the top of the stairs. He decided to go back and look around some more. He didn't know what, exactly, he hoped to learn. Mostly, he was curious. Dan
was
his uncle, after all.

“Come on, Quill,” he called.

In Dan's room, he studied the photograph on the wall. Dan gazed into the camera, looking handsome and very young.
Way too young to be dead,
Erik couldn't help thinking. Also, he had the feeling that Dan's serious, businesslike expression was put on, as if the normally smiling, happy-go-lucky boy thought this was the way a soldier
ought
to look in his official military picture.

Next, Erik examined the medal. He hadn't ever seen a Purple Heart before, but knew this had to be one. Oma and Big Darrell must have been given the decoration after Dan was killed in action.

Wanting to know more about Dan than the bare facts revealed by the flag and the medal and the photo, Erik opened the top dresser drawer. It contained report cards, some photos of Dan in his football uniform, and some 4-H ribbons like the ones on the mirror in his mother's old bedroom. The next two drawers held neatly folded clothes: T-shirts and underwear and jeans.

He wandered over to the closet. There were several stiff, pressed army uniforms hanging there, a camouflage jacket, and some denim and flannel shirts. Shoes were neatly lined up in a row on the floor: shiny, polished army boots, a pair of hunting boots, a pair of loafers, and some sneakers.

The shininess of the boots caught Erik's attention. There was no dust on them—or on anything in the room.
After thirty-four years?
he wondered. Then he realized that someone—Oma, of course, it had to be—must come in here to clean. He pictured her lovingly dusting Dan's things, and maybe saying his name out loud, when Big Darrell wasn't home. It made him sad to think of it.

On the overhead shelf in the closet was some camping stuff: a sleeping bag, a canteen, and a canvas sack with a shoulder strap that he recognized as a Boy Scout mess kit. Next to these things was a shoebox tied with a piece of twine. He reached for it and slipped off the twine. Inside was a dog collar, a leash, a couple of long tail feathers from a pheasant, and more photos of Dan with a yellow Labrador retriever. In some, the dog was a puppy and Dan was about Erik's age. One, labeled “Elvis—4-H Obedience School graduate!” showed Dan holding up a certificate and laughing as the dog's tongue bathed his face. Flipping through them, Erik could see the boy and the dog growing up together.

Several photos were paper-clipped together. The one on top was of Dan and Big Darrell, both dressed for hunting and holding shotguns. They stood beside Elvis, who held a male pheasant in his mouth. Dan and Big Darrell were both grinning like fools, and even Elvis seemed to be smiling proudly as he held his prize.

The next, clearly taken on the same golden fall day, showed Dan and Big Darrell kneeling beside Elvis in the fallen leaves. Dan held up a bird in each hand. Big Darrell had one arm around Dan and the other around Elvis's neck. Once again, they all looked deliriously happy.

A third showed Oma, Big Darrell, and Dan sitting at the table, with Dan holding a carving knife and fork over a platter of roasted birds. Elvis stood by Dan. Everybody was giving a big, cheesy smile to the picture-taker, who Erik figured had been his mom.

As he studied the pictures, a fierce longing rose inside him. It was as if a lot of things he'd read and dreamed about and half imagined suddenly came into focus. He wanted to
be
the boy in those photographs, or to be like him, at least. In the photos Erik saw everything he had tried to explain to his mother about wanting to go hunting, plus something else he hadn't understood at the time: how a big part of the experience was sharing it with a dog.

Erik had listened to Patrick and his dad talking about what a great dog Hot Spots was, and how amazing she was at finding birds. But he hadn't actually hunted with her. Looking at Dan and Elvis, he imagined them in the field, working together, combining their skill and knowledge and instincts in the hunt. He wanted to have that experience, with Quill.

Along with all these thoughts and feelings, the photos raised even more questions about Big Darrell. It was impossible to believe that the casually affectionate man smiling in the pictures, with his arm around Elvis and Dan, was the same stern, grim-faced person Erik had met. The one who didn't hunt, who seemed to hate kids—well, Erik, anyway—the one who had said, “What's that dog doing in here?” And “Didn't I say
no more dogs
?” And “The dog goes.”

It didn't make sense. With a sigh, Erik retied the twine around the box. As he reached up to return it to the shelf, he caught a glimpse of something leaning against the back wall of the closet. Pushing the hanging clothing to the side, he bent down and pulled out a twelve-gauge, semiautomatic shotgun.

“Wow,” he murmured.

He recognized the gun immediately as the same one Dan had been holding in the photographs. Stacked against the rear wall of the closet were several boxes of shotgun shells.

Quill, who had been sitting in a patch of sunlight by the window, came over and sniffed the gun with interest.

“You know what this is, don't you, Quill?” Erik asked.

He didn't think Oma would leave a loaded gun around the house, but he checked it to be sure. Pointing the muzzle toward the floor and keeping his fingers well away from the trigger, he pulled back the bolt. No cartridge popped out of the chamber, but he pulled the bolt a couple more times to make sure there weren't any shells in the magazine, either.

He noticed a metal plate on the wooden stock, engraved with a scene of a man standing, gun to his shoulder, over a dog on point. The dog stood with its tail straight out, front paw lifted, staring with great focus at a pheasant that was hiding in the brush. The dog looked an awful lot like Quill. Whoever the artist was, he was really good. Erik could almost see the dog quivering with contained excitement.

Quill watched him as he hefted the gun, testing the length and weight of it. It felt good. He liked the smell of gun oil and the faint odor of gunpowder that clung to it. He lifted it to his shoulder, and was sighting down the barrel when the phone rang.

He froze for a moment. A rush of guilt flooded through him, guilt at being caught snooping in Dan's room and handling Dan's gun. He felt this even as he realized it was silly: whoever was on the phone couldn't see him.

The guilt passed, followed by dread. He was pretty sure he knew who was calling. He forced himself to set the gun down and walk to Oma and Big Darrell's room.

When he picked up the receiver, Dr. Bob's voice boomed, “Erik, good news! I found the dog's owner.”

Erik's heart leaped, then sank as Dr. Bob continued talking.

“It's a fella by the name of Mike Duvochin. He lives down near Bismarck. He brought some of his dogs up this way last weekend to hunt sharp-tails, just the way I figured. And this pup took off on him. Says he called and whistled and drove around looking for her, but finally he had to leave.”

“He just left Quill behind?” Erik asked incredulously.

“Who? Oh, is that what you're calling her?” Dr. Bob chuckled. “Cute. Anyway, Duvochin said it was getting dark and he couldn't spend all night looking. He had to get home. He didn't know anything about the porcupine. He can't come today, but thinks he'll be able to get up this way tomorrow or the next day.”

“Oh,” Erik said weakly.

“How's the dog doing?”

Erik looked at Quill, who was over in the corner sniffing a pair of Oma's slippers, and smiled despite himself. “Great,” he said. “She acts like nothing ever happened.”

“That's the beauty of dogs,” Dr. Bob said. “They don't dwell on the past. Any swelling?”

“Maybe just a little.”

“Is she eating?”

“Venison, ham, and eggs, so far,” Erik told him.

Dr. Bob laughed and said, “Nothing but the best, huh? Well, listen, it's no problem for me to keep her until Duvochin can come for her. But it doesn't look as if I'll be able to get there until maybe six o'clock. Is that going to be soon enough for Big Darrell?”

Erik thought about the way his grandfather's cold blue eyes had flattened when he first saw Quill, and the look on his face when he said, “Take that mutt out to the barn.”

“I guess it'll have to be,” he said.

“All right, then. I'll see you tonight.”

Erik forced himself to say thanks before hanging up. Quill, who was curled on the rug next to the bed, got to her feet and came over to him. Erik took her head in his hands, and they looked into each other's eyes.

Dr. Bob's call made it final. Even if, by some miracle, Big Darrell had relented and let Quill stay another night, she was going back to her owner. He thought about Quill returning to this Duvochin guy, who obviously didn't care about her anywhere near as much as Erik did, or he'd never have left her behind to contend with a porcupine all on her own.

He thought about going to school the next day, a prospect daunting in itself. Then he imagined coming home at the end of the day to this sagging, unhappy house. Oma was nice, he had to admit, and he felt how hard she was trying to make him feel at home. But any welcoming warmth she created was blotted out by the dark, ominous presence of Big Darrell.

He couldn't stand it.

And suddenly a plan came to him, breathtaking in its perfection and simplicity. He would leave, and take Quill with him.

He had a shotgun, and shells. He had Quill. They would live off the land together. After all, they were in a place where one could hardly “swing a dead cat” without hitting a pheasant, a place where birds and deer and jackrabbits were more plentiful than human beings. And while the land was empty of people, it was full of places to hide. No one would ever find them if they didn't wish to be found.

Big Darrell would be positively thrilled—if Big Darrell was ever actually thrilled about anything—to find them gone. Erik hesitated when he thought about Oma, remembering her pleased expression when he'd hugged her and the feel of her hands on his back when she had hugged him in return. But he was sure that his being there only made her life with Big Darrell harder.

He thought of his parents, halfway across the world.
They're the ones who sent me here and said to make the best of it. And that's what I'm doing,
he told himself.

He glanced at the clock on Oma's bedside table. It was a few minutes before nine. That gave him plenty of time for a good head start in case anyone came looking for him.

He thought about what he'd need to take with him. His mother had told him about how crazy and extreme the weather in North Dakota could be. He wasn't one hundred percent sure he believed that she had gotten badly burned while sunbathing one morning and frostbitten later the same afternoon, or that she used to watch the whitecaps in Oma's birdbath, but he gathered up all his warmest clothes, including rain gear, and stuffed them into his backpack. He added his wallet but left his cell phone on the dresser. It was useless here, and there was no one he wanted to call. He and Quill were going to make it on their own. Kids in pioneer days didn't have phones.

He grabbed his toothbrush from the bathroom and headed back to Dan's room. The shotgun shells went into the pack. Next he tied the old camping mess kit and the canteen onto the outside of the pack by their straps. From the box he took Elvis's collar, which he placed around Quill's neck, and the leash, which he used to lash the sleeping bag to the bottom of the pack.

He was putting on the camouflage jacket when Dan's hunting boots caught his eye. They looked sturdier than his own hiking boots, so he decided to try them on. They were a little roomy, but not bad at all when he put on two pairs of thick wool socks from Dan's drawer.

He picked up the gun, closed the closet door, and surveyed the room. There was no obvious sign that he'd been here. Oma or Big Darrell would have to come in and look in the closet to notice anything was missing, and somehow he doubted they would suspect right away that he'd been in Dan's room. Carefully, he closed the door behind him and went downstairs, Quill at his heels.

In the kitchen he gathered a big box of matches, which he put in a plastic baggie, and a couple of larger plastic bags for keeping his gear dry in case of rain. Opening cabinets and pulling out drawers, he looked for other things he might need and found a Swiss Army knife and another, longer knife.

He and Quill would hunt for their food, of course. But just to be on the safe side, he raided the refrigerator for some cheese, a package of bologna, and two apples. From the pantry he took a pack of cookies, the remains of a loaf of bread, a nearly full jar of peanut butter, and a box of crackers. Then he filled the canteen with water.

Looking around the kitchen, he couldn't think of anything he was forgetting. His eyes fell on the notepad and pen sitting by the telephone. He imagined Oma coming home from church to find him gone. He remembered her saying to Dr. Bob, “I can't have anything happening to Erik. He's my daughter Darlene's boy, you know.”

On the note pad he wrote, “Dear Oma, Quill and I went for a walk, so I packed a lunch. Dr. Bob is coming by for her around 6.” He read it over. It implied—without actually saying—that he and Quill planned to be back in time to meet Dr. Bob. Nothing he'd written was an outright lie. He and Quill
were
going for a walk. He just hoped the note would buy them some extra time. He signed it, “Your grandson, Erik.”

Hoisting his pack onto his back, he called to Quill. Together, they headed out into the wide and windy prairie.