Fauna Read online

  It’s full morning by the time Lily returns to the valley floor. No sign of the nightlife beyond the usual fresh graffiti tags and empties, the odd abandoned shoe. Somebody’s been stapling up yellow flyers—probably some pervert or religious freak. She doesn’t bother to take a close look. Day-timers pass Billy and her on the footpath—runners and cyclists, people who keep their dogs on leads. She looks through them until she’s safely by.

  Her pockets are alive. Seven survivors this morning, the whole vest bursting with birds. She waits until they’re north of the viaduct before wading out into the weeds; might as well get clear of the most obvious obstacle.

  The first bag comes from the right cargo pocket. The ovenbird is lively, definitely ready to try. Lily parts the paper and reaches in, closing her fingers around its breast. The peck it gives her scarcely registers, her hands drunk with the silken overlap of its feathers, the fluttering protest of its heart.

  As always, there comes the moment of doubt as she cradles the bird in her closed hands. “Ready?” she whispers through her fingers. “One, two, three!”

  It’s like scooping up water when you’re a kid at the lake, watching it break open the light. Billy barks as she flings the bird skyward. She doesn’t blame him—it really is something to see.

  Ever since Stephen showed the workers at the Valley Animal Shelter he could handle the troubled dogs, that’s all he ever gets. Which is fine, because they need to get out as much as their neighbours do—maybe more, when you consider how rarely they’re chosen to be taken home.

  Today’s dog is Tiger, a Staffordshire terrier mix with a striped coat and a tendency to snap and piddle when approached. He lunged repeatedly at Stephen’s feet the first time they went out together, which was how Stephen knew the man in Tiger’s former life had been the kind that kicked. Once they’d made it down to the valley path, he fixed Tiger’s leash to a sapling and bent to remove his boots. While the quivering dog watched, he dropped a liver treat down each one. Then stood back in his stocking feet to wait.

  Tiger was easily distracted. He erupted into paroxysms of barking at the sound of a chipping squirrel, then again at the flash of a passing bike. Eventually, though, he honed in on the scented message of the treats. He had to shove his stubby snout deep to retrieve them—no tasting the gift without tasting the man who gave it. The next treat came from Stephen’s hand, the cup of which Tiger snuffled into long after the dark morsel was gone.

  They’re good buddies now—which doesn’t mean Stephen can let down his guard. As they leave the shelter lot for the sidewalk, he keeps Tiger to a tight heel, placing himself between potential violence and passersby. The occasional bone-head overlooks the obvious and attempts to make friends. Stephen has found it’s best not to mince words. He bites does the trick every time.

  The bridge is all sun and car horns, the Queen streetcar squealing on its rails. Metal stairs carry them down to sweet relief—the shady, beaten earth of the valley floor. They walk north. Stephen lets some slack into Tiger’s lead on the lonely stretches, reels him in tight at the first sign of life.

  Today they enjoy relative solitude—only two cyclists and a small pack of lunchtime runners between the Queen and Dundas Street spans—leaving Stephen free to take stock of the burgeoning world.

  The air is sweet, car fumes a distant second to the scent storm of an advancing spring. The valley’s looking good, trees filling in nicely, undergrowth rising up to hide a winter’s worth of trash. All around him, weeds are doubling their number, stretching their thin green skins. A swath of white, knee-high flowers catches his eye, and then something else new—a bright yellow flyer bearing the black stroke of what appears to be a single phrase. Upon closer inspection it turns out to be a URL:

  coyotecop.blogmonster.com

  Whoever’s posted it has little regard for trees: he’s stapled the page directly to living bark, and Stephen can see others fluttering on trunks along the path up ahead. He folds the first one he tears down, slipping it into his back pocket before moving on. The rest he collects in a loose sheaf under his arm—two dozen or more before they peter out just south of the viaduct, and he and Tiger can turn around.

  Edal wakes in late afternoon. Twenty minutes pass before she sits up. Another five before she can force herself to rise.

  To begin with, she showers properly, washing and even conditioning her hair. She dresses and makes a mug of tea, sits down to tackle the two-day-old Saturday Star. Not one headline grabs her, but she forces herself to keep on. Between features, she plays with the idea of checking her email for the first time in a week. Voice mail, too. At the very least, she should turn the ringer back up on the phone. Which would be worse, finding messages or finding none?

  Around five, she begins to feel vaguely nauseous, an unpleasant reminder of the body’s unrelenting need for fuel. There’s food in the fridge, much of it too far gone to consider—squashy bags in the crisper, yellowing bacon, a litre of lumpy milk. She should have a good cleanout. The garbage cans go out tonight, so it’s the ideal time to start fresh.

  Edal slips on her shoes. She descends to street level, crosses the park and takes the quiet streets to Loblaws. The IGA is closer, but the walk is half the point.

  She makes herself a proper meal when she gets home, chicken breast sweating in the oven while she assembles a complex salad for its bed. She could eat in front of the TV, but it seems wise to maintain at least some of her rules. It’s not easy, though, just sitting at the kitchen table, lifting the fork over and over to her lips. Before long she can scarcely stand the sound of her own chewing. The chicken gives out a soft, fleshy clicking; the chunks of red pepper squeak. Romaine collapses against her palate, a series of watery, crumpling spines.

  She leaves more than half her dinner uneaten. Considers wrapping it up, but can’t imagine ever wanting to look at it again. Bending to scrape the plate, she spots the crust she left out for the mouse. Idiot. She drops that in the garbage too.

  Lily never liked tuna casserole until she tried Guy’s. She’d gladly have it tomorrow too—only tomorrow’s her turn to cook.

  Tonight she washes while Stephen dries.

  “You guys want to stick around when you’re done?” Guy says as he shoves the leftovers in the fridge. “Maybe hang out a little?”

  “I have to feed the kits.” Stephen slides a saucepan into the drawer beneath the stove.

  “Yeah, and I need a smoke.”

  “Okay, so after that.”

  While Billy noses along the vine-draped fence, Lily settles on a hummock not far from her graveyard of birds. The smoke is rich in her mouth, incredibly good. Only one left in the pack, and not enough money for more, but she might go ahead and smoke the last one too. She feels at ease in the long back garden—hell, anywhere inside the wrecking yard’s high mesh fence. Strange, considering she’s only been coming here for a month and a half.

  She and Billy had been calling the Don Valley home for nearly two weeks on the morning she met Guy. It was early, but she’d already broken camp and stashed her stuff. She was threading through brush, heading south toward the viaduct, when Billy tore away from her side. The Newfoundlander part of him knew better, but once in a blue moon his unknown fraction caught a glimpse of movement in the grass and took off.

  “Billy!” She hated having to cry out like that, advertising her girl’s voice to any creep within earshot, but whistling never worked when he really lost his head. “Billy!” she yelled again. “Come!”

  It was incredible how fast he could move. Shading her eyes against the early sun, Lily saw what had set him off. The rabbit was giving him a run for his money, showing above the grass, plunging and showing again. It must have felt its pursuer gaining; why else leap like that, springing wildly to one side? Billy wasn’t fooled. He swerved, snatching it mid-spasm from the air.

  It was stupid of her to scream, stupider still to stumble through the dewy weeds while Billy shook his prey to death. She caught up in time to see him curl his
lips in a slobbery, rabbit-squeezing smile. The cottontail’s back was broken—she could tell by the way it draped over Billy’s bottom jaw. He looked up at her in triumph. She brought her fist down on his back. “Bad dog! Bad dog!”

  When he shrank from her, dropping his prize, she felt her legs give way. Down on her knees beside him, she suddenly understood: he was hungry; starving, even. She hadn’t fed either of them since the morning before. The tears blinded her at first, but soon she saw through them to brownish fur and grass. She laid a hand on Billy’s head. “It’s okay, boy. Go ahead.” Still he hesitated, so she pressed down with her palm, guiding his snout to the kill. “It’s okay. Eat.”

  He breathed the rabbit in—at least that was how it looked. Sound was another matter. No mistaking the crunch of itty-bitty bones.

  She felt someone approaching before she heard it, the ground trembling in her bones. Still on her knees, she turned to see a red-haired man pounding toward them across the field. Billy whirled and began barking, his mane standing on end. The man slowed to a stop.

  “I heard a scream,” he called.

  “Quiet. Quiet, Billy.” Lily stood up, wiping her eyes.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” They faced each other like a pair of surveyors, twenty metres between them.

  “Okay if I come over there?”

  “Why?”

  “I won’t hurt you.”

  She felt for her knife. “Okay.”

  He advanced slowly, stopping again when he was still several paces away. Didn’t step in close to pat Billy. Didn’t even pat his leg to bring Billy to him. “Was that you screaming?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You’re okay, though, right? Did somebody—”

  “No. Nobody.”

  “Good.” He nodded, and she saw that he too was shaken.

  “It was a rabbit,” she blurted. “My dog—he killed a rabbit.”

  “Oh.” She saw his eyes searching the grass.

  “He ate it.” Again the tears threatened. “He was hungry.”

  “Ah.” He nodded again, slowly this time, thoughtfully. “Well, that’s good.”

  “Good?”

  “Not that he was hungry. That he got himself something to eat. It’s better than some dogs. People too, for that matter. Killing for fun.”

  Lily felt the small hairs stand at the back of her neck. So far he’d restricted his gaze to her face, but it was an unnerving gaze all the same. She glanced down at Billy, surprised to find his fur lying flat, his posture relaxed.

  Turning her attention back to the man, she realized he was older than she’d thought, maybe as old as thirty. He was dressed young, jeans and All Stars, a green and black Mack—the first Mack she’d seen in the city that wasn’t paired with a hard hat. Not bad-looking, but in a way where he might not know it. If he was vain about anything, it would be that hair.

  “I’m Guy,” he said. “Guy Howell.”

  She nodded. Why was he still there?

  “You like rabbits?”

  The question caught her off guard. Not especially was what she wanted to say, but it was hard to lie to somebody who wouldn’t look away. “I guess.”

  “Me too.” He looked around then, as though he was scanning the grass for long ears. Or else making certain there was nobody close at hand.

  Lily clutched the folded form of the knife inside her pocket. The bear spray was tucked in the wide game pocket that ran along her lower back. Billy was pressed up against her. Besides, this particular man—this Guy Howell—had come running when he’d heard her scream.

  “You like books?”

  It was the last thing she expected him to say. It stunned her—thirty, forty seconds until she figured out what it meant. Bait. But how had he figured her out so fast? How had he picked up on the only thing she’d been missing, the little blue bookshelf in her room? She’d found her way to the Riverdale Library on her third day in town, but Billy wasn’t allowed in, and they wouldn’t let her take anything out. You had to have an address to get a library card. You had to show ID.

  “Not especially.” She managed to say it out loud this time.

  “No? Huh. Somehow I figured you for a reader.”

  Billy was really listing now, settling his black weight against her. She clenched her hands. “I am.”

  He smiled. “Thought so.” Reaching into his back jeans pocket, he produced a small pad and pen. Wrote for a moment, then tore off the page and held it out. He let her be the one to step forward and take it.

  Billy rose up the way he always did when she made a move, but still he stood easy, seemingly unconcerned. The note showed an address and a roughed-in map. Howell Auto Wreckers underlined twice.

  “That’s my place. Gate’s locked, but you just buzz.” He returned the pad and pen to his pocket. “I’ve got plenty of books.”

  Lily kept her head down, holding the little map in both hands, studying it.

  “You’re welcome there any time, you and your dog.”

  It turned out to be true—about the books, but also about the welcome. Neither Guy nor Stephen has ever tried to mess with her. More than that, they’ve treated her like a friend.

  Both of them are sitting at the table when she and Billy walk back in. In Guy’s hand, an old book with an elephant on the cover, some guy in a turban grinning down from its back. The title tells her nothing. Kipling: A Selection of His Stories and Poems.

  “What the fuck is this,” she says, “storytime?”

  “You guessed it,” says Guy. “Pull up a chair.”

  The raccoon is old. He’s lived through more snowed-in sleep and green return than most of his kind ever know. Little wonder—he’s stronger than most, and wilier. He knows how to bide his time.

  She will come. Any moment now, the human will emerge, unhook the containers from their moorings and drag them to the path. Until then, he wears the bushes like a mask.

  Other raccoons have come this way recently—he can smell the fresh rub-mark of a yearling male. Cats, too. A pale tom, not paying sufficient attention, set a soft foot down behind him not long after he took up his post. It froze when he turned his eyes its way, backed out into the open before he even so much as hissed.

  His vantage point is good, but he’d see even more if he sat up, leaning back on the stub where his tail used to be. It troubles him still, the absence more than the scarred-over lump itself. He’d known bites before—a male is called upon to fight for his share—but never so dirty or so deep. He saw the interloper off, only to find the damage had been done. The ringed glory of the old male’s tail turned septic. He dragged it rotting behind him for a time, then chewed free of it one frost-hardened day. When he crawled out from under the brush pile that evening, the tail curled stinking where he’d lain.

  It was a trick learning to balance without it; more than once he wobbled on a fence rail or slid from a branch, clumsy as a kit. The following winter, he felt the true measure of his loss. The fat he might have stored in its fluffy length, he made do without. Worse still, he had nothing to tuck around the chilled tip of his nose, the near-naked extremities of his feet. And yet he lived. Come mating time, he took on three young rivals and won. The female welcomed him, tail or no.

  And now the world is new again. The kits he started that night are denned up with their mother somewhere—unless they and their mother are dead. Either way, the old male sits and waits.

  The dragonfly doesn’t spot him, despite its bulging eyes. Intent on the hunt, it hawks and dives, hovers and dives again. Soon it wavers close to the bushes, as though daring him to snatch it from mid-air—which he does, his hand shooting out like the sticky-tipped tongue of a frog. The catch struggles in his fist. He opens his fingers in increments, rolls the kicking creature between his palms. Pressing the ruin of it to his nose, he feels a lone, still-twitching leg play over his whiskers, thin as a whisker itself. He opens his jaws, welcoming the veined resilience of its wings. Its head is a bitter
nut. Its body’s bright armour guards the thinnest of meats—enough to rouse his hunger and make it cry.

  He has a clear view of the containers now—two slim and two sturdy—huddled under their wooden den. The slender ones interest him most. For several nights in a row they’ve resisted him, thwarting his hands while they wafted a maddening scent. The treasure they guard is ripe: chicken bones and pig fat, softening apples and half-eaten ears of corn. Some smells he doesn’t recognize yet finds appealing. Others speak of scraps he will cast aside.

  The human has bound up her treasure tight. They use a kind of stretchy, spotted snake—only snakes are good to eat, and these are sour and impossible to chew. Hooks in place of their heads and tails, they hold the fragrant containers closed. Worse, they hold them fast to the slats of their enclosure, so he can’t even tip them on their sides. He can wait, though. He can watch and he can learn.

  And here comes the teacher now.

  She leaves her door wide open—tempting, but almost always more trouble than it’s worth. Besides, she’s brought a fresh bag to add to the cache. Already he can make out strains of cheese and bread, something fruity, something with leaves. Eggs—probably only the shells, but each jagged little cup holds a glossy tongueful.

  Setting the bag down, she bends to the nearest container. The old raccoon rises up on his hind legs; even this he has mastered without the tripod leg of his tail. Human hands are subtle, terribly strong. Even a slight female such as this makes short work of the hook-headed serpents, releasing the container from their grip. He works his fingers in an echo of hers, but there’s a trick to it he’s missing—something about the give in that patterned length.

  Never mind. Tonight’s the night when the lonely, feast-filled vessels stand unguarded, fastened with nothing but a clip any yearling could undo. He’ll wait until the street is quiet before making his move. A flick of the fingers, a well-placed push and, one after another, they’ll spill.