Fauna Read online

  The first one jumped out at her from eye level: Wild Animals I Have Known. When Guy saw what she’d picked, he made a face she couldn’t quite read.

  “What?” She crossed her arms.

  “Nothing.” He smiled. “You’ll see.”

  It wasn’t until the second chapter—“Silverspot: The Story of a Crow”—that Lily understood the meaning of his look. “Get this,” she said to Billy. “‘Old Silverspot was the leader of a large band of crows that made their headquarters near Toronto, Canada, in Castle Frank, which is a pine-clad hill on the northeast edge of the city.’”

  Castle Frank was the name of the subway station at the western end of the viaduct. Silverspot had lived in the Don Valley, just like her.

  And he wasn’t the only one. Redruff the partridge had lived there too. He’d hatched out of his egg and drummed on his log and met Brownie, his mate—only to wind up dangling from a snare, dying for days until an owl finally came and finished him off. Probably the same owl that had left Silverspot in a bloody heap. Cheery tales. The animals almost always croaked in some brutal way—one dog because he ate poisoned horseflesh, another because he killed sheep and bit the girl who fed him. Lily didn’t buy that one, just as she didn’t buy the one about two wolves taking down 250 sheep in a single night. There was one chapter she couldn’t help swallowing whole, though, even if it was the least likely of them all.

  The title made it sound like a story for babies. She thought about skimming “Raggylug: The Story of a Cottontail Rabbit” or even giving it a miss, but the first illustration changed her mind: Raggylug’s eye huge in terror, the snake drawn up above him, showing its ribbon of tongue. Lily took a breath and turned back to the opening line. The scene was mushy as hell—the fluffy baby bunny screaming Mammy, Mammy, as the snake tightened its grip—but when the mother rabbit came bounding to save the day, Lily found she had to stop reading and wait for the blur in her eyes to clear.

  Raggylug became Rag when he got older, which made the whole thing easier to take. He learned everything he needed to know from his mother; he could outwit dogs and foxes, hawks and human snares. No wild animal dies of old age, the author was kind enough to point out—its life has soon or late a tragic end—yet Rag somehow managed to beat the odds. His mother drowned, but Rag lived on to rule the swamp, overpopulating it with his bucktoothed seed.

  Reading that rare happy ending by the light of her camp lantern, Lily couldn’t help but remember the broken-backed rabbit in Billy’s mouth. “Hopefully not Raggy Junior, huh, boy?” she said, but Billy snored on.

  “What did you think?” Guy asked her when she came to trade the book for another. He was bent over an open car hood, his hands black with grease.

  “It was okay.”

  “That all?”

  “Yeah, well, he’s kind of a sick fuck.”

  Guy straightened up. “Who is?”

  “The writer.” She stared at a spot between Billy’s shoulders. “I mean, he gets you feeling all sorry for the animal in one story, but then the next minute he’s chaining up a baby fox or torturing some poor wolf.”

  “Huh.”

  “And it’s supposed to be some kind of freedom when the mustang gets run off a cliff—what the fuck kind of logic is that?”

  “I never thought about it like that.”

  She glanced up to see if he was messing with her. He looked thoughtful, though, almost concerned. “Yeah, well,” she said, “it was cool, though, those parts about the Don Valley.”

  He nodded.

  “You mind if I pick another one?”

  “Go ahead. There’s a bag of dog food just inside the door.”

  Billy perked up as though his name had been mentioned, though Lily had yet to give even that much away. She wasn’t sure what the dog food meant. “Thanks,” she said finally, making for the screen door.

  “Hey,” Guy called after her, “leave that one on the table, will you? I want to read it again.”

  It was a lame thing to feel happy over, but when had anyone ever given a shit what she thought about a book? She poured a generous helping of kibble into the chipped brown bowl beside the bag. The white enamel basin beside it held water that looked to be fresh, though there was no sign of any pet on the premises besides her own. The little corner was for visitors. For Billy. When he stuck his face in deep and started gobbling, she left him to it and went to stand in front of the bookcase again.

  She must’ve picked out a dozen books in the weeks since. The one in her hand is different, though. It’s the first one chosen for her by Guy.

  “You remember Wild Animals I Have Known?” he asked her this morning, when she came back into the kitchen after burying her birds.

  “What am I, eighty? Of course I remember it.”

  He laughed. “You were right, it’s pretty weird.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I like that one about the rabbit, though.”

  She said nothing, her hand seeking Billy’s head, taking hold of the nearest ear.

  “You too, I bet.”

  It was only a simple question. More of a comment, even. So why did it make her feel like running? Guy moved past her to his room. He returned with a book and laid it on the table, alongside the three surviving birds tucked up in their little bags. She’d noticed the odd title more than once, but never so much as laid a finger to its spine.

  The cover illustration was of a rabbit, soft and brown, with a quick, intelligent eye. She picked it up, slid it into her cargo pocket and patted the Velcro flap down. One of the bags gave a rustle. “Guess I better be going,” she said. “Set these little fuckers free.”

  She’s thirty-five pages in, and already she knows the book will change her. Fiver, the twitchy little rabbit, has persuaded Hazel and the others to escape the doomed home warren and make their way into the terrifying woods. In the past, Lily wouldn’t have known what to do with words like these. Now, she draws the dragon book from her pocket and turns to the first blank page. Holding the novel open against her thigh, she digs for her ballpoint and pulls the cap off with her teeth.

  Since entering the wood they had been in severe anxiety. Several were almost tharn—that is, in that state of staring, glazed paralysis that comes over terrified or exhausted rabbits, so that they sit and watch their enemies—weasels or humans—approach to take their lives.

  It helps having copied it out. She lets the dragon book flutter closed and feeds the pen back into its cap. “Tharn,” she says softly, and Billy cracks his black muzzle to yawn.

  Edal’s managed to keep herself busy for most of the day—cleaning up the spray of garbage on the front walk, doing the vacuuming, taking two unread novels back to the library and checking out three more. She might have kept on along the same sensible lines if it hadn’t been for a certain sound. It comes to her upon waking from her second nap of the day: a mental echo of the rusty wrecking-yard screech. Only now, with her temple warm and slightly damp against the pillow, she recognizes it as the cry of something alive.

  She doesn’t exactly think it’s a good idea, going back there. It’s downhill most of the way, though, so in effect the bike does the thinking for her.

  She coasts past the wrecking yard gate to where the asphalt ends, hides her bike in the grass and picks a path along the bottom fence. Virginia creeper has already come in thick over the winter dieback. At the southwest corner of the lot, she pushes her hands into the mess of vines, parting greenery gone dull with exhaust. Her fingers find chain-link. With the on-ramp rumbling at her back, she leans in close and puts her eye to the leafy hole.

  She sees the droppings first, chalky splashes down the trunk of the lifeless tree. Then, drawing her eye upward, leg feathers so white they look bleached. Golden feet. A coppery tail.

  The hawk has heard her. Its head orients back and down, finding her eye among the spring growth. It’s an adult red-tail, maybe half a metre in length, though it looks a little thin. She’s guessing male, but it’s difficult to say. Its cage i
s substantial—only a few metres wide but at least a dozen long. Still, it’s a cage.

  Laying her cheek to the leaves, Edal angles her gaze along the back of the building. Only the nearest window reveals any depth of scene: a single bed, the far wall lined with books.

  A strip of untended yard lies between the building and the back fence—mostly weeds and grass, but she spots the splayed reach of a squash plant, a rampant burst of mint. Here and there the growth is thinner, the earth dug over recently, as though someone has attempted a flower patch and given up. Nothing so unusual about a garden let go, but what’s with all the hubcaps? Embedded on edge at regular intervals, they rise up out of the grass like the bright, cresting combs of waves.

  A small disturbance draws her attention back to the cage. The red-haired man is standing at the far end, busy with the lock. His Mack is gone, replaced by another relic, a rawhide jacket dyed the same shade as his hair. There’s something theatrical about the way he enters the cage—the star of a hippie musical preparing to belt out the theme. Slowly, dramatically, he lifts his arms out at his sides, revealing banks of dangling fringe. Edal has to remind herself to inhale. When he lunges forward, it’s all she can do not to let out a cry.

  He runs toward her, arms flapping, face set—a madman attacking a caged bird. The penny drops only when the bird leaves its branch. Not attacking it, Edal realizes. Forcing it to fly.

  She can make out every splayed-feather finger at the tips of the hawk’s retreating wings, every strip of fringe along the man’s open arms. When he pivots and runs back the way he came, the hawk drops from its far branch and comes swooping. It’s a narrow miss—the thrust of its wings showing in the lift of the man’s hair—yet he doesn’t flinch, only turns in a whirl of suede and, before the bird can settle, comes pounding again.

  His face is changing, beginning to reflect the chase—lips parted, eyes shining, wild.

  This time he touches the bark of the dead oak like a boy touching home-free. Gaining speed on the turn, he drives the hawk harder, so it scarcely lands before it’s away again. When he wheels beneath the branches to follow it, he wears a wide, unthinking smile. Edal can’t help but mirror him. For a moment she imagines shinning up the creepers, showing her friendly face above the leaves.

  “Hey.”

  This time greenery saves her nose. The muscular young man with the pretty face has her bike by its handlebars.

  “Come on.” He turns. “You’d better come with me.” His tone is one of invitation rather than coercion. A note of resignation, perhaps, an older brother giving in to a tagalong little sibling. Still, he keeps a firm hold on her bike.

  At the gate, he leans his forehead against the painted sign, reaches down the front of his T-shirt and draws out a key on a loop of kitchen string. He has to stoop to fit it into the padlock. Pushing the gate open, he motions Edal into the yard.

  She stands to the side, hands balled up in the pocket of her sweatshirt, while he secures the gate. “Think I could have my bike back?”

  “It’s okay.” He walks on. “I’ve got it.”

  He leads her past the old trucks, past the cinder-block office, to where the clapboard extension begins.

  “Wait here.” He pushes her bike to the end of the building and rounds the corner out of sight. “Hey, Guy,” she hears him call out, “can you come here a sec?”

  “Now? I’m flying him.”

  Guy—the name suits him somehow, as does the voice. Edal imagines the younger man gesturing, attempting to mime crazy lady at the back fence.

  “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

  Her escort returns empty-handed.

  “Where’s my bike?”

  “Don’t worry.” He stands with his hands clasped behind his back, feet slightly apart.

  “I’m not worried. I just—”

  “What’s up?” Guy comes alone, leaving his hawk behind. Of course he does—as if he’d come wearing it on his arm like a medieval prince. His eyes rest on her with a strange familiarity. “Who’s this?”

  She can smell the jacket—warm hide, traces of the animal that wore it originally. That and the aroma of something good wafting out the screen door.

  “I found her outside,” the young man says simply.

  “Yeah? Well, I guess you met Stephen already. I’m Guy. Guy Howell.”

  He holds out his hand. It takes Edal a moment to extend hers in return. His grip is callused, firm. None of the false weakness most men imagine women require.

  “Edal Jones. I was just—”

  “Edal?” He grins. “You mean like the otter?”

  It comes as a bit of a shock. It’s been years since her name has elicited anything more than That’s different or What kind of name is that? “Yes,” she says, “like the otter.”

  “Man, I loved that book.”

  She nods.

  “I’m named after Lafleur,” he adds. “Nobody ever says it the French way, though.”

  She nods again. Why is she like this, shamed by the simplest human exchange? Stephen looks at the ground. They’re not sure what to do with her—she can see it. They’re beginning to wonder when she’ll leave.

  “You hungry?” Guy says.

  Stephen brightens. “Yeah.”

  “I know you are—what else is new. I was talking to Edal.”

  “Me?” Hungry. For the first time in days, she suddenly is. “I guess so. Why?”

  “Why? It’s suppertime, that’s why.” He steps past her to open the screen door. “Come on.”

  Edal hesitates for a moment then follows, Stephen falling in step behind. Inside, the smell is even better. She recognizes grilled cheese.

  It’s a deep room. Two doors break up the southern wall; one gapes to show a polka-dotted shower curtain, the other—which can only give onto the little bedroom with the bookcase—is closed. A third door divides the northern wall. Painted a bright shade of green, it too stands closed. Beyond it, countertop and cupboards that date back to the seventies, double sink, tall, mustard-coloured fridge. Down the far end, a girl stands at the stove, her back to the room. Pink hair, drooping vest. She looks round, spatula in hand, and scowls.

  “What’s she doing here?”

  Guy crosses to the sink. “You guys know each other?”

  The girl snorts. Guy turns on the tap, reaches for the dish soap and begins lathering up his hands. The frying smell darkens, on its way to burning.

  The girl turns back to the pan. “She’s the one who followed me.”

  For a moment Edal considers making a break for it. Abandon the bike if necessary, scale the gate. Only Stephen is still behind her—between her and the door.

  “I’m sorry, I saw you with the birds …” She falters. “I was curious.”

  The girl says nothing.

  Guy dries his hands on a dishtowel. “She thinks you’re a cop.”

  “What? Why?” No one answers. “Well, I’m not.”

  “Fair enough. Edal, this is Lily. Lily, this is Edal. She’s going to eat with us.”

  “I only made enough for three,” Lily says.

  “Come on,” Guy says lightly, “there’s plenty.”

  “Whatever.”

  Stephen moves past Edal to wash his hands, drying them on his jeans. Unsure what else to do, she takes her turn at the sink.

  “You want to set the table, Stephen?” Guy opens the fridge. “Anybody want a beer? Lily? Stupid question.”

  “I’ll have milk,” Stephen says, pulling open a drawer.

  Edal dries her hands, resisting the urge to sniff the dish-towel before using it. “Beer’s good.”

  Guy tucks the milk carton and two beers between his arm and his chest. Twisting the cap off a third bottle, he hands it to Lily. She accepts it in silence, keeping her back to the room. He crosses to the table, where he opens the other two, pocketing the caps. “Have a seat, Edal.”

  There are six chairs, chrome and vinyl, still the bright cherry red the table must’ve been. Stephen’s laying out fo
ur places—plate and bowl, soup spoon and glass. Edal chooses the spot nearest the door.

  Still standing, Guy takes a brief swallow of beer. “Where’s Billy?”

  “Out in the garden.” Lily moves to look out the window. “He’s okay.”

  Edal imagines another young man, a twin of sorts to Stephen, digging among the hubcaps and unruly grass. Then remembers the dog.

  Lily turns to hand Stephen a plate piled high with browned sandwiches. Following him to the table with a saucepan in hand, she begins ladling out chicken noodle soup. Up close, she smells unwashed.

  Guy drags out the chair at the head of the table and sits. “Help yourself.” He nudges the plate of sandwiches toward Edal.

  “Thanks.” She takes a half.

  “Go on, don’t be shy.”

  She takes another. Stephen settles in across from her. Lily sets the pot down on the table and slides into her seat.

  “Looks good, Lily,” says Guy. “Thanks.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Edal hears herself. She sounds like a permed pensioner, fresh from church, still in her hat and gloves.

  “Thanks, Lily.” Stephen finishes his first half sandwich and starts in on a second.

  Lily nods and bends to her soup. The sandwiches are perfect, buttery and ever so slightly burnt. Cheap orange cheese, the kind Edal grew up with and no longer allows herself to buy. She can’t remember the last time anything tasted so good.

  When the food’s all gone, the companionable quiet persists. Guy leans back in his chair, pushes a hand into the front pocket of his jeans and draws out a Swiss Army knife. Picking with his fingernail, he teases the bone-coloured toothpick from its sheath. It can’t be. Edal searches her mind for when she last saw a man pick his teeth.

  Guy practises the polite form of the transgression, covering the lower half of his face with his left hand while he goes to work with the right. Edal looks away, but she can still hear the minute scraping of plastic on enamel—a private, probing sound.