He had had to speak with them only about the safety and care of the animals, letting them know that they would need to check in with him or with Bess before tearing into anything related to the enclosures, but otherwise he found them to be totally remarkable, two young men unafraid of doing virtually anything, building or shoveling lion or bear shit or anything else, working as if they had just discovered it, a trait so unlike him at that age that he still wondered from time to time if their presence was some kind of bizarre joke, certainly the two best volunteers he had ever had and perhaps the best he ever would have, so much so that he had pondered ways of paying them although he knew in actuality that his budget would never allow for such a thing.
Thanks for the help, you guys, he said now, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched up under the spitting rain.
Sure thing, boss.
I think I’ll see if I can start getting the roof up later.
Cool, Chuck said.
Listen, I think we’ll have a quick meeting in about a half hour.
Everything good? Bobby asked.
Yeah, just winter coming. That’s all.
Cool, Chuck said again.
Literally, Bobby said, and they both chuckled.
From the fox enclosure came a high cackling and the three of them looked over to where their red fox, Katy, stood at the front of her enclosure, eyeing them with apparent curiosity, her orange hair shining in the afternoon light.
JUDE’S HOMEWORK was a single page, handwritten, the title WOLF penciled across the top in swirling letters above an illustration in colored marker. Bill held it in his hands while the boy watched him, his eyes bright and wide and shining. Really excellent, buddy. Super cool.
That’s Zeke, Jude said.
I thought it was.
The boy was next to him on the couch, sitting but not really sitting, squirming with energy, his limbs folding and unfolding.
You got the whole thing right, he said. His eyes too.
Yeah, I know it, Jude said. He’s got spooky eyes.
Sometimes.
It’s just a practice drawing, he said. It’s for Mrs. Simmons. We’re doing a unit on ecology.
Ah right, he said. You told me. And that reminds me that I have something for you.
What is it?
Bill stood and went to where his coat hung on a hook by the door and from its pocket brought forth a clear plastic ziplock baggie containing the tattered and worn paperback, its pages held together by a rubber band. I told you I thought I had a book on desert animals, he said, and I found it.
He returned to the couch and handed it to the boy. Wildlife of the Intermountain West. The pronghorn antelope stood looking back at him from the cover without expression.
Cool, Jude said. He pulled it from the ziplock and removed the rubber band and sat flipping through the pages. What are these marks?
The page was open to pen-and-ink drawings of two lizards—zebra-tailed and collared—both of which had large blue check marks next to them. That’s stuff I saw with my own eyes, Bill said.
Everything with a check mark you saw?
Yep, he said.
So you went to the desert?
I grew up in the desert.
Really?
Really and truly.
Jude flipped back to the cover. What’s that?
Pronghorn antelope, Bill said.
Have you ever seen one?
Oh yeah. In eastern Oregon.
You’ve been everywhere.
He smiled, faintly. Not really. Just kept my eyes open.
The boy stared at the book in his lap. A full page of bats, all line drawings. Free-tailed and big-eared and pipistrel. Kangaroo rat, mountain vole. Ducks and woodpeckers and warblers. So hopefully that’ll help some, if you have to draw some other kinds of animals for school.
Yeah totally, the boy said.
Grace had come into the living room from the hall. Time for bed, kiddo, she said.
The response was a long, drawling whine but the boy rose nonetheless, snatching the wolf drawing off the couch next to him and then returning to give Bill their customary hug and high five. ’Night, Jude said.
Good night, buddy.
Thanks for the book.
It’s a good book, he said. I’ve had it a long time.
How long?
Since I was just a little older than you.
No way.
Yes way, he said. I’ll come say good night in a little bit.
They retreated farther into the house, down the hallway that led both to Jude’s room and to Grace’s. Bill remained where he was for a time and then went to the table and sat and flipped through a small pile of mail there. Bills and circulars. At the bottom of the stack was the new issue of National Geographic and a paperback, The Tibetan Book of the Dead, its black cover emblazoned with a circle cut by three arching red waves. He paged through it absently but the words made little sense to him. Light-paths of the wisdoms. Bardo of karmic illusions. Near the center was a blurry and poorly rendered image labeled The Great Mandala of the Peaceful Deities, and he stared at that for a time. A circle containing a series of smaller circles, each of which contained, or seemed to contain, a figure or figures, perhaps human, perhaps not.
When Grace entered the room, the book was still in his hand. You’re not going to join a cult or something, are you? he said.
Maybe.
You’re reading this thing?
Sort of. It’s from that lady Fran who had to put her dog down. She said it helped her guide Chuckles into the afterlife.
Chuckles is trapped with a bunch of dead Tibetan guys now. He’s probably pissed.
Probably. It’s pretty hard to read. I don’t know what I’m supposed to get from it.
Maybe she’s trying to brainwash you.
Wouldn’t that be nice? Grace leaned in behind and wrapped her arms around his chest and neck. Jude’s waiting for you.
He closed the book and stood. Don’t go anywhere, he said. Then he moved down the hall and into the boy’s room. The bed was a mess of blankets and stuffed animals, and as he entered the boy sat up out of that quilted space and said, Boo, and then giggled.
Ah, Bill said, staggering backward into the hall, you scared me.
You’re a scaredy-cat, Jude said.
It’s true. I am. He came and settled on the edge of the bed. Wildlife of the Intermountain West rested on the small white nightstand, returned to its ziplock, the antelope staring through the plastic into the mild twilight of the room. The sight of it there produced a strange and involuntary shiver through his body.
Jude lay back on the pillow, his wet child’s eyes staring up at him. Will you take me to school in the morning? the boy said.
Probably.
Probably as in yes?
Probably as in yes.
Good. In the truck.
Ah, he said, it’s the truck, is it?
The truck’s fun.
What’s wrong with your mom’s truck?
Nothing. Yours is just funner.
I guess so, Bill said. He waited, looking at the boy. Then he said, Ah, heck with it.