He was still smiling as he returned to the trailer in the woods, parking his truck and descending the birch path to the rescue once again. Bess was already there, the coffeepot in the office full and hot. He poured himself a mug and went about the morning feedings. Cinder purred at him when he approached, the sound of her like an engine, her big front paws pressing the moist earth. Hungry, little girl? he said.
The mountain lion looked at him, one-eyed.
He pressed the feed bowl through the hatch and closed it and she came down through the gate and then he could hear the sounds of her great sharp teeth gnashing the food. Breakfast is served, he said.
When he returned to the office it was after ten and a handful of visitors wandered the paths, Bobby, Chuck, and Bess acting as tour guides, Ashley manning the tiny, closet-like gift shop. He finished off the coffee and took the pot outside to refill it with water from the hose and returned to the office. It was then that he saw the red light blinking on the answering machine. He pressed the button there and listened to the tape whiz back and then the click as he poured the water into the coffeemaker’s reservoir. Mr. Reed, the voice came, Steve Colman at Idaho Fish and Game. And he froze there next to the desk, listening, the now empty pot clutched in his fist. I called over to my people at Interior and I’m sorry to say that the wolf and the bear are both gonna have to be removed from the site. Ditto with all the carnivores that fall under Fish and Game jurisdiction. So that’s the bad news. Good news is that I think we can get you permitted for the smaller omnivores like, say, the raccoons and such, but— The message was cut off, the machine clicking and whirring again and then falling silent.
He set the empty pot on the desk and leaned forward and pressed play once more and listened again to the message and then a third time.
Removed from the site, Colman had said. So that’s the bad news.
On the far wall, illuminated now by the slant of morning light and faded with age, hung the framed drawing he had made soon after that single visit to Idaho with his mother and brother: the drawing a mess of color and texture and line not unlike the drawing Jude had shown him the night before. There were few specifics from that first trip to Idaho in his memory, but he could remember the bear: how the animal would look at him with eyes that seemed both intelligent and interested. His uncle taught him how to feed the grizzly and he remembered, still remembered, the feeling, perhaps for the first time in his life, that he was doing something important, that he was needed and wanted. The bear seemed to respond to him in ways that he did not even respond to Uncle David, approaching the front of the cage whenever the boy appeared and the boy standing for hours there, talking to him and scratching his neck with a stick through the woven and welded metal.
He made the drawing when they returned to the dry basin of Battle Mountain and he asked his mother to mail it to his uncle. A month later he had been surprised to receive a package from Idaho containing the field guide, the book he had just given Jude, a volume filled with line drawings and terse descriptions of the plants and animals of his childhood landscape.
The second effect of the drawing he did not know about until he returned. He had been eight years old when he mailed his uncle the drawing. When he returned, thirteen years later, afraid and churning with guilt, he had seen that drawing again, that image from his long distant past, the same crayon and marker illustration of a smiling bear, now enclosed in a little frame upon the wall in his uncle’s office, and the wooden sign at the bear enclosure had been made to match his childhood spelling, not Major but Majer. They had moved it when the bear had been moved and it was worn by years of weather but its carved inscription remained legible enough:
MAJER
Grizzly Bear (Ursus arctos horribilis)
Born 1958
Behind it Majer sniffed the air, scenting Bill’s approach as he walked up the path from the office, the animal’s great head tilting slowly from side to side in a kind of dance.
Hey old buddy, Bill said. The bear looked at him expectantly. How are we doing?
The bear nodded its head slowly.
No treats just now, but it’s checkup day so Gracey’s coming to see you. You know what that means.
The bear looked at him as if he might manifest a treat by sheer force of will or of longing.
You’re just gonna have to wait, Bill said.
Can he understand you? a girl’s voice said.
He turned. Beside him, just a few feet from the front of the enclosure, stood a young girl not much older than Jude, her parents flanking her on either side, both smiling expectantly. In some ways it made him sad to see her there. He wanted to sit alone with his friend. That was all. But here she was. He sure can, he said.
How do you know?
He lets me know what he’s thinking.
But how?
He looked from the girl to the bear. Hey buddy, he said, you want a marshmallow?
The bear nodded, his mouth curling into a broad, almost crazed smile.
He turned back to the girl. What do you think he said?
I think he said yes, the girl said, smiling and wide-eyed.
Well, I’d better give him a marshmallow then. Don’t you think?
She nodded.
He returned to the zookeeper door and removed a marshmallow from his pocket and slipped it through the opening. Majer took it carefully, pushing his lips out as if preparing to suck upon a straw.
The parents asked him some questions as he stood there next to the cage, questions about the bear’s strength and life span, its eating habits, how long it had lived there at the rescue, how long the rescue had been in operation, and Bill answered them all, patiently and carefully, all the while the girl staring at the bear and the bear’s sightless eyes seeming to return her gaze. He had been eight years old when he had first looked into those eyes and even though the bear was now blind, he knew the animal’s gaze had not changed. In it, he thought he could feel time itself. Time pulling the ends together. Time and the bear.