Water Witches

by Chris Bohjalian

  Ahead of me is a compact car held together by duct tape, and ahead of that car is a minivan. The minivan climbs the winding road east of Montpelier at twenty-five miles an hour. I honk the horn, one gentle beep.

  I have no idea which of my choices is better. There may be moral differences, but even there I may be deluding myself, even there I may be reducing the issues to the sorts of Birkenstock politics that sound great at rallies but often make little real sense.

  There is no passing on this stretch of road, and there won't be for miles. I could pass the two cars illegally, of course.

  Are you alive in there? I ask the minivan's driver in my mind. Are you awake?

  On the one hand, I can let Miranda tell whoever she wants about the catamounts. Let the cats out of the bag, so to speak. The two of us could tell the world that we saw catamounts on Mount Republic, a mountain that is beautiful and magic and happened to have had the bad luck to have risen toward the sky in the middle of a ski resort. And then we could let nature take its course. I could let nature take its course. I could try and help Powder Peak manage the fallout.

  No, that's not likely. I certainly wouldn't be working with Powder Peak once we started telling people about the animals we saw on the mountain. They probably wouldn't let me near the place.

  I tap the horn again, trying to give the minivan a wake-up call. Trying, perhaps, to convince the little car before me to pass the van illegally, so that I'll have only one car to race past on a winding road with two yellow lines.

  I want to get home. I want to be home.

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  Or, I could instruct Miranda that she and I must never, ever tell anyone what we saw on the mountain. Give her some reason, some excuse. And while it is clear to me that my nine-year-old daughter will not be taking this secret with her to her grave, if she can keep it inside her for a few more months, the permitting process will be behind us.

  I hold my thumb down on the horn for three or four seconds. Drive, please, I hear myself murmuring in disgust in my head. Please put your fucking foot on the fucking accelerator and press the fucking pedal down. Please.

  The fallout from that decision? Just how angry would people like Patience and Reedy become? Just how long would it take people to forgive me? I hate to think. I probably won't live that long.

  But it would allow our firm to retain Powder Peak as a client. It would allow us to maintain our position and reputation with corporate Vermont. And it would allow me continued access to the sorts of clients who can pay what isby Vermont standardsan astonishing hourly rate for my services.

  The minivan slows to a crawl. Twenty miles an hour. Then fifteen. Whoever is driving is punishing me for honking.

  I look down the road into the oncoming lane. There is a small straightaway here, enough length to pass two cars if one of them is creeping along at fifteen miles an hour. Unfortunately, there is a dump truck lumbering our way from the opposite direction.

  Son of a bitch. Son of a fucking bitch.

  "What do you think you're going to tell them?" Laura asks, watering the petunias on the porch.

  "I don't know." I want a beer, but I don't dare. Not yet. I sip club soda instead, and sit unsatisfied in one of the chairs facing west. I can't believe I'd looked forward to this in the truck.

  "You must have some idea."

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  "One would think so."

  There are six baskets and pots with flowers at this end of the porch alone. There may be another half-dozen on the other side. Laura has already filled the copper watering can twice.

  Without looking up from the petunias she says, "This isn't just another rate hike for some utility. You know that, don't you? This isn't about just one more trail at one more ski resort."

  She saw I was irritable when I came home. She knows I am irritable now. "Why are you doing this?" I ask her.

  She stands up. "Because I want to know what you're going to say to those people."

  "Those people," I remind her, "have names. We've known Ian Rawls for a very long time. Good God, you went to high school with the man."

  She places the watering can down onto a porch table as if it were a piece of antique china, setting it soundlessly in place. "Fine. I want to know what you're going to tell Ian. And Goddard."

  "If I had the slightest idea, I'd tell you."

  "I hope you don't expect Miranda to keep quiet forever."

  "I hope it doesn't come to that."

  Three croquet balls sit in the grass, the yellow one dusty-gold in the sunlight.

  "And if it does?"

  My immediate reaction is to tell her that if it comes to the point where I have to takes sides with my daughter against them, then her candle company will have to become more than a hobby. My first reaction is to tell Laura that she would have to start taking her business seriously, because I would no longer have clients like Powder Peak, and we would probably need the income. But I am able to keep the thought to myself.

  "If it does?" she asks again.

  I finish my club soda in one long swallow, the carbonation burning the back of my throat. "Laura, stop! Okay? Just stop."

  Stop is a harsh word, it's not a word either of us uses often.

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  At least with each other. At least with that tone. Instantly Laura's eyes widen, and then for a very long second remain that way. Her cheeks become taut as she considers how to respond. And then, abruptly, she turns and leaves me alone on the porch, letting the screen door slam behind her.

  One of the ways that Powder Peak has tried to survive is by evolving from a winter resort into a four-season resort. Four years ago they built the golf course and sixteen new tennis courts, and they changed the name of the more casual of the resort's two restaurants from Moguls to Peak Eats.

  Despite the drought, the summer tourist business hasn't been half-bad this year. After all, people visiting the state these days can be assured of dramatically more sun than rain.

  By eight o'clock in the evening, however, a family restaurant like Peak Eats is largely emptywhich may actually be the reason that Ian chose it. There's a much older couple finishing their iced tea at a table facing the wide western windows, and a family with two little boys, each about eight or nine years old, seated near the salad bar. One of the boys, the taller and thinner of the two, has been up to the salad bar at least four times since we arrived, each time piling onto his plate a slightly larger pile of macaroni salad.

  "Save room for supper," his mother keeps telling him, to which the boy's father replies, "He's a growing boy. He'll eat plenty."

  Goddard twists the loaf of bread at our table in his hands, as if he were wringing a small animal's neck, and tears the baguette in half. He leans back into his chair and stretches his legs out before him, taking up as much space with his body as he possibly can.

  "I still have that article about catamounts," Goddard says. "The one I saw in the magazine the last time I was out here."

  "You saved it?" I ask.

  "Information. Most important thing you can have when you

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  run a business. Information. I save a lot of stuff that doesn't seem to have a whole lot of value at the time. But sometimes it pays off." He spreads a huge dollop of whipped butter onto his bread.

  "I think you and your daughter saw a feral cat," he says abruptly. "I read a little book about them on the airplane today, probably in that hour we spent flying between Colorado and Iowa. Know what a feral cat is?"

  Ian says he doesn't, so I sit quietly.

  "It's a house cat gone wild. A domestic cat that, for whatever the reasons, takes off into the woods. They can be fierce, and they can look big."

  I consider correcting Goddard: A feral cat can never look that big. A house cat can never look like it might weigh seventy-five to one-hundred pounds. Instead I keep the thought to myself.

  "You were moving, you saw them at dusk," Ian says to me. "I'll bet when those animals fluff their fur, they look m
uch, much bigger."

  I wish they were feral cats. I wish I could convince my daughter they were feral cats: Miranda, we didn't really see catamounts, we were mistaken. We just saw somebody's house cats that now live in the wild.

  "I know what we saw," I tell them. "We saw catamounts. And nothing can change that."

  Goddard chews his bread without looking at Ian or me, staring instead into the empty fireplace. Finally he asks, "How many people in Vermont think they see catamounts every year? Not photograph them. I know that hasn't happened in a century. Just see them, like you and your little girl."

  "My guess is there are probably about three or four sightings every year," I answer. "Reported sightings."

  "Not very many."

  "Nope. Not very many. But there aren't very many sightings of bears either," I add quickly. "And we know they're out there."

  Goddard is wearing a short-sleeve sport shirt. Despite his

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  age, the muscles on his arms are still long packed tubes, and they stand out on his forearms as if he were a tennis pro thirty years younger. No one meeting him for the first time would ever doubt that Goddard was once an Olympic athlete.

  "Ian says your solution to our problem here is to go public with the news, and move the new trail network to another mountain. That true?"

  "It is."

  He shakes his head slowly. "Pretty lame, my boy."

  "I'm open to other suggestions," I tell him. Although Ian and I have removed our jackets and loosened our ties, we still look like weakling Rotarians compared to Healy.

  "It's dated, Scottie, it's yesterday's newspaper." He brings his legs back under his chair and sits forward, folding his hands on the table. "Even in the northwesteven in the very heart of spotted owl centralour liberal President is letting loggers cut one point two billion feet of timber a year on federal lands. One point two billion! And you know why? Jobs. That's what this is all about. Jobs. Pure and simple."

  I take a long swallow of beer, preparing my response. Before I can speak, however, Goddard continues as if he never even stopped for air.

  "I love animals, I really do. When I saw the picture of the eastern catamount in that magazine last month, I felt a chill. I really did. But as much as I love animals, I love people more."

  "Are you still dating Tanya?" I ask. "That woman from Greenpeace?"

  He shakes his head. "Not really. Hell, not at all."

  "That's too bad." I had hoped I would have an ally in Tanya.

  "Some assholes torched some greens at the golf course out at Mystic earlier this month, and tried sabotaging a chair lift we're building. I'm pretty sure her older brother was involved," he says.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Not as sorry as I am. I was a horny old man who used his balls for his brains. I was used. And now I'm paying the price."

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  Ian signals to the waitress that she should bring us another round of drinks.

  ''Scottie, I wish to God this wasn't a choice between three animals and hundreds and hundreds of people," Goddard insists. "Because I do love animals. But that's the choice you're asking this resort to make. We can either kill the expansion and look out for these animalslet's work on the assumption you really are right about what you sawor we can proceed, even though we'll be clearing the land where those critters might live. It's a choice: You can either offer people the three to five hundred jobs you yourself have talked about all summer, or you can offer them the existence of three cats."

  "There's more to it than that," Ian says. "The expansion doesn't simply mean new jobs. It also prevents the loss of existing jobs. I'm not sure how viable Powder Peak will be in a decade without the expansion."

  Goddard nods in agreement with Ian, as his eyes wander toward the waitress, an attractive young woman with blond hair the color of Miranda's.

  "I guess I'm not as convinced as the two of you that this is an either-or proposition," I tell them, trying to keep my voice light.

  "Scottie, we've been through this and through this!" Ian snaps. "The engineers went over every possible inch of every mountain we have, and Mount Republic is the best spot there is."

  I spread my arms, palms up. "So we use the second-best spot."

  Goddard allows himself a small laugh. "Use the second-best spot. Where might that be, Scottie? In the wildlife habitat? On the cliffs up top of Mount Chittenden? How about those twelve hundred acres on Chittenden your friend Liza Eastwick said we can't touch anymore? Right there?"

  "Powder Peak has a lot of land. Somewhere, there's a spot to build"

  "There probably is," Goddard says, leaning over to face me

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  as he cuts me off. "And I'm sure if we were willing to fund another million dollars in engineering work and planning studies and legal fees, we could find that spot. I'm sure if we were willing to go through the permit process all over again, give up another year or two of our lives, we could find that spot. But that's just not realistic in this economic climate. I've seen a lot of this industry disappear over the last decade, and I've seen a lot of it fall to its knees. Well, I'm not about to let that happen to any Schuss property."

  "Our permits already cut us off at the knees!" Ian adds, abruptly forgetting his initial relief and happiness when Liza called him a week ago today.

  As the busboy refills our water glasses, the waitress returns to our table. "Would you like to order, or would you gentlemen like some more time?" she asks.

  "Give us five more minutes," Goddard says to her.

  The older couple stands up to leave, pausing for a moment before the western picture windows, savoring the echo of a red sunset that remains in the distant sky.

  "We've done most of the talking here, Scottie," Goddard tells me, smiling. "You must feel like a trapped animal yourself."

  "Sure do," I admit. It crosses my mind that although Ian and I have never been particularly close, we have been friends now for over a decade.

  "Want to tell us where your head's at? Right now?" Goddard asks.

  But if anyone were to walk into the restaurant at this moment and glance at our table, they would find it hard to believe that Ian and I are friends. Were friends, perhaps. He sits with his arms folded across his chest, occasionally shaking his head the tiniest bit back and forth, his eyes two thin slits. His lips move when he sighs, frustrated.

  "I'm not sure," I hear myself mumbling in Goddard's direction. My voice sounds pathetic to me, but a mumble is all I can muster as I stand at the edge of the cliff. One step forward and

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  I'm over the precipice; one step back and I will have begun the retreat that will keep me safe, my firm secure, my professional future intact.

  "Well, you've got a lot to digest."

  I wonder what I look like to him. To Goddard. I do indeed feel like a trapped animal, but it's not because I'm scared. At least I hope it isn't. Nothing Ian or Goddard has said is particularly frightening, none of it has surprised me. I've seen this cliff approaching since Miranda told Laura about the catamounts Monday night, and I heard the excitement in her voice. I sit up straight in my chair when I realize I've been slouching.