The End of the Wild

by Nicole Helget

  Margot raises her hand and flails it around. “Mr. Flores, I know where he is.”

  “Where’s that?” Mr. Flores scratches his head with the pencil.

  “In foster care,” she says, acting proud that she has inside information. “Mark-Richard burned his own house down.” She rolls her eyes like Mark-Richard is the biggest idiot on the planet.

  “What?!” Mr. Flores says.

  “Shut up, Margot,” says Alkomso.

  But Margot keeps talking. “Mark-Richard’s mom ran away. So Mark-Richard’s dad went to bring her back home.”

  Sometimes I wish Margot would fall into a snake pit. I give her my worst dirty look.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Fern,” she says. “You’re probably just worried because everyone knows you might be taken away next.”

  My face burns.

  Alkomso slaps her desk. “I mean it, Margot. You better be quiet.”

  “Hey!” shouts Mr. Flores. “Knock it off!”

  I’m furious and curious and scared all at once. I want Margot to shut up, too, but I also want to know what happened.

  “How did he burn his house down?” asks another kid.

  Margot puffs up with importance. “Well,” she says, “my mom says that Mark-Richard sat his cat on the couch and put a candle flame to a wood tick on its ear. But Mark-Richard didn’t know that his mom had doused the couch in kerosene to kill bedbugs. The cat leaped off the couch, knocked the candle out of Mark-Richard’s hands, and up went the flames. Mark-Richard got Gary and the cat out, and they all got picked up by the county lady.”

  That would be Miss Tassel.

  “Poor Mark-Richard,” Alkomso whispers.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I saw the house this morning.”

  “Oh no!” says Mr. Flores. “I wish I had known. I’d adopt that little guy in two seconds.”

  Margot taps the toe of her shoe on the floor. “You can’t do that, Mr. Flores,” she says. “My mom says you have to have a nice house to have children. You can’t just live out of a camper.”

  Margot’s mom has been trying to get Mr. Flores fired because he showed us a video filmed inside a hogging operation where all the pigs were full of sores and dying from disease and mistreatment. Margot Peterson’s dad owns the fifth-largest hogging operation in the country.

  Mr. Flores sighs. “Let’s move on to the next thing—topics for the STEM fair. Has everyone decided on theirs?”

  “I have,” Margot says. “I’m going to make a volcano.”

  “Booor-ing,” says Mr. Flores. “Pick something else. Really think. Think about something that affects you or your family or your community.”

  Mr. Flores explains that the STEM fair will be held at the end of the month, and parents and neighbors are invited to attend. He asks a few other kids and writes some topic ideas on the whiteboard and nearly loses his mind with excitement when one boy says he’s going to take apart a carburetor and explain how it works.

  “Awesome,” he says. “I dig it completely. I love when I get to learn something from you brainiacs.”

  “I’m think I’m doing fracking,” Alkomso says. “My dad is getting a new job with Kloche’s, so he can be closer to home.”

  The corners of Mr. Flores’s mouth turn down. Then he opens his mouth, but no words come out.

  “He is?” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Alkomso shrugs. “I just found out this morning. He starts in a few weeks. My mom is so happy. And Dad says he’ll have more time to help out around the house.” Alkomso has a new little sister. Kaltumo is her name. She’s pretty much the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. She’s also a lot of work.

  But that means that Alkomso’s dad will be working for the company that plans to put the wastewater pond right in Millner’s woods.

  “What about my grove?” I say to Alkomso. “Kloche’s wants to cut it all down.”

  “Well, my family needs my dad home more.”

  “But my family needs the woods for food.”

  Alkomso and I stare into each other’s eyes. Several seconds pass.

  Margot coughs a fake cough. “My dad says fracking is going to bring lots of new jobs to Colter,” she says. “Fern, maybe your dad should just get a job with Kloche’s, too.”

  Alkomso’s eyes widen. Mine do, too. It’s almost like, for a brief second, Alkomso and Margot are on the same side.

  And I am on the other side. I turn around in my chair and face the front.

  “Fern?” says Mr. Flores.

  My face gets hot. I hate being called on. “Yeah?”

  “Your project. Have you decided on one?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I mumble.

  “You keep thinking.” He points at me with his pen. “I know you’ll think of something great. You’re a born naturalist.”

  I muster a tight smile. I don’t know what a naturalist is exactly, but it sounds like someone who loves the outdoors.

  “Anyway, let’s move on and hit the bird-watching trail. Everybody ready?” He puts a pair of binoculars around his neck.

  Alkomso stands and pushes in her chair. “This is going to be so fun, isn’t it?”

  I try my best to smile.

  “Are you mad at me because my dad got that job?” she asks. “Because you shouldn’t be. Everything is going to be fine.”

  I nod even if I don’t believe it. “I’m not mad at you. I just have a lot on my mind.” I look over at Mark-Richard’s empty desk. “I feel bad for Mark-Richard.”

  “Me, too,” she says. “But he’ll be back, I’m sure.”

  She puts her arm around my shoulder. It feels heavy.

  Chapter 7

  Once the final bell rings, I go to Mikko’s and Alexi’s classrooms to pick them up. Alexi’s teacher, the one who is best friends with Grandpa’s secretary, stops me. She tells me something about Alexi having to get a consequence today for fidgeting around and being a distraction.

  How’s he supposed to sit still when his best friend has been taken away and he was nearly attacked by a bear this morning? is what I want to say.

  “Okay,” I tell her instead. She keeps yapping about him needing to learn to stay in his seat and such. Though her mouth barely moves, all these words keep spilling out of it. She’s got a loose double chin that hangs from her jaw.

  “Yep,” I tell her. “Got it.”

  She wraps her bony fingers around my arm. I yank it away. “I put a report in his backpack. Make sure his father reads it. If he knows how to read, that is.” Then she spins on her heel and turns away to target another kid.

  I give Alexi’s hand a little squeeze. He smiles up at me.

  “She looks like a toad,” he says a little too loudly.

  I am proud to be his sister. And Mikko’s, too. I don’t care what those stupid papers say about my brothers and their bad behavior, even if some of it’s true.

  On the way home, we make lots of noise as we pass Mark-Richard’s house, since noise usually keeps bears away. There’s just the slightest whiff of smoke.

  I wonder where Mark-Richard is now. When you’ve spent so many days of your life walking to and from school with someone, you get to know that person pretty well. Especially when that person lives kind of in the wild, like I do. Mark-Richard is a good friend. I wish I had told him that yesterday, when I had the chance.

  When we get to a stand of beech trees, I stop and stare at the golden canopy, thinking I’d like to bring some of the nuts home. Roasted beechnuts are tasty. And beechnut butter on homemade bread with a glass of warm milk is a treat Mom would sometimes give us before bed.

  I look up and down the road and into Millner’s woods, but I don’t see a soul. I listen. All the regular animal activity is back, which makes me sure the bear has moved on. So I climb over the fence, and the boys crawl under, following me. We walk to the biggest beech trunk, mottled gray and smooth.

  The wind dies down. Mom’s presence is all around. She brought us out here all the time, spring, summer,
fall, and winter. There was always something new to discover. Baby ducks following their mom at the pond. Nettles after the first thaw. Little fawns learning how to walk in spring. Wild grapes in August. Pheasant’s back mushrooms around harvest. Pine needles for tea on the short days of winter. Somebody should make a list of all the good food to be found in these woods, she’d say. Back then there was no reason to be afraid of Millner. He was just our neighbor, a regular nobody-special like us.

  I wish I could talk to Mom and ask all the questions I have about what’s happening with Toivo, Grandpa, Kloche’s, and Mark-Richard. I try to let all those scary thoughts go. Right now I just want to enjoy that protected and calm sense I had when I was around Mom.

  And when I decide to dump the bad thoughts, she surrounds me again. I feel safe. I don’t know if there’s an afterlife. It’s not a topic we’ve ever really talked about at home, but somehow right now it feels as though there is.

  When a tender wind finally rustles the branches, a few beechnuts hit the ground. Mikko opens his backpack and begins tossing them in. Alexi and I kneel down and help.

  When our bags are about half-full, a whiny howl breaks the silence. We all stop and pop up our heads.

  Owwww-oooooooo! it goes again.

  “What’s that?” asks Alexi.

  Ow-ow-oooooo!

  We stand, and I move the boys behind me, sheltering them between me and the tree.

  And then we hear footsteps coming toward us.

  Alexi and Mikko grab hold of my arm and squeeze tight. I lean down and pick up an old heavy stick. I hold it out in front of us.

  “Who’s there?” I demand.

  Ow-ooooooo. The noise sounds low and lonely.

  I turn. The footsteps come steadily. At last, from the depths of the woods, I see Ranger.

  He’s hanging his head so that his nose nearly touches the ground. He walks a few more feet and then sits, keeping his head down.

  It’s then that I see what he’s whining about. Around his neck dangles a dead mallard duck.

  “Oh, Ranger,” I whisper. “What did you do?” The emerald-green head of the mallard, a drake, hangs from a leash of twine tied tight behind Ranger’s head.

  “He killed it!” says Mikko. He’s pointing at Ranger as if the dog is in a police lineup.

  “He’s getting a consequence!” says Alexi.

  Ranger lowers his head in shame.

  Around here, if a dog kills a chicken, goose, or duck, the owner ties the dead fowl around the dog’s neck until the bird decays and falls off. The dog has to live with, and smell, the result of his bad deed. That way, the dog learns not to attack the birds again. The best dogs learn to protect, not harm, them.

  Ranger’s eyes peel the ground. He whines as though in sorrow.

  “Did you kill that duck, Ranger?” I say. I’m somewhere between angry and disbelieving.

  The weight of the plump bird has already pulled so tight on the twine leash that Ranger’s skin is chafing, and in one place an open wound, cut by the rope, is bleeding. Ranger sits back and scratches at the duck and the leash, but to no avail. The leash is attached securely to the mallard and to him.

  “That’s not fair,” says Mikko. “He didn’t do it on purpose.”

  I sigh. “We don’t know if he did or didn’t. But if he did, I’m sure it couldn’t be helped.” I crouch down and lock eyes with the dog. He is a pile of misery and shame. “Being a hunter is in his nature.” I wonder how I’m going to get close to Ranger.

  I remember dumping the boys’ pocketknives out of their bags. “Does one of you guys still have a pocketknife in your backpack?”

  Both boys dive into their bags and swim around in the depths until they both pull out knives. What I should be doing is scolding them for carrying pocketknives to school, but right now I’m really glad they have them.

  “I’ll do it,” says Mikko.

  “I want to do it,” says Alexi.

  I take Mikko’s. “I’ll do it,” I tell them. “You boys sit still and be quiet. I don’t want to startle Ranger.”

  Down on all fours, I crawl very, very slowly toward Ranger. Toivo taught me that you shouldn’t make eye contact with wild or hurt animals, that eye contact makes them think you’re challenging them. So I let my hair fall over my face and create two curtains over my eyes. I can see a little bit through the hair. When I get close, he stands up and looks back toward where he came from, as though searching for an escape route. I stop.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  He licks his nose, then breathes with his tongue hanging out. He sits again, uses a back leg to try to scratch off the duck. The duck shakes wildly but doesn’t come loose. Ranger stops and moans.

  I crawl again until I’m close enough to reach out and touch him. The rotting-duck scent hits my nose. My stomach turns, sending bile up into my mouth. I swallow it back down and turn my head to get a breath of fresh air.

  “Oh, Ranger,” I say. “Don’t worry. We’re going to get that off you.”

  I reach out gingerly. Ranger growls softly, but I don’t think he’s really mad, only scared. I keep whispering to him.

  Finally, I have my fingertips on his fur, near his neck. His eyes slip to the side in an attempt to see my hand, but he doesn’t move.

  “It’s okay,” I keep whispering.

  He growls again. A little louder this time.

  “Get away from him,” says Mikko.

  “He’s gonna bite you,” says Alexi.

  “Shhh,” I say to them. Truth is, I am a little nervous.

  Ranger peels back his lips a bit, showing his long, sharp teeth. I swallow, but I carefully put more of my hand on his fur.

  I slip my fingertips between the rope and Ranger’s neck. I guide the knife tip to the twine.

  Ranger snarls. I jump back and drop the knife.

  Ranger stands up and circles around. He shakes his head wildly, trying to detach the duck. The duck flails but remains attached to Ranger’s neck. He groans.

  “Just leave him,” says Alexi. “He’s going to bite you and give you scabies!”

  “Not scabies, you dumb diarrhea-head,” says Mikko. “Arthritis!”

  “Yeah, arthritis.”

  “Rabies, you mean,” I say to them. “But Ranger doesn’t have rabies.”

  I reach for the knife again. This time I don’t worry about eye contact. If Ranger wanted to attack me, he would have already.

  Ranger sits, and then he lies down in the leaves, putting his head on his front legs. He sighs.

  “That’s right,” I say. “Just relax.”

  I creep next to him, and he lifts his eyes to me. They’re soft and accepting, not suspicious. I slip the knife between his neck and the twine again and begin sawing. Four or five cuts, and the rope separates. The duck drops to the forest floor.

  Ranger jumps up, barks, and runs around and around in big circles. He leaps, biting at bees and butterflies. He snags a stick and carries it like a flag. He’s wild and free.

  “You did it! You did it, Fernny!” says Mikko.

  “You are the best sister in the whole world!” says Alexi.

  “Go, Ranger!” I laugh.

  Ranger stops. He barks high and happy, then bolts through the trees, back where he came from.

  “Now we’re even!” I shout after him. But he’s long gone.

  Chapter 8

  The TV babbles in the living room. Toivo’s at the computer, a relic hand-me-down. His face glows as job postings fly by. When he sees something interesting, he jabs at the computer keys with his pointer fingers. Once in a while, he looks up and asks me questions: “Fernny, do you think I could be a dentist’s receptionist? How about a bank teller? Here’s one! A professional dancer in a reputable establishment! Can you see me working there? Shaking my moneymaker?” He stands up and wiggles around. The boys join in, wiggling their arms and legs like they’ve been stung by hornets.

  For years, Toivo worked as a mechanic
at the auto plant, until the company moved the operation to Mexico. After that he tried work as a janitor, until the office building closed. Then as a truck driver, until he couldn’t pass the written test. He did a stint as a laborer at a hog farm, until the operator started hiring immigrants because he could pay them practically nothing. He got a job as a gas station attendant, until the manager hired a teenager who would work practically for free. Then as a bartender, until the bar owner couldn’t afford to pay the liquor tax and the place got shut down. Then he was a small-engine repairman, until the work got so slow that he got laid off. These days he does odd jobs for cash.

  I set aside the beechnuts I’ve been shelling. “Okay, boys. Now let’s get this homework done.”

  Mikko and Alexi scurry under the kitchen table. They curl into balls and take turns covering each other as though I’m a monster who’s going to eat them.

  I lean over and peer under the table. “Come on.” I swipe my arm at them. “Come out from under there.”

  “You can’t make us,” Mikko says. He purses his lips.

  “I don’t even have any homework,” says Alexi. He sticks his tongue out at me.

  “Baloney!” I shout.

  My patience is short. I have to think up a project for the STEM fair, and I’m starting to get nervous about it. Maybe if I had a $250 prize, I could pay somebody to babysit the boys once in a while. Maybe, just maybe, if Grandpa heard that I won the STEM fair, he’d start to understand that Toivo and the boys and me are doing just fine here.

  Well, almost fine. I haven’t told Toivo about Alexi’s teacher, and I haven’t given him the note she said she put in his backpack.

  Toivo calls over his shoulder, “Boys, you better listen to your sister, or I’m gonna get you!” He says it in a lighthearted way, which tells the boys he’s being playful. But I know what he’s got on his mind besides finding a job and proving to the court that he’s a fit father.

  Tomorrow is the anniversary of Mom and Matti’s accident.

  I wonder if we all feel it. If even the boys instinctively know that tomorrow is the day and that’s why they’re acting up even more than usual.

  “I’m not in the mood, guys,” I say to my brothers. “You better sit down right now and do your homework before I get mad.”