Beneath the Trees

by Laurel Saville

  Colden tipped her head and began looking overhead instead of on the ground. She found them. Crows. There were two in a tree. Three more nearby. She moved toward them. They flapped away, protesting. She called to Jack. She pointed. There was the carcass, her head in the snow, a part of her flank ripped away by some large animal, opening the tough hide so the crows could gorge themselves.

  Colden squatted and wiped the snow from the moose head. The animal’s fur was matted with frozen mud. She must have collapsed here, trudging through the muck. Colden didn’t need to read the ear tag and collar number to know which moose this was. She remembered the old gal. She’d been in poor condition when they had collared her. Too thin, worn-down teeth, drab coat. There were no marks on her face and neck that would suggest predation or injury.

  Seems she’d simply gotten too tired and given up, and really, who could blame her, Colden thought. Life out there was damn hard.

  Colden examined the wound on the cow’s back leg. It was strangely tidy. No claw or tear marks. She tilted her head back and forth, her mind resisting what her eyes were telling her.

  “Jack,” she said, warning in her voice.

  He was at the head of the animal, unscrewing the collar. He looked up, stopped what he was doing, and came to stand near her. They both stared.

  “What the . . .” Jack finally whispered.

  The flesh on the moose’s back leg and flank had been butchered. No bones with teeth marks or strands of sinew hanging around. The hide cleanly cut and peeled back, the edges of the flesh squared off in a way that could only come from a knife. No sign of the animal having been killed or gutted the way a hunter would. This work must have happened after the moose had died.

  Who would be way out here in the middle of winter, stumble upon the animal, have the skills and equipment to take away a good twenty pounds of meat, but leave the rest? All these questions hung, unspoken, in the air between them.

  “Look,” Jack said, his eyes going wide. “This is really freaking strange, but let’s get what we need to get done and get out of here. We’re going to lose the day, and we can talk about this later.”

  They hurriedly took samples and photos, packed up the radio collar and their gear, and headed back to the trail. They didn’t talk much on their way. Talking took energy and concentration that was better used for hiking. It was dark by the time they got to their trucks.

  “Come have dinner with me and my parents,” Colden said suddenly.

  It was an unprecedented invitation. She’d never asked a colleague to her house before.

  “They’d love to meet you,” she continued. “I’ve talked about you so many times when I’ve told them about our work. We’re close by. My dad is a great cook and always makes too much.”

  “Well, OK, then,” Jack said, smiling. “My wife and the kids happen to be away this week. In Florida with the grandparents, lucky them. So, it’s either cold, leftover pizza at my empty house or a hot meal and good company at yours. Lead the way, lady.”

  Dix had a hearty turkey casserole waiting for them when they got there. They filled him and Sally in on the strange butchering of the moose.

  “Are you sure it was a cut?” Dix asked as he served.

  Colden and Jack both nodded, vigorously.

  “I’ll show you the pictures,” Colden said.

  “Something was there with a very sharp knife,” Jack added.

  “And opposable thumbs, apparently,” Dix observed.

  “So, this moose dies a natural death, no signs of hunting or trauma, and falls in the middle of a remote area, totally off trail, total backcountry, and yet someone finds it, and they either have in their possession or have the time to go get a knife strong enough to cut through hide and meat and joints, and they hack off a bunch of flesh, and they disappear with it?” Sally asked, incredulous.

  Colden nodded. “Seems so.”

  “The question is, why? Why would someone be out there? And if they’re good enough in the backcountry to be out there, at this time of year, why do they need to take part of a dead moose?” Dix asked.

  “It’s totally bizarre,” Colden said.

  “Would this person get in trouble if you reported them?” Sally asked.

  “There’s absolutely nothing to report,” Jack said. “Even if we did know who did it. No law against scavenging a dead animal.”

  “No,” Dix said. “No law. But there is common sense against it. Probably will taste awful.”

  They snickered around the table. Except for Sally.

  “Someone is out there in an awful lot of need, then,” Sally said quietly.

  “Isn’t there always someone out there in an awful lot of need?” Dix sighed. “Isn’t there always?”

  10.

  Colden had to go back to Albany for a few days. She had a couple of meetings. Needed to check her mail. She had some grants to discuss with the department chair. So much fieldwork depended upon office work.

  She headed south on the highway, and as she pulled out of the mountains and into the foothills, Colden was surprised to see spring creeping in. By the time she got off the exit for Albany, lawns and trees were already bathed in a soft haze of green. The Adirondacks always seemed reluctant to let go of winter and held the cold and snow tight in the embrace of rocky arms. Colden knew it was not an easy place to live, and she liked that. She respected hardship. Some days she realized this was an attitude only someone with privilege and comfort could afford to hold. Other days, she thought there were plenty of stubborn folks, without even two nickels to rub together, who also seemed to relish the challenges of their mountain home. Rarely, it occurred to her that maybe they just didn’t have any other options.

  She exited the highway and went straight to her office. The condo could wait. There was nothing there for her anyway, not even a plant that required watering. It was late afternoon by the time she walked down the long corridors of her building. She said a few quick hellos to the people she passed; poured herself some end-of-the-day, dense, and lukewarm coffee; softened its harsh taste with plenty of milk and sugar; and went to her desk. She caught up on e-mails. She scanned the endless stream of departmental and administrative directives and policies and procedures sent out in elaborately worded and unnecessarily complex notes.

  Lawyers, she thought, annoyed. All this crap is not for the benefit of students or scientists. It’s just to reduce the chance of being sued.

  The room darkened. She turned on her desk lamp. She heard doors open and close, footsteps in the corridor as everyone left. Slowly, she was surrounded by welcome silence. She logged on to the university system and began a search for research articles. She looked for anything new on moose. On beaver. It was important to keep up with the competition. Both creatures were common enough research subjects, but nothing came up that was particularly helpful or hurtful to her project. She did a quick scan of articles on wolves and coyotes, but there was nothing new to be found there, either. She thought about getting more coffee but imagined the dark ring of scalded brew she’d likely find in the bottom of the carafe and stayed in front of her computer. A door opened and closed. Must be the cleaning crew. She should quit soon. She should go get something to eat. Something decent. Take herself to a restaurant. Stop subsisting on a steady stream of snacks and eat a real meal. But she kept clicking and reading, her reflection ghostlike in the screen. She heard someone coming toward her. She listened for the rolling sound of a cleaning cart. Nothing. Just a few heavy, widely spaced footsteps. Colden got a fluttering rush of nerves, as if a small bird was caught inside her rib cage. She started to close tabs and shut down programs. An alert came on. Updates. Do not turn off your computer. A shadow darkened her monitor.

  “Working late?” said a familiar voice.

  “Larry,” Colden shot back without turning around. “What brings you in at this hour?”

  “Been here all along. Saw you come in.”

  Colden had missed him. She was annoyed at herself for not noticing.
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  “You decide to come for a little warm-up?” he asked.

  “Oh, you know, gotta come in from the field from time to time. Meetings. Paperwork. The demands of the academy,” Colden said, trying to keep her voice light, her answers meaningless.

  She willed her computer to hurry up. Updating. Updating. Do not shut off your computer.

  “Did you and Jack have fun out there in the wilderness?” Larry asked.

  “Well, if you call trudging through the backcountry in the middle of winter looking for a dead moose, fun,” Colden said.

  “Didn’t appreciate your blowing me off,” Larry said. “Not very polite or collegial, now was it?”

  “There was a job that needed to be done, Larry. I’m sorry, but you weren’t up to the task at that moment. Maybe some other time.”

  “Did you find the moose?”

  “Yes. An old cow. Died of natural causes.”

  “That’s too bad,” Larry said.

  It seemed he was genuinely saddened by the news. Colden gave him that. She didn’t respond. She hoped he’d take the hint and go away.

  “You and Jack find anything else while you were out there?”

  There was something suggestive in his question. Colden looked at him, not understanding. A sneer spread across his face.

  “You and Jack. Such good friends,” he said, making air quotes around the word friends.

  Still Colden didn’t understand. Then suddenly she did. Her stomach recoiled.

  “Oh, please! Don’t be ridiculous, Larry,” she snapped. “Jack and I have worked together for years. He’s a professional. And married.”

  “That didn’t stop you before,” Larry said, his voice low and mocking. “The being married thing, I mean.”

  Colden went cold. The feel of Liam’s body under her hands came back in a rush. Suddenly, she was too warm. She was embarrassed that her face flushed in front of Larry.

  “Ah,” Larry said. “Guess your kiwi pal forgot to mention his wife. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” He threw his hands up. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Just thought you’d want to know what you were dealing with.”

  Colden set her teeth. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, she thought. He’s a jerk. He’s making this up. There’s something wrong with this guy. He’s out to get me for some reason. He’s a misogynist. He’s an overweight, unattractive, sparsely published, unknown scientist looking for a fight.

  Her computer screen finally went dark. She snapped it closed, slid it into her backpack, and pushed her chair back. One wheel bumped into Larry’s foot. Larry didn’t move.

  “Please move,” she said.

  Each word seemed to fall from her mouth and clatter on the floor. Larry stayed where he was. Colden reminded herself that she knew how to fight. All those years of martial arts training. It had been a while, but she remembered. She tightened her fist and mentally rehearsed the act of pulling her arm forward, loading her shoulder muscles, then slamming her elbow backward. She’d never done this to a person. Only on large pads. Well, he was a large pad. He was so close, she could sense his fingers moving in his pants pockets. Only the thin chair back and a few inches of empty space between them. She wouldn’t. But it was good to know she could.

  Suddenly, the room was filled with light.

  The cleaning crew. This time it really was them. Voices in some language unfamiliar to Colden bounced toward her. The words came fast, like little barks between two small dogs. Larry finally took a large step backward, out into the hallway, and walked away without another word. Colden waited, counting her breaths and his steps, imagining his retreat out of their area, down the corridors to the elevators. She sat very still, steadying her breath, something else she’d learned how to do in her training. Finally, she stood up and went to the window. There he was, his lumbering bulk moving down the path to the parking lot. He got into his car, the sedan she’d seen before. He backed out and drove away. Now, it was now safe for her to leave.

  Colden passed his office on her way out. The lights were on, and he was gone. She paused and peered in. There were several pictures tacked to the wall above his monitor. One of Larry and some buddies in a boat on some lake. A total cliché shot, Colden thought, a bunch of dorky dudes with beer bellies holding fish aloft. Also, stock school photos of two different boys, both elementary school age. Both blond. One wore glasses and seemed slightly cross-eyed, with a loopy grin that made him look slightly drunk. Another photo showed the two boys together, one crouched forward, grinning widely, as he leaned over a wheelchair where the bespectacled boy sat. There were braces around the smaller, younger boy’s legs. His head was cocked at an unnatural angle. There was someone, an adult, standing to the side of the chair. The photo showed only this person’s legs and the lower half of an arm holding crutches. There were no photos that showed a woman, someone who might be a wife and mother to the boys.

  Larry had a private life. Children. Had or once had a wife. Hobbies and friends, too. Colden had never bothered to imagine this. She looked around his office. It was bigger than hers. Of course. It had real walls and a real door. There was a mug on the desk. She couldn’t read all the words on it, but saw something about “Dad.” She saw a plastic storage container with the residue of some sort of food still in it and a baseball hat that said, “A bad day of fishing is better than a good day at work.” Strange that she’d never heard Larry say things like, “Gotta cut out early today for a teacher conference,” “Can’t come in—one of the kids is sick,” or “Spent the weekend at a birthday party,” the phrases that routinely peppered other parents’ conversations. Must be divorced. Maybe he never saw the kids anymore. Maybe the one in the wheelchair had died.

  She realized that she’d always imagined Larry living alone in a sparsely furnished, soulless condo, watching television at night from a big lounge chair. In fact, that was the way she lived. At least when she was in town. Minus the television and lounge chair. Maybe, much to her surprise, Larry lived in a nice ranch house with a big yard and a sweet wife who made his lunch and felt her children were gifts—and tests—from God.

  Colden went back to her condo. The only living thing that greeted her there was a large spider that had set up a web in a corner above the hook where she hung her coat. She stared at it and its empty web and wondered how it found anything to eat in her place. Certainly, she would not. She threw her backpack on the sofa and sat next to it. Then she twisted sideways and put her head on the pack and her feet on the cushions without bothering to remove her shoes. She didn’t mean to fall asleep, just to rest and figure out what to do next, but she conked out and woke up many hours later, decidedly confused. She was stiff and ravenous, with deep creases in her cheek from where it had rested on the pack.

  She rubbed her face and raked her hands through her hair. Serrated, predawn light came through the slats in her half-open mini-blinds. Albany, she told herself. Right. She was back in Albany. She extricated herself from her uncomfortable position on the sofa, stood, stretched, and looked around as if she had woken up in an unfamiliar place.

  She’d had the condo for more than a year but had never gotten around to putting anything up on the off-white walls. She had a single stool at the kitchen counter, which also served as dining table and desk. The door to the bedroom was cracked open, but there was no point in looking there because she knew the room was empty, other than a few clothing items hanging, lonely, in the closet. The inexpensive, Euro-style sofa where she had fallen asleep clicked open and flat to double as a bed, but when she was here, she rarely bothered with even that little effort. The door to the bathroom was ajar; she caught a glimpse of the bare floor, clear plastic shower curtain, bottles of generic-brand shampoo and conditioner, and a cracked bar of soap on the sink. Colden knew there was nothing more than a half-empty can of Folgers, a wizened lemon, a bottle of club soda long gone flat, half a jar of peanut butter, and some stale English muffins in the fridge.

  I live like a middle-aged bachelor, Colden
thought.

  The exchange with Larry came back to her, like a bad smell wafting in on stale air. Liam. Larry said he was married. It had never dawned on her that Liam would have a wife at home. Which was naïve, of course. Maybe Liam hooked up with plenty of grad students. Larry made it seem like he was trying to do her a favor by telling her. Maybe he was. Maybe it was better to know. The whole experience with Liam, which had been so lovely in her memory, was now dirtied and tawdry.

  Her condo suddenly seemed oppressive in its emptiness. She had to grow up. She had to get a life. She went to the bathroom and quickly brushed her teeth and washed her face. She stared at herself in the mirror. She looked tired. There were shadows under her eyes; her cheeks seemed to sag. She yanked her hair into a ponytail and lightly slapped her cheeks—she wanted to raise the color in her face and in her life.

  She fled the condo, drove to a nearby diner, and ate a hearty breakfast of eggs, hash browns, bacon, toast, and a fruit cup. She then drove to the local mall. It was still early, the doors just being unlocked. She stepped into the starkly lit, echoing space. It smelled of strong cleaners and hot grease from the food court. She passed few people as she wandered the cavernous halls. She watched teenagers and middle-aged women setting up cash registers and folding clothes—these were the sort of low-wage jobs she’d never had to have and would likely never need to have. She walked past oversize posters of savagely made-up and barely dressed women striking absurdly awkward poses. She winced with discomfort. She kept moving down the corridor, feeling like she was in school after hours, until she found a department store. She took the slow-moving escalator to the home section, where there was one clerk wrestling a plastic-wrapped, oversize duvet onto a shelf.