Mirabella, once verbally irrepressible, once relentless in her curiosity, had hardly spoken to him in the last week, and he knew it was his own fault. Despite their proximity, or maybe because of it, they were growing apart.
The week before last she’d taken to hunting with the big Toms: Sugarfoot, Tito, Boris, and one-eyed Stinky. She took to slinking around in the bear grass below the plateau, stalking mice in the woody debris beneath the canopy of fir, pouncing on anything that moved.
Her first offering was a tiny vole, its little severed head lying nearby. Dave didn’t say anything about it, nor did he say anything after the second. Now a week later, she insisted on being called Coco.
“But your name is Bella,” said Dave.
“I can call myself anything I want,” she said.
Dave had gone along with the cat thing for a few days. It was child’s play, after all. It demonstrated a healthy imagination, right? But as Bella grew more silent and watchful, moving about the periphery of Dave’s life each day, coming and going as she pleased, engaging him on her own terms, even hissing at him on several occasions, Dave began to entertain concerns.
It wasn’t until she started licking her hands and feet, though, that all bets were off.
“You’re not a cat, Bella. Stop it,” he said.
“Ssssssss,” she said.
“I mean it, stop.”
“Ssssssss.”
She was still hissing when a foreign sound penetrated their burrow. All at once, Sugarfoot and Tito were on their feet, backs arched, tails stiff.
“Hello?” said the voice. “Anybody there? Mr. Cartwright?”
Jimmy Stewart immediately sprang off Dave’s lap as Dave reached for the Winchester, though not before he considered the Magnum. Bidding Bella silence with a finger to his lips, he crept toward the mouth of the cave.
Peering out through the narrow cleft in the mountain, Dave immediately saw the interloper standing out in the open on the edge of the brush.
“Who is it, Daddy?” said Bella.
“Shush,” he said.
He was a miserable looking sonofabitch, whoever he was. Wet glasses, and wet hair. His windbreaker, woefully inadequate for the rain, looked like it must’ve weighed twenty pounds by now with all the water it had absorbed.
“Who are you?” said Dave, clutching the rifle.
The stranger held out his soggy valise like an offering, when he ought to have been hiding behind it.
“My name is Tristan Moseley,” he said.
“So?” said Dave.
“I work for the State of Washington,” he said. “Family services division.”
“Yeah?” said Dave. “What do you want?”
The poor guy had begun to shiver.
“May I please come in, Mr. C-c-cartwright,” he said miserably.
“No, you may not, sir, I’m sorry.”
“Let me explain, Mr.—”
“Go, away,” said Dave.
“Mr. Cartwright, we need to talk about your daughter.”
“My daughter is my business,” said Dave, leveling the .22 at the stranger.
“Sir, I—”
“She’s not my brother’s business, and certainly not yours. So, I’m gonna ask you nicely to move on.”
Clutching his soggy folio, the stranger began backing slowly through the brush. When he reached the clutch of stunted hemlock at the edge of the ridge, he turned and retreated cautiously down the hill.
Back in the cave, the cats were still on edge. Bella squatted by the glowing embers of the fire as Dave shook the rain off, setting the Winchester aside.
“You should have let him in,” Bella said without looking at him. “He seemed nice.”
“Things aren’t always what they seem, baby. What he wants is to take you away from me. Is that what you want?”
“But he looked cold, Daddy. You said the rain would get us before any bear. You said that—”
“He’s not us.”
“But what if—?”
“Put a log on the fire, baby.”
She cast her eyes down and fetched a dry wedge of spruce from the rear of the cave. Gently, she set it open-faced on the coals without stirring so much as an ember. In a matter of seconds, the little quarter round flamed up around the edges, setting the shadows to dancing.
Looking at Bella in the glow of the fire, perched lithely on all fours, the shadows cutting hard across her impassive face, her big green eyes calm, her thin lips pursed, Dave thought—not for the first time—that she actually looked like a cat.
“Stay here,” he said, and went out in search of the miserable social worker.
Travers Cartwright; Brother
“There had to be laws, right? There had to be culturally acceptable guidelines. There was a social contract to consider. You couldn’t just raise the kid in a damn cave, with no lights, no electricity, no bathtub, could you? Somebody, somewhere had to be regulating this stuff, right? We were a civilized culture. You couldn’t just opt out of society completely, could you?
“Bella, she was just a kid, a really bright kid, actually, whose life got needlessly complicated by my brother’s bad decisions. I’m not saying Dave wasn’t doing his best, but sometimes I had to wonder. The strain of losing Nadene, that’s understandable. Something like that is always going to be a tough transition. But if having to live in a cave in the damn mountains, away from everything you ever knew, and everybody who ever loved you, if that wasn’t neglect, I didn’t know what was. No matter if Bella was safe up there with Dave, even if she thought it was neat living in the wild with a bunch of feral cats, that didn’t make it right, did it? Safe to say, an eight-year-old wasn’t going to see the big picture.
“Obviously, there wasn’t much more I could do, not personally. I’d gone that route already more than once. And it didn’t work out. But there were checks and balances in place for this kind of thing.”
Estimates
“So, then, you’d estimate that you return to town once a month?” said Tristan Moseley, the thawed out social worker, glasses fogged, pen poised over his clipboard in the murky light of the cave.
A soothing voice softened Moseley’s inquisitive manner, but Dave wasn’t buying.
“I don’t see where our comings and goings are any business of the state,” he said. “You can see by looking at her, the girl is just fine.”
Please don’t talk about being a cat.
“Do you miss your friends?” said Tristan Moseley.
“My friend moved away. Her name was Hannah B. But I have friends here,” said Bella.
“Oh?” said Tristan Moseley. “Like who?”
“Like my dad,” she said. “And the cats, and my stuffies.”
“Do you have a favorite cat?”
“I like them all the same,” said Bella. “But I pet Sugarfoot and Boris most. That’s only because they like it best.”
“Do you like it here, Bella?”
“Yes.”
“Do you feel safe here?”
“Yeah,” she said without hesitation.
“Of course she feels safe,” said Dave. “She is safe.”
“What about school?” said Tristan Moseley.
“What about it?” Dave said.
“Is there a plan in place?”
“Look,” said Dave. “Everything she needs to know, I can teach her. I’m not under any obligation to answer to anybody. But while you’re making notes, write down that Bella can name every tree or animal you’re likely to come across in this wilderness. She can tell you how these mountains were formed millions of years ago. She’s a proficient reader and writer. She can recite Nooksack folklore, and Salish, too. She can build a fire, catch a fish, and tell you if it’s a coho or a sturgeon. She can gut it and cook it over that fire. You go find me another eight-year-old that can do all that.”
“Tell me, Mirabella,” said Moseley. “What are your favorite things to do?”
Please don’t say hunt with the cats.
&nb
sp; “I like to eat honey with a spoon,” she said. “And sometimes I just like to sit and think.”
“Do you ever get lonely up here?”
“Why would she get lonely?” said Dave irritably. “We have each other. We have people like you and my brother dropping by unannounced. We go to town. We see plenty of people.”
Dave had just about run out of hospitality. He had half a mind to pull up camp in the morning and move deeper into the mountains, so deep that nobody would ever find them.
“And you’ve got plenty to eat?”
“Yes,” said Dave, an edge of aggression in his voice. “More than enough. Look, we’re warm, we’re healthy, we’re happy, and we’ve got plenty to eat. Bella is learning daily, okay? And she brushes her teeth every morning and night. I think we’ve about covered everything, Mr. Moseley. Be sure and let my brother know as much. I’m sure it’s him who put you up to this little visit. And now that the rain has let up, it’d probably be best for you start making your way down the mountain.”
“You’re probably right about that,” said Tristan Moseley, de-fogging his glasses before replacing them on his face. “To be perfectly honest,” he rejoined, “your life up here seems rather idyllic. Not that I could ever pull it off.”
“Yeah, probably not,” said Dave, looking him in the eye.
“A guy can dream, can’t he?” said Tristan Moseley.
“Used to be that way, anyway,” said Dave.
Dave couldn’t help but soften slightly toward the stranger. Not that he welcomed the company, but it was tolerable, and Bella seemed to have taken a shine to Mr. Moseley. She liked the questions, Dave guessed, enjoyed the engagement and the attention, yearned for the connection. It’s not that Dave didn’t try.
“What’s your favoritest thing, Mr. Moseley?” she asked. “Do you like honey?”
“Very much,” he said. “I like it with peanut butter.”
“Hmm, I like it plain. Did you know that ravens can whisper?” she said, as though the two things were somehow connected. “They can whisper so soft, Mr. Moseley. I’ve heard them with Daddy at night in the woods.”
“What do you think they were whispering about?” said Tristan Moseley.
“I think they were telling each other secrets,” said Bella.
Moseley looked impressed.
“What kind of secrets?”
“If I knew that,” she said, “they wouldn’t be secrets, silly.”
“I guess you’ve got me there.”
“Well,” said Dave, filling the very brief silence. “Thanks for the visit, Mr. Moseley.”
And Tristan Moseley took his cue to stand but seemed a bit unsure how to proceed.
“I’ll walk you out,” said Dave.
Out on the bluff, the two men stood side-by-side, peering out over the rim of the canyon, as the fog began to lift, and the low clouds moved swiftly past on their northern route.
“A lot to admire about this view,” said Moseley.
“Mm,” said Dave.
“Mr. Cartwright,” he said. “To be frank, at this point, I don’t see Mirabella as being at risk, or in imminent harm, provided she’s supervised. It surprises me to say it, but I don’t see it. She appears physically and emotionally secure, adequately provided for, and ostensibly healthy. If I were you, I’d go to town and file a declaration of intent with the school district. My understanding is, you’ve still got a permanent address.”
“Bank will be taking it soon, if they haven’t taken it already.”
“Perhaps you could use your brother’s address?”
“I’ll consider it,” said Dave.
“I’m afraid you have to,” said Moseley. “After age seven, you’re legally obligated.”
“By whom?”
“By the state.”
“Like I said, I’ll consider it,” said Dave. “But I don’t like it a damn bit. Nobody ought to have the right to control a man’s children.”
Tristan Moseley’s face bore an expression that almost looked like pity.
“In some cases, Mr. Cartwright, you might be surprised. Some kids, they don’t have an advocate. They have a parent that’s neglecting them, or even abusing them, sometimes sexually. There are children out there that wouldn’t be eating at all if it weren’t for the state, and that’s a fact. Unorthodox as your methods are, I’d say Bella’s got it better than a lot of kids, which is why I don’t intend on making any trouble for you, so long as you make it legal.”
“The only laws I’m interested in anymore are the laws of nature.”
“That may be,” said Moseley. “And I’m not gonna argue the wisdom in that. I’m just telling you how it is, Mr. Cartwright. I’m trying to help you.”
Looking him in the eye, it was not hard for Dave to believe the man. He seemed like a decent guy. In fact, Dave was already willing to trust him, probably more than his own brother at this point.
“I believe you’re intent on providing for, and protecting your daughter’s best interest,” he said. “But Mr. Cartwright, supposing something were to . . . ?”
“Were to what?”
“Supposing something happens to you up here. What happens then?”
“Nothing’s going to happen.”
“How do you know?”
Dave looked at him meaningfully.
“If something was going to happen to me,” he said, “it would have happened already, in Fallujah or Mosul, or some other goddamn place. Nothing is gonna happen to me in these mountains.”
Looking out over the rugged country surrounding them, Tristan Moseley nodded, though none too convincingly.
“Goodbye, Mr. Moseley,” said Dave, offering a hand. “I’ll look into this statement of intent business.”
Tristan Moseley shook his hand. “And I’ll file my report,” he said.
A moment later, Dave watched Mr. Moseley scramble clumsily down the hillside toward the meadow.
A Different Life
Sometimes Bella envisioned a different life back home, not with Uncle Trav and Aunt Kris and Cousin Bonnie, but a life with her dad, the way he used to be, in their own house. Maybe not their old house, but a new house near Nana’s. Maybe a blue house, with a white fence, and a big yard for the cats to prowl. Maybe there was another Hannah B somewhere down there in town, a new girl, someone who liked the things Bella liked, someone who didn’t boss her around, or bully her. She longed for connection, for activity, for an otherness beyond her ancient visitations.
It was almost as though her dad could read her mind.
“What do you say we go to town?” he said, waking her from her reverie.
Her face brightened, but then faded just as quickly.
“This is a trick,” she said. “You want to leave me there.”
“No, baby. I just want to get some stuff we need. Hey,” he said, “we can go to the library and stock up on books.”
“What about Nana’s?”
“No, baby, we can’t go to Nana’s. We’ll have to camp.”
“Why not?”
“We just can’t, honey. It’s best that Nana and Uncle Travers don’t know we’re there. Not unless you plan on staying. Do you wanna stay?”
“See,” she said. “I told you it was a trick.”
“No, baby, I promise it’s not a trick,” he said. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
“I want to,” she said.
And so, within the hour, they donned their empty packs and fled their isolation. For twenty minutes they trudged through ankle deep autumn snow, their breath fogging the crisp air in front of them, until they reached the snowline at the head of the canyon, where they began wending their way down the basin, as the great wooded canyon walls closed in on them, and the sky tapered to a narrow swath of blue.
They proceeded mostly in silence, Bella retreating into her thoughts, savoring the anticipation that welled up inside of her. God, but she missed TV. She knew it was bad for you, that it could rot your brain if you watched
too much, but it was one of the main reasons she wanted to go to Nana’s: Teen Titans, The Powerpuff Girls, Johnny Test. That and frozen pizza, cut into little squares like Nana did it. If she was really being honest, part of Bella, the part that didn’t feel inextricably bound to her dad, really did want to stay in V-Falls, and go back to school, at least for a while.
As much as Bella liked routine, she yearned for newness, and, at the same time, oldness: her old toys, the way she kept them scrupulously organized in green plastic bins from the Home Depot in Bellingham, a fact that always seemed to impress the adults in her life. She missed her old stuffies, the ones she couldn’t bring, piled against the headboard, and along the edges of her bunk bed: Hopper and Daisy and Mr. Beaver, now in a closet at Nana’s. Bella missed the mobile, the circus animals slowly circling with the slightest draft, even if it was kind of babyish. She never in a million years thought she’d miss taking baths. She missed, too, the patience and enthusiasm of Miss Martine, and her playful way of teaching. And she missed her mother, who now felt almost like a figment of her imagination.
Then there were the things she didn’t miss about town, the things she didn’t miss about her old life: the awkwardness of being motherless, the anxiety of being social, the bossy ways of her cousin, and the whispering that forever seemed to trail in her wake.
As they plodded through the soggy bottomlands, all was still beneath the canopy except for the gentle swishing of the treetops. Bella loved this vast wooded landscape because it asked nothing from her. It sheltered her from the complexities of her life. The silence of these wilds, the vast unknowableness of the mountains and valleys calmed her, even as the worries crowded in on her.
When they finally reached the highway and jumped the culvert, Bella was flush with equal parts dread and excitement. The march along the shoulder of the highway was her least favorite part of the journey. She hated the cars that slowed in passing, the craned necks, and curious looks from the passengers that accompanied them. She felt like she was under a microscope, with her ragged blue jeans and her dirty backpack. She knew how she and her dad must look to them. She knew they must be judging them.
Legends of the North Cascades Page 16
