The Trap
It was a calm, peaceful morning. The three of them were in an aluminum boat a few hundred yards off shore. Schultz and Smith were smoking cigars and drinking beer. They talked about the Detroit Lions. Except for their own voices, the only sounds were fish jumping through the mist, and Wilson breathing through his nose. Schultz and Smith shook their head at Wilson and exchanged smiles.
Wilson stared at the shore through binoculars. He was watching for the bear that raided their cabin. They were intent on killing it, and Wilson's anxious nature was at odds with this. He noted each rustle in the brush, and the sway of each branch. Where was that bear?
"Relax," Schultz said. "When he's there, we'll know it."
Wilson paused only to scowl at Schultz, and then resumed his pose.
He didn't understand how these two could be so casual; they were contemplating breaking the law, hunting a bear out of season. Wasn't it like murder?
"I think I see him," he cried. "He's in the cabin,"
Schultz put the boat ashore two-hundred yards north of Wilson's cabin, downwind of the bear, and tied it to the roots of a tree that stuck out from the bank.
They grabbed their spears, and Schultz and Smith stuffed cans of beer into their coat pockets.
"Do you gotta' drink all the time?" Wilson asked. "It ain't right to be drinking on a hunt."
Smith laughed. "Hell, We ain't going to church,"
They moved noisily in single file for a hundred feet inland. Then they turned south towards the cabin.
Every day, while they were fishing, the bear broke into the cabin, and tore it apart looking for food. The first day it had eaten everything, forcing them to take the boat across the lake to the general store. They kept the food in the boat after that, but still the bear came into the cabin. It knocked over the cots, ripped the doors off of the cupboards, scattered their clothes, broke out the windows, tore the mattresses, and gutted the sofa cushions. And yesterday it chewed up their Playboy and Penthouse magazines. That had been the last straw.
Yet, it was left to Wilson to suggest that they kill the bear. The bear had barfed up the magazines in the same corner he had found them. Wilson cleaned the mess, as usual, and was actually more disgusted with his friends than with the bear. It seemed that because Wilson owned the cabin, they always left it to him to clean up.
Afterwards, he tossed aside the broom and said: "We ought to kill the damn thing."
"I bet we could do it," Schultz said.
"If we got drunk enough we could," Smith said.
"We can make spears and ambush the fucker tomorrow,"
It was out of Wilson's hands that quickly. They lashed jackknifes to wooden poles, and began to plot. Wilson was confused and frightened. What had he done?
"We shouldn't do it," he said. "Remember those mounties last year? They might come around to check on us."
"Fuck them."
Now they were at the edge of the clearing. The pan of fried bacon they had left as bait inside the open door was turned over on the steps.
Wilson complained even more loudly: that it was too early and too cold to kill a bear; that they were too drunk to kill a bear; and that none of them had ever killed a bear with a jackknife lashed to a wooden pole. Schultz hushed him with his hand.
"I hear it," Schultz said. He pointed to the door. "You two fucks get ready over there, and I'll beat on the wall to chase it the fuck out."
"Why don't I beat on the wall," Wilson said.
"All right yellow-belly faggot," Schultz said. "You beat on the wall."
"I ain't afraid," Wilson said, but they had not heard him.
As Wilson approached the cabin, he saw the bear: it was scratching at the floor in the same corner where it puked. It's a beautiful animal, Wilson thought. What a shame to kill it.
"Will you hurry the fuck up," Schultz said.
Wilson watched in wonder as the bear took a long, healthy, piss. It seemed to have the force of a garden hose with the spigot wide open. Then Wilson watched as the bear started towards the door. He was confused about his feelings, and then suddenly, when he realized how large the bear really was, he was too frightened to call out.
The bear was as surprised as Smith and Schultz when it stepped out; for a moment all three stood there, looking at each other. The bear cried out and without exerting itself he knocked Smith to the ground, ripping through his jacket. Schultz was already running in one direction and so the bear ran in the other to the edge of the clearing where it climbed a tall maple.
"Err-ahh," it growled.
"Fuck Wilson," Smith said. "You ass,"
"Jesus H. Christ," Schultz said. "This is your fault,"
Wilson sat a few feet away from them. This isn't right, he thought. He thought about all the things he did wrong in his life: the impure thoughts, gluttony, and lack of faith that he couldn't conquer. Killing this bear would be worse than all of them combined.
Wilson stood up. "This is barbaric," he said. "And besides, we may be waiting three fucking days. Let's leave it alone."
"How we gonna' get it down?" Smith said.
"Maybe Wilson should pray."
Schultz and Smith laughed.
Then Smith threw an empty beer can into the tree. It was the divine inspiration they had been waiting for. Schultz joined him, and they kept a steady stream of empties raining down. The bear growled and snarled, swiping first one paw and then the other at the cans. It started down the tree.
"Who the fuck's waiting?" Schultz said. He smiled broadly. "You get first poke at it."
Wilson fumed. It was a cruel, sadistic way to kill the bear; it was without a shred of decency. And neither Schultz nor Smith understood the danger involved. Even though it was a small bear, it was as big as they were; it probably could kill them.
"We should let it go," he said. "It's learned its lesson. It won't nose around here anymore."
"We set out to kill it," Schultz said. "And that's what the fuck we're gonna' do." He finished off another can of beer and chucked it at the bear.
Wilson had been against this from the moment he'd suggested it; but now he felt powerless to defy his friends. For years they'd been coming to his cabin to fish. They had to stick together, didn't they?
The bear was just above them, climbing down more slowly now, looking at each of the men carefully. The bear paused, snarled, and showed his fangs.
"Err-ahh," it growled.
Schultz motioned Wilson into place. "Go under the ribs and drive through to the heart." He pointed at his own body to show where the spear ought to go.
Wilson looked up and could not believe it had come this far. The bear was now just above him, and Wilson smelled it, reminding him of wet dog and manure.
"Now Wilson," Schultz yelled. "Now,"
The knife slipped in easily. Wilson hardly believed he'd touched the bear except that its growl became a scream, and Wilson could feel the strain in his arms as the pole pressed against its hide. The bear let go of the tree and fell on Wilson and together they crumpled to the ground.
Schultz and Smith stabbed together, sinking the blades in the bear's throat, releasing a spout of blood. A red foam blew out of its mouth with its next scream. Schultz plunged his spear into the bear's back and then ran away with Smith.
The bear chased Wilson up a tree and stood beneath him shaking a paw in fury. Blood darkened the tree bark, and oozed along the bear's belly, making the fur shine.
For a moment the bear seemed to be choosing: it looked at Wilson, then at the other two, who stood near the cabin, and looked at Wilson again. Without deciding, the bear dropped to its paws; it tottered forward, shrugging its shoulders and hips, placing each paw out slowly. Blood spouted from its throat for a few more heart beats, and then ceased, as water ceases from a faucet when the spigot is turned.
The light in the cabin came from two propane lanterns suspended from the ceiling and shaded by torn sheets. The lanterns gave off light of such intensity that Wilson considered them unnatural, and he insisted that they be kept behind the sheets.
While they fished, Wilson had brooded, and didn't join in the chatter. But now, cooking the bear steaks, smelling the fat and gristle burn, feeling his eyes sting from the smoke gathering in the cabin, and appreciating the soft light, he felt close to the two men before him, and distant from the act committed that morning. He regarded the act in the same manner that he regarded an unpleasant childhood memory, and chased it away with a shake of his head.
Wilson was in good spirits when they sat down to eat.
"It just melts," he said.
"Shame we can't take it all home," Smith said.
"That bear was probably four years old," Schultz said. "Not even."
Smith cleared his throat. "Can you believe Wicked Willie Wilson bagged a bear without a license?" he said. "Remember when we first came here, and every night he'd say his prayers."
Schultz delighted at this. "On Sunday he'd read the bible for an hour. The bible, for Christ's sake."
Smith paused and smiled at Wilson.
"Didn't you forget to say grace?" he said.
"Yeah," Schultz cried. "Wilson forgot to say grace,"
The two of them laughed and slapped each other's hand.
"Fuck off," Wilson said. He bowed his head briefly, but the meat stuck in his throat, and he began to choke. He strained and distorted his features, and then washed the meat down with beer.
"You know what he looks like?" Schultz said. "That's the same look he had when we pried him from that fucking tree."
Smith laughed noisily, displaying a mouthful of half-chewed meat.
"I thought he'd never come down," Schultz cried. "I thought we'd have to use the fucking spears on him,"
Wilson stood up and ran outside. The laughter was even louder now than before.
He walked along the edge of the clearing and listened to the sounds of the wilderness at night: cricket chirps, bird songs, soft rustling in the underbrush. The smell of wet dog and manure returned to him, and he was frightened. What if another bear had been attracted by the blood? He hurried to the middle of the clearing, and then went to the point on shore where they had dumped the carcass. The water was still; the moon and stars reflected clearly. Only when a fish brushed the surface was he reminded that it was a lake before him.
Wilson touched his shoulder where the bear had torn his jacket and scratched the skin. It seemed that the skin of his inner self had been scratched as well, and that all the things he'd been holding inside now oozed out like blood. What he'd thought of for years as a respectable vacation now seemed disgusting and immoral. They spoke the foulest profanity, and referred to their wives as "the whores." They were continuously drunk, ate until they couldn't breathe, and then stared at pornography until they passed out. This they did every night.
Looking back at the cabin, he realized that shading the light didn't make it natural; nothing could ever make it natural to these woods. They had no respect. Fishing with a motor boat on this lake was like rape. And these same men, upon going home, went on and on about the beauty and peace of the wilderness.
But what was he to do? He wished that he hadn't stormed out: returning would leave him at their mercy. There'd be comments, insults, and laughter until they decided to pardon him; but there was no telling when that might be.
He sat down near the shore facing the cabin, still wondering what to do. A sliver of light appeared in the doorway, then light poured out of the cabin as the door was opened widely. Schultz stepped out.
"Wilson," he called. "You still there? You stuck up that fucking tree again?" He swept a beam of light across the clearing.
"I'm all right,"
Wilson hurried towards the cabin. The door was left open, and the smell of cooked meat revived his spirit. He was glad that his friends missed him. As he approached the cabin, he thought of how inviting it looked. How warm, and close, and safe, way out here in the woods.
Parma, Ohio, 1989