Wolf Winter, Grace Piccard

Wolf Winter

Pickup truck on the icy road, tires skidding on the new frost, headlights bumping through the shrouded forest. Me riding shotgun, my father’s Winchester .45 across my lap. The radio tuned to the country station, low and staticky, the distant twang of banjos. The truck slows, grinds off the highway, tires crunching on snowy gravel. The trees flash by, trunks high and thin like the toothpicks my older brother sticks between his teeth after dinner at Joe’s Roadhouse, imitating my father. The headlights swing right, towards the dark hulk of the cabin, windows glowing like lanterns against the snow. I think I see snarling shapes fly past in the shadow-choked woods. My father pulls up next to the garage, kills the engine. Teddy whines in the backseat, claws at the window. Dad swats him on the furry rump, sends him skittering out into the icy night air. I cry Dad, no! and grab for Teddy’s collar, but I miss and my fingers end up brushing his warm coat as he rockets off into the trees. There are animals out there! I don’t say wolves because Dad will tell me that I’m being stupid. Everyone knows that there aren’t any wolves left around here. Will comes out of the house then, flannel and Carhartt, smelling like pine and the cheap cigarettes he smokes behind the house when he thinks my father can’t see him. Mags, our shaggy brown bitch, tags at his heels, tail wagging low and servile. Will runs an absent hand across the crown of her head, asks Dad, what took so long? Some jackass ran his car off the road, me and Clay were pullin’ it back. A blue minivan beached like a whale on the high white snowbank, kids in parkas huddling at its flank. Snow flurries in the yellow beam of the truck headlights. Clay LaRoux, a bear of a man with hands the size of snowplows, dragging a pair of chains that leave deep canyons through the snow. Dad talking to the driver in the slow, easy way that men do, clapping his shoulder. The roar of the truck’s engine, snow spinning up

Pillars of Salt 37

in a yellow-lit plume behind the tires. The oldest boy, eyes almost hidden by his furry hood, looks at me and I look at him, a wall of silent falling snow between us. Idiots, Will says, shoving his hands in his pockets. Mags rubs her head against his legs. I whistle to her but she ignores me. She’s always been Will’s dog. The stock of Dad’s rifle is smooth and cold even through my gloves and I push it into his hands. He leans it against the porch rail, telling Will about how someone jacked one of Clay’s snowmobiles, Will says that it was probably one of those little shits from town, the high school kids. Like he’s not just barely an adult himself, like he’s not clinging to the precipice of nineteen like it’ll save him. I picture my classmates, girls with soft, empty eyes like the dead deer that Dad brings home, boys who are loud and crass and curse in the hallway between classes. I can see them stealing snowmobiles, the boys on the football team and the kids who smoke in the bathrooms during algebra. On Friday nights they go hang out in the parking lot of the QuikMart in town, and the girls wear short skirts even though it’s cold and the boys drink Bud Lights stolen from their father’s ice-fishing coolers. I’d much rather be here, with Dad and Will and the dogs, the high wall of trees around the house. Sometimes it’s the only place I feel safe. Sophie, come inside. It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here, Will says, jostling my shoulder. He and Dad move into the house, stomping snow off their boots, shedding jackets and hats, Carhartt and John Deer. I walk to the end of the gravel driveway, where our land bleeds into the forest. When I turn around, our house is like a distant ship on a wide, frozen sea. Something growls and whimpers in the woods, and then Teddy is shooting out of the trees like a rocket broken up in orbit, spinning and limping, leaving a trail of scarlet blood on the new snow. There’s this awful animal noise around me, like it’s not even coming from Teddy but from the forest, like the entire world is screaming with me. I run for Dad’s gun, and it’s like my boots don’t ever even touch the ground, and then I’m firing off shots into the pitch-dark trees,

38 Pillars of Salt

each blast a tiny supernova in the boreal blackness. Will comes flying off the porch, boots lapping open, trailing laces. Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing? Do you see something? What is it? I drop the gun and crouch at Teddy’s side, whimpering, Teddy’s hurt, Will, he’s hurt real bad, but Will is already there, bare fingers probing the bloody fur. I stroke his fuzzy ear with shaking hands, tears already burning my eyes, but Will snorts and cuffs gently at my shoulder. He’s fine, Sophie, he’s fine. Just a porcupine, that’s all. Most of it’s not even his blood. Will pulls the quills out, grasping the long needles between thumb and forefinger and yanking. Teddy screams, nails scrabbling against my arm, scratching through my sweater but I don’t care, I just hold him tighter. I don’t want Will to see how my hands are shaking. There, Will says, he’s fine, Sophie. See? He’s fine. He reaches over, pries the gun from my hand, using the same soft touch he uses on hurt animals. I run my trembling fingers through Teddy’s long, blood-matted fur over and over again as he starts licking the red from his paws. Will goes back inside, lifting Dad’s gun over his shoulder, calling out, It’s fine, Dad, the dog got in a fight is all. The screen door bangs shut, I hear the radio on high volume, a weather report. Snow tomorrow, they say, but the sky right now is clear and starry. I stay there, crouched at Teddy’s side, the predator and the prey and the all-seeing god, and my hand on him is the only thing grounding me. I lift my eyes and stare into the night, and the forest closes around us.

Grace Piccard ’14

Pillars of Salt 39