Roak

    by Jeff Burt

When Shar was four, she began to ask Roak serious questions for which he had no answer, a question as simple as why do we think the sun is nice when it’s really just indifferent—the word indifferent shocked Roak.  Or why her mom took mindfulness classes but never came home on time from her work.

Roak began to see his daughter as biologically other, became wary of her. He started to avoid Shar’s game of staring intently into his eyes and each making up stories of what they saw. She was no longer a baby, capable of being swept into whatever he desired to sweep her into. Instead of a little soft voice requesting times of harmony in play, out came at times a shrill questioning voice, a voice that challenged him not with the questions as much as the steely confidence from which the questions came. The questions included a criticism, of her mother’s long hours, or his ability to fix things, of words as no longer magic but manipulators.

Roak began to look at her aslant rather than straight on, ferocious of protecting her, but afraid that her questions would unmask the largely trusting manner in which he operated his life. He already knew that in a few years she would be more intellectual than he, and, like his wife, driven to dominate and accost life rather than, like him, appreciate and get along.

That is, until a scrawny black bear with a patchwork of old fur and new came tumbling from the birch and alder grove up the hill, rolled into their tarped garden bed, and became trapped in the tarp, thrashing back and forth, rolling over and back, the plastic twisting up his legs like tornados, and his claws piercing and shredding the parts by his face.

Gnawing and claws did not ease the plastic encircling his legs, and obviously tired from the tumble, looking hungry from hibernation, the bear laid back and fell asleep in the early spring sun, all the while Roak and Shar watched speechless from the dining room window.     

When you live in the outskirts, a somewhat pleasant name that seems to describe both a remoteness from civilization yet the positive nature of, well, being close to nature, but in reality is a word to describe the beginning of rural poverty, you develop a stickiness to problems, a willingness to probe and figure things out and not resorting to a quick phone call, to say, animal control, because you know it will be several hours before their truck comes from civilization to where you live. Roak was seasoned at poking a stick into problems, and that is what he intended to do with that bear. Shar wanted to present the bear a plate of berries, and lacking berries, thought a bowl full of cereal would do the trick. Roak liked the stick.

He went out the front door and pulled an eight-foot limb lopper with a jagged saw from the side of the house. He tippy-toed, even though in heavy boots, to the end of the side of the house, and looked at the bear still snoozing. He was on the head side of the bear, not the foot side, so had to sneak around the front of the house to the other side.

The tarp was less tightly wrapped then it appeared from the window. But no bear would figure out how to unwrap it either. It was a modest, bear-made bear trap. Roak had two choices: unwrap the tarp from the legs, or cut the tarp off.

It was when he held the lopper less than six inches from the left foot of the bear that a question came—what would happen when the bear, disturbed at getting his foot poked, woke up? He would not be able to unwind or claw his way out of the tarp snare. The bear would just be angry.

But second thoughts tended to be dismissed by Roak, like the time he tried to drive his ATV over a semi-frozen lake.

Roak poked the bear.

The bear woke up.

The bear showed no signs of stress, rubbing his paws on his face, even fluffing off some of the dirt that covered his torso. He yawned.

Roak could not suppress his own yawn. They yawned together.

Want help big boy? Roak whispered. Want me to take off the tarp?

The bear rolled his head as if it were not attached and used his paws to smooth his chest fur. He sat up. He yawned again.

Roak was about six feet away from the bear’s feet, so he shortened up on the pole and advanced a full long step toward the bear.

The bear stunk. It was odor that seemed a mix of overheated fur that he’d smelled on a dog that was sick, and of rotting cabbage, moldy fruit, dirt, and of crap, plain old bear shit.

As Roak sniffed, the bear sniffed, and Roak heard Shar laughing from the window.

He liked that Shar laughed. He was entertaining her in a way that he had never dreamed of. He was being fairy-tale brave, a hero.

He leaned over, grabbed the end of the tarp, and slowly unwound the first circle of the trap from the bear’s foot.

The bear grunted.

He leaned over again and unwound another layer.

This time the bear not only grunted, but laid back down with his paws under his head as if he were in a hammock.

Roak counted the circles. There were seven left on the left leg, and two large ones on the right that the bear had pretty much torn through. He leaned again just as the bear seemed to shut its eyes. He unwound a third circle and could see where the tarp had spun so tightly the fur and flesh had compressed the bear’s leg.

He quickly did a fourth and fifth, and the entire lower leg was now exposed. The bear wiggled its feet, as if appreciating the circulation.

Roak kneeled. He could hear Shar shriek. He gave her a thumbs up sign without looking at the window. Now he wished he had scissors. As the tarp had been unwound, it now was several feet of material, and each successive unwinding took more time. He slowly rose and backed away from the bear. It had seemingly fallen asleep again.

He retraced his steps and went in the house.

You’re dumb, Shar said. Dumb and you’re going to die.

Roak shook his head confidently. Daddy’s not going to die. The bear can’t move. His leg has little circulation. The best he can do is roll over. I can tell he likes what I am doing. He knows I’m saving him.

And then he’s gonna eat you.

Roak found scissors in the silverware drawer. He tested the sharpness on a slip of paper hanging on the refrigerator and went back to the bear.

The bear appeared to enjoy being on his back. As Roak approached, the bear appeared like a vacationer ready for another drink with a little parasol in it.

Roak slipped the scissors under the tarp and in four quick clips had freed the leg of the bear.

In nature, at times, there is a wonderful moment of awareness that arrives when two differing beasts meet and suddenly must resort to their nature. A mouse and a cat can have a few seconds in a mutual freeze, but eventually one pounces and the other scurries. So, too, with Roak and the bear. They had a few seconds in which the act of a freed leg appeared to bond them in a certain kindness, but only a few seconds.

The bear, after pretending to be a tourist, rolled and shook, stood and shook, and began racing around in a circle, neck stretched out and head raised. He did not look angry. He looked confused.

Roak, for his part, had stood like a statue after freeing the bear, despite Shar screams. When the bear shook, Roak appeared to shake. When the bear stood, Roak stood. When the bear began to race, Roak began to race in the opposite direction in a circle, the only problem being that two dots racing the opposite way in a circle are bound by nature to meet. They met.

Roak stopped, frightened. The bear stopped, frightened, looked left into the neighboring yard, and slowly walked away. Roak made a shooing motion, watched for a minute, then came back into the house, greeted by an enormous hug.

He crouched down. Shar had a smile on her face.

Do you want to play bear, she asked.

Roak looked at her. She was four. Of course, he said.

A few more bears, he figured, and he could stay ahead of Shar for a few more years.

Bio: Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz, California with his wife. He has work in Per Contra, Gold Man Review, Bluebird Word, and previously in Green Silk Journal. He has a chapbook available from Red Bird Chapbooks.