Work Text:
You are thinking of the sitter you hired for your studio and cats. You vetted her extensively before you left—a background check, two references, and two references for each of those—and still you find yourself wrought with nerves that leave your fingers pattering over your steering wheel, nerves that leave your mind in such disarray you almost speed right past your exit. As you veer onto the ramp, your canvases and duffel bag of art supplies clatter behind you. Searching for your brushes beneath the front seat of your car will cost you precious time away from your check-in—for which you are already half an hour early.
For weeks, you have counted down the days to the day you could escape the networking, the slow days in the gallery, the fumes of the Chicago L, the ennui of the city. You have a reputation—film studios and marketers have passed around your name after some jobs well done—and part-time waitressing covers the bills that remain. You make art for “them;” you have made enough art for “them.” You booked yourself two weeks in rustic Lake Pechoggin for the explicit purpose of making art for you. The fiery maple trees along the designated Rustic Road inspire you already. Now that the family of white-tailed deer have finished crossing beside you, you begin to mull over a way to include them in your composition.
The lodge caretakers, Juanita and Wally, help keep your supplies out of reach from their dog Wormer as they drive your rented Ford into the yard of your cabin. For the next two weeks, you’ll live beside a grove of aspens as they shed their mid-autumn shades in sheets over your rooftop. On the plain side of your cabin lies a lawn chair, pointed perfectly toward the evening sun.
“She’ll be staying for the full moon?” Juanita calls.
“I suppose so,” you say. “Do you guys do something special?”
“We stay the hell indoors,” Wally says. “You’ll want nothing to do with the bears.”
“Right. I bought bear spray—”
“That ain’t gonna save you.” Wally shakes his head. “No, miss. This town is home to no ordinary bears. The full moon makes ’em crazy. They eat everything they see: deer, moose—even people—but only on the full moon.”
“Doors locked, lights out,” says Juanita. “Minute they see you outside, it’s too late. My sister lost a hand to ’em nine years ago.”
Your first instinct is to laugh off their warning as a yarn to scare tourists—but Juanita and Wally aren’t laughing at all.
You return them with a cordial nod. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
For the next hour, after unpacking, you test a variety of angles in which to place the lawn chair and attempt to sketch the aspens. Their crowns of leaves rise high above your rooftop and provide meager shade, allowing the sunlight to filter through the branches. This is best seen from within the grove itself, you think, your vantage point aimed at the pink sunset—and then you consider assigning the aspens to the right, so that you can include your front porch. It would make a sweet contrast, the untouchable trees against the manicured cabin. Unfortunately, while you were weighing your options, the sun had dipped behind a thick cover of clouds—thus bereaving you of one of your angles.
All this thinking aches your head. You’re hungry and you need a drink—or two—before the bar closes.
For a Wednesday night off-season, the lodge bar has drawn in a sizable crowd. A live jazz band strides through a stylish rendition of “Green Onions;” a group of young men in double denim break into uproarious laughter over the pool table. You make a beeline for an open seat next to another young woman, and end up arriving at the same time as a man so tall that he must straddle the bar stool to sit. The bartender waves to him and grins, as do a host of other patrons. From what you hear in abundance, his name appears to be Ripley. Even the woman at your right waves hello, and as Ripley greets her back and asks about her new boat, it is here that he catches you staring at last.
Before you can regain your common sense and avert your eyes, he grants you a warm smile. You find this soothes you promptly, as though—despite his numerous companions—only he and you exist beneath the neon sign. “You’re new here?” he asks.
“I am,” you say. “Just came last night.”
“Where from?”
“Chicago.”
“Oh, I’m from Chicago. Grew up in Des Plaines, but my last job was up north.”
“I have an apartment in the West Loop, but I freelance, so I tend to be all over.”
“You like it?”
“I do. There’s always work—which is why I drove here. I was due for a break.”
“Well, enjoy Lake Pechoggin. You’ve earned it.” Ripley offers his hand. “I’m Chet.”
You take his warm hand in yours, then give him your name. “So, what’s good here?” you ask.
Chet folds his arms over the counter and hums. “Nothing here that’s not to love. I mean, I might be a little biased—I’ve tried everything once. For a first-timer, though, the crab cakes are phenomenal. Although, the baked oysters are good, too…”
“What can I do you for?” the bartender asks. “Ripley, fish and chips?”
Chet nods.
“And for the lady?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” you say, before lifting your gaze to Chet’s. “I just came from Chicago, I don’t know this place too well.”
A modest smile rises to Chet’s lips; his cheeks flush red within seconds. “She’ll have the crab cakes,” he tells the bartender, who offers you a smile before moving down the line. “That’s Jamie. Wally’s grandson.”
“How about that?”
“When I moved here, he was graduating high school.”
“It seems like everyone knows everyone down here.”
“Boy, do they.”
“You, too; you’re very popular.”
“That’s not true; I just see a lot of people. I’ve been running the mini-golf course since I moved here. I’d love for you to stop by sometime—tomorrow, maybe?”
“I don’t know, Chet—all alone?”
“You’re not alone, I’ll be with you. Besides—it’s October, so we’ll be the only weird transplants around. I guarantee it.”
Your visitors’ brochure states that the mini-golf course beside the wharf will be closed for the season tomorrow. You expected a strong crowd, one seeking to milk the half-price discount for entry, but you find no obvious tourists within sight: a teenage couple on the bridge midway through the course, and a group of five pre-teen girls selecting putters—along with Chet, picking litter off the yard of the gazebo. He appears to have spotted you before you spotted him, already slipping off his yellow rubber gloves to come and greet you. He has donned a sapphire-blue knit sweater that brings out the flush in his cheeks; under the gloomy cold that sent you rushing for your jacket, he does not betray so much as a shiver. “What do you folks do in winter?” you ask, “seeing as everything’s closed for the season.”
“Not everything,” Chet remarks. “The lodge and bar are open year-round. So is the church…”
“In winter, you drink, pray, and sleep.”
Chet laughs. “Sounds about right.”
“Aren’t you bored?”
“See, that’s the problem. It’s go-go-go where we come from, and we’ve forgotten how it used to be. It isn’t always easy, but I’d take it over working through fatigue all year round. It’s a shame not everybody gets to move with the seasons.”
“That’s why you left Chicago?”
“To some degree, yes.”
The tip of your sneaker kicks the head of a club left behind by a course guest. An idea springs to your mind; sparking friendly conversation is a well-worn muscle for you, but rarely do you have the time to nurture a bond beyond the walls of a conference room. Chet seems eager to make you feel at home in this strange country; you would hate to let him think his work is going unnoticed. So you ask, “Do you mind if I try a hole?”
“By all means—the floor is yours.”
“I’m not very good, so go easy on me.”
“Well, let me see what you’ve got.”
Feigning nonchalance, you drop a stray neon-blue ball at your feet and line the head of your club square beside it. You look to Chet, seeking approval on your stance, but all he gives you is a nod, urging you to take a swing. With a flick of your wrists, you propel the ball straight down an overhead bridge, but the force in your swing hits it off the wall and sends it halfway back to you.
“Easy there,” Chet teases. “Love your enthusiasm, but you’ll want to swing with your shoulders. Set the putter right there—do you mind if I show you?”
“I’d like that.”
Chet presses the high curve of your back with one hand and hooks the fingers of the other on your shoulder to pull straight your backbone. Even through your shirt and jacket, you feel the constant heat that’s been warming his body in this cool midmorning. “Arms nice and straight,” he says, his soft hands dwarfing yours as he slides along your wrists to guide them, one above the other, into a proper grip. You thank your lucky stars he isn’t asking you to speak—you think you may have forgotten. His tall, broad frame shields the breeze from your back, and along it, you catch his scent: his sweater is crisp and freshly laundered, open to capturing whatever may imprint on it, but his skin holds traces of patchouli and pine—not applied like cologne, but innate to him, as if he were born out of the damp earth itself.
(You know you’re no pro at mini-golf, but you deeply consider pretending to be worse.)
As you both try the course for the last time of the season, then meander about the green before his lunch break, Chet opens up to you with ease. You learn that he is thirty-eight years old, and a Scorpio. You learn he was a hippie in the turn of the ’70s, and even attended the first Rainbow Gathering in Granby, Colorado. You learn that he likes fishing, and once caught a fifty-inch muskie: Lake Pechoggin’s largest yet. You learn that he is proud of his pancakes, and that he wants to show you someday. “How long do you have?” he asks.
“A little under two weeks now.” Relief brightens his face. “But,” you say, “I have a plan. I want to leave here with something real. I want to paint a portrait of the land, but nothing’s calling to me yet.” You draw in a breath that fills your chest, softly enough to hear the babbling of the lake. “I’m bringing my sketchbook with me down there tonight. Would you like to come with me?”
Chet surprises you that night not only with his ’66 Jeep Wagoneer—the same he drove to Colorado—but also with a rowboat, rented for two hours and ready to cruise. Overcome with delight, you stretch your arms out for Chet, and he pulls you into an embrace which betrays great strength, but which is still restrained—either for the sake of manners or so as not to overwhelm you. You find yourself the perfect height to bury your head in the crook of his neck, but you spend only a moment there before pulling away—before your quivering knees grow so weak that you can no longer keep yourself upright.
The moon is one sliver shy of full, reflecting its pale headlight over the lake and hung between two ranges of sky-bound spruce trees. “Tell me, Chet,” you say, sketching the outline of the rippling light as your rowboat lies suspended in the middle of the lake, “what’s this I hear about killer bears?”
Chet blinks. “How killer are we talking?”
“Killer enough that the whole town shuts their doors for the full moon.”
“Yeah, that’s…” He sighs. “It’s no secret this is black bear country. In the summer, we get tourists who don’t exactly know how to live in bear country—trash outside the house, cooking inside, wearing perfume… The bears feel rewarded, and they come back for more. As long as you use your common sense, you’ve got no reason to be scared.”
“Why the full moon, though?” you say, lifting your eyes from your sketch of the spruce trunks. “Why does the full moon make them crazy?”
“Some of these residents can trace their families back to this town from the lead boom. Their beliefs… may seem a little odd to us city folk.” Chet swallows and eyes you with a firmness that, although clearly laden with nerves, holds your attention like knifepoint. “But promise me you won’t go out tomorrow night.”
“Are you scared the bears will get me?”
“Come on, promise me you’ll stay indoors.”
In hopes of quelling your own nerves, you tease, “If a bear comes inside, you’ll protect me, right?”
A tight smile settles over Chet’s lips. “Yeah,” he muses. “Yeah, I’ve got you.”
“Shoot its ass for me, okay?”
Despite the boldness in your speech, Chet looks on you with gracious, gentle eyes—gentle enough to make you want to eat your words. “You know your lodge has a shotgun?”
“Where?”
“It’s the lamp.”
You cannot help but laugh, but Chet says, “It’s true. It’s loaded, too, so if worse comes to worse…”
“My hero,” you say, curling both of your hands over Chet’s, your thumb gracing the flat silver ring on his—thank God—middle finger.
Chet pulls away briefly to unfasten the buttons on his cherry-red cardigan, only to lean in toward you and swaddle you in it. As you pull your arms through the yawning sleeves, he rests his broad hands over your shoulders to keep the collar upright. “Do you feel protected now?”
The heat that lingers between the woolen weaves of Chet’s cardigan seeps into your skin like chamomile in tea. The weight presses you gently from above, like an earnest hug. Your sleepy smile travels the breadth of your face, and you know it—and you don’t care. “I think I like this more than common sense.”
On the following day, you rise long after the sun, take a granola bar for breakfast, then ease into the lawn chair and spring to work, your memories of your night on the lake still fresh as the morning breeze. Chet’s cardigan still hangs over your body, still bathed in his heat and still smelling like him, that warm clean non-scent that makes him so easy to lean into. You wear the day away with a flurry of aspen leaves raining overhead, transferring your polished sketch of the view from your rowboat to your full-size canvas, all the while wondering where you’ll find Chet tomorrow.
For your evening meal, you return to the lodge, where the bar crowd has more than halved in size. The pool table is empty, and a full half-circle of vacant seats surrounds the bar top.
“Evening, miss,” calls one of three teenage boys at a round dining table. “You from Chicago?”
“Are your parents around?”
“My older brother’s at the bar. You want to come to the Loon’s Nest for our full moon party?”
“I thought we weren’t supposed—”
“Excuse me,” says a boy who looks, to you, a year or less ahead of twenty-one. “I’m the older brother. Jake.”
He offers you his hand, which you warily take. “What’s a full moon party?”
“Every full moon, we like to gather for the night. Saves light, heat—and in case the bears find us, we‘ve got strength in numbers. If you get there before sunset, we’ve got plenty of food.”
“You know Chet Ripley, right?”
“Of course I know Ripley.”
“Do you know where he’s staying?”
“I think with Jamie Weyers, up on Red Ridge Hill. You going there instead?”
“I think I might. Thanks anyway.”
As Jake wrangles the boys off their dining chairs to leave, the bartender Jamie lights a cigarette. “Excuse me,” you call, over the live band’s chorus of drums.
“What can I do you for?” asks Jamie.
“Ripley left his sweater at the wharf. Do you know where he’s staying?”
Jamie points to the door. “See that boy you just spoke to?”
You nod.
“The mom is hosting in the Loon’s Nest. Should be room for one more.”
Doing your best to push down your frustration, you call out, “Jamie Weyers?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You purse your lips and huff. “Do you know where he lives? I might just show up tomorrow.”
Jamie ducks beneath the counter and draws up a map. “Spruce Creek, right here?” You nod. “Ripley lives all by himself, wa-ay the hell in here,” he says, dragging his finger across the blue line and settling within the green block beside it. “At least, that’s what I hear; who knows why?”
For the first time in days, the wharf parking lot is desolate. The gift shop and mini-golf course both stand behind chain-link fences and red-letter signs that read CLOSED FOR THE SEASON. The road you cross narrows into one lane, the speed limit now 15 miles per hour (not that anybody else is here to follow it). The spruces shroud the sinking sun, caging you in from both ends of the road. You feel tight in the chest—and compelled by a force beyond your understanding to drive 15-an-hour.
“Killer bears,” you scoff. “What do these people know? They don’t even know where to find one of their own.”
Beyond the pavement on the road lie two well-worn tire tracks, proceeding past Spruce Creek, darker than the dirt that surrounds it and still as death. As clearly as traffic batons, the tracks lead you to Chet’s Wagoneer, stationed in the vast yard of his fully-lit cabin. With one hand at your hip—in case you must draw your bear spray—and the other keeping Chet’s cardigan over your forearm, you give the door a firm knock. “Chet,” you call. “Chet, it’s me.”
No answer returns you. “Are you home?” you ask. “I have your cardigan here.”
Before you can knock again, a clatter arises from inside the house. Choosing to peek over the window on the side, you find that Chet has knocked over a small coffee table, and now lies beside it, face-down and without clothes. On instinct, you avert your eyes, but soon you give up on beating back your curiosity. You peek over the window again, and this time Chet is clawing at his hardwood floors with one hand. As he raises himself by just the strength of that one hand, you sweep your gaze around the floor and find a multitude of more “claw marks” around him: some as long as his feet, and some the shape of bullet holes. A calendar hangs from a nail on the wall, with a red “X” drawn over October 25th; a well-ravished tray of sandwiches lies on the couch in a cocoon of Saran wrap. You try to will your mouth to pry open and call out Chet’s name one last time, but your lips refuse to follow. Chet breaks into a wandering sprint through his living room, then crashes front-first into his door. Struggling to position his hand over his doorknob, he lets out an animal groan. The weak breeze that accompanied you out of the bar, and toward the house, appears to have gone quiet. However, you do not get to notice this for long, for Chet takes off again, into the woods at a speed that makes you stagger, single-minded and unhindered by the largeness of his frame.
The smart thing to do would be to turn back, for Chet as you know him is gone now—at least for tonight. However, once you regain control of your own legs, you make your way, on careful feet, along where Chet scattered a refuse of branches. The sight of him resides in the darkness, beyond you, but out of a clearing in the heart of the woods comes a series of breaths with a decidedly nonhuman rhythm: a soft buildup, an exponential rise, a sharp stop—as if the noise is being played backwards. Sometimes, between them arises a low, unsteady grunt. These grow more frequent, and in volume, until they drop in pitch and regularity—departing at last from every semblance of humanity.
You shouldn’t be here. You know it in your mind, and you feel it in your heart—from the spirit of the town, which stokes the unconscious sparks of a long-gone people’s religion. Still, you feel you owe it to Chet—what if he drank himself to sickness? What if he’s gone insane? What if he wants to hurt himself, and you’re the only one around who can stop him from—
All futile questions fall away from your mind, as a tower of sand on the breeze, when you see what now sits in the clearing. Only one more question holds the nerve—the right—to be known: what if you’re already too late?
In Chet’s place stands a black bear—in stock alone, because although the black bear is Wisconsin’s only bear, its coat is really dark brown like the spruce trunks—awakening on the grass. The lodge bar has a bear head mounted on the wall; the head of this bear must be three times its size. It appears well-fed—a heavy body and a sleek coat—relieving you at first that you will not be its prey. That relief, however, washes off your heart within seconds when you realize the bear may have gorged itself already.
A breath escapes your chest, yet because your control of your own volume has long slipped away, it escapes as a whimper. The bear’s ears perk; the head swivels toward you. You let out a half-gasp, half-scream, your vision shrouded in tears. The two of you remain at a standstill for a number of seconds. Then the bear makes a dash for you. You scream from the top of your lungs, only to find the bear tugging at the corner of Chet’s cardigan. You slip it off your arm and give it up without a second thought, and as the bear turns from you and bounds for the thicket of the woods, everything finally clicks into place.
Between the full moon and the reason no one knows where Chet spends it, you're embarrassed that it took you this long.
You swallow your nerves, cup your hands around your mouth, and call out, “Chet!” If this were an ordinary bear, it would likely keep running, but you keep a vise grip on the chance, however slim, that Chet’s still in there, and responds to his name no matter where his soul resides. Sure enough, the bear returns to the clearing, its gait slow and strung with an uncanny hint of caution. Beneath the pale moonlight, Chet’s brown coat shines like gold—like his golden hair. His eyes are yellow, too, unlike their usual brilliant brown, but within them lives the same gentleness with which he had looked upon you in the skin of men.
You raise your open hand, which makes him draw back and let out a resonant whimper. “Hey, shhh,” you reassure him. “It’s alright, Chet. You’re safe. No one’s coming to hurt you.”
A pity, you think, that you were ever scared of him. Large he is, even for a bear, but he is no monster. Chet presses his snout to the palm of your hand to sniff around until your fingers. You recall Juanita’s sister. Perhaps you are making a grave—never mind a very stupid—mistake. Perhaps you are in too deep to turn back now—but you try anyway, slowly drawing back your hand. Chet does not take kindly to this, grunting and bumping his soft head on your palm.
“You’re adorable,” you say, stretching out your arms to drape them over Chet’s neck. “You’re safe, okay?” You rustle the fur above the curve of his back. “You know it’s me, don’t you?” Chet grunts again. “You do know it’s me—oh—be careful…”
Chet rests a broad paw over your shoulder. You buckle beneath the weight of that alone. “You do know how big you are, don’t you?” you tease. “Here—let’s both go down.” You let his heavy paws push you onto your back, and he responds by rolling over until he, too, shows his belly.
Until tonight, you never knew how much you wanted to do what you’re about to do. You take the chance now bared to you and dive beneath Chet’s muzzle to bask in the warmth of his fur. He positions both paws carefully upon your back to keep you snug and in place, all while a rumbling like an engine arises from his throat. He has a new smell now: an earthy musk—not pungent, but quite clearly animal. You are not yet sure if you like it, but you could get used to it if it means getting to hug a bear and not be mauled. In fact, your body falls comfortably limp, as though a trance has fallen over you. The night winds begin again, but they pass you by without so much as stirring the hairs over your neck. You decide that falling asleep alone together, with dutiful Chet at your guard, sounds like a fine way to spend the full moon…
As the darkness of night begins to cleave from the sky, you awaken to the low roll of Chet’s contented heartbeat. The side of your head no longer rests above fur, but rather on the warm skin beneath Chet’s collar. One hand lies beside his hair, the other on his soft stomach. Though the thrumming of his heart could surely lull you to sleep all over again, you do not want to frighten Chet by leading him to think you are dead. “Chet,” you whisper as you gently rub his shoulder. When that does not work, you take his limp hand and squeeze it, causing him to stir. He stretches his chest and legs first, before freeing his hand to rub his eye. However, the moment he sees you, he freezes.
“Where am I?” he mumbles, his eyes awash with fear.
“You’re not far from your house. I have a map here somewhere—unless you can get home by using the creek—”
“Are you hurt?”
“Not at all.”
“Did we… sleep together?”
“We did sleep together, but—literally, we slept. We didn’t have sex, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Realization makes Chet’s expression drop. “Oh, my God.”
“I know… about—”
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Chet says, then swallows thickly. “You should go.”
“Your sweater’s here, if you want it.” You proceed to the place where you called him back to you by the moonlight, then hand him his cardigan. The moon now hangs behind a bed of thick clouds, leaving Chet safe from the fear of his own for one more month.
Chet makes haste to button up, sitting with his back to you for the sake of politeness. In response, you sit behind him with your back against his, and the back of your head against the soft nape of his neck.
“Eleven years,” Chet muses. “One hundred thirty-something full moons—but who’s counting? It happened in late July, closer to Canada. I was out camping with my girlfriend at the time. The bear had already fed—had bloody fangs, as big as daggers—but it still wanted her. She was too scared to speak, or scream, so I went and yelled at it. It went for me next. I don’t think I regret it. What that bear did to me, it would have surely done to her. I still have the scar from where it turned me.” He drifts your hand above his pectoral, guiding your thumb over a series of deep scar-tissue divots.
“I don’t know where Connie went,” he says. “When I woke up that morning, I was all alone, covered in blood—my blood or hers, I’ve no idea. Sometimes, even when the moon’s not full, I hear her. Maybe it’s her ghost, crying out for me to save her, or cursing at me, that she’ll have her revenge. If she’s still alive, it could be just the memory of her—how she’d screamed. I don’t remember anything that happens on the full moon. I don’t know how many people I’ve killed, or hurt—you’re really sure I didn’t hurt you?”
“I promise you didn’t.”
“What were you thinking? The whole town told you not to go out when the moon’s full.”
“I wanted to make sure you weren’t left behind.”
For a moment in time, Chet slips into silence. Nothing stirs within the trees, and nothing rushes down the creek; then, you hear him sniffle. You stretch your arms as far behind your back as you can manage to squeeze him inward by the sides. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he says. “Let’s go home.”
Chet had told you days ago that he was proud of his pancakes—but not that he knew how to cook them over fire on his cast-iron skillet. With both of you fully dressed and too hungry to move to either your car or his, he lays out the batter’s ingredients, along with a mason jar. “I know you won’t be leaving yet,” he says, “but you should have a little something to remember me by.” He slips off the silver ring you’d noticed on the rowboat and curls your fingers over it.
“Where is it from?”
“My grandfather bought it, but my father served in World War II. He thought he’d die in France, so he went and gave the ring to my mother, just in case. Thankfully, he made it home alright, so my mother gave it back to him and told him to give it to his firstborn son when he’s old enough.” Chet cracks an egg into the mason jar and shakes it. “I wanted to give it to my son when I had one, but that’s not in the cards for me.”
“Well, why not?”
“’Cause you’re leaving.”
“Not yet, silly.” You plant a hand over his thigh. “Enjoy these two weeks. Even after I leave, I’m definitely coming back. Maybe you could even come to me and see me in the city.”
“I don’t know—”
“You have twenty-nine days out of the month where you’re not a bear.”
“I’m worried. Cats get nervous around me, dogs start barking—”
“Maybe if they see how comfortable I am around you, they’ll quiet down.”
Chet smiles, contented, before slinking one arm around your waist and pressing a soft kiss on your lips. “You think so?”
“The same way you helped me get used to your world, I’ll help you get used to mine.” Your head assumes its rightful place in the crook of Chet’s neck.
“You’re the best damn thing that ever happened to this town,” Chet says.
“I could say the same for you.”
Even if you never get to coax him back into the world beyond the lake, you’ll always treasure him for letting you know how it feels to have his ring. Although the band leaves ample space around even your thumb, Chet quickly spins a new idea: he unclasps the chain around your neck and bestows the ring to you as a pendant.
No matter where life brings you both, the lake will always remain—but, for now, before the fire runs its course, you embrace this.