I DO REMEMBER DADDY COMING UP AND getting hold of my shoulders. I don’t recollect walking down the hill to the horses. I do recall that nobody talked on the ride back from Kimmerly Basin to our house. Nobody said so much as a single word. And I remember seeing Kimmerly with her legs wrapped around Mama and her arms hugging her neck so tight Mama’s face almost turned white, only I don’t recall how she got off the horse or up in Mama’s arms.
It was like there was kind of a haze or mist that covered the whole world. Like nothing was real and it was all something seen in a dream.
I know that everybody was there when we got back. There was even a couple of men I didn’t know. I found out later that they were log drivers, like Mr. Haskill. They’d spotted his rig on the road and come to see what was wrong. And I know, when I finally sort of woke up, or came back to the real world, we were all sitting in the living room—but I don’t remember getting there or smelling the coffee Mama fixed, or hardly much else.
The first thing I really heard was Mr. Haskill’s voice. He was talking to Austin.
“It wasn’t a female, protecting a cub. Thing was a male. Full growed. Bet he was nine foot tall. Silverback. Never seen a bear that big in all the fifty-four years I’ve been up here.”
One of the other men spoke up. I didn’t know who he was, but he had white hair and a salt-and-pepper beard, sort of like Mr. Haskill’s.
“Every year some family or some logger finds remains. Figure there’s maybe four or five folks a year lost to bear, up in this country.”
Mr. Haskill nodded.
“Everyone I ever heard of what run onto a grizzly got torn to shreds or kilt and eaten. In all my years, I never seen the like of what I witnessed today.”
“The Flathead got a legend about it.” I recognized Grady’s voice. “I just thought it was talk. You know, stories about the old days, folktales, and the like. My grandfather told it. He said that once every three generations a brave is born who will see himself in the eye of the great bear. Back in the old days, sometimes young guys would go out and try to get close to a grizzly—you know—just to prove how brave they were. Grandfather says they usually ended up as bear food. He says the ‘Great Spirit’ gives the brave as a gift. He determines who it will be, before he is ever born, and only he can speak with the great bear or look into his eyes. I always thought it was just legend—just talk—until today.”
“You weren’t trying to prove you were brave, were you Bailey? Bailey?”
I kind of jerked. Daddy’s eyes studied me for a time. I shook my head.
“No, sir. There … well … there just wasn’t anything else I could do. He was gonna get Kimmerly. And I … well … I didn’t think that was right.”
“You’re just darned lucky you didn’t get ripped to shreds,” said the other man who I didn’t recognize.
I nodded again. “Yes, sir. I know that.”
“The good Lord was sure with you today,” Austin put in.
“Maybe the Great Spirit,” Grady teased.
“Just pure, blessed luck.” Mr. Haskill took another drink of his coffee.
Daddy’s smile was gentle.
“Maybe all three,” he whispered.
I cleared my throat and got up from the rocker. It was Daddy’s favorite chair—the one he always sat in—and I had no idea how I ended up in it.
“Excuse me a minute. I got to go to the outhouse.”
I trotted through the front door, around the porch, and to the little house out back. Well, I didn’t trot. About every three steps or so, I’d stop, listen, and look all around to make sure there wasn’t a bear lurking in the trees. When I got to the outhouse, I sat down on the wood bench between the two holes and buried my face in my hands. All I could do was cry and cry and cry until the sleeves of my shirt were wet. I cried so much, I made myself sick to my stomach. I slipped out the door and went around back. I threw up until I thought my toenails were gonna come out my throat. On the way back to the house, I stopped by the pump, washed my face, and got a drink. It made me feel better.
It was nearly dark before Mr. Haskill and the other two men left. On the way out the door he told me that Daddy had tried to get to me. He said that he and Grady tackled him and wrestled him to the ground, on account of how I had the grizzly stopped dead in his tracks. They were afraid that if they hadn’t stopped him, the bear would have torn up both of us.
After they left, Grady and Austin headed back to their room in the barn. We all followed them out on the porch to say good night. At the bottom of the steps Grady stopped and turned to us. Like always, his smile made me feel good when he focused on me.
“Bailey, I know you’re kind of quiet and shy. But word of this is gonna get out. Old man Haskill can’t keep his mouth shut …” Grady kind of broke off what he was saying. He gave a big shrug. “Shoot, not just him. I can’t keep my mouth shut about this, neither. I got to tell somebody—especially my grandfather. But my point is that by tomorrow, the story about what happened today will be clean up and down the valley. There will be people showing up. Lots of them. Probably a lot of Flathead—you know, from my tribe. They won’t hurt you or bother you. Nothing like that. And Mrs. Trumbull”—he smiled, glancing to her—“there’s no need to fix coffee or even make conversation, if you don’t want to. They’ll just want to look. And, Bailey, you don’t need to do nothing, neither. Don’t have to say anything. Don’t even have to wave. They just want to look at you, then they’ll be on their way.”
I nodded, letting him know that I understood and that I appreciated him warning me before folks started showing up.
Grady was right. Over the next couple of weeks probably three-fourths of the folks in the whole Flathead Valley showed up at our place. Even people from around Poison, down to the far end of the lake, came.
It was hard to tell the Flathead Indians from anybody else. Except for a few of the older ones, they all wore Levi’s or overalls or dresses—just like the rest of us.
We were working on the roof of the barn when Grady’s grandfather came. I thought the old man was going to cry when I climbed down off the roof and shook his hand. His old, weathered face stretched to such a smile Grady and me both were afraid it was gonna crack. I didn’t much care for all the fuss or attention. Then, I figured if seeing me gave the other folks just half as much happiness as it had Grady’s grandfather … well, it was worth it.
Over that two weeks Kimmerly would wake up, crying in the nights. My room was right across the hall from hers. I’d go sit on the edge of her bed and pat her shoulder or rub her back until she fell asleep again.
During that two weeks I woke up a couple of times, too. I didn’t cry. But I was dripping wet with the cold sweats. Sometimes it was right hard to get back to sleep.
We finally got to go on our fishing trip. We didn’t go to the high country around Mr. MacDonald’s lake or up to see the glaciers. Daddy took us to the Flathead River. We camped at the park beside the courthouse—right in the middle of Kalispell. Guess Daddy didn’t want to run the risk of seeing another bear for a while. That was fine with me. My biggest hope in life was that I’d never, ever see another grizzly bear as long as I lived.
Even in the middle of town we had fun fishing, anyhow.
School started in September. Nobody gave me any problems. Even the redheaded kid in bib overalls wanted to be my friend and hang around with me.
But somehow I knew that he wouldn’t stay a friend for very long. I knew that, sooner or later, the bear would be forgotten. Probably by next Fourth of July, somebody would pitch a firecracker too close to me and I’d take off—just like always.
But even as I thought about it, it didn’t seem to bother me. I wasn’t afraid of being afraid. Not anymore.
Even to this day—sometimes at night when I close my eyes to go to sleep—I can still see that little twelve-year-old boy. At times I think I know him. Other times, I’m not so sure. Really-n-truly, he’s nothing special. He’s not too smart, but he’s not too dumb, either. He’s not too brave, but by no means is he a coward. He’s just ordinary people. He laughs and eats and all the things that everybody else does. He gets confused and he worries about dumb stuff that he ought not worry about. He’s got a good sense of humor and likes to laugh, but sometimes he loses his temper. When that happens, the way he acts embarrasses him.
Lots of times, he even gets scared. He doesn’t like it. Nobody likes being scared. But it happens—and it’s okay. But he doesn’t understand why it’s okay.
The thing I do know is that he won’t ever leave me. That twelve-year-old boy will always be with me. In that twilight time, when sleep draws near, I can still see him in the eye of the great bear.