Bear

By Peggy Ehrhart

I'd have bet ten to one that she'd be the one to go. What guy in his right mind would walk out on a babe like that? Especially him. Scoring with her was probably the luckiest day of his life.

Fussy little guy, corporate big shot. That's what she told me anyway. Hardly ever even saw him , except walking between his garage and the back door. But she was in the yard all summer, sunning herself in that two-piece. Friendly enough. Definitely friendly enough.

I could never understand why a guy like that would want to live in the country, but Jersey 's full of those corporate parks now, and the people that go with them.

So one night she knocks on the door and tells me I'm not going to be seeing him around anymore--not that I ever looked for him. Things weren't working out and he's taken off.

She's sniffling while she says this, so I ask her in. Maybe another night, she says. Reason she's here is that she needs a favor.

Sure, I say. I'm all ears.

It's getting on toward fall so I haven't gotten to check her out in the bathing suit for awhile, but she's wearing form-fitting pants and a sweater that ends a couple inches above her navel. She looks as sleek as a possum.

We head past my pickup toward the bright circle that her porch light casts on the autumn-shriveled grass. Favor is, she says, a bear tried to get in this afternoon.

She was cooking and she had the kitchen door ajar--just the screen door between her and the outside.

Look, she says. There, in the screen, four big punctures, like something about my height took a swipe at it.

They smell food, she says, naughty things, and she puts her hands on her hips. She heard a shuffling sound, looked out, and there it was. But I'm not really listening. I'm noticing the way her breasts push against the sweater.

I slammed the door, she says, but I could hear it out there, batting at the screen.

Keeps coming back, she says. I know it's the same one. Having the screen all ripped up like that gives me the creeps. Could you help me fix it?

Nothing to it, I say. I'll pick up some screen in the morning.

Light work out here? I flick the switch by the back door. Bears don't like light much, you know.

Bulb's out, she says. It's a special kind. You can't get them at the grocery store.

We're still standing in the kitchen.

I'm just as glad Roger's gone, she says. I'll probably sell the house. . . . Her eyes wander to my crotch. There are things I'd miss though, she says, her eyes down there, and I swear it's like a delicate hand fluttering around. Now she's looking into my face. Maybe you'd like a drink?

Sure, I say, trying to ignore the bulge that's pressing against my jeans zipper.

In the living room, she drapes herself along the sofa, a big long thing that looks like it came from a fancy catalogue. There's a bottle of scotch on the coffee table, and I'm pulled up in a comfy chair with a half-full glass in my hand.

I'm so scared about that bear, she says. Roger never kept a gun around, but somehow, when he was here, I felt safe. . . . She giggles. I don't know what I thought he'd do. Bang on a frying pan or something. He said he'd been an Eagle Scout.

She pulls herself half up and her breasts push against the sweater. Do you have a gun? she says.

I've got a basement full. I reach for the scotch again.

She gives me a wide-eyed look. Do you think I could borrow one?

Her eyes are a startling blue. A little one? she says. Something where I could just point and pull the trigger if the bear comes back?

Maybe that can be arranged, I say, feeling myself sway as I stand up. You sit tight and I'll be back in a flash.

When I get back, she's changed into some kind of silky robe. It falls open to show most of her thigh as she settles back onto the sofa and crosses one long leg over the other. She's got music on, Led Zeppelin, turned up loud the way I like it.

You know how to use this? I say, handing her my .357 revolver.

Is it loaded?

Sure is, I say. Loaded for bear. And we both laugh.

I'm nuzzling into her breasts when she sits up with a shudder.

It's back, she says. I can hear it.

How she can hear anything with Led Zeppelin wailing away is beyond me, but she looks so pretty, scared like that. I pull her toward me for a kiss.

No, no, she says turning away. I can hear it coming up the steps. It's going for the door again.

No problem, I say, leaping to my feet and grabbing the revolver. No problem at all.

Out in the kitchen, I haul the door open and shoot through the screen at the dark shape poised on the top step. The gun recoils, the smell of powder fills the air, and I hear a startled grunt and a moan. Something topples over.

I flip on the kitchen light and some of it spills out the door to reveal Roger lying at the bottom of the stairs.

Oh, my god, she says.

She's on the phone right away. The cops come, but then another guy shows up too, a guy that drives a BMW I used to notice parked in the driveway sometimes.

The guy's comforting her like he's done it before.

I never saw her out gardening, but in the corner by the back door is one of those garden tools. You know, the kind that look like little four-pronged rakes.