Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write
about something summery. Today’s piece comes to us from Val Muller, author of
the Corgi Capers mystery series with several other books in the works. Check
out her blog for news about upcoming releases at www.valmuller.com/blog.
Spirit Animal
by Val Muller
It was the summer without vacations. Two of them cancelled
already, and the re-rescheduled one for August not looking good, either. And
with Benny being quarantined from friends, it was looking to be a summer to
blemish the memory.
I kept thinking of my own summers, the freedom I had to bike
with friends, to live outside until Mom called me in for dinner, to build
secret campfires and clubhouses out of scrap wood. At seven, Benny was maybe a
little too young to do all that on his own, especially without help. Our
previous decision to cap the kid count at one seemed like a bad idea this
summer. How much better might things be with a little brother?
Instead, it was up to me and Helen to make up for the global
pandemic in Benny’s small world. Helen was doing her best, balancing
work-from-home with summertime fun. And I’ve basically been on conference calls
for the last ten weeks. I came out of the office for a coffee and I saw Benny
there, looking dejected. On the most beautiful day in June, just sitting there
on the steps staring at the carpet.
So for the holiday weekend, I knew I had to repair Benny’s
summer.
We were watching a cartoon, something about spirit animals.
Benny asked what that was, and that’s when I decided. “We’re going camping,” I
said. “We’re going on a quest to find your spirit animal.”
“Camping?” Helen rose an eyebrow from the kitchen, where she
was making dinner. “Where?”
With social distancing, I wasn’t sure campgrounds were even
open. Benny looked at me expectantly. I opened my mouth and hoped for the best.
“In the back yard, of course!”
So down to the basement I went, searching for my old gear.
My tent, the sleeping bags. “It’s a two-man tent,” I reminded Helen, thinking
back to our camping days.
“That’s okay,” she said with a little too much relief. “You
boys have fun. I’m sure I’ll be okay having the house to myself for a night.”
That night, I remembered why grown-ups don’t camp so much.
The humidity, the mosquitos. And, of course, the loss of that “I’m invincible”
feeling of childhood and adolescence. Every rustling in the bushes on our
three-acre lot, I wondered about our safety. Would a fox attack? Would they
smell dinner on our breaths? And what about the bear everyone was posting about
on the neighborhood Facebook page? At night, he owned the neighborhood. Even
the coyote being tracked down the road would defer to the bear, I’m sure.
“What do we do now, Dad?” Benny asked. He sat on the
sleeping bag in the tent, looking at me expectantly. He seemed so little, so
young. I rustled his hair and gave him a hug. Sometimes I forget how much of a
kid he still is.
“We should go out of the tent,” I said. “We need to find
your spirit animal.” I smacked my arm. “And unless your spirit animal is a
mosquito, we aren’t going to find it in here.”
“How do we find my spirit animal?”
I glanced inside at the warm glow of the television. Helen
was finding her own spirit animal, no doubt. I didn’t know how to answer. I was
winging this. I don’t honestly know what a spirit animal is. I’ve never had one
of my own. I think it’s supposed to be some kind of vision quest or something.
Not something I’m qualified for, really.
“I think a spirit animal has some qualities that you share
with it. Something deep down inside of you. It’s powerful,” I hoped aloud.
“How will I know what mine is?” Benny asked.
“When you see it, you’ll know.”
We lit a small fire in the portable hibachi grill. We
roasted marshmallows, and I wondered what kind of animals liked marshmallows.
While we ate, a small brown toad hopped onto the patio nearby, perching on a
damp spot.
“Is that my spirit animal?” Benny asked.
“A toad?” I glanced at its brown, warty surface. “I don’t
think so, son. Do you like to eat flies?”
He laughed. “No, Dad, I guess not.”
We waited. In the distance, the crickets chirped, and some
nocturnal bird warbled. Late-lingering fireflies blinked under the trees. An
owl hooted.
“Am I a cricket?” he asked, moving his arms like a praying
mantis.
We both laughed.
“I think you have to see your animal to know it,” I said. I
looked at the toad again and wondered if that was my spirit animal. Just
kind of sitting there. Being useless except for eating bugs. Maybe it would be
good at conference calls. I shivered and shook my head. No. This was not my
quest for a spirit animal. Tonight belonged to Benny.
I wondered what kind of young man he would be, what kind of
man he would grow into. He was so young, so sheltered. What was this year in
quarantine doing to him? Would he know how to socialize? Would he trust others,
or be governed by paranoid fear? Would he follow what he was told without
question? Would his basis for human interactions be movies? Cartoons where
characters go on vision quests to find their spirit animal?
Was I a failure of a father?
At the end of our property, two eyes glowed.
“A fox,” I whispered.
Benny gasped and whispered to me. “Cool, but it’s not my
spirit animal.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“I just do,” he said.
We went to sleep that night without an answer to his spirit
animal quandary. I woke in the middle of the night to the feeling that
something was wrong. My first instinct was to check on Benny. He slept soundly next
to me. I dashed to the house to peek in the living room window. Helen was
sleeping on the couch, the TV still glowing, an empty wine glass on the table
next to her. The glow from the house lights illuminated the camping area in an
even twilight, and I turned to inspect the yard.
The humidity was stifling, but still I shivered. Something
was off.
I turned around, and that’s when I saw it. The bear, the one
everyone had been spotting. So far the neighbors had posted a picture from
someone’s bedroom window, far-off and grainy; a picture of its muddy paw prints
crossing the road; and several shots of its scat around the neighborhood.
This one was within striking range of me. It was
brown—smaller than I thought it would be, but still a terrifying size, one that
could tear apart dog or boy or man. And it was sniffing around Benny’s tent.
It’s a parents’ worst dilemma. Being useless to help your
child.
I could have easily walked into the house to safety. But the
bear was right next to Benny. I thought back to all the documentaries I must
have watched, and I realized I knew nothing about bears. I thought I remembered
that they like to leave people alone, that they are non-aggressive. But was I
supposed to freeze? Play dead? One kind of bear, you’re supposed to raise your
arms in the air menacingly to make yourself look bigger, I think.
And in the midst of my son’s life being threatened, I had
the awful thought that my phone was in the tent, so there’s no way I could
capture what would have been an amazing shot.
In an awful moment, the bear rose on two feet, sniffed the
top of the tent, and let out a small groan, a grunt. What was it saying? Was
the bear saying “Grace,” pre-dinner? And Benny the main course?
My mind raced with how I would tell Helen. It was then that
I decided. I would scream. I would distract the bear and let it chase me. Maybe
I would die, but that’s what parents were supposed to do for their children.
Something held my tongue. The bear turned to stare at me.
Our eyes locked for an eternity. Stars lived and died. Planets crumbled.
I knew then I was looking at Benny’s spirit animal. Gentle,
unprovoked, but with terrifying power beneath.
The bear grunted once, then lowered itself and walked
nonchalantly back into the shadows of the yard. I knew Benny would be okay.
Tonight and always.
I carried him inside a moment later, though, just to be
safe. We slept on the floor next to Helen and her empty bottle of wine. I
decided in the morning I wouldn’t tell Benny about the bear just yet. He would
discover his power in his own time. For now, I’d let him be a little boy.
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/
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