the case for the bear.
Macon stepped away from the window and walked to the door. He lingered there, looking at the hinges and listening as the bear growled and moaned and banged against the door.
Macon moved away from the door and returned to the window above the couch. There was darkness and the broken silhouette of a mountain covered in trees beneath a thin salting of stars. But he could not see the bear. He would not be able to take aim at it from here. If he were to kill it, he would have to open the door. A thought came to him then. “Ava,” he called, “did you feed this bear?”
“No!” Ava said loudly, and the bear responded with a bellow—whether it was confirming or condemning the girl’s story was uncertain. The yelling of the bear was so loud and well-timed that, for an instant, the family couldn’t help but laugh. They knew then that all of the dark sharp-tooth things that existed in the world would not enter into their household. At least not tonight.
Macon sighed and, with resignation, said, “Okay.” Then he opened the breach on the gun and removed the shells and leaned it near the door and, in the loudest, deepest, most policelike voice he could muster, yelled, “Dear Mr. Bear! As sheriff of Stone Temple, I hereby demand that you vacate these premises. If you do not comply I will be forced to issue a warrant for your arrest. We do not entertain visitors at this late an hour.”
The bear fell silent.
Macon chuckled to himself. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said, turning to his wife and daughter. But in their faces he saw something akin to gratitude. Come what may, he would spare the animal’s life, and they loved him for it.
“Go away, Mr. Bear!” Ava shouted, looking at her father as she spoke. He seemed pleased, happy even. “No visitors this time of night,” she said.
“The diner doesn’t open until seven,” Heather shouted. And then they all laughed. “I’ll cook you eggs in the morning,” she yelled. “Eggs and bacon and maybe pancakes, whatever you want. But you’d better be a good tipper!”
“No bad checks,” Ava inserted, her face bright.
The small family could hardly breathe for laughing. It was a loud, hearty laugh that reverberated around their small, drafty home in the heart of the mountains. “Come with me,” Heather said. She took Ava’s hand and led her into the kitchen. When they returned Ava and Heather both carried cooking pots and metal spoons and they began banging and stomping in circles, half dancing, half marching, with Ava chanting, “Diner opens at seven,” in rhythm with her stomping and banging.
Macon held his sides with laughter.
“You hear that, Mr. Bear?” Ava called. “You’ll get eggs and ham in the morning. The diner opens at seven. But go away now, people are trying to sleep!”
Then, after a few more moments of silliness, Heather and Ava stopped and all three of them listened. They heard only silence. The bear was gone.
The family sat up together for the rest of the night, giggling and talking of nothing in particular. And when the sun rose it found them crumpled in a heap on the couch—Ava’s mother holding her in her arms, Ava’s father holding them both. Then, without word or explanation, the three of them cooked breakfast and, true to their word, set aside some eggs and ham. They set off into the woods, far enough away from the house so that the bear would not begin to think of their home as a place to be frequented in the hopes of food.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” is all that Macon would say.
As a family, they cleared a place and left the eggs and ham and, just to properly complete the scene, Ava picked a flower and garnished the ham with it. “Do you think he’ll like it?” Ava asked.
“I’m sure,” her mother said, smiling. The sun crested the mountains and it filtered down through her dark hair and lit a halo around her head so that, when Ava looked up at her, she seemed to be
Macon stepped away from the window and walked to the door. He lingered there, looking at the hinges and listening as the bear growled and moaned and banged against the door.
Macon moved away from the door and returned to the window above the couch. There was darkness and the broken silhouette of a mountain covered in trees beneath a thin salting of stars. But he could not see the bear. He would not be able to take aim at it from here. If he were to kill it, he would have to open the door. A thought came to him then. “Ava,” he called, “did you feed this bear?”
“No!” Ava said loudly, and the bear responded with a bellow—whether it was confirming or condemning the girl’s story was uncertain. The yelling of the bear was so loud and well-timed that, for an instant, the family couldn’t help but laugh. They knew then that all of the dark sharp-tooth things that existed in the world would not enter into their household. At least not tonight.
Macon sighed and, with resignation, said, “Okay.” Then he opened the breach on the gun and removed the shells and leaned it near the door and, in the loudest, deepest, most policelike voice he could muster, yelled, “Dear Mr. Bear! As sheriff of Stone Temple, I hereby demand that you vacate these premises. If you do not comply I will be forced to issue a warrant for your arrest. We do not entertain visitors at this late an hour.”
The bear fell silent.
Macon chuckled to himself. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said, turning to his wife and daughter. But in their faces he saw something akin to gratitude. Come what may, he would spare the animal’s life, and they loved him for it.
“Go away, Mr. Bear!” Ava shouted, looking at her father as she spoke. He seemed pleased, happy even. “No visitors this time of night,” she said.
“The diner doesn’t open until seven,” Heather shouted. And then they all laughed. “I’ll cook you eggs in the morning,” she yelled. “Eggs and bacon and maybe pancakes, whatever you want. But you’d better be a good tipper!”
“No bad checks,” Ava inserted, her face bright.
The small family could hardly breathe for laughing. It was a loud, hearty laugh that reverberated around their small, drafty home in the heart of the mountains. “Come with me,” Heather said. She took Ava’s hand and led her into the kitchen. When they returned Ava and Heather both carried cooking pots and metal spoons and they began banging and stomping in circles, half dancing, half marching, with Ava chanting, “Diner opens at seven,” in rhythm with her stomping and banging.
Macon held his sides with laughter.
“You hear that, Mr. Bear?” Ava called. “You’ll get eggs and ham in the morning. The diner opens at seven. But go away now, people are trying to sleep!”
Then, after a few more moments of silliness, Heather and Ava stopped and all three of them listened. They heard only silence. The bear was gone.
The family sat up together for the rest of the night, giggling and talking of nothing in particular. And when the sun rose it found them crumpled in a heap on the couch—Ava’s mother holding her in her arms, Ava’s father holding them both. Then, without word or explanation, the three of them cooked breakfast and, true to their word, set aside some eggs and ham. They set off into the woods, far enough away from the house so that the bear would not begin to think of their home as a place to be frequented in the hopes of food.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” is all that Macon would say.
As a family, they cleared a place and left the eggs and ham and, just to properly complete the scene, Ava picked a flower and garnished the ham with it. “Do you think he’ll like it?” Ava asked.
“I’m sure,” her mother said, smiling. The sun crested the mountains and it filtered down through her dark hair and lit a halo around her head so that, when Ava looked up at her, she seemed to be
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