Then she stopped, staring, a sick feeling creeping around her heart. In the far right of the closet hung two of Brad’s shirts, soft cotton pullovers he’d worn when they lived in Berkeley, back when he had such different ideas of what he wanted to do with his life. He’d never wear those shirts again. Wouldn’t be caught dead in them. No wonder he hadn’t bothered to box them up. She pulled the sleeve of one closer and pressed it to her face, smelling the familiar scent of him. What had happened with them? They’d been so close.
She dropped the sleeve and stepped back, taking a few deep breaths. She should call him, let him know she was leaving.
Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her phone and dialed his number. It rang only two times and then went to voicemail, an indication that he’d just pressed ignore. She put it back in her pocket and, with an ache in her chest, finished gathering her clothes.
She checked her watch. She still had time to stop by her neighbor’s place before getting a cab to the airport.
She stepped into the hall and knocked on his door, waiting, smelling the faint scent of Indian food in the hall. It made her stomach rumble. After a few moments, the peephole went dark as her neighbor Jim Tawny looked through it. Then she heard his multitude of locks disengaging. The door swung open to reveal a massive man in his sixties, black hair thinning and combed over. Thick glasses that hadn’t been updated probably since 1975 obscured his green eyes. His girth barely fit in the doorway. His polo shirt sported a myriad of food stains, and a pair of cotton shorts had suffered the same fate, with evidence of mustard, ketchup, and what looked like teriyaki sauce. On his feet were two long-suffering terry cloth slippers that Alex was amazed had survived as long as they had. They looked like they were as old as his glasses, and their once-white fluffiness was now a matted and almost leather-looking gray.
Behind him books and dirty clothes covered every available horizontal surface.
“Hi, Jim,” she said as he smiled down at her, a cigarette clutched between his fingers, curling smoke into the hallway.
“Hiya, Alex. What can I do you for?”
“I’m going away for a bit, and was wondering if you could water my fern and just sort of keep an eye on the place?”
“No problemo.”
He’d watched her place in the past when she’d been on other research trips, and he was always reliable. Now that Brad was gone, she liked the thought of someone peeking in now and again. It wasn’t the best neighborhood in the world.
“How long you going for this time?”
She smiled sheepishly. “Could be a few months.”
“Wowsers.” He took a drag on his cigarette. “I don’t know how you do it. I’d go stark raving mad if I had to be in the great out-of-doors that long.”
“Well, it helps that I like the great out-of-doors.”
“It’d have to. Sheesh. No AC, crappin’ in a hole, poison ivy. Forget it.”
She smiled. People like Jim were all too common, not understanding the allure of the wild, largely, she suspected, because they’d never been out in it.
“But I’ll keep an eye on your place,” he told her.
“I really appreciate it. You still have the key from last time?”
“Yep.”
“Thanks, Jim.” She walked back to her door, and he stuck his head out into the hallway. “What’s it this time? Birds or antelopes?”
He was referring to a trip she’d taken to Arizona to study the Sonoran pronghorn. “Wolverines.”
“Jesus! Wolverines! I saw a nature show on them on Animal Planet. Aren’t you worried they’ll tear your arms off?”
She laughed. “I’m more worried I won’t see any.”
He shook his head, taking another drag on his cigarette. “You’re one of a kind, Alex. One of a kind.”
She smiled and waved. “See you, Jim.”
He ducked back into his apartment and she heard all the locks engage.
Back in her flat, she tried Brad another time, but once again, it went to voicemail after two rings. She sent him a text to call her when he could, then arranged for a cab.
Ten minutes later, she was headed up 1A, on her way to Logan International Airport and a new adventure. The words of John Muir floated into her mind: The mountains are calling and I must go.
Three
Alex pulled the rental car out of the lot, heading away from the Missoula airport. She’d barely slept on the plane, nodding off for only half an hour. Despite the lulling hum of the engine and the quiet of the other passengers, Alex kept mulling things over in her head, partly excited and partly worried about what she’d just committed to. During a layover in Denver, she’d downloaded the latest wolverine research. On the second leg of her flight, she’d pored over it.
As she drove, she reflected on what she’d read. The largest member of the weasel family, wolverines sported muscular bodies covered with long brown and gold fur and had surprisingly long, lanky legs. These powerful legs could chew up miles in rugged terrain, and wolverines had a reputation for always being on the move, roving their territory on the constant lookout for food sources. With a powerful bite and strong claws, they could make a meal of the toughest of carcasses, crunching down even the bones.
Wolverines in southern Canada and the Lower 48 required cold areas where the average summer temperature didn’t exceed seventy degrees Fahrenheit. For raising their young, they also needed deep snowpack, as dens were often dug down ten feet into the snow. This meant that mountain regions were ideal for wolverines in the Lower 48. It also meant that there was no continuous population of wolverines between southern Canada and mountain ranges in the United States. Instead, wolverines comprised what biologists called a metapopulation, a collection of separated groups that needed individuals to disperse from one group to another in order to ensure the genetic health of the species. But as this terrain had become more and more fragmented due to roads, housing projects, oil and gas development, and loss of snowpack as the planet warmed, the wolverines’ ability to move between groups had been seriously compromised. Add to that the fact that wolverines often fell victim to leg-hold traps, some meant for them and some meant for bobcats and coyotes, and their numbers were dwindling.
Alex merged into traffic and sighed. She didn’t want the wolverine to go the way of species like the sea mink, but oftentimes a feeling of hopelessness crept over her when she studied endangered animals. Like the wolverine, the sea mink had been a large member of the weasel family. It had once frolicked along the northeastern coast of North America, from Maine all the way up to New Brunswick. Sporting lush, reddish brown fur, it had been hunted to extinction in the late 1800s and early 1900s. This had almost happened to the wolverine, and for a time they had vanished from the Lower 48.
Now she programmed the nearest coffeehouse into the rental car’s GPS unit and drove, taking in the sights of Missoula, the steep forested mountains and the charming university town.
After a visit to the café and armed with black tea, she typed in a new location on the unit, steering herself to the rental car drop-off nearest the wildlife preserve. She drove north, past stunningly blue Flathead Lake with its frame of snowcapped peaks, before stopping for another cup of tea. Two hours into her drive, she checked her phone. Nothing from Brad.