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Chapter Four

The elder wolf was a fish out of water in the kitchen. Probably the reason why he never cooked it. But as a boy he loved to fish. The slick and steady Bair Creek: the gathering spot for children those days, even the young women. A can of writhing worms, the trusty pole handed down from his old man, and a few good friends regaling each other with their childhood tales were all he needed for a Saturday well spent. Nothing like it was now, everyone distracted by too much television, the internet, or all the electric noise, ears clogged up by earphones, head slunk down to some rectangular machine that played an entire music collection--and worse, without coherence or order (the chaos of "random")--or sent a message in text to some acquaintance down the street or halfway across the globe. Today, the human voice was as outdated as a telephone operator connecting you to another line.

Friendships had been reduced to what was convenient, if they existed at all.

He shook his head, almost forgetting why he thought of fish in the first place. Sinatra crooned from the living room. Nothing beat vinyl and he missed those simpler times. And he missed his wife. She understood the adage. The detour to the heart was always down Stomach Lane. And damn, she cooked a good trout. Salmon. Mackerel. Now the kitchen had been reduced to what was also convenient. A 30 second phone call and Dragon Hill could deliver the best moo goo gai pan in town in under half an hour. Eat half and there was a quick lunch for tomorrow. But moo goo gai pan wasn't chiming the right notes and overcooking the sirloin was a risk that jittered his spine. He wouldn't take that risk.

"Where is that boy when you need him?"

That morning Harvey was a train charging into the horizon, bustling out the door before the old wolf could lay out the narrow tracks of today's chores. That didn't bother him much. Harvey was a good kid, incredibly handsome, and most importantly, a man of integrity. He'd do the chores once he got back. Perhaps he went rushing off for a date? It pained him to see the pup not with someone because he knew all too well the loneliness of a half-empty bed, the chill of a loveseat while gazing at the wild tendrils cavorting from the fireplace, smoke unwinding from the chimney into the dusty evening sky. Harvey was twenty-four. How could a good, handsome, rectitudinous kid never have been in a relationship before? Not even once? He winced thinking of that happy child wrought with melancholy, alone in his room at night, although this was something he had never witnessed with any of his senses. Harvey's room was as silent as derelict backcountry rail tracks, the young wolf always sound asleep.

The doorbell burst through his thoughts.

"Good afternoon, Mr. McClellan," said a woman dressed in Sunday best as soon as he opened the door. The gentleman next to her echoed with a smile. As much of a smile as one could get from a pair of avians. Those hard beaks.

"Afternoon."

"Sorry to disturb you," said the woman, her azure feathers shining beautifully in the sun, "and we know this is a sensitive subject with most people..."

"What is it this time, Mrs. Fedara?"

"Yes, well... Harvey wouldn't happen to be home, would he?"

"We understand Harvey's condition," the man spoke up, "which he made clear to us a couple years back. My wife and I along with a few others have set up a sort of support group and we--"

"Hold on, hold on." The old wolf raised a paw, his tail becoming stiff. "Condition? I wasn't aware my boy was afflicted with any sort of condition. Visit our local cancer ward if you'd like to support people with every manner of 'condition.'"

"Is Harvey home?" The woman again. "We'd like to speak with him directly."

The old wolf shook his head. "Probably out raising tail at Arty's gym. Locker rooms are more for just showering, these days."

The man ahemed, his feathers bristling. "Now, now. There's no need for sarcasm, Mr. McClellan. We're only looking to help--" The wolf began to protest, but was interjected by the bird's wing-hand or whatever it was they called it--the wolf didn't know. "It is a condition that needs to be taken seriously, affecting the lives of families, friends, even their personal health with the HIV virus rampaging--"

"I've heard enough, Mr. Fedara. Good day." The old wolf shut the door, his paws bound into fists as he listened to the fading speech behind the door. Birds of a feather flock together. But today, as he was yesterday and the day before, he was clad in fur.

The old wolf didn't know how long he stood by the door, glued down by the audacity of his two visitors. The only condition that needed ameliorating was the cancer eating away at their minds, this religious propaganda. He'll need to investigate this "support group" and put a stop to it. But not today. Today, it was sirloin.

Sinatra skipped at the ending of Like Someone In Love as the front door swung proudly open seconds after the old wolf cleared himself to a safe distance. Entering like thespians, Harvey prattled mid-conversation with a young fox whose dull-orange fur had seen better days. This must've been the young man of whom Harvey spoke yesterday. The fox appeared emaciated like he'd just arrived from the poorhouse, with eyes just as sad, wide with curiosity or perhaps fear, slinking inside as if entering a prison cell, shutting the door with as much trepidation.

"Yune, is it?"

The fox forced a smile. "Yes. Well, that's my nickname. How'd you--"

"We talked yesterday," Harvey informed, checking his watch.

"Call me Grandpa." The old wolf extended a paw. The fox shook it. Languid as water. He let go, but the old wolf snatched the paw back. "Let's try that again. With feeling this time."

And they shook again, this time with feeling. The old wolf was impressed. "You can learn a lot from a person's handshake. Just do it like this the first time from now on."

The fox smiled. Forced or not, he wasn't quite sure at that point. "Will do, sir."

"Please: Grandpa."

"Grandpa."

"He used to take care of some of the neighborhood kids," Harvey explained. "They called him that. Even their parents."

The old wolf addressed Harvey, requesting he prepare the steaks before asking if he had bumped into the Fedaras, in which the young wolf replied with a simple headshake. The fox shot a leerish glance at Harvey, but then asked Grandpa, "So what did you learn?'

"About your handshake?"

A nod.

The old wolf hummed blithely, rolling a bent whisker between thumb and finger. "Well, let me see. The former shake suggests you have a cautious approach to new situations, perhaps life in general; but given a little push, a newfound strength emerges from within and you hold tight the hand of fate extended before you."

"You got that from a simple shake?" Harvey mused.

"More or less. Last night's fortune cookie inspired certain parts."

The fox didn't know if the old wolf was serious or not; regardless, what he said resonated with him. Hand of fate? He was here, wasn't he? Against a hammering instinct that told him to say no when Harvey invited him over as they sped on the blue moped, the lion's warning ringing like a fire alarm. In a house he'd never been in with its hardwood floors, hint of pine-scent, and bright, natural lightning contrasting the dark, littered hollow he was used to which smelled like he lived above a smokestack. Here with two wolves he barely knew, one twice his size who could squash him with so much as a flex and a graying geezer that reminded him of an ancient kung fu master from those terrible dubbed martial arts movies; though he looked frail, he could probably kick some ass if provoked. And already amidst a lie that took the form of two birds with azure feathers. He gulped.

Harvey checked his watch then proceeded into the kitchen.

"Well, make yourself at home, Yune," Grandpa said. "Don't let us wolves scare you. We enjoy the company of our vulpine-cousins."

"Well, I guess that's good. Better than enjoying our taste, I suppose."

Grandpa chuckled. "In most ways, surely. I mean, Harvey may have big teeth and muscle, but he's got a big heart, too. Just wish his cooking wasn't such a big failure."

From the kitchen: "I heard that!"

"He overcooked the sirloin last time. You're welcome to whatever you can stomach after he fires up the few I got today."

Yune's ears twitched and his eyes ignited at Harvey clambering in the kitchen, searching for a skillet. He stepped in.

"May I?"

"You cook, Yune?"

"A little." Pieces of silence hung there as if Harvey were waiting for some form of credential to fully merit butting him out of his cooking duties. "Growing up with a single parent who works all the time kinda forces you to learn how to feed yourself not-yucky food."

"Not-yucky food, huh? We could stand a bit of that."

Not a college degree, but the excuse worked.

"Where's the sirloin?"

"In the fridge."

"Fridge?"

"Yeah."

"You planning on cooking sirloin straight from the fridge?"

"Isn't that what you're supposed to do?" Harvey glanced at Grandpa--his cue for support. "You know. To prevent it from going bad?"

The fox wanted to place face to palm, but instead asked how they usually liked their steaks cooked. Rarish, they basically said. Cooking the steak longer to compensate for its coldness in the middle resulted in an overdone steak, dryer than the Sahara and other such hyperbole.

"Nanna did all the cooking. Always kept us out of the kitchen."

"My wife," the old wolf said, confusion having crept up on Yune's young face. "Damn good cook, but not much of a teacher."

So Yune ran through the basics, retrieving the four slabs of sirloin from the fridge. They needed to be room temperature before cooking and would have to sit at least thirty minutes. He assured the wolves that the meat would be fine. In the meantime, Grandpa invited the fox to his table of jigsaw puzzles, which the fox obliged, much to the delight of the old wolf. Harvey didn't bother with all these puzzles like he used to except on rare occasions. On some weekends, the old wolf remembered staying up late with his young one with a particularly large and difficult puzzle or with one of those challenging 3D ones. But the young grow up and sometimes when a puzzle is complete, it is too beautiful to tear it back down. And sometimes a piece may go missing the second time around.

The fox had never been good with idle chitchat, but Grandpa did most of the talking, explaining his love for puzzles and how they stimulate the cognitive parts of the brain, the story behind the photographs on the walls, painting a particularly clear account of the one with a young, tearful Harvey and a pair in astronaut suits. Harvey also made it clear that he hated that picture, much to their amusement. The only personal information about Union that the old wolf received were his reasons for attending the gym and how he met Harvey.

Harvey glanced at his watch. Yune noticed the wolf doing this several times as he worked the jigsaw pieces together. Finishing the puzzle, he questioned Harvey's wrist-action.

"Just a couple minutes left," Harvey said.

"Here it comes," Grandpa scoffed. "Here he comes, I should say."

Both wolves kept their eyes on the front door and the fox waited, not knowing who to expect, the fur on the back of his neck prickling up. The door swung open with a clamor, a fierce body staggering inside like a drunk, heaving for breath like a smoker.

Harvey pressed a button on his watch. "A minute and twenty seconds faster! Assuming you didn't cheat."

The bear tried to spit back a response, but could only muster shaking his head, forepaws braced on his huge legs to support his upper body. It was Bubba, and he wasn't built like a runner, which made the fox wonder why he turned the distance between here and the gym into an Olympic track.

Harvey gave his friend an encouraging pat on the back as the bear coughed, sucked in more breath. After downing a glass of water faster than a shot of whiskey, Bubba's snout peeled back in a smile as he took notice of the small vulpine at the dining room table. "Hey, it's the little guy! Harvey already took you to his place, eh?"

The fox forced a nervous laugh, mentioned the sirloins, and began preparing them as the wolf and bear duo discussed the diffculty of an uphill run, previous efforts, and how Bubba was able to beat his old record. Yune was tossed into the mix and soon they all agreed--except for the fox--that it was his turn for a run so they could get his initial recording. The house wasn't difficult to find, but that wasn't the issue. Yune wasn't much of a runner either, and years of secondhand smoke from his mother rendered his lungs to less than optimum for a sprint. But he ended up agreeing anyway, against his better nature. Again.

As much as the wolves didn't cook, their pantry was aromatic and stocked full of useful ingredients: coarse sea salt, an unopened bottle of peanut oil, whole peppercorns and its grinder (all three he needed specifically for the sirloins), amongst plenty of other things. He gathered their attention, teaching them the proper way to heat the pan, how to season the meat, how long to cook on each side to seal in the flavor (making it clear only to flip the sirloins once), to turn the steak on its back to cook the creamy ribbon of fat, to use butter for a nut-brown finish, the importance of letting the steak set, and not cutting it too thin before serving it.

Of course this was much fancier than how Harvey or Grandpa had ever prepared sirloin, treating steak like a TV dinner: just heat it and go. But Yune wouldn't have it. If you're going to put good money on good food, you might as well prepare it right.

Two had been prepared as that's all he could fit on one pan. Buford and Grandpa had at the first batch, marveling at the beautiful color, the perfect pink and juicy middle, the taste that was too good to be true.

"Man, Union!" Buford exclaimed between bites. "You work as a chef or something?"

Work. Yune looked at the clock ticking on the wall.

"Young man, you've given an old wolf a reason to live," Grandpa joked. "Harvey, I think we have ourselves a keeper here. Just as good as your Nanna used to make."

Harvey stood over Yune's shoulder as he cooked the last two, amazed at how confident he worked in the kitchen. This was a side of the fox he didn't expect, although he had to admit he had only known him for two days. Surprising, nonetheless. "You cook sirloin a lot, Yune?"

"Actually, this is only the second time. Can't really afford to eat this nice."

"Well, you'll need to come over here more often then. We're not worried about money too much here. The house is paid and because of Nanna's double indemnity, we're pretty well off."

Yune finished the steaks, cutting one up for Harvey. "Well, I suppose I oughta go soon."

"So soon?" Harvey's ears flattened. It's been awhile since he'd seen the old wolf so happy, over a piece of meat, no less. This alone sparked a stronger interest in the fox. "I was hoping we could hang out, chat a bit, maybe arm wrestle up in my room." Harvey sounded a little too needy saying that and he felt dumb.

The fox looked at the big wolf's muscular arm, Buford chiming in on how he should stay.

"Okay, just kidding about that last one. You got work or something?"

For a split second the wolf looked like a pup, yearning for attention. There is always tomorrow, the fox thought. But then he remembered what he'd read on a shirt at the gym that day. Carpe diem. From Horace's poem, which he knew well. But the whole line in the poem went, Carpe diem quam minime credula postero. "Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future." Something was happening to him. Just being here meant his life had forever been altered. For the past few years he had done nothing but worked, supporting his mother, laying cooped up in his room reading books. He didn't want to risk ruining a chance at breaking the monotony of his life to something as uncooperative as tomorrow. "Got a phone?" he said. "I'll just need to call my Mom and tell her where I am. Don't have a cell phone."

"Blasted contraptions those things are," Grandpa said. "That's another tick in my good book for you, Yune! Phone's right there on the counter."

"Do you have another phone so I can talk in private? No offense."

"None taken. There's a phone in my bedroom. End of the hall."

The old wolf's room was dark, clean, simple, a bit musty. The light switch ignited a reading lamp on a small, bedside table where a phone also sat among a few books he had read, which he mentally noted to use as fodder for conversation. He practiced a few sick voices before punching in the numbers he had to concentrate on to remember, a familiar voice greeting him, unprepared for the hoarseness of the small voice she knew too well. Butterflies flew amok in his stomach; he hoped she wouldn't see through the facade, giving the performance of a lifetime. The process went much faster than expected and soon the dialtone sang dead in his paw. This day would mark the first time he had ever called in sick. And it almost made him sick just thinking about it.