Franklin Evermore

In Alaska in the spring, great grizzly bears gorge themselves on berries. A diet of northern red currants, raspberries, low-bush and high-bush cranberries, and crowberries turns bear fat pink. Berry-fed bear fat is melted down and mixed into teas with honey. It’s used for making biscuits, pancakes, and waffles. Women, and men, too, apply the rosy fat on the skin and it cools and tones the complexion, and it gives hair a healthy shine. It’s believed by some to restore hair, fortify gray matter, and increase sperm count. Berry-fed bear fat may as well be rose gold — it’s as expensive. An ounce can sell for a hundred dollars. Each year in the spring, hunters come to Alaska in search of brown bears, kodiak, glacier, and black. Franklin Evermore is one such hunter.

In a cabin in Cold Bay, Franklin Evermore peered through the scope of his .300 Winchester Magnum then placed it on top of the rifle bag on the dining table. Last evening, a pontoon plane splashed down in the bay and the hired bush pilot led Franklin to his hunting lodge. The bush pilot would be back in three days. Franklin finished off a plate of runny eggs, white toast, and bacon, and a cup of black coffee before setting out on the trail toward the ridge. There were berries everywhere, and the morning was warm. Red berries hung like jewelry from the slender branches. Gold sunshine poured itself into the pine tree forest. At the top of the ridge, Franklin set his pack and rifle down and from the pack he removed a few items. He unfolded a white bandana and placed it on the cool ground. From a small velvet bag he removed a polished amethyst crystal and set it on one of the corners of the bandana. The sun was to his right and he had placed the purple amethyst on the corner of the bandana which pointed north. On the eastern corner, he set down a green amazonite stone. To the west, deep blue lapis lazuli, and on the southern corner, rose quartz. In the middle, he placed a shiny penny. He knelt on one knee, and in his hand he held a pewter flask.

“Archangels! Guardians of four the directions! Keepers of the elements! Should the Mother Goddess be so generous as to give me a bear today, I pray for a clean kill, and that its soul be granted an auspicious birth in the next life. I pray these things in the name of our lord Jesus Christ.” Franklin retrieved the penny and pushed it into the soft dirt. From the pewter flask he offered the earth a pour of peach brandy which she imbibed unceremoniously. He returned the stones to the velvet bag and folded the bandana and replaced the entire makeshift altar in the pack and then continued walking.

It was afternoon when he heard the rumbling growl. He emerged from the forest by a stream and there was a male grizzly or boar lapping up cool water. The fur around its mouth was stained bright red, and as it drank the current carried away the juice. As if the mighty bear were expecting him, the grizzly stood up tall and offered the hunter a shot to the heart. Franklin took the shot. The boom soared through the valley. The bear stood up even more tall and sang a song then fell plumb backward. Franklin forded the stream and came upon the bear which lie peacefully on the round rocks of the river’s edge. Hey prayed again then began the cleaning process, cutting the bear open from throat to pelvis and removing the innards. Less its viscera, the bear was light enough that Franklin could drag it by its legs between two trees and use straps and a pulley to hang the bear upside down by its feet. He skinned and decapitated the bear and butchered it and would lug it back to the lodge in several gos. He examined a layer of fat in the curtains where he had split the bear and there it was: red as a sunset, and with a slightly sweet smell. As he worked, he traveled to Omaha in his mind. His heart became warm thinking of Mary, his wife, and Nicholas. Their son had just turned eleven, and Franklin had given him a brand new bicycle as a gift. How the boy relished taking it for a spin! And Franklin enjoyed how proud his son was and Franklin was proud of his son. Mary rested her head on Franklin’s shoulder on the edge of the driveway with the sun going down. As he remembered these things he became lost and felt as if he were there. Before he knew it, the bear was completely skinned.

He awoke at three in the morning and donned his coat and boots and went outside. The bay was otherworldly and calm that witching hour. His breaths showed like spirits transitioning to the afterlife. He thought to sleep more but he lay in bed restless so at four thirty he got up and made coffee. With the blue light of dawn came the hum of the propeller. Franklin went to the window and watched as the bright orange floatplane dropped into the water and taxied to shore. The bush pilot was a day early. An urgent message, the bush pilot said arriving on the porch. The pilot handed him an envelope; they should return to Anchorage at once. The letter was from the Omaha Police Department by way of the Anchorage Police Department. He sat down at the table and tore it open. A knot grew in his stomach as he read the words. He couldn’t make sense of it. Or he didn’t want to make sense of it. He read the words, and they were enough to make him understand, although he didn’t believe it. Deepest condolences…, regretfully inform you…, tragic accident…, wife and son…, a drunk driver…, funeral arrangements…, and so on. At first he didn’t believe it and when he finally did, he wept.

…

He returned to Omaha to a quiet house. Bedrooms that would remain dark unless he turned the lights on. The smell of cooking from the kitchen that would no longer reach him in his easy-chair. Laughter in the backyard from water-gun fights that he would not hear. He sold the house and moved into a small, one-bedroom apartment. Franklin no longer called upon archangels. He opted instead for the spirits of gin which he mixed with quinine tonic. Gins and tonic turned into gin without tonic. The drunk driver who killed his wife and son, Sam something-or-other, the son of a bitch, got off on a technicality, something about the idiot cop who administered the breathalyzer mishandling and nullifying the test. The guy walked free. Franklin would sit alone at the dining room table in his apartment with the tall blue bottle of Bombay and a lowball glass in front of him and a .38 caliber revolver next to that and imagine hunting the son of a bitch and breaking his teeth as he shoves the pistol in his mouth and pulls the trigger.

That spring, Bill, one of Franklin’s hunting buddies invited him to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to hunt black bear. Franklin declined, but Bill called again and insisted and finally he agreed. He’d make the sixteen-hour journey to the U.P. and spend the week hunting and fishing with Bill and he hoped that somehow Mary and Nicholas might be there in spirit and this made him think he could even enjoy the trip. On the second day of hunting, Bill had gone down around a bluff and Franklin walked out into a clearing. It was mid-morning, and the sun made the top half of the trees glow yellow. Franklin sat at the edge of the meadow by a frozen pond with his back against a pear tree and removed the pewter flask from his shirt pocket which now carried whiskey but there was barely a drop left in it so he returned it to his pocket.

Suddenly he felt as if someone or something had plunged a hand into his chest and was squeezing his heart until it would burst. He gasped for air and leaned forward where he sat and he was sure he was having a heart attack. Vivid memories of his life beginning in childhood and on through his first time hunting and marrying Mary and the day Nicholas was born and the nightmare that had come to be a year before projected themselves in front of his eyes as if on a screen. For the first time since Alaska, he prayed. And as he did so, a ray of sunlight came over the green field and illuminated fluffy white dandelion tufts that floated upward and became gold.

His breathing became calm now and he felt as if the hand that gripped his heart had yanked something out of him and he felt lighter. Not far from where he sat, there emerged from within the trees a baby black bear cub. Sobered, Franklin gripped his rifle; he knew the mother bear would not be far behind. The cub and its mother made their way across the meadow and spotting him, turned toward Franklin. As they came closer, Franklin felt his head begin to tingle as if it were filling up with light. He felt as if he, too, were like a glowing floating dandelion in the sun. The mother and cub were mere yards away but he felt no fear. She sat with her feet in front of her and the cub lay down next to her. The mother bear or sow appeared to become cloaked in an indigo aura and above her heard, Franklin saw a vision of a golden cross. Tears streamed from his eyes as they sat together in that space. Franklin wouldn’t dream of raising his rifle to such a creature and in fact he never would again. From his bag he removed a camera, and took a picture.

…

Franklin spent the next year of his life hunting. He toured Canada for elk and moose, owls in Romania, zebra in the Kalahari in Africa, and the mountains of Japan for snow monkeys and fox. But this time, the trophies he sought were not heads to be mounted on walls, but rather art that he hoped might channel something of his experience in the meadow with the mother bear and her cub. Franklin had become a photographer. And he also gave up drinking.

On a rainy night in Omaha in early August, Franklin heard a knock at his front door. He turned on the light to find a man standing there, trembling, and soaked from the rain. Franklin opened the door and at once he knew who the man was. The man could not bring himself to look Franklin in the eyes so he looked down and still trembling he held a gun toward Franklin. The black nine-millimeter pistol the man held in his hand was pointed away from Franklin — the man held it by the barrel so the grip was pointing toward Franklin as if he were handing it to him.

“Please do it,” the man said, his voice cracking. The man looked incredibly weary. Franklin had seen a picture of him on the news a few years back so he knew what he looked like but now he could hardly recognize him.

“If you won’t do it…,” the man’s speaking became more steady, “let me do it to myself on your lawn.” Then he broke down. Franklin took the gun in his hand.

“I have so much guilt,” he said. “I’ve lost everything…I lost my job…I gambled away our life’s savings…my wife and daughter left me, and I deserved all of it and more,” he sniffled and looked up at Franklin for the first time. “So do me a favor, and just end my goddamned life for me right now like I did to your wife and son. For the love of God, please kill me.”

Sam reached toward Franklin as if to help him lift his arm. Instead, Franklin put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. The suffering in this man’s soul was felt. It came up through Franklin’s hand and appeared in his vision as jagged storm clouds. From those clouds there came rain and it fell into his heart where it churned and the man was crying. He let the man come forward and took him into his arms while he wept and the vision he saw then was of a sunrise coming up over the place in his heart where the rainwater had been churning. Sam wept and the rain continued to churn in Franklin’s heart until it became the color of rose gold.