Then Master Of Wolves
THEN: MASTER OF WOLVES
A wild duck showed up in our garden when I was seven. It was female, probably from the lake at the far end of our enormous wilderness property. I don’t know why she chose to make her nest beneath one of the hedges against the house when there had to be countless better locations to spawn and nurse her little family. No one seemed to notice her except for me, the lonely boy who just wanted a peek at something better.
Every morning, I’d run out to check on her, relieved to find her sitting on her nest. Instinctively, I knew not to disturb her and always kept my distance so as not to scare her away. She sat dutifully day after day until one morning—eggs!
A couple days later, more appeared. And soon I wasn’t just curious, I was enamored.
I knew I couldn’t keep them. They needed to be free, and my parents never allowed pets anyway, but somehow they still became mine. Every day I’d guard them, wanting to protect their innocence and be part of their sweet story. I’d imagine the winding trail of fluffy ducklings following behind her as she led them to the lake like I’d seen on the nature shows. I couldn’t wait for that day, ready to trail them discreetly and witness her patient love as she taught them how to swim and survive.
Then one morning they were gone.
Surprised, I searched the area for any sign of where they went while I slept. There were no broken eggs to indicate they hatched and took their trek to the lake. There was nothing but an empty nest filled with feathers. Could a duck move her eggs to another location? Would she?
Yes, I told myself through mounting dread. Yes, she must have moved them closer to the lake.
Queasiness settled in that day and the next. Every time I caught a glimpse of that empty nest I would convince myself of the impossible.
Ducks can carry nine eggs. They could roll them… or… clutch them one at a time in their beaks. They could, right? They had to. I needed them to. God, how I needed them to.
But they can’t.
Razor confirmed it at dinner one night when he mentioned the fox he’d seen near the house. With callous indifference he praised the beast for “taking care of that damn duck problem.”
I burst into tears at the truth, sobbing at the table over the cold hard reality that this world was as broken and cruel as I feared. At age seven, I learned there was nothing better than what I knew. That predators would always hunt and destroy anything tender and precious.
Love and pain were synonymous.
And an hour later, locked in the dark shed, my small body still aching from their punishment for being weak, I swore I would never be a fox or a duck. I would be the wall, the one who stood between both to protect any sliver of good I could find in this horrific world. I would absorb the pain to preserve the hope of love.
But that too was the fantasy of a na?ve boy. Because the truth is, there is no wall. We are all either fox or duck—and even that isn’t the whole story.
Years later, the predatory stare of Scarlett McArthur as she approaches the bar reminds me again about the real truth of our existence: We are all foxes or ducks in a world run by wolves.
“You didn’t come to my room last night,” she says in a scolding tone.
“I had to work.” I exaggerate my pour from the shaker to illustrate.
“All night?” Her tone is coy, but I can tell she’s upset. She’s probably not used to rejection.
“Actually, yes.”
I move away to pass the martini to the guest and start on the next order.
“Well, then, maybe I need to talk to my father about your hours.”
I glance over, surprised at her na?veté. She knows what I do, right? That I’m a “bartender” in the same way her father is a “CEO” and she’s… I don’t even know. What does a mob princess do besides stalk her subordinates with an entitled chip on her shoulder?
Easy, Shaw. Operative word is “subordinate.” She’s shallow, doesn’t mean she’s harmless.
“No thanks. I need the money,” I lie. If she doesn’t have any clue about her father’s real operations, I’m certainly not going to be the one to enlighten her.
Her face scrunches into a pout, and I leave again to deliver the next drink. She’s still waiting with an expectant look when I return, and I have to suppress a burst of irritation. Is she really so oblivious? Maybe so if no one has ever said no to her before.
Guess I will be educating her on that.
“Sorry for making you wait, Miss McArthur,” I say in a formal tone. “What can I get you?”
Her expression falls as the rejection sinks in. Hazel eyes search mine through the dim lighting, but I remain neutral.
After several seconds of tense silence, her fingers curl around the designer purse she placed on the bar.
Her gaze turns cold. “Nothing, apparently.”
I nod and force a stiff smile. “Have a nice night, Miss McArthur.”
She doesn’t respond as she marches away.