The Bear (pt. 2)
She grew up in a home decked out in the colors of Indiana basketball and they went to almost every home game. Dad would dress the girls in red from head to toe and even bought the big, foam fingers for them to wave and poke each other. Mom went to one game a year with them and sat quietly, no matter the excitement level around them. “It’s a bunch of frat boys trying to live their glory through children, she said. “What is so entertaining about that?”
Katie loved the games though, from the pep band and introductions to the final horn when the players would come over and thank the fans for coming out. She carried the same program for years and added signatures of players and coaches every time, some she would recognize years later on TV or in the paper, but most just scribbled memories of time with Dad.
They saw Mom smile one time; when John Mellencamp sat in their row and had to scooch past them to get to his seat. “Excuse me, darlin’,” he had said when he moved past her. He lingered for a moment in front of her, his hand holding her arm as though to steady himself in the tight space. He looked at the girls for a beat and then over at her Dad. ‘You’re a lucky man.” Katie was sure she had seen annoyance in his companion’s eyes when he said it and saw her eyes cut towards Mom, who was someone who attracted attention, but not at the supermodel level, Katie thought, so she didn’t understand the look of jealousy in the woman’s eyes.
When she was nine, Dad heard the interview where the Indiana coach said that the stress from coaching a high-level team was like being raped and, if it was inevitable, you might as well relax and enjoy it. He didn’t make a big show of it, but everything red that was easily removable disappeared from the house that night and got replaced by black and gold the next weekend after they stocked up in the student bookstore in West Lafayette on their first trip there as fans of the home team. He went to every home game until he started getting sick and she took him as often as she could after that.
On one trip, when the girls were in high school, while driving up I-65, he had talked to them about safety and the importance of always head-counting each other in the group throughout the day and night and making sure nobody ever got left alone while they were out. “But, what if we end up alone and somebody messes with us,” she had asked.
He gripped the wheel tightly and was quiet for long enough for her to wonder if he had heard her. “Run, baby, run,” he exhaled suddenly. “Run. But if you can’t and if you think there’s a chance, fight like hell.” He didn’t know if this was the right advice, but he knew “relax and enjoy it” was not an option.
As they got older, their walks in the woods with Dad turned into overnights and then weekends. He taught them to pay attention to the weather, both the forecasts and what was going on around them, pointing out pressure drops and oncoming clouds until she began to beat him to the punch. It turned out her senses were better than his, and not just with the weather. Her sister started begging off of the trips, busy with friends and activities, but she almost always jumped when he mentioned a trip and kept a to-go bag packed in her closet.
Most of the trips were into the wild, but he liked to take her to a city every few months where they would meander through museums and parks, stopping to give a busker coins and drinking fancy, sweet coffee drinks while sitting at sidewalk cafes. On one trip to New York City when she was thirteen, Dad's attention was caught by a pretty, young, female hawker on the streets calling out quietly, “Watches?”
Unable to resist, he stopped and asked, “What you got?”
“Rolex, Tags... what you looking for,” came the reply.
While he was distracted by the swag, her senses tingled and she put her head on a swivel. She saw the kid come up behind him and reach for dad’s back pocket. Silently, she shifted over a step and grabbed the boy's wrist and squeezed and twisted as Dad had shown her. The kid screamed and jerked his arm away before turning and running without a look back. Dad and the woman watched as he turned the corner at the block and then he turned to look at her. She was panting and flushed and her hand hurt from the tight grip she had used. "Thank you, butterbean," he said to her.
When he turned back to the woman, she already had her head down and was walking away. She looked at Katie with a smirk of admiration. “Nice job. Looks like I picked the wrong kid,” and hustled around the corner behind him.
Sitting in the woods, on the fallen tree at her second night's camp, she smiled at the memory of that trip and a wave of missing him hit her again. The hike was an attempt to get away from the reality of the loss by reliving the moments they had shared in the wild. She sat and watched the flame on her single burner stove heat the water and reached for the bear canister to get the instant pasta meal she'd brought to eat. It had been his favorite trail meal and she always had a few in the cabinet and her to-go. When the water began to bubble, she tore the lid off the container and poured it carefully. She took her first tentative spoonful right before she felt her skin tingle at the sound of feet on the trail. She looked up and the two young men from the cafe walked into the small clearing. They stopped and watched noiselessly, their eyes bright with excitement and their bodies tensed.
Her hand reached for her pocket and she felt the cool grip of her father’s knife. She shifted her feet and adjusted her weight over them, rising from the log as she heard his voice ring in her mind. “Run, baby. Run.”
