I clicked on the link, and there she was. Aly, at full incandescence. The shock never weakened. My cell phone camera has this special effect: the object in the crosshairs stays saturated while everything around it fades to gray. That’s how it was with the woman who let me marry her. She ionized any room, even a roomful of politicians.
All the nerves that plagued her in rehearsal vanished in the final performances. Behind the microphone, she came off consummately self-possessed, with flashes of wry bafflement in the face of our species. She turned her voice into this Platonic public radio announcer. She could blend stats and stories without hectoring. She empathized with all parties, compromising without betraying the truth. Everything she said came across as so damn reasonable. None of the ninety-nine assembly members would have believed she’d suffered from a massive childhood stutter and used to chew her lips until they bled.
As she gave her last recorded performance, her son watched from this side of the ground. Every detail had him so hypnotized that his questions never got past his gaping lips. He watched Aly talk about witnessing a celebrated event up north, near Lake Superior, one of twenty hunting contests held in the state that year. He sat up straight and smoothed his collar; I’d once told him how mature that made him look. For a kid with no self-control, he gave a masterful performance all his own.
Aly described the judging stand on the fourth and final day of the competition: an industrial-spec crane scale waiting for the contestants to deliver their hauls. Pickup trucks filled with carcasses pulled up and unloaded their mounds onto the scales. Awards went to those who had bagged the most poundage over four days. The prizes included guns, scopes, and lures that would make next year’s contest even more one-sided.
She recited the facts: Number of participants. Weight of winning entry. Total animals killed in statewide contests every year. Effects of lost animals on ravaged ecosystems. Her sober eloquence would conclude later that night in a two-hour crying jag in bed, with me powerless to comfort her.
I kicked myself for imagining Robbie could handle this. But he’d wanted to see his mother, and truth be told, he was holding it together pretty well. Nine is the age of great turning. Maybe humanity was a nine-year-old, not yet grown up, not a little kid anymore. Seemingly in control, but always on the verge of rage.
Alyssa wrapped up. Her conclusion was masterful. She always nailed the landing. She said how this bill would restore tradition and dignity to hunting. She said how ninety-eight percent by weight of animals left on Earth were either Homo sapiens or their industrially harvested food. Only two percent were wild. Didn’t the few wild things left need a little break?
Her closing words chilled me all over again. I remembered her working them out, in weeks of laboring over this testimony. The creatures of this state do not belong to us. We hold them in our trust. The first people who lived here knew: all animals are our relatives. Our ancestors and our descendants are watching our stewardship. Let’s make them proud.
The clip ended. I canceled the one that queued up next. To my relief, Robin didn’t argue. He held three fingers against his mouth. The gesture made him look like a four-foot-tall Atticus Finch.
Did that bill pass, Dad?
“Not yet, buddy. But something like it will, one of these years. And look at the number of views. People are still hearing her.”
I mussed his hair. His locks were all over the place. He wouldn’t let anyone cut them but me. That wasn’t doing much for his social standing.
“Why don’t you get ready for bed, and we’ll burn the midnight oil.” Our code for reading together for twenty minutes past his eight-thirty bedtime.
Can I have a juice, first?
“Juice might not be the best thing, right before bed.” I didn’t need a two a.m. disaster. I’d removed the plastic fitted sheet. It was too humiliating for him.
How do you know? Maybe it is. Maybe juice is exactly the perfect thing before bed. We should run a double-blind experiment.
I’d made the mistake of telling him about those. “Naw. We’re gonna fake the data. Scoot!”
HE WAS THOUGHTFUL WHEN I CAME INTO HIS ROOM. He lay under the covers in his brown plaid canoe pajamas that he’d forbidden me from giving to Goodwill. The cuffs stopped two inches above his wrist and the waist pinched his boy’s belly into a muffin-top. The pajamas had been a little too big when his mother had bought them. The way he was going, he’d still be wearing them on his honeymoon.
I had my book—The Chemical Evolution of the Atmosphere and Oceans—and he had his—Maniac Magee. I took my place beside him in the bed. But he was too thoughtful to read. He put his hand on my arm, as Aly always did.