Number 413
Manhattan
Three AM. Diane on the kitchen floor with a Sharpie and wallpaper samples. Wolf two hundred looks worse than wolf one.
Celia calling: "Dad asked who I was."
"He ask nice at least?"
"Mom."
"What. What do you want me to say."
Martin has something. Not Alzheimer's. Not yet. Can't say that word yet. Just something. Fifty-eight. Runs money for rich people. Can't find the bathroom in his own house sometimes.
Wolves:
- Number 1: doctor visit
- Number 43: forgot Celia
- Number 97: "why dogs everywhere"
- Number 200: right now, looks like shit
Wallpaper samples from when they had money to care about wallpaper. Ninety thousand dollar renovation. Never happened. Now it's wolf paper.
Martin standing there. Boxers. Princeton shirt with holes.
"Dogs?"
"Wolves."
"Bad dogs then."
"Yes."
Can't explain why. Won't.
"Remember that thing. Team building. Draw a grid."
"Nobody could."
"You used a coffee stirrer."
"Didn't work."
"No."
That's the whole conversation.
Galapagos
Celia paid for it. "Go somewhere. Do something."
Artist residency. Make art about nature or climate or who gives a shit.
Brought wolves. Paper. Sharpies.
Dutch guy: "Those aren't native species."
Didn't answer. Drew on everything. Menus. Maps. The first aid poster.
Numbers now:
- 231: watching birds
- 250: someone talking about trash in the ocean
- 273: Martin called three times, same question
Woman from Japan, Keiko: "My mother. Thousand cranes. Father dying."
"Did it work."
"He died."
"So no."
"She got good at cranes though."
Laughed. Shouldn't have. Did.
Started leaving them places. Under rocks. In bathrooms. Weighted with shells on the beach.
Texts from strangers:
"Found ur wolf its bad"
"Wolf 234 still here after rain"
"This is terrible i framed it"
Martin on FaceTime. Knows her today.
"Someone sent me dogs."
"Wolves."
"Ugly wolves."
"Yes."
Kid at the art show. Seven maybe. All the wolves hanging from fishing line.
"Sick dogs," she said.
"Yes."
"Can I have the worst one?"
"Number five. First week."
Kid puts it in her pocket. "Grandpa likes broken things."
Good policy.
Manhattan
Four hundred wolves now. Maybe more. Stopped counting.
Martin can't find the bathroom. Keeps looking for his office. We live in an apartment. Can't find Celia in his memory. Found him pissing in the closet Tuesday.
Celia visiting: "This has to stop."
"What has to stop."
"Wolves. Everywhere. Taped to the walls. In Dad's pockets."
"So?"
Martin at the table with printer paper. Trying to draw. Hand won't work right.
"Can't," he says.
"Can't what."
"The lines."
"Nobody can do lines."
"You did. All of them." Pointing at wolves everywhere.
"Those aren't lines."
His drawing: nothing. Baby scribble. Dying brain scribble.
"Keep it," she said.
"Why."
"Just keep it."
Number 413. Martin's wolf. Worst one. Hung it up.
Diane still drawing. Five hundred something.
Celia: "When will you stop?"
When.
Good question.
When Martin forgets how to breathe probably.
Or when she does.
Whichever.
Wolves until then.
Or until.
Just until.
