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Fiction > Short story > The Bellingham Review

The Love Life of Tigers

Henry told the girl with short brown hair that he was sorry, that he couldn’t join her for lunch even though he found her very pretty and under different circumstances maybe they would have shared a bottle of wine and talked until dusk. But he was late and he was lost, and his wife was expecting him and somewhere along his travels he’d misplaced his luggage. Now all he had was a frayed green duffel bag. Impossible, Henry thought, that he should go on a trip without something more. But it was all he had, so he stepped off the train at an unknown station, and gazed at the surrounding trees while the girl with the short brown hair stared at him through the window and waved a small goodbye. She might have been politely covering a yawn.

Henry watched the train shrink down the tracks and disappear around a bend in the woods, and then he looked into the forest beyond. Soft tall trees on a late summer day, pools of light and dappled gold soaking into the quiet forest floor. No underbrush or fallen limbs. He walked up a gentle rise and stood atop an outcropping of boulders blanketed in moss and leaves. He hiked his duffel bag over his shoulder and picked his way over the rocks, canvas duffel rasping against his expensive suit, twigs crackling beneath his polished shoes. Strange, he thought, this green duffel bag. Like something a boy returning from the army would carry. But he’d never been in the army, never owned a green duffel bag. His wife would know where he got the bag. Women, Henry thought, remember those sorts of things.

The forest ended at a lush green lawn, a hill with a white pillared mansion at the top and a gravel driveway that snaked down from the mansion to a high stone wall and a wrought iron gate. He heard music, somewhere, piped-in orchestral strings and piano. He made his way across the grass, mindful of his frayed bag and his expensive wrinkled suit and polished shoes now flecked with forest dirt and bits of leaves. He set the bag down and wiped his shoes with the inside arm of his suit jacket. Then he heard something that sounded like the creak of a door, a low and guttering staccato.

Across the lawn, past the winding gravel driveway, there prowled a tiger. Broad, muscled shoulders and whiskers like cactus spines, yellow fur striped with rust. Its footfalls whispered in the grass. It raised its black snout to the fading warmth and sat on its thick haunches and its rumbling purr sifted the dirt below.

Henry saw other animals. A trio of peacocks, feathers with a hundred eyes, shimmering emerald and cerulean and quills the color of chalk. They preened past a row of hedges trimmed square and sharp as cubes. From the hedges leapt a raccoon. It scampered up the driveway and gave the tiger wide berth and continued toward the white pillared mansion. Beyond the hedges Henry saw a bear on a platform surrounded by iron stakes. The bear pawed and growled. It paced and swept its head from side to side. It bellowed. It harrumphed and pushed against an iron stake, black claws scraping on the metal.

Henry walked to a cluster of lounge chairs where two women lay. A black bikini and a white bikini. They wore sunglasses and their toenails were painted red. They sipped from margarita glasses frosted with sugar, filled with liquor the color of jade.

You’re in my sun, the white bikini said to Henry. Her hair was black and long.

It’s not him it’s the trees, the black bikini said.

Is it really that late? the white bikini said.

It is, the black bikini said.

We’ve been out here all day.

We have. Are you tired?

A bit, the white bikini said. It’s the alcohol, you know. I would never get tired if it wasn’t for the alcohol.

The black bikini looked at Henry over the top of her sunglasses.

You can take off your jacket, if you’d like.

I’m okay, Henry said.

Suit yourself, the black bikini said, and the white bikini laughed.

There’s a tiger, Henry said.

Of course there is, the black bikini said. It’s no bother.

What if it’s hungry.

They keep it well fed, the white bikini said.

But tigers kill for sport.

Do they? the black bikini said. We’re keeping our distance.

Tigers run, Henry said.

Well so do we, the white bikini said, and she ran her fingers over her smooth thighs. See these legs? These are runner’s legs.

Henry looked up and saw a man in a black suit carrying a silver tray with cocktail glasses. The man stalked across the lawn, tray still aloft.

The man stopped, out of breath. He stared at the green duffel bag.

Excuse me, sir. Are you a guest?

Phillip leave him alone, the white bikini said. He’s not bothering us.

I’m lost, Henry said. I got off at the wrong station. None of this looks familiar.

Well this is a private place, Phillip said. And if you are not a guest, or the family of a guest, I’m afraid—

You know I could sure use a drink, Henry said.

Phillip frowned. These drinks are for guests, sir.

Oh Phillip just give him a damn drink, the black bikini said.

Ma’am if it were up to me—

It is up to you, the black bikini said.

Phillip frowned again. Then he plucked a glass from the silver tray.

Be quick about it. No sipping.

Sipping is for guests, Henry said.

Correct, sir.

Henry finished the drink and set the glass back on the silver tray, and Phillip led him down the hill. They walked past the tiger which sat with its eyes closed. Late sun melted over the green, gnats hovering in warm slants of light, bouncing among translucent tips of grass. At the high stone wall Phillip set down his silver tray and unhitched the iron gate.

There is a bus station in town, Phillip said.

Where do the buses go?

I don’t know, sir. I don’t take the bus.

Then Phillip picked up his silver tray and rearranged the cocktail glasses, his lips pursed, empty glass pushed to the edge. He snapped a curt bow and closed the gate with a sharp click .

A row of cars sat against the curb, engines running. Henry smelled exhaust and hints of autumn. The fatigue of leaves and flowers. He walked down the line of cars. Young men in vests and dress shirts jangled keys and shouted numbers and drove away. At the end of the line a woman with thick blonde hair sat in a black convertible, two children fussing in the back seat. She leaned over the seatback and hushed them.

Beautiful car, Henry said. Is this a—

Unlikely, she said, still glaring at her children. The children quieted and shrank into the soft leather.

Well whatever it is, it’s beautiful.

Thank you, she said, and she glanced at his wrinkled suit. His frayed green duffel bag.

Beautiful, Henry said once more, and he walked across the street. There, on the sidewalk, he watched a young man in a vest and white shirt take the blonde woman’s keys. She hurried away, long, pale fingers clutching her children’s hands, black heels clicking against the sidewalk.

Henry watched and wondered where his children were. He ran his hand across the rough canvas of his green duffel. Had he taken someone else’s bag by mistake and left a soft leather case on the train. Stuffed with baubles for his children and jewels for his wife. A set of keys for his house on the hill where he could stand in the living room and gaze out the windows at the valley. His wife would call him for dinner. He could hear the footsteps of his children. Their giggles. Their sing-song laughter. He couldn’t remember their names. Colin and Isabelle. Jack and Ashley. Named for his father and mother, perhaps. Or his wife’s grandparents. She would remember. He never could.

The young man jangled the blonde woman’s keys and looked at Henry.

You waiting for one of us?

No, Henry said.

You a guest?

I’m afraid not.

Well that’s alright. The sidewalk is free.

Henry looked down the street. A flashing red light. A pile of windswept leaves crowded against the curb. He heard the tiger’s roar.

The young man jangled the blonde woman’s keys again.

Say you need a ride somewhere? To town, maybe?

Henry thought for a moment. The bus station, he said.

Bus station it is, the young man said.

Henry crossed the street and stopped at the stone wall and listened. Faint screams. He ran down the sidewalk, green duffel bag slapping against his side, and looked through the iron gate, up the lawn where late sun melted across the green, and saw the tiger crouched atop a lounge chair. Yellow fur flecked with red, white whiskers dark. A woman lay on the grass. Jumble of naked limbs, long black hair like spilled ink. Sunglasses hooked over one ear. The tiger pawed at her gently. She shifted limp under its claws.

The crack of a rifle. The tiger leapt. It bounded over the lawn, low and long, eyes narrowed and curved claws digging into the grass. It skidded at the edge of the forest and lifted its black snout. The bear pushed on its cage. Phillip stalked across the gravel driveway, rifle held in both hands. He raised it to his shoulder and fired again and the tiger slipped between the trees, leaves whispering against its yellow fur striped with bands of rust. Henry and the young man watched Phillip kneel by the broken woman.

Sometimes they catch them, the young man said. The guests, I mean. Sometimes the tigers catch them.

I warned her, Henry said. She said she was a runner.

Well it’s done now, the young man said. You still want that ride?

What about that tiger.

They’ll find it. Come on.

Henry sat in the black convertible. Its soft leather seat was warm. Much more comfortable than the train, he thought.

I don’t want you to get in trouble, Henry said.

No trouble, the young man said. The bus station is too far to walk. That tiger might get you on the way. You never know.

Henry sat with his bag in his lap, fingernail scratching against the rough canvas. He stared out the window at the brown blur of the high stone wall. It would be dusk soon, he thought. The end of their bottle of wine, had he chosen that way. The pretty girl with the short brown hair. They would have had lunch, at a restaurant with thick white linens and quiet waiters. The menu printed on a single page, bits of multi-colored food stacked high in the middle of white plates. The food would have been good but not excellent, just disappointing enough to give Henry something to make fun of, and he would say something witty and maybe she would laugh, dizzy with wine, and her long pale fingers would brush against his and he would think back to the train stop in the middle of the forest. An outcropping of boulders for someone else to climb upon. Someone else’s wrinkled suit and polished shoes. Someone else to hear the scrape of black claws on iron stakes and see white whiskers stained dark. Someone else entirely, with a wife who remembered those sorts of things.

Originally published in The Bellingham Review April 2009

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