Country of the Bad Wolfes

He gestured at their faces. “Vestiges of the saga, no doubt.” He sniffed the air with a frown. “I take it that stuff is of the crone’s making?”

“Yessir,” one said.

“We just thought you ought to hear it from us, sir,” the other said. “That we went on the rapids, I mean.”

“I see. Am I to assume, then, you’re here to receive your due punishment for disobedience?”

“Well, if you want to punish us, sir, you can,” one said.

“I’m grateful for your consent.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, sir. Sorry.”

And now apology! A dies mirabilis if ever there were one.

“So that’s not why you’re here.”

“No sir,” said the other. “Not actually.”

The pendulum on the mantle clock sounded the passing seconds. “Are we waiting to see if I can guess?”

“Well sir,” said one, “it’s about that house on the beach.”

“We went all the way down there, you see,” said the other. “To that little, ah, bay, or cove I guess you’d call it.”

There were footfalls in the hallway and they stopped at the office door. John Roger looked past the twins and raised his brow in question. The twins turned to see John Samuel gaping at them in manifest amazement. “I beg your pardon, Father,” he said, “I didn’t . . . I. . . .”

“Are those the shipment figures?”

John Samuel looked down at the papers in his hand. “Yes. Yes, they are.”

“We’ll review them in your office as soon I’m finished here.”

John Samuel seemed unsure what to do. The twins turned back to their father.

“I’ll be there presently,” John Roger said.

“Yes sir, very well,” John Samuel said. His footsteps receded down the hall.

“How did you know about the house?” John Roger asked.

They were ready for that question. “You mean before we saw it?” one said. “We didn’t know about it before we saw it.”

“We didn’t even know about that little harbor,” the other said. “We thought the river would take us straight into the gulf.

“When we got to the cove and saw the house, well, we figured you’d built it.”

A quarter of a century ago, John Roger thought. Or near to it. A decade before they were born. The jungle at its back, the sea in its face. He had not been to the cove since Elizabeth Anne’s death. The idea of being there without her was as lonely as a grave. “So it’s still standing then?”

“Oh, yes sir, it sure is,” one said. “You can tell nobody’s been there in a long while, but it’s in pretty good shape, all things considered.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” John Roger said. “It was built by the best crew on the coast. You couldn’t bring it down but with dynamite. You had to hike back, of course. I’ll wager there’s not much left of the wagon track.”

“No sir, not more than a snake road,” one said. “It’s how come our faces took such a beating.”

John Roger took a cigar from the humidor on the desk and cleanly bit off the smaller end and spat it into the cuspidor beside the desk and put the cigar in his mouth and patted his coat and then his vest in search of a match. One of the twins took a match from his shirt pocket and struck it on the rasp set into the lid of the cigar case and held the flame to his father’s cigar and John Roger fired it to his satisfaction and nodded his thanks. He asked to hear more about the place, what it looked like now.

They told him in detail, and when they got to the part about the bats’ panicked exodus from the bedroom— hunkering in their chairs with their arms covering their heads as they told it—his grin had a greater gusto than they had ever seen.

He was grinning as much at their theatrics and their capacity to laugh at themselves as at the tale itself. Grinning most of all in pleasure at the present moment, a moment he had thought past all possibility—his twin sons telling him things of their own volition, entertaining him. Their eyes showing the same light he’d seen in Elizabeth Anne’s eyes when she first looked on the place and every time she spoke of the cove in the days thereafter. The too brief, too swift days thereafter.

They told him of the dock that still stood solid and of the sloop whose only major impairment was a sheared mast. Ah yes, he thought, the Lizzie. He could imagine their excitement at the discovery of it. They no doubt understood it was named for their mother, but they had never mentioned her in his presence and so it was unlikely they would allude to her even indirectly by saying the name of the boat. Their refusal to ask him about her, about himself, about anything, was as baffling to him as ever, but whatever their reason, he had to admire their tenacity in holding to it. Margarita had been right those years ago when she said he respected their will more than he knew.

He wasn’t unaware of the sentimentality he was indulging, nor of his old guilt about them. Still, the moment they’d appeared at his door he’d known it was for no reason except they wanted something they could not have except through him. Wanted it dearly. And he now knew it was the cove. The cove with its sturdy house. And of course the boat—the boat for damned sure and maybe even more than the house. They would want to live there, naturally. In that wild isolation between the jungle and the sea. They had come to him in hope that he would grant their wish, even though they had little cause to believe he would. In addition to the gall they surely had to swallow to come to him, they were risking the ignominy of being refused. Such risk called for a different kind of courage from the physical sort they possessed without limit. He was impressed.

But he also knew they were not being fully forthright. As always with them, there were things they were not telling. Certain facts withheld. Secrets at work. He could sense it. He thought it likely they already had some use in mind for the place but he doubted they would tell him what it was. Then told himself, So what? He had come to fear that some day they would disappear into the jungle never to return and he would not know whether they had been killed or had kept on going to somewhere other without even a fare-thee-well. If he should give them what they wanted he would at least know where they were. Some of the time, anyway. Because once they repaired that boat their whereabouts would never be more specific than out on the gulf or someplace on its sizable coast, perhaps nearby, perhaps not. He knew that too.

They had been watching his eyes and had seen that they were going to get what they’d come for, and they restrained the urge to grin at each other.

He spared them even the need to ask. “Listen. That old house is just collecting mold. I don’t know if you’re interested, but if you want to fix it up so it’s habitable, that’s fine by me. If you’re willing to do the labor, I’ll underwrite the project.”

The twins swapped a glance that to him seemed expressionless.

“Fix it up?” one said. “Well now, there’s a thought.”

“Yeah, it is,” the other said. “Might be fun.”

Their dissimulation struck him as more daring than artful, but he appreciated their quickness to employ it, given the opportunity. “It’s a fine place for fishing,” he said, “as I recall.”

“Say now, we could maybe put a new mast on that little boat,” one said to the other. “Do some fishing out on the gulf, sail around a little. I’m game. You?”

“Why not?” the other said. Then said to their father, “We’ll be needing a bunch of materials, though. Supplies. Tools. There’s tools there, but mostly in bad shape, as you can imagine.”

“Get what you need from the compound store. Anything it doesn’t have, tell Reynaldo and he’ll order it from Veracruz.”

“Firearms,” one said.

John Roger stared at him.

“For meat.”

“And protection,” the other said. “As you know, sir, there’s poisonous snakes and some awful big cats around there, to judge from some of the yowlings we heard.”

“Yes there are,” John Roger said. “Get what you need from the armory.”

“Yessir, except, well, there’s only those old muzzleloaders and caplock pistols. If we were in a tight and had