just like a woman

On Monday, two joggers thought they saw the bear lumbering towards them through the dawn, which sent them into hysterics. Though the “bear” turned out to be a neighborhood dog, jogging was suddenly deemed “no longer safe.” By Tuesday, rumors that the bear had ruthlessly chased two joggers had spread all over town. The townsfolk rushed to their local Kmart, and by Wednesday, every can of bear mace was gone.

Thursday arrived with a surprise. In the night, a fearful wife had assailed her husband with mace as he tried to soundlessly enter their home. She said she had mistaken him for the bear, but her reasons for his late return were unclear, so naturally, the entire town whispered the word “affair.” This somehow spurred a rumor that the bear could open doors, which left the townsfolk confused and terrified.

That evening, the bear was spotted by a couple who were barbequing steak. They were on their deck, enjoying their wine, when the bear appeared on their lawn. They dropped their glasses and rushed inside, alerting the police immediately. Cowering behind their windows, they watched as the bear consumed their meal. When the cops arrived, the couple told them they’d barely escaped a brutal attack. 

“The bear was unprovoked,” they said. “We were only grilling steak.”

The next day, the townsfolk raced back to Kmart, this time in search of weapons. Men who’d never hunted a day in their life drove home with shotguns in their laps. Children were given high-pitched whistles. Everyone was encouraged to stay indoors. The Bear Valley police issued an official curfew, ignoring the fact the bear had only been seen in daylight. The townsfolk ordered bear traps and purchased bear repellant in bulk. They brought their pets in at night and walked their children to the bus stop. No one considered such precautions extreme, nor did they expect what would come from them.

That Sunday, the youth group at the church was broken up following the shrill sound of a whistle. Though questioned, the frightened children wouldn’t explain except to say they had not seen the bear. The priest in charge refused to comment and no one knew what to do next.

By Monday, school was cancelled. Though the bear had been unseen all weekend, the fear surrounding him had grown. Though the townsfolk had learned much about each other, they focused only on the bear, certain that he was the root of all their troubles. They longed for the times before the bear’s arrival, before they were scared, back when they could still trust one another. Now, they padlocked their trashcans, suspected their priest, and feared their own backyards. The townsfolk considered each change a product of the bear’s coming and they resolved to see the end of him, once and for all.

That evening, the bear returned. Still hungry, he ventured deeper into the neighborhood. With the townsfolk driving home from work, the bear tore into a henhouse, aspiring for a meal of chicken. When the birds reacted with aggression, the bear lost interest, following his nose to a nearby patch of recently unearthed dirt. Digging down, the bear found more than he’d bargained for.

A shot rang out, loud and clear in the approaching night. The shut-in held a rifle in her surprisingly steady hands, gun smoke curling out the end of the barrel. The bear looked confused as he fell to the ground, the look in his eyes anything but peaceful. The townsfolk surrounded them in an instant. Their anticipated happiness tasted bitter as they observed the fallen bear, as massive now as he had been in their dreams, only far less frightening. The shut-in lowered her rifle slowly. The sheriff approached the bear. A gasp arose from the crowd just as the sheriff tripped, right where the bear had bear had been digging. Protruding from the dirt, grotesque and pale, was a human hand. Utterly silent, the townsfolk stared between the fallen bear and each other, suddenly uncertain which was worse.

by Chelsea Bets Christenson

The bear showed up on the fifth of May, a Saturday, and the first warm day of the year. The townsfolk were all gathered on the valley floor, at the lake, celebrating the approach of summer. Their children splashed in the green water, while they drank cheap beer and congratulated each other as only secretly competitive neighbors can. Their community was called Bear Valley and they were proud of it; they felt clever for avoiding city life. They slept with their doors unlocked, picked up hitchhikers, and sent their children to the bus stop alone. There were few sightings of the creatures for which the valley had been named, perpetuating the townsfolk’s belief that this carefree little place belonged to them. And yet, somewhere on Bear Mountain, an older presence stirred. Waking after three long months of hibernation, the bear was hungry.

While the townsfolk drank their beer, the bear ambled from his cave toward the nearest neighborhood. He smelled food and found a surplus of it, discarded carelessly in the townsfolk’s trash. The townsfolk argued local politics, while the bear feasted on their leftover dinners. Digging through used napkins and plastic wrapping, the bear uncovered secrets the townsfolk thought they had thrown away.

When the townsfolk arrived home, they found their lives strewn across their lawns. The town priest’s trash had been littered with used lotto tickets that blew through the air like fallen leaves. The sheriff’s garbage was peppered with what suspiciously resembled marijuana roaches. The principle of the elementary school had recently discarded a large selection of Playboys, which now lay torn and scattered across his yard, glossy and incriminating in the afternoon sunlight. The baker had been cooking more than just baked goods. The school nurse had used more than her share of complementary condoms.

The townsfolk were shocked. Only the neighborhood shut-in had an explanation of what had happened, and she shared her story with relish, basking in the sudden attention. The bear was big, she said, and would grow larger with food. When he stood to open the trashcans, he was taller than most men, and he crushed several of the cans under his weight. He noticed her once, she said, and he stared at her across her yard, curious and simply unafraid. Afterward she ran back into her house, bolted the door, and began researching Black Bears on the internet.

“They can weigh up to 900 pounds,” she informed them. “They can run up to 30 MPH.”

The townsfolk panicked. Not only were their secret lives exposed now for the first time, but they had been revealed by a creature they knew nothing about. Without knowledge, they resorted quickly to fear, which suited them well. They scurried around their lawns, trying in vain to clean up their mistakes, denying responsibility at the same time. At sunset, they locked their doors, and peered anxiously out their windows, suspicious of the bear or of each other, they didn’t know.

To Be Continued…