Bernadette knew she had a problem, when Bruin came home with the smell of garbage on his breath. She just didn’t know how big the problem would become.
“Where have you been? It’s almost four in the morning.”
“Just walking around. I couldn’t sleep. Just getting some fresh air.”
“Why do you smell like garbage?”
He snarled at her. “Who are you, the garbage police?” That was not like him, to snarl at her. “I guess I can eat a little garbage if I feel like it.”
The tone of his voice suddenly reminded her of her father. That’s how he had started out, just ‘eating a little garbage’. But she knew better than to mention her father to Bruin. She tried guilt instead.
“You made a promise to me. Before we got married. No trash cans.”
“I don’t remember making that promise. But I remember you promising not to stick your fat nose in my private business.” He turned and stomped out of the kitchen, and out the back door, slamming it behind him.
The pungent odor of garbage hung in the air.
For the rest of the summer, Bruin mostly stayed away from the house. Bernadette’s friends would call her up and tell her where Bruin had been seen over the past few days, ostensibly to keep her informed, although she suspected some of them were taking callous delight in her situation.
“Someone told me they saw him yesterday, digging through the dumpster behind the McDonald’s. I had no idea he was into junk food,” joked one of her so-called friends. ”
“At least he wasn’t sleeping in their dumpster,” said Bernadette with a pained smile, trying to make light of the situation.
“Well, actually…” the friend added, “He’s been sleeping in their dumpster.”
On the rare occasions when Bruin did come home, it was only long enough to grab a shower and check his email; then he was back out the door. Bernadette would try to entice him with some real food — fresh blueberries, a chunk of honeycomb, some salmon sushi — but he consistently turned it down.
And he was getting fat. She guessed he had put on at least 50 pounds. Maybe more. But if she tried to bring it up, he just snarled at her and headed out the door.
“But, Bernadette, that’s what bears are supposed to do in the summer,” her friend reminded her. “We put on weight to get us through hibernation. Everybody knows that. You should be eating more, too. You’re not looking real healthy…”
It was true. She had actually lost weight, mostly from worrying. Not a good sign, with winter’s long nap approaching. She decided she needed counseling. Not that she could afford it… but could she afford not to do it?
The therapist — who had come highly recommended by a friend who’d somehow been successful in keeping her difficult marriage together — allowed her to talk for 30 minutes without giving a single word of advice. Bernadette broke down into tears, repeatedly, during the session.
“I’m at the end of my rope,” she told the therapist, as she finished her story. “That’s how I feel. Hanging off a cliff, by a rope that’s about to break.”
“Okay. Take a breath,” were the therapist’s first words of advice. “Breathe.”
Bernadette gave a long, loud exhale. She realized she’d hardly been breathing, for the entire session.
The therapist smiled. “Have you tried it, yourself?”
“Tried what? Tried breathing?”
“No. Have you tried garbage?”
“Have I tried eating garbage? Is that what you’re asking? No, I have never eaten garbage. I would never eat garbage.”
“Maybe you need to try it,” the therapist smiled.
Bernadette shook her head in disbelief. “You mean, I’m paying you $60 an hour, to tell me to eat garbage?” She stood up quickly, and picked up her purse. “How much do I owe you for this ridiculous piece of advice?”
“No charge. My ridiculous advice comes to you free of charge.”
Bernadette stormed out of the office and down the stairs. She was fuming as she headed down the sidewalk.
But at the corner, she caught, out of the corner of her eye, a glimpse of a fast food dumpster. Some movement drew her attention. Two bears had popped up their heads from inside the dumpster and were looking straight at her.
One of them had a couple of French fries dangling from his mouth.
“Hey, lady,” the other bear called to her. “There’s more in here than we can possibly eat. Come on over.”
Normally, hearing that kind of impolite invitation, she would have immediately turned her back and walked on. But something caused her to remain, looking back at the two dumpster divers.
The smell. The smell of garbage. Why had she never noticed… just how sweet that smell really was?
Underrated writer Louis Cannon grew up in the vast American West, although his ex-wife, given the slightest opportunity, will deny that he ever grew up at all.