In the fall her decision not to worry was completely justified because things fell into place beautifully for her. Old Mrs. Jenkins, the town librarian, died, and Miriam, ever a lover of books, applied for the position. There were few applicants for the job, and Miriam, although a comparative newcomer to town, made by far the best appearance. She was quiet, neat, and seemingly conscientious. Also, her implication that her salesman husband had abandoned her didn’t hurt her chances. If anything, it aroused the town board’s sympathies, and they gave her the job. The position didn’t pay much, but Miriam’s wants were few: merely enough money to maintain Bobby and herself and to feed the “Shaggy Bear” in the basement. The latter epithet had become particularly appropriate, for Harry had grown quite a beard and there were times when Miriam had difficulty recognizing the shaggy lumbering creature in the cage as her husband — so much difficulty that she soon stopped trying. He was merely the “Bear” who must be fed nightly and ignored as much as possible the rest of the time.
Ignoring him became more difficult during the winter months, for a change came over him. Until then he had been an abusive, vilifying creature, shaking the cage mesh violently, slamming his metal dishes around, screaming deprecations upon her head. But one night she went down with his food to find him holding onto the mesh and whimpering. He saw her, and a great tear rolled down his cheek and glistened on the rough beard. It was followed by others. The Bear was crying! “Miriam, Miriam,” it sobbed.
How strange that a bear should know her name. But then, she must remember, it really was Harry in that bear suit.
“Miriam, please... please set me free. I know I haven’t been good to you, but I promise I’ll go away and never bother you again. Just set me free...” Great sobs shook the creature’s frame.
Miriam felt tears well up in her own eyes. She was a sensitive person and could feel great sympathy for this caged creature. Carefully she set the dishes down for the Bear. “I’m sorry,” she said softly before turning back to the stairs.
That night she had difficulty sleeping. What sadness there was in the world! How sorry she felt for that poor Bear. If only there were something she could do to ease his unrest, but of course there wasn’t. Many was the time in the years to come that she had to remind herself that, sorry as she was for the Bear, there was nothing she could do about it, really.
Bobby, destined to grow up in such an unusual household, knew without asking that he must never bring boys home from school to play with him. His friends soon came to accept this eccentricity, just as the townspeople came to accept the fact that their sweet-faced librarian, although friendly enough at the library, lived a rather hermit-like existence with her son, and never asked anyone to visit.
Surely Bobby could not have long believed the father-turned-into-a-bear story. There must have come a day when curiosity overcame him and he peeked into one of the cellar windows. While still quite young, he may have been fooled by the sight of the shaggy creature, thinking it really was a bear, even as his mother had come to think of it as a bear. But as he grew older he must have looked again and known, and knowing, what could he do? Go to the police? Have his father, whom he only dimly remembered as a bellowing brute, freed? And where would his gentle mother be sent? To a jail — to a madhouse? No, no. He did not know — could not afford to know — what was in the cellar.
However slowly the years may have passed for the Bear, they passed quickly enough for Miriam and Bobby. Grammar school. High school. War! War was in the air. Hitler was marching through Czechoslovakia... Poland... Then Pearl Harbor. Bobby enlisted the next day in the navy. He kissed his mother’s tearstained face and hugged her comfortingly. It would all be over soon, now that he was in it, he said to make her smile, but she did not smile. Her whole life was leaving.
Miriam told the Bear about it that evening. Over the years she had developed the habit of sitting outside the cage in an old rocking chair in the evenings when Bobby was at a basketball game or at some other school activity. She enjoyed chatting with the Bear — now that he had learned not to talk about the possibility of his freedom and instead quietly listened to her tell of things in the outside world: Bobby’s athletic exploits, incidents at the library, and so on. It was quite cosy, really. She had placed an old floor lamp next to the rocker and sometimes she would read aloud from books she brought home from the library. The Bear seemed to appreciate that. This evening, when she told him of Bobby’s leaving, he seemed most sympathetic.
“Miriam,” he said, his voice rusty with disuse, “I-let me out now. Let me take care of you while Bobby’s away.”
She looked at him, stunned. After all this time and he still didn’t understand — still could bring that up! Sorrowfully she got up from the rocker, snapped off the lamp, and started up the stairs. At the top she shut the door quietly but firmly on his pleadings. After all these years he still didn’t understand that you don’t let wild beasts loose. No matter how sorry you feel for the lions and tigers in the zoos and no matter how tame they seem, you just don’t go around letting them loose on society.
Soon there were long newsy letters from Bobby, which she read to the Bear at night. (He had apparently learned his lesson after his last outburst and had become more docile and quiet than ever.) It didn’t seem long at all before Bobby was home on his first leave, healthy, bronzed, wonderful to look at. Miriam wished the Bear could see him.
Bobby used his leave to good advantage, too, by painting the house and making other repairs that were needed. The morning before he left he stood staring out the kitchen window. Miriam went over to him, and he looked down at her thoughtfully. “Mom, I noticed some kids cutting across the back lot yesterday. The fencing must be down back there.”
Miriam nodded. “I dare say. After all, it’s pretty old fencing.”
Bobby shifted his weight and frowned. “I don’t like it — kids cutting across the property. I’m going to town today and get some new posts and barbed wire.”
He worked all that day and until it was time for him to leave the next evening. He came in hot and sweaty, but looking satisfied. “I put ‘No Trespassing’ signs up and strung the fencing real tight. I’d like to see any kid get through all those strands of barbed wire.” He came over and put his arm around his mother. “It’ll be good for years, Mom. Long after I come back...”
But he didn’t come back. She was at the library when the telegram arrived. Everyone was terribly kind. There were offers of lifts home, but she refused them all, preferring to walk the two miles by herself — the last mile over the now overgrown private road that led to her house. She did not break down until she had sought out the Bear, and then she slumped down on the cold cement outside his cage and sobbed over and over, “Bobby’s gone, Bear. Bobby’s gone.” Through the heavy wire mesh the claw-like fingers with the unclipped nails pushed, as if trying to stroke her. Tears rolled down the shaggy beard, but whether the Bear was shedding tears over the loss of his son or over the futility of his own life is not known.
Life goes on. By spring Miriam had come to accept with a kind of dull resignation Bobby’s passing. She continued her job at the library, of course, for without Bobby’s allotment check she was again the sole support of herself and the Bear. Bobby’s insurance money she did not touch. Someday she might be unable to work and would need it.
The days in the old house at the end of the overgrown road established themselves in a seldom-varying pattern. The Bear had become quite trustworthy, and on weekends when the weather was nice Miriam even dared open from the outside the small window over his cage. It gave her much pleasure to see him rouse himself from his usual slump on the wooden platform and stand directly under the open window, inhaling great breaths of fresh air. Sometimes he would suddenly fling his arms up but then as suddenly drop them as they contacted the meshing on the top of his cage. Sometimes he rose on tiptoes as if straining to see out, but of course he could not. Often she brought him bouquets of flowers picked from the meadow, and he seemed to like that, burying his face in the blooms and sniffing hungrily. She was glad to do these things, for she had become quite fond of him, really, and more and more her prime concern in life became his comfort and contentment.