The-Bear-Came-Over-the-Mountain

Save paper and follow @newyorker on TwitterFictionOCTOBER21,2013ISSUETheBearCameOvertheMountainBYALICEMUNROFPHOTOGRAPHBYBRYANADAMS/TRUNKARCHIVE(ThisstoryoriginallyappearedintheDecember27,1999,issueofthemagazine.)ionalivedinherparents’house,inthetownwheresheandGrantwenttouniversity.Itwasabig,bay-windowedhousethatseemedtoGrantbothluxuriousanddisorderly,withrugscrookedonthefloorsandcupringsbittenintothetablevarnish.HermotherwasIcelandic—apowerfulwomanwithafrothofwhitehairandindignantfar-leftpolitics.Thefatherwasanimportantcardiologist,reveredaroundthehospitalbuthappilysubservientathome,wherehewouldlistentohiswife’sstrangetiradeswithanabsentmindedsmile.Fionahadherownlittlecarandapileofcashmeresweaters,butshewasn’tinasorority,andhermother’spoliticalactivitywasprobablythereason.Notthatshecared.Sororitieswereajoketoher,andsowaspolitics—thoughshelikedtoplay“TheFourInsurgentGenerals”onthephonograph,andsometimesalsothe“Internationale,”veryloud,iftherewasaguestshethoughtshecouldmakenervous.Acurly-hairedgloomy-lookingforeignerwascourtingher—shesaidhewasaVisigoth—andsoweretwoorthreequiterespectableanduneasyyounginterns.ShemadefunofthemallandofGrantaswell.Shewoulddrollyrepeatsomeofhissmall-townphrases.Hethoughtmaybeshewasjokingwhensheproposedtohim,onacoldbrightdayonthebeachatPortStanley.Sandwasstingingtheirfacesandthewavesdeliveredcrashingloadsofgravelattheirfeet.“Doyouthinkitwouldbefun—”Fionashouted.“Doyouthinkitwouldbefunifwegotmarried?”Hetookheruponit,heshoutedyes.Hewantednevertobeawayfromher.Shehadthesparkoflife.JOustbeforetheylefttheirhouseFionanoticedamarkonthekitchenfloor.Itcamefromthecheapblackhouseshoesshehadbeenwearingearlierintheday.“Ithoughtthey’dquitdoingthat,”shesaidinatoneofordinaryannoyanceandperplexity,rubbingatthegraysmearthatlookedasifithadbeenmadebyagreasycrayon.Sheremarkedthatshe’dneverhavetodothisagain,sinceshewasn’ttakingthoseshoeswithher.“IguessI’llbedressedupallthetime,”shesaid.“Orsemi-dressedup.It’llbesortoflikeinahotel.”Sherinsedouttheragshe’dbeenusingandhungitontherackinsidethedoorunderthesink.Thensheputonhergolden-brown,fur-collaredskijacket,overawhiteturtlenecksweaterandtailoredfawnslacks.Shewasatall,narrow-shoulderedwoman,seventyyearsoldbutstilluprightandtrim,withlonglegsandlongfeet,delicatewristsandankles,andtiny,almostcomical-lookingears.HerhairthatwasaslightasmilkweedfluffhadgonefrompaleblondtowhitesomehowwithoutGrant’snoticingexactlywhen,andshestillworeitdowntohershoulders,ashermotherhaddone.(ThatwasthethingthathadalarmedGrant’sownmother,asmall-townwidowwhoworkedasadoctor’sreceptionist.ThelongwhitehaironFiona’smother,evenmorethanthestateofthehouse,hadtoldherallsheneededtoknowaboutattitudesandpolitics.)ButotherwiseFiona,withherfinebonesandsmallsapphireeyes,wasnothinglikehermother.Shehadaslightlycrookedmouth,whichsheemphasizednowwithredlipstick—usuallythelastthingshedidbeforesheleftthehouse.Shelookedjustlikeherselfonthisday—directandvagueasinfactshewas,sweetandironic.verayearago,Granthadstartednoticingsomanylittleyellownotesstuckupalloverthehouse.Thatwasnotentirelynew.Fionahadalwayswrittenthingsdown—thetitleofabookshe’dheardmentionedontheradioorthejobsshewantedtomakesureshegotdonethatday.Evenhermorningschedulewaswrittendown.Hefounditmystifyingandtouchinginitsprecision:“7A.M.yoga.7:30–7:45teethfacehair.7:45–8:15walk.8:15Grantandbreakfast.”Thenewnotesweredifferent.Stuckontothekitchendrawers—Cutlery,Dish-towels,Knives.Couldn’tshejustopenthedrawersandseewhatwasinside?Worsethingswerecoming.ShewenttotownandphonedGrantfromaboothtoaskhimhowtodrivehome.Shewentforherusualwalkacrossthefieldintothewoodsandcamehomebythefenceline—averylongwayround.Shesaidthatshe’dcountedonfencesalwaystakingyousomewhere.Itwashardtofigureout.She’dsaidthataboutfencesasifitwereajoke,andshehadrememberedthephonenumberwithoutanytrouble.“Idon’tthinkit’sanythingtoworryabout,”shesaid.“IexpectI’mjustlosingmymind.”Heaskedifshehadbeentakingsleepingpills.“IfIamIdon’tremember,”shesaid.Thenshesaidshewassorrytosoundsoflippant.“I’msureIhaven’tbeentakinganything.MaybeIshouldbe.Maybevitamins.”Vitaminsdidn’thelp.Shewouldstandindoorwaystryingtofigureoutwhereshewasgoing.Sheforgottoturnontheburnerunderthevegetablesorputwaterinthecoffeemaker.SheaskedGrantwhenthey’dmovedtothishouse.“Wasitlastyearortheyearbefore?”“Itwastwelveyearsago,”hesaid.“That’sshocking.”“She’salwaysbeenabitlikethis,”Grantsaidtothedoctor.HetriedwithoutsuccesstoexplainhowFiona’ssurpriseandapologiesnowseemedsomehowlikeroutinecourtesy,notquiteconcealingaprivateamusement.Asifshe’dstumbledonsomeunexpectedadventure.Orbegunplayingagamethatshehopedhewouldcatchonto.“Yes,well,”thedoctorsaid.“Itmightbeselectiveatfirst.Wedon’tknow,dowe?Tillweseethepatternofthedeterioration,wereallycan’tsay.”Inawhileithardlymatteredwhatlabelwasputonit.Fiona,whonolongerwentshoppingalone,disappearedfromthesupermarketwhileGranthadhisbackturned.Apolicemanpickedherupasshewaswalkingdownthemiddleoftheroad,blocksaway.Heaskedhernameandsheansweredreadily.ThenheaskedherthenameofthePrimeMinister.“Ifyoudon’tknowthat,