History of Wolves

“But the term alpha—evolved to describe captive animals—is still misleading. An alpha animal may be alpha only at certain times for a specific reason […] Wolves have nothing at all to do with humans, actually. If they can help it, they avoid them.”

Linda’s fixation on wolves is a device for plot and character development. Her interest in wolves and subsequent self-asserted authority on the matter into adulthood brings her closer to others (Mr. Grierson) while keeping them at a safe distance (Rom). She uses her knowledge—of wolves, of the woods, etc.—to avoid having to speak about humans and their emotions. Throughout the text, the author likens Linda to wolves, or dogs. Here, the quote harkens to Linda’s upbringing in a commune where she is essentially a captive creature, and it is her isolation which has hindered her ability to communicate effectively with others. She desperately wants to be “an alpha animal,” evinced in her efforts to connect with Lily, Mr. Grierson, and Patra. Her relationships with humans fail, though, because, as this passage implies, she is too much of a wolf, and wolves have very little to do with humans.

“I felt that I’d perceived some seed in Mr. Grierson’s nature, and that he’d lied to me, profoundly, by ignoring what I did to him in his car, pretending to be better than he was. A regular teacher. […] I thought about all that, and what I felt for him, finally, was an uncomfortable rush of pity. It seemed unfair to me that people couldn’t be something else just by working at it hard, by saying it over and over.”

Here, the novel sets up Linda’s obsession with Mr. Grierson, alluding the cause of it as being that she believes he is like herself. Whatever she’d seen in Mr. Grierson, she has suspected that he’d been an outsider, or something that likened him to her. However, when she realizes that he is a pedophile—one, that rejected her advances—she is alarmingly sympathetic because she realizes how hard he is fighting against these urges. Linda, though, is actually sympathetic because she recognizes similar failings in herself; she, too, wishes she could be “something else” simply by trying to be. This perceived likeness blinds Linda from Mr. Grierson’s actual crimes and pushes her to maintain sympathy for him throughout her life. 

“Almost nothing on the lake moved or breathed. It was the worst part of winter, a waste of white, in every direction, no place for little kids or city people. Beneath a foot of ice, beneath my boots, the walleye drifted. They did not try to swim or do anything that required effort. They hovered, waiting winter out with driftwood, barely beating their hearts.”

Winter again has a daunting omnipresence. This quote insinuates that Loose River’s winter is too hostile for outsiders like Paul and Patra. It also uses the frozen lake to represent the dichotomy between exteriority and interiority; while above the ice the landscape is only serene whiteness, beneath the surface, is life. The walleye, like Linda, drift meaninglessly, waiting for the ice to thaw. Moreover, this dichotomy alludes to the importance of perceptions and misconceptions as the story unfolds; here, the passage foreshadows that sight cannot always detect what is truly beneath the surface.

“No they’re not going to kidnap me, they’re a mom and her son, not a cult, not a hippie commune or anything weird. Oh, they’re pretty innocent actually. They need guidance and help. They need someone to teach them about the woods.”

Linda’s performance of a conversation with her mother exposes her desire for her mother to care for her. She mimics what she imagines a phone call should like between a mother and daughter but takes it further with her specifics. Linda reveals her own insecurity about her home by negating the possibility that others share her origins, rejecting her connection to “anything weird.” The quote also touches about the novel’s examination of innocence; Linda sees them as innocent in the naïve sense, that they are literally lost in the woods. Since she enjoys appearing as an authority on any matter—but particularly the woods—Linda’s fascination with Patra and Paul partially begins with the fantasy of being the one to show them how to navigate her world. Moreover, the quote draws a line between them—Patra and Paul, as helpless, and Linda, as wise.

“I don’t know why it pleased me so much to let night sneak up like that. I don’t know what it had to do with me at all—but it was true, I almost always did know it was dark, and so it felt like luring her into the same trap over and over. Got you, I thought.”

As Linda describes that she enjoys upsetting her mother by letting her work in the dark, the novel reveals the major conflicting traits in Linda and her mother that prevent their connection. Linda’s mother does love her but has endeavored to misunderstand and blame Linda for things out of her control. Linda, on the other hand, harbors little sentiment for her mother and even relishes in these small punishments. Linda simultaneously admits that it’s not her responsibility to inform her mother of nighttime and that she does actively avoid warning her demonstrates the complicated interiority of Linda; she can be both rational and petty, both mature and childish.  

“I wanted him to take the duckling and do something heartless and boyish, so I’d have to remind him to be kind. I don’t know. I wanted to be the one to stop him when he discovered the fragile contraption of bones beneath that halo of down. I wanted to intervene on behalf of animals. It irritated me that he was so careful and afraid […] I wanted to show Paul something, maybe, make him scared of the right things.”

Paul’s tentativeness toward wildlife frustrates Linda because she wants to be the one to teach him to respect nature—she’s angry because he already exhibits fearful reverence. Most of all, his fear makes him seem weak in her eyes. As he cowers from ducklings and deer, Paul becomes weaker than prey to Linda, and she worries that he won’t fear the things he should—like people, like herself. Linda also reveals herself to be harboring gendered expectations that she, too, fails to subscribe to; in hoping that Paul’s rough and reckless touch could only be tempered by her nurturing and gentle advice, Linda demonstrates her expectations of gender norms being upheld. Simultaneously, though, Paul’s affinity for tenderness and Linda’s proclivity for violence undermine gender norms.

“By their nature, it came to me, children were freaks. They believed impossible things to suit themselves, thought their fantasies were the center of the world. They were the best kinds of quacks, if that’s what you wanted—pretenders who didn’t know they were pretending at all […] By their nature, kids were also parrots.”

This quote works to demonstrate Linda’s unimaginative practicality and foreshadow the Gardners’s secret. Linda, herself a child in many ways, sees children as ridiculous. She comes to this conclusion, though, through comradery; as the young mother at the playground calls them “freaks,” Linda is unbothered, recognizing herself as just that. The final line, however, darkens Linda’s observation of Paul by insinuating that his behavior is not pretend, but that he is mimicking someone in his life. At this point in the novel, we know very little about Paul’s mysterious father, so the quote successfully alludes to some sinister precedent established by Leo. 

“What about governess? Oooh, let’s call you governess.’ She was laughing now. ‘That’s so much better. A babysitter would never be hired for Flora and Miles. […] a babysitter couldn’t fall in love with Mr. Rochester, right? And be the heroine. Governess, you are.”

Fridlund peeks out from behind the text to point the reader exactly to what mold this novel follows. By alluding to pervasive gothic romances, Fridlund positions this text to explore the nature of evil in similar ways to The Turn of the Screw and Jane Eyre; while the former follows a governess who cares for two children on an estate she begins to believe is haunted, the latter is a powerful bildungsroman which explores sexuality and class through the protagonist’s moral development. Both texts rely on the reader’s confusion and sense of suspense to find their conclusions. Patra’s excitement over calling Linda a governess comes from the term’s romantic connotation, but, the quote holds greater significance for the narrative; it foreshadows, that Linda’s emotional entanglements with this family will surpass that of a typical babysitter, and that what the Gardners are hiding—whether it be a ghost or a wife in the attic—will bring about a catastrophic end to their relationship.

“There were eleven years between us all. We were four, fifteen, twenty-six. I’m not particularly superstitious […] but at the time that number became significant to me. I started to see it everywhere.”

The number 11 is very significant to this text; Linda tells her story 11 years apart, at 15, 26, and 37—the exact ages that Linda, Patra, and Leo were when Paul died. However, its significance comes primarily from Linda, who chooses to give it more weight than it perhaps should hold. Therefore, this quote demonstrates the greater meaning Linda repeatedly looks for in her relationship to the Gardners, especially Patra. By making random connections appear destined, Linda manufactures the semblance of a lasting meaningful relationship with the family, one which she has never had. 

“Her tenderness was breathtaking. I could feel it—even from outside the room, even in my treetop perch—making everything disappear. There goes the world. There goes the house. Poof.”

This quote elucidates the extent of Linda’s desire for affection, as well as hinting at her desire for Patra. As she watches Patra tuck Paul in, she is taken aback by the mother’s love because she has never experienced it in that way; she’s never been read to, held as she fell asleep, or kissed as tenderly as Patra kisses Paul. In seeing it, the absence of this love becomes painfully known to her. She feels drawn in, like a voyeur, and the sight makes everything else disappear because this, the idea of this type of love, is all that matters to her now. 

“Happy. I was happy. I barely recognized the feeling. So who could blame me for wishing that the husband’s rescheduled plane would drift into a low-lying thunderhead? […] I felt the tent I’d built gather us in, Paul and Patra. Patra and me.”

Linda’s inability to initially recognize happiness insinuates that she hasn’t felt it recently—or even, ever. This tragic revelation explains the strange behavior of Linda and clarifies exactly why she clings so desperately to Patra and Paul. The quote also reveals Linda’s desire to replace Leo, either in his place as Patra’s partner or just as the third member of this family. Although Linda’s increasing preoccupation with Patra and the emphasis of “Patra and me” certainly imply the former. Here, the bildungsroman’s focus upon a sexual or romantic awakening centers around Linda’s relationship to Patra, further likening Linda to Jane Eyre and Patra to Rochester.  

“When he pulled out a disposable camera and aimed it at her, he acknowledged as much. He said he wanted Lily to know how vulnerable he was, how his fate was in her hands. He said if he were lucky enough to get back to the car, it would be because of Lily’s kindness and mercy. He wanted her to know how grateful he was—in advance. Before he unzipped his pants, before he said just a kiss, and pushed her down, he wanted her to know she had a choice.”

Though this tale is false, the events detailed here are shocking. However, the quote does hold many thematic and narrative functions for the remainder of the text. Firstly, hearing this story intensifies Linda’s fascination with Lily and Mr. Grierson and is perhaps the source of her sexual awakening. She thinks of it often, not entirely understanding the issue of consent and the unfair power dynamic between a young girl and her teacher. It is Linda’s first awareness of a sexual encounter, so it shapes her perceptions and becomes a fantasy her—in that she wants to be desired like Lily is. The quote also functions to explore the question of guilt. Though Mr. Grierson did not assault Lily, he admits to having thought about it. The inclusion of the disposable camera here alludes to his very real crime: the illicit photos he had of children in his apartment, thus reminding the reader that he is indeed a sexual predator.

“To my right, to my left, the black-arrow faces of loons appeared over and over. Or maybe it was the same loon, diving under my boat, trailing me. Loons have been known to do that […] To pass the time, to distract myself, I counted eleven (plus one) RVs and eleven (plus one boats […] You can take eleven breaths and then hold it. You can see eleven stars appear over the horizon if you don’t look for more.”

As the loons surround Linda, the theme of observation is prominent, particularly since she is leaving the home of Lily, who she has been silently observing for months. The silent but omnipresence of the birds bring a sense that Linda is being watched and that her actions have lasting significance. The loons also, in Native American art, symbolize dreams and tranquility. Since Linda is leaving a reservation, the loons must represent her desires and wishes—most of all her wish to be seen, to be loved, to have a companion. She sees the number 11 in everything because that is what she wants to see, much like she sees what she wants to see concerning Paul’s family (who are all 11 years apart).

“You know how summer goes. You yearn for it and yearn for it, but there’s always something wrong. Everywhere you look, there are insects thickening the air, and birds rifling trees, and enormous, heavy leaves dragging down branches. You want to trammel it, wreck it, smash things down. The afternoons are so fat and long. You want to see if anything you do matters.”

This quote acts as an extended metaphor for adulthood; Linda longs for adulthood, often working to perform what she perceives as adult behavior. However, when she becomes an adult, her unaddressed childhood trauma has stunted her emotional growth, so in many ways, she is completely unchanged. Adulthood, like summer, doesn’t offer the escape she dreamed it would. This passage also works as a metaphor for the book itself, which works slowly to unravel the reveal the reader yearn for.

“I turned and, tightening one elbow around Drake, lowered my other hand to the dogs. They lay down on the gravel, reluctant but happy now, because they thought this meant the cat was theirs. ‘Stay,’ I said, feeling like some mini-god, some deity of dogs. I wanted Patra to see this, the control I had.”

Linda enjoys power over animals that she wishes she had over humans. She understands dogs and knows how to control them, but when it comes to people, she is completely lost. She understands herself as an ambassador of animals, often using her knowledge of them to circumvent usual conversational topics when forming relationships with others. Most of all, this quote further alludes to her desire for Patra—she wants Patra to see her as powerful, to fear and admire her. However, Linda’s power is all an illusion. When she returns for the dogs, they have left without her, proving she is capable of misunderstanding all creatures. 

“Maybe there is a way to climb above everything, some special ladder or insight, some optical vantage point that allows a clear, unobstructed view of things. Maybe this way of seeing comes naturally to some people, and good for them if it does. But I remember it all, even now, as if two mutually exclusive things happened. […] Though they end the same way, these are not the same story. Maybe if I’d been someone else I’d see it differently. But isn’t that the crux of the problem? Wouldn’t we all act differently if we were someone else?”

This is an unusually reflective moment for Linda, one in which she reveals the wisdom and regret she garnered from this tragic experience. It also touches upon a central issue explored in the text: how bias or inexperience can obstruct a person’s actions and thoughts, and how reality is messy and difficult to disentangle. For a novel that examines human nature and human behavior, this quote is especially significant. The quote develops the theme of thoughts versus action and guilt and complicity. 

“Winters were especially confining. We were all tied—as if by rope—to that sooty black furnace. Which has a certain romance, I know, if you tell the story right, a certain Victorian ghost-story earnestness people like, and I’ve told the story that way to the delight of shark-tooth-wearing dates in coffee shops. So many people, even now, admire privation. They think it sharpens you, the way beauty does, into something that might hurt them. They calculated their own strengths against it, unconsciously, preparing to pity you or fight.”

In this passage, Fridlund reaches out once again from beyond the page to allude to another archetype the text follows: the Dickensian tale. Linda, whose isolation likens her to an orphan, grows up with very little. This, she notes, is fascinating to others who can romanticize her pain from a safe distance. In the same way that many enjoy a Victorian display of poverty, Fridlund comments upon people’s inclination to prefer tales of misery and woe. The critique here is that what others might find interesting, or even beautiful, is trauma. The quote draws attention to society’s—and especially the literary tradition’s—pattern of using this trauma to advance a character’s moral development or make them more appealing to those privileged enough not to share their experiences. 

“‘The archetypal Fool is Pet-ah Pan.’ He used a British accent to say it. […] ‘It’s true. Girl Scout youth in gold-tipped shoes, with a pet and a lunch packed.’ I zipped up my jacket and cradled my trash. I felt attacked, and at the same time sorry for him. ‘You said you’d do my past, not the fucking future.’ ‘Same thing, in this case.’”

The novel often uses brief flash-forwards interspersed between the present narrative to offer dream-like metaphorical insights. With this quote, Linda, now in her twenties, is unable to form long-term relationships because of the trauma she suffered in her teens. Her boyfriend, Rom, notices this and comments upon it through a tarot reading. He notices that she uses her knowledge of wolves to ward off emotional connections, and that her calling The Fool “easy prey” is really a revelation about her childhood (158). In likening her to Peter Pan, Rom calls attention to Linda’s inability to grow up and that she is emotionally crippled. The final lines significantly emphasize the ways trauma in one’s past, when undealt with, can affect their future. 

“Later, it would be impossible for me to tell anyone of the happiness of those hours, the exquisite sweetness of sitting there with her asleep beside me on the couch, and it was very hard for me to admit even to myself how much of that feeling had to do with Paul and Leo being safely out of the room […] Later, when I was asked about her actions, I wouldn’t have a very good answer for why she hadn’t gone in to check on Paul that night. The suggestion at the trial was that she’d remained with me in outright denial of the facts, that she’d aligned herself with a fifteen-year old because she wanted to feel less responsible herself. A more generous interpretation was that she identified with me because we were both susceptible in a sense, young girls under the influence of a dogmatic man. Leo, it was said, kept Paul away from her on purpose. There’s some truth to both theories […].”

This passage emphasizes the power Patra has over Linda; that Linda, enjoying time alone with Patra, wouldn’t have worried about Paul as much as she might have before, and therefore was at that time incapable of understanding the severity of Paul’s situation. It also demonstrates the issue with truth in that the truths that the defense and prosecution posit are partially correct; but, what is most accurate is Linda’s experience—that they were both correct, and both wrong, that Patra was manipulated but also knew exactly what she was doing. Therefore, this passage examines the complexity of narrative and that there can be multiple accounts of the same event and all hold a bit of truth. The author uses Paul’s death to explore complicity and guilt. In the trial, theories excuse or blame Patra, but they all hold various levels of complicity in Paul’s death. 

“She turned and shot a wild look down the hall. But instead of standing, as I thought she would, she closed her eyes. She appeared to be fighting something, summoning stillness through strength of will. Then, she let out a deep breath through her white teeth, and I could smell it a foot away—the rot and decay, the remains of an undigested meal.”

Here, Patra’s understanding of what is happening to Paul is revealed; she suspects that he is in danger, but fights the urge to step in. This is what takes her from complicity to outright guilt, along with Leo. Her foul breath represents her guilt and alludes to the decay within her. Though to Linda she seems innocent, her breath symbolizes her interior deterioration. 

“‘How could he get better with you thinking like that?’ She spat. ‘How could he? I’ve thought about this. I’ve gone over it and over it. Leo told me, control your thoughts, but it was your mind—’ She said it like she could barely get the words out. ‘Your mind. That was too small. To see beyond itself.’ She drew in a ragged breath. ‘Yours. You saw him. As sick.’”

This climactic confrontation between Patra and Linda acts as the novel’s emotional release, in which Linda doesn’t receive absolution, and Patra denies any part in the blame. It also determines the rest of Linda’s actions in the trial. Rather than protecting Patra and blaming Paul’s death on Leo, as she planned, Linda turns against Patra, condemning her in court. This marks the end of Linda and Patra’s relationship, which Linda had hoped she could still salvage until this point. Patra’s grief here explores the thematic presence of Christian Science in the novel, particularly in regard to the power of thought. Patra turns to the religion further after the death of her son, using its dogma to find fault in anyone else’s actions but her own.

“And what’s the difference between what you think and what you end up doing? That’s what I should have asked Mr. Grierson in my letter—Mr. Grierson, who, even after Lily took back her accusation, was sentenced to seven years based on the pictures and his courtroom confession.”

This quote poses a central question in the novel, as it examines guilt. Linda, who only thought of getting help earlier, but did not, hopes that thinking might be enough to absolve her of her guilt. For Mr. Grierson, she wonders if not acting on his thoughts are enough for him as well. This is the great paradox of the novel; that thoughts might be enough for one person, and too much for another. The inability to answer this question is what sends Linda into a lifetime of self-punishment. She understands herself as guilty simply because Mr. Grierson is guilty. However, she is unable to account for the very different circumstances. She, instead, sees the two of them as similar because they both try hard to be someone they are not and often fail. 

“Harold’s fine. Harold’s fine always. It’s not what you do but what you think that matters. Mary Eddy Baker tells us heaven and hell are ways of thinking. […] There’s only changing how you see things.”

This quote, spoken by a Christian Scientist who lost her husband, is reversed to emphasize that thoughts matter more than actions. If this were truly the case, then Linda would be innocent, and Mr. Grierson would be guilty. The novel, then, argues that it is often more complicated than one or the other; that sometimes thoughts matter more, but other times actions are more meaningful. The issue, then, is the subjectivity of guilt and innocence; the two often rely on circumstance and context. Through the theme of religion and the critique of Christian Science, the novel engages with the problem of subjectivity and the changing of perceptions. Thoughts are indeed very powerful, but they are not everything.