Over the past few months, I've been taking a course called "Writing and the Editorial Process" as an independent study through the LEAP program. One thing I've been consistently frustrated with in the courses I've taken, is how little individual attention I have received; there is no better way to improve one's writing than to sit down and go through it one punctuation mark at a time. Lucky for me, I'm taking a course in which I get to do just that. It has been an eye-opening experience so far.
In an effort to get me out of my comfort zone as a writer (meaning first person narrative essays), I asked my teacher if I could write a piece of fiction for a recent assignment. Each week I have a new umbrella topic to help frame my work, and last week's was "Animals." Such an open ended prompt seemed daunting at first, but as it left ample room for creativity, I tried to do my best to step out of my comfort zone and have fun with it. The following short story is the result of my efforts--a first draft which I look forward to developing in the future. Check it out (it continues after the link at the bottom of the post), as I guarantee it won't be what you expected.
Betsy Goes to the Store
Betsy Gallagher kept knocking her foot against the bowl on the floor. There was no water left in it. The remnants had sloshed over the edge each time she kicked it throughout the past two days.
“Should we write an obituary?” she asked while facing the counter, both palms planted into the black marble as she looked down at the two bowls below her.
The man sitting five feet away, her husband Arthur, may as well have been in one of the countries gracing the front page of the paper in his hands; they had barely spoken in days. Aside from the occasional request for the remote, or deciding on a dinner reservation, he had made the deliberate choice not to engage.
He massaged his temples, leaving a faint trail of newspaper ink. “An obituary for what? Where would we publish it?”
“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to show a little compassion for my situation right now,” she said, turning around.
She couldn’t look him in the eyes. Instead she chose to pick at her fingernails, devoid of polish except for the occasional scrap of “Crimson Sunset,” the last color chosen at her monthly manicure almost thirty days ago. Caked in the crevices of her hands and around the divots of her wedding ring, were flecks of dirt leftover from the abandoned grave laying open in the backyard. They had tried to dig it yesterday.
A pause lingered between them as he allowed each of her words to mingle with those on the page in front of him. “I find your use of ‘my’ offensive. Since when was this not our situation, Betsy?”
His eyes scanned the latest news. High school football scores. A state economic crises. Weather forecasts. Although, it didn’t take a meteorologist to deduct it would be more of the same. He turned his head and peered over wire rim glasses to the window beyond the couch. For a moment, his gaze caught the dog’s rut in the back cushion. The stripes of the fabric creased together like they were being sucked through a vacuum, but he forced himself to look beyond it to the water dripping against the pane.
“I just thought it would be a nice way for us to let go, that’s all,” she said as she brushed her graying hair behind her ears. Releasing a small sigh, she bent down to pick up the two teal bowls, which she had sculpted in a pottery class at the Community Center several summers ago. The bases rattled against her rings as she trembled on the way over to the sink.
Two feet away from the pale blue ceramic comfort Arthur had installed over six months ago, energy surged through her. The bowls tumbled out of her hands in slow motion, and she knew how it would end before the cracking of her work against her husband’s. Hers shattered. His remained sturdy.
For the first time since he’d entered the kitchen, Arthur lifted his eyes to look at his wife. “What the hell was that for? Have you lost your mind?”
“I don’t.” Her voice trailed off into a series of mumbles, merging with the television in the other room. Her hands, still trembling, lifted from her sides and smoothed over the knit sweater hugging her body.
“I’m going,” she said, not sure what generic location she would end up at.
(FOR THE REMAINDER OF THE STORY...FOLLOW THE LINK!!)
When Betsy got in her car—hair deflated by the downpour, sweater a shade darker and sagging beneath the weight of the water—she knew exactly what CD she needed to hear.
She thumbed through the nylon case housing albums and books on disc, scratched after years of use. Alphabetized between her son’s copy of The Cardigans, and her Jimmy Carter biography, there was a space as empty as the day she’d bought the container; a space reserved for The Carpenters Greatest Hits. Panic overtook her as she set the case on the passenger side, and leaned across the median.
Underneath the seat was like a cave housing debris of the past four years. There was a French fry and a half-sucked Jolly Rancher covered in so much hair it looked like a dead caterpillar.
The air in the car stood still for a moment, as her breath caught in her chest. Sitting beside the CD she was searching for was Ruby’s leash. Not the good, retractable leash she used to parade her Cocker Spaniel around the neighborhood, but the cracked brown leather leash meant for emergencies.
Pinching the CD along the edge, doing her best to avoid fingerprints, she flung her body out from the confines of the crooked position, slamming her shoulder against the glove compartment.
“Fuck.”
All delicacy dissipated as Betsy loaded the CD into the built-in player, turned the keys in the ignition, and felt the tears racing from her chest up to her eyes.
One glance in the rearview mirror, and she pressed on the gas, only to find the car propelling toward the garage door. Her foot slammed on the break as the headlights illuminated her course of destruction, and with one swift motion, she kicked off her two-inch leather heel, switched the car into reverse, and rolled out of the driveway. The street greeted her just as Arthur’s silhouette emerged in the window. But Betsy didn’t make eye contact. She looked straight ahead, and started to cry.
___________________________________________________________________
The parking lot of Healthy Sense Groceries was scattered with mini-vans and compact SUVs when she pulled up on the side of the store. Twenty-four years as a housewife had taught her there was no better time to shop than during a rainstorm. Crowds were sparse. Sometimes she even had an entire aisle to herself, and could peruse the different types of tomato sauce as slowly as she wished. Then there was the sound—rain hitting the aluminum roof towering above her head, reminding her how much safer it was among the produce, with the perfectly timed sprinkler systems, than out among the volatile uncertainty of nature.
Even though she usually could kill an hour inside regardless of necessity, today she had no urge to go through the automatic doors; the parking lot would do just fine. In fact, the idea of the pristine conditions of the store, with the fluorescent lights and compulsively organized shelves, angered her at this moment. No matter how much her mind said she needed to restock the freezer after emptying it the other day, the car was where she was going to stay.
Her thoughts began to drift, and she started to cry again. Tears inched down her cheeks before falling off the edge of her face, each drop of salty water hitting her jeans in time to the voice of Karen Carpenter:
After long enough of being alone,
Everyone must face their share of loneliness.
In my own time nobody knew
The pain I was goin' through,
And waitin' was all my heart could do.
Just as she lowered her forehead down onto the stitched leather of the steering wheel, eyeing it as if it were as comfortable as a pillow, a shopping cart crashed into the back bumper. Betsy sat upright and wiped the mix of tears and mascara from under her eyes.
A small child, no more than ten years old, chased after the renegade cart and waved apologetically in the rearview mirror as Betsy adjusted its view. As quickly as he had appeared, he was gone. Now all that was left was her own reflection. Each wrinkle cradling the outline of her eyes stared back at her; Betsy pushed the mirror sideways and took a breath.
And then she saw it, beyond the reflection of a parking lot she had seen hundreds of times in her life, a sign illuminated in the crooked rearview mirror—a sign that read “Hunting Henry’s Taxidermy.”
___________________________________________________________________
The door of the shop swung open and Betsy had no choice but to cover her nose. It was as if all the chemicals in a hair salon had been doused with a gallon of her husband’s “Woods” cologne, and used as marinade on a piece of raw meat. Fortunately there was no one behind the counter to see her act of rudeness, and she lowered her hand away from her face in an attempt to adjust to the smell.
Contrary to the size of the building from the outside, the room was no bigger than her kitchen. But there was a large enough variety of wildlife to fill an entire state. Every inch of the wall behind the glass cabinet, housing a collection of mounted fish, was covered in heads, one larger than the next. Some animals—mountain lions, bears, and birds—leapt out from the wooden plaques, attempting to pounce on Betsy.
Centered on the wall, beneath a banner that read: “Creating a Mount of Memories,” was the focal point of the room, a moose head. Its mouth was hanging open, and Betsy noticed hers following suit.
“Needed to get in from the rain?” a voice asked.
Betsy lowered her gaze and noticed the man who had entered the room from a door underneath the banner. His shoulders slouched forward, creating the illusion he was more compact than he actually was. The pile of jet-black curls on top of his head added at least four inches, compensating for the bad posture, and juxtaposing the age apparent in his face. Surrounded by the beady eyes of the animals, which appeared to be looking at nothing and everything at the same time, he was more alive than anything she’d encountered today. And he was staring right at her.
“You look a little frightened. Don’t worry, we won’t bite,” he said, gesturing to the surrounding wildlife. “It’s not every day that we get a woman in here, let alone a woman wearing a skirt. Name’s Larry. I’m guessing this is your first time.”
The smile on his face comforted Betsy, but all she could bring herself to say was, “Yes.”
“Don’t worry, the storm should pass in a few minutes. I’ve barely noticed it. Been in here all day with a deer, and he’s not much of a conversationalist. You want a coffee? Just made a pot.”
Energy surged through her again. “I want you to taxidermy my dog.” The words hit the man before she could reach out and wrangle them back into her mouth.
“Well, well. There are surprises left in this world.”
“I just,” she began. Once she’d unleashed the idea, one sparked only minutes ago, she didn’t know what else to say.
“Ma’am, I hate to break it to you, but look around; do you see Lassie on the wall? We don’t exactly specialize in household pets.”
“There can’t be much of a difference.” She wasn’t even sure if she believed herself.
“Come back here with me,” he said. And without waiting for a response, he passed through the sheath of camouflage fabric covering the door.
___________________________________________________________________
Laying on a table in the back room was the deer her new friend had alluded to. Only it wasn’t a deer, so much as the remnants of one. All she could see was the underside of its flesh stretched out on a table, a mix of congealed blood and leftover fat from the skin removal process. Laying to its right was a flat tool she didn’t recognize, although it looked like something a dentist would use, just larger and sturdier.
Three garage doors made up the bulk of the back wall, stretching from floor to ceiling, and Betsy wondered why Larry hadn’t taken advantage of the storm as an opportunity to air out the workspace. He seemed utterly unconcerned with the cleanliness.
Each of the four tables lining the perimeter contained a pile of materials, one more unkempt than the next. On the first: a collection of sewing supplies. The next: enough, of what looked like, hairspray to stock an entire aisle at a drug store. Third: a pile of fake body parts—a mix of eyes, mouths, and ears—like pieces of a puzzle just dumped out of the box. On the final surface: the deer, whose head was arched over the edge of the metal table, empty eye sockets confronting Betsy.
“You realize this is what I’d have to do to your dog,” Larry said, breaking Betsy’s spell.
She took a deep breath, and shifted her eyes around the space. “But I don’t have to see you do this to my dog. Then I’ll have her forever. We’ll have her forever.”
Arthur passed through her mind for a moment. He’d never been hunting, as far as she knew, and had always mocked the taxidermy lining the walls of the local steakhouse, referring to the antlers of prize game as little more than “glorified hat racks.” But Ruby had been their dog, something they cared for as a unit once the kids left; an unconditionally loving being on whom they could impart their knowledge.
“Take a look behind you.”
She turned her body around, heels rotating on the thin layer of multi-colored hair covering the ground. Hanging from a wire rack along the back wall was a veritable catalogue of animal mannequins. For each species there were a variety of positions, much like the mannequins in Macys showed people running in sportswear, or posing like models in dresses.
“There’s no dog,” the voice behind her said, echoing the voice in her head. “I’d have to make a mold of your dog’s body after I skinned it. Most people don’t like to think of something so close to them going through this process. Not to mention, the chances of me being able to capture its personality are slim.”
“Are you good at what you do?”
“I like to think so.” The muscles in his square jaw flexed as if he was chewing gum. A pause sat in the air. Larry picked up his razor blade and began slicing fat away from the underside of the hide in front of him. “How long ago did it die?”
“Ruby,” she corrected him. “Two days ago. But I put her in the freezer because we couldn’t decide what to do with her. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”
Larry set down the rubber handle of the razor, and picked up a stray bead eyeball which he began rubbing between his fingers. Both hands reached up to the jungle of hair on his head and squeezed it together as he tapped his foot, and let out a low whistle. “I’ll see what I can do…as long as it’s not freezer burned.”
“Ruby,” she said again. “I’ll go get her now. How long will it take?”
“Well, September is when I start getting more deer, but the next few weeks will be pretty slow. Maybe three?”
“Days?"
“Weeks.”
“Three weeks. I can do this for three weeks.” A smile spread over her face. “I just know you’re going to fix everything.”
The room fell silent, as the rain outside slammed against the roof of the warehouse, throbbing and then releasing, and then throbbing again, unable to make up its mind about stopping.
“Sure you don’t want to wait until the storm has lifted?”
“No,” she said as she made her way to the door, tears filling her eyes. “It will all be back to normal in no time.”
Hi Matt,
It's been awhile for me as I've finally returned to the world of the working class. I forgot how tiring holding down a job can be. I'm no 22 year old, I can tell you that.
So far, the story is quite entertaining and gripping. You are clearly talented and imaginative; you are an artist. Keep up the good work, and I look forward to reading the rest of the story if or whenever possible.
Chimene
Posted by: Chimene Gumbs | October 24, 2008 at 10:37 PM
This is really good Matt! I think you're good at creating sympathy for a character. I really feel for her. I also like some of your descriptions -- like the husband massaging his temples and leaving traces of newspaper ink. It's humorous and I can really see that!
Posted by: tonya | October 26, 2008 at 12:02 AM
Before I say anything, I'd like to see how the story develops (I assume this is not the end of it). Great name for a taxidermist, though.
Posted by: Larry | October 26, 2008 at 10:10 PM
This piece is so well-written it took my breath away. You are becoming a brilliant writer!
Posted by: nurturing | October 29, 2008 at 02:28 AM