Jerkwater

by Jamie Zerndt

  “Cool? Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  “Sure it is. I don’t know anyone called Kay. Or Catherine for that matter.”

  “That’s probably because it’s a name from a time long past. My mother named me after the saint, the one they tortured.”

  “Really?” Douglas said. “I never knew that.”

  “Saint Catherine of the Wheel.”

  “She’s the patron saint of wheels?”

  “No, they tortured her on some kind of spiked wheel. When that didn’t work, they cut her head off and milk poured out.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Exactly.”

  “See,” Jenna said, “I told you it was a cool name.”

  Douglas was starting to feel invisible the way the two were getting on. He wondered if she’d be so enamored with Jenna if she knew what she used to do for a living. Possibly. He never knew with his mother. If there ever was a living contradiction, his mom was it. “So I really like the new painting and all, but, if I’m being honest, I don’t think it looks all that much like me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Jenna said, moving to his side. “I can definitely see a resemblance.”

  “You painted these? Wow, I’m impressed.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I don’t know if I’d want them hanging in my living room, but I think they’re great. Is that okay to say?”

  Jenna smiled at her. “It’s completely okay to say. I admire tons of paintings that I wouldn’t necessarily want hanging in my home.”

  “Oh, good, I thought I might have offended you.”

  “The only thing that offends me is when people bash art for no real reason. I mean, even if you don’t like something, somebody made an effort to make something meaningful. Most people who trash things haven’t ever even tried. They don’t understand what it’s like to risk failing.” Jenna adjusted her apron, dusted off some grounds along the front. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give a speech.”

  Kay laughed. “If that’s a speech then I’m a regular politician. Isn’t that right, Douglas? Your old mother likes to talk, doesn’t she?”

  “I never noticed.”

  “Whatever. I haven’t gone over to the other side just yet.” Jenna gave them both a quizzical look and before Douglas could stop her, his mother began to explain. “I’ve been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Which is fine, but chances are in a few months I won’t remember who you are. So don’t take it personally or anything is what I’m trying to say.”

  “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Douglas, you didn’t--”

  “I only just found out.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m still sorry. That must be scary.”

  “I don’t know. It might be fun. I was never all there to begin with anyway, was I, Douglas?”

  “Mom.”

  “Oh, settle down. She can handle it, can’t you?”

  “I can. And, yeah, settle down.”

  With that, Jenna left to get their coffees though Douglas never did get a chance to tell her his order. She’d no doubt return with some fancy concoction that looked and tasted nothing like coffee but that Douglas would end up liking despite himself. They sat at the window overlooking the street, the same spot he’d sat at when he first came there with Shawna. It seemed so long ago now, like multiple years had somehow been stuffed inside this last one. A turducken year.

  “I like her,” his mother said, staring out the window.

  “I can see that.”

  “And she’s pretty, too.”

  “She is. Very.”

  “For a while there your father and I weren’t sure if--”

  “Don’t. I know.”

  “Not that it would matter.”

  “Stop.”

  “Okay.”

  Douglas flipped through the local paper, The Daily Globe, while his mom did her best to keep quiet. He could tell she was excited because she kept fidgeting with her hands, rubbing at the veins. Douglas, trying to distract himself, flipped to the police blotter in the back of the paper. It was something he and Marty liked to do during their lunch breaks.

  8:46 a.m. -A Minocqua man reported that his girlfriend threatened to ruin his boat and damage his new snowmobile.

  12:37 p.m. -A Mercer resident reported that the neighbor’s pig was out and rooting through garbage. The pig was walked home and put back in its yard.

  6:42 p.m. –Dog Attack at Sweetheart Lake- Police responded to a report of a dog running loose and attacking a pair of swans. The officer cited a resident for the loose dog. The swans refused medical treatment and left the area, according to police records.

  2:30 a.m. -Three men driving a Buick sedan crashed into a tree after leaving Lake of the Torches Casino early Sunday morning. One of the men is said to have died at the scene. The other two are in stable condition at Mercer Hospital. Alcohol is believed to have been involved.

  Douglas was about to hand the paper to his mother when an article on the opposite page caught his eye.

  Loon Burning Update

  Locals in Mercer, who are now openly referring to the arsonist as “The Loonadick,” haven’t been too happy about the lack of progress in finding the culprit who destroyed their town’s beloved wooden mascot. But police now say they are following up on an important lead and are confident it will result in an arrest (or arrests) soon.

  “One small café mocha with whipped cream. I hope the whipped cream is okay.”

  “Oh, I think whipped cream is always okay, don’t you?”

  “I do, indeed. And here’s one fuchsia gluten-free pineapple-infused Americano latte decaf soy with cinnamon. No whipped cream.”

  Douglas forced a smile as he took the to-go cup from her.

  “Aren’t you going to try it?”

  “Mine’s delicious,” Kay said, taking another sip. “I usually just drink instant.”

  “Well, we’re going to have to do something about that. Douglas?”

  Douglas took a sip and grimaced dramatically.

  “Oh, it can’t be that bad now,” his mom said, looking like she wanted to backhand him one.

  “It’s just regular old black coffee. Thank you.”

  “I know what you like.”

  A smile passed between them, and Douglas felt his heart swelling, like multiple hearts had been stuffed inside his one heart. A turducken heart.

  Later, as they were driving back home, his mom, out of nowhere, said, “They don’t fear people anymore.”

  “Who doesn’t fear people?”

  “Your question. About the deer. That’s how you can tell.”

  He looked over at her, at the childlike smile she wore, and, not for the first time, thought maybe his mother was the wisest person on Earth.

  Chapter Sixteen:

  Shawna

  There’d been a town meeting where people got to vote on whether the old Loon should be salvaged somehow, rebuilt, or if they should build something new. Overwhelmingly, people had voted for a new, and, of course, bigger Loon. As a result, a small crowd had gathered to watch the giant wooden bird be diced up into firewood. Shawna had wondered if people would be sad, but the overall atmosphere was like a county fair, children chasing one another with their hands over their ears while their parents chatted. Shawna, unsure of how it would affect her, found she felt nothing. Or, at the very least, felt the perverse thrill of a voyeur. When there was a break in the butchering, random parts of the old bird being tossed into a pickup, Elmer finally responded to her question.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it isn’t right.”

  “Since when did you become all moral.”

  “You can just go around doing things like that to people who’ve wronged you.”

  “Wronged me? He was friends with my step-dad. He’s the Tre
aty Beer guy. He tried to steal Seven. I’m tired of nothing bad ever happening to him because the people he’s messing with are nice and decent.”

  “You are decent.”

  “Well, I guess I’m going through some changes then because I’ve come to the conclusion that decency is overrated.”

  “You’ll regret it if you go through with it. And you’ll probably end up going to jail, too.”

  Shawna nodded toward what was left of the toppled Loon. “Yeah? You think so?”

  “Don’t get cocky. Just because you haven’t been caught doesn’t mean they won’t figure it out eventually.”

  “Once they run those DNA tests?”

  “I’m telling you, Shawna. Don’t. Just don’t. Think about vet school. Think about us leaving here next year. Don’t let somebody like him get in the way of that. You’re better than that.”

  “Maybe I’m not.”

  “Fuck that. You’re a hundred-foot loon and he’s a...a frog or whatever it is loons eat.”

  “They eat frogs. And fish and leeches, I think.”

  “See, you know that because you’re a nerd and are supposed to go to school with other nerds who love animals. He’s just a little white frog. Forget about him.”

  The chainsaws started up again, making conversation impossible. Which was fine with Shawna since, apparently, Elmer wasn’t about to help her exact her revenge on Peyton Crane. As she watched the city workers cut through a good-sized blackened chunk of the Loon’s left wing, she knew Elmer was right. He usually was. And while that infuriated her, it had also stopped her from doing about 36 incredibly stupid things since her mom died. This latest idea no doubt topping the list.

  Some boys need to be forced into manhood.

  Seven didn’t seem interested in going out, so Shawna busied herself by digging the hoof pick into the grooves of Seven’s hooves, trying to dislodge anything that might have worked itself in. Seven had been acting lethargic ever since she’d brought him back home. His coat, too, had lost some of its usual sheen. Shawna hoped a thorough grooming might cheer him up.

  The sun can warm, but it can also decay.

  Her mother’s voice accompanied the cleaning, there in the background like a TV left on. Bits and pieces came through, some that made sense to Shawna and others that didn’t. When she finished with the hooves, Shawna grabbed the metal curry comb and began to gently move it in circles along Seven’s coat. She did this slowly, lovingly, as she knew Seven’s skin was sometimes sensitive to the metal. Normally, at some point when using the comb, he would bristle or whinny, annoyed and irritated. But there was none of that today. Another thing that was starting to worry Shawna.

  You will have to summon every breath of light inside you to bring about a darkness.

  Before Shawna started brushing Seven’s head and mane with his body brush, she placed her head against him and smelled his coat. There was nothing foul or sickly in the smell. He simply smelled like Seven, the same as the inside of her car and all her clothes had since she’d gotten him. It was her favorite smell in the world. Shawna stopped to clean out the brush, which had become nearly full with all the debris loosened by the curry comb, and as she did, she spoke softly to Seven.

  “You’ll come to Madison with us, so don’t worry about that. We’ll find someplace with a big backyard, and I’ll take you out for walks whenever I can. I won’t lie; it won’t be as nice as here. But at least we’ll still be together. You’ll just have to trust me that things will work out.”

  Shawna ran the brush along his withers, then his back and side and belly and croup, ending up along his hind legs, all the while giving the brush little flicks so that the dirt flew free of his coat.

  We are always, at all times, afraid. This is awareness. This is being alive.

  Shawna saved the tail for last, knowing it was full of tangles from not having been properly combed in some time. She worked her fingers through the hair first, saving the comb for later so as not to rip any clumps of hair out.

  “Almost done, sexy boy. Then maybe you’ll let me take you for a quick run?”

  But instead of stamping his feet like he usually did when Shawna mentioned taking him out, Seven slowly and painstakingly lay himself down on the ground. Something he had never done during grooming.

  “Okay, I guess we’re done with grooming then.”

  It was clear to Shawna that something was wrong, though. She threw a blanket over Seven and kissed his nose. His breathing was suddenly labored. Shallow. Even his eyelids seemed to be having trouble staying open. What the hell was happening?

  “I’m calling Judy, okay? I’ll be right back. I promise.”

  Shawna ran inside and phoned the local vet. When there was no answer, she left a hurried message asking her to come as soon as possible. Judy Farrell was something of a hero to Shawna. She was both a strong and happy woman. A rarity in life, as far as Shawna had seen. And she could almost always tell what was wrong with an animal, or so it seemed to Shawna, just by looking at them or running a hand under their belly.

  Back outside, Shawna tried to get Seven to drink a little water, but he was having none of it. It was like he’d been hit with a tranquilizer dart, all his energy sapped instantly. She tried telling herself that he just needed some sleep and then he’d be fine, but everything she was seeing was telling her differently.

  She sat down in the dirt beside Seven, stroking his forelock. “You’re the most handsome boy in the world. You know that, right?”

  She couldn’t be sure, but there looked to be swelling around his eyes. And his throat, too, seemed puffed up now. She was about to run inside to call Judy again when she spotted the petals in the dirt. She hadn’t noticed them before because they were mixed in with loose bits of hay. She picked one up, recognizing it straightaway as foxglove because her naan had made sure to pull all the ones she’d planted around the house when they’d gotten Seven. Shawna also remembered the flower because the name had never made any sense to her. How did this tube-like thing with paw prints on the inside resemble a fox’s glove? Shawna soon found others mixed in with the hay, little bits and pieces of purple everywhere, almost like someone had been hand-feeding them to Seven.

  “Baby, what did you eat? Who gave this to you?”

  She would go inside and call the vet again. Surely she could give him something, some sort of antidote, and Seven would eventually recover. She started to get up, but Seven started paddling his legs around in the dirt. His eyes were swollen into slits now.

  I’ll take care of him, Shawna. I promise.

  “No,” Shawna said out loud and then she couldn’t stop saying it as Seven’s throat began to twitch. He then released his bowels into the dirt, his legs straining out like they were trying to separate themselves from his body, like he was being electrocuted, and seconds later her best friend was gone.

  By the time Judy showed up the next morning, Shawna had covered Seven’s body with all of his favorite blankets. Shawna, too, felt covered in blankets, weighted down. It was like a big hand was pressing down on her so that all she wanted to do was remain still. But Shawna had learned a trick long ago, a way to create a spark which then turned to flame and burned away the fog. It was called anger.

  “I can’t be sure unless I run some tests, but it looks to me like your suspicions are accurate. If somebody had interlaced a significant amount of foxglove with Seven’s feed, then it wouldn’t take long for a chronic seizure like this to occur. Especially if they’d been doing it over a couple of days. I know it won’t give you much comfort right now to hear this, but there wasn’t much you could have done to save him. I hate to ask you this right now, but do you have any guesses as to who might have done something like this?”

  “No,” Shawna lied.

  She wanted to build a pyre out of wood and set Seven’s body adrift on the lake before setting him on fire much in the same way
she had the town loon. It was something she wanted done with her own body when her time came; there was something simple and complete and beautiful in it. But, Judy was quick to point out, it was, unfortunately, illegal. “And not so great for the environment either, I might add.” Burying Seven wasn’t an option either, apparently. In the end, Judy made arrangements with a rendering plant that would pick Seven up the following day, the idea of which seemed monumentally disrespectful to Shawna. How could something mean so much to someone and then just be carted off like an old couch?

  People came and went for the rest of the day. Douglas and his mom kept checking up on Shawna, and, at some point in the afternoon, Kay had brought over two BLTs and 3 cans of root beer. All of which Shawna devoured, alone, sitting beside the mound of blankets. She peeked once under the covers and saw a white film had covered Seven’s still-open eyes, making him look like a giant dead fish. She had never seen her mother’s death face because she was left without one. It was one of those things which, when piled on top of the magnitude of horrific, was maybe silly to resent. But Shawna always had. She was denied not being able to kiss her mother’s cold face goodbye. Had the monster thought about that for even a second? No. To do so would have made him human. Which he wasn’t. So Shawna did it now. She lifted the blanket, closed Seven’s eyelids, and pressed her face against the side of his head and kissed him.

  Douglas at some point brought her coffee and a bag of potato chips and another blanket. Words were spoken, but Shawna mostly did a lot of nodding and shaking of her head. Seven had been the suit of armor she wore after her Mom died, and now she was naked, retreating once again deep inside herself, a rage slowly weaving what would soon clothe her. Her naan came out at twilight and burned some sage over Seven’s body while softly singing an Ojibwa prayer over him. By the time she finished, tears were spilling down her wrinkled cheeks. When she went inside for the night, Shawna rested a hand on the mound of blankets. “Did you see that? You made a stone bleed. That’s how incredible you are.”

  She thought about calling Elmer but just couldn’t bring herself to do it. She knew he’d stay by her side, wrap her up in his big arms and keep quiet when she needed quiet. He was built for mourning; she realized that now. Maybe it was just living he wasn’t built for. She decided to take the pen down the next day, donate or burn all of Seven’s things, maybe plant a garden of foxglove in the place he’d died.