Western Taxidermy

by Barb Howard

  Vicky played with the zipper on her knapsack. Out of the corner of her eye, she admired the leather of Mr. Goodfellow’s shoes. The colour was rich and unusual. Mahogany. Maybe oxblood.

  “Have you brought homework to do tonight, Victoria?”

  “A bit.”

  Mr. Goodfellow finished tying his shoe but left his foot on the chair. “I’ll bet it’s hard to study with all the boys calling you.”

  There were no boys calling her. And even though she recognized a silly compliment when she heard one, she liked the notion that Mr. Goodfellow thought she was worthy of a name change as well as a few boyfriends.

  “Oh, I won’t talk on the phone here, Mr. Goodfellow. I don’t talk on the phone while I’m babysitting.”

  “I’m sure you’re perfectly conscientious.”

  To avoid looking at Mr. Goodfellow, Vicky knelt at the dog crate. Tipper stared at her.

  “Don’t worry about Tipper tonight,” Mrs. Goodfellow said as she came back into the kitchen. “A couple of hours in the crate won’t kill him.”

  “The dog is fine so long as he knows who’s boss,” Mr. Goodfellow said, taking his wife by the arm and opening the door to the garage. “It’s all about control.”

  “The Goodfellows, is it?” Vicky’s dad had said earlier that evening as she was packing her homework in her knapsack. “How old is that kid? Is he some sort of fruitcake?”

  “I’ve barely talked to him. Mrs. Goodfellow says he likes to know someone’s in the house.”

  “Why can’t he stay by himself? His dad is normal. Big job. Owns a basketball team. Sounds like the wife is overindulging that kid.”

  Vicky pulled the knapsack onto her back. “Dad, his name is Timothy.”

  “You call home if Timothy gets creepy with you.”

  “As if.”

  The upside to working at the Goodfellows’ was the easy money; the downside was boredom. There was no one to take care of, no real babysitting. They didn’t have cable TV or popular magazines. Their stereo was high-end and complex, and even if Vicky had been able to locate the power button, she would have been hesitant to turn it on. So, after the Goodfellows left for the basketball game, she unzipped her knapsack, laid out her school books, and set to work at the end of the kitchen table, the opposite end from Tipper’s crate. Every once in a while she heard Tipper shifting positions. A few times, when she looked under the table, she could see his amber eyes watching her through the small holes at the back of the crate. She took it as a good sign that Tipper had not barked since the Goodfellows’ departure.

  After Vicky finished her assigned reading in science and completed a sheet of math problems, she stuffed her books back in her knapsack. She had planned to review the week’s notes from her classes, but the math problems had taken longer than she expected, almost two hours, and she didn’t want her books on the table when Mr. Goodfellow came home. Instead, she went to the large hall bathroom where there was a mirrored tray that held Mrs. Goodfellow’s perfume collection. Vicky picked up a crystal dispenser.

  “Conscientious,” she thought, spraying the nape of her neck with a light rose scent. Then, setting the perfume back on the tray, she turned on the water tap and stuck her head underneath for a drink. When she turned the tap off, she could hear Tipper whining.

  “You thirsty too?” Vicky called from the bathroom.

  Tipper whined again. Vicky found a glass, filled it with water, and carried it to the crate. “Poor thing, you’ve got no water in there.”

  Vicky tipped the rim of the water glass against the door of the dog crate. Tipper licked the metal bars. He wagged his tail. Vicky admired his slim silver collar. It was more like jewellery than pet-wear.

  “Down,” Vicky said, testing her command over the dog.

  Tipper sank to the floor of his crate. Vicky looked proudly around the kitchen. On the floor beside the fridge there were two empty bowls. Even though they were ceramic, and even though Vicky thought they looked like something French onion soup would come in at a restaurant, they had to be Tipper’s. She filled one with water and set it in front of the crate. Tipper raised his ears but stayed on his belly.

  Wouldn’t Mr. Goodfellow be impressed to see that he was not the only one who could handle a dog?

  “Stay,” Vicky said firmly while she put her hand to the clasp of the cage door. Tipper started panting. Vicky could feel his breath on her fingers.

  “Thirsty puppy,” Vicky said as she pinched the clasp open. She stood to one side and opened the door halfway. “There you go,” she said. “Drink.”

  Tipper stayed in the crate. He raised his head and the end of his nose twitched. Vicky swung the door open wide and it clinked against the table leg. The dog’s gaze sprang from Vicky’s face to the door. Vicky was putting her hand out, intending to prevent the gate from marking the table leg, when Tipper bolted from the crate.

  There were two doorways in the Goodfellows’ kitchen. One led down a short hall to the front door; the other entrance was the sliding kitchen door which led to the deck. Tipper raced back and forth, front door to sliding door. His nails clacked and slid on the tiled floor. Vicky, recovered from the velocity with which Tipper had left the crate, put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath.

  “Here boy,” she said, tapping her foot against the water dish.

  Tipper veered off his course and lunged at her ankle, driving his teeth through her sock and into her skin. Vicky punched her foot at the dog and scrambled onto the kitchen table. Tipper did not leap after her. Instead, he sat quietly, seemingly happy as long as Vicky didn’t try to get off the table. Vicky, cross-legged on the table, pressed her cotton sock against the punctures in her ankle. Occasionally, Tipper took a drink from his water dish while keeping his eyes on her.

  “Timothy!” Vicky shouted a few times, thinking that he could help. But Timothy, presumably with his headphones on, made no appearance. Vicky could see the kitchen clock, ticking away the time until the Goodfellows would be home. Not long now. She could see the phone across the room on the kitchen counter. Tipper bared his teeth when Vicky slid towards the edge of the table. Vicky yelled for Timothy again.

  There was a bowl of fruit on the table. Not apples and oranges like Vicky’s mom kept, but a black wicker bowl with pomegranates and pears. Seasonal and stylish as a magazine cover.

  Vicky flung a pomegranate at Tipper. The fruit hit the dog in the shoulder and fell to the floor. Tipper rolled the pomegranate over with his nose and returned his attention to guarding the table.

  Vicky dumped the remaining pieces of fruit on the table and waved the empty basket at the dog. Tipper’s eyes followed the basket. Vicky flung it down the hall to the front door and, while Tipper scrambled after it, she jumped off the table. She had planned to cross the kitchen and grab the phone. She could phone her parents—they’d come and help. But when she saw Tipper ripping back into the kitchen, she operated on instinct: she pulled open the door to the deck, slipped outside, and slammed the door shut again. No time to grab the phone. Anything to get away from the dog, who was now snarling at the glass.

  Vicky studied the exterior of the house for Timothy’s lighted room. She found it further along, near the corner and not far from a section of scaffolding left by the painters, so she dragged the scaffolding under the lit window. Her ankle, where Tipper had bitten her, was sore but not bleeding anymore. She moved a cross-board from the lower level of the structure to the top as she hoisted herself up the scaffolding. Standing on the top board, she could reach her hand up to the bottom of Timothy’s window. She rapped on the glass. Softly, because she wasn’t high enough to get a good solid knock.

  “Timothy,” she called. “Timothy.”

  “He probably has his headphones on,” said a man’s voice from below her.

  Startled, Vicky looked down to see Mr. Goodfellow. She pulled on her hoodie, covering the belly skin that had been revealed by her reach to the window.

  “Nothing like a classical waltz before
bed. Or perhaps he’s been mauled to death by Tipper,” Mr. Goodfellow said.

  Vicky wondered if it was the height that made her queasy. Maybe it was the rose perfume. Or maybe it was Mr. Goodfellow’s calm voice.

  “I thought Timothy could put Tipper back in the crate,” Vicky said.

  Mr. Goodfellow hopped easily onto the base of the scaffolding. He began to climb. Vicky steadied herself against the house.

  “He’s my dog, not Timothy’s,” Mr. Goodfellow said. “I bought him to watch over my property.”

  Mr. Goodfellow put his left foot on the board, outside of Vicky’s left foot.

  “Yes,” Vicky said. “He’s your dog.”

  Mr. Goodfellow put his right foot snugly outside Vicky’s right foot. Vicky tilted her pelvis into the house so as not to feel Mr. Goodfellow pushing against her.

  “You smell like my wife,” he said.

  The window above Vicky slowly cranked open.

  “Vicky?” Mrs. Goodfellow’s voice called down through the screen. “Vicky? We’re home. Timothy says you’re out here.”

  “Quiet,” Mr. Goodfellow whispered in Vicky’s ear. He placed his hands on the house, on either side of her head. His forearms pressed tightly into the sides of her neck.

  “I’ll go down and turn on the outside lights,” Mrs. Goodfellow’s voice was distant, as though she had turned her head away from the window. “Timothy, are you sure Vicky’s down there?”

  Vicky bent her knees and tried to duck under Mr. Goodfellow’s arm. He slid his hand down the wall to block her way. Then the side of Vicky’s face rammed into the wall as Mr. Goodfellow ground his crotch against her jeans. Her neck felt like it might snap with every thrust.

  “Vicky?” Mrs. Goodfellow, now outside, called from the deck.

  In the second it took Mrs. Goodfellow to flick on the outside lights, Mr. Goodfellow was gone. Vicky leaned against the wall, breathing into the mink paint.

  “Over here,” she finally answered.

  “Whatever are you doing up there?” Mrs. Goodfellow asked as she rustled across the yard in her long skirt.

  “The dog,” Vicky said.

  “Never mind. Jack is putting Tipper in the garage. We should have talked more about the dog, about not letting the dog out, I mean.”

  Vicky ran her fingers through her hair and forced a smile at Mrs. Goodfellow.

  Mrs. Goodfellow asked slowly, “Are you okay?”

  “Sorry I’ve made a mess of it this time,” Vicky said, starting to climb down the scaffolding, trying not to favour her sore ankle.

  “The mess was here long before you,” Mrs. Goodfellow said. She brought her hands to her neck and unclasped her velvet choker, letting it dangle like a pendulum from her fingers.

  When the Goodfellows separated later that year, everyone assumed that Mr. Goodfellow had instigated the split. They said he was a cad to leave his wife, but a rich and charming cad. Mrs. Goodfellow got Tipper and Timothy, and it was rumoured that she planned to sell the mink-coloured house for a fire-sale price. Vicky’s parents claimed they had seen it all coming. After all, Mrs. Goodfellow, nice as she was, had started to let herself go.

  And Vicky, well, she decided against buying a velvet choker. Like Mrs. Goodfellow, she realized that she preferred her neck bare.

  THE SMILE THAT BITES

  Mrs. Waznyk is elderly, going on ninety years old, and people that age get worked up about time. You’d think they’d be good at waiting, since they move slowly, take naps, and generally don’t do too much. But when they have an appointment, they want to be punctual or, preferably, early. So I am quite pleased with myself when I arrive at Mrs. Waznyk’s apartment ten minutes ahead of schedule.

  “Good morning,” I say when she opens the door. “Ready for our big day?”

  “Don’t patronize me,” she snaps. “I’ve had about a hundred checkups in my life.”

  I smile, because after our cranky trip to the store last month for three-ply Kleenex—never two-ply, even if that’s all the store has in stock—I promised myself I would smile every time I felt bitchy. Use the outside to turn around the inside, as my mother used to say. Though, in all honesty, it’s not working, because right now I’m thinking, Mrs. Waznyk, if you’ve had a hundred checkups, why can’t you get there yourself? Why don’t you take a cab or book the handi-bus rather than recruiting the busy daughter of a long-dead friend?

  “I’ve been waiting quite a while,” Mrs. Waznyk says as she picks up her purse from a frail-looking table near the door.

  “I’m early,” I say.

  “No, no, you’re half an hour late,” she says.

  “Now Mrs. Waznyk.” I smile hard. “I even wrote it down on a piece of paper for you last month so there wouldn’t be a mix-up.”

  “I have the paper. Here.” She opens her purse. It’s not a large purse, rather a small beige handbag with two short straps. But, small as it is, it contains a magical number of latching compartments. Mrs. Waznyk opens each one. Click snap click snap. She fingers the items in each section. Finally, amidst the Werther’s candies, elastic bands, and twist-ties, she plucks out my note. “Here,” she says again. “It says: Julie will pick you up at nine a.m. on Thursday.”

  I take the paper. Look it over. “It says 9:30,” I say.

  She takes the paper back. Studies it. “You’re not that early,” she says.

  Mrs. Waznyk slips the note into her cardigan pocket. She unfolds her walker, which has been leaning against the wall, loops her purse straps over her wrist. She shuffles through the doorway, turns, closes the door. Then she opens her purse. Click snap click snap click. She opens and closes each section.

  “Can I help?” I ask.

  “Just getting the key to lock up.” Click snap click snap through the purse sections again. “Here it is,” she says, pulling out a green twist-tie attached to a key. She locks the door and plops the key and twist-tie back into her purse.

  We slowly make our way down the hall. Mrs. Waznyk’s right leg usually takes a decent step, but her left is a dragger. Her wonky gait is emphasized by the pull-up pants she’s wearing. I think of them as accidental capris. Eventually we make it to the main entrance of her apartment building where my car is parked in the loading zone. When it comes to driving Mrs. Waznyk, the convenience of the loading zone always overrides the risk of a parking ticket.

  I open the passenger door, adjust the seat, raising it so it is easier for Mrs. Waznyk to get out of later. I fold her walker, place it in the back seat. I get in the driver’s seat, help her fasten her seatbelt, turn up the heat substantially so she’ll be comfortable, turn off the radio because she says music distracts the driver.

  We’re on our way. This is good. Smooth. In the past, there have been departure complications. A misplaced key causing a lock-up delay before we are even out of the building. An icy sidewalk resulting in agonizingly slow steps to the car. A forgotten shopping list resulting in a full retreat back to the apartment.

  Mrs. Waznyk pulls my note out of her sweater pocket while I drive into the downtown core. “You know,” she says after looking at the note for a few minutes, “if your handwriting was neater I would have seen that it was 9:30 all along. The ‘Thursday’ looks like a ‘Tuesday’ but I deciphered that one on my own.”

  “They didn’t teach handwriting when I went to school,” I say.

  “That’s criminal,” Mrs. Waznyk says. She puts the note back into her cardigan pocket.

  We arrive at the strip mall where the doctor’s office is located. Mrs. Waznyk hands me her handicap parking sign. I hang it on my rearview mirror. Then I get out of the car, get her walker, unfold it, and open her door, setting the walker beside her seat.

  “I guess this car suits you,” she says, as she tries to push herself out of the seat. “I find it impossible.”

  “Can I give you a hand?” I ask.

  “Not too rough,” she says, even before I have taken her hand in mine and put my other hand behind her back for leverage.
<
br />   Not too rough? It’s not like I’m going to haul her out of my car by her ears. What a smile I give her. A perfect Cheshire cat.

  “Mrs. Waznyk?” the nurse calls from her desk into the waiting area.

  “Yes, yes,” Mrs. Waznyk says. She rattles her walker. “Are you coming in?” she asks me. “I need you to remember what the doctor tells me.”

  “Your memory is fine.”

  “You’re wrong,” she says.

  “Health care card?” the nurse asks as we approach her desk.

  “In my purse,” Mrs. Waznyk says. Click snap click snap.

  “Perhaps your daughter could help you find it,” the nurse suggests.

  “She’s not my daughter,” Mrs. Waznyk says, click snapping through the compartments. “She’s my friend’s daughter.”

  After a few more click snaps, I offer to help by reaching for Mrs. Waznyk’s purse.

  “I just bet you’d like to get in there,” Mrs. Waznyk says, turning her body so I am blocked from her purse.

  What’s that supposed to mean? That I want to get at her money? Like I don’t make enough of my own. Good grief. I smile at the nurse, not my turn-around-the-inside smile, but a sideways smile that, when combined with a glance at the ceiling, hopefully projects “This nutty old woman is wearing me down but I’m a good sport about it.”

  “Aha,” Mrs. Waznyk says, proudly handing the card over to the nurse.

  The visit with the doctor is short. Mrs. Waznyk doesn’t even get undressed. She only takes off her sweater. Underneath she has on a girlish short-sleeved blouse with a yellow stain on the collar. The doctor, a tired-looking middle-aged man, checks her blood pressure. Looks in her mouth and eyes. He politely slips his stethoscope inside her blouse. Listens to front and back.

  “Sounds good,” he says to Mrs. Waznyk, as he sits down heavily, pulls his laptop computer onto his thighs and starts typing. “Any concerns?” he asks.

  “I don’t think my memory is as good as it used to be,” Mrs. Waznyk says.

  “The brain is an organ,” the doctor says, still typing, “that ages along with the rest. Try doing some crosswords.”