Western Taxidermy

by Barb Howard

  I saw the doe again in mid-summer. It was a Sunday night, which I remember because Lola had gone out with friends for an after-dinner bike ride, though we had been trying to keep Sunday nights as a mother-daughter event for the past few years. I was deadheading my flowers. I must have been working quietly because four deer, noses twitching, came down the slope and right up to my pots. The doe with the tumour leaned into the pot beside me. Her lips reached past the trailing verbena and tugged at a geranium cluster. The growth on her chest, purplish and red, dragged across the edge of the pot. She ate all my Martha Washingtons, leaving only stems and foliage, then backed off the deck and headed across the yard to Brad’s.

  I phoned Brad.

  “Have you seen the deer with the tumour?” I asked. “She’s at your place now. Can’t we do something about it?”

  “I called Fish and Wildlife,” he said.

  “And?”

  “They said nature isn’t always pretty.”

  “But that tumour has grown to the size of a volleyball.”

  “It’s horrible,” Brad said. “Try not to look at it.”

  Sunday morning. five a.m. I wait with Lola in the kitchen. She has one earbud plugged in from her iPod. The other ear is politely left open in case I want to start a conversation. Oh, I desperately want to start a conversation. Where the hell are Stef and Katie? Why are they so late and irresponsible? No, I promised myself not to fuss or nag. That’s not how I want this morning to go. Breathe deep. I look out my bay window, but it’s too dark to see anything outside.

  I flick on the computer, search “deer with tumour” and discover “a hydrocyst on the brisket develops as a response to a traumatic injury at the site.” Hunters delivered the clearest information. “Shoot a deer with a hydrocyst,” one blogger advised. “Put her out of her misery. The meat is safe to eat.”

  I switch to the airline website, departure times. If Lola misses this flight, she’ll just have to get another. I can’t exactly ask her dad to pay for that—especially since I’ve been sitting here watching the lateness transpire. Guilt by acquiescence.

  “Should we make a plan B?” I ask.

  “They’ll be here,” Lola says.

  I start the kettle. Watch the water boil. Pour a pot of tea. Watch it steep. Try not to eavesdrop when Lola answers her cell phone.

  After a brief conversation, Lola shuts her phone and pops it into the front pocket of her jeans.

  She says, “Stef’s brother took the car last night and never brought it home. Katie can’t use her mom’s this morning.”

  “They just realized all this now?”

  “I guess so. Can you drive me?”

  “We can do this,” I say. “Code red.”

  “Copy code red,” Lola says. “Go, go, go.”

  I grab my ex-husband’s jean jacket from the closet, pull it over my sweater, which is over my pyjama top. I have my black yoga pants on, which Lola hates and refers to as “mommy Lycra.” Not exactly the outfit I would have planned to wear at the airport.

  We hustle Lola’s huge duffle bag into my car.

  “Should I drive?” she asks as she closes the hatch. “I’m faster.”

  “I’m driving,” I say.

  I let Lola out at the airport doors. Tell her to check herself in. I’ll catch up. By the time I park and get to the departures area, I spot Lola strolling, as though she’s in no rush at all, towards security and the gates.

  “Lola!” I call, jogging to her.

  “I’m all checked in,” she says.

  “Where’s your knapsack?” I ask.

  “I checked it with my duffle bag.”

  “With your money in it?”

  “Oops. They were rushing me.”

  “And your bank card?”

  “I made a mistake. How come it took you so long to park the car?”

  “And your ID? Honey, what will you to use to board?”

  Lola pats the back pocket of her jeans. “Driver’s license. Still in there from last night. Wow. That’s lucky, eh?”

  “Some women carry a purse,” I say. “Hurry.”

  We run together down the rest of the hall. There is no line at security. Lola shows the guard her boarding pass, turns and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Bye, Mom. See you at Christmas.”

  “Wait a sec,” I say.

  “Mom, I gotta go.” Her voice quavers.

  “Here,” I say. I shove a twenty-dollar bill in her hand. “Just in case.”

  “Thanks. Love you, Mom.” She blinks a few times, then presses the sleeve of her hoodie across her eyes. “Sorry about the Stef and Katie thing.”

  I wait at security until I see that Lola’s flight has departed, presumably with her on it since she has not reappeared. On the drive home, I’m feeling badly that I never properly said goodbye. I never offered any words of wisdom. And if her knapsack doesn’t show up, twenty dollars isn’t enough to help her at all. Twenty dollars. That was the best I could do?

  As I round the last curve onto our street, I see my deer standing beside the culvert. There’s no one behind me, certainly not this early on a Sunday, so I stop. The light is at the glowing dawn stage, and the doe looks ghostly as she raises her head and walks onto the road. When she is directly in front of the car she comes into focus. I see that her hydrocyst is the size and colour of a basketball. Always growing. Her inner legs are worn raw from rubbing against it. She stares at me with those big glassy eyes, then walks awkwardly to the other side of the road and into a patch of brush where several other deer are nibbling on alder leaves.

  At home, I put the kettle on for tea. Lola’s packing list is on the kitchen table. I pick it up and hold it between my palms until the kettle whistles. I set the packing list back on the table, pour the hot water over the tea leaves, and feel quite certain that I have done the right thing by never telling Lola about my deer.

  BUCKAROO DRIVE-THRU

  No shoes. I should expect this sort of thing from Adrian. But I am so surprised that he has bothered to put on a suit, albeit ill-fitted and greenish, that I don’t notice his navy feet until he points them out.

  “Thought I’d get my shoes resoled,” he says as we stand outside the restaurant.

  Despite my good manners, I stare. He distracts my gaze by flipping the bottom of his tie from under his belt.

  “Maybe I should take these off, save wearing them out.” He hops forward while he removes a sock.

  “It’s less noticeable with them on,” I offer.

  Adrian stuffs both socks in his suit jacket pocket. “There. Refreshing, really.” He opens the restaurant door and pushes through ahead of me.

  Adrian and I sit in a booth. An enormous parrot swings from a plastic perch above our table, another clutches the back of my seat, and another dangles upside down from the cord that controls the window blinds. Adrian suggested the restaurant. No, not a restaurant, they call this an eatery. How appropriate.

  “What darling feet,” the waitress says, pointing at Adrian’s bare toes protruding from under the table, “but you better keep them out of sight. You know, no shirt, no shoes, no service.”

  Adrian wriggles his toes. His feet are like a toddler’s. Fleshy, with toes that line up evenly. The waitress giggles, picks up our oversized menus and spins around to another table, flaunting her short, backless dress. Sure, her figure’s okay, but she’s dressed to serve canapés, not fries.

  I met Adrian when I was looking for one of those foolish fortieth birthday shirts for a client’s wife. Adrian owned the T-shirt print shop. I operate a catering business. Food and service. Mostly service. Done properly. Every once in a while, a client will ask for a favour as part of a special occasion. Could I find a Tarzan to sing happy anniversary? Could I fold the napkins into sailboats? Could I arrange for a karaoke machine? There are endless ways to cheapen an event.

  “Puff ink looks best,” Adrian had said, rubbing his stubby finger over a thick roll of ink on the sample fabric. So tacky. So sui
ted to my client’s wife.

  “Lordy, lordy, look who’s forty. That’s good if you’ve got a picture,” Adrian said, laying various T-shirts on the counter. I picked out an orange Beefy-T which shouted FORTY AND SPORTY. As Adrian shoved the shirt into a bag he said, “Your birthday?”

  “For a client. I guarantee I will not be getting a Beefy-T for my own birthday.”

  “No? Well, take this.” Into the bag he stuffed a black tank top that said “VIXEN” in metallic puff ink.

  “Thank you, I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Here. It’s you.”

  Vixen. Whatever made him think of that? In puff ink.

  The waitress leans around the swinging parrot to lay down my Reuben sandwich. She says, “My mother had a big toe that bent so far to the right she had to have her second toe surgically removed to make room for it.”

  Adrian nods sympathetically. “My mom,” he confesses, pulling his mushroom burger closer, “has such a bad hammer toe that she has to cut holes in her slippers. And bunions, bunions the size of walnuts.”

  “Imagine that,” the waitress says, with a faraway look that suggests she already is imagining Adrian’s mother’s deformed feet.

  “Have you any Dijon?” I ask.

  The waitress brings the mustard in a separate dish, just as I requested. I take a little mustard and open my sandwich. The corned beef, pink and grainy, flops there like a dismembered part. I close the sandwich, wish I could cover it with my napkin, but that would be rude.

  About a week after the T-shirt store, I was in the vegetable section of the supermarket when someone yelled, “Hey, vixen lady.”

  It was Adrian. I was wearing a sweater set, not the VIXEN tank top. I was examining artichokes. I frequently buy artichokes, because I know how to eat them. Adrian walked up the aisle towards me, his sandals slapping with every step, his blond leg hair standing on end from the air-conditioning. He yanked a handful of grapes from the bin beside the artichokes.

  “You never told me what you do.” He popped dirty grapes into his mouth while I explained how I oversee a staff of twelve, how I train each of them in table service and general etiquette, how, on occasion, I also arrange for the food and clean-up, everything from pâté to port.

  “What do you do with those things?” Adrian pointed at the artichokes.

  “I steam them. Artichoke leaves must be eaten with the fingers, while the heart must be eaten with a knife and fork.”

  “Wow. I’d like to see that.”

  “Don’t you like your sandwich?” Adrian asks as he props his elbows on the eatery table and bites into his mushroom burger.

  “It’s missing a few details.” I watch an oily drip slide down Adrian’s pinky.

  Adrian takes one hand off his burger and picks up a spoon from the table.

  “That’s why I need your advice,” he says, pointing the spoon at me. “I’ve been thinking about setting up a drive-thru in the lot beside my shop. Hamburgers, fries, even corn dogs.” The oily drip progresses down Adrian’s wrist and slips behind his shirt cuff. Adrian sets the spoon down on the table. His bare foot bumps against my shoe. I imagine the warm smudge on my navy pump.

  I have never worn sandals or open-toed shoes. My mother said they were coarse. Nothing ruins a look more than a couple of bare toes. Especially if they’re painted. Which isn’t to say that I don’t take care of my feet. Pumice, foot lotions, filing and cuticle reduction every week. But nothing can change the fact that they are feet, that my toes are like long parfait spoons, that my nails, despite my pedicures, are already thickening and horning with age.

  “You being in the service industry, and a detail person, I thought you might have a few ideas for me,” Adrian continues.

  “People who eat in their cars don’t deserve service.”

  “Of course. Good point. But what if they did? I want to do it properly.”

  Outside the restaurant, Adrian reaches into his pocket, fumbles around his socks, and hands me a bright yellow business card.

  “Think about it. Here’s my new card. I’ve got a cell phone now.”

  While Adrian walks away I read: “ADRIAN’S PUFF INK and BULK MEAT.”

  One of Adrian’s socks lies on the pavement, not far from my shoe. With my thumb and forefinger I pick the sock up, wrap it in Kleenex, and tuck it in the side pouch of my purse.

  At home that night I lay Adrian’s sock on the kitchen table. I would’ve expected Adrian to be the red or argyle type. But, properly laundered, this sock is quite tasteful. Navy with tiny maroon triangles. I place Adrian’s business card beside the sock and think about calling him. Maybe I should wait until I have some advice on his drive-thru. I roll the sock up as though it had a mate, turning the top back on itself. Then I carry it to my bedroom, open my dresser drawer, and carefully lay the sock beside my lavender-scented hosiery.

  Before I call Adrian, he phones me to say he needs a consultation, that day, after work. I tell him that I go to my health club after work.

  “Okey-dokey,” he says, without an invitation, “meet you there.”

  I never waver from my workout. Being thin is so much more discreet than the alternative. Especially on a tall woman like myself. Of course, clothing helps as well. I wear navy suits, classics, no elasticized waists, no sheer blouses, no bare legs.

  At the gym, Adrian wheezes as he pedals. “The thing is, I’ve decided that this drive-thru is for kids. The Buckaroo Drive-Thru. No cars, just bikes.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “What’s yours set at?” he gasps.

  “Eight.”

  Adrian stabs a number two into the dash of his stationary bike. “I open at the beginning of summer holidays, so I gotta get moving on it,” he says, straightening up and pulling his shirt over his head. Flesh folds over his grey cotton shorts. Adrian pulls the shirt until the neck is at his hairline. He lets it drop behind him, like a wig.

  “Have you done all your ordering?” I ask, politely focusing my eyes on a skylight.

  “All the hardware and beef products.”

  “Condiments?”

  “You’re good. I’ll get some ketchup. That’s a condiment, isn’t it?” Adrian pulls the shirt completely off his head and sets it on the handlebars. His pedaling slows to a stop. “You do this much?”

  “Every night I’m not working.”

  “What for?”

  “Hey,” the receptionist calls as I walk out of the health club, “do you know that roly-poly guy?”

  “Business associate,” I say.

  “Well, he left his watch with me. Came in dressed in his workout gear, so I guess he didn’t get a locker.”

  He had no intention of showering, I think, recalling the sweaty seams of his shorts.

  “Is he single?” the receptionist asks. “He seems fun.”

  “I’ll take it to him.” I snatch the watch from her hand. The route I take home from the gym is cluttered with fast food outlets. I’m still clutching Adrian’s watch—a big, red-banded Mickey Mouse with Minnie zipping around as the second hand. This is the closest I’ve ever been to a Mickey Mouse watch. When I learned to tell time my parents gave me a silver ladies’ Bulova. I pass the watch to my un-cramped hand and try to imagine a bicycle drive-thru. I don’t even know how to ride a bike that’s not fixed to the floor. By the time I convinced my parents that I needed a bike, they couldn’t find a girl’s style that was tall enough for me. And the only fast food I ever had was when my uncle stopped by our house.

  My uncle usually showed up during school holidays. He had enormous eyebrows that pasted themselves on his forehead in hot weather. My father might have had the same eyebrows, but he trimmed them regularly. Whenever my uncle arrived, my mother would breathe thinly, through her nose. Perhaps because she disapproved of his sneakers. At his age, she would say. Or perhaps because he called me Maddy instead of Madeleine.

  I turn off the main road and stop at a speaker.

  “I would like the hamburger, please,” I say
, squeezing Adrian’s watch.

  “The Happy or the Double Slam?”

  I hesitate. The watch dampens in my hands. “Happy, thank you.”

  A waft of fried air comes through the window with the loosely wrapped package. Before I can set the package on the passenger seat, a drop falls from the foil and leaves a wet circle on my lap. I pull forward and park beside a plastic picnic table. Taking several sheets of Kleenex from my purse, I sit down on the edge of the plastic bench-seat and unwrap the Happy. I will not eat in my car.

  The hamburgers my uncle bought were big. Not like this little thing, which is the size of a veal medallion on a dinner roll. My uncle would get me root beer. Always one size bigger than I asked him for. Once, he said I could take the mug home. I kept hair clips in that mug for about a year; my mother called it grotesque. I’ll have to tell Adrian to serve root beer. Big root beer.

  When I get home, I strip down to my underwear, stuff my hamburger-smelling clothes in the wash and pull on my VIXEN T-shirt. I sit on the edge of my bed, a sleigh bed with an amaryllis print comforter, the only piece of furniture that isn’t from my parents’ old house. All the rest of my place is hand-rubbed Georgian. Even in my bedroom, the highboy, with Adrian’s sock in the top drawer, and the night table, are thin-legged cherry wood. And there’s a Chippendale chair against the wall. I set Adrian’s watch on the night table, let it bask in the red glow of my clock radio while I scratch my bare feet on the carpet.

  A month later, Adrian calls in the morning. He’s so excited I think he’s talking nonsense.

  “A donkey?”

  “Miniature donkeys,” Adrian says. “Alice and Nitro. I rented them for the grand opening tomorrow. Come see.”

  “Now?”

  “C’mon. You can test the root beer.”

  The Buckaroo Drive-Thru sits in the middle of a paved lot and is the size of a proper table for six. The roof is a giant white Stetson. The walls are red and white Hereford. The awnings are plastic, rawhide-look. Adrian should have consulted me on decor.