Unfurled
a novel
Michelle Bailat-Jones
New York, NY
Copyright © 2018 by Michelle Bailat-Jones
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher. Please direct inquiries to:
Ig Publishing
Box 2547
New York, NY 10163
www.igpub.com
ISBN: 978-1-632460-76-9 (ebook)
To Emiline
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
1
NEITHER OF US REALIZED WE’D BEEN living in a borderland all that time, a place where the rules are too often unspoken, never declared. We didn’t understand there were passports and checkpoints involved. And that not all three of us would make it through.
“Look!” she’d always said, her fingers tight on my chin.
I always looked. People? Cars? Animals? For a long time I thought this was a game, so I would scan and stare and squint and try. Hoping for a prize, or thinking there was some way to win. But she was always pulling me away before I could figure out what she’d wanted me to see. I never fought her grip on my wrist. I followed her into our car, waited for her to screech us away back to the house. I followed her around corners, and into building alcoves, away from crowds and down side streets. I followed her wherever she led me. I thought this would be enough.
In borderlands the rules often change. Quickly and without warning. We didn’t realize this, neither of us, until it was too late.
Until my dad said, “We’ll just be running this schooner on our own and that’s all there is to it.”
And I said, “I know how to furl the sails, Captain.”
“You know,” he said, “we’ve been lightering all this time, haven’t we? And then she had to start running a chute on us.”
I knew what he meant. I knew we’d tacked into a dog-hole and that it would be hard to get back out again. But I also knew we’d have to accept the weight of the cargo that had dropped onto the deck, line it and stack it, secure it as best we could and then set sail for calm waters. We knew to watch for rocks, we knew to get as far away as possible from the cliffs once the boat was riding low with her cargo. The open ocean was After. That’s when we both knew we’d made it through. Knew we should never ever look back.
2
I CAN SMELL THE WATER WHEN I OPEN THE BACK door, but there’s no salt in it. No kelp or sand or fish. I know there can’t be, but I still pull deep, hoping for it, and breathe out my disappointment which flips in my stomach like a roll of nausea. Nothing but river water and the scent of iced-over mud on this side of the Cascades. Then I’m tripping over my boots and swearing because I’m angry at the Knemeyer’s for calling me out to their farm like this, at 5 am and into the winter ice. An emergency that is entirely their own fault. I want to tell them to deal with it themselves, turn myself around and climb back upstairs and into bed with Neil. Roll into the sleeping length of him, find his shoulder and settle myself there. Steady and warm. Mornings with Neil are the safest I’ve ever known and we are only a few years in; I cannot get enough of them. Instead, I zip his old fleece under my work coat, bite down hard on the prickly mountain air and hurry to the car. Trapp slinks along behind me as usual, jumps into the seat beside me. When I’ve gotten out of town and I’m hugging the curves of Canyon Road, I call my dad to stave off the bad start to my day, knowing he’ll be up now and standing with his coffee at the terminal, ready to get on the boat.
“How’s the water?”
“Smooth as steel. And there were five fat beautiful harbor seals off Alki.” His voice changes, there’s laughter in it. “Neil mention the jet skiers from yesterday?”
“He did. Were they divers? In January?”
“Wake riders, I think. Although they moved off quickly enough.” “So you didn’t hit any?”
“Sadly, only two.” He chuckles and then, “But what species are you up so early for?”
The words fly from my mouth before I can stop them. “Someone who should know better has gone and bred an unstable bitch. There’s a problem with the puppies and now I have to clean up the mess.”
There is a hard silence, a trap I’ve opened, but I try to cover it with, “Ugh, don’t mind me, it’s early, and it’s freezing out here.”
My dad’s pause continues just a beat longer until he says, “Sounds awful. But maybe it won’t be as bad as you think.”
I talk fast. “I hope so, I hope so. You’re right. I’m just pissed off. People make these bad decisions and aren’t willing to do the right thing. Now I have to do it and it’s no way to start the day.”
A quiet sigh reaches me. “Go easy on them. No one’s perfect.” As he says it, I see him in the wheelhouse of the boat to Bremerton, the rising sun at his back, the dark lip of water and the line of the mountains in his eyes.
“I’m almost there,” I say, “I’ll call you later.”
He tells me to have a good day, and then it’s my turn for a long deep breath, “Clear seas, Captain, watch out for whales.”
When he says goodbye I’m relieved because there is a smile in his voice again.
Caitlin Knemeyer is waiting for me at the top of the long driveway. She isn’t the kind of woman to get flustered but her hands are shaking.
“We got her separated from them,” she says as I roll down my window.
“Show me.”
I leave Trapp in the car and he barks as we cross the front orchard. We walk fast in the dark and I match my long stride to Caitlin’s shorter one, stepping where she steps. The earth is hard and the air slices at my throat. Stepping between two bare walnut trees, another roll of nausea hits me and this time I pause on it, curious. But I step through it, shake my head over it. I should have eaten something, even this early in the morning.
“In here,” she says. We turn off the meadow toward the old calving room and I drop my bag because there she is in one of the old stalls, the partitioned door open at the top. Despite it all, she’s still so beautiful and I have to admit that I can see why they did it. But now she’s a mess and my anger sharpens to a list of calculated observations. The smell of blood and feces, of dog sweat. The sound of raspy breathing. There is blood on her muzzle and a puppy hanging from her jaws. How long has it been hanging there? Has she punctured the skin of its neck? Is it even alive? Her teats are distended and red. The skin of her right foreleg is raw, bitten to the bone. She’s pacing—or really just turning herself in a wide circle, the space is so small—the puppy swinging under her chin. I’m not sure she even knows it’s in her mouth.
“I warned you,” I say. “And you’ve waited too long to call me.”
“I know, I know.” Caitlin’s face is grim. “Nathaniel can be so stubborn. He—”
I cut her off with a glance because I’m angry wit
h both of them. This dog should not have been bred.
“How many were there?”
“Seven. She killed two right away trying to remove their placentas. We didn’t see …”
I imagine they had trouble during the birth. I imagine they realized what would happen just a bit too late. When the dog was already contracting, when she snapped at them if they tried to get near her, and then after, when she started taking it out on the puppies. Just wanting to make her space clean again. I imagine they thought she’d figure it out, that some maternal instinct would kick in if they helped. But instead, she got worse. They always do.
“There are three still in there with her,” Caitlin says.
Now I know why her hands are shaking. Is it the money? I quell the uncharitable thought. Caitlin and Nathaniel have been good breeders until now.
“You’ve called me out here to sedate her?” I ask, because we have to have this conversation.
Caitlin bites her lip. “What is your recommendation?”
“If I can calm her down and get her out of this, then heal that leg, can you keep her?”
“You’re asking me if I think we can keep her with our other dogs?”
I nod. We both know how much work would be involved along with some measure of danger for the healthy dogs. Will she be stable again? Caitlin answers me with downturned eyes and the sharp line of her mouth. So I say, “Ok, can you find her a home?”
She doesn’t answer me. Her brow furrows. I know she’s thinking about her reliability as a breeder. Can they explain what happened, honestly, and give the dog a new home? Hoping she’ll go back to normal once the hormones are gone. Hoping there would be no repercussions on their business. I know she won’t hand the dog over to the Humane Society. This city is too small and people would talk. Slowly, she shakes her head.
Before the gesture is finished, I’m already gloving up with my bite sleeve and grabbing my syringes. The quicker, the better. “Can anyone get near her?” Caitlin shakes her head. I turn my attention to the dog. There is the puppy in her mouth and another lying against the back wall like a stuffed toy. I don’t see a third. Maybe she’s eaten it in the time it took Caitlin to meet me outside.
I open the latch to the partition door but hold it closed in front of me. At the sound of the latch, the dog half-skitters at the door but retreats, more focused on her leg. She’s far too tired. What I don’t understand is why Nathaniel didn’t shoot the dog when it all went wrong. That’s maybe Caitlin’s fault and I’ve seen it so many times. People don’t want to take the responsibility, but you cannot be soft in these situations. Then everyone gets hurt. They might have saved the puppies.
Her movement has shifted her position and that’s when we see the third pup. It scoots out from behind her, nuzzling along the lower back leg. Probably she hasn’t let any of them suckle, which is why her teats look so painful. She can’t lie flat on the floor and she doesn’t understand why. If she flips on her side, the puppies are after her so she’s probably been on her feet for three solid days, unable to eat, unable to sleep. I warned them she wasn’t stable enough to breed. Fucking beautiful dog. A stunning mouse gray with sea-green eyes. Elegantly built. The Knemeyer’s have been breeding Weimerainers since Nathaniel’s great grandfather settled in Wenatchee. He should have known better. No mater how hard they trained her, she never settled. Never accepted a job well done. Always needed more. Always too busy. A dog that could never find quiet. Hysterical when happy, aggressive when startled. She would never whelp well and I knew this.
The puppy is moving away from her; this is my chance. I inch myself into the room, making very little noise, banking on her inconsistency, her focus on the discomfort of her body. A good dog perceiving the threat would be protecting the puppies already. But she’s lost track of me. She’s too busy worrying her leg, biting and gnawing because now the pain is giving her something to do.
It’s only when I’m all the way inside that she notices me. She’s all ripples and teeth and battening down but in a lazy distracted sort of way. Her eyes are unnerving. The green almost human. I keep perfectly still, and we watch each other. I hold my hand behind me, hiding it, my fist clenched tight. This is when I tilt, a lightning fast shift of frame. I tilt away from this room and into another where there’s no blood and no dog, where I’m little and I’m trying to get my hand free from the tight grip on it. The hand clamped on mine is so strong. Fingers crushing fingers and I’m squirming in that kitchen chair, coughing on a strand of hair that’s fallen into my mouth, and I don’t want to but I have to start begging to the eyes focused on me, trying not to cry, let go, please, I’m saying, in my politest voice, but the grip just gets tighter and the eyes more intense and I know it’s going to be another of the awful things and all I can do is close my own eyes and wait for it. I blink hard to re-shift the frame, blink and blink and blink myself back to this calving room, and then I’m reaching forward as the dog is lunging at me, still too slow, stepping on a puppy as she jumps, and I’m shoving my gloved hand into her mouth as she clamps it on me and then my right hand toward her neck, needle first. Hard, burying a part of the syringe in the muscle.
Her jaw isn’t strong enough to break my finger bones; she’s much too tired. But it still hurts like hell, and I yell out. Sloppy and horrible, I push the needle deeper into her neck, but it doesn’t need to be a clean injection. It just needs to stop her. We tussle and Caitlin is yelling and I feel the syringe break off inside her muscle tissue, but it’s already had an effect, her body is slowing even further, her jaw losing its steel. And then she’s off of me and it’s easy to take the second syringe and get her neatly this time, gently pushing the puppy out of the way, to Caitlin who has come in and is reaching already to save what can be saved.
“Done,” I say. And I buckle down onto the floor and let the beautiful dog collapse across my legs. I stroke her as her eyes roll up and close and she shudders gently to her death, and I ignore Caitlin’s hemming and nervous chatter. Poor dog. Poor beautiful demented creature. When she is finally still, I reach across and pull the skin of her lips back down from her frozen snarl so she looks sane again.
Two of the puppies are still alive but very weak, so there is no time to think of anything else. Once we get them cleaned up and fed, Caitlin and I bring them to the whelping box at the back of the building where the other puppies are sleeping and warm. Nathaniel is there, feeding the pups and my anger returns. “That’s a hell of a way to wake up,” I snap, and then, “Do you want me to take her body?”
He keeps his back to me, says thank you in barely a whisper. He is ashamed and I hear my dad again, reminding me not to be so hard on them. I clench my teeth and start again, say I’m sorry he lost the dog. He apologizes to me, a hard rock of sorrow in his voice. It’s what I needed to hear, simple as that, and we work side by side while I check through all the other puppies. We have saved four of the original seven. When I leave an hour later, laying the dog’s carcass in a blanket in the back, shushing Trapp’s nervous whining, there is the satisfaction of numbers. It feels small against the ruthlessness of the dam’s death, but it’s there nonetheless. I drive back to town and to the clinic through the cold January sunlight.
The anger-sad catches me a mile past the empty Johnson farm and I pull off into their driveway and barely have the car in park in time. There’s no one around here so I put some noise into it, wiping the tears as they fall and feeling the pinch in my abdomen where the sorrow sits tight and contained. Trapp noses my shoulder and I lean into his shaggy flank until I’m ok again, the spike of emotion flattening out into calmer waters. I reach for a tissue packet inside Neil’s fleece. I bury my nose into the smell of him. Relax. This is my frame—today, my life now—and the other one can no longer affect me. I promise myself to call my dad later tonight, remind him that we’re coming to see him at the weekend.
It only takes another fifteen minutes to get to the clinic and in the parking lot my phone beeps with a text from Neil: This is a
lost owl bulletin. How did I miss her?
I smile and answer: dawn flight, silent wings.
And then he’s sending me a picture of our kitchen table with only one place setting, one cup of coffee, one glass of orange juice. I send him back a photo of a tree along the river that the morning sun has set on fire.
Caroline is waiting for me at reception and the look on her face tells me that the evaluation rooms are filled and I will have no time to do anything but begin the work of the day. This suits me fine. I grab a muffin from the small clinic kitchen and it settles my stomach. The hours pass with animals and animal owners and I’m pleased there are no more emergencies, just solvable problems: a pair of injured tabby cats, a steady stream of check-ups and vaccinations, and, just before lunch, my favorite Wolfhound with a nasty gash on its metacarpal pad.
In the afternoon, I go about my rounds at the dog and cat kennels and I take extra time with the Jones’s alpaca. I’ve almost completely forgotten about the morning, about the death and the tilt and Nathaniel Knemeyer’s shamed apology, but I should know better. A hell of a way to start the day, I said to Nathaniel. But it seems the morning will have nothing on the evening because after Mrs. McCune’s Abyssinian and the Belmont’s flat-coat retriever, after three rabbits and one undernourished hamster, Neil walks into the clinic.
He is supposed to be at work. Today is a normal day. And on a normal day we will meet up again at supper and go over our workdays, watch TV or see friends. Today we are supposed to meet Sarah and Harris at 7:00 PM, but here he is instead, Caroline at his side, walking in to where I’m consulting a new client about her breeding cockatiels. He comes in so quickly that he scares the birds and they flap up, a riot of yellow and gray feathers. They land on their owner’s head as Neil reaches me and tries to wrap his arms around me. But I pull back because it’s on his face already. The thing that’s brought him in here at the wrong time of day. I turn away from it; I check the clock. 4:00 PM. Neil should be out in the forest with a group of students right now. He should be out identifying ferns or pinecones, or whatever it is they’re studying this time of year. And I know I’m right because there’s a horsetail fern sticking up out of his jacket pocket. I know this is a gift for me, and I know he’s forgotten it even if he’s brought a hand up to bat it away from his chin. I also know this isn’t what’s brought him in here.
Unfurled Page 1
