How It Ends Page 18

  The second and third times, however, I took a deep breath and lifted my gaze, not to him, not yet, but to the window and stared out as if daydreaming, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d wounded me. After that I listened with no reaction at all and later found out that despite his deep scorn for unmarried mothers and bastard children, he still treated them without charge.

  He was a puzzle, arrogant, distant, and unpredictable, a man who spoke of his wife as if she were nothing more than an ongoing medical case and who went weeks without looking in on her but who on one sunny day above freezing, took an hour out of his schedule to show me around the property.

  We passed the handyman’s quarters and the shed where the gardening tools were kept, the salt lick near the tree line for the deer, and finally his workshop, a low-slung wooden outbuilding set at the far back end of the property.

  It had an uneven cement floor and sturdy wooden worktables—long enough to operate on, he joked stiffly—and three small squirrel hides draped over curved and rusted meat hooks embedded in a support beam.

  Against the wall there was a bench that held his scalpels, a box of surgical gloves, and a tool that looked like tweezers with handles that he called an ear opener, used to insert and separate the skin from the ear cartilage. He showed me a large assortment of knives ranging from a small paring knife to a skinning knife and beyond, scissors to trim around bullet holes or the insides of paws, and heavy-duty pliers used for skin stretching.

  The flesher, an unhappy-looking device for removing layers of flesh clinging to the animal’s skin sat separately, as did the degreaser, clay, a jumble of wire, containers marked with all sorts of noxious chemicals, vats, brooms, cinder blocks, and a ragamuffin pile of furred pieces that, upon closer inspection, contained rabbit faces with limp ears and eye holes, squirrel tails, tiny chipmunk skins with empty, dangly feet, and raccoon masks, again with eyeholes but no eyes.

  The place was chilly and smelled as if something had crawled into the walls and died. The main table had deep, reddish black stains ingrained in the top and when he saw me looking at them, hastened to say that his next investment was going to be a steel-topped table or, at the very least, the biggest laminate table he could find.

  From there he led me back across the lawn, kicking up snow with each stride, and into his study. I’d never been in here before, never even seen the inside, as when the doctor wasn’t here, the door was kept shut and locked. I paused, gazing at all the bookcases, the tall, pure-white sculpture on his desk of a woman holding a child and the dead animals positioned on every flat surface.

  “Come in,” he said, motioning me forward. “Leave the door open.”

  I did and, when he indicated I should sit, perched on the edge of the closest armchair while he traversed the room, stopping at each preserved carcass—a patchy-furred raccoon, a pair of rumpled-looking mourning doves, a red fox whose mouth was twisted in a fierce rictus of what could only be pain or terror, a plaque displaying severed pheasant’s legs, and most unsettling, a tableau of a mother chipmunk lying belly up in a strategically angled bowl of dirt, acorns, and fallen oak leaves, teats turgid and poking through her soft white belly fur, and little pink, hairless baby chipmunks, newborns, frozen forever in the act of squirming toward them to suckle—and told me the abbreviated versions of these, his taxidermy efforts to date.

  He spoke with unbridled enthusiasm of his ongoing quest to create the perfect mounted specimen in a replica of life, of making beginner’s mistakes with the raccoon like failing to plug the mortal wound and orifices with rags to prevent the bodily fluids from leaking out and contaminating the fur. He spoke of the difficulty of preparing the doves and how he would not attempt them again for they weren’t worth the trouble. He spoke of hefting the scalpel and incising the fox from the base of her tail and up along the spine, gently working his gloved hands into the incision and peeling her skin loose from the muscles.

  “Skinning the vixen’s feet was difficult but her face presented the biggest challenge,” he said, pausing and running a gloved fingertip along the fox’s backbone. “One must coax the skin down off the skull, leaving certain tissue attached around the eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. I had some trouble around the eyelids and the tear ducts, but I don’t believe it’s noticeable.”

  “No, not at all,” I said faintly.

  He went on and on, relating the fleshing process, the debate between dry preservation, pickling, and tanning, the threat of bug infestation in the hide, the old-fashioned use of arsenic and the benefits of oxalic acid, and how unprocessed rawhide was nothing more than desiccated skin and, given an environment with a high enough moisture content, would rehydrate, breed bacteria, and putrefy like any other.

  “Oh,” I said, swaying and blotting my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand. “It’s very warm in here, isn’t it?”

  “Put your head on your knees,” he said, and when I could sit up again without reeling, he called Nurse and, with her in attendance, put the stethoscope to my heart, peered into my pupils, and took my pulse. “Do you feel congested? Throat sore? Any aches or pains? Stomach upset?”

  “No, I’m fine,” I said, embarrassed.

  “Are you menstruating?” he said.

  “No,” I mumbled, blushing. “It was just hot in here and you were talking about skinning things and taking out their eyes and putrefaction—”

  “All right, that’s enough,” he said coldly. “You may go now, Louise. You have reminded me most emphatically of how useless it is to try and educate a female in the fine art of perfecting and bringing the natural world to life.”

  I rose too hastily and had to steady myself against the desk for a moment, then hurried away before the burning words crowding my throat burst out.

  Bringing the natural world to life? Those animals had been alive, they’d already had life, and no man with a fleshing machine could ever come close to improving on that.

  Two mornings later Nurse, apparently deciding I was sufficiently healthy, made a soft-boiled egg, handed me Mrs. Boehm’s breakfast tray, and told me to take it up to her.

  “I don’t know about you, but I think this book is weird,” I said, turning off the CD player and glancing at Gran. “I mean, you can already guess everything that’s going to happen; either his wife is some taxidermied mummy and the orphan girl is next—and I swear if she falls down when she’s running away from him, that’s it, I’m done with this—or the nurse is really his wife or his mother or both and he’s a lunatic or some serial killer or whatever…I don’t know.” I rose, restless, and paced the room. “I mean, I feel sorry for Louise, but she’s not doing anything to get away! Well, not that anything’s really happened yet…and it is winter, and okay, yeah, she doesn’t have anywhere to go or anyone to call for help…but still. She must feel like something’s wrong there, you know?” I looked at Gran, who was drooping in her chair. “And, yes, you don’t have to say it, I know there’s a plague going on and people are dropping dead, leaving orphans everywhere, and yes, she has no food or money but…oh, hell, all right…so maybe it doesn’t seem as ominous to her as it sounds to us. Or maybe…oh, God, maybe it was so bad back then that it really was better to stay than run away. What do you think? Gran?” I went over to her but she’d fallen asleep, so that left me no choice but to sit down and start my stupid homework.

  It was kind of creepy walking home alone through the back acres in the fast-approaching dark, and that was unsettling, because I’d never felt that way about our little woods before. I didn’t know whether it was just a spooky night or if it was coming out of Gran’s with that story on my mind and that horrible image of the doctor cutting open a spine and working his hands into the incision to loosen the skin from the muscle, but holy crap, when a leaf rustled, I took off for my back porch like the hounds from hell were after me.

  And later at dinner, I said, “Did you know that electroshock therapy actually makes a person go into, like, an epileptic seizure and that it’s so s
trong you can break bones and tear ligaments and stuff?”

  “I’m eating,” my father said, giving me a look over a forkful of spaghetti.

  “Did you know that taxidermists use fleshing machines to—”

  “Where are you getting all of this from? Don’t tell me it’s homework,” my mother said, wrinkling her nose.

  “No, it’s Gran’s audiobook, and it’s supposed to be a love story, but did you know that doctors used to think that if a woman was educated, all her energy would go to her brain instead of her reproductive organs and her uterus would atrophy and then she would be useless?” I said, trying not to laugh as my father stared down at his plate in dismay.

  “Seeing as how she was only good for breeding in the first place, of course,” my mother said with a derisive sniff. “Don’t get me started, Hanna.” She twirled up a forkful of spaghetti and paused. “Ask Helen if I can borrow that book when you guys are done with it, okay? I’d like to hear it.”

  “Well, tomorrow we’re going to find out if the guy has taxidermied his wife—”

  “Eating,” my father said weakly.

  “Or he’s some kind of serial killer who married his own mom—”

  “That’s it,” my father said and, grabbing his plate, went into the living room to finish in front of a nice, simple alien-end-of-the-world sci-fi movie.

  “Is he mad?” I said, looking at my mother.

  She shook her head, lips twitching. “No, but someday, when you’re in a mixed crowd, mention the word uterus and see how fast the guys clear the room. It’s an interesting phenomenon.”

  “Can I use the word atrophy with it, too?” I asked, grinning.

  “Oh, I wish you would,” she said, and we both cracked up.

  My mother put her music on while we were clearing the table, and in the middle of it, she put a hand on my arm and said, “Stop for a minute and listen to this. Listen to the words, Hanna, and then try to tell me we don’t just keep reliving the same feelings and problems as the people before us, over and over and over.”

  “What is it?” I said, leaning back against the counter.

  “Janis Joplin singing ‘A Woman Left Lonely,’” she said softly, turning it up and leaning next to me. “Tell me this isn’t timeless.”

  And I listened and I heard the raggedy pain and raw yearning and bewilderment, heard the question and wanted to hear the answer, too, but the only one seemed to be neglect by a man and that made my heart as heavy as a brick, and I just shook my head and went back to clearing the table because I couldn’t stand thinking that how bad I felt and how lonely I felt with Seth sometimes was not only timeless but…common.

  Crystal’s brother’s keg party would have been better if I hadn’t gotten the bright idea to bring Seth, too, to introduce him to Crystal and have him meet my other friends.

  Bad idea.

  He stiffened up the minute he saw all the guys with long hair and tats in the clearing, got a chip on his shoulder a mile wide, and partied so hard there was no way I could let him drive home, which pissed him off, so he started getting shitty with me in front of everyone there and only stopped when Crystal, wearing hard eyes and a hard smile, quietly reminded him that everyone here was my friend, not his, and he was making an asshole out of himself.

  He went over and sat down on a log, smoking and sulking and glaring until I told Crystal we were just going to go.

  “How?” she said. “He can’t drive.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, because there was no way I could take him back to my house like that, so we took him back to Crystal’s. She made him coffee, and I knew what she was thinking, but she never said it out loud, and she stayed while we poured a whole pot of coffee into him. I told her to go back to the party because I was going to walk him around until he seemed half decent, so she did.

  I took him outside and made him walk with me, first with my arm around him, and then just next to me because he pushed me away and snapped, I can do it, so I was like, Fine, then do it, because I was so mad at myself for bringing him there in the first place.

  “You think you know me, but you don’t,” he said, swaying and giving me a look full of disgust. “You don’t know shit, so why don’t you just get the hell away from me?”

  “Why are you saying that?” I said, starting to cry. “What did I ever do to you?”

  He blinked hard, focused on me, and sniffed. “Right, go ahead, cry. That’s all girls ever do. Cry and lie to get out of it. You’re all the same.” He turned, fumbling with his fly and stumbled over to the bushes on the side of Crystal’s house. That’s when I heard a bike rumble up.

  It was Jesse.

  “Hey, Hanna, long time no see,” he said with an easy smile, climbing off the bike and hanging the helmet. “You headed down to the party or what?”

  “Actually, we’re just leaving,” I said, glancing around to make sure Seth wasn’t lurching out toward me, because if there was one thing I didn’t want, it was—

  “Hey, how’re you doing?” Jesse said, his gaze shifting to somewhere behind me.

  “Sup?” Seth said, reeling up and slinging an arm around my neck.

  I met Jesse’s gaze, calm and dark and slightly amused, and just wanted to die, because he recognized Seth from the mall, I knew he did, and I felt like a fool. “So, uh, how’s work?” I said desperately, dragging my hair out from under Seth’s arm and wincing.

  “In this economy I’m just glad for the steady paycheck.” He tucked his hair behind his ear and cocked his head, eyes twinkling. “So how’s school? Did you graduate yet?”

  “No,” I said, silently begging him not to go any further, and he must have caught my plea because he just smiled and said, “Well, hey, I have to get down to the party.” And to Seth, “Good seeing you again, buddy,” and ambled away whistling.

  “So did you ever fuck him?” Seth said, loud enough for him to hear.

  Jesse stiffened, paused, and turned, all traces of good humor wiped from his face. I caught my breath and managed a furious, “No!” to Seth, and after a second, Jesse kept going, and then I struggled out from under Seth’s arm and said, “What is wrong with you? Why did you say that?”

  “Because he wants to fuck you,” he said, lifting his chin and giving me a cold look.

  I looked away, arms wrapped around my waist, and I couldn’t help it, I started to cry again. “Why are you being like this?”

  “Tell me I’m wrong,” he demanded.

  “You’re wrong,” I said, avoiding his gaze.

  “Bullshit,” he said. “Were you ever with him?”

  “What are you talking about?” I cried. “This is a party and he said hi, so what, big deal!”

  “Were you?” he said.

  And what I wanted to say was, Yes, I was! There, are you happy now? But I didn’t because that would have made him even madder, and I was already humiliated, and all I wanted to do was walk away and leave him there, not forever but for now, but I couldn’t do that because if I did, I knew he would never come back. He could do that, he could close himself down and turn it all off, and one stupid fight wasn’t worth losing him over, so I didn’t say anything, just stood there huddled and sniffling and wiping my eyes, and finally he sighed and said quietly, “Come here.” I did and he held me and said he was sorry but he didn’t like seeing me so friendly with so many scummy bikers—

  “They’re not scummy, they’re my friends,” I mumbled against his tear-soaked shirt.

  “Yeah, well, I’m your boyfriend,” he said, holding me tighter. “Unless you don’t want me anymore.”

  “Of course I do,” I said, crying harder because I was scared. “Don’t even say that!”

  “Well, what am I supposed to think, Hanna?” he said, pulling back and making me look at him. “You’re choosing them over me.”

  “I never said that,” I said, hiccupping. “But Crystal’s my best friend—”

  “I thought I was your best friend,” he said, sounding hurt.

&nb
sp; It just got worse from there for another minute until I was really sobbing and saying, Fine, I wouldn’t come down to any more parties at Crystal’s unless he was with me, and then he hugged me and we walked some more and he finally got sober enough to drop me off back at my house. I was worried about him driving home but he said he’d be fine and he was, except for running over somebody’s big plastic recycling bucket and dragging it for a mile before it finally shattered and broke free.

  Gran is getting too skinny and I think it’s because she can’t eat anything anymore but mushed-up food because she chokes easy. Grandpa said if the food goes down the wrong pipe and ends up in her lungs, then it’ll breed bacteria and she’ll get pneumonia and probably die, so we have to be very, very careful about feeding her.

  Plus, she never stops moving and that has to burn calories because she’s always sweating, too, and I swear to God she looks so exhausted that I feel like tying her arms down or something, just to give her a break. The thing is, she’d still strain and twitch and jerk, only she’d probably end up with hideous rope burns, too, and that would make me an old-person abuser, so forget it.

  I don’t want to hurt her, ever.

  How It Ends

  I took a deep breath and, juggling the breakfast tray, opened the door to Mrs. Boehm’s room. “Hello?”

  “I was wondering when you would make an appearance,” said a soft voice from somewhere among the pile of pillows on the bed. “Come in, please.”

  “I have your breakfast,” I said and sidled into the shadowy room, trying not to spill the glass of grapefruit juice and cup of hot tea on the tray.

  “Another egg,” the voice said with a tinge of disgust.

  I wasn’t sure what to do with it and stood there until she said, “Well, bring it here, please, and then open the shades. I’d like to see who I’m talking to.”