Zain squinted his eyes. The temperature was in the high nineties. The sky was clear but the air felt humid. He was short of breath, his lungs working hard for every oxygen molecule, passing on their deficit to the rest of his body. It made him yawn, which made him feel vulnerable. He stared at the mountain range to the west. It was covered in trees, and he could tell from the way the branches swayed that a refreshing north wind was at work, the kind he enjoyed.
Patience. He would hike the foothills to clear his mind as soon as he was done with the mess on his front yard:
A buck, impaled on a cracked fence plank.
The setup was grotesque, and it made no sense. First, the animal should have raised hell, digging up the dirt when it got stuck. But the earth around it was unbroken. And they’d heard nothing all night except for the hoot of the squatter owl by the trees near the shed.
Zain examined the carnage, his mind conjuring up images of violent rituals around bonfires designed to appease bloodthirsty urges.
He didn’t hear Kayla calling out to him from the deck, holding a phone.
‘Sugar, did you hear what I said? It’s Jake from the Sheriff’s office. They want to know if it’s okay to pass by in an hour. Zain!’
He didn’t respond. Enthralled, he stared at the carcass. There was a sense of performance gushing out of the animal’s pose. Its mouth was jackhammered open, wide with agony, a contrarian affirmation of life, ceremonious in its visceral quality, grave and symbolic. The eyes shone unnaturally, a pair of dark bulbs that reflected the green grass. Blood had pooled around the shank. Some of it had dried on the wood, giving it the appearance of something designed and treated, like the ornaments one finds in the fancy new-age antique shops in town along with all the tribal furniture and beads and talismans from around the country. The set-piece violence, its sheer force – as if the shank had erupted from the earth’s flesh, a thorn kicked out into the world like a dis-incubated curse, on which a maimed deer had landed, belly-flat, reminding those above ground they shouldn’t rest easy at night. A scene with Hieronymus Bosch written all over it, but without the demons and gnomes.
‘Zain! … He’s not listening, Jake. Yeah, come by in about an hour. We’re not going anywhere.’
She went back inside, the screen door slamming shut behind her.
Zain looked up. He could have sworn he’d heard something. He always heard something. The place bubbled with noises, voices, whispers. Trees creaking and groaning and hissing in the breeze, the chatter of forest animals – squirrels, carpenter bees, porcupines, raccoons, crows, magpies, wild turkeys – and the kids, of course, who loved messing around, behaving like city kids, not yet appreciative of the beauty of staying silent in the middle of nature and letting it soak in.
There was also Kayla. Always lacking something, owed something, perennially frustrated and compelled to shout from every corner of the house, her face steaming with stray words, commands and mandates he’d fail to catch in between his work and his chores. Comments that kept coming. Did you mail the letters, Sugar Lump? Did you nibble on peanuts again last night? You know you’re not supposed to snack after 9. Why do you do this, Sugar Lump? Didn’t we agree you’d cut back? Don’t turn me into a warden. Remember to call the library tomorrow. We need those books on soil activation. Check the tyres and the oil – no, do it now, before you forget. Or write it down. It’s good to write things down, Zain, I don’t have to tell you. By the way…
Then, of course, the neighbours. Racket-racket. How these people loved hollering and making their presence felt, like fussy birds staking out their territory. Their noise disproportionate to what they accomplished. Such an eagerness to appear busy, to make sure everyone registered their activity. Garbage runs, grocery runs, splitting wood, painting the damn shed, trimming and pruning, raking and landscaping. They could have done everything gracefully, without fanfare, but they needed the validation. Such a pain. Their automatic and nonstop pleasantries, day and night, even if they’d seen you ten minutes ago: ‘Hi Z-Man! Isn’t the weather glorious? Want some fresh eggs from the market? Want some wood? We have plenty. Love what you did with the lawn, Z-Man. Have a good day!’
On top of that – he smirked at the coming pun – was the sky. It shook and rumbled, even on sunny days. Distant peels of thunder were a daily occurrence, the calling card of passing storms, a reminder that fine weather was never to be taken for granted.
Don’t forget the woodpeckers. So many of them, rat-tat-tat all day.
And the owls. The damn creatures wouldn’t let up. Hoot-hoot went the clandestine choir club, the house joining in, its beams groaning and the rafters snapping as the temperature dropped and the land slipped into its crackling nightgown.
Even the silence had a way of leaving traces that evaporated as soon as he fixed his attention on them. Echoes of whispers that toyed with him.
Zain walked round the fence, examining the carcass from different angles.
Part of him felt it would rise up and canter.
He placed his hand on its haunches. It was stone cold (mental note: the blood needs draining asap) and hard. He ran his fingertips up the hide, watching its bristles spring up like tiny catapults. They didn’t kick up any dust. The fur was fluffy, like the animal had just stepped out of the Botticelli Beauty Spa, eager to bestow its glamour on the world. Once-upon-a-time cervine royalty, the dandy of dandies, talk of the town, antler majesty, and now dead as a kebab. Snack on a toothpick, antlers for coatracks. The hide would make an excellent rug. He felt guilty for thinking like this, but sometimes you had to make light of things. The more he glared at the dead animal, the smaller it looked. He sniffed his fingers. Stale sweat with a hint of agony. He dabbed his tongue with his index finger. Bitter and yeast-like. Zain’s head spun, his mouth filling with the hot gummy slaver of pre-vomit. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant. His bowels churned with a secret, guilty longing that reminded him of his first hunt with Father.
He scratched his beard, replaying the occasion in his head. The first time he’d seen a dead animal the entrails had been torn out and thrown to the dogs, as happens on a hunt. But the sight and stench hadn’t gotten to him (he’d heaved himself dry the previous night from anxiety) and Father was quietly impressed.
‘It may look huge to you, but this here wild hog is half the size of its former self now that it’s dead. End of story. Now touch the innards. Go on…’
Zain remembered how he’d slid his hand in the open belly and smeared the hot mess on his cheeks and forehead. When Father wasn’t looking he tasted it, and it was foul, giving him the kind of nausea he was experiencing now, so many years down the line.
The impaled buck was his to deal with, and the clock was ticking. The flies had gathered, sucking up blood and bacteria, rubbing their wings and legs together, a biological buzz saw working on flesh. A cadre of wasps munched on the tender areas around the eyes and nostrils. Nature’s macabre stage play, free of charge at his doorstep. He should take notes. A scene like this could be of use. Not for the dark romance he was working on, but he could find a place for it in future writing. Or better yet, he could share it. The Revere Trail Troupe might use it in their stage plays. They were wild and up for anything. Their adaptations were bold, always with an identity-politics twist or some killer angle. The New York critics loved them, Pennsylvania and Delaware not so much, but he sided with NY. Art was meant to challenge and provoke, to push buttons and cross boundaries, just like this little piece of tragedy in his yard.
The Summer of Tragedy season was in full swing, with Gunpowder Plot and Macbeth coming up. A fitting set of narratives for this imagery. What could be more tragic and archetypal than a buck impaled on a fence, its face eaten out by nature’s smaller creatures?
He’d get in touch with the Troupe over the weekend. Perhaps even offer them the idea for free, from artist to artist.
But before that, here, now, the Hieronymus Bosch…
He walked over to the shed, his brain itching. Something about the setup looked and felt familiar, something he’d seen in a film perhaps, or a dream. Something to do with Rome (why did that word come to mind?) or water. Reflections. Rivers. His thoughts misted up, the answer lodged in his cerebellum, unable to simmer into words. All he knew was the feeling. He knew the image that gave rise to it, understood it in a manner he couldn’t pin down. The grotesque act defied language, kindling a sensation in his bone marrow, ancient as the humours that fuelled him.
He would write about it later. Process it like he processed all things: on paper.
‘Cleanup time!’ He spoke the words with panache, addressing the ever-present absent audience of all things unregistered. His statement was part announcement, part nudge.
Zain rummaged around the shed for canvas or tarp, something to cover up the buck until he figured out how to deal with it.
Removing the carcass would take time. He’d called the Sheriff’s office earlier and they said they’d notify the Fire Department. He told them he didn’t need the Fire Department because on a hot day like this everyone was watching out for wildfires, and said he’d get in touch with the Mayor’s office instead, but they suggested he ring up the roadkill companies, just in case the Fire Department couldn’t make it.
In other words, a communication salad. As always.
It was the unprofessionalism that got to him. The Sheriff’s unwillingness to engage the situation was disappointing. Jake, the deputy, was lazy like that, eager to pass the buck – pun intended. Whatever needed to be done, he had someone else for the job.
‘Honey…’ shouted Zain.
The house was silent. The front door was closed, the windows shut. The aircon was on, keeping the interior cool and crisp.
The kids were inside.
They’d been told to stay in until further notice.
‘Honey! Did you call the roadkill company?’
No reply.
‘Fencekill! That’s what it is,’ he mumbled.
Back inside the shed, behind a stack of boxes, he came across a stash of white canvas.
‘The hell did I do with the black one?’ he growled, flinging objects around.
A few minutes later, he stepped back outside, an old navy blue cap on his head and the white canvas tucked under his arm, mumbling to himself. Lost in thought, he walked straight into a cluster of yellowjackets. The insects retreated, except one that made for his face. He backslapped it out of the air and felt its dry impact on his fingernails.
Dazed, the insect buzzed on and off like a broken toy on the ground.
He stepped on it, rotating his boot left and right.
Good job, son! Father would say. Make sure to put it out, whatever it is, or its pain lingers and seeps into the world.
The roar of an engine spilt over from the driveway.
A white van came ambling up the path, a bright red logo on the side door: Tri-state Gerber Patrol.
‘The fuck now?’ he mumbled.
Kayla stepped out on the deck.
‘Baby… Jake called. They’re going to drop by in an hour. Maybe sooner.’
‘Right.’ He spoke without turning, his eyes on the van. ‘Very gracious of him.’
‘Zain, don’t start.’
‘Start what?’
‘It’s not the day for it, Sugar Lump!’
Zain shook his head and laughed. ‘It’s the perfect day for it. That damn Jake! All he does is flash around his badge along with his two-bit smile. What do they have to worry about here, Kay? Armies of agro-tourists doing 35 in the 30 zone? Psychopathic woodpeckers? Cicadas with electric guitars and no permit to perform outdoors?’
‘Settle down, baby, nobody likes a smartass.’
‘Look at this. A gothic scene, right on our doorstep.’
‘Yes, it is. That I’ll give you.’
‘If I were Jake, I’d be all over it.’
‘You’re not Jake. And you’re not running for office, so let it go.’
‘The man’s a lazy, entitled prick.’
‘Jake’s all right. You know that.’
‘Sure is. All damn right, from head to toe.’
Kayla flashed a big smile. ‘Need anything from the kitchen?’
‘I got it, Honey Drop! I’ll call out if I need you.’
The door banged shut.
The Critter Team was out of the van, rolling up their sleeves, slipping their latex gloves on. They feasted on the spectacle with wild and hungry eyes.
‘Awful mess,’ said the driver. ‘Goddamn awful, awful mess.’
He was short and stocky with scruffy blond hair and a shrill voice. His upper lip curled when he spoke, exposing a mess of yellow, worn-down teeth.
‘Yup,’ said Zain, walking up to him.
‘Any idea how this happened?’ said the other man. Taller, with thin, long arms and chopstick-thin fingers, he stared at the carcass.
‘Don’t know,’ said Zain. ‘Probably in his childhood. Probably has a dad who doesn’t give two shits about him. Grows up to be lazy and entitled. You might call him idiosyncratic, but he figures you’re calling him names, or enlisting him in a sect, so he lectures you on how the Evangelicals are better than the Idiosyncratics, the cream of the righteous crop.’
‘What the hell you talking about?’ said the driver.
‘I don’t know,’ said Zain. ‘You tell me.’
‘I asked you how this happened,’ said the other one.
‘And I was hoping you’d tell me.’
Zain waited. It would be fun to keep trashing Jake to these people who had no idea what he was talking about, and who’d probably read into it and take it personally if he kept it up.
Then again, he had better things to do than to clown around like that.
The driver scratched his head and circled the carcass.
‘One hell of a mess,’ he repeated, grinding his teeth. ‘Vicious, is what it is.’
Zain put the canvas to the side.
‘So?’ he asked again.
‘Looks like an impaling to me,’ said the driver.
‘Sure does,’ added the other one, flexing his thin fingers.
‘I hope this verdict was free of charge,’ said Zain.
The driver grinned and pointed to the mountain range.
‘Heard them stories? There was Indians up there back in the day. They was getting off with this type of shit, running stakes through the wildlife while it was still kicking. Most times couldn’t get a hold of deer so they stuck pigs. When they couldn’t stick pigs, they stuck humans.’
‘Yep, it’s common knowledge,’ said the other one. ‘Vicious customs these savages had. Shame we couldn’t civilise them.’
Zain took a moment.
‘It seems to me that—’
‘You sure you didn’t do this, mister?’ snarled the tall guy. ‘Get yourself a buck and spike it just to watch it die real slow? Watch it bleed to death? You ain’t got Indian blood in you that makes you go savage at night, do you?’
Zain counted to ten inside his head, then turned to the tall guy and looked him over. A walking stain. His clothes were dark with coffee, maybe old blood, and his face was marked with acne. His eyes never blinked. Just two mineral stones inside a clump of flesh that looked septic.
His partner, the driver, gazed at the buck, chewing on his tongue, rubbing the back of his ear.
Zain shut his eyes and a shiver shot down his spine. Visions of hacked flesh came and went inside his head. He glanced at the trees, the foliage washing over his mind, neutralising the burn inside his skull and the pain in his chest. He weighed his next words carefully, but just as he was about to speak, a third man emerged from the back of the van.
He was tall, around six foot seven, and out of breath. Close to three hundred pounds, maybe more. And flustered as a hog who’d just gone through the hour’s meal.
‘Don’t tease the customers, Lemur,’ the man huffed, walking over to the carcass in short confident steps, a lit cigarette between his fingers. ‘It ain’t good for business. How many times do I have to tell you if it ain’t good for business, don’t do it.’
Then, with a grin, his voice wet with tobacco, to Zain: ‘Don’t pay attention to them, Mr. Warwick. They don’t mean any harm by it.’
The boss man took a long drag from his cigarette and approached the quarry. His two employees glanced at each other in silence. Zain saw black mist rise from their heads. It hovered around their faces until the heat chewed it up. He envisioned the boss man stuck on the shank atop the buck, the two rednecks prodding him with their gloved fingers, their plastic and metal tools, all their pent-up anger finding an outlet on the man’s frame.
‘Can we take a closer look?’ asked the boss man.
Zain said nothing.
‘These two idiots you see here,’ the man continued, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his forehead, ‘always have something smart to add. Isn’t that right, Clay? A real-life Beavis and Butthead act…’ – and then to Zain – ‘Aren’t they a riot?’
Lemur and Clay sniggered. There was nothing funny about them except the banality of their malice and their undoubtedly early obituary date, which would arrive care of their meth of choice and their desolate spirit. Their epitaph would read: Here lies One on top of the Other in One Hell of a Mess… and their tombstone would make target practice for the shitting birds and the gun store crowd.
Zain looked up at the mountains, longing for cool crisp air. Privacy and calm. An afternoon, maybe even a day or two, removed from so-called civilisation.
‘My name is D. T. Gerber, Mr. Warwick,’ said the boss man. ‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.’ He shoved the damp handkerchief in his pocket. ‘I’ve heard a ton about you. Then again, everybody has. An author like yourself is rare in these parts. Especially one who’s partial to the Second Amendment. Earl Doherty is a friend of mine. He owns the gun store on Raleigh. The community is tight, no secrets among friends and neighbours, not even in an area as spacious as ours.’ He took a step closer with his hand outstretched, but Zain didn’t take it. Gerber sneered, retracted his hand, and continued.
‘I’m the head of this outfit. One of them anyway. We’re a family business, as you might know. Everyone’s heard of us. Big family, the Gerbers. Many branches across the country, plenty of organisations under our name. We’ve been at this here job since 1947. That’s when my grandfather set up a pent for nature’s burglars, you know, raccoons and foxes and the like. All the nasty stuff that gets into the wrong places at the wrong time. Not that there’s ever a right time for intrusion, if you get my drift.’ He glanced at the dead buck, rubbing his palms.
Zain remembered what his father once said: You can tell everything about people from the way they treat the dead.
‘We’ve grown our business plenty over the years,’ Gerber went on. ‘We know how to take care of any type of situation.’ He rolled up his sleeves, licked his thumb, rubbed his nose.
‘This one here,’ he said, pointing at the carcass, ‘poor bastard seems to have misjudged his step. He didn’t extend himself right. Slid on the grass as he went for the jump, the sheer mass of him splits the wood, the shank penetrates the tender underbelly and here we are… Gore-galore.’ His face was flush, and through squinted eyes: ‘Either way, the critter’s ready for the knife. He needs to be bled dry before—’
Gerber paused, conscious of Zain’s glare.
‘Anyway, we’ll have the creature removed and the place cleaned up for five hundred bucks. A buck for five hundred! It doesn’t get better than that.’
Gerber laughed at his own joke. His crew watched on in silence, chewing on their tongues.
‘Ok, four fifty,’ said Gerber, raising his hands in resignation. ‘Best deal this side of Jones Creek. I can charge no less.’
Zain counted inside his head to cool his temper. He couldn’t stop imagining how many animals had died in Gerber’s hands. The shrieking that must accompany the man in dark basements filled with sharp implements and helpless creatures that had been commissioned to feed that black-hole psyche.
‘Four thirty’s the lowest I can go, friend,’ said Gerber, his tiny eyes popping wide, his greedy eyeballs stuck out in frustration. ‘Take it or leave it.’ He rolled up his sleeves one extra fold, buying himself time. The folds were too tight, and he yanked them with an adolescent’s frustration.
‘I won’t be needing your services, Mr. Garber.’ Zain’s voice was soft and deliberate. ‘Thanks all the same.’
‘Four ten, just for you. And the name’s Gerber.’
‘Not interested. Thank you for your concern.’
‘What the hell are you talking about? Are you out of your mind? We came all the way from Ridgeville.’
‘I didn’t ask you to. I don’t know who sent for you and I don’t care. Your services aren’t needed.’
‘This fucker will rot on your fence.’
‘I’ll take care of it.’
‘What are you going to do with it?’
‘Thank you, Mr. Gerber.’
‘Four hundred even, that’s the lowest I can do, friend.’ The big man rubbed his nose. ‘Ok, three ninety. You’re skinning me, but anything for a new acquaintance.’
‘No deal. Excuse me, I have work to do.’
Gerber grinned. He cocked his head, chucked his cigarette away, stepped on it with a token gesture. The flattened butt threw up spirals of smoke in protest. He lit a fresh one and strolled toward the carcass. Circled it a couple of times. Shook his head, glanced up at the sky with his palm over his eyes. The sun was peaking, casting short shadows, the buzz of the insects loud.
There was a creak from the direction of the house.
He turned to see, and his greedy eyeballs popped out again. The corners of his mouth lifted.
Kayla stood behind the screen door, staring at them.
‘Everything alright, Zain?’
‘Everything’s fine, hon. I was just telling these fellas to have a nice day.’
Gerber coughed, his throat wet with tobacco scum. He licked his lips, rolled his sleeves all the way down to his fists and turned to Kayla. He bowed his head an inch, with a face all grin, then turned to Zain and bowed even lower, then snapped his fingers at Lemur and Clay, turned around, and made his way to the van.
He jumped in, hollered, and banged the twin doors shut.
The vehicle sped away in a cloud of dust.
‘What the hell was that about?’ asked Kayla.
‘Scavengers,’ said Zain.
Kayla rested her hands on her waist.
‘I wanted to tell you that I called the Mayor’s office, and they said they’d notify the Fire Department. They also said not to bother with the roadkill company. It’s not worth the trouble.’
‘You’re damn right. I have no idea how these bastards got wind of it, but we better get the smell of death off the property. Before it attracts more of them.’
‘Well put, baby. I’m glad you’re dealing with it. I’ll let you get on with it. And don’t forget the mail.’
She disappeared inside the house.
Zain walked over to Gerber’s cigarette butt. It was still smouldering.
He put it out with a twist of his boot.
*****
The Fire Department never came.
Zain was worried. The forest was probably burning again. He couldn’t see smoke, but it didn’t mean anything. The blaze could be downwind.
Then again, maybe everything was fine, and the reason the Fire Department never came was that Jake just hadn’t called them, the good-for-nothing lying prick.
It didn’t matter. In fact, better that way. Zain would deal with the situation on his own terms, and that was just fine with him.
Glossary
Zain: Beauty; Grace. (Source: thebump.com)
Warwick: Building near the weir; Fortification; Farm. (Source: thebump.com)
Kayla: Slender; Fair; Pure; Crown of laurels; Who is like God? (Source: thebump.com, momlovesbest.com)
Gerber: Occupational name for a tanner; also (informal) (= vomir): to puke (Source: Merriam Webster)
Lemur: Shades or spirits of the restless or malignant dead in Roman religion. (Source: Wikipedia)
Clay: Thick, heavy earth that is soft when wet, and hard when dry or baked. (Source: cambridge.org)
Jake: Related to ‘to follow’ or ‘supplanter’; someone who seizes or circumvents. Also related to ‘may God protect’. (Source: thebump.com, Wikipedia)
Doherty: From O’Dochartaigh, meaning Descendant of Dochartach, whose name meant Unlucky, or Hurtful, or Obstructive, or Hard-hearted. (Source: dohertyspubsandpins.com, houseofnames.com, ancestry.com)
Sheriff: an official of a county or parish charged primarily with judicial duties (as executing the processes and orders of courts and judges). From Old English scīrgerēfa, from scīr shire + gerēfa reeve (king’s agent). (Source: Merriam Webster)
Buck: A symbol of lively and energetic nature; a symbol of spiritual authority; a messenger between this world and the next. A buck’s antlers fall off and grow again, so also a symbol of regeneration. (Source: faena.com, wikihow.com)
Gunpowder Plot: The conspiracy of English Roman Catholics to blow up Parliament and King James I, his queen, and his eldest son on November 5, 1605. (Source: Britannica)
Macbeth: A tragedy by William Shakespeare It is thought to have been first performed in 1606. It dramatises the damaging physical and psychological effects of political ambition on those who seek power. (Source: Wikipedia)
