What Mac Left Behind

I always thought it would be Gracie who’d rescue me from my childhood nemesis—not a monster under my bed, but one beside it, in it. I was wrong.

            Big Mac passed while we were on vacation. We’d left for Myrtle Beach at six in the morning on a Saturday. Mac departed this world not twenty four hours later. Gracie had no way of contacting us so Mac was eulogized and buried without us, without me.

            When I found out, I sobbed myself to hiccups knowing I hadn’t said goodbye to him, hadn’t asked him to swing me around one more time, had never worked up the nerve to tell him . . . Not to mention Gracie’d lost the love of her life. I gnawed my nails down to the quick knowing my best friend in the whole world had lost her husband of sixty one years and I hadn’t been there for her.

            On Monday Gracie was marvelously collected when she described his death.

            “He never woke up,” she said. “Had his hands folded over his chest as if he knew.”

            She dabbed under my nose with a lavender handkerchief. “Now, Pet, don’t grieve so. He had a wonderful life and where he is now, it’s even better. Plus we’ll see him—”

            She stopped herself but I knew the word she’d nipped off: soon. My heart stuttered as the thought of being alone in the world settled on and around me. Gracie smoothed the front of her dark dress. That’s when I noticed the pile of spent hankies on the end table and realized despite her brave demeanor, she was not without her own sorrow.

            “He left you something,” she said. When she held out her hand, I noticed it was trembling. “Come.”

            Gracie led me upstairs and down the hall to the other side of the house. When she opened the last door on the left, Big Mac’s Old Spice aroma embraced me. I took in the room—dark woods, white chenille bedspread, Mac’s pocket knife, wallet, and mustard-colored change pouch on the dresser.

            The closet door was cracked. Inside hung the navy blue suit Mac wore to church every Sunday. I turned with my face bunched up.

            “What’d you bury him in?”

            “His other suit. The black one he wore when we got married.”

            That fact tore fresh tears from me. Gracie pressed her handkerchief into my hand before she entered Mac’s closet. She stood on tiptoe to reach the top shelf. When she faced me again, she held a wooden box. I stiffened. I knew that box. I'd helped Mac build it. For his gun.

~~~

It wasn’t a big gun, just a .22. Mac had showed me how to use it in March when he took me to Gideon Woods to shoot pop cans off fence posts. The box was tied with a bow like a present, with the same strips of cloth Mac and I used to stake up tomato plants each summer.

            Gracie pressed the case toward me. “He wanted you to have it.”

            My eyes bugged. I pushed against it. “No way! Shouldn’t you keep it? Since you’re all alone now?”

            Gracie set the gun on Mac’s dresser. “Don’t worry about me, Pet. I have a little something of my own.”

            We stood there for a little while, quiet, both of us sniffling off and on. I tried to manage a complete breath but it seemed impossible. I missed Mac so. Hated the knowledge that I’d never see him again.  

            After a few minutes Gracie encased my hands in hers, peered deep into my eyes with her cornflower blue ones.

            “Mac knew, Pet,” she whispered. “We both did.”

            Immediately I felt the blood in my face drain away. Even so, I wanted to grin. They knew? Really? Then I scowled. If they knew, why didn’t— I made my eyes small to focus like microscopes so I could see inside her, to make sure we shared the same thought.

            “That’s why he wanted you to have this,” Gracie said. “Keep it under your bed, or in it. Use it when the time is right.”

            I slumped. They did know. I glanced over at the dresser. Imagined the gun in my hand. Pictured pointing it at a human being, someone I knew, and squeezing—

            My eyes fluttered open. “But what if—”

            She circled my waist with her arms, joined her fingers together over my hip to form a solid fence around me.

            “Shhh. You’ll know what to do,” she said. “What did Mac tell you when he taught you to shoot this spring?”

            “He said the gun is my friend, my equalizer. What’d he mean by that, Gracie?” I pressed on. “And he said make sure I understand the repercussions of using it or not using it. When I’m in danger." 

            Gracie tilted her head. “He said all that?”

            I nodded. Gracie let go of me and stepped away. “Well, then. I reckon you’re ready. Do what you have to do, Pet. I’ll be praying for you.”

            She was headed out of the room when I asked the question I’d wanted to ask for ages.

            “Gracie? Can’t you just talk to my—”

            Gracie sagged in the doorway before she turned.

            “Oh, sweet girl, I tried. I did. Your mom . . .” The corner of Gracie’s left eye crinkled. “Is she all right? Is she on some kind of medication?”

            I squeezed my eyes shut. Pictured the kitchen counter with its array of orangey-gold bottles beside the sink.

            I nodded. “Lots.”  I smashed my nose with my palm to stop its burning.

            “And your daddy’s not home much, is he?”

            I finally lifted the gun case. Crushed it against my chest until the corner made me wince.

            “Even when he is, he isn’t.”

            Gracie wrung her hands. “I’m so sorry, Pet,” she said. “Tonight though, things’re gonna change. Right?”

When Pigs Fly

It would be a good day to bury someone. Or some thing. The ground is soaked after days of drizzle. Will share its moisture if you but step on it.

            I head for the basement. To me, it smells like death but then, it often does. Could be the inch of water on the floor in husband’s workroom. Might be a juvenile rodent in some advanced state of decay, its head like a walked on brussel sprout, thanks to one of husband’s traps. Long ago I relinquished my insistence he use Havahart cages. The day he displayed an incarcerated rat (as opposed to the usual mouse) outside the kitchen window, I nearly dropped my wine glass.

            When he came back inside, I moved away from the sink so he could wash his hands. I spoke through clenched teeth.

            “Get the real traps. The killing kind.”

            I empty the dehumidifier. Fill the bunnies’ water bottle. That’s when I notice what’s wrong with this picture. I take in the cages of our guinea pigs—Trixie Juniper (sassy and sleek) and Sweetie (humble, like Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web, and tousled).

            Something seems familiar. I picture the scene in The Wizard of Oz when the witch’s feet poke out from under her house. Only here in our basement, it's Sweetie’s butt that sticks out from under her purple pigloo. I make a hummy noise. That’s when I notice the silence. Consider she is not whistling and chuttering her usual high-pitched alarm. Ever since she learned basement light equals human equals food (at least a fair amount of the time—intermittent reinforcement and all that), she has proved our most vociferous beast.

            I slump. Exhale loudly. “Did he not see her?” I ask the basement. The boy child. When he fed her. Didn’t he question the absence of squeaks?

            I move the purple dome off her waist. Do my spot on imitation of a guinea pig vocal. My Indian name, after all, is Talks with Animals. I called myself that for months after I watched Dances with Wolves. Sweetie does not reply. Doesn’t stir in her aspen bedding. I make my eyes squinty. Will her to waddle her knocked-over-bowling-pin body to the side of the cage. To where she always begs for raisins. Every morning. She doesn’t today because she isn’t today. She cannot, will not, catch her breath of life ever again.

I text husband the sad news. He replies. Says he will lay her to rest tomorrow. I nod. Permit myself a small smile. Under the chestnut tree with all our other beloved pets, no doubt.

            Moments after I return my cell to my hoodie pocket it does a jig against my belly. I take it out again. Hold it at arm's length to decipher the words.

            “Prepare her for burial please.”

            My eyes bulge. I swallow nothing. Me? But I thought that was on the boy list. Along with taking out the trash and relocating almost-big-as-your-hand spiders.

            Preparing her for burial would mean I’d have to touch her. Make contact with death. Don’t tell anyone but part of me thinks it’s contagious. Being dead. I lay a hand over my heart. Feel its increased cadence. Work my tongue in my mouth in search of moisture.

            I lower myself to the floor next to the line of animal cages. Dry my palms on my skinny jeans.

            “This is why I could never be a single mom,” I tell the pets. “’Cause I don't know how to load or unload a mousetrap. Can’t bash a rabid raccoon’s brains with a shovel if need be. Don't have the guts to scrape a roadkill off the street in front of the house.”

            One of the rabbits thumps a big back paw. “Oh, fine!" I say as I heave myself to standing. "I’ll do it!”

            I walk over to the pile of old but clean towels next to the washer. Select a small purple one. Pick at the dried white paint next to the embroidered-in-gold reindeer. It’s soft. She’ll like that. I sigh. Even though she’s dead. I return to her cage and crouch beside it. Feel the splintering start. In my nose. At the corners of my eyes.

            “I hope you didn’t suffer, little friend,” I whisper. “I hope you closed your piggy eyes and . . .  And nothing. Just . . .”

            I reach in and touch her gently. Tentatively. She’s so soft. I imagine she’s warm. What if she’s . . . I poke her. She’s not. I admire the rosettes on her rump one last time before I roll her in the terry shroud.

            “You always looked like you had bed head all over your body, sweet girl.”

            I scootch over so I can get both arms inside her cage. “Remember how I wanted to change your name to Pigsley after we rescued you, but I couldn’t? Because you're so sweet, no name but Sweetie would do.”

            I wrap and tuck the cloth around her. Remove her much heavier in death than life body from the white wire house.

            I snuggle her into an American Eagle shoe box. “Get it, Sweetie?” I say. “I picked this one ‘cause it reminded me of that old hymn—I’ll Fly Away.”

            A sob breaks out of me like a cough. Right after I put the lid on.

            “Why does this never get easier?” I ask the question of Trixie and the bunnies.   The rabbits are side by side, watching me. Trixie sprints up her ramp. Cocks her head. I hold Sweetie’s coffin inches from Trixie’s nose.

            “She’s in here. You never liked her though. Always gave her a hard time. Now she’s gone. Who you gonna talk to now?”
            Trixie whistles. Puts her front paws up on the bars.

            I bite my lip. Whimper. “I’m sorry, Trix. That was mean.”

            I place the burial box on the floor where she and the bunnies can see it.

            “Here you go. I’ll leave her down here a little while. So you all can pay your final respects.”

            I climb the stairs to the kitchen. Take a seat at the table. Sip the last bit of my morning coffee. It’s cold. I spit it back in the cup. Get my phone out of my hoodie pocket and slide it open. Hold it at arm's length and type.

            “Piggy prepared for take off.” Send.

           

           

Killing Her Softly

I don’t want to get out of bed. I’m afraid to actually.  If I get up, I’ll have to look out the window.  Then I’ll know.  If my dog is alive or not. 

“If she’s dead in the morning,” husband had said, “I’ll put her in the Honda and take her to work.  So you all don’t have to . . . You know . . .”

The thing is, I never heard a car, mine or his, start and leave.  What if he’s down there right now?  Trying to get her sixty pounds out the back door without the other dog getting loose?  I know I should help.  Put my slippers and hoodie on and go downstairs.  Instead, I pull his pillow parallel to me and draw it against my hollow parts.

At 7:30 I wake again.  Get up, coward!  I throw back the flannel sheets and two ton down comforter.  Put my feet on the berber.  Shiver.  Stand.  Rearrange my jammie britches.  I realize I’m holding my breath when I get to the window.  Silver leaf SUV?  Gone.  I exhale and my lips flap.

Down two flights of stairs.  Pause outside the kitchen.  Please be alive.  And better.  Back legs healed.  In the name of Jesus.  I bend at the waist and peek.  The white dog is in a nose-tucked knot by the door.  Brown dog’s flopped on her side, the way I left her last night.  I smell, then see, the streak of pee on the floor back by her tail.

I approach and crouch.  “Hi, baby.  How’s my Painty Lou?” 

The power tail does not pound per usual.  Instead, a long quavery moan starts in her belly, works its way up.

My brow furrows.  “I know, sweetie.  I know.”

I get a  shallow condiment bowl off the dish drainer.  Run water in it.  Lap, lap, lap.  I hold her food dish in front of her nose.  She closes her eyes.

“But there’s grated cheese on it.  You sure you don’t . . .”

I sigh.  Get a rag and soak it with warm water.  I pull her away from her accident.  Wipe her back end and then the floor.  Daisy May, the white dog, does a jig near the door. 

“I’ll be right back,” I tell Paint.  “Let me put Daisy out.”

When I return, she’s by the door.  Dragged herself there using her front legs.

“You want out too?” I say.  “Do you have to do business?  Number two?”

I ponder how this will be accomplished.  I’ll carry her outside then support her by her rib cage while she--.  First things first.  I get a plastic table cloth and a towel.  Arrange them in the back yard, on the area with the most grass, least mud.  I slide out the gizmo that holds the screen door open.  Then I hoist the girl who weighs almost half of me.  Dear Jesus, please protect my back. 

It’s a difficult burden—half living and active, the rest almost-dead-weight.  Off the porch, into the grass, onto the makeshift bed.

“Baby, you can lay down now.  Relax.”

Instead, she’s caught in a sit pose.  Upright only because she landed that way.  She seems happy though, to be anything but flat and not likely to go anywhere soon.  I take a seat nearby and enjoy her accomplishment with her.  But then her front legs, stiff with determination, start to tremble.  Aftershocks from Japan maybe?  No, fatigue.  Her front paws slide across the vinyl.  She looks like an ill-fated swing set, anchored in quicksand instead of certainty.  I catch her around the chest, ease her to the ground.  Glance at my watch—7:51 a.m..  The vet’ll probably open at 8:00 or 8:30.

I consider going as is, soft blue jammies, black hoodie, red Crocs.  No, really should get dressed.  Put on a bra and undies at least. 

All of a sudden, my chest staggers with a fear breath.  The Dobie Brothers and Sergeant Oz, a Pit Bull, live next door!  What if they come out to pee and see her?  Smell compromised canine?  Surely they’ll come over the fence and have at her.  Especially Ricco.  Even though he squats to pee instead of hiking a leg, I know he’s vicious.  His ears, cut and docked into tiny triangles, make him look like a devil dog.  I’ve seen him hang onto his red, suspended-from-a-tree rubber donut for five minutes or more, thrashing, attempting to kill what is not alive.

I lift Painty Lou’s ear and whisper.  “Count to 60 and I’ll be back, girl.  I promise.”

As I drive down big Grand it occurs to me I haven’t cried yet.  Not  even when husband carried Paint into the kitchen last night, all mud and poo striped, almost black against his oxi-white IronMan running shirt.

I watched from inside the house.  “Why are you—“

“’Cause she can’t move her back end, that’s why.  Now open the dang door!”

I spent the next three hours beside her.  After I gave her a sponge bath, I spooned water into her mouth.  Begged her to eat her cheesed kibble.  I covered her with a towel and a blanket because shivs and little electrical currents seemed to be holding races under her fur.  I read parts of Karen Russell’s Swamplandia! out loud.

“A red baby alligator.  Isn’t that interesting, Painty Lou?  I think it needs a name, don’t you?  I’d call it Ruby Slipper Bigtree if I were Ava.”

At 10 I made my way upstairs.  Husband was watching basketball highlights.

“I left a light on—“

He looked up.  “I know.  I’ll check on her, before I come to bed.”

He grabbed my hand before I went 'round the corner and upstairs to our attic bedroom.  I turned and waited.  In the end, he didn’t speak.  What do you say when something very bad is close at hand and you know, ‘It’ll be okay,’ is a lie?

I dreamed of my favorite aunt—Aunt Lo.  Saw her faded copper beehive hairdo.  Heard her happy machine gun laugh—eh, eh, eh, eh, eh.  Saw her Revlon "Cherries in the Snow” lips turn up.  I knew why she’d come.  To tell me to do something.  The thing I didn’t do when—

“Be with her when she dies.  No one should go from here to there alone.”

I licked my lips and nodded.  “Yes, ma’am.  I will.  And . . . I’m sorry.  That I—“

“Hush now.  Go back to sleep.”

The tears begin their serious work on the second speedbump in the middle of the flat part of Grand Street.  I keep my left hand on the steering wheel and bat around for the glove compartment latch with my right.  Click.  I pinch at the contents.  Score a Dairy Queen napkin.  Soak it with one nose blow.  I turn up the radio.  "Blessed be your name, on the road marked with suffering--"  

I hiss at the windshield.  “This road.  Rename it.  Call it

Suffering Street."

After I park at Pawprints, I glance in the rearview mirror.  My face looks like I’ve been bobbing for something in thinned out ketchup.  Hope maybe?  Pity all I got was desperation.  My eyes look and feel as if I swam all night in an over-chlorinated pool.

I run inside.  “My dog—L’il Paint—you all know her, she can’t move her back half.”

After a brief exam, the young vet comes back up to Painty Lou’s head.  She holds out her knuckles for Paint to sniff. 

“How old is she?”

“She’ll be 14 on April Fool’s Day.”

The woman focuses on the print of a sunflower field that hangs over my head. 

“There’s so many things this might be.  Cancer, a herniated disc, a blood clot.  I could recommend an MRI or back surgery.  But with her having no deep pain response, and with her age, I don’t think—“

I rub my nose with my palm and nod.  “So we should . . . you know . . .”  I mouth the rest.  “Put her to sleep?”

“This is so hard,” the young woman says.  “Telling someone to—“

I put my pointer finger to my lips.  “Shhhh.  Whisper.”

She fondles Paint’s ears. 

“Can I call my husband?  See what—“

“Oh, gosh!  Of course.  I’ll leave you alone.  You can call whoever.”

I hear him before I see him.  I put my fingers under the door and wiggle them.  I’m in here. See my hand?  Look down.

The minute she sees him, she tries to get up.  She gives him her paw again and again.  The one with the catheter that will deliver her . . .   Her strawberry Laffy Taffy tongue lolls out the side of her mouth.  Her glossy black rickrack gums swing up in a smile.  Husband’s eyes get a skim of water.

He puts his face next to hers.  Closes his eyes when her tongue gets close.

“Hi, girl.  Who’s my girl?  Who’s my girly goo?”

The door cracks open.  The jolly blonde vet tech that helped me get her out of the car peeks in. 

“Take all the time you need, hon.  Just open the door when you’re ready, okay?”

I nod.  When we’re ready.  When will we ever be ready?  Right before she disappears, I see it.  The sign in the plexi-glass pocket on the door.  MASS.  I squint.  What?  Do they think we’re having church in here?  Then I get it.  Not church MASS.  Mass cremation MASS.  A pet funeral pyre.  My insides compress like a tin foil ball.  Squeeze.  Crush.  Compact.  I close my eyes.  Try to not see the visions.  I look away from the metal shed with smoke coming out a little rusted chimney pipe.  I grimace at the plate of pancake-looking pets, piled high.  Open your eyes!  So you won’t see! 

My hands are over L’il Paint’s ears again.  It’s getting to be a habit.  I’d held them shut when the jolly tech and I had the aftercare talk.  Hum inside your head, Paint.  Sing ‘How much is that doggy in the window?’

I take my face off Painty Lou’s neck.  Look over at husband.

“Should I--  Should we . . . open the door now?”

He winces.  Shakes his head, shrugs, and nods.

No one comes for the longest time.  Someone burps in  the next room.  Excuses himself.  A girl collects lunch orders and money.  A machine buzzes.  Is it a nail grinder or a tooth polisher?  Or maybe a bone saw.  Please don’t come.  Ever.

I have a thought.  What if we build her a skate board contraption to get around on?  Put a ramp down the back porch steps.  Put puppy pads on her to collect pee.  Rig her with a poo pouch, like the carriage tour horses have in Charleston, South Carolina?  That could work, couldn’t it?  And at night . . .  No.  No.  That’s no good.  It’s not right.  It’s only me patching together another week, one more month.  Trying to keep her alive.  For me.  I’d just be postponing this . . . this . . . 

The tiny, gentle vet comes back in the room.   Cups the weapon of MASS destruction in her small hand. 

“You’re fine.  Don’t get up.  I’ll just squeeze in here.  Keep loving her.”

She sits on the floor between us.  “Oh, yes, girl.  That is your paw. It’s a very pretty paw.”

My head feels like it might explode.  From sinus pressure. Grief.  Guilt.

I cover Paint’s ears and speak to my lap.  “It seems so wrong,” I say.  “To do this, when her top half’s just fine.”

The vet purses her lips and nods.  She pushes the plunger on the hypodermic needle a tiny bit.  Squirt.

I rub L’il Paint’s ears like a rosary.  Not that I’ve ever had one, but hey, this is MASS, right?  I put my forehead against hers.  Stop shaking, dang it!  Don’t let her see, or know, what’s about to—

The girl vet puts the needle into its starting gate.  I sing into Paint’s ear.

“Go to sleep.  Go to sleep.  Go to sleep, Little Paint.” 

My voice sounds broken.  It chugs.  Stops.  Starts.  She lays her head between her paws.  I speak but it seems like the words come from the ceiling instead of me.

“It’s so weird, doing this on purpose.”  I wonder if everyone wants me to shut up.  It’s like I have Tourrette’s.  Or diarrhea of the mouth.  Logorrhea. That was one of my word-of-the-day words once.

I scratch at a piece of dried mud on her neck.  The grit falls to the gurney.  Paint’s eyes are half closed now.  My teeth clench and I pull a long inhale through my nose.  Let it out.  I put my mouth next to her ear again. 

“I love you.  I love you.  I’m so sorry.”

Husband strokes the ridge of stand-up fur on her snout.  Closes her left eye, then the right.

I whimper.  “Is she gone?”

The vet fiddles with her stethoscope.  Inserts the ear buds.  Listens to Painty Lou’s side.

“The heartbeat is very faint now.”

I put my ear on Paint too.  To see if I can hear the last of her—

The girl straightens up, pulls off the stethoscope.  “And, she’s, gone.”

I moan and turn away.  The vet gets up.  Rests her hand on my shoulder blade.  Moves around me.

“Take all the time you need.  When you’re ready, I’ll show you the back door.”

Husband takes Paint’s collar off.  Rubs at the bone-shaped name tag.  Holds his hand out to help me up.  I massage the fur ruff around L’il Paint’s neck one last time.  Lift my hands to my face, to sniff, then kiss them.  We walk past the MASS sign.  I stop  and look back at her.  Her, and yet, not her.  Not any more.  I roll my fingers.

"Sleep tight, baby.  Don't let the bedbugs bite."

We step out into the parking lot.  Husband makes a noise deep in his throat. 

“Well, that about sucked.”

“Big time,” I say.  I blot my face with my eighth soggy tissue.  “Know what?”

He keeps walking.  “What?”

“That wasn’t really us putting her to sleep.  It was us killing her softly.”

The Dead Raiser--Part III

Thursday


“It’s you.”

I started slapping at whoever was sitting on my chest before I opened my eyes. Turned out to be Vince. I shoved him hard.

“Get off, pest!”

Vince aimed his finger at me from his spot on the floor. “You’re the dead raiser,” he said.

I turned to face the wall. Bit my knuckles to keep from saying anything. How does—

Vince laughed. “Ha! I knew it!”

I turned back and looked down at him, my eyes squinty.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, right,” he said. “It is so you, and you’re gonna do it again so I can watch.”

“No way,” I said. “I’m done.”

“Oh, no you’re not,” he said. He grinned, and my stomach flopped.

“Know why?”

I gulped and shook my head.

“I got you on video. You and Tabby."

My right eye twitched. “You’re lying.”

Vince’s gaze was steady. “I’ll show you,” he said. “I filmed it all. From Old Man Farley’s tree stand. You and Tabby. And all those puppies.”


“You’re kidding,” Tabby said, when I called her.

“No, I’m not,” I said. “He says if we don’t take him next time, he’s gonna post the video on YouTube.”

I heard her suck her breath in. “What’re you gonna do?”

I huffed. “What am I gonna do?” I said. “Isn’t it more like, what are we gonna do?”

“Oh. Yeah,” she said. “What are we gonna do?”


Thursday Night

“Miss Sandy?” I said, when we got in her car that night. “Can we go someplace and talk?”

She glanced back at Tabby and me.

“Sure, honey,” she said. “What’s up?”

“Let’s go to Dairy Dream. I brought money.”

I led the way to a picnic table apart from the rest. I put my turtle sundae and spoon on the table and climbed onto the bench.

Miss Sandy sat across from us. “So? What do you want to talk about?”

Tabby and l looked at each other, then at Miss Sandy.

“I’m the dead raiser,” I said.

Tabby raised her hand. “And I’m her helper.”

Miss Sandy frowned and shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

I set my spoon down and put my elbows on the table. Rested my chin on my clasped hands.

“I brought that dead boy back to life.”

Miss Sandy’s eyes got huge. “You did?” she said. “How?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Tabs and I went in for a drink of water—“

Tabby made a time out sign. “Her dad works at Tatham’s, Miss Sandy. He told her where the spare key is.”

I nodded. “When I saw the little guy, I thought to myself, ‘He’s so young. So small. He should have another chance.’ And then he opened his eyes.”

Miss Sandy’s mouth fell open. A little stream of melted ice cream dripped towards her chin.

Tabby leaned forward. “That’s when she called 911.”

Miss Sandy started bouncing her palms on the picnic table. “He’s doing it,” she said. “He’s doing it, girls.”

Tabby and I squinted at each other, then back at her

“Who’s doing what?”

“Jesus,” she said. “Jesus showed Tabby he’s real when he used her to raise that little boy from the dead.”

Tabby pointed at Miss Sandy with her banana split spoon.

“She brought puppies back from the dead too.”

Miss Sandy looked at me, her head tilted. Her voice was hushed.

“You did it more than once?”

We nodded.

“Oh my,” Miss Sandy said. She was quiet for a few moments. Most of the time her eyes were closed. Finally she opened them.

“I think I know what happened,” she said. “You weren’t thinking to yourself, Kat. You were talking to God. You were praying.”

I shook my head and took a bite of my sundae. “No, I wasn’t,” I said with my mouth full.

“I don’t pray. Never have.”

Miss Sandy reached across the table and put her hands over mine. “Sure you do, Kat,” she said. “Didn’t you pray when your mom was sick?”

I snatched my hands back and glared. “How do you know about my mama?”

Miss Sandy’s face looked like it was melting. “Oh, Kat-- This is a small town.”

I used my Dairy Dream napkin to wipe my mouth and eyes. I didn't blink when I spoke to Miss Sandy.

“Whatever. I’m gonna bring her back. For Vince and me. Tomorrow night. And I need your help.”


Friday Night

It was the last night of VBS. Even so, it was really hard to act normal for two whole hours. I snapped out of my funk when the parents started picking up their kids. I hugged every single child.

"Have a nice life,” I said into each one’s hair. In case I never see you again. I’d had a bad feeling all day.

We left the church and went to pick up Vince. He came out of the house toting his video camera.

I rolled down the car window. “You can’t bring that, Vince,” I said. “Not where we’re going.”

He sneered, but he put the camera back in the house and came out to the car. He got in back with Tabby. I sat up front with Miss Sandy.

“Did you see Dad?” I said over my shoulder.

“Yep," he said.  "He's on six-pack number two.  I told him we were going to a VBS slumber party.  Just like you said.”

I held up my hand for a high five. “Good job.”

I patted Miss Sandy on the shoulder. “Thanks for being our cover,” I said. "Dad never would’ve let us stay out all night alone.”

Miss Sandy glanced in her rearview mirror. “Seatbelts, everyone.”

At the first stop sign, I turned to her. “Least it’s dark now.”

She didn’t answer. No one did.

“Park on Walnut Street,” I said. “We’ll walk the rest of the way.”

I snuck a sideways peek at Miss Sandy. She looked as if she was made of stone. Her hands, on the steering wheel, and her strawberry blonde hair, blown by the air conditioning, were the only things that moved.  

“You sure you’re okay with this?” I said.

“Not really,” she said, as she flipped on her turn signal. “But I can hardly let you kids do it alone. Do you realize what you’re doing?”

I picked at my fingernails and shrugged. “I think so.”

“I don’t think you do,” she said, as she parallel parked. “Kat, there are spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms right now. Right here in Cabin Creek. “

I put my nose on the window and looked out. My breath made a fog circle on the window. I didn’t see anything.

“Does that mean you wanna bail?”

I snuck a look at her. Her face looked blue in the dashboard light.

“No, I don’t want to bail,” she said. “I fasted all day today, Kat. I’m prayed up. I’ve got my Bible. I’m ready. Besides--“

“Besides, what?”

I saw one corner of her mouth go up a wee bit.

“Besides, I think it would be pretty cool to see a miracle.”

I opened the car door. “Alrighty then. Let’s go.”

Give and Take

Sometimes God gives you something you didn't even know you needed.  That's the way it was with Honey and--


"What do you mean you don't know where the kids are?"

Mom didn't look up from her crossword puzzle when I came in from having lunch with a friend.

"They said something about whiffleball," she said.  "Then a little while later, something about a white rabbit."

I stood on the deck and looked out at the spring drizzle.  I cupped my hands around my mouth.  "Kids!"

"Over here!"  Their voices came from the woods.  I followed the sound of whoops and hollers. 

"Come here, baby!"

"Missed it.  Missed it by a mile!"

"Don't be afraid.  We're nice." 

Thing one, two, and three darted here and there, trying to get close to the pale, zigzagging puffball.

"Mom! It's headed your way!  Get it!"

Coffee, white wine, and mineral water sloshed in my belly as I joined the chase.  Over logs, under cars, and into burrows the white rabbit went.  More than once I nearly fell as my feet slid around on my flipflops.  Finally, I held Mom's empty aqua trash can on its side, and the kids chased the rabbit into it. 

"Are you okay, Mom?" my son said.

I sat in the wet grass, wheezing and cradling my abdomen.  "Yeah.  Why?"

"Your face is a weird color."

It felt like my stomach was debating whether or not to give up my $30 French lunch.

"Can we keep it?" Oldest Child said.

"Ask Daddy."


"Mom!"

Middle Child came tearing up to the third floor. "A rat broke into the basement and mated Honey!"

I looked at the clock--6:30 a.m..

I squinted up at her. "Honey's a girl?"

"Honey's a mom!"

I rubbed my eyes and sat up. "Honey's a mom?"

"And they're gross. All pink and wiggly, like worms. Seven of 'em!"


I knelt on the cool, concrete floor. 

"Get me a tablespoon," I told my son.

A  minute later I felt the spoon's chill on my thigh.  I warmed it with my breath.  I opened the dog crate door and carefully scooped up the one lone pink ranger and relocated it on top of its siblings.  They were all snuggled in a pile, on a nest of silky soft, white bunny fur.

I turned to Oldest Child.  "Go upstairs and google 'raising baby rabbits,'" I said.  "See if it's okay to touch 'em."

Honey Bunny hunkered in the back of the crate.  I frowned.

"She's not keeping them warm.  Not nursing 'em or anything.  She isn't very good at this mommy thing."

"Maybe it's her first time," Middle Child said.

Oldest Child returned.  "A couple of websites say it's okay to touch them if the mother's tame."

I counted days on my fingers.  "We've had her eight days and she's never bit anyone.  That means she's tame, right?"

I reached in and stroked the baby I'd put on top of the pile.  I cooed.  It was  soft and warm, like the back of a child's neck.

The kids huddled around me. 

"That one's gonna have black spots," Middle Child said.  "And I bet that one's gonna be all white."

"Let's name 'em," my son said.  "The biggest one should be Goliath."

"And we'll call that tiny little guy, Gideon," I said.

"The one that keeps leaving the pack," Oldest Child said, "He's an adventurer.  Let's call him Indiana Jones.  Indy for short."

"We should call the one with black spots, Domino," Middle Child said.

It took us awhile to name the others.  One became Pogo a few weeks later when it learned how to leap into the air, way before the rest. 

"Name something that's all white," I said.

"Alaska," Oldest Child said.  "And Juno's the capital of Alaska.  Let's call that one Juno."

"But what about the smallest white one?"  Middle Child said.  "How do you say white in French, Mommy?"

"Je ne sais pas," I said.  "Bianca maybe?  Or is it Alba?"

"Bianca Alba," Middle Child said.  "She's my favorite.  She's little like me."


I went to the Exotic Jungle on account of Bianca Alba.

"Failure to thrive?" I said to the pre-vet salesgirl.  "Does that mean she's going to die?"

"Not necessarily," she said.  "Follow me."

She stopped in front of a display.  "I've raised tons of baby rabbits by hand," she said.  "You need kitten milk.  And one of these tiny bottles.  And some of this stuff." 

She handed me a package of three small metal tubes.  "In the wild, they'd eat their mom's scat to get the healthy organisms for their gut, but since she's not bonded with them, give 'em each a little squirt of this once a week."

We headed up to the cash register.  "She's not taking to them 'cause you touched them.  You shouldn't touch them while they're pink.  Gotta wait until they get their peach fuzz."

I whimpered.  "Aw man!  The web--"

She put her hand on my shoulder.  "Don't worry," she said.  "They'll be okay. I do this all the time."


A week into the baby bunny experience, I took matters into my own mommy hands.  I'd been spying on Honey.  Not once did I see her nurse those babies.  I even set my alarm clock for the middle of the night.  I snuck down to the basement and peeked into the crate.  No nursing. 

I pointed and hissed at Honey in the dark.  "Bad mommy!"

"The website says they usually only nurse between the hours of midnight and 5 a.m.," I told my husband the next morning.  "Sometimes only once in a 24 hour period.  Man!  Rabbits must have super mama milk.  Still, I haven't seen 'em--" 

My husband's eyes narrowed.

I tilted my head.  "What?"

"What are you up to?" he said.

"Nothing," I said.  That you need to know about. 


After school I called for the kids.  They followed me to the basement.

I pointed at them one by one.  "You, get a clean bath towel.  You, get Honey.  You, hold this strawberry basket while I get them and their fluff nest inside."

"What are we doing, Mom?" Oldest Child said.

"We're giving Honey lactation training."

I sat with my back against the dining room wall, the towel draped over my lap.

"Hand me Honey."

I stroked her and whispered gentle encouragement into her long, warm ears.

"It'll feel like a Shop Vac on your nipples at first, but don't worry.  You'll get used to it."

I flopped Honey on her back.  "Hand me two babies."

Each of the babies quickly located a teat.  They squirmed as they nursed, their back sides scooching left and right.  After ten minutes, the wiggling bodies relaxed.

"Switch!"

"They look like piranhas on her," my son said.  "Like the ones on the Discovery Channel.  Are they hurting her?"

"Naw!" I said.  "She's fine.  Nudge Bianca.  She's asleep on the breast.  She needs it most of all."

And that's how it went.  Twice a day, for weeks.  We bribed Honey with apples and carrots, and plantain leaves from the yard.  She ate non-stop while they nursed.  I reckon it was 'cause she was eating for eight.


The babies grew quickly.  In the beginning, my husband could hold all seven of them in his hands.  Not a week later.  At first, we couldn't see their poo at all.  Then it looked like a period at the end of a sentence.  Then it was as big as bee bees. 

When they were first born, their pink cotton swab ears seemed pinned to their heads.  Then later the ears got fuzzy and began to stand up.  Their fur was mostly white, like Honey's, but eventually, black and brown skin spots became black and brown fur. 

I loved to lay on the dining room floor when they were out.  They'd crawl all over me.  I called it Bunny Therapy.  I'd close my eyes and smile.    I never knew I wanted or needed bunnies, but thanks. 


Bianca Alba was still a concern.

"You have to stay with your brothers and sisters," I told her, as I held her an inch from my nose.  "They'll keep you warm."

I gave her extra nursings.  "Thrive, Baby Bianca.  Thrive."

I fed her kitten milk a couple times each day, putting the tiny dropper into her mouth and squeezing the rubber part.  I sighed as most of it ran down her chin and chest.

"Let's stay up with her tonight, Mommy," Middle Child said one afternoon. 

"To keep her warm and to feed her."

I nodded.  And to pray for her.  I had this bad feeling.

Middle Child lay on the love seat under her purple fuzzy blanket.  I sprawled on the sofa under a zebra-striped throw.  We took turns feeding Bianca and holding her on our chests.

"I'm giving you another name," I told Bianca at midnight.  "You're going to be Bianca Alba Lazarus 'cause Jesus is going to bring you back from death's door."

I wiped my eyes and sniffed.  'Cause I think that's where you're headed.

She was so wee.  She'd fit in a quarter cup measure.  Her fur wasn't sleek like the others'.  It was usually streaked with milk and sickliness.

"Another name, " I whispered to her at three in the morning as she lay like a comma between my breasts.  "You need another name.  Bianca Alba Lazarus Miracle.  That's your new name.  Please live, tiny angel bunny.  Please?"

And then my prayer became my grief, and my grief woke Middle Child.

She sat up suddenly, her eyes huge.  "Is she--?  Did she--?  Why are you--?" 

Middle Child's breath sounded wheezy.  She held the sides of her face.

"Oh no!  But I prayed!  Why didn't God--"

I stroked Bianca with my pinky.  "See how peaceful she looks?" I said.  "She's all better.  Not here.  But better."

I slept until daybreak with Bianca on my chest and Middle Child between my legs.  She'd cried herself to sleep there.

I got up from the couch and covered her.  I took Bianca into the basement and wrapped her in some Honey Bunny fluff and a scrap of fuschia silk.  She looked like a Valentine, for a dead person.  I tucked her into a jelly jar and screwed the lid on. 

"Rest in peace, my pee wee darling." 

I set the jelly jar on the washer and fished in the laundry pile for one of my husband's t-shirts.  I covered my face with it, blew my nose, and sobbed.


Later that day, we all wrote goodbye love notes to Bianca and slid them in the jar. 

That evening, my husband and son buried Bianca Alba Lazarus Miracle beneath the chestnut tree at the warehouse, with all our other beloved pets.

"What did you say when you buried her?" I asked my husband when he came home.

He put his arms around me and spoke into my hair. 

"I said, 'The Lord gave us eight bunnies, and the Lord took away one.  Blessed be the name of the Lord."

I nodded and spoke with a stuffed up nose.  "That's good.  That's real good."