Anthony

The neighbor calls to say an elk died in his yard and the next thing I know my dad’s driving Matilda over there to dig its grave. Matilda is our backhoe that my dad got from the company a few years ago. It’s a typical backhoe – just a little beat up from thirty years of use – except one night my mom snuck out to the shed and painted it purple. All of it, from the rusted rims to the giant bucket: all purple. My mom never said why she did it, and my dad never forgave her. Who ever heard of a purple tractor?

So my dad drives the tractor over there through the overgrown trail that connects our property to our neighbor’s. I’ve got nothing better to do, and I’ve never seen a dead elk before, so head out the door after him, despite my mom’s helpless look of disapproval. She always tells me ‘curiosity killed the cat,’ and for the longest time I didn’t know what she meant. She says a lot of things like that – things like ‘patience is a virtue” – things that didn’t make much sense to me, but I always assumed there was some hidden wisdom in them. Then I got older – I’m fifteen now – and I get what she was saying about that curious cat, but it hasn’t changed me. I guess I just get the feeling that life’s too short to be afraid of it.

Anyway, I follow behind my dad and Matilda on foot, but not too close because the massive tires are throwing dry sticks and rocks out the back. Soon the landscape opens up into a large field of short grass that’s been parched brown by the summer heat.

A short man with oily gray hair and a bushy black mustache approaches us. He’s wearing a red flannel shirt that’s tucked into a pair of holey jeans, which are held up by suspenders. A slender black Labrador struts by his side.

“Whatd’ya say there Ed?” he shouts to my dad over the roar of Matilda. My dad shakes his head and points to his ear muffs.

“Hey Bill,” I say with a wave. As I get closer I have to pry my eyes away from the thick strands of hair that jut out from his nostrils like black wheat grass. “Hear you got a bit of an elk problem.”

“Yep. It’s down past the pond. Molly found it this mornin’ when I was feedin’ the ducks,” he says and pats the dog on its head.

The two of us walk down the grassy slope, and my dad and Matilda follow behind, leaving tracks of matted grass in their wake. We pass a wood pile that huddles around the base of an ancient Douglas fir that’s limbless for its first hundred feet of trunk.
The murky brown pond is shallow this time of year; it’s more like a big mud puddle, except for the ducks.

“Here we are,” Bill says and holds up a hand for my dad to stop.

The flies are the first thing I notice; there’s so many its hard to tell what it is they’re swarming. Then I see the hooves. The legs that ripple with muscle that you’d never see unless you got this close. The white butt, like somewhere along the line it stumbled upon a bucket of bleach and decided to sit in it. The tall grass that surrounds it is shiny and sticky with blood.

“What…?” Bill says, scratching the back of his head. Just then the flies shift, or so it seems, revealing a large bloody hole that is all that remains of the elk’s torso. A pile of slimy entrails sits several feet away, drawing its own crowd of flies. Two empty sockets are staring at nothing. Its eyes are missing.

“C’mon Kevin,” my dad says, grabbing me around the shoulder and pulling me away from the carcass.

Bill turns and says, “It wasn’t like that before!”

Walking away, I’ve got my head yanked around and I’m staring at the dead mound of flesh.

“I’ll get it cleaned up,” my dad says, “You run on home.”
“But dad-”

My dad’s eyes widen as he extends his arm and points back towards our house. I turn to leave.

But I don’t – can’t – just run on home. I walk for a bit, and I turn when I hear my dad start up Matilda. Black smoke billows out from the exhaust pipe and my dad’s pulling levers. The tractor goes through a series of jerky motions and finally drives its big purple bucket into the ground.

I’m heading for my house, walking back along one of the chunky dirt tracks left by Matilda, and I see it: some kind of animal, maybe, or a person. I start towards it, but then I stop when I hear my mom’s voice in my head. It’s the same voice I always hear, the voice that always makes me hesitate. It’s the voice that makes me question every damn thing I do. The voice, it’s saying, ‘remember the cat, Kevin, curiosity killed the cat.’ I don’t know what to do, but what I do know is that every second I waste, that thing, whatever it was, it’s slipping away from me. And then the strangest thing happens. That voice, that constant nagging from my childhood, the voice of a thousand ‘be carefuls’ and ‘stay safes’ and ‘call me when you get theres,’ it goes quiet, as if it had suppressed my curiosity for the last time.

The next thing I know my legs are carrying me through the trees to where the mysterious figure just vanished. When I get there, I see it again, something different this time, or maybe it’s nothing at all. I’m not sure, but it makes me run even faster. There are whips and scratches from tree limbs and blackberry bushes and the pain feels strange and foreign to me. The forest becomes a blur, and a smile comes to my face. There’s more than blood coursing through my veins, there’s a kind of energy that one might feel if fifteen years of life were bottled up and then released all at once.

The sweat on my face drips down and stings my eyes, but it feels great. I’m running and running, and now I’m not sure whether I’m trying to catch something or escape from something. The elk’s empty sockets flash through my mind, and I keep running. Minutes go by, and after a while I slow to a stop. Trees around me are spinning and I can’t stop panting. I bend over and put my hands on my knees. It takes a little while for me to realize that the woods aren’t familiar any more. The trees here are old and grow close together. It’s dark. Somewhere a bird chirps. I listen for the distant purr of Matilda, but the forest is silent.

Eventually I catch my breath and the world eases back into focus. I look around, but I don’t see anyone anymore, not mysterious figures for me to chase, no animals or humans or whatever it was I saw, so I start making my way through the trees in the direction I think I came. The sun penetrates the trees just enough to illuminate a few dusty strands of air. Just then I spot some sort of gray or brown furry animal running towards me. When it gets closer I see it’s a squirrel. It runs right past me, its bushy tail brushing my leg, and it scurries on into the trees. Smiling at the peculiarity of my situation, something occurs to me. The squirrel, it was brown, I think, but covered in some sort of gray hair. I look in the direction it went, and it might just be my imagination, but I swear there is some kind of path. Sword ferns are matted, and some brittle alder limbs have been snapped off their trunks and lie in pieces on the ground. I step forward to investigate further, and I walk through a spider web, except it’s not a spider web; it’s a long strand of curly gray hair. Twirling it between my fingers, my eyes narrow and dart up ahead, and then I yank my head around to look behind me. I’m not sure what I expect to see, but I’ve got that feeling like someone’s watching me. I’m standing there, still as a tree, and I hear a twig snap to my left. I look just in time to see a mound of gray hair, and then something hard slams into the side of my head, and I fall to the ground. It feels like my ear has been broken in half, and the world is going dark. Lying there on the ground, the last thing I see is a little brown squirrel laughing at me.

* * *

“Elk eyeballs,” says a voice, “are the most coveted delicacy of the woods.”

I’m lying on my side in the dirt. When I open my eyes, there are ants crawling all over my arms and hands, and ten I see a skeleton of a man crouching a few feet away.

“What?” I say, hurrying to my feet.

“The eyeballs – they’re the best part,” he says. His voice is hoarse and dry like he’s talking through a rusted tail pipe.

Looking at this thing, this person before me, the first thing I notice is his hair: it’s huge – probably never been cut – and hangs down to the ground, mingling with the dirt as he squats. He’s got something dangling from his arms – it looks like acorns or walnuts. They’re suspended in thin green vines that are loosely wound around his arms. His skin is transparent and it sags around a knobby white skeleton. Bushy gray chest hair trails down the middle of his emaciated stomach between his fishbone ribs.

“Truly a delicacy,” he says, and looks up at me.

I start to say something, but then I see the squirrels. I’m not sure why I don’t notice sooner, but now that I do, I see that they’re all around him. It takes me a few moments to take in the fact that these little brown squirrels with sharp white teeth and bushy tails are swarming all over him like flies on a rotting carcass. He squats with his arms outstretched to the side and bent slightly at the elbow. Squirrels crawl on his arms and hands, some looking at me, others preoccupied with the dangling nuts. A squirrel emerges out from behind his head, and perches atop the gray nest.

“Out here, these eyeballs – they’re power.” He unfolds his arm towards me, opening his hadn to reveal the slimy white object. The most disturbing part of this is that the eyeball is looking right at me. Then he’s twirling the eyeball between his thumb and a gnarled index finger like a coin collector might examine a new addition to his collection. All the squirrels immediately stop what they are doing, and their gaze falls on the lone eyeball between his fingers.

With a quick twitch, he tosses the eyeball up into the air. Before I know what’s happening, the squirrels are leaping at the eyeball, their pointy teeth gnashing and snapping. The man disappears behind a cloud of brown fur and the eyeball vanishes into a mouth. Brown fur starts flying, and screeching fills my ears as the clump of rodents falls to the ground. There’s the Velcro sound of ripping flesh. Something warm and moist hits my face. It sticks for a moment and slides off, and looking down I see a chunk of what must be squirrel flesh. The squirrels, probably twenty or more – they’re all clawing and scratching and biting at each other – all hoping their next bite will be that juicy eyeball. The forest floor is being carpeted with chunks of fur and flesh and the entire time, through all the chaos, an unchanging toothless smile gazes at me. Something’s not right inside of me and I turn my head to the side and the chicken noodle soup I ate for lunch spews out of my mouth. I clench my eyes shut and as I slide my tongue over my teeth they’re gritty with stomach acid, and I’m sure that inescapable smile is still there.

I spit the remaining chunks of vomit out of my mouth and look up. The pile of squirrel limbs and mangled corpses is lying just a few feet away, and one squirrel remains. It’s missing a hind leg and it leaves a trail of slimy glue that looks like it came from an enormous banana slug as it drags itself toward the eyeball.


The man rises, looking at the helpless squirrel. He’s so skinny and frail I’m surprised his bones don’t snap when he walks. He squats down again, this time next to the squirrel, and says, “These squirrels, they’re just like humans. I hope you can learn something from this.”

The crippled squirrel finally reaches the eyeball, but appears to lack the strength to bite into it. Instead, it starts licking it in a way that reminds me of my cat when she’s cleaning herself. From where I’m standing, I see the squirrel take a few licks, and then it becomes rigid. The man stoops over and, pinching the squirrel’s tail, lifts it up for examination. He looks at me, and tosses the squirrel away with a flick of his wrist.

“Who are you?” I ask, my voice cracking a little. And then, emboldened by his silence, “What are you doing out here?”

“I live here. And I’m terribly sorry I had to club you like I did. Violence really isn’t in my nature.”

After the squirrel massacre I’ve just witnessed and the large bump that’s forming on the side of my head, I’m not sure if I believe him. My mind is turning, fueled by an overwhelming curiosity, and I ask him to best question I can come up with: “Why do you live here?”

He looks down at the ground, and it’s a few moments before he says, “I don’t like the things your society does to me.”

“Like what?”

“All its influence,” he says. “Every single idea it puts in my head, it ruins me. I had to get away.” He voice is calm and even despite my aggressive interrogation.

“So you just live out here like some kind of animal?”

At this he smile and, his eyes widening, says, “We are animals! And I certainly don’t live by myself. I find squirrels are great company, and I don’t have to worry about them putting ideas in my head. They really do make great friends, once you get to know them.”

He’s insane, I conclude, but I can’t help myself, and I say “I think you just killed all your friends.”

“Not all of them. Not my real friends. I’m not sure if you noticed, but not all the squirrels fought over that eyeball.” On cue, or so it seems, I hear the chattering of claws on bark as five or six squirrels descend the trunks of a few surrounding trees. They run and rejoin their friend, or maybe they’re just after the nuts he’s got tied all around himself, I’m not sure.
“You see,” he continues, “the ones that become consumed with greed, they’re worthless to me. I guess you could say that I use the elk eyes as a means to cleanse my little society. You can’t do that in your society.”

“No,” I say. “You can’t.” The two of us stand there, studying each other.
“You should have seen me!” he says, grabbing a squirrel off his shoulder and holding it like a normal person might hold a kitten. Stroking it, he says, “Back in your world, I paid extra for the thicker, taller fence that kept the world off my property. Out of sight, out of mind, I used to say.”

“My mom says that.”

He smiles. “It’s a popular saying, is it not?”

“I guess.”

“Anyway, as I was saying, out of sight, out of mind, that was my motto. Before long, I’d created my own personal cage. I had bars on my windows just in case someone got past the fence. I had a top of the line security system in case they got past the bars. Even then-” he pauses to catch his breath. I can tell that he’s not used to talking this much.

“Even then,” he continues, “there would be a rottweiler and a 12 gauge waiting to greet any unwanted visitors. But no one ever came. What I learned is, safety is the most dangerous thing in the world.”

“That’s funny,” I say. “My mom has always taught me to play it safe. Remember the cat, she says, curiosity killed the cat.”

“I hate that saying!” he says, and I swear he jumps a little. “If you ask me, curiosity is what gave the cat life to begin with.”

We share a laugh, and for a moment I forget that he’s crazy.

“Just tell me one thing,” I say, “why did you bring me out here? If you hate people so much, why are you talking to me?”

He sits down on a nearby tree stump, and clasps his hands together. “I’ve been living in these woods for many years, Kevin.”

Hearing my name coming out of this guy’s mouth sounds strange, but it doesn’t bother me as much as it should.

Noticing my confused expression, he begins to explain, “I see things. It’s been fifteen years since your parents brought you back from the hospital. For fifteen years, I’ve watched you. Not every day, of course, but here and there, whenever I got the chance. I hope it doesn’t bother you too much if I tell you that I’ve always thought of you as my child, in a way. Out here, with this life I live, I’ll never be able to have a child of my own. That is my one regret. But I’ve watched you grow. You’re the closest thing to a child I’ve got.”

I don’t know what I think of this. I feel my face flush red, and I turn to go. I’ve stayed here long enough. I take a few steps before I realize I have no idea where I am.

“It’s that way,” he says, pointing. “You’ll see the footpath.”

I turn to go, but for some reason I stop. Turning to face this man with squirrels all over his body, I say, “You never told me your name.”

“Anthony,” he says, and a smile comes to his face. “My name is Anthony.”