The New and Improved Romie Futch Read online

  My father battled that jungle for decades, hacking through the malarial green with haunted Sisyphean eyes. He thought it would improve the ventilation around the house. But the vegetation always grew back, overnight, it seemed, feeding the mold and rot.

  When Mom got sick, he gave up. His chain saw grew rusty. As my mother regressed into an infantile state, my father struggled to care for her—initiated, suddenly, into the domestic arts, the daily drudge, the endless buildup of toilet scum, dust, and crusty dishes. And the jungle crawled over the azalea hedge. Vines snaked across the grass, coiled up the patio rails. Dad turned the air-conditioning down to sixty-eight degrees. It was the only way to fight the moisture that fed the mold, he claimed. In her last days, longing to escape their freezing house, my mother took refuge in the Florida room with her pack of cards, playing solitaire as the summer days waxed and waned, cicadas screaming outside in the green blur of the yard. She smoked cigarette after cigarette and smiled.

  “Are you my son,” she’d ask me every time I visited, “or my brother?”

  Her mind was gone, but the earthy part of her longed for the feel of unprocessed air, the smell of grass and trees. She’d leave the sliding glass door open, but my father didn’t scold her. He’d stand alone in his dim, freezing den, looking out at the bright air where the husk of his wife played cards, slapping them down on the wicker table, laughing at the sight of carpenter bees drilling holes in the eaves.

  I saw my father as an old man hunched at the door, but then a Technicolor memory flared in my skull like an old-fashioned camera flash: Dad as a younger man, decked out in gear like an action hero, his shoulders broad, his hair thick and dark as a mink’s pelt. My mother was at the sink, smiling and lovely as Penelope, standing upon golden linoleum.

  • •

  When I came to, my mother was fingering the wisps around my receding hairline, humming “Hotel California” out of key.

  “Mom?” I said.

  “Bless your heart,” she said. “That’s so sweet.”

  I noted the crunchy mass of her Robert Smith hair, backlit by a lamp—Marlene, not Mom. I recognized the dozens of taxidermic sculptures mounted on the walls—bobcats, coons, mallards—staring at me with glass eyes. I saw my father lurking behind Marlene, working his gums over with a vibrating massager that emitted a soft hum.

  “Honey,” Marlene said, “you passed out.”

  “We woulda taken you to the emergency room”—Dad removed the plastic wand from his mouth—“but I know you don’t have health insurance. One hospital stay and bam! You’d be wiped out.”

  “Don’t start up on that,” said Marlene. “Give him a chance to wake up.”

  “I kept an eye on your vitals,” said Dad. “The blackout lasted for about five minutes.”

  “When you came to,” said Marlene, “we walked you to the bedroom.”

  “Slept for about thirty minutes after that,” said Dad.

  “I’ll be okay,” I said. But when I tried to sit up, I felt my discombobulated brain undulating like wax globs in a lava lamp. I lay back down.

  “You hungry, baby?” said Marlene. “You didn’t finish your supper.”

  “Not really.”

  Dad scooted a chair up next to the bed. “Go fix him something,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye on the boy.”

  Dad massaged his gums as woodland creatures snarled behind him. With the exception of the buck that hung over their faux fireplace, Marlene had crammed Dad’s entire taxidermic oeuvre back here in the guest room, along with one piece by my grandfather Roman: a half-pint primate with mischievous eyes. I could still remember the taxidermic wonders on display in my grandfather’s house. There, I first smelled the uterine brine of the sea, patted the belly of a shaggy black bear, and inspected the miraculous ears of bats, the diverse patterns of snakes, the creepy feet of a three-toed sloth.

  Mom had loved Grandpa Roman’s monkey and displayed it on our dining room buffet. She’d spread Dad’s creatures throughout the house: boar head snarling over the fireplace, bobcats crouching on end tables, armadillo perched on the toilet tank. She’d had a sense of humor that’d kept Dad’s darkness in check.

  “You never know,” Dad said now. “You might have a brain tumor. I read an article the other day about the correlation between mold and brain tumors.”

  And then he started up on toxic mold. He took me deep into the labyrinth of their HVAC system, where mold lurked like a restless Minotaur in ducts and tubes and evaporator coils. Frowning like Tiresias, he described damp dust coagulating on cooling fins, mold colonies thriving deep in zone dampers, airborne spores blasting from vents to contaminate carpets and furniture.

  I felt suffocated by Dad’s voice, which, slurred by the nerve pills, plodded on in a sleepy murmur.

  “You never know what kind of filth is down in ductwork,” he said, “until you pull it out and look.”

  I had to get out of his dark maze. I tried to sit up again. Though my head ached, my brain felt firmly moored.

  “I feel better,” I said. “I’d best get home.”

  “What?” Dad blinked, pulling himself out of his bleak reverie.

  Marlene appeared in the doorway with my old Dukes of Hazzard TV tray, the one with the racist rebel flag backdrop, the major characters grinning with aw-shucks innocence, the General Lee hovering right under Daisy’s cleavage. Mom used to prop it on my lap when I was sofa bound with a stomach virus. I could hardly bear to look at it now. I could almost hear Mom singing, chiding me with her special adaptation of the theme song: Been in trouble with the law since the day you were born.

  “Can’t you just eat a sandwich?” said Marlene.

  “I’m really not hungry,” I said. “And I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “Ought to see a doctor at least,” said Dad, following me into the living room. “Though it’ll cost you, it won’t be as bad as the emergency room.”

  • •

  We stood on my father’s mouthwash-green lawn, saying our good-byes, the sun sinking behind the tiny patch of forest that skirted Emerald City Retirement Village’s fake pond.

  “This isn’t much, but it’s a start,” I said, pulling five one-hundred-dollar bills from my wallet and offering them to my father.

  His eyes widened. His mouth wavered between sneer and smirk.

  “I must be dreaming.” He rubbed his eyes for effect.

  After examining each bill to check for authenticity, Dad folded the money and tucked it into his breast pocket. And then, trembling with wrath, he stooped to inspect a yellow spot left by a dissolving dog turd. I left him there, surveying the blank expanse of his territory like a general. The jungle was far from him now, but he still feared it—vines slithering from some wild fertile place, weeds sprouting, pods swelling and discharging like bomber planes, filling the air with hosts of seeds, each genome drifting like an enemy parachutist.

  I drove home through the partially revived downtown, noting a new antique store that would fail within a month. I passed the iconic drugstore that was somehow still hanging on, its pharmacist so ancient he’d probably sold patent opiates in his heyday. I passed through a fancy block of nineteenth-century houses and headed down into my neighborhood, a half-“gentrified” grid of bungalows poised between the historic district and a flood zone where poor black people lived.

  I pulled into my drive, which snaked between my house and Noah’s Ark Taxidermy, which was basically a glorified shed, noting, for the umpteenth time, that my sign needed painting, that the whole building gave off a derelict air. Who could blame a hunter for not entrusting his specimens to such an establishment? But I didn’t have the energy to deal with that yet.

  I walked inside and texted Trippy about my blackout, wondering if Skeeter would get in touch when he secured a phone. I e-mailed the Center to inquire about the seriously disturbing side effect of lost fucking consciousness and received an out of the office automated reply. I called the help desk and was directed to an elaborate voice-mail menu. I s
pent ten frustrating minutes in a maze of robots before finally squawking my frustrations into a voice-mail echo chamber until I was hoarse.

  TWO

  The first two weeks, I bucked up and cleaned out all traces of my former love: sheets and blankets, beach towels that still smelled of her waterproof sunscreen. I hauled off boxes to Goodwill and reorganized my taxidermy studio. I paid my lapsed mortgage. Stoked, I browsed my favorite websites and dropped a third of my stipend on state-of-the-art supplies: eyes, animatronic joints and jaws, a fancy airbrush kit, and a dozen new casting products. I limited myself to one or two beers per night. Filled my fridge with fruits and vegetables. Did crunches and pull-ups and went jogging in the woods each morning at dawn, when the air was damp and birds trilled softly at the newborn sun.

  I studied the SC Department of Natural Resources website, hunting seasons and harvest regulations. I dusted off my old crossbow and polished the vintage rifles that once belonged to my Grandpa Roman. I read Poison Arrows: North American Indian Hunting and Warfare. I read Zen in the Art of Archery. I read The Hound and the Hawk: The Art of Medieval Hunting. I pored over various small-game hunting message boards, learning that mutagenic squirrels inhabited the forests near the Safety-Kleen waste-disposal plant, which got me thinking about their symbolic significance, the postmodern poignancy of mutants.

  I pressure-washed my shop and refurbished the sign from my father’s golden era, a teal rectangle of plastic with NOAH’S ARK TAXIDERMY in black Industria font.

  I e-mailed all my clients a twenty-percent-off coupon.

  Diverted all thoughts of Helen.

  Thwarted all invitations to binge drink with Lee and Chip.

  Allowed myself only brief, utilitarian forays into the labyrinth of Internet porn.

  Delighted in the shrinkage of my potbelly.

  Took pleasure in the flexing of new muscle tone.

  Snacked on baby carrots.

  Learned to appreciate the slow crawl of the sun over my patio as I gingerly sipped a Miller Lite.

  I chose not to ponder my blackout. I tried not to worry over Trippy’s lack of reply to my friendly texts. Tried not to let panic creep into my heart when night settled upon my backyard and I rose from my lawn chair, crushed my beer can, and opened the rusty-hinged screen door.

  • •

  Three weeks into my new-and-improved life, I woke at dawn, ate a monkish bowl of oatmeal, and performed a sun salutation on my front porch, bathing my limbs in Ra’s healing rays. I strode into the bathroom with my chest bravely puffed. With the assistance of a hand mirror, I chopped off my sad ponytail. I preserved the mangy relic in a Baggie for posterity and clipped my hair into a Roman coiffure. I no longer looked like an aging hesher. I looked clean and sleek and ready for business.

  I slipped into fatigues and a camo tee. I loaded up my grandfather’s old Remington with a .17 HM2 cartridge, hopped into my truck, and headed toward that toxic waste dump with the Orwellian nomenclature of Safety-Kleen. I aimed to bag a brace of mutant squirrels, which I planned to mount in a grotesque wedding diorama that would reflect my jaded vision of the world, a satirical dissing of the kind of romanticized dioramas that dominated the Wildlife Artist Supply Company convention. Hearkening back to a mythologized past, WASCO tended to feature Disnified animals from some fictional paradise of pristine nature uncorrupted by human filth. I planned to underscore the ironies contained in the farce of “lifelike” mounting styles. I’d highlight the dead stiffness of my specimens with jerky animatronic movements. My mounts would critique the run-of-the-mill naïveté while also bursting the confines of parody with fantastic flourishes to highlight the dire situation of all species on our depleted planet.

  I imagined myself growing famous, being interviewed on NPR. When Matt Bland asked me if my work fell into the genre of rogue taxidermy, I’d explain the difference between the concoction of imaginary animals versus the hunting and conceptual mounting of postnatural specimens. I’d speak eloquently about the cyborgian predicament, the trans-human ecology, and the deconstruction of the nature-culture binary, noting the ironies of naturalistic taxidermy, the denial of our degraded ecological state. I’d quote Donna Haraway and reconfigure taxidermy into cybernetic code.

  Of course Helen would happen to catch my radio interview, as would Boykin Wallace Hagman, who’d wince as my voice emanated from stereo speakers, mellow and confident, shooting the shit about my opening at the Columbia Museum of Art. Helen would insist on seeing my show. Boykin would sulk but man up. Disguising his insecurity with fake bonhomie, he’d sport a cheesy bow tie at the opening.

  I could see them strolling into the museum, marveling at the combo of craftsmanship and vision that characterized my dioramas. Boykin would scurry off to chug wine in a corner, cowering like a rodent, a quicksand feeling in his gut. Helen would spot me, surrounded by tedious arts journalists. I’d wave, smile modestly as she approached. She’d run her eyes over my sleek new body. Nod approvingly at my understated haircut.

  “Wow,” she’d say. “Just, um, wow.”

  • •

  I moved through the monotonous geometry of second-growth slash pines, making my way toward a primeval patch of woods that thrived near the Safety-Kleen security fence. I remembered this spot from my boyhood. Deep in the throat of a cypress hollow, I’d once stashed a Hustler. I used to trek there with fear in my heart, a spring in my step, a ruttish tingle in my groin. I associated the soughing sweet gums, the chortling birds and insect thrum, with desire. Safely tucked within an Edenic thicket of myrtle oaks, I’d turn rain-crinkled pages, feeling faintly squeamish as I ogled folds of vulval pink.

  But then Safety-Kleen set up their hazardous waste management operation in the late 1980s, installing a high, barb-tipped fence that cut right through my locus amoenus. I was surprised to see that my myrtle oaks were still there, loaded with acorns that resembled the testicles of wood goblins. Just beyond my haven, bifurcating a patch of sweet gum, was the fence, emblazoned with hornet-yellow hazardous waste signs. Judging by the broken nuts scattered on the forest floor, squirrels had recently fed there.

  So I secreted myself behind a gallberry bush and waited for the high twitter of hungry rodents. Around nine thirty, they began to appear, scampering on the ground and twitching in the trees. The air crackled with the industrious chomping of sciurine teeth. The beasts barked and chattered, squealed and screeched. They chased each other through the branches, pausing to crack almost-ripe acorns and nibble the bitter meat.

  Through my field glasses I scoped them, noting, with disappointment, the healthy shimmer of tails; the soundness of their eyes, noses, and ears; the ho-hum quartet of normal limbs. Though one of the animals was missing a hind leg, the scabbiness of its stump bespoke an incident with a predator. Another had a seam of dried blood where its left eye should’ve been. A few had bald spots or patchy tails. But I saw no signs of environmental mutagenesis. So I lazed in the thickening heat, settling into the soporific hum of the season’s last cicadas. I was half-asleep when I spotted a runty squirrel with an enormous head making its nervous way through the woodland throng.

  Pausing to pick at a nut, the creature turned toward me, revealing a plum-size canker on its left cheek, its mouth drawn up into a wry snarl. It had fat, furry testicles—the perfect groom for my wedding diorama.

  I lifted my rifle, emptied my mind to focus on the square inch of chest beneath which its grape-size heart throbbed. My rifle melded with my body as I took aim. My 17-grain bullet found its target and knocked the beast off its hind feet.

  The squirrel toppled onto its side, jerked once, and fell still.

  I decided not to bag my kill just yet. I lay low to see what other oddities the day had to offer. Waiting for the feeding frenzy to reach its peak, I slumped in the oblivion of late morning. Birds tweeted drowsily. Mosquitoes swarmed around my force field of Deep Woods OFF! And gradually, my woodland friends left the scene. A few of them inspected their fallen brother. They nosed him over with quivering
snouts before scampering away.

  I put down my rifle, reached for my father’s old game bag, felt a crick in my back as I pushed myself up with my hands. But then I eased myself back down, for there, perched like a fairy in the magical green, was a bald squirrel. Asquat on a myrtle oak branch, it eyed me as it noshed a nut. Its skin had the yellowed patina of a white vinyl sofa long aged in the smoky fug of a dive bar. Its furless paws resembled gargoyle claws. It had a snub-nosed face and bulging eyes.

  I groped for my gun. Took clumsy aim. Fired in a nervous spasm.

  I hit the poor monster just where its belly met its upper groin, a tender spot, but not instantly fatal. It fell from its perch and convulsed in the dead leaves, and I felt sick-hearted from my sloppy shot. But it was dead by the time I reached it. The squirrel was female, the perfect pale bride for my wedding diorama.

  I put on my field gloves. I encased both bodies in a plastic Baggie before dropping them into my game bag. The air turned a strange sulfuric gold. A mourning dove moaned. The slow hiss of drizzle pushed through the forest as I headed back to my truck.

  • •

  I was in the studio at the back of my shop, into my second beer, windows yanked wide, crickets strumming silvery songs in the moon-bright night. Larks’ Tongues in Aspic flowed from my old boom box, the cassette player still working its magic. The room stank of varnish and epoxies, the waxy taint of animal hide. My half-finished mutant-squirrel diorama sat on my worktable, the creatures upholstered but eyeless, their dark gaping sockets giving them a Munchian air.

  I’d disassembled traditional Flex Foam squirrel forms and put them back together with Neuro-Touch wiring and Smooth Moves animatronic joints. I’d concealed a crankshaft motor beneath a urethane rock, upon which my little couple cavorted. Now I picked through my assortment of Quick Pupil digital eyeballs, looking for just the right set for each animal, finally settling on a pair of oversize red ones for the lady and tiny emeralds for the gent. I pinned their eyelids, tucked their ducts, and behold: the animals had souls, personalities, desires, and whims. The groom was an old curmudgeon, the bride a smart-mouthed firecracker.