Calling Out (21 page)

“Merry Christmas,” I say.

“Yeah. I'm just finishing up some work. Have yourself
a beer or something.”

“I'm Roxanne,” I say.

“I know,” he says, impatiently waving me in. “I'm not
retarded.”

He disappears down a narrow, dark hall leaving me
alone in the faux-wood-paneled, galley-sized living room
of the trailer, dimly lit and lined with stuffed creatures of
all kinds. Eyes are everywhere—elk, deer, rabbits, raccoons—like a gothic hunting lodge. Their heads are
macabre, but they have an impressive, lifelike subtlety in
their poses. A large TV is perched on milk crates in the
corner and a stereo is stacked with CDs—Led Zeppelin,
Lynyrd Skynyrd, Boston, and REO Speedwagon. The
banality of this setup makes me feel sorrier for him than
I would if he were holed up in a rustic cabin without
plumbing.

“I'll be out in five,” he yells from down the hall.

“Take your time,” I say too softly, and I'm about to
repeat myself louder when he calls again.

“It's a Christmas gift. The guy's picking it up
tomorrow morning. A buck head for his wife. It's pretty
awesome. They live over in Helper. He's coming by at
dawn.”

I hear the clang of a dropped tool and the whirring of
something electrical. It's tempting to venture back to see
him in action, but I like to imagine the mad scientist at
work. The couch is draped in a forest green bedsheet,
which is tucked into the cushions, ash-spotted, and
unevenly covering the yellow velour underneath. The
room is like an old dorm room grown threadbare through
twenty years of habitation. There is a tidiness in the way
the magazines—
Car & Driver
,
Rolling Stone
—are piled
neatly at the foot of the couch and every preserved animal
has its own defined space. The vague, disagreeable pungence of formaldehyde lingers, mixed with old cigarettes
and pine cleaner.

“I'll show you later,” Ephraim says, as he comes back
in, wiping his hands on a greasy towel. “The antlers are
good. Real symmetrical.”

“Great,” I say.

“You look good,” he says. “Are you new?”

“Pretty new,” I say, deciding against reminding him I
spoke with him on Thanksgiving. “Why do you ask?”

“I didn't recognize your description.”

I'm expecting him to call me on its obvious stretches
of the truth but he only seems pleased with himself that
he was in the know.

“Have you always lived out here? In Nephi, I mean.”

Ephraim goes into the kitchen.

“Yeah. I grew up with my grandparents over in
Jerusalem, east of here on the edge of the Uinta, but since
there's only fifty folks there, I've always said I'm from
Nephi.”

He returns with a beer can in each hand and holds
one out to me.

“I was going to move down to Richfield some years
ago to a bigger shop but that would have been a mistake.
I got over it.” Ephraim falls heavily into the couch beside
me. “I need to be my own boss is the bottom line,” he says,
looking around at his animal companions.

“It's amazing work,” I say. “So real-looking.”

“Yep,” he says. “I know. I'm not trying to brag or anything but I'm pretty much a master of the art.”

“I can see you're right,” I say, cracking open my Bud
Light. “Shall we get the money out of the way?”

“Hah,” he says, shaking his head in exaggerated
annoyance. “I should have known.” Ephraim sits up with
one hand on his knee, tilts his head back, and downs his
beer, finishing with a shake of his hair. “What's the
damage?” he asks, pulling a roll of bills from his jeans.

“Two hours. And then the travel fee. That comes to
five hundred and forty.”

“You've got to be shitting me!” he says, as if he didn't
know, as if I might give him a special deal.

“You agreed to it over the phone.”

“Sheesh,” he says, shaking his head and counting out
bills on his thigh. “Good thing it's Christmas Eve and I'm
feeling generous.” He hands me the money. “You can take
off your coat. Throw it over the chair there. Want another
beer?”

“No, not yet. Thanks.”

After calling in to Marisa—she doesn't answer, so I act
out the call in case he's listening—I start asking Ephraim
questions, sensing his overwhelming desire to be heard.
He's been percolating. With another beer, his words begin
to flow, building to a sizable torrent.

“I didn't ever know my parents. My mom died when
I was three, then my father bolted. Who knows what happened to him. I hope the fucker's dead. More likely down
in Colorado City with ten wives. My grandfather kicked it
when I was in high school and my grandma a few years
back.”

“You must miss having people around, out here on
your own,” I say resting my hand on his arm.

“Sometimes, I guess. I don't really notice it when I'm
working but at night it's hard. I think most people think I
don't have much to say. But I do. You know?”

“Yeah,” I say.

He runs his fingers through his hair in rapid strokes
and clears his throat to drown out the emotion.

“It's not that there aren't women,” he says.

I don't ask him if there are any he doesn't pay for.

“I think they can't deal with my dedication to my
work. They need too much attention.” He loops his arm
around my shoulders as if we are teenagers at the movies.
“Taxidermy is my calling. My grandfather did it and I
knew it was for me by age six. I've developed my own
unique techniques. I have one guy who sends me his
salmon all the way from Alaska because he thinks no one
else makes the heads look so alive.”

Ephraim's glistening face leads me to believe he is
working up to a bigger move in my direction.

“Roxanne is a nice name,” he says.

“Thank you.”

“Do you want me to show you around the place?”

“Thought you'd never ask.”

Ephraim points back to where the bedroom is but
leads me instead into his workshop, awash in the greenish
tinge of fluorescent light and the ghostly hush of lifelessness. There is a chemical tang to the air. White plastic
animal heads, grouped by species, line the walls. He pulls
out one of the drawers of what looks like a metal card catalog and glass eyeballs knock together as benignly as marbles.

“These are imported from Germany,” he says, holding
one up in his fingers. “They're for cats. Not the big wild
ones but house cats. For old ladies mostly.”

I imagine the other escorts who have been here—
Jezebel bored and giggling, and Nikyla trying to be nice
despite finding it disturbing—as Ephraim points out the
different pelts drying on the line.

“Check this out,” he says, motioning to a back table.

An enormous deer head looks up to the ceiling, its
giant, spiked branches of antlers wrapped in plastic.

“Wow,” I say.

“I know, right? I bet this white tail was closing in on
seven years old.”

“Do you ever do work for museums?” I ask.

Ephraim is so pleased with my question he can't hide
his smile as he bounces on his heels.

“I did an exhibit a couple years ago for the Salt Lake
zoo. Refurbishing this monkey diorama they have there.
That was cool. I like to go up there sometimes to visit it. I
did some good tail work on those guys.”

I sit on a metal stool as he continues around the
studio: noses for any animal in plastic and rubber, the
drainage sink, scalpels, a whole drawer full of needles in
various sizes, nylon thread, cotton batting for stuffing that
he orders from furniture upholstering wholesalers
because he says it looks more realistic under the skin than
what his suppliers in the trade offer. He pets a half-stuffed
raccoon whose body is frozen in an inquisitive pose, as if
it's just about to peer into a window.

“Can I watch you work?” I ask.

And from his sad smile I know that my request is the
nicest thing he has heard in a long while, edging into intimate territory that has always been his solitary and passionate pursuit.

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” he says. “It's pretty neat stuff. This
guy here,” he says, massaging the back fur of the raccoon,
“used to scavenge in Mr. Moses's garbage cans, so he
finally took him out with a baby .22. See this bare spot in
the fur right here? I filled it in with some rubber molding
and now I'm going to graft fur onto it. There. See? You'd
never know, would you?”

I smile and shake my head “no.”

“I already picked out his eyes, so I paint some adhesive around the rims, push them through some, adjust,
and voilà.”

The wind finds the small space between the window
and its frame, blowing through in cold wisps that seek out
my exposed neck. I let my hair down to combat the chill.

“The head is probably the best part. You squeeze the
skull form into the face skin from below—when it's a
good fit, it pops right into place—move it around so the
eyes and nose sit right, and then you're ready to sew. Don't
get the wrong idea, though. I've worked on this one for
hours already. Even the ears and whiskers required some
refurbishing.”

The gusts outside make a cooing sound as they
whoosh by the house.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

I nod.

Ephraim reaches into a trunk and pulls out a large
dark furry hide.

“A black bear. Back when it was still legal to kill them.
That'll warm you right up.”

A beastly essence still clings to the skin and I have to
breathe through my mouth when he drapes it around my
shoulders.

“Don't worry, he's been dead for about ten years.”

I'm not sure what he thinks I might be worried about
but I let it go. He places the raccoon upside down in a
padded chamois-covered vice and threads a large curved
needle like the kind used for quilting. His hands work in
graceful tandem with delicate precision, his stitches as
even as those of a seasoned seamstress.

“This is one of the secrets,” he says. “Most people rush
through this part. But the whole point is to leave no mark.”

“You have nice hands,” I say.

Ephraim stops sewing and looks up at me, suddenly
self-conscious and momentarily out of his element.

“Yeah?” he asks, his face pink.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt.”

He stitches quickly now, up the throat, and with some
intricate maneuver with the needle at the underside of the
neck, Ephraim closes it up and snips the thread.

“Feel it,” he says. “Run your finger along here.”

Ephraim guides my finger with his hand along the
almost invisible seam.

“Massage the fur so it moves over the stitches like this.”

He demonstrates, I follow, and then his hand covers
mine. The fur is rougher than I expected.

“What now?” I ask.

“I'll spray it tomorrow with this superfine-mist oil
treatment, mount him, and he'll be ready to go.”

“No, I mean, what now?” I try to be seductive but my
voice sounds too tinny.

“Oh,” he says, pulling away, rubbing his palms
together. “Okay then.”

He points his head toward the hall and lifts his eyebrows in question. I hop off the stool and follow him into
the house.

His bedroom is small and spare except for the giant
floor-to-ceiling photographic mountain scene covering
one wall.

“Pretty badass, huh? I put that up last year. It comes
in large sheets like wallpaper. I've seen this one that's a
view of the Grand Canyon. I might change it up.”

Both of us stand stiffly in the middle of the room.

“Maybe we could light some candles in here,” I say,
spying one next to the bed.

He jumps into action, pulling an array of fruity drugstore candles from his dresser drawer.

“Much better,” he says as he lights them. I turn off the
overhead light.

I'm glad there are no animals in here to watch us.

“Why don't we sit on the bed,” I say.

I think Ephraim is relieved to be told what to do. He
sits gingerly on the edge of the bed and I run my hand
down his back. He closes his eyes and surrenders a deep,
pent-up breath.

“There,” I say.

My hand travels onto his neck, slowly rubbing, venturing up into his hair and down across his collarbone. I
kick off my shoes and move behind him to work with two
hands, slowly kneading, one inch at a time. His breath
catches and I realize that he's crying.

“Baby, what's wrong?” I say softly near his ear, hugging him from behind.

Ephraim forces a stop to the tears with a few emphatic
breaths.

“Roxanne. This is just so…nice.”

I brush his hair behind his ear.

“Ephraim, would you like to kiss me?”

He turns to me and nods, looking like a plaintive boy
with a skinned knee.

Ephraim is earnest and aggressive and incredibly
appreciative all at the same time. He yanks off my clothes
then stops for a look of grateful rapture at the sight of my
skin. Still in his jeans, he humps my leg and squeezes my
breasts as if they're made of Silly Putty.

“Slow,” I say. “We're in no hurry.”

He stops, rises up to look at me, but then he's at it
again, tugging at my bra without knowing how to get it
unhooked. I do it for him because it's Christmas Eve,
because he's a fine taxidermist, and because, I realize, I
don't care that much one way or the other.

“Roxanne, would you mind if I took my pants off?” he
asks in a polite, quiet voice.

“I wouldn't mind, Ephraim. I'll help,” I say.

And in trembling candlelight, with the flash of his
needy eyes as he kisses my stomach, I calculate that his
desire to have me is, at that moment, greater than my
desire not to be had. I'm weary. I tell myself that it will
mean more to him to have sex with me than it will for me
not to.