The Sasquatch Hunter's Almanac (34 page)

They'd been devastated by the separation. They manifested it in weird ways. Blythe refused to sleep in her own bed, afraid of the “bad men” in her closet. She bunked with Ginger nightly. Ruby began chewing on her fingers, sometimes until she drew blood.

It was hell, but how could she stay with Cort? How could she, when he'd inspired her life's greatest betrayal?

The truth, she saw now, was even simpler: She didn't love Cort. The Gypsy had been correct. He was not the love of her life. Not of her mature life, at least. He was a good man but wrong for her.

She was a horrible person. She loved the girls. That they continued to love her, too, was both a miracle and an injustice.

She did not exactly wish herself dead, but she continued to think that everyone else would benefit from her departure, and, really, what was the difference? Dead and gone were the same thing.

Here the trail ended. Ginger was relieved to find the unicorn alive. It lay on its side, breathing laboriously. Hearing her noisy approach, it lifted its head and regarded her with calm black eyes, too drugged by its own blood loss to fear her and flee.

The beast adjusted its legs. The hind leg, connected by a wide throbbing vein, lifted and drooped. Ginger winced at the opening it revealed: She could see the unicorn's pink innards, the hint of white fractured bone.

“Poor girl,” she said to it. “Poor love.”

She came forward and knelt beside it. It was smaller than a horse, more deerlike in its delicacy. Ginger stroked its velvet-soft nose and cooed to it. She moved her hands to its ears and rubbed them, and the unicorn relaxed its head onto her thighs and snorted in pleasure. The heat from its nostrils warmed her. The air smelled of fresh grass.

She touched its horn and almost recoiled. It vibrated, scorching her fingertips. The horn was a living, breathing thing.
Healing properties,
Ginger remembered, and she wrapped her palms around it and closed her eyes.

She could feel it moving through her, the salvation.

The relief was extraordinary. The great unburdening! Ginger cried out in surprise.

Then, overwhelmed with joy, she sobbed.

She did not want to let go. She held on for a few more moments.

Maybe the feeling would stay with her, if she let go?

She let go.

The darkness returned. After its absence, it hung on her thicker now, its weight nearly unbearable.

Ginger longed to return her hands to the horn, but she worried that having to remove them again would kill her.

The unicorn blew warm air through its nose. It seemed to be moving into its own black twilight. Ginger's heart broke for it. She bent over the animal, half-hugging its ropy neck. Burying her nose in its hide, she let loose the loud, hiccuping sobs of her distant childhood.

When she finished crying (hours later, seconds?), the forest was brighter. The moon had risen. The unicorn no longer seemed at death's door. It breathed calmly, steadily. The blood had coagulated around the wound. The unicorn's eyes were closed as though it meant to sleep. It ruffled its ears. Ginger stood and brushed the dirt off her jeans.

Magical healing properties,
Ginger remembered again. Even the unicorn's leg was reattaching itself, sewn back together with the sparkling silver blood, the giant scab drying in a silken swatch.

“I'll be back,” she told it. “Don't move. Rest. I'll check up on you.”

The unicorn remained motionless, maybe concentrating on healing itself, or maybe just willing Ginger away.

*   *   *

W
HEN
G
INGER GOT
to her house, Cort told her the girls were asleep. He offered her a glass of her own beer.

“No, thank you,” she said. She felt like she should go on a run. She felt like she should fly to the moon.

“Right,” he said. “Hope you don't mind if I had some.”

“Of course not,” she said, smiling at the open beer bottles, but it irritated her, as everything he did irritated her. “Thank you for watching the girls. I know it's uncomfortable. I appreciate it.”

“I love seeing them,” he said. “It's no trouble.”

Cort looked good. She had to admit it. He looked better than she looked. He was happy, in shape, successful. He was also apparently in love.

“So,” he said, leaning proprietarily against the kitchen counter. “How's it going?”

“Oh,” she said, waving her hand through the air, “it's great.”

“Therapy is good?”

“Great.”

“Yeah, Gordo's a good guy.”

Cort had recommended Gordon to her, an acquaintance from his residency. Cort had wanted her to see him when they were still together, but she had refused. The problem, she had said, was
them,
and no therapist could help with that.

“Well,” Cort said, moving to the sink with his beer glass, turning on the water, “I should go. Meeting Mandy at the bistro.”

“Can you stay?” she blurted. “Can you stay a little longer?”

“Tonight? Now?” He shut off the water. He wasn't angry with her—he was never angry with her—but, she saw, he wanted to leave.

“It's just, and I know this sounds like nothing, but I hit a deer with my car tonight.”

She couldn't tell him it was a unicorn. She could never express the fantastic to him without confronting her own silliness.

Cort was concerned. He gave her a once-over, even reached forward to jiggle her arm, as though to check if it was broken. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I'm fine,” she said, pulling her arm away. “It's just, it was still alive, lying there next to the road. I want to go check on it. I'll take it a blanket or something. It's lying there in the dark, and it's in shock and cold.”

“It'll probably die,” Cort said, and she turned away from him. He added quickly, “I'll stay. I'll call Mandy.”

“Thank you.”

She pulled out her keys. She hadn't removed her coat. Cort was a pushover. She had known he would stay, had never doubted it for a second.

“You can invite your girlfriend over if you want,” she said, and he shook his head.

“Will it take long?” he asked her a little helplessly, following her to the back porch.

“Nah. I just need to get the blanket out of the garage and go. I'll be back in thirty minutes, easy.”

Cort smiled affectionately at her, coming forward and giving her a light squeeze. “Ginger,” he teased. “You've always been a softy.”

As though to prove him correct, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.

“You're a lifesaver,” she said, and he beamed at her but casually wiped the kiss away with his shirtsleeve.

It reminded her of what he'd once said to her:
Your unhappiness is contagious
.

*   *   *

B
ACK IN THE
forest, Ginger threaded her way to the unicorn.

There was no doubt about it now: The unicorn was healing itself. It glowed softly on the forest floor, bright enough to cast shadows. It raised its head to gaze at her sleepily, calmly, before lowering it again and shutting its eyes. It was still too weak to fight. It didn't seem to believe she was a threat.

Ginger knelt beside it, cooing, and slowly unwrapped the blanket.

“I brought you something, sweetheart,” she told it.

Inside the unfolded blanket was her hacksaw. Ginger drew it into her lap and took a deep breath. Then, reaching up and clutching the unicorn horn with one hand, she grit her teeth and began, despite the sudden fury of the animal, to saw.

*   *   *

A
N HOUR LATER,
Ginger stood in Gordon's office, smelling of sweat and mud. She clutched the blanket to her chest. She glowed.

“Ginger,” Gordon said. “I was just leaving for the night. What are you—”

She unfolded the blanket and pulled out the horn. One end was jagged and broken, smeared with silver liquid. Wet tatters of the animal's torn flesh hung from it.

The other end pointed skyward, a perfect taper.

“Ginger,” Gordon said, and brought his hands up as though to touch it. He stopped himself, wiped at his face. He asked her, “What have you done?”

“I'm cured,” Ginger said. She thought of the unicorn's corpse in the forest, how it had, without its horn, melted into the ground like spilled water. “The curse. It's broken.”

For a moment, Ginger could not tell whether Gordon was afraid of her or in awe of her. It didn't matter. Ginger wouldn't need him anymore. She would return to her children. She would meet a dark-haired man and fall in love. She would be brave for her family, even in the midst of great loss, even in the inevitable decline and death of her parents, whom she needed and loved and could not imagine life without.

The Gypsy had understood all of this. She had understood that people grew sick and died, that suffering and loss were inevitable, that she could blame it on Ginger as a big joke.

Ginger saw all of this for the first time. A joke! A terrible joke! She needn't punish herself any longer.

The unicorn horn pulsed, alive, in her palms.

Gordon stared at the horn hungrily now, his aspect wolflike. He tiptoed toward her.

Ginger backed slowly out of the office, tensing her legs, ready to turn and sprint for the stairs.

“Now,” Gordon said, baring his sharp teeth, “
now
we're getting somewhere.”

 

REMOVAL

Mr. Krantz lived in Lilac City with his new wife, Emily, in a fancy condo furnished by her wealthy parents. The condo was coldly beautiful, with its stainless-steel appliances and smooth marble countertops; it reminded him of a cave he'd briefly inhabited, a cave behind a waterfall. He thought of the noise outside—the interstate—as the noise of a big river. Which is what is was, really, a flat gray river teeming with fleet, metallic fish.

It was morning in late October, cold, smelling brazenly of dead leaves. He awoke as he often did, with his missing foot throbbing. The phantom toes ached; he knew better than to reach down and feel their absence. His steel and silicone appendage, a transtibial prosthetic, rested against the bedroom wall just beneath the window. He rolled toward it, reached for it, and attached it to his leg. The throbbing slowly ebbed. He remained prostrate, enjoying the cool feel of the sheets on his naked body. He enjoyed the privacy of the quiet bedroom and remained there for a long time, wide awake, his senses sparking with the world's intense smells and sounds.

Emily had scheduled a laser depilation appointment for him at the Glow Health Spa, just a few blocks south. A little before nine she hurried into their bedroom, pregnant but not yet showing (Krantz could smell the change in her hormones the same way he could smell her gingery perfume), to kiss him flush on the mouth and remind him not to be late. She forced a mug of coffee into his hands. He sat up in their bed, watching her bustle. She owned a beauty supply shop near the river, also bought for her by her parents, and she did very well at her work. He rested the coffee on the side table, still finding its taste too bitter to enjoy. Emily insisted. He would never be fully human, she told him, without enjoying the taste of coffee.

“Now, don't be late for your appointment,” she said, snapping on her pearl earrings. “I'll catch hell from Wendy. You know how Wendy is.”

He didn't know or care how Wendy was, but he grunted his assent.

“Don't be so grumpy, sweetheart.” She came and sat beside him on the bed, putting one of her tiny raccoon hands on the knee above his artificial foot. “This last year's been an adjustment. You're doing so well. I'm so proud of you.”

He put his hand on her belly and held it there. He felt what he hoped was his son, bumping around like a blind sea horse in her gut, but it was probably just a bit of food, digesting.

“You'll be such a good daddy.” Emily put her face close to his. Her eyelashes fluttered like a moth against his cheekbone. “Tell me you love me, bumpkins.”

Sometimes he missed Agnes, who lacked all girlhood silliness, who never cared whether he declared his love or his need to take a piss.

But Agnes had never given him a son. Emily, fertile, selfless, was doing that.

He jostled his balls, rising from the bed.

He needed to take a piss.

“You big Goliath,” Emily said.

He helped her rise to her feet again, even smoothing out her dress for her over and around her torso. She slapped one of his bare buttocks as he turned for the bathroom.

“You big stud, you,” she said.

He could hear the horniness in her voice, and if he'd been more in the mood he might have answered it. But right now he had only one thought in mind: pissing. He went into the bathroom and stood before the toilet. He still hated pissing into this thing. Flushing his heavy-scented urine was such a waste.

“Make sure to raise the seat, sweetie,” Emily sang from the bedroom. “Otherwise it sprays the wallpaper.”

He raised the seat, annoyed, and then stood holding his dick for a few moments, trying to empty his mind. Finally he gave up, ran some water in the sink, rinsed out his mouth, and spat. When he left the bathroom, bladder still full and aching, his wife waved to him from the doorway and blew him a kiss. She had her purse and keys. She called out that she was running late. He lifted his hand to her and was relieved when the door clicked shut behind her.

There was the sound of the elevator as it sank lower and lower to the garage where she parked her car. Once he was sure of her departure, he opened the front door and looked out into the hallway. It was a boring, plain rectangle, painted in inoffensive tans, with a row of neat golden elevator doors in its westernmost corner. He sniffed the stale air and drew in the smell of detergent and fried eggs and dozens and dozens of people, all of whom he could nearly taste from their scent alone.

Then, satisfied, he put one elbow against the doorframe and pissed onto the hallway's carpet, moaning with pleasure as he did so.