“How do hunters shoot anything with such wondrous eyes?” she said.
It was true about the eyes. Jimbo had learned not to look into them.
“I hope our daughter has your eyes,” he said, pressing lightly on the fawn’s back until it folded onto Cassie’s outstretched legs. It rested its nose on her belly. Jimbo stood and with a boot pushed the doe toward the drain. As he did, the incision tore, and he saw several ribs; one was covered with the telltale white bubbles of TB. If the doe was infected, so was her fawn.
So that Cassie could lean back, he rolled his work cart behind her and locked the wheels.
“Do you know how much I’ve thought about you? Do you have any idea? Don’t sit there and pretend like you didn’t think about me. You enjoyed it as much as I did.”
He remembered those weeks like they were yesterday. He could picture her coming through the overhead door, half-dressed, and wanting to play, like a little kid. One time she was buck naked. Several times she wore layers and, using antlers like a pole, she’d remove each layer in a striptease. If he was too busy to play, she’d pull up a stool and watch, the sound and smell of her breath driving him so crazy that he could hardly stand it. Most of what they did was her idea. Instead of hide-and-seek, she insisted they play hide-and-hunt, using an unloaded gun and a bow with sponge-tipped arrows. “Even vegetarians have to eat what they kill,” she’d said. Until Cassie, Jimbo had thought vegetarians, like zombies, were made up.
Cassie rubbed the fawn’s neck and cradled it in her arms. She closed her eyes.
“Damnit, Cassie. Do you hear what I’m saying? Look at me, goddamnit. I’ll marry you.” There. He’d said it. The first Sutt in no telling how many generations.
“Are you nuts?” Cassie kept her eyes closed and lowered her voice to a half squeak, half whisper. “My father would disown me.”
“He’ll come around. You’ll see. What does he know anyway? What did you tell him about us?”
“He thinks you raped me... said he would kill you. The sheriff talked him out of it.”
“Talked him out of it? What’d Turner say?” For years Jimbo and Sheriff Turner’d had an unspoken agreement about jurisdiction. Fish and Wildlife were from Washington and didn’t understand the way things worked around here.
Cassie opened her eyes and stared at her belly. “He said you’d been nothing but decent out here, quietly processing your deer and raising your brother alone. Said there wasn’t anybody to take care of Darrell if something happened to you. I let him feel the baby kick. Did you know the sheriff and I are the same age?” With a thumb, she began tracing the shiny purple veins and closed her eyes again.
“Darrell felt the baby? Or do you mean Sheriff Turner?”
“Getting the car fixed is going to be expensive. Daddy’s going to be pissed. He stays furious with me since I didn’t get an abortion. He said, Sired by a Sutt, there’s no telling what you’ll give birth to.” She pulled herself up against the table leg, her midriff bare and round, and leaned back. “I’d forgotten how things feel out here. All this death makes a body feel more alive.” She shifted the fawn in her lap and tucked the hem of her shirt under her arm to hold it in place. Through the thin cotton of her bra, Jimbo saw the complete outline of her nipple. Its roundness appeared to be straining against the material. “I feel free out here. I can let everything go.” She rubbed the fawn’s nose around her nipple and closed her eyes. As she arched her back, the center hardened to a point. She smiled. “I’ll have milk soon.”
Weak as it was, the fawn made a perfect rag doll. She lifted her breast over the top of the bra and rubbed it against the fawn’s nose. When she pushed her nipple into the fawn’s mouth, she started humming some song that sounded familiar.
“The fawn’s sick, Cassie. It has TB. Not your fault but it can’t live.” The smile disappeared from her face. “We’ll name our baby Fawna, though. It’s perfect, isn’t it?” he whispered, as he spread her legs and began rubbing the inside of her thighs. Now his brain spun; no longer paused — fast forward, rewind — it was playing and recording simultaneously, it was running at different speeds. Wasn’t he being gentle as he laid her on her side? Wasn’t he being careful as he pressed the fawn between them? If he could’ve, he would’ve crawled all the way inside Cassie to his baby, where he could touch and hold and kiss her, his perfect, perfect daughter, his Fawna. His. What would she smell like? He would stay there, inside, and be born with her. A perfect daughter deserved a perfect father, didn’t she? The kind always there to protect. He could not wait. He would never let Fawna out of his sight. Such warmth. Such softness. With the fawn still between them, he unzipped his pants. The warmth turned to heat.
Maybe when someone loses their mind, it’s like floating in space. Maybe there’s no gravity or weight. Or maybe it feels heavy, an anchoring secured by weight. Maybe it feels like finally finding home. Maybe it’s not crazy to discover for the first time as middle age nears what it’s like for something to belong inexplicably to you. Or maybe Jimbo Sutt didn’t lose or find a thing. Maybe he simply fell in love.
Maybe love is where things unravel.
He’d told her he’d talk to her father, hadn’t he? Had she heard? Or had she been listening to the fawn? Did she think death was silent? She’d seen how messy it was in the shop and liked it. That sound was just the lungs struggling. The fawn would quiet soon. He would bury it. He would not feed it to the dogs. He promised. He would do whatever she liked, whatever she wanted. They were going to be a real family. He was going to be a real father. DeBardelaiwin was a fine name. He didn’t care about names. Fawna Sutt or Fawna DeBardelaiwin. Blood was what mattered — his blood, his baby. Had Cassie started crying? Why? Why was she looking at him that way? Could she see how beautiful Fawna would be? God, how he’d missed her. Every night he’d dreamed of making love again. He’d never imagined her with his baby inside while they did it. Fawna was going to be perfect. Josiah would see what a perfect baby Jimbo made. Not like Darrell. Not like the fawn. Cassie didn’t need to listen to her father. It was Jimbo’s turn to make the decisions. He wanted to rock back and forth while Cassie sang all the lullabies in the world. Faster. Faster. He didn’t want slow. He didn’t want to wait. Was that Cassie singing? Was that the Jackal? Was it him? Hold still and shut up for one lousy goddamn moment. Fawna needs me. We need each other. You’ll see. Please God no. Not blood. Please no. I just want to hold her.
Jimbo replays it over and over in his mind, always rewinding, always fast-forwarding. Some things change, but the end is always the same: The knife is sharp. The blood is thick. And Jimbo’s left there, all alone.
When Jimbo visits Darrell at Medical West, he usually parks out front and takes the main elevator. Today, he takes the hospital stairs and walks the four flights to Darrell’s floor. “He’s asleep,” a nurse whispers behind Jimbo, as if he’s too stupid to notice. “Why don’t you come back later?” Jimbo knows it’s not a question.
Darrell looks grown, peaceful, so different than the little boy who haunts Jimbo’s memory. He would unmake every mistake if he could. He will not make the mistake now of waking him. Outside Darrell’s room, the maze of halls makes Jimbo feel like a rat. He knows what the people here think of Darrell, of him. He won’t ask for directions. The ones in the white coats are the worst — pity written all over their faces, thinking they’re better than the Sutts because they have education and big words. Jimbo’ll be damned before he asks them anything. This is where Cassie would’ve been taken to stop the bleeding. These are the people who would’ve taken Fawna.