Survivor Song(46)
Cleaning items returned, he re-shoulders the pack, sheathes the bat, pulls the bandanna down, and says, “I, uh, saw it moving in the grass.” Hand gestures mimic the animal’s approach. His voice is hushed and not in any way self-congratulatory. He avoids eye contact, acting sheepish and embarrassed. Ramola wonders how much different a recounting of the event would be for Josh.
Natalie arcs around Luis and the inkblot puddle of the raccoon’s blood. “What are you gonna do when a rabid elephant comes at us?” Natalie giggles and continues walking.
Luis doesn’t have an answer. He climbs onto his bike and rides next to Natalie, scanning the brush and perimeter of the state park to their right. Ramola trails a step or two behind. Natalie’s breathing is heavy and openmouthed. No one talks.
They walk and they walk. Wind skitters leaves across their path. Tree branches shake and rattle. Birdcalls and the imposter-owl hoots of mourning doves echo; so too the icy, faraway cries and howls of coyotes.
The road ahead is dotted with dead animals; two rabbits, gored but not consumed, another raccoon (a juvenile judging by its size), and a fox. The fox lies on its side in the opposite lane, orange-red furry back to them as they approach, fluffy tail between its legs, no visible injuries or traumas. It could be asleep, readying a surprise pounce, living up to its trickster reputation.
Ramola is not religious or spiritual and rightly scoffs at the notion of things happening for a reason. Her faith is placed within the fragile hands of humanity’s capacity for kindness and service. However, given her childhood obsession with the fox, it’s difficult not to divine nihilistic meaning from the dead animal or view it as a portent of terrible things to come. Ramola has an urge to carry the beautiful creature into the forest, lay it to rest at the base of a tree, and cover it with leaves and pine needles. Part of her wants to transport it elsewhere, to where there is no sickness. As they pass the fox, Ramola turns and walks backward to fully view its front. Paws are held tight at its midsection, the snout tucked into its chest, and eyes clenched shut as though it can no longer bear to see. Ramola spins back, her gaze returning to Natalie and the winding road through the forest ahead, where all manner of tooth and fang await. In her mind she briefly returns to her childhood bedroom in South Shields, this animal with its still-vibrant, playful, glowing coat is sprawled across her bed, her shabby stuffed foxes (imposters; pale, ugly ducklings by comparison) posed around it in respectful vigil. As a young child, she insisted her parents repeatedly read her favorite Grimms’ fairy tale “The Wedding of Mrs. Fox.” Her dad used funny voices and was careful to linger on each word, never rushing through, keeping to a rhythm that would lull her to sleep. Her mum often recited the tale by heart, she’d read it so often, and would test and pique her persnickety daughter with dark and goofy ad-libs to the story. Like Mrs. Fox, Ramola professed that when older she would reject all suitors who weren’t wearing red trousers or didn’t have a pointed face. Lines from the tale run through her head now: “She is sitting in her room, Moaning in her gloom, Weeping her little eyes quite red, Because old Mr. Fox is dead.”
Natalie eerily echoes the finishing line, swapping genders, mumbling, “Poor Mrs. Fox is dead.”
No ambulances or cars pass them. There aren’t even any sirens bleating in the distance.
Ramola checks her watch again. They’ve been walking for sixteen minutes. Josh should be at the clinic by now.
A mint-green Borderland State Park sign is visible about two hundred paces ahead. The main entrance is on the other, western side of the park. This sign marks an alternate entrance and a small, corner dirt lot in which people who purchased a yearly pass are allowed to park. Two trails lead away from the lot. Bob’s Trail is thin, winding, its path veined with tree roots and glacial boulders shrouded by the forest canopy. The other trail has no name and is a two-lane dirt access road, which hikers and bikers are allowed to traverse; a padlocked wooden gate prohibits the public from driving into the heart of the park. Abutting the lot is an intersection. Lincoln Street and Allen Road spoke off in their easterly and westerly directions. Beyond the intersection, houses are again perched along Bay Road.
Luis says, “Josh is taking his sweet-ass time.”
Natalie coughs. It’s a dry, painful sound, full of dust, and after, she has difficulty catching her breath.
Ramola says, “You’re pushing yourself too hard. Let’s take a break. A short one.”
Natalie says, “I’m fine. I mean, my boobs hurt and my back kills and my hips are pulling apart. But I’m good.” She coughs again, then growls, as though she might scare the coughs away.
Luis rides a handful of paces ahead of Natalie, spins out the bike in a neat little move so that he blocks her path and is turned to face her. He says, “I’m a dumbass. Sorry, I got water to spare.” He offers game-show display hands in front of the bottles hanging over his chest. “Choose wisely.”
Ramola, without thinking, says, “Yes, you’ll be no good to anyone if you get dehydrated, least of all yourself or your child. You need to drink.”
Natalie comes to an abrupt halt and shouts, “Do I? You think so?” Her teeth are gritted, eyes wild; a look of unadulterated anger. During their university days Ramola mockingly delighted, documented, and cheered sightings of Angry Nats, such appearances generally reserved for unreasonable professors, rude bar patrons, and man-boy twits who insisted Natalie could not turn down having a drink in their company.