A trio of perfect animals that complemented each other. One on its own was lovely, but there was something about the symmetry of three that made me feel as if the world had suddenly righted itself. Their feathers trembled in the sudden draft of the air-conditioning. “No.” I shook my head. “These are mine.”
“How are we gonna pay bills next month?”
I considered the fact that my nephew was in the business of murdering things for money. I loved that boy, could still see the little pinched face, doughy smile buried inside the new, leaner, adult one, but it didn’t cover up his mercenary qualities. Something very much like Brynn: willing to do whatever it took to get what he wanted. I’d told Donna about the animals, but I hadn’t mentioned Bastien by name. He was right, after all. We did need the money.
“We’ll figure something out.”
Bastien helped me move the mount onto the floor. It sat nicely next to our display of freshwater bass. The light was very good through the front window, but not bright enough to dull the feathers. Different times of day would bring altered colors to the setting. Purple in the midmorning, radiant blue in the early evening.
Bastien pushed a hand through his hair, which looked sparser than usual. “If I get more, can we sell those? That girl from before called back, said she wanted tail feathers to make some kind of Mardi Gras mask.”
I’d already gotten what I wanted from the peacocks. Every time I looked at them I felt bone-deep satisfaction, as if a burden had been lifted. I wondered if this was how my mother felt about her own art, a selfish pleasure from forcing the work to give her what she wanted. For a short moment I was filled with guilt, to consider depriving her of that wildly good feeling. Then I remembered the father figure on top of the water buffalo, pale face peeking from the patent leather mask. The gray, bristling mustache fixed above its motionless lip. There was nothing redeeming about it. I couldn’t allow it to live.
“I can fix up whatever you bring me,” I said, adjusting the base until the feathers got maximum sunlight. They shone gold like pyrite. “I just want these.”
MICROPTERUS SALMOIDES—LARGEMOUTH BASS
Here’s what you need to do: hold the damn needle and keep your mouth shut.
My mother and I were crowded together on the love seat in our living room, the two of us leaning over a pair of jeans with a giant rip in the crotch. I’d been complaining nonstop since we’d gotten home from school, and my mother’s patience had worn thin. Seventh grade had given me a major attitude problem, according to my parents. Our father was sick again, gray around the mouth and so sallow he appeared dipped in neon paint. My mother took the brunt of his short temper, swallowing it down as she cooked and cleaned and kept track of my brother and me. She looked haggard, clothes spotted with bits of food and coffee stains.
But how do we hide the seam? This wasn’t what I wanted to be doing. There was a haul of fish at the shop, and my father was going to start mounting them that night. I’d never worked on the bass before because he said it was too easy to mess them up, especially around the gills. He tugged on the end of my braid, told me that sometimes girls weren’t as steady when it came to detail work. It was odd to hear him say that when I knew that my mother took care of so many sewing things at home. She made our clothes, Halloween costumes, blankets and curtains, Christmas tree skirts. But he was my father and he was always right. I trusted him.
This sucks. I set down the needle, thread dragging across the couch cushion. Like super sucks.
What did I say? Mouth shut. She grabbed my hand and directed it back to the fabric. The needle jammed in too hard and stabbed through to my leg.
Jeans were the only thing I wore other than a pair of cargo pants I’d taken from my brother. I hated going shopping, didn’t like the dressing rooms with their bright fluorescent lights. My skin looked pocked in the mirror, as if someone had roughed it with a Brillo pad. The only time I liked going was with Brynn. She tried on sundresses, bathing suits, halter tops. I held the hangers and put the clothes away as she dropped them on my head. I watched her in the mirror as she changed, getting glimpses of secret skin, pink and white and soft.
I know you don’t like the thimble, but use it.
My mother made most of her clothes. She’d had lessons when she was a little girl from an elderly preschool teacher who lived next door to her family. She’d learned embroidery; how to perfect a stitch, the best way to sew a hem.
Like this?
Not such a big knot. There’ll be a lump and it’ll be really uncomfortable when you sit.
My father was an expert, his stitches so tiny they were almost invisible. He always said you could tell when a piece of taxidermy was professionally done because there wasn’t a single stitch in sight. The rabbits with their plush coats, doves with downy white breasts, even the deer mounts with their slick, oily hair looked pristine. I knew they were piecemeal; had seen him pry them apart, scrabbling with the flesher on the meatier animals, separating the pelts. But when he was done sewing, they were whole and clean again, ready to jump from the table in a wild bid for freedom.
It was well past time for me to learn the fancier stitches, the looped double threads that led behind the tanned skin, but my father had no time for it. He was barely in the shop most afternoons, so sick to his stomach he couldn’t be out of bed for longer than an hour without vomiting, or falling asleep upright in his chair. When we asked why he looked so skeletal, our mother told us he had the flu. Only the flu, nothing to worry about. Milo and I waited to catch it, but we never got sick. Not even a sniffle.
Why are we using light blue here? Shouldn’t we use gold, like the thread in the seam?
Blue matches the fabric. Because we’re patching; it needs to look natural.
My mother didn’t watch her hands while she worked. Unlike my father, who couldn’t look away from his raccoons and possums, my mother looked around, her eyes flitting everywhere. From her hands, to the magazine held open on the arm of the chair, to the flashing television, and to my face. She made everything look too easy, like it was something anybody could do. That’s how she always treated crafts. Simple things that meant nothing, just a way to make something a little prettier. She’d hand-painted mosaic tiles and put them up in our dumpy kitchen as a backsplash. Whenever people came over, they asked where we’d bought them and my mother just shrugged them off. The things she made felt valueless to me. How could I take her seriously when nobody else did? Even she didn’t care.
Stew simmered on the stove and she’d made sourdough rolls, my father’s favorite. I knew he wouldn’t have any of it. When we ate, he stared at the food grimly, as if eating were a momentous, exhausting task.
I pulled too hard and the thread broke, taking some of the frayed material with it. Pieces flicked down onto my lap, meshing with the dog hairs pilled in the fabric of my sweatpants.
You’ll have to pull those stitches. Carefully, or you’ll wind up with an even bigger hole, and that’s the last place you want an extra.
Cutting my eyes over to her in shock, I saw her smile into her own quilting square.
That’s gross!
Sex isn’t gross, Jessa. Her eyes went back to her work. I know your father acts like it’s the worst thing in the world, but sex is natural and normal. People should be able to talk about it. Even moms.