To get rid of Tammy Faye, the vet said, she had to put Basil out. “You may as well get him fixed at the same time,” she suggested. “It’ll settle him down considerably. And it’s the responsible thing to do.”
Ev and I were too exhausted—from struggling with Basil; from dreading yet another skunking—to protest. “So he went in for porcupine quills and came out deballed,” was the story we told our friends, “and he’s been staying away from porcupines ever since.”
It turned into the kind of story so familiar you hear yourself using the same words, the same inflections, the same pauses—all in the same sequence of words and inflections and pauses—while already you anticipate the same laughter and even resort to manipulating that laughter by starting it yourself. “So he went in for porcupine quills and came out deballed …” pause pause pause
Beneath my hands, Basil’s skull feels gaunt—
pause pause “… and he’s been staying away from porcupines ever since.” Laugh track. Turn it on. Blast it to its max. Run it and rerun it. “So he went in for porcupine quills and—”
“And then?” Jesse asks me.
Gaunt, so gaunt, his skull, beneath my hands—
“And then?”
Ah, Jesse. He’s heard that old story many times, except for him we substituted neutered for deballed. “So he went in for porcupine quills and came out neutered …” pause pause pause laugh track number 15
Dr. Sylvia sinks her needle into Basil —
belly laughter louder laugh track number 17 laugh track number”… and he’s been staying away from porcupines ever since.” Such a used-up story. And no longer funny.
“What does ’neutered’ mean, Libby?” Jesse asked me the first time he heard the porcupine story.
“So he can’t make puppies.”
“Why not?”
“Because—You have such good questions, Jess.”
“Why not, Libby?”
“Because there are already too many dogs around that no one takes care of.”
“You and I can take care of Basil’s puppies.”
Dr. Sylvia’s needle —
I try to evoke Basil as a puppy, but I can’t see him. It’s a failure of imagination. A failure of resurrection. All I get are fragments of him as a young dog: the hayloft smell of his fur, sun and dust; that slipped note when his barking turned high with excitement; the rumble of contentment in his belly after he ate…. But I cannot see him as a puppy.
That needle—
“—and he’s been staying away from porcupines ever since.” Forever she sinks that needle into Basil, now—
“—been staying away from porcupines ever since staying away from porcupines ever since away from porcupines ever since from porcupines ever since porcupines ever—”
For what that needle is about to do, it is shockingly small. I want to look away from it, but I don’t let myself. I hum to Basil, hum the way Moss does when she massages him. Moss knows. How to hum. How to stand close behind me —so quiet, quiet now—
“And then?” Jesse asks. “And then, Libby?”
Red frogs with three tongues. Drums made from the heads of lions and alligators. Home improvements. My mother in her rain-beaded garden. Eagles and moose. Moss’s garbanzo stew. Bears that live in hedges. The green window in our plant shop. If I want to, I can believe what I already know in my gut: that what nurtures us, will also sustain us at times of pain if we choose to go there. Geese doing cartwheels in the sky. The first apples on Gloria’s trees. My father double-tying my orange life vest. Songbirds at our feeders. Stars talking to me through Jesse’s glass roof. My sister and I walking to the edge of our garden. Far below us, the river flows heavy and gray and cold. But it doesn’t have to be winter. It can be summer. Still and again. And my sister can enter the current. I can follow her, immerse myself in whatever pain and loss are mine, let myself sink beneath the surface, where the river will continue to carry me. Whenever I emerge to tears, I search for my sisters shining back and follow once again until she reaches the opposite bank, and when she grips a branch of the cotton-wood tree, I’ll leap for one close to hers. While the current guides our legs downstream, my sister and I hold on to the supple branches, arms taut, while the rest of our bodies are floating. Floating that feels like flying.
I trace the familiar ridge of bone up the length of Basil’s head between his eyes and ears—so quiet, quiet now—and take my hands from him, release him. And still feel the imprint of his skull. When I flatten my palms against each other, preserving Basil between them, I finally can see him, a yellow pup, tongue flopping—bullet, my bullet— running toward me at dusk. I can go there again—to that place at dusk where Basil runs toward me forever. Where Basil swims with Jesse, though he never liked the water. Floating that feels like flying, Jesse. Flying that feels like floating. While all along the river continues to hold the light. Holds us the way it holds the light. The way I hold on to the cottonwood branches. I reach up with one arm. Seize a handful of leaves. A few of them will get away when we swim home, but the rest I’ll stick into a vase. Come morning, they’ll still have the texture of heavy silk.
About the Author
Ursula Hegi is the author of eight critically acclaimed books, including Intrusions, Floating in My Mother’s Palm, Stones from the River, Tearing the Silence, and The Vision of Emma Blau. She lives in New York State.
Ursula Hegi, Hotel of the Saints
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