Jackalope
By Andrea Cavedo
He lifts my rigid body out of the box gently, like I’m so precious.
Tests me with his fingertips. My ivory-smooth prongs, my burnished fur. He’s talking to himself, saying, remember? Remember when? Remember when I brought you home, and convinced her I shot you in the alley? I remember how she wouldn’t let me hang you up in the house. I remember how much we loved each other.
We’re in a bar now. Not a garage. He mounts me against the knotty pine, which reeks of cigarettes and cheap varnish, but I can almost catch the sap and sawdust underneath, memories of moss and needle and pine. Sweet and sharp.
Instead of their mostly-silent comings and goings—mostly ignoring each other, their jokes never quite connecting—I now see men talking and laughing at darts and pool, over sudsy beer in plastic pitchers, under neon in every shade of its limited rainbow. I think I catch a glimpse of something more when the door swings open: scrub brush and sage, prairie grasses beyond the parking lot, spaces wide and empty. But then the door swings shut again.
Remember, he is saying, staring at me like I’m hiding something. Remember how she always called you cheap? Remember how much she hated you?
I can only stare back, glassy forever.
He rubs my paw for luck, or comfort. Remember how happy we were. Remember how everything was great and we never felt bad about any of it.
He goes back behind the bar, and I remember how I used to live. Locking horns with my own kind, leaping higher than any predator could even imagine. Making love under lightning strikes, drunk on whiskey and sad songs. Being wild, and impossible.
Andrea Cavedo’s writing has appeared in McSweeney’s, Chestnut Review, HAD, and others; she recently won the inaugural Ordinary Contest from Foofaraw Press. For the last decade she has taught history and government to Chicago high school students. Find her online at www.andreacavedo.com
I love this!