Its skin stretched tight across
itself as though it were being torn at by cat claws; wrinkled and pitted date
and prune, and fur clinging to the follicles like the bristles of an old
doormat, sparse and balding. The solid body, a sculpture, stone or Styrofoam where
a soft bellygut ought to be. Teeth; little pegs on a battered washing line.
A series of black-and-white
photographs. One with mouth spread wide, unbelievably wide, an umbrella devouring
an ostrich egg. Another. Mustached man with a peaked felt hat, dusty overalls,
checkered flannie rolled loosely about the elbows. It is clear that he smelled
like pouch tobacco. He is crouching, propped up by a Winchester. There’s a happy
dog at his heel, tongue lapping and lagging. And there’s a body slung across
his lap like a worn-out lover, chin cupped in one knuckled hand. But it isn’t
limp like a woman. Its legs stick out, straight out, like pairs of wooden
canes. There’s a little hand reaching into the frame to hold up the striped tail.
Almost comical. I look back at the eyes, that aren’t eyes, but carefully shaped
marbles.
I hear a child start to wail. “S’alright
son,” says his father. “They aren’t dead. Their real bodies are over behind the
wall there. They’ve gotta do it that way to keep the foxes out, see.” A
snuffle.
“There, there. Shall we go for an
icecream?”
