The Fox

by Nathaniel Taylor

     He was eight years old, and like most kids his age, he was always right, and he was always on an adventure. There was a ravine outside of our house—a ravine to me, but to him it was a different world. It was a culmination of everything under the sun that was known and yet unknown. It was the small part of the world that Columbus, Vespucci, and Magellan had all missed on their long voyages. And every morning we’d sit at the table together—just my wife, my son, and I—enjoying the warm breath of steam kissing my lips as I took a short sip of coffee. He would sit there, periodically nibbling at the now cold and stale toast I had prepared for him, looking out the windows at that ravine.

“Michael”, I’d say, as he watched the trees breath with the wind. “Michael, shouldn’t you be getting ready, bud?

He’d just keep looking out that window, no response, no acknowledgment that we were there. It was as though he was possessed by the sight. As though he was off somewhere so far away that the only way I could get to him now was via postcard.

“Michael? Answer your father when he talks to you”, Janette would say, her eyes never leaving the paper.

“Umm… I don’t know…” he’d mumble to us. Everything he said was a mumble, like every thought of his was a secret, and he didn’t share with us often.

“Well, Michael, we’ve got a busy day ahead of us, don’t we?” said Janette. “After you finish your toast, I want you to get in the bath and brush your teeth. I’ve set out your nice slacks and shirt on your bed; we won’t have you in your pajamas to go visit grandma, alright? Now finish your toast, Hun, I want to get on the road by ten o’clock.”

Michael proceeded to nibble on his slice of bread, the pile of crusts growing larger as he took smaller, more timorous bites of the fluffy white center. He laid the skeletal frame of the toast down on top of his pile of residual crusty corners and grainy ends and ran from his chair straight to the window. He pressed his nose against the glass and fogged up the window with his breath.

“Dad? Didn’t you say that there was a family of foxes down in the woods?” he asked.

“Hmm? Oh! Yeah, there used to be, at least. I haven’t seen them in quite a while though.”

“What happened to them? Did they move away? Did you scare them?!”

I laughed. “Hey! Easy now! I didn’t do a thing to those poor critters. Maybe they just…I don’t know… maybe the mom took the young fox to their grandma’s house, and the papa fox misses his son so much that he just doesn’t want to leave the den. Alright? Now you heard your mother; get dressed, you little ‘possum.

“I’m not a ‘possum!” He said with a smile on his face, and he ran up the stairs to the bathroom. Janette started to clear up the table as I took the paper and skimmed the front page.

“Everett?” Janette asked. “Did you get all the things? Are you going to have enough time to do this?”

“Yes, my love, I got the rest of the timber yesterday; the boards we picked up last week were an inch too short, but I’ve got it covered. Are you sure Michael has no idea?”

“I’m certain; he thinks you’ve got work today.” She said this with a smile, but her brow furrowed and she looked back to the dishes.

I leaned against the counter. “Janette…I’m sorry. Look…I know we talked about this, but we need this money right now. I can’t quit now, not when we need to start saving for Michael. College is only going to get more expensive and we…”

“But we’ve already started planning for this,” she said. “We’re putting away money, we’ve got an investment plan, and we agreed that you would leave this job.”

“Yes…but…”

“Look Everett, you’ve told me yourself you weren’t meant to be a salesman. Do you remember in college? Do you remember telling me that once you get enough money you’d start painting again? It’s been twenty years, Everett, and you’re never home, and you’re always busy.”

“But look, Janette, I’ve done so much for him with this job. I don’t have to go into the office anymore; I can do all my work here at home with him. I don’t have the time to start painting again; I was young then, and no more that an idealist and a romantic.”

“I miss that Everett.” She went back to washing the dishes. I sat down at the table, feeling like a child.

“Alright…what can I do, Janette?” I asked

“Look, Everett, I just wished you would get back up. You get defeated so easily and you never get back up. You dropped out of college because you didn’t have enough money then. Now, we have enough money, but you’re so reluctant to fulfill your degree. And sure, it may be an art degree, but you were so happy with yourself back then; you were so fulfilled.”

“Well, things change, my love”

“I know that, but if you don’t even try to do it again then you’re not controlling anything; you’re just letting the world make decisions for you.”

I laughed. “And what’s wrong with that? The world hasn’t done any harm to me.”

“But what if it does!? What are you going to do about it!? Are you just going to lay down and let it break you, or are you going to stand up and start changing things?! Will you spend all your time hiding?!

“MOM!” Michael cried from up stairs. “MOM! WHERE ARE MY PANTS?”

And Janette stared at me. She just stood there and stared at me with the biggest eyes I’d ever seen. She stared at me like I was someone she didn’t recognize anymore.

“I put them on your bed, sweet heart! They’re on your dresser!” she yelled with a shaking voice. She looked at me. She dropped her head and looked at the floor. I stood up from the table, and she ran up stairs to help Michael.

***

Janette wanted to be on the road at ten o’clock, but as I mentioned before, Michael was always right. They loaded the car at ten-fifteen and were on the road ten minutes later. I shoved Michael’s bag into our small Nissan and gave him a hug as he leapt into the back seat. “Hey, have a good weekend, kiddo. I’ll see you when I see you. Say hi to your grandma for me, alright?”

“Dad, are you sure you can’t come with us? I promise it’ll be a great adventure!” he asked, struggling with his seatbelt.

“As all your voyages are. Some other time, kid. Now settle in. I love you so much, Michael.” I slammed the door and made a face into his window. He had this way of laughing at me like I was the most embarrassing person he knew. But I knew that he loved it when I was a goof—it gave him the excuse to be a goof himself. Janette squeezed my hand and kissed my cheek. “Good luck this weekend, sweetheart. I’ll miss you.”

“Hey, it’ll be okay. We’ll talk more once you get back. We’re going to sort this out, hun.” For a moment she turned away from me. “It’s ok, hun.” I told her. “Just drive safe; I’ll see you Sunday evening. I love you.”

She kissed me on the cheek and got in the car. I closed the door behind her and tried my best at a solemn wave from the drive way. As she backed out, Janette gave me a fleeting smile. I don’t know what thought struck her then—maybe the thought of how happy our son was going to be when he got home, or how happy we’ll be when we get the chance to talk—but she looked hopeful, and I hope I looked the same. Michael sat in the back sporadically waving his arms, trying to gesture a fanatical goodbye. How he smiled. That boy could bridge a canyon with that smile.

I watched as the car took the sharp right turn down the road and walked around the house to the backyard. The yard was littered with ferns and young saplings of cottonwood and poplar with a tool shed hidden in the back between two low hanging maples. The grass was so long that you could get tangled within the blades if you didn’t pick up your feet properly. It was Michael’s idea—not one of my own. He told me that it’d be more exciting if we grew a rainforest in the back instead of a garden. He was right, of course, but the lawn was looking less like a rainforest and more like a neglected lawn.

The shed door cracked and shuddered as I slowly pulled it open. The stale air rushed the open doorway only to come crashing directly into my face. It was as though the shed itself was breathing a sigh of relief, so thankful just to be in use again. Large stacks of boards were laid out on floor and braced all along the walls. The table was littered with assorted nails and screws on top a folded schematic—a folded schematic for the most brilliant idea Janette and I have ever had. This weekend, I was going to build Michael a cabin.

We’d been toying with the idea for months, constantly discussing and planning and sneaking around trying to make the best plan. We decided that if would be a good thing for the family. Michael spent so much time staring out at that ravine, we figured that if we could build just a small little cabin—something that we could all put our sleeping bags in and enjoy for a night—then we’d have more of a chance to be together as a family, and Michael could feel like the independent adventurer that he was. He could wake early in the morning, adjust that raccoon hat on his head, and take to the woods with a hatchet in his hand and a song in his heart. He could explore the trails, swim in the river, and learn about all the different critters and trees.

Janette was worried about it for a long time, understandably of course, what with the foxes that used to live down there. But I promised her that the issued had been taken care of her. I’ll admit to not being sure how many foxes there were down there, but I felt pretty confident that there were three. Michael always told me, after his little adventures, how those foxes were very good at hiding because he wasn’t ever able to find them. And he was right, they were difficult to find. I only found one of them, and though I don’t know if I killed her, I can assume that she ran off and died in the woods. I guess I’m also assuming that it was a she. I wasn’t much worried about hiding all the lumber from Michael—he’s used to us having planks litter the lawn ever since I built our bike shed on the side of the house. I was more worried about hiding the rifle from him. I knew he’d be upset, but I guess sometimes it’s easier to keep him safe if he doesn’t know my methods. I realize now that I may have been wrong to do what I did.

I took out a cart from the garage and started loading it up with the long beams that would shape the frame. I had the rifle slung on my shoulder in case I ended up finding the other foxes. It was a very slippery climb down the steep slopes. I nearly twisted my ankle clean off—the things I do for love. It was arduous work, but I eventually got all the beams down into the ravine, and in the process decorated my knees with an array of brown and black bruises.

I started to lay out the beams on the ground that would make up the foundation. The stage was set, and it was my time to shine. I dropped to my hands and knees, threw the schematic open, and dived into my most charitable and intensive project yet. I remembered considering going to a trade school to refine my carpentry skills when I was younger, but I guess that’s just another horse that I failed to get back on.

The work was exhausting but cathartic. Every quick smash of the hammer against the boards sent a resonating wave of energy up and down my spine. It was as though, in that lightening flash moment of the hammer striking the wood, I, the hammer, the board, and the ground that it was rooted in became interconnected; an open circuit of energy flowing through its many constituent parts. Every swing was deliberate; every strike important, every ounce of labor put into building that cabin served a purpose. And for that moment, when I stood back from my project, battered and tired, sweating profusely, I felt that everything was going to work out. Surely if a man can labor hard enough to create shelter, he can labor hard enough for the family he shelters. Surely I could make it all work out. Surely, there was dawn on the horizon of our interminable night.

And with that, my love knew no bounds, and my devotion to them seemed endless. I didn’t feel like I was seeing things differently; I felt as if the sky and the trees were seeing a different me—as if I finally reached enlightenment, and nature and the world were glowing brightly—proud to see that I finally found my way.

Everything was coming together—the cabin was finally coming together. All that remained was the door, and I had the rest of the evening to put that on. It was late, around three-thirty, and I was tired. I climbed up that accursed declivity that abused my knees with a new spring and spark in each step. I happily imagined all of the amazing adventures Michael would have as I gallivanted through the thicket that was our back yard. I threw open the sliding back door and went into the laundry room to grab a towel. And though no sensation could ever beat the wind blowing against a sweaty forehead, the air conditioning in the house was giving it a lot of competition. I started to run a warm bath when the phone tumultuously burst to life. It was the county sheriff’s department.

***

It was raining. I hadn’t known it would rain. I had been watching the weather all week, trying to plan around the possibility of rain. No one saw it coming. I didn’t see it coming.

A loud, violent cacophony could be heard from inside the cabin. The incessant, punishing blows of the water beat with the rhythm of a war drum, as if to call the men to action. I kept thinking, “Don’t come to me with your drums, I won’t march—I can’t bring myself to march anymore.” My body was sore. I often think about using the word “exhausted” instead of “sore”, but it just doesn’t seem to fit. I was in more pain than I’d ever felt before. It was a beating, dull bruise spreading from my chest, all through my body.

There was a lot of discourse between me and the officer, but—like waking up from a surgery—I can’t recall what led up to me hanging up the phone. I remember thinking of a window, and imagining cracks spreading over the transparent pane, forming a crystalline gossamer. I imagined that window was me.

Some men, on weekends, take to their hobbies. Some men read, some men golf, some men build cabins, and some men drink. I guess this man drank, and he drank early—I guess, he also liked to drive.

Michael, the officer told me, was pronounced dead at the scene. They were forced off the road by this man, who was drifting out of his lane and into theirs, and rolled into the ditch beside the interstate. Michael loved to watch the trees fly past his face and watch the world fade into the distance as we drove along. He once told me, “I also feel like the world is really small in the car”. He was right; he always was. He liked to lean forward into the window, and had a proclivity for slipping his seat belt off without Janette or myself ever noticing. He said he felt constrained, and he was always right.

But Janette made it. She was in a hospital about forty-five minutes from the house. The officer told me that she was alive but “was in a very sensitive and dangerous state”. But she was alive. I wondered what she’d think if she ever woke up—if she’d remember what happened. I wondered if she’d remember me and Michael and our house and our life. I wondered if I could ever bring myself to go see her.

After I hung up the phone, I couldn’t think straight. Part of me just wanted to sink to the floor and cry, and another part of me just wanted to run. In the end, I guess I decided to run. I don’t really remember how I got back here, to the cabin, but I remember coming back to consciousness sitting on the floor, with my head in my hands, watching the rain cascade off of the thin roof above me.

Just hours before, I stood outside this cabin feeling like the world had awakened to me. I felt like I was a part of everything: the trees, the wind, and the cabin. But as I sat on the floor, I felt no eyes falling on me. The trees and the wind were blind to my existence. I was not a part of the rain; the rain fell regardless of me. And the hammer and the board, the perfect system that I was a component of, seemed so superfluous and obtuse. I felt like I was a part of a team, like I had some abstract comradery with a hammer and a board. I was so naïve. I realized then that I was just forcing an indifferent hammer to force an indifferent nail through an indifferent board. And now I sat in an indifferent shelter in the indifferent rain in an indifferent world that took my son away from me and left my wife mangled and dying.

I couldn’t bring myself to leave the little cabin; I couldn’t bring myself to go to her side. I knew that if I left to go to her, I’d just be there to watch her die. There was nothing I could do to save her. I knew that no matter how hard I prayed or cried or begged, she would die there. The world is blind to our happiness and deaf to our prayers.

And so I sat on that floor, watching the rain begin to slow. The more I cried, the more the rain slowed, when suddenly, a flash of orange struck past the open door. I couldn’t tell if it was a dream or not, but a lone fox was walking around the undergrowth outside of the cabin. He had his nose to the air, and his paws fell lightly on the ground. He circled about a few times and took off in a direction leading further into the woods. I stood up—with what will or energy, I do not know—and took off after him.

He seemed to be aware of me following him, but he did not react to my presence. He just kept running through the undergrowth, searching wildly for something. We dashed under branches and pushed through large shrubs and bushes, he certainly much more graceful than I. His ears bounced about lively, and his eyes seemed relentlessly fixed on something in the distance. He picked up speed, as we came upon a pile of orange fur lying on the forest floor.

It was another fox, bleeding from a hole in her side, that he was searching for. This was, no doubt, the fox that I shot; the one that I assumed was a she. And she was weak, and barely responded to the licking of the other fox. She would die soon.

I stood there, watching the fox lick the wound and cuddle against his dying mate. He placed his head against hers. There was nothing he could do, and she died.

***

I walked into the ICU escorted by a few nurses and the doctor. The doctor was explaining the situation to me in extensive detail, but I couldn’t focus on his words. We stepped into her room, and I saw her for the first time. She had bruises on her forehead and stitches on her cheeks. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was slow and soft, in tempo with the respirator. An excessive amount of tubes ran up through her arms and into bags. She wouldn’t open her eyes again.

I pulled up a chair beside her and took her hand. The doctor finally fell silent, and excused himself from the room. It was silent then, just the soft resonance of breathing and a sharp beeping in the room. The ambiance melded with the room, and I felt as though the world, in its cold way, was absolutely silent.

I placed my head against hers. There was nothing I could do, and she died.

*This is a work in progress*