Chapter 8 #2
How could anything have a foot that big?
I’d seen elephants at the zoo and the circus but wasn’t close enough to notice much about their feet.
I ran my finger lightly over the hard, rough surface and saw wadded-up yellow legal paper in the bottom.
It crackled when stepped inside, the taxidermied foot coming up to my thighs.
“Did you kill the elephant?” I asked, thinking Perry must be very powerful and important.
“Yes.”
“How?” I was doing my usual thing of asking too many questions.
But he didn’t seem to mind. Walking behind his desk, he touched a long, thick rifle that had a dark reddish-brown stock with a dull black barrel. It was held by two wooden hooks attached to the wall.
Nearby were several birds, colorful and stiff, flattened against plaques, their heads turned to the side.
They reminded me of flowers I’d press between the pages of a book.
I stepped out of the elephant-foot trash basket and wandered around the den, wanting to run my fingers over tawny furs and a leopard skin.
But I didn’t dare. I remembered stroking Mom’s mink stole when it was laid out on the bed, and she told me not to touch it or the fur would fall out.
“Is this from Africa too?” I pointed at an indigo blue bird with a red beak, its wings fanned out.
“From the ,” Perry said.
I promised that next time I found a dead bird I’d save it for him if he’d like, thinking he’d be pleased, and he laughed again.
“It took six shots to kill her, and that was bad.” Perry resumed talking about the elephant, looking at the trash basket, the yellowed ivory nails still intact. “She could have caused a stampede.” As if she deserved what she got.
I thought of her being killed for no good reason while her friends and family looked on.
Perry told us about other animals he’d shot as I looked at them sadly.
The kudu with corkscrew horns and the okapi had barely open mouths as if about to say something.
Their heads moved with the subtle rocking and creaking of the barge.
Dad walked across the den toward the doorway, the grass mat making a dry crackling sound.
“Why don’t you tell the kids some of your hunting stories,” he suggested to Perry. “They’d like that. I’m going to finish my beer.”
“Okay, Sam. Bring me one while you’re at it.”
Perry sat on the edge of his desk as Jim, John, and I gathered around him, sitting on the moving floor.
“Have you ever heard of a bear over eight feet tall?” Perry lowered his voice as if getting ready to tell us a secret.
“No!” Jim’s face lit up. “Is that taller than Dad?”
“Yes.” Perry smiled. “A good bit taller. Well, I have a Kodiak bear, eight feet eleven and a half inches tall. How about that?”
“Wow!” John exclaimed, his fingers in his mouth again.
“Where?” I looked around the den, and behind me toward the doorway.
My heart fluttered with fear. I was afraid that at any moment a gigantic bear with long teeth would storm into the room.
“No, no, Patsy. Not here. I’m talking about my house in Coral Gables,” he said. “In fact, it isn’t very far from yours.”
“Do you keep the bear in a cage?” Jim was enthralled.
“What? No, no, no. The bear is dead, Jimmy. I shot him off the Alaskan coast nine years ago and had him stuffed. I suppose one of these days I’ll give him to a museum.”
“Can I go get a Coke?” I was thirsty and wanted to find Dad.
We could have our drinks together and I’d tell him about the bear.
“Sure, help yourself.” Perry lit a cigar.
In the kitchen, Dad’s beer can was on the table where he’d left it.
He wasn’t there or in the sitting room. Standing next to a fisherman’s lamp, I didn’t know what to do.
I smelled the faint scent of burning oil and noticed a long, curved sailfish mounted on the wall near the front door.
It looked like a giant needlefish with a tremendous blue-black fin.
Lamplight illuminated faded indigo spots on the sail as it cast a dark irregular shadow on the wall.
Visions of glassy eyes, bared teeth, dull fur, and stiffness jumbled in my mind. I felt terror creeping over me.
Opening the screen door, I walked outside, pushing away oil smells and dappled incandescence.
I was shocked to see Dad sitting astern the dinghy, paddling away from the barge, sending a trail of ripples behind it.
The setting sun smeared pink and orange across the horizon, and tree shadows mottled the smooth water.
At intervals Dad turned his head. But he didn’t seem to notice me leaning against the ladder, tears rolling down my face.
After he drifted farther away, he shifted his position, yanking the cord to start the outboard motor.
The quiet cove resonated with low-speed rumblings that became more rapid as Dad went faster, gripping the tiller.
The bow lifted off the surface, and white water churned and tumbled.
He rounded the bend, his wake slapping hollowly against the metal barge under my feet.
I listened as the roar of the motor faded into silence and Perry appeared.
I told him Dad was gone, pointing at the bend in the cove, the water smooth again.
“Go wait in the den with your brothers. I’ll be right back,” he said, and I could tell he was unhappy.
He got into the Boston Whaler and set out after my father as the sun smoldered on the horizon. I waited in the den, wondering if the dead animals would wake up seeking revenge for being killed in cold blood and displayed like artwork or trophies.
THUMP!
THUMP!
THUMP!
I imagined the elephant foot coming alive and stomping after me.
I fled to the kitchen as the two motorboats returned.
Perry and Dad talked outside on the barge for a while as night fell.
When they walked into the kitchen, Perry looked serious and tired.
He announced that we’d be spending the night there.