Mari Mitchell - May 2008
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Mari Mitchell - May 2008 |
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RABBIT FEVER Martha Knox opened the door to her house by pushing it with her bony hip. Her hands were full. In one, her collection of keys, in the other, a small plastic-wrapped item that appeared to be furry, and bloody. She placed it on the counter. Her housemate Elsa was on the phone talking, while she sipped a cup of coffee. “Hold on for a moment, Laura.” She put down her cup, and pushed the hold button on her phone. “That better not be what I think it is.” “Which is?” Martha replied as her khaki backpack slid off her small shoulders and onto the kitchen floor. The pack, heavy with her college textbooks made a thud as it hit the white tile floor. Requiring a M.D. to become a pathologist meant a great deal of studying. “A dead squirrel.” “Wrong! It’s a mort sylvilagus bachmani.” Elsa was aghast with disgust. She poured her coffee down the drain and followed Martha with the cordless phone. “I’m going to have to call you back in a little while sweetheart. I‘ve got to kill Mar and clean another of her messes. Bye.” By now, Martha was pouring coffee into a huge cup filled halfway with ice and cream. “A dead rabbit! We have an agreement. You swore that none of your "projects" would EVER come into the kitchen area. Why didn’t you go around the back and straight into your room with it?” She held up her cup. “I needed coffee.” Elsa reached into a drawer and put on disposable gloves. “You need a huge kick in the ass, that's what you need! Then you need to go to a doctor and get a prescription for whatever the hell is wrong with you!” From under the sink she took out a spray bottle that contained bleach. She started to run hot water into it as well. “Nahhh. I just needed a quick fight with you before you left for the weekend." She smiled a wicked twinkle in her eyes. “You’re going to make all of us sick with this disgusting hobby of yours. You would think anyone with Mensa and years of college would know better.” Mar picked up the small carcass, “The odds of catching something from an animal are not that great. Why would I do it if I felt there was a real chance of becoming ill?” “Because you like to press people’s buttons. It’s one of your ways of getting attention. And because you need pills! Lots of them, in all sorts of colors and shapes.” "Now what would Tom Cruise say about that?" Martha was in the hall that led to her part of the house, Elsa scurrying behind her with the spray bottle. “Need I remind you that there hasn’t been a reported case of francisella tularensis or myxomatosis in this area for over two years?” Mar said emphatically. “Need I remind you that when you’re dead it doesn’t matter?” Mar mockingly pantomimed licking the dead rabbit, then slammed her door. “EUWWW! You don’t only need pills, but you do need a fucking STRAIGHTJACKET and then maybe a nice LOBOTOMY! I’ll bring the ice pick.” Elsa washed the kitchen surfaces and the floors with the bleach solution. She even washed the walls of the hall and Mar’s door. When she was through, Elsa knocked on the door to Martha’s room, hoping to be heard over the awful EMO music that was blaring form the speakers. Elsa said in a small voice, “I liked you better when we were kids." She pushed the door open cautiously. “Mar, Martha.” Now in the room, she could tell that her housemate of the last three years was in the shower. She reached over to turn off the CD and eased the bathroom door open part way. “Doctor Frankenstein, Laura and I are leaving for our trip in a few minutes. I am sorry about what I said.” This, she said half-heartedly. “I'm leaving the info on the fridge. We should be back Tuesday evening around eight or so. Okay? I’ll bring you back a present. Want anything special?” The water turned off and Elsa handed her the pink towel that was lying on the sink. “Well Igor, or should I say Igoress? How about a stuffed rabbit?” With a pretend lisp Elsa said, "Yeth mathter.” A car horn beeped in three short, happy bursts. “Laura’s here. Got to go.” It was on her way out that she saw the table with the plastic over it. Something lumpy was covered on top of it. She was sure it was a freshly dissected road-killed-rabbit. # On the drive to Napa, Elsa vented to Laura. “Well I think Mar’s off her stool and on the floor of madness.” “Now Laura, she’s not that bad. It’s not like she’s killing things. They’re already dead. She says that there is beauty in every organ, poetry in bones and wonderment in the sinews. To understand the components of life is to understand what makes it possible.” “It’s creepy. What if one day she contracts a brain disease and kills you in your sleep?” “That’s not going to happen.” “How do you know?” “Because that kind of thing only happens in bad movies and this is real life.” “How can I argue with that kind of logic? Let’s drop it and enjoy the trip.” “Fine with me.” Laura caressed Elsa's hand. # Mar cleared the remains of the rabbit away and briefly rinsed her hands. She made a quick sandwich and plunked down to do some studying. There was no getting around it; Russian literature was boring. She put the thick book down and said to the empty room, "This should have been called War and Snore." Martha felt tired and a little achy. It was only nine o'clock but it seemed so much later. She reasoned that if she went to bed a little early she could wake-up even earlier. No good would come from forcing herself to stay awake. Mar knew herself well enough to know nothing she studied would stick. In her room, she snuggled underneath the harlequin quilt. Once asleep, wild technicolor fevered dreams consumed her. Mixtures of movies and real life erupted making it hard for her to tell where one began and the other ended. Mar knew she was at home but somehow she was also in the Sahara Desert. It was bright - brighter than mid-day on the summer solstice. She turned on the shower and collapsed to the floor. At first the water felt hot but she did not feel as if she could find the energy to care. Her brown eyes had become thick and heavy like lead sheets closed. Rain. The drought of the desert was over. Baked earth and skin drank the water in. Far away, a ringing echoed. She tried to ignore the sound but the more she tried the louder it became. She turned her head; a yellow origami wasp appeared and dipped its stinger into a cup of tea. “She must be a paper wasp.” “Martha get up. We have shopping to do.” “I want some tea too,” she said with her mouth and throat dry as hot sand. The wasp paid no attention, but put three more sugar cubes into its tea. Like most insects, it was partial to sweet things. “Mar come on.” The words floated in the air like purple smoke. She reached up with one hand and touched the “n” making it dissipate into butterflies. She laughed. Periwinkle smoked words came, “Re…dick…u…lesssss.” “What’s ridiculous is laying there like road kill..” Now the words altered in color and vibrancy. She followed the trail of cotton candy words out of the shower and into the kitchen. “Elsa, I don’t feel … right.” “That’s because you're leftovers.” A huge brush cottontail stood holding a spray bottle in its paws. She stared at the rabbit. “I’m sorry, have we met before?” “I should say so.” He turned and faced her. His abdomen was open and hollow. The spinal column could clearly be seen; glistening crimson and pink tissue clung to ribs. Her brown eyes glazed over as Martha gave a small nodding of her head in agreement. “Oh.” ”Are you ready?” Martha scanned the room looking for a sign of what to do next. From her hall, that ringing-buzzing came again. The sound was not distant this time. It was so loud she wondered how the hollow rabbit could hear her. The thought then occurred to her: of course he could, rabbits have great hearing with their long ears. A long piece of paper unraveled like a New Year’s party favor, blowing raspberries, at her, with its forked tongue. Now Maratha was wishing she had taken some Nyquil before she went to bed. It would have saved her from talking to animals. The rabbit was speaking, “Large garbage bags, and a small hand saw. Mar hurry! Or the jackets will get in.” Something was batting the windows. Their faces appeared as if they were made of white wax. No features could be discerned. The long arms of the straightjacket batted at the glass, like strange demented moths trying to touch the light. She was in a different place now, one filled with dark molasses. “What did he say?” The wasp hovered behind her still; the stinger flicked at Mar as a bead of fuchsia liquid pooled at its tip. There was something familiar about that wasp but she couldn’t make the connections. A choir of song began. She turned around to see where the music was coming from. A shaft of light shone on the small Makita handsaw. She picked it up and made her way out of the pool of molasses. When she was almost free of the dark stickiness, the wasp woman handed her three wooden dowels. Mar recognized them as the sticks that used to be in her birdcage. She held them up to her chest and considered them carefully. “These should do fine.” Martha placed the things on her desk, which was pushed up, beside her bed. A long tether pulled her out of the room and back into the kitchen.. With clown’s feet, she trudged through. “You have more things to gather.” “Do you smell chocolate?” The rabbit-of-hollow no longer had its speckled grey fur. Now instead of soft rabbit fur he was smooth and light brown in color. The undead-rabbit sat in a field of Easter grass. His ears gone, nibbled away by the wasp. “Poor bunny.” She positioned the pots around the bed and covered the duvet with trash bags. As Mar lay down she said, “Won’t this be fun!” The wasp and rabbit readily agreed. ”Poetry to uncover. Beauty to unveil. Wonderment to discover.” The hollow chocolate rabbit said as he began to melt. ”It won’t hurt will it?” ”Has it ever hurt before?” Martha shook her head; no. ”Why would it now?” Another Martha appeared in the room dressed in surgical greens. ”You’re right, dead-rabbit.” The room filled with music. Though she did not recognize the song she tried to sing along anyway. The wasp woman sprayed Mar’s chest with hot bleach. Both Marthas said as one, “Thank you.” The Martha in green gave a quick but messy “Y” cut on the torso of the naked Martha with a scalpel. “That’s better. Be-careful, we wouldn't want to make a mess for Elsa to clean up." Martha giggled like an impish child. "No we wouldn't want that." She pulled the skin away, revealing muscles, bones and organs. Martha in green picked up the cordless handsaw. At only four pounds it was easy to handle. With her left hand she felt for the xyphoid process of the other Martha and pressed the blade under it. The four-inch blade began to whirl. It tore through flesh but had a more difficult time with the sternum. With a little perseverance and pressure, the handsaw did its job.. Tissue, once whole, spilt and then became a moat filled with blood. Like French doors opening to a Garden of Eden, the ribcage expanded out. They said in a joint pink whisper. “Breathtaking.” Wooden dowels kept the bones from closing. Ribbons of large and small intestine were placed in pots. ”Oh dear,” the standing Martha said, her surgical greens now black, her figure fading into bloody shadows, “I’d so hoped to see our heart before we ran out of blood.” # "I'm home Martha," Elsa called out as she put her bags down on the kitchen floor. "What the hell happened here?" She looked around the once neat kitchen. It looked as if elephants had come to tea. Pots and pans were scattered everywhere. The refrigerator door was open. The smell of rotting food thick in the air. Panic filled her mind. Something was wrong. She gave a quick look to see if she saw any blood or a sign of the break in and saw none. "Mar, are you all right?" Elsa headed towards Martha's wing of the house. Opening the door causally, hoping to find her asleep with her head phones on like she had so many times before. An intense pungent odor assaulted her nostrils with a distinctive smell - a smell of decaying death. Elsa saw was an image she could never remove fully from memory, and would be recalled in flashes for the rest of days. Her peaceful dreamscapes would turn too easily into nightmares of Martha's self-dissected corpse.
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