Page 49 of The Deer and the Dragon
She made a curious face but agreed. The fabric and thread she’d used for the rabbit were white, and we had plenty of white T-shirts that were on their last leg, should she need more material. We had plenty of buttons.
“Sure, Marlow,” she said, snuggling me. “Now, I thought I’d have more time to finish your rabbit, but why don’t you go look at your book in your room and I’ll come give it to you when you’re done?”
I liked being alone in my room.
MyNational Geographicbook of every animal and its habitat. It,Goodnight Moon,andThe Children’s Picture Biblewere my three books. I sniffed away the last of my tears and disappeared, closing the door behind me. I flipped right tothe arctic fox. Some of them were grayish in the summertime, but I smiled at the pictures that were as white and perfect as a magician’s rabbit. It looked exactly like the one I’d seen across the street. I hadn’t learned how to spell more than my name, but I knew from the pictures that they lived in cold, wild places. There were no images of foxes near homes or in trailer parks. Nothing looked like my city. The globe highlighted the parts of the world where the snow fox lived, and my mom had shown me our town on the map enough for me to know that the fox under our trailer was very far from home.
I jolted in surprise as it crawled out from under my bed. It stole my breath, but I wasn’t afraid. The day and its pain melted at the sight of something so perfect, so stunning, so beautiful inmybedroom.
“How did you get in here?” I whispered, instantly aglow.
The fox approached me and rolled over playfully.
“Can I pet you?” I asked. I knew enough of animals to have been warned that some bite. This one seemed very friendly, but I still didn’t want my fingers to get eaten.
It arched toward me, and I stroked its perfect, soft fur like it was an exotic housecat. It wrapped itself around me, taking my tears. I told it how beautiful it was, and it made a quiet squeaking noise as if it appreciated the compliment.
“Are you someone’s pet?” I asked.
It sat upright, curling its tail at its feet, and tilted an ear. I remembered that foxes could not speak and giggled.
“You don’t have to be my pet,” I said, “but will you be my friend?”
It flopped to its side, head nearly upside down as it batted a paw at me.
I told it how excited I was to see it across the street. I told it that being with a fox was so much cooler than spraying a garden hose or listening to music or playing with dumb kids. I kept my voice low, hoping my mom wouldn’t discover us and take away my new friend. She loved having a clean house, and animals were dirty. She’d let me have a betta fishonce, but it had died in its bowl, turning into a block of ice when we’d lost power and the house had frozen. We’d worn our snowsuits to bed, with me sleeping between my parents until they were able to pay the power bill.
“I bet you would have kept me warm,” I whispered to the fox as I thought of our nights in the snowsuit and my long-lost fish.
It tilted its head toward me as if asking for scratches.
My head whipped around the moment a sound broke our happy reverie.
“Marlow, who are you—” My mom opened the door, finished toy in hand. Her mouth dropped open as she stared at me. I looked over to address the fox, but it was gone.
She’d scooped me up and driven directly to the church, face red, black smudges staining her cheeks as tears ran. No matter how many times I asked her what was wrong, she wouldn’t tell me. She didn’t carry me into the church but dragged me by the wrist while I demanded to know what I’d done wrong, fear coursing through me. I didn’t understand why the pastor had been called, or the elders, or the water, or the men who pressed their hands on my head, my back, my shoulders while I cried.
I insisted she was wrong—the fox was good, the fox was a friend—but she couldn’t hear my arguments over the strength of her conviction.
My mom changed after that day.
Her discernment of spirits had allowed her to see that her child had been visited by the devil, I’d learned. But through daily hours of prayer, dedication, piety, study, church visits, and purification, God would still lay claim on me. She tore the arctic fox page from myNational Geographicbook, leaving only the torn remnants of what had once been a pretty snow landscape and a perfect, furry creature in its memory.
I no longer had space for tears, as every night I’d hear my mother falling asleep sobbing as she begged the Lord to spare my soul.
Chapter Seventeen
OCTOBER 2, AGE 16
“No foxes?” became a standard, cautious greeting between my mother and me.
Lisbeth Thorson, pillar of the community, wife, mother, pious, suspicious, anxious woman that she was, would say it before our bedtime prayers. She’d ask it before we entered church. She’d reiterate it as we brushed our teeth together, looking at each other in the mirror, like twins born twenty years apart. She was agelessly beautiful, her bright, blond hair dripping with evidence of Scandinavia, while mine favored my father’s coloration, growing muddier as the years went on. Everyone from gas station clerks to babysitters told me we looked like sisters, which I’d always taken as a high compliment, even if my platinum locks hadn’t stretched beyond early childhood.
For more than a decade, I’d dutifully respond, “No foxes.”
I hadn’t made the mistake of telling the truth again.
The memory was as painful now as the leather belt had been on my bare skin. Even as a teenager, I remembered her sobbing that the spanking hurt her more than it hurt me as I screamed, leather cracking again and again and again until the welts made it too hard to sit. She had to do it because she loved me, she cared about my soul, and she wanted me to go to Heaven. That was when I learned to lie. Never again would I mention the fox.
