Fiction - MEMOIRS OF A MENAGERIE by Jessica Kuzmier

    She stared out of the window. She kept expecting to hear noises from upstairs, from outside; noises which had been everyday for all those years. But there was nothing. There hadn’t been any for what seemed like years now. Yet, still she waited.

    Her so-called friends avoided her now. You’re crazy, they would say. You should get on your life. Forget the past. It’s been so long now. They were tired of her pain. They acted as though she had been dumped by some guy. How could they think that way, especially since they all knew how precious a child could be? He was not some guy. He was her son, her only son. But still they shunned her. She would scream at night, wanting to kill them all. The pompous attitude of those who thought they knew it all-she hated them. And now, they hated her. Poor girl, they would say with their pinched noses at their snooty cocktail parties, she is losing it. They would say this and then go home to their beloved husbands and children afterwards. She wished she could bestow upon them the plague that the Egyptians suffered at Yahweh’s hand, have them watch their firstborn die in front of them. Let them see how it felt. Then see if they would have the same attitude towards her. If they came to her for help she would slam the door in their faces. Let them see how it felt.

    Well, hell, what had she expected. She’d never been one of them. Divorced twice, single parent, Jewish, not lucky enough to have been blessed by the right god, the right man or the right college education; she’d always been an outsider. They’d felt sorry for her, that was all. That was why they had paid attention to her at all. She swore and lit a cigarette in the twilight of another dying day., watching all of cheery suburbia before her. They used to smile like that for her too, but no more. Pompous bitches, all of them.

    It was later that evening when she went upstairs. The house was completely dark now. She did not feel endangered. If someone broke into it, so be it. Maybe they would take her too. Her life had already been stolen. I am just a shell now, she declared as she flicked on the light to her past.

    His bedroom, the haven that she had so lovingly created. It greeted her mournfully, dejected and rejected. It had loved its owner so much, protected him from danger, warmed him at night, hid him from the world. And he had abandoned all of that. She could understand the room’s pain. Its agony made her want to cry. She tried to comfort it, caressing the wood bedpost, the full mattress with its Buffalo Bills bed sheet, the once proud chestnut drawers wearily standing to attention. Everything was just as it had been when he left-- no, died. That’s right. Died. It was comforting to know that he was with G-d somewhere. In Hebrew school, they had told her that there was no heaven, but she still hoped. If this was it, and this hellhole her final resting place, then G-d was a prick.

    Her eyes strayed to the closet, which was opened just wide enough to reveal its treasures. Winter jackets, summer shirts, autumn pants, spring shoes. Of course he died. This was proof. If anyone told her differently, she would show them these. If he left, she would argue, what were these doing here? He would have taken his clothes with him. A sixteen year old boy could not afford a whole new wardrobe for himself. He would have at least taken some clothes with him, but all his clothes were here. She knew. She’d counted, and every article of clothing, except the blue cardigan, the white tee, the one Levi’s he owned, one pair of loafers, one underpants, one pair of socks were here. He had been wearing the others when he died. Nothing else was missing. He had nothing with him. Naturally, he must have died.

    A bag inside the closet caught her peripheral vision. She smiled when she recognized it. His stuffed animals. He’d shoved them back here when he turned nine. One of his friends had come over and called him a girl for having them on his bed, and with that, the animals’ mighty reign of nine years in this room abruptly came to an end. They had been retired to a cellophane bag in his closet and remained there ever since.

    Lovingly, she took the bag out and removed each of the animals, contemplating and reminiscing each one’s history as she did so. They reminded her of all the good times that they had together. They had always been the best of friends. Jack and Jill, two small stuffed puppies of some unknown breed. She’d purchased them when his father left and he would scream in the night. His little three year old world had been shattered. Da-da had been his first word. Da-da had been his first loss. Jack and Jill had been chosen by the lost child a few days later. She’d resorted to garage sales for furniture in those early months of single parenthood, and it was at one of these excursions that the lost child chose the two white-spotted brown-yellow puppies with green-blue eyes. They were his first friends. Even as young as he was, he had already decided that people were to be avoided in favor of other things. Zebra had been next. He was a big panda bear from the Bronx Zoo. She favored Zebra out of all the animals. He represented the precious and the endangered. Protect or else face a lost species. Zebra was her son. Oh, how I love you Zebra, she mourned. Internally she collapsed. The species gone extinct, never to return. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah. There was goofy St. Nick holding a menorah. She had been going out with a Baptist at the time. It had been his idea for them to combine the holidays, and his idea for a gift for her son. During dinner, her lover’s daughter called her son a name, and he responded by clobbering her with St. Nick, the bearer of happiness and gifts. Her lover had insisted that the incident had been her son’s fault. She insisted that the blame lay with his daughter. They had agreed in not so many terms not to see each other again. That had been the last time she chose to date a Gentile, and in this area of the country, that decision essentially ended her love life. A lonely decision, but she still had her son then. Those days that she had him, life had been so beauti--

    She saw it. The animal she had called Death. It was so deceptive. White like a virgin going to her wedding, a newfallen snow. That was what other people called it, Snow, but she knew better than to be fooled like that. Soft as it sifted through her fingers, like the sand on a tropical beach. Sweet sugar. She was tasted it, wanting to disprove what her memories tried to tell her, then spat it out as the sharpness pierced her. This animal Death had more life than any of the others. This was the only animal that she had not been with him when he bought it. This animal, he stole for, lied for. He had loved it more than any of the other animals. He had loved it more than her. She found this animal cleaning his closet, and he had walked in on her discovery. She had flung Death at him, and he fled from their home.

    She never saw him again.

    Slowly, she returned to the present, watching the small granules in her hand. Death had spilled out of its plastic bag when she’d grabbed it. Several pinches of it were interspersed with the rest of the animals. To think, it had kept company with her memories, her Zebra, Jack and Jill, St. Nick, and the rest of the animals, too numerous to count. She had thought the animals were her friends. But the more she looked at them, the more she saw Death. She screamed, shoving all of them back in the bag, and hurriedly ran with them to the end of the driveway to discard of them, still screaming as she dropped the bag. She caught the glances of some of her neighbors, who shook their heads, saying to themselves, There goes the crazy lady again, losing it as usual. Only she was aware that, as she walked away from her past, she felt saner than she had in long time. Chrissie and Luke were walking hand in hand down the road. They had just bought the house up on the hill, and this was their first walk on their new block. They were newlyweds, basking in each other’s existence, not aware of anything but themselves--they were, in essence, chrissieluke. Their familles had been business partners for years, so the marriage had been a crowning achievement for them both. Their one wish was for an heir for their great heritage, which unbeknownst to the prospective grandparents, was coming sooner than they thought. On this particular night chrissieluke noticed a big lump sitting at the edge of the road. It sat at the end of a driveway that led to a big dark house. chrissie thought the house was creepy looking. luke laughed at her. Then chrissie screamed. The bag was a bag of stray animals. Dead stray animals. luke came and rubbed her back. Don’t worry, honey, they’re toys. Stuffed animals. chrissie: Really.

    chrissieluke was pondering a new addition to its family. Something for the baby. Besides, chrissie had a penchant for fake animals--the real ones were for eating and wearing. She still had a stuffed animal collection in her bedroom. Luke did not mind. The more childlike she was, the better it was for him. What she didn’t know didn’t hurt her, and if she didn’t know anything, so much the better for his lifestyle. Right now she was batting her eyes, arguing how their child would love the toys. One had big eyes. The child would love it, she argued. Of course, Luke said, feeling ever so satisfied for being the loving husband he was. Besides, deep inside he was afraid to fight. For all his bravado, he was afraid to lose her. If they fought, they might separate. So he acquiesced, and chrissieluke embraced.

    And thus, chrissieluke carried the bag of animals away to begin their new life together, unaware that watching eyes would gladly give them Death as they walked back home to their happy world