I can’t keep it out like I used to, not anymore. I used to drape it over that old wingback in the corner, the lavender velvet one mom used nap in. I can still see her there, too, curled up on the pelt, dreaming her big dreams. But times change, people, clients, get uncomfortable when they see it. They wrinkle up their noses. Then they take a deep breath, as though they’re about to let me in on an unpleasant secret. It’s funny, considering the reasons they’re usually in my living room.
“Is that.. real?” They pretend they don’t know, even while they’re inwardly thrilled they’re about to put me in my place.
“Yep, wolf.” They’ll recoil then, like I slapped them or something. I’m direct. I know where this is going. I’m like mom was in that way, we see a path, we know where it goes.
“Is that illegal?” They ask, hoping, assuming it is because, my god, it should be. And it is illegal to kill a wolf, because, sadly, they’re an endangered species. So then I have to tell them a fake version of the real story to ease their minds. Which I like to do. If you know the truth and don’t tell it, you have all the power.
“It’s been in my family for generations. My great, great, great grandma shot it herself.” At this, they nod, lips pursed. They would really prefer it not be a dead wolf draped over my chair, but thank God we know better now.
What I don’t tell them is that the wolf tried to rape my great grandma. But Old Hester’s big gun did all the penetrating that night- that was mom’s favorite joke- right between the eyes so he didn’t have the dignity of turning human again before he died. Hester was a crack hand at skinning. She turned this hide into a treasure for her kin.
The real story, and so much more, comes to me as I take the storage box down from the closet and open it. The pelt is as soft as paws stalking prey in the snow and shines the bluish black of a raven. I think, too, of the man who’s still trapped inside it. He’s decayed over the years. It happens. But as I run my hand down what would have been the spine, I can see flashes of him: rotted out teeth, mean eyes, and hair the color of silt water. He tries to speak, but ain’t nobody trying to hear. I only heard his voice once, the first time my mom told me the pelt’s story. My mom had heard him too. I remember how she shook her dark hair, “don’t mind him, just mad that he’s impotent.” My sisters and I had giggled at momma saying it, back when we still laughed at things we didn’t fully understand.
My sisters will be here soon for the changing. It’s my turn this moon and I can already feel the wildness stretching my back and quickening my heart beat. It’ll be my last changing for nine months, it’s too dangerous with child. But I long to teach her. She’s barely cooked at all and already I can’t wait for her to get here. I rub my hand over my still flat belly and smile to the bean growing inside. Then I grab the box and take it to the living room.
Everything is ready. Wine mixed with rabbit blood waits in wooden bowls. The rabbit meat is wet and glistening on a platter. Candles burn, the light is low. Not too many folks live out this way. I like it, my sisters like the bustle of the city, but I can’t abide the noise. I set the box on the old Persian rug that came from God knows where and lay out the skin. I straighten out the head, I’ll wear it like a hood. The long lean body and legs, a bushy black tail. It’s fur side down so I can crawl into it.
I’m anxious. I hear cars in the drive. Soon I’ll be running through the pines. I’ll be the wind, the shadow, the night’s voice, death. I’ll walk in the moon’s light. Even without the skin, my stomach growls for the rabbit warm and bloody on the platter. The wine is for my sisters, we share the fun. Some day our daughters will too. I hear laughter outside, they’re anxious, too. They’ll watch my spine snap and my body bend and break to become wolf, woman. The door opens and they’re already telling old stories. I’m already howling. I want the skin, I want it.
Thank you!!
Great work!