The Sasquatch Hunter's Almanac (40 page)

To the best mom in the entire world,
those cards read. Vanessa kept them all in a drawer in her bedroom and cried over them every few months.

But love and goodness had nothing to do with each other.

AMELIA

Eli is haunting me like a total asshole. He's there in the bedroom with Jim and me, he stands at my elbow when I'm on my headset with clients, he's with us in the backyard when we're building a snowman with the kids. It's been like this since the funeral. I've been showering less, making love less, because, what the hell? My dad is here. Even doing bills is embarrassing.

He hates it, too, I can tell. He turns to the wall when I undress or shower or shit, but he can't leave. He's waiting for something. An apology, a blessing, a curse? I try not to make eye contact. Most of the time, I pretend he's not there. The rest of the time, I'm asking him, What do you want, Dad? Come on! Speak up!

Eli can't speak but he can gesture, and he gestures at me urgently, as if he's trying to land an airplane.
OVER HERE,
he's saying.
KEEP YOUR NOSE UP. AVOID THE WATER, THERE ARE SHARKS.

To this, I can only shrug. No idea, Eli. Does not compute.

When he's not gesturing, he's gazing at me in a mopey way. The mopey expression makes him look even older than he was when he died.

He died a typical asshole death. Heart attack. Too involved with his work to take care of himself. You'd look at a small, thin guy like him and you'd think, Wow, what a healthy person, but, really, his arteries were choked. When sliced open, they would have leaked cottage cheese everywhere. I know about this stuff. I sell pharmaceutical products to patients with calcium deposits in their hearts. All of these guys are the same.

This is what stress does to you, asswipes.

I sound unappreciative, like I don't love Eli. It's not that.

I'm even flattered. I mean, he could have haunted Vanessa (God knows she'd love it), or Ginger (who would be fucking terrified), or even Gladys (who is going be a hell of a ghost herself one day), but he chose me. This means he owes me something. Unfinished business, as they say.

But then I'm not sure. It's a problem for me, and it's a problem for Eli.

Maybe it's meant to punish us both.

VANESSA

It occurred to Vanessa that Amelia might be making all of this up, just to upset her.

But Amelia had never been a fantastical person. Ginger was another story. Ginger, even now, had the imagination of a small child, with her paintings and her unicorn obsession, although she'd never been very interested in Eli's Sasquatch. His eternal hunt for the beast—a hunt that had ended with a degree of humiliation and amusement—had not been seen by either daughter for what it was: creative, original, baffling, and inspired (as it was seen by Vanessa, who understood Eli's passion in terms of poetry, an equally elusive creature). Instead, they saw it as as misinformed, corny, confusing, and bogus. To Amelia, it was the career of a liar and a philanderer; to Ginger, the career of an adventurous if mistaken man.

But he believes in it,
Vanessa had argued, in different tones, with both her daughter and stepdaughter.
He believes in it very much. And belief is everything. Don't you see that?

Amelia, for one, argued that he did not believe. How could he, without being insane? He was in it for the money, she surmised, for the weird glory it provided. He was in it for the travel, for the long woodland trips away from all of them. Vanessa never argued with her, only listened to her rants with a sinking heart. Eli was happy, so Vanessa tried to be, too.

Eventually, Eli's confidence and dedication waned. The whole SNaRL program was taken over by younger cryptozoologists. They understood the Internet in a way that was beyond Eli, putting the entire business online, creating an informative if dense website, an online donations portal, and a comments section. The Internet meant far more sightings, but far less of them were sincere. Eli couldn't keep up with the speed of the thing. He became irrelevant. His book continued to enjoy healthy sales, but even he knew that it was purchased as a gag item, a funny gift to give a monster aficionado or skeptic at a birthday party.

It wore on him, Vanessa saw, and she tried to encourage him and flatter him and distract him.

In the end, it killed him.

Vanessa ruminated over the night of his heart attack. She liked to pick apart the details, as if somehow she would find the tiny key that, if twisted, would pop open the lock and bring Eli back to life. She would never forget the hospital where she was summoned, the sterility and brightness of it, so opposite the clutter and darkness in her heart. Eli was alive then, just barely, but they thought, or told her they thought, that they could save him.

That funny couple was there, too—Mr. and Mrs. Krantz. Mr. Krantz's presence was disturbing. He was gigantic, an eyesore, but he hung back from everyone, pressing against the wall as though trying to hide.

She had wondered to herself: Who were these people? Why was Eli with them when the heart attack struck? She eyeballed Mr. Krantz with a sense of urgency. He was a man who would seize anyone's attention. He was a man who seemed too mannish.

Mrs. Krantz had sprinted up to Vanessa in her tall heels, bubbling over, frantic with apologies, and relayed everything to her. She had arrived home with dinner to find Eli collapsing onto the floor and had gone right for the phone to call for help.

“Fell right next to his rifle, the poor thing!” She turned and opened an arm toward her brute of a husband. “Blue as a Smurf. Krantzy jumped right in. CPR and the whole bit! Learned it from watching TV, can you imagine? The paramedics were really grateful to him.”

“Eli had his rifle?” Vanessa had asked. “Why did he have his rifle?”

“Oh, who knows?” Mrs. Krantz replied. “Men love to carry guns around.”

It dawned on Vanessa then who Mr. Krantz was. She recalled what Eli had told her about the monster from his childhood, the creature who had stolen everything from him. And now she remembered the clunky, Germanic-sounding name: Krantz. Her face whitened.

“They know each other,” Mrs. Krantz said, perhaps noting Vanessa's stricken expression. “Yes, I'm sure of it. Krantzy's silent on the matter, but I can tell they are old friends.”

Vanessa could think of nothing to say. She knew what this stupid woman did not: Eli had gone to kill Mr. Krantz.

She caught Mr. Krantz's eye, and he stared back at her emotionlessly.

“Thank you,” she finally said to him. “Thank you for saving his life.”

She wasn't sure at first if he had heard her or not, but then he gave a slow, brief bob of his immense head.

“God, what a night,” Mrs. Krantz said, fake eyelashes wet with tears, the splendid peach bulbs of her cleavage heaving above a pink camisole. She reached for Vanessa's hand and squeezed dramatically. “Krantzy did everything he could. The paramedics were so fast, I swear it, as quick as bunnies! I'm sure your husband will be right as rain by morning.”

Mr. Krantz continued to lurk in whatever shadows he could find, limping from one corner to another. He was a dark, monstrous figure in a thin denim coat, shiny tuxedo pants, crisp white sneakers. He had recently shaved. His primitive face was all cut up from the razor, with tiny bits of Kleenex stuck to his skin by red tacks of blood. He was a massive, hideous man. Vanessa continued to stare.

“Thank you,” Vanessa told the woman. It was in her nature to console annoying people. “Thanks again.”

Mrs. Krantz looked lovingly at Mr. Krantz. He was watchful, contained, as though saving his energy for a sudden escape.

“Look at us two gals,” Mrs. Krantz murmured. “Tethered to older men. And what for?”

“Love,” Vanessa said. She toyed with her wedding band.

What was taking so long? When would she be able to see her husband? She had so many questions for him now.

“Well, we got more than we bargained for, didn't we? Couple of troublemakers, these guys.”

Vanessa smiled tautly. She was through entertaining this diamond-studded hillbilly. She wished the young wife would go away. Her knees shook. She chose a chair next to a side table filled with magazines and sat down to wait for the doctor, to continue to observe Mr. Krantz.

Minutes later, ignoring the magazine spread open on her lap, she noticed Mr. Krantz reaching out toward the windowpane. His motions were graceful, athletic. Then he suddenly lunged, snapping up a housefly in midair, catching the insect deftly between his index finger and thumb.

Vanessa jumped. The reflexes alone were enough to startle her.

But then he brought the fly to his mouth and placed it on his tongue.

He
ate
it.

Vanessa put a hand to her mouth, not sure whether to laugh or gag.

By God, Vanessa thought. Eli's Sasquatch. It was him. There was no doubt in her mind now.

He looked up suddenly and locked his eyes onto hers. Vanessa swallowed but did not break the gaze.

The wind seemed to shift in the airless room. She thought she could smell him, a smell like burnt armpit hair. She wrinkled her nose.

They continued to openly watch each other.

Finally, Mr. Krantz looked away. His wife was asleep, crumpled over on an upholstered bench. Vanessa could see the soft hill of her stomach, its slope suggesting pregnancy.
There will be more of him,
she thought, and she told herself that she would alert Eli once he awoke.

Mr. Krantz, as though sensing this thought, decided to quit the waiting room. He lifted his wife effortlessly into his arms, half-loping, half-limping with his charge down the wide white hallway to the neon
EXIT
sign. Then he slipped through the door and was gone.

My husband's life's work,
she thought, aghast. She almost wanted to follow them, and she half-rose to her feet, but how could she leave now, when her husband was so ill?

The doctor appeared then, shaking her head.

“Mrs. Roebuck,” she began, and her tone was nightmare enough.

The doctor continued to speak, to explain, her hand on Vanessa's arm. She had purple nail polish, and the color reminded Vanessa of a bruise.

Why would you paint your fingernails that color?
Vanessa wondered.
Why would you? I mean, considering you're telling people about dead husbands and all?

“You have the fingers of a corpse,” she said, interrupting the doctor, and the doctor took her hand away.

“Would you like to see your husband now?” the doctor asked.

“You should try a cherry red,” Vanessa suggested, and half-giggled.

The doctor picked at a bump on her jaw with her purple fingers. She returned the hand to Vanessa's arm. Vanessa's giggle shifted to a low, heartbroken howl.

*   *   *

O
UTSIDE THE HOSPITAL
window, it had snowed, and beyond the stink of death, the world was sharp and clear and white. Vanessa shut her eyes and soared out the window, flowing through the glass into the icy sky, the wind slicing knifelike into her skin and nostrils and guts, and for a moment she felt vivified, ready for anything.

She opened her eyes and was right next to the bed.

“You silly old man,” she told Eli, touching his lifeless forearm. “All this just to get out of watching Hitchcock.”

He did not laugh. She pointed this out to him. “You never laugh at my jokes,” she said. Oh, how'd they laugh together if he just woke up!

“I miss you, Eli,” she said. “I already miss you! This isn't going very well, is it?”

But while she was here with him, it was something. Better than not being with him. She put her head onto his arm and let herself cry.

“I saw him, you know,” she said finally, sitting up, wiping her eyes on her shirtsleeve. “I saw Mr. Krantz. Your Sasquatch. I saw him, Eli. He was spooky.”

The world folded in and out of itself.
This is not real,
she thought.
This can't be real.

“He wasn't worth killing,” she said. “At least you didn't do that. I'm glad you didn't.”

She leaned in to this head that was not her husband's head and whispered to it, “You did the right thing, Eli. Not by dying, you silly old fool, but by leaving the guy alone.”

The strain of not killing Mr. Krantz had killed Eli. Vanessa was sure of it.

The night festered.

Ginger came and saw her father, too. Then Amelia. Amelia asked: Could Gladys? And Vanessa said,
Yes. After I leave.

Eventually, she left. It was late morning.

The sky had warmed and the snow had hardened and there was no longer any striking beauty to the world. The sky was wrung out, gray.

It was morning. There was an entire day remaining.

Ginger drove Vanessa home. They went into the kitchen together.

“I suppose I should make breakfast,” Vanessa said.

Ginger didn't answer, just went to sit on the couch. She turned on the television and lay down.

North by Northwest
began to play.

Vanessa hadn't eaten since lunch the day before. The untouched dinner sat on the table, and Vanessa swept everything into the garbage can, whether or not it was perishable.

Then she stared with some confusion at a package of Franz bread.

Eventually she opened the bag and extracted the heel and stuffed it into her mouth, the whole thing, and chewed it.

This would be her most vivid memory of the day. Even on her own deathbed, when she could no longer remember how her husband looked or sounded or smelled, she would remember the taste of the bread, so plain and good and filling, and she would ask her own hospice worker for it and they would bring her a slice and watch her gum it happily without being able to swallow.

But that was all in the future, and the rest of it was in the past.

*   *   *