Fox

FOX

"I knew from the start that he wanted to kill me; the slanting glances of passing sparrows told me so," my mother declared.

The house where I was born resembled a mysterious kingdom, ruled exclusively by my mother and her sister. Cool epitaphs on the stairs, sun-warmed spaces cut by streams of light playing with the ubiquitous dust, holy images gazing sweetly yet sternly from the walls, slimy, mothballed furs slumbering in coffin-like wardrobes, ominous cross-eyed tomcats, and perversely twisted ficuses—all this was divided.

The entire house was divided into the sphere of influence of my mother or aunt. Ignorance of these elusive boundaries was no excuse—it brought a wild riot upon the culprit, me.

I remember like it was yesterday the story of a fox, long dead and stuffed with sawdust, who somehow slipped out of the house. I'm certain it was driven by a love of freedom, which infused its lifeless corpse with renewed strength.

The search for the fox lasted three solid days and three nights, with wild packs of suspects flying through the air, and Saint Anthony, along with vast quantities of psychotropic drugs and coffee, were involved in the search.

However, the fox remained undiscovered and unturned until finally, my aunt, taking out the trash, spotted its slyly gleaming eye peeking out from under the dumpster lid. Since the finder was my aunt, it was reasonable to suspect that the fox's journey was (in some way, more or less overtly) inspired by my mother.

On this principle, all events acquired the quality of immediate explanation—a sudden rain ravaging my aunt's laundry was an obvious manifestation of my mother's malice, a hole in my mother's stocking an obvious manifestation of my aunt's hatred.

As a child, I completely agreed to this interpretation of the world, always agreeing to a double dinner, a double lunch, a double trip to church so as not to offend the dignity of any of the royals. And since there was almost never a lunch, dinner, or breakfast, the obligation of a double visit to church seemed easy to bear and even pleasant.

Listening to the angels' songs and the blowing bellows, amidst the incense and the old women, I imagined myself sitting on a throne, a messiah who would one day come and put an end to all discord. But sometimes, amidst this angelic symphony, he appeared, a fox stuffed with sawdust, singing magical and sinful notes. I was afraid the priest would hear the fox, that he would notice it as it crawled between the pews and baby carriages, as it climbed onto the church roof and danced its mad dance.

But he didn't notice, or perhaps he only pretended not to notice, perhaps he knew the fox all too well. The fox always sang similarly yet differently, singing about the warmth of rainy evenings, about distant islands in the Pacific, about the mysteries of deserts, about the fairytale breasts of distant princesses, about thighs trembling with misty impatience, about the inaccessibility of mountains and the soaring heights of pagodas, about the coolness of snow and the gleam of eyes—he sang blue, gold, and green.

In the house, in the shadow of his mother and aunt, lived his grandmother, actually interpreted by most visitors as more of a piece of furniture, invisible and as old as the house itself. When she died, a period of truce began; his mother and aunt joined (invisibly and purely symbolically, of course) their bony hands and left for the funeral.

The coffin in which Grandma rested resembled a boat, forming an inseparable whole with Grandma, as if the coffin were ashamed to Grandma of having once been a tree, and Grandma of having once been a woman.

The funeral day fell in November, which, sensing the significance of the events, drenched the chapel with a steady rain. My mother and aunt, like drenched rooks, mindlessly propped themselves up against the coffin. The rest of the small family huddled in a distant corner of the chapel, shuffling their feet and glancing at their watches. The ceremony was noticeably delayed, noticeably enough to cause concern. There was no priest or men to carry the coffin. After a while, the family dispersed, and it was just me and two furry rooks who were left standing over Grandma's body – the coffin. It was obvious that no one would come – my mother and aunt had clearly forgotten to complete the necessary formalities.

Then it began. "Jesus Christ," my mother screamed, pointing with one hand at my aunt and the other at Grandma-Coffin, "how could you, Puffball, forget to pay those cemetery donkeys!" "Don't blaspheme," my aunt replied with a trembling and stern voice, "don't use the Lord's name in vain...you...you Pile of Manure." I

decided to act, spurred on by the glaring look Michelangelo shot me repeatedly from the chapel's stained-glass window: "This day is a special day, and although we've forgotten a few unimportant matters, we should carry the coffin ourselves; moreover, we have no choice," I stated as firmly as I could, and to set an example, I slammed the coffin lid shut and grabbed one of the brass handles.

My mother and aunt hesitated, but then shakily grabbed the other handles, and the entire procession moved, swaying in all directions, toward the door. When we were halfway through the cemetery, my mother couldn't take it anymore and hissed at my aunt, "Mommy died because you gave her too much oatmeal and not enough insulin."

My aunt's face paled, resembling the frozen face of a frozen turkey. Seeing a great brawl brewing, I intoned a pious hymn loudly and distinctly. Then, to my horror, a fox appeared, and I began singing even louder, hoping it would scare him away. But the fox was like lightning, like an arrow. He ran over my aunt's leg, and she shrieked loudly and released the coffin handle.

Suddenly, I realized that it was very warm for November and that the surroundings were eerily quiet. I saw my mother lying on the ground with a stupidly furious, yet inspired expression, and I saw the coffin handle with the screws in my hand. I saw the coffin fall onto the linseed, and out popped (this is how I always imagined the proverbial devil jumping out of the box) my grandmother's leg.

Then, events, which had slowed down for a moment, accelerated to a terrifying pace.

"I knew from the start he wanted to kill me; the sidelong glances of the passing sparrows told me so," my mother declared. Her face now expressed malicious joy.

She quickly grabbed a candle from a nearby grave (one of those huge Chinese turds that burn for three days) and swung it, aiming for my aunt's head. "Here you go, you Mascaron, you bigot, you Filthy Pindo!" she screamed wildly.

My aunt's head collapsed, perhaps because all the pious thoughts stored there since her youth had found an outlet, and my aunt herself fell to the ground, breathless.

"What a tragic scene," I thought objectively, "I'm about to go crazy."

"The sparrows were already warning me about your aunt, and I refused to listen to them, and they warned me like they were warning St. Francis," my mother cooed sweetly.

Suddenly, the fox struck again, leaping unexpectedly from the coffin where it had cleverly hidden, its teeth biting into my mother's throat, and I, helpless, sat leaning against the cold marble of the tombstone.

"You came in autumn, you left in spring – thank you for the years we shared," the inscription read.

Now I'm immersed in the green of another day, my mother and aunt gone. The rooks have flown away, spring has arrived. I don't know what will become of me; I'm almost alone. I say almost because I know the fox is nearby. I place all my hope in him.