Western Taxidermy

by Barb Howard

  “Wait—don’t I get a vote for which one we see first?” Kayla asks, hustling to keep up with Matt.

  “There’s an order to these places,” Matt says.

  “I thought you’d never been to any.”

  “I haven’t,” Matt says. “Bear with my childhood fantasy.”

  “Okay—but it’s not like there are numbers, or even signs.”

  “Listen to your inner GPS for roadside attractions,” Matt says, closing his eyes, crossing his hands over his chest.

  Kayla laughs, says, “I must not have been outfitted with an inner GPS.”

  A model train set, laid out on top of a relief map of Canada takes up most of the first hut. Trains loaded with fish circle around the Maritimes. Trains loaded with wheat circle the prairies. And a train loaded with skiers, some of whom have fallen stiffly on their plastic sides, rattles its way through the Rocky Mountains. There’s a giant mountain on the west coast.

  “That’s not a Canadian mountain,” Kayla says. “That’s the Matterhorn.”

  “And your point is?” Matt asks.

  “Misrepresentation.”

  “There you go. Thanks to Teeny Town you’ve got a topic for your paper when you go back to university.”

  “It’s not a paper—it’s a thesis.”

  “Who knew? I’m just a handyman.”

  Kayla is glad that, as much as she loves Matt, they won’t be living together for at least the first part of the school year. She will have time to get her thesis started while he goes north to work as a welder. A welder! A bus driver, a car mechanic, a heavy equipment operator… even a chef at an Italian restaurant in Jasper—all past jobs he has told her about. She is enamoured by the amount of experience he has packed into his extra eight years of living.

  The only light in the train hut is a hooded fluorescent—directly over the train set, so it takes a few seconds for Kayla to notice the little girl and her mom standing in front of the display. They are both fair-skinned—the girl is so fair that she almost glows in the light of the hut. The mom is heavy-set—not fat, but plain heavy from the top of her perspiring brow to her swelling ankles.

  “Look, press this button,” she says.

  The girl pushes the button and the train whistle sounds.

  “My turn,” Matt says, sliding his arm in front of the girl and pushing the red whistle-button.

  “You’re too old,” the girl says.

  Matt gives her an exaggerated look of shock, says, “I’m only ten years old.”

  The girl swats him on the arm. “Liar!”

  “You’re a smart one,” Matt says.

  Matt and the girl take turns pushing the train whistle. Kayla hopes the rest of the huts aren’t as irritating.

  Once they are all outside the train hut, the little girl steps in front of Matt, stops, stares at him. She tucks her shoulder-length red hair behind her ear in a thoughtful way. It makes her seem older than she is.

  “You’ve got another admirer, Matt,” Kayla says, taking his hand.

  It seems that Matt picks up admirers everywhere. The other staff at the hotel, tourists, teenagers hanging out beside the river, seniors in coffee shops. He makes people feel good. When Kayla arrived in Banff, Matt was the first person to help her find her room at the staff residence, to show her where to put a few groceries, to ask about her life. Kayla had surprised herself by telling him, at that very first meeting, about how she had been dumped by her boyfriend on the last day of exams, how her marks hadn’t been quite high enough to get the provincial scholarship for the upcoming year at grad school, how she had lied and told her mother that she did get the scholarship. Matt had made her feel like things would work out. So far, he was right—things were working out. After all, she is engaged to be married. And Matt, her unbelievably sweet fiancé, has promised to help her with money for school.

  “Are you someone’s dad?” the girl asks Matt.

  “Of course,” Matt says earnestly. “I have over a hundred children.”

  “You’re lying again,” the girl says.

  “He’s just kidding,” Kayla says.

  “Kidding is lying,” the girl says.

  “That’s enough, Chelsea,” the mother reprimands. “Sorry,” she says to Matt. “She’s at that bossy age.”

  “No problem,” Matt says. “We’re friends. Aren’t we, Chelsea?”

  “No,” Chelsea says.

  “Nothing gets by Chelsea,” Matt says. “Must be good parenting.”

  Chelsea’s mother blushes. She says, “I’m just divorced. This is our first summer vacation as a twosome.” Then she looks around, says, “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

  “You probably need to talk about it,” Matt says.

  Kayla recognizes this as one of Matt’s favourite lines. He is prepared to listen. He brings people out, but she hopes they won’t have to sit down beside a hut and hear this sweaty woman’s life story. She seems a bit boring.

  The mother doesn’t offer any more information, and Matt says, “I mean it. I think Chelsea is smart. Maybe smarter than beautiful Kayla here, and Kayla is the smartest person I know.” Matt places his hand on the woman’s shoulder for a moment and then strolls on to the next hut. He stoops through the doorway, with Kayla, Chelsea, and Chelsea’s mother following him. When her eyes adjust to the lack of light, Kayla sees dolls. Rows and shadowy rows of big, baby-size dolls, floor to ceiling. All behind glass.

  “Check it out,” Matt says. “Now that’s a collection.”

  “All Caucasian,” Kayla says. “Typical.”

  “You’re Caucasian,” Matt says.

  “I don’t claim to represent everyone,” Kayla says.

  “Neither does Teeny Town,” Matt says.

  Chelsea pushes the interactive button. An eerie soundtrack of children laughing begins.

  Chelsea grabs her mother’s arm and starts to cry. The mother says, “I know. These dolls aren’t teeny at all. That’s what makes them creepy.”

  “The whole place is creepy,” Chelsea sobs.

  After the doll hut, the mother and Chelsea apply sunscreen. The sun is directly overhead and there is no shade outside the huts. Chelsea’s mother says that they are heading back to the bungalow to see if the old couple will give them a drink of water. Kayla feels the sun pounding off the gravel, feels the sweat soaking through her tank top.

  “Ready for the next hut?” Matt asks her.

  “Ready to leave,” she says.

  Matt clutches his hands to his chest. “Where’s the love?”

  “Overshadowed by my sense of cultural awareness and good taste.”

  Matt kisses her on the cheek, says, “It’s just for fun.”

  The next hut has a frontier theme. A disproportionately large chuckwagon is parked in the middle of a herd of buffalo.

  “Check out the Indians,” Matt says, pointing to a hilltop where a number of war-painted figures are propped. “Can I say ‘Indians’?”

  Kayla surveys the crouching Indians, the straight-backed cowboy dolls—all the usual ahistorical portrayals she’s learned about in school—lined up in one disproportional diorama. And then she spots, in one of the hills, a dinosaur. A plastic stegosaurus, small—even smaller than the toy buffalo, and tucked into the hillside, presumably as a visual perk for the studious observer.

  “This is horrifying,” Kayla says.

  “I’m going to say ‘Indians,’” Matt says.

  “How does this get by anyone?” Kayla asks.

  “Not everyone is looking for the same things as you, professor.”

  A ladder outside the frontier hut leads up the exterior wall of the hut and into the air for several feet before reaching a small fort. Kayla follows Matt, his long legs skipping every second rung. At the top, there’s a waist-high wood wall around the edges, and graffiti—racist scrawl, swears, and rudimentary sketches of genitals.

  “Guess the owners can’t make it up the ladder to clean this,” Matt says.

  “
The owners should be arrested for socio-cultural-geological misrepresentation,” Kayla says.

  “They’re just trying to make a living.”

  The fort overlooks the parking lot. Kayla watches Chelsea and her mom cross the lot to their minivan. The mom grabs two bottled waters from the back of the van, leading Kayla to assume that the old people didn’t give them any water. The mother settles Chelsea in the back seat, then gets into the driver’s seat. Gravel crunches as the minivan moves out of the lot and picks up speed to join the highway.

  “Looks like we have the frontier all to ourselves,” Matt says, putting his arm around Kayla. He cups his hand over her breast. Kisses her.

  “You have got to be kidding,” Kayla says.

  “Nope,” Matt says. He slides against her cut-offs, says, “Missy, there ain’t nothing Teeny Town about what’s in my pants right now.”

  “No way,” Kayla says, pushing him away. “That’s not remotely funny.”

  “Babe,” Matt says. “Carpe diem. That’s Latin for seize the day… but I’m sure you know that.”

  “Stop with the ‘babe’ stuff,” Kayla says, backing away from him. “It has always bugged me. It’s demeaning.”

  “Done. No more ‘babe.’ You could have told me that, like, three months ago.”

  Matt closes his eyes, spreads his arms wide for a hug.

  “Thank you,” Kayla says, as she starts down the ladder.

  After a silent visit to the hut with northern Canadians building Lego inukshuks and sugar cube igloos, and to the hut with the rotating green felt platform topped with the aluminum Royal Canadian Mounted Police on their musical ride, Kayla and Matt head for the parking lot. They have to exit through the bungalow, where the old couple are sitting across the table from each other, having tea.

  “Enjoy your tea,” Matt says.

  “We’ve got postcards,” the woman calls out. “Two dollars apiece. You can send a note to your friends.”

  “I’ve already got one from a previous visit,” Matt says.

  Kayla looks at his calm expression. No hint of a lie. She marvels at his ability to tell a story when the need arises. Matt glances at Kayla; Kayla mouths, “What previous visit?” and gives him a conspiratorial wink.

  “I thought you looked familiar,” the woman says. “Maybe last summer? About the same time of year?”

  Kayla almost laughs out loud because there’s Matt—caught in one of his white lies. Matt stands perfectly still for a moment, his head slightly tilted as though he’s confused, then turns to the woman, says, “Now that I think about it, I was at another place along this stretch. So, in fact, I could use a postcard.” He puts two dollars on the counter and takes a postcard off the rack. Kayla leans over for a glance at the fuzzy image of a giant stone rabbit prancing.

  The man in suspenders says, “I did the words, she took the photo.”

  Kayla reads “World’s Greatest Exhibition” at the bottom of the card.

  “Well, when you two tire of running this place you could start a postcard business,” Matt says.

  The woman beams, “You think so?”

  Matt says, “I know so.”

  At the car, Matt opens the hatchback, tosses the postcard onto the mat, and pulls the cooler towards him. He tugs off the lid and takes out a can of beer. “Want one?” he asks.

  Kayla shakes her head no.

  Matt pops the tab on his beer, takes a swig.

  “Whooee,” he says, holding the can in the air. “Here’s to Teeny Town.”

  Kayla watches as he chugs the rest of the beer. Finally, he takes the empty can away from his mouth. She puts her hands on her hips, says, “Did we really just stop here for sex? Was that your plan? I feel like you had a plan.”

  “Nothing gets by you university types,” Matt says. He squeezes the beer can and tosses it in the cooler, closes the lid with a jerk. “Kayla, no, I did not want to come here for sex in a lousy fake fort. I wanted to see Teeny Town. Okay? I didn’t know you were going to bring your piss-ass political correctness through it all.”

  Matt slams the hatch, gets in the driver’s seat. Kayla watches a few cars roar by on the highway. She has never seen Matt this irritated before; the whole summer he has rarely even shown a ripple in his personality, but he is right—she has been pissy. She needs to lighten up. Let stuff go. What kind of road trip, let alone marriage, are they going to have if she picks on every single misrepresentation?

  “Hop in, babe,” Matt calls. “We’ll talk it out.”

  He seems happy again. Yes, talking it out is exactly what they should do. Kayla gets in the car, closes the door. Matt turns over the engine. Kayla buckles her seat belt. Matt pats her reassuringly on the knee as the car starts to roll forward and the doors automatically lock with a faint thunk.

  MRS. GOODFELLOW’S DOG

  Mrs. Goodfellow nodded at the dog crate under the kitchen table. “Tipper will be fine in there for the night,” she said. “We won’t be late.”

  Vicky set her knapsack on a kitchen chair and even before she had fully knelt in front of the crate, Tipper began a gnashing, snarling bark. Vicky had never been this close to him. She watched his long teeth and mottled gums, but she didn’t feel frightened. Rather, she noticed that he was a good-looking dog, a purebred, and she felt sorry that he had to be locked in the crate. Usually, Tipper was in an outdoor pen, but the Goodfellows were having their house painted and the outdoor pen, which was attached to their garage, had to be dismantled for a few days.

  Mrs. Goodfellow unlocked the sliding door to the backyard deck. At the sound of the lock, Tipper hurled himself against the metal door of the crate so that the kennel bounced towards Vicky. Clumps of black and tan hair pushed through the metal door.

  “The painters were supposed to be finished yesterday,” Mrs. Goodfellow said. “But come and see if you like the colour so far. They call it ‘mink.’”

  Vicky followed Mrs. Goodfellow outside, across the deck. Mrs. Goodfellow had thick black hair, drawn back in a dramatic bun that Vicky wanted to call a chignon, although she wasn’t sure if that was the right word. And Mrs. Goodfellow wore an elegant velvet choker around her neck. Vicky’s hair wasn’t nearly long enough for a chignon, but surely she could find a similar choker at the mall.

  “I didn’t realize it was getting dark already,” Mrs. Goodfellow said. “At least it’s been a warm autumn.” She stretched her arm towards the house. “What do you think of the colour?”

  “I think it suits you,” Vicky said, making a mental note to use the word “autumn” instead of “fall.”

  Mrs. Goodfellow looked puzzled. Then she gave a quick laugh and adjusted her bun. “I wanted ivory. Jack picked mink. One of those ‘master of the house’ sort of things.”

  Vicky said, “Oh yeah,” and laughed too, even though she didn’t know what Mrs. Goodfellow was talking about. Her dad was the man of the house but he couldn’t tell the difference between blue and black, let alone mink and ivory.

  “Other than Tipper being inside, everything’s the same as usual tonight,” Mrs. Goodfellow said as they re-entered the kitchen. She raised her voice because Tipper began to bark. “Timothy’s up in his room.”

  The Goodfellows had one son, Timothy, who was almost a teenager like Vicky. Mrs. Goodfellow said that Timothy didn’t like being alone in the house, so when the Goodfellows went out, Mrs. Goodfellow hired Vicky. Timothy rarely came downstairs, and Vicky assumed he was embarrassed by his need for a babysitter. Mrs. Goodfellow said he had an entertainment unit in his room and that his headphones were practically glued to his head. She said he favoured classical music at a high decibel.

  If he came downstairs at all, Timothy only visited the kitchen. He took a bottle of fancy water from the refrigerator and half a dozen crackers from a metal tin. He muttered “hi” as he entered the room and “bye” as he carried his snack upstairs. From the glimpses she got of his paleness and skinniness, his dark turtlenecks and long hair, Vicky pegged him as the feminine type. Th
e way he whisked the cracker crumbs off the counter, or tensed at the sound of Vicky setting a pen on the table, made Vicky confident that she could put him in his place if the need ever arose.

  Vicky wondered why the Goodfellows didn’t take Timothy with them tonight. After all, they were going to a basketball game. Mr. Goodfellow owned the team—a women’s team, the first of its big-league level in the province. Then again, maybe Timothy didn’t want to hang out with his parents. But that wouldn’t make sense if your parents were the Goodfellows.

  “I’ll run upstairs and tell Timothy we’re off,” Mrs. Goodfellow said.

  Her long skirt rustled as she left the room. Vicky thought the skirt was probably made of silk. Mrs. Goodfellow always wore narrow tops and full skirts. Vicky’s mother said that was because Mrs. Goodfellow was getting heavy-hipped—proof that she was going to fall apart like everyone else, even though she was rich and beautiful and could make pasta from scratch.

  When Mr. Goodfellow entered the kitchen, Vicky was glad he walked right by her and stood at the dog crate. He had the slight, firm body of a gymnast, grey flecks in his hair, a trim business suit. Vicky wished she was wearing something more sophisticated than jeans and a hoodie. Thankfully, since she always had trouble looking him in the eye, he seemed more interested in the barking dog than in her.

  Mr. Goodfellow snapped his fingers once and said, “Quiet.” Tipper quit barking immediately. Mr. Goodfellow turned around to take his car keys off a hook on the kitchen wall. “Down,” he said casually over his shoulder. Tipper collapsed with a thud onto the floor of the crate. Mr. Goodfellow looked at Vicky and raised his eyebrows. He was showing off—but it was impressive all the same.

  “Good evening. It’s still Vicky?”

  “Yes,” Vicky flushed.

  “Just checking. Sometimes Vickys become Victorias,” Mr. Goodfellow said.

  Mr. Goodfellow lifted his foot and placed it lightly on the seat of a kitchen chair.