The morning after I hit the fox, I woke up with a screaming headache. My wife was shuffling around the kitchen, closing the windows and curtains, covering her ears.
“Can’t you hear it?” she said. “The moaning?”
I stopped and listened, but all I could hear was the throb of my pulse in my head, the beat beat beat of a migraine as it wrapped around my eyes. I grabbed coffee from the carafe.
“I think it’s still alive,” she said, her voice a whisper.
“I’m pretty sure it was dead last night,” I said.
“I can hear it. Go check.”
I was blinded by pain and I spoke before thinking. “You sound insane.”
She turned her cool stare on me, an enraged smirk forming before she stormed out of the room. “I’ll check on it.”
+
Two days after hitting the fox, I found it on my coffee table, stretched out like a skinned pelt. It was taking shallow, labored breaths.
My wife appeared, her hairbrush and a bowl of water on hand.
“Move,” she said by greeting, taking a place at the fox’s side. “I told you.”
“You have to admit, it looked dead.” I said. I felt a little stupid; the fox was clearly alive. She’d convinced me to scoop it up into my truck, hysterical after the impact. The ground was too frozen to dig a hole that night, so I’d dumped it in the yard and figured I’d toss it somewhere in the morning.
She rolled her eyes. “Typical. You give up so fast.”
+
My wife didn’t always hate me. I used to be adored. Revered, even.
It’s an old story. I grew bitter and sad; she grew distant and shrill.
But there was raw sweetness in her still. A feral maternal instinct. I could see it as she smoothed the fox’s fur, humming a slow tune. The fox’s breathing was more even now, and its coat looked a more vibrant red. It looked less like roadkill, and she looked more like my wife again.
“That thing stinks,” I said before shutting the door on them.
+
I hadn’t meant to hit it. I guess that’s the story of every accident. I was looking at a little boy standing in the glow of a streetlight, a thick winter coat and fur-rimmed hood hiding his features. His father stood nearby scrolling on his phone. They were waiting for something. The boy had a backpack on, but it was nighttime.
I’d been struck by a wave of sadness seeing them there. The boy’s ruler-straight posture, the dad’s protective proximity; I thought that will never be me.
My eyes had been lingering on the boy one second too long, and I didn’t see the fox dart out until it was too late.
+
Four days after hitting the fox I found it in our spare bedroom, sleeping in the queen bed we usually set up for guests. My wife had used our nicest sheets and a thick duvet cover. It had bunnies along the edges, something a child would use. A funny choice for a fox.
“What, it lives here now?” I said to her from the doorway, my wife fluffing the spare pillow next to the fox.
“Just until he’s back on his feet.”
“How do you know it’s a boy?”
“His voice,” my wife scoffed. It was an ugly sound. “Obviously.”
The room was supposed to be the nursery. I couldn’t stand to be in it and see the soft yellow paint, the white lace curtains. The boxes of unworn baby clothes in the closet hid like ghosts.
Just then it smelled of earth and fur and the raw meat my wife had placed on a plate next to the bed. I left them alone. I felt sick.
+
I hear whispers in the night.
Shhh. Don’t worry. One day soon. Meant to be. So beautiful. Shh.
I’m used to being haunted by the sounds of pleasant voices, of words I long to hear. I assume I am dreaming and go back to sleep. All night I had dreams of grunting and panting, a long, endless howl.
+
One week after hitting the fox, I woke up with the same mix of dread and yearning I’d grown accustomed to. When I got downstairs, the coffee carafe is empty. Next to the machine was a note written with my wife’s careful, delicate writing.
Please leave. This is our house now, not yours. You have 24 hours to pack and go.
I should have felt shocked or devastated, but I was almost relieved. My only question was who she meant by “our” – had she taken a lover? I didn’t know when she’d have time to. She was always cleaning the house, scouring the floors and bleaching the toilets. Or she was doing errands – endless errands, how many errands could one woman have? In and out of the car, a nonstop rotation of plastic bags. Busy busy busy. She barely had time for me. When could she have time for more?
+
After I’d packed my duffle – a few flannel shirts and old jeans, my toothbrush and razor, a few pairs of socks, boxers and undershirts – I threw them in the back of the car.
I took one look at my house as I pulled out – my old dream house, chipping paint and broken gutters and all. Just before I turned away, I saw the curtains move in the guest room window upstairs. I couldn’t be sure, but as I turned my wheel to pull onto the street, I swear I saw the outline of two animals – pointed ears, rounded heads, snouts and small eyes – turning their heads to watch me go. The reflection on the glass changed and as I drove past the house, and when I slowed to get a better look, the window was empty.
+++
Madeline Anthes is the Assistant Editor of Lost Balloon. You can find her on Instagram at @madelineanthes and find more of her work at madelineanthes.com