Samantha would show up that day, too, her face pale, her lipstick in need of reapplication. At that point, her arrival wouldn’t even seem shocking. ‘Do you know anyone…?’ she’d whisper. And, ‘Didn’t your mom…?’ and I’d tell her that probably not, almost definitely not, but I didn’t know.
Later, Samantha and I would drive back and pick up Stella’s car from the parking lot of the general store. The people inside would run out and ask how Stella was doing. I’d tell them fine, and they’d give us candy, silly things like Now and Laters and Reese’s Pieces and Blow Pops, their eyes big and round, full of charity. The physical world would be surreal, bursting with blueness and late-summer leaves and chirping birds and a cloudless sky. Samantha and I would return to our own separate cars, on our way back to the hospital, listening to the endless radio broadcasts. We’d crane our necks out the windows, searching for falling planes, a falling sky. Instead, we’d see a little wooden shack on the side of the road. Samantha would pull over into the parking lot and roll down her window. ‘Is that?’ She’d point a carefully painted nail at the sign.
The words would be inky black, striking against the gray-blue weathered sign. Come on in to see the World-Famous Jackalope.
The door would swing open easily, as if hanging by one rusty hinge. The room would be dark and cool, and there’d be an old woman sitting behind a makeshift counter that bore a few pamphlets, some magnets that said Jackalope and a picture of something unidentifiable, on sale for $1.50. She’d be watching the news, too, like everyone else. The turquoise sky, the burning buildings, falling again, one floor then the next then the next, collapsing into dust. People running, screaming.
‘Excuse me,’ Samantha would say very softly to the woman at the desk, ‘can you tell us where the jackalope is?’
The woman would look up and study us for a moment, as if she couldn’t understand why we were there and what we wanted. Then she’d point and say, ‘There. Right there.’
There would be a glass case across the room. Behind the glass, we would make out something stuffed: a large, fat, brown and gray rabbit standing on its hindquarters, its head turned jauntily to the side. On the base of its skull would be two large antlers, almost as big as the rabbit itself, the ends of each tapering into two sharp, curving points that almost touched one another. There would be an old sign underneath, printed in a small, dated, Sixties font, that said, The Jackalope (Lepus temperamentalus) is one of the rarest animals in the world. A cross between a now-extinct pygmy deer and a species of killer rabbit, they are extremely shy unless approached. It is written that you can extract the jackalope’s milk as it sleeps belly-up at night. The milk is believed to be medicinal and can be used to treat a variety of afflictions. Many do not believe in the jackalope’s existence, but do not be swayed! It will kill you if you aren’t looking! These dangerous creatures ARE REAL!
Samantha and I would stand there for a while, not saying anything, admiring the jackalope like we were looking at an artefact in the Smithsonian. The jackalope’s eyes would be glassy, and I’d see the clear lines of glue where the horns had been attached, the piece of fur on its back that was torn back, as if a dog had recently been playing with it. But, despite this, I would grapple for something magical. I would want to believe it was real, that everything was real-Cheveyo, miracle cures, loving someone I’d met seven years ago and had only briefly kissed. But believing that the jackalope was real would mean I had to believe what was going on behind me on television-the planes, people screaming-was real, too. And that cancer was real. And that my father truly loved a girl that died, desperately loved someone before he desperately loved my mother, and that perhaps he desperately loved Rosemary, too. That he had changed, leaving me behind, and that it was probably the best, healthiest thing he could have done.
My fingers would graze my phone in my pocket. I knew I would call him, at least to see if he was all right.
There would be nothing else in the shack, except for the jackalope and a few books of jackalope lore and a few suspicious photos of the jackalope in the wild. After a while, Samantha would begin to talk. ‘I’m selling the most wonderful houses in Northglenn right now.’ Her voice would be low, shaky. ‘All empty. You walk through the rooms and they echo. They smell like new carpet and fresh paint. The garage is so clean, the closets don’t have dust in them. There’s enough room for a big refrigerator in the kitchen and a sectional in the living room. There are rooms for nurseries and for kids’ bunk beds. The master bedrooms are gorgeous, too. Vaulted ceilings. Whirlpool tubs.’
She’d stop, then, for a moment, and glance at me. Her lips would quiver, and I would notice that, for whatever reason, she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. But I wouldn’t ask.
‘Tell me about the backyard,’ I’d goad her.