The Deer by Andrea Harper

The boys turned nine next week and the nanny asked her if she was solid on the gluten free chocolate cupcakes, or did she think they should get a half dozen of the vanilla ones as well. Her nanny was a small woman, with bony fingers and a fragile voice that her boys couldn’t hear very well. Your call, Lenore told the nanny, waving her out of the office. I need you to take the lead on this. The nanny said yes; she always said yes. The boys were outside playing with a new friend. Her office window looked out on the small penthouse courtyard. The friend was a boxy little kid, with a severe buzz cut and cut-off denim shorts. He was sloppy looking, his baggy t-shirt rumpled, an orange stain tinted the corners of his mouth. Her boys were tall for their age, with swooping blonde hair and dark blue eyes. Their cheeks still had some baby fat, and they were always damp with excitement. They look healthy, Lenore thought, pressing a fist hard against her chest. The new friend was running from the boys, who were sprinting after him in tight circles around the patio. They flung their arms around him, bringing him down with a dull thud. Paul was grasping the playdate’s thick buzz-cut, forcing the boy’s head back against the concrete tiles. His eyes were tight and hard as he watched Thomas spit huge dripping piles of saliva onto the playdate’s shirt. The boy was twisting and kicking, trying to force Thomas away as he bent over his face to spit on his cheeks and nose. The scene was entirely silent, she realized. None of them made a sound. The nanny was pulling open the patio doors, and shooing the boys away from the playdate, who was pulling at his black t-shirt. She could see the white mucous smeared in loops across the fabric. The nanny was in tears, holding the playdate boy’s head to her own. You don’t act like this, the nanny said. You don’t act like animals. The boys stood over the nanny and the playdate, their long slim limbs wavering in deep blue shadows across the patio. 

Her husband wanted the boys showered and ready for dinner by five-thirty every evening. Thank you, she said to the nanny, who was escorting the buzz-cut boy home. Did you have fun? Lenore bent to look the boy in his face. His features were bland and mushy, with a smattering of large moles across his face and neck. Handsome, Lenore said to him, patting his cheek gently. You didn’t cry did you? She asked him. Had fun, isn’t that right? 

Josh was her husband of twelve years. He was like Paul and Thomas, long and slim, his blonde hair turning a gorgeous shade of white. Josh had retired from Wall Street almost five years ago and was the lead sales rep for an online liquor delivery company. His company dinners were at dark, humid restaurants in the East Village, with his team of twenty-somethings, all wooing potential clients with smoky shots of Mezcal, sucking hard on their shiny vape pens. Josh was a vegan, but he still wore his lambskin leather jacket, the one she bought for him on their fourth anniversary. Josh didn’t like for the nanny to make dinner, so that was up to Lenore. The sight of meat made Josh sick, so she and the boys only ate it when they were away from home. She’d made something called a cauliflower steak for dinner, the thick white slabs cooked in a shallow pool of olive oil and sprinkled with herbs and salt. Looks good, Josh said, petting her ass as she laid plates down on the table. The boys were still outside, and she hugged them to her, kissing their sweaty foreheads as she brought them inside to eat. They collapsed against her when they saw the food, moaning and gagging at the sight of the cauliflower. You said steaks, Thomas wailed, dropping to the dining room carpet in tears. Lenore and Josh knelt beside him, rubbing his back. Hey buddy, Josh said. Work with me on this. He pulled Thomas up to his seat. Mommy still eats meat, Paul said slowly grinding his fist into the center of the vegetable. That’s right, said Josh, his voice soft, neutral. Mommy still eats meat, and that’s up to her. Thomas was slowly mashing his cauliflower, sifting the wet chunks through his fingers. We still eat meat, he said, his eyes on Josh. Yes, Josh said, and poured Lenore a glass of wine. But I don’t think you’d want to eat meat if you knew where it came from. Lenore felt her spine stiffen, watched the boys’ blonde hair shift in tones in the dim lighting as they turned their heads towards each other, and then back to Josh. What’s the last meal you ate that had meat in it, Josh asked the boys, the leather jacket squeaking softly as he folded his arms on the heavy walnut table. Mommy bought us some pork chops last week, Thomas said, his eyes flitting from Lenore to Josh. His father let out a dry, sharp laugh. Great, Lenore, he said, rubbing his temples. Don’t, she said, feeling her fingers sweating against the wine glass. There’s no honor in eating that pork chop, Josh said. That pig was born a slave and lived a miserable existence up until the moment its throat was slit. You didn’t hunt that pig, your mommy didn’t hunt that pig. Thomas and Paul laughed, the color in their cheeks a mottled red. We’d hunt a pig, Paul said, jabbing his cauliflower with his fork. We’d kill a pig, Thomas crowed, sliding out of his seat. Here little pig, Paul screamed, jumping on top of Thomas and shoving handfuls of decimated cauliflower into his mouth. Boys, Lenore said, and drained the rest of her wine. 

Do you think you could kill a living animal? Lenore asked, watching Josh as he rolled out his yoga mat. No, he said bending to touch his toes, the pale flesh around his ribs stretching tight as he sucked in deeply. I think I could, she said. Josh peered at her from around his calves. I think you’re drunk. Would you eat an animal if I killed it? Lenore sat on the floor beside him. Josh laughed, his white hair bouncing gently against the yoga mat. Sure, if it was a fair fight, I’d eat an animal that you took down with your own two little hands. She watched the tendons at the back of his legs strain, a space hollowing out behind his knees as he bent deeper into the stretch. I’ll kill a deer, she said. OK, babe, he laughed. And we’ll have venison burgers for dinner. 

Lenore was designing a rowing machine, one with Bluetooth capabilities and a heartrate monitor. The rower had contemporary appeal, with a dark-stained oak body, a plush leather seat, and a glass orbed water tank. We’re losing a whole layer of customer base with this price, her sales team told her that afternoon. The rower was around five grand. Then let’s add a payment plan option, she said. The name of the product was WarriorRower and was highly anticipated in the luxury workout equipment market. She stared at its long lean body, the dark wood gleaming through her computer screen. She muted the video conference with her sales team and called her nanny. Did you pass out the boys’ birthday invitation to their classmates? She asked. Yes, the nanny said. Speak up, Lenore replied before ending the call. 

The boys weren’t a surprise, she and Josh had planned them very carefully, timing the advent of children when Josh had a small but dense number of investment portfolios. Her belly had been huge, a comical eruption that precluded her entirely. People would lay hands on it wherever she went, their mouths slightly ajar, whispering my gracious, and reverently placing their warm palms over her stretched and swollen skin. Josh had loved this, his young red face breaking into a grin, reaching over her to pump the strangers’ hands, to tell them the birthdate, the boys’ names, that it would be a natural birth, that’s right, no medication. She’s a toughie, he’d said, pinching her ass lightly through the multitude of pregnancy fabric. The boys didn’t want to come out of her. The doctors finally induced her three weeks after her initial due date, and the birth had been a brutal mess, twenty some-odd hours of labor, most of which Lenore couldn’t remember. The boys were small babies, but both had enormous heads, and the doctor told her she needed to get up and walk if she wanted these boys out of her. She remembered the flap of her gown, cold antiseptic air on her back, the smell of blood and feces, the wet feeling of her thighs as they shook, her steps accompanied by shrill barks of grief. Shhhh, Josh had whispered in her ear, grasping her shoulders. She remembered his face, shiny and faded looking in the halo of florescent light, the raggedy t-shirt he wore, the one slipped on to cover his growing flab, the pouchy fat around his chest, the nipples that sagged at the sudden fluctuation in weight. Too many long hours at the office, Chinese take-out, whiskey, and beer. He’d lose it after the boys came. NO FEAR, the t-shirt read across the front in melty white lettering. 

Josh was a good Dad. The boys were hard. They cried all the time as infants, pitchy, breathy supplications that seemed unending. Josh would sleep on his back, each of their scrawny bodies tucked beside him, their heads nestled into his armpits, his arms encircled their flailing limbs. Lenore lost her pregnancy weight quickly, but Josh gained more, his lanky frame coated in a padded layer of flesh, his features turned younger. I’ll lose the weight, babies, he told the boys.

How many invitations did you hand out, Lenore asked the nanny. The boys were back from soccer practice, and Lenore could see that Thomas’ jersey was ripped at the neck. The coach said the boys aren’t invited back to practice, the nanny said, her back to Lenore as she unloaded the dishwasher. Lenore grabbed the nanny’s shoulder and pulled her around. Why, she asked, her mouth felt dry and hot. The nanny gestured to Paul and Thomas, who sat eating quietly in front of the T.V.  They fought, the nanny said, and Lenore could see she’d been crying, her eyelids puffy and bruised looking. Paul tackled Thomas, and dragged him across the turf, and the coach was yelling at them to stop, but they just don’t listen. They pulled the soccer goals off the field and then the coach yelled at me to stop them, but they didn’t stop. Lenore smiled at the nanny and patted her cheek. It’s OK, Lenore said, wiping her palms on her jeans. We’ll call the coach, get this resolved. 

A deer can weigh between one hundred and one hundred and fifty pounds, Josh said. He was on a fasting day so Lenore zapped some frozen mac and cheese for the boys. Josh tilted back his glass of Merlot. Even on a fasting day, Josh still drank wine. That’s not that big, Thomas said as he carefully spooned the orange noodles to his mouth. Josh laughed. Oh baby, that’s big. 

OK, Lenore said. So they’re big, but you take your time, you look through the rifle scope or whatever, and, you know. She cocked her hand, tilted her forefinger towards the kitchen, her thumb upright. Bang, she said calmly. Josh laughed again, placed his palms flat on the dining room table and leaned towards the boys. A rifle, did you hear that? Paul and Thomas sat their spoons down, their heads pressed back against their chairs. You do hunt deer with a rifle, Lenore said, her cheeks burned in hot little patches. A bow and arrow, Josh said, and he stood from his chair, drew back and imaginary line, let it go. Zzzzing, he said softly, turning to the boys. That deer is dead, crowed Paul, banging his fist on the table. The spoons in their bowls rattled, the metal hitting in tinny notes against the porcelain. OK then, Lenore said, and pulled the boys’ bowls towards her. Mommy’s going to kill a deer, Thomas whispered to Paul. Bad mommy, giggled Paul, and Lenore could see dried bits of blood caking the outline of one of his nostrils. 

The bow and arrow levels the playing field, Josh said from his yoga mat. You’ll have to figure out how to get it to town, have the meat processed. Lenore smiled at him, thinking of a rare slab of meat in front of him.

Josh met the guru when the boys were four. The group met with the guru three nights a week in a basement in mid-town, and Josh said it changed his life. The guru would have them sit naked; their fingers interlaced beneath their own weight for an hour. You are nothing, the guru would yell at Josh, you are inauthentic, you are a fraud. And Josh would recite this back to the guru, that he was nothing, he was inauthentic, he was a fraud. Josh started drinking celery juice and lemon water with cayenne pepper. He would sit for hours in the living room, breathing in and out of his nostrils hard and fast, spit frothing at the corners of his mouth like a horse on the racetrack. The guru made them watch hours of violence; beheadings, bodies falling from the Twin Towers, factory farm workers shoving metal tubes down the battered throats of geese, children wandering in warzones, bloody and crying in other languages, dairy cows wailing for their babies. This is your world, the guru said to Josh. This is the suffering you must accept. And Josh lost the weight. He gagged at the sight of meat and banned any animal product from the house. He quit Wall Street. His penance was exercise, was fasting. He ate four days out of the week, and exercised three hours a day, his body becoming hard and thin. I only feel authentic when I’m suffering, he told Lenore.

The WarriorRower arrived in a plywood crate, FRAGILE stamped across in in blue lettering. The delivery men winded it carefully through the house and left it in Lenore’s office. The nanny left the boys playing on the patio, and helped Lenore unpack and assemble it. It was beautiful, she thought, fierce pride made her throat ache. Isn’t it beautiful, she asked the nanny, squeezing the woman’s shoulder. Yes, the nanny said. Lenore told the nanny to sit down and squealed at the sound of the luxurious squish the padding made when the nanny eased cautiously onto the seat. I’ve never done this before, the nanny said, holding the rowing bands limply in her palms. Lenore adjusted the feet rests and showed her how to pull the bands to her chest, the water tank gurgling with resistance. The nanny glided back in the rower. You keep your back straight, Lenore said, rapping a knuckle on her shoulder blades. And back, Lenore shouted walking around the WarriorRower, watching as the beautiful leather seat slid back and forth, and back again on the deep oak frame. I think I’m done, the nanny said, pushing a strand of hair out of her face. Her face was damp. No, no, Lenore said, pushing her back into the seat. This thing costs almost five grand, she chuckled, can you believe that? The nanny stared through her. And row, Lenore shouted, her hand hitting her thigh in a loud bright slap. The nanny hunched over the rower, her face red and swollen, her breathing labored. Lenore circled the rower with her cellphone, filming the machine and the nanny, whose t-shirt was soaked with sweat. 

You’ve got a light draw weight, the clerk at the sporting goods store told Lenore. What does that mean, she asked, fingering the soft green paint on the bow hunter. Your arrow will have less weight behind it, so you’ll need to be closer to the deer, say, no more than 25 yards. OK, Lenore said. What do after I’ve killed the thing? The clerk laughed as he rang up the bow and arrow, and a set of camo coveralls. You serious right now? Lenore nodded. You’ll need a sharp knife. Slice it down the middle. Just be careful of the shit, you don’t want to cut into his colon or bladder, fuck all your meat up. Sure, Lenore said, what next? The clerk raised his eyebrows, bagged the items. Sure, so then you’ll need to dump the guts. Break the pelvis, pull back the ribs. Pull out the innards. Skin it, string it up, bleed it dry.  OK, Lenore said, swiped her credit card. Right, the clerk grinned and shook his head. Good luck out there, Rambo. She hurried out to her car, ducking her head against the light drizzle.

The WarriorRower had sold out online in the first week of its launch. Her sales team predicted rave reviews. Lenore loved the soft sigh of air the padded leather seat let out when she sat down, loved the sleekly gleaming lines of the stained oak wood. She needed to train for the deer, so she would row for two hours every day. Her arms burned as she pulled hard against the water in the tank, the orb’s smoky glass frothing as she moved. 

The leak started on the third day. Lenore noticed a damp spot in the carpet, the deep gray shag wet to the touch. Fuck, Lenore thought. Maybe it was just a fluke, a factory worker had made an error. She pulled hard on the rower, ignoring the small rivulet of water draining from the crease in the tank. The nanny called in a panic by the end of the week. The WarriorRower had flooded the room. The glass tank broke, the nanny said, there was glass everywhere and the ceiling over the living room was leaking. How did you break it, Lenore asked in calm cold voice. The nanny was crying again as Lenore silenced the call. The boys’ party was tonight, and guests would be arriving soon.

Josh’s guru had been a slight man, with sloped shoulders and stringy brown hair that glanced around his collarbone. He wore a stained cowboy hat and faded Wrangler jeans. Josh had invited him to dinner one night, and Lenore remembered how nervous she’d been, cooking a lasagna that she lied about not having any cheese in it. The guru kept his hat on at dinner, and winked at the boys, poured wine for Lenore. You have a beautiful life, he said to Lenore, staring at her with unblinking gray eyes. Yes, she said, smiling nervously.  You don’t think that you do, he said, and leaned across the table, grabbing her hands in his. I do, she protested, letting her fingers go limp. Give it up, the guru said. OK, she’d laughed, looking at Josh for support. Josh had stood up very suddenly from the table, had taken the boys’ to their room and closed the door. She remembered the guru’s long soft fingers prodding at her face, slapping hard at her cheeks and yanking her hair. You need this, he kept saying. This humiliation is your salvation. Josh had stood at the doorway with her as the guru left, her whole body clenched against the spasms of sobs that rolled through her. Thank you for having me into your home, the guru said, clasping his hands to his chest, and bowing to them. Thank you, Lenore had said, her teeth chattering. 

The house looked empty when she pulled up. Maybe parents were just dropping their kids off, she thought in frustration. What had the nanny told them? She heard laughter and yells from the living room and smiled. At least the boys had a few friends here. But when she walked through the foyer, she saw it was just Josh, Paul, and Thomas. The boys were shirtless, their jeans sagging around their hips as they pounced and lunged at Josh, who threw back his head in laughter, the scotch in his glass sloshed at the sides. The coyotes are here, Josh said to Lenore. On the eve of their birthday, our boys are turned to beasts. The boys sat back on their haunches, their necks stretched to the ceiling, hooo yip, hooo yip, hooo they howled at Lenore. She felt the skin on her arms turn cold and spiky. She turned to the kitchen, where the nanny was icing the cupcakes. Where the fuck is everyone, she asked. The nanny turned her head towards Lenore, her face unmoving. You little bitch, Lenore said, you didn’t pass out the invitations, did you? The nanny turned back to the cupcakes. I did, she said, her voice small and muted. No one wants to come. Lenore reached out and pinched the soft white flesh that sagged near the nanny’s armpit. The nanny sucked in, a wet little gurgle. Lenore felt something ease inside her chest, and she moved to the liquor cabinet to make a drink. She could hear the coyotes in the other room as they circled Josh, growling and biting each other with vicious little teeth. She pulled the bow from the big plastic sporting good’s bag and strained to pull back the clipped arrow like the clerk had shown her. She could feel the nanny staring at her, could feel the vodka from her martini warming her chest and throat. What about the little boy from the playdate, she asked the nanny. The boy with the buzzcut? The nanny set the platter of cupcakes atop the kitchen table, which was packed with sandwiches, chips, and fresh fruit. No one’s going to come, she said, her voice flat. 

The boys’ faces were flushed, their little eyes shining hard and bright in the dim living room. They moved on all fours, skittering around the furniture with their backs hunched, their teeth bared. Get Mommy, Thomas crooned to Paul, rubbing his blonde head against his brother’s haunches. Josh was sitting in the leather sling-back chair near the fireplace, his features soft and shadowed. Oh little coyotes, he whistled, and the boys froze, turning slowly towards him, their limbs moving in liquid motion. I’ll tell you a secret, he said as he set the scotch glass next to him, leaning to towards the boys. Paul and Thomas sat at his feet panting, tongues wagging in and out in sloppy breaths. That’s not mommy, he said, winking at Lenore. Who is she, Paul whispered, trying to growl out each syllable between clenched teeth. It’s a little deer, Josh said. A little baby deer. Lenore gripped the bow tightly, the cold metal knocked against her knee painfully. The boys turned towards her, spraying spit as they frothed with hunger. Aaaa-woooo, they yipped, their voices breaking at the height of the note. As they slunk towards her, she lifted the bow, feeling the cool arch strain as she pulled the string back, the fiber digging into her skin. She saw the boys in a blurry motion as they scrabbled backwards, saw Josh as he tipped from his chair, the scotch filling the air with a wet peaty scent. She didn’t remember releasing the arrow. She watched it arc through living room, burying its head into the soft calcium white of the stucco fireplace, a fine trickle of material released from the hole the arrow made. The boys were on their backs, their bellies heaving and sweaty, the white-blonde baby hairs near their forehead plastered to their skin. Josh’s hands were upraised towards her, fending her off, his pants soaked with scotch. She could see a wet mark on the ceiling, where the rower’s tank had exploded. She could feel the nanny turn towards the living room, a butter knife clattered in the distance, the bow clutched tightly in her hand. 

Andrea Harper is a writer living in Texas. Her work has previously appeared in Joyland, Split Lip Magazine, The Columbia Journal, and Soft Union. You can write to her here: andreadeonharper@gmail.com.

16 June 2023