Published in 2004, William Lychack’s first novel The Wasp Eater—about a ten-year-old boy’s attempt to reunite his parents after his father’s infidelity—won praise from the New York Times for its “spare, meticulous” prose with “its deceptively casual images bearing an entire universe of weight.”
Written over 20 years, the lyrical stories in Lychack’s follow-up, The Architect of Flowers—from which the following story is taken—continue to explore the dark and tender moments of everyday life. Writing about his latest book, the Vermont author says, “I’ve always hoped to cast some spell from which the reader might awake, finally, the world minted into something more new and complex.”
Killed a deer last night. Kate and me and this creature almost completely over us. Flash of animal, tug of wheel, sound we felt more than heard, poor thing lying on the side of the road as we pulled around.
Should have just kept driving, gone home, felt bad. Don’t know what possessed us to get out of the car. November and nothing but trees around. No cars, no houses, deer small and slender, tongue powdered with sand. Kate stood in the column of headlight, her shadow a stick in water, her hand reaching as if to untangle its legs, shoo the thing away. Such a well-travelled stretch of road, and still no one drove past as we struggled the animal onto an old blanket. Weren’t thinking it through, obviously, but there must have been something very desperate in us, something full of yearning, two of us lifting the deer into the trunk, object more awkward than heavy.
Called the police, the game warden, would call Billy in the morning, give him something to laugh about down at the Elks. Crazy neighbours bringing their roadkill home, stringing it up in a tree for the night, asking what they should do next.
Sure, he’d say, be right over.
Billy Hawkins owns the farm down the road from us. Ninety acres of pastures and hayfields, broken-down trucks and barns. Used to keep dairy cows, like his father, but gets paid more not to milk these days. No need to elaborate, towns around here changing. Condos and golf courses, pastel mansions in the middle of cornfields, old mills becoming antique shops and restaurants. Billy scoffs at it all—hard not to take it personally—hobby farmer that he’s become, few Herefords for tax purposes, truck of his all nice and clean.
We expect him to arrive with the reasons we shouldn’t be doing this, as if we need permission to give up on the deer.
Maybe the meat is tainted, ruined by blood, spoiled through some neglect we don’t know about. Hope he will just smile and shake his head and suggest we bury the damned thing. Kate will laugh with relief. I’ll joke about our own stupidity and go fetch a shovel. That’s what we hope at least.
Hardly seems worth the effort by morning, deer so slight, awful how she holds that stretch as we cut her down. Billy drives up and grabs a leg, saying, Gimme paw. He laughs, motions us across the yard, tells us to dump her by the shed, Kate taking the wheelbarrow as I tip the animal to the grass.
Careful, whispers Billy, don’t want to wake her up or anything now, do you?
And again that laugh—that big, infectious, china-rattling laugh—Billy pulling a pair of yellow kitchen gloves from his jacket. He opens a knife, blade the length of a finger, and lowers himself next to the deer, taps the drum of the animal’s stomach.
So, he says to us, eaten much venison in your day?
We say no, of course, and squint against the light.
At least not yet we haven’t, says Kate.
Billy touches the ground for balance and twists the animal by the neck until the body follows, man asking me to kneel down and hold her steady, deer on its back, legs spread, hair thin and delicate. Billy tells how it’s best to open these things right away, how skin tends to keep heat, how organs bleed out sometimes. He lifts the tail and explains how you start by cutting around the anus. Want to free the whole circle of it, he says—and that liquid crackle of knife as he works—Billy saying, You can’t nick the colon, you can’t nick the bladder, want to pull the whole intestinal tract in one fell swoop from the body.
He stops to tighten his gloves and cleans the blade on the plush of the deer. Shows how to hold the knife for this, finger on top of the blade, blade bright and sharp. Moves to the chest of the animal, his pants wet at the knees and Billy plucks the thin underside of hair, says there’s a tender spot along the brisket, pinches the skin between his fingers, and starts to tick the point of the knife away from himself. The flesh opens like a zipper, entire suit of the deer in one long draw of the blade, Billy like a steam engine working.
Maybe it’s the way he breathes through his nose, sound of steel wool in his nostrils, but he reminds me of those uncles who were never really uncles, Uncle Eddie or Uncle Walter, the sort of men my brother and I would try to borrow as fathers. We’d try to hand the right tools as they fixed a door or snaked a drain, men rationing their affection, withholding their praise, asking if we were behaving for our mother, teasing if we had girlfriends yet, slipping us a few dollars for our help. Some spending money, they’d say. Can’t go around begging your whole life, can you?
Animal would have stayed on its back by now, but I hold her anyway, that musky smell of hooves, man slicing through the deer’s milk sacks, milk running to the grass. Billy pushes the blade between the animal’s legs until he connects, at last, to that first round cut at the tail. Rest goes quickly enough. Lungs, liver, intestines, everything on the grass, heart like a knot of wet rags. Kate’s stepped back from this, cold sweet taste of metal in the air, smudge of blood on Billy’s sleeve, man scraping the cage of ribs as if cleaning the inside of a pumpkin.
He dangles the oesophagus and asks I want to feel. I shake my head no—and he turns to Kate—and she steps forward as if to take a garden hose, as if she’s made some kind of deal, some kind of promise to see this through to the end. Billy peels the gloves off his hands and helps string the animal up in the tree, deer more like a deer again, feet tied together, legs stretched, Billy about to leave.
I’ll call my buddy Andy, he says. Owns a little grocery, can butcher the thing for us, see if we can’t finish her off this afternoon.
Kate begs off whatever’s left of this—the flushing out of the body, the intestines and lungs to clean from the grass, the slaughtering of the animal—and she hands me the phone when Billy calls. You know, he says, lucky if we get twenty pounds of meat off her. Wouldn’t be bad to just stay home, be good boys for a change, make nice to our wives maybe?
Up to you, I tell him. I mean, you’re then one doing us the favour, but weren’t you going to get hold of your friend?
I did, he says—and there’s this catch in his voice—and I can see him in the trunk and swinging by the house.
Now this is where I am supposed to go find Kate upstairs, that soft and tender movement between us, where I give the comfort she wants and needs. That wicker creak of quiet, house holding its breath, and I know exactly what to do, but for some reason I’m calling up the stairs that I gotta run—and I’m out the door—and I’m in the yard again, sun so bright it’s painful, afternoon so clear and cool I could drink it.
And don’t think it doesn’t cross my mind to just keep driving past Billy’s house. Don’t think, as I load the deer into the car, that I don’t want to skip this entire thing, skip the small talk with Billy’s wife, the cup of coffee, the can of beer. Don’t think I want any of this, Billy directing me from the Lions to the Elks to the Knights of Columbus until we find his friend, the three of us switching to Andy’s truck, deer in the back with plywood and buckets of road salt and sand. Few miles to the little grocery where Andy starts in on the deer, whine of circular saw cutting the animal’s feet off, taste of burned bone in the room, another beer from the freezer, broken bicycle of carcass to carry to the garbage. Don’t think I need the dark outside like this, either, the cold clean air of alley, the smell of game on my hands, Billy and Andy laughing about something inside, that endless dream of fitting in with men like these, standing easy with them, chores all but done, that look of thirst on our faces, blood on our aprons, just rinsing counters at this point, wiping down knives, and let’s get out of here.
I carry the wrapped cuts of deer in a carton, meat going in back with the plywood, Andy and Billy waiting for me to join them again. Only I’m moving away from the truck, telling them to go on, saying I want to walk home. Middle of the parking lot and they look at me like I’ve just appeared from behind the dumpsters, hungry dog with some scent in the air. C’mon, says Billy, quick stop at the Elks, can pick up your car at least.
But I’m almost to the street by now, trying not to hurry around the first corner, hiding in the shrubs until the truck is gone. Oh, champagne air—oh, dark empty streets—oh, I’m running and laughing and crying and telling Kate this whole story. Can run forever, it feels, past all these sleeping houses, sky wild with stars, crazy person down the middle of the street with blood on his hands, up to his elbows in this mess. © 2011 by William Lychack
Written over 20 years, the lyrical stories in Lychack’s follow-up, The Architect of Flowers—from which the following story is taken—continue to explore the dark and tender moments of everyday life. Writing about his latest book, the Vermont author says, “I’ve always hoped to cast some spell from which the reader might awake, finally, the world minted into something more new and complex.”
Killed a deer last night. Kate and me and this creature almost completely over us. Flash of animal, tug of wheel, sound we felt more than heard, poor thing lying on the side of the road as we pulled around.
Should have just kept driving, gone home, felt bad. Don’t know what possessed us to get out of the car. November and nothing but trees around. No cars, no houses, deer small and slender, tongue powdered with sand. Kate stood in the column of headlight, her shadow a stick in water, her hand reaching as if to untangle its legs, shoo the thing away. Such a well-travelled stretch of road, and still no one drove past as we struggled the animal onto an old blanket. Weren’t thinking it through, obviously, but there must have been something very desperate in us, something full of yearning, two of us lifting the deer into the trunk, object more awkward than heavy.
Called the police, the game warden, would call Billy in the morning, give him something to laugh about down at the Elks. Crazy neighbours bringing their roadkill home, stringing it up in a tree for the night, asking what they should do next.
Sure, he’d say, be right over.
Billy Hawkins owns the farm down the road from us. Ninety acres of pastures and hayfields, broken-down trucks and barns. Used to keep dairy cows, like his father, but gets paid more not to milk these days. No need to elaborate, towns around here changing. Condos and golf courses, pastel mansions in the middle of cornfields, old mills becoming antique shops and restaurants. Billy scoffs at it all—hard not to take it personally—hobby farmer that he’s become, few Herefords for tax purposes, truck of his all nice and clean.
We expect him to arrive with the reasons we shouldn’t be doing this, as if we need permission to give up on the deer.
Maybe the meat is tainted, ruined by blood, spoiled through some neglect we don’t know about. Hope he will just smile and shake his head and suggest we bury the damned thing. Kate will laugh with relief. I’ll joke about our own stupidity and go fetch a shovel. That’s what we hope at least.
Hardly seems worth the effort by morning, deer so slight, awful how she holds that stretch as we cut her down. Billy drives up and grabs a leg, saying, Gimme paw. He laughs, motions us across the yard, tells us to dump her by the shed, Kate taking the wheelbarrow as I tip the animal to the grass.
Careful, whispers Billy, don’t want to wake her up or anything now, do you?
And again that laugh—that big, infectious, china-rattling laugh—Billy pulling a pair of yellow kitchen gloves from his jacket. He opens a knife, blade the length of a finger, and lowers himself next to the deer, taps the drum of the animal’s stomach.
So, he says to us, eaten much venison in your day?
We say no, of course, and squint against the light.
At least not yet we haven’t, says Kate.
Billy touches the ground for balance and twists the animal by the neck until the body follows, man asking me to kneel down and hold her steady, deer on its back, legs spread, hair thin and delicate. Billy tells how it’s best to open these things right away, how skin tends to keep heat, how organs bleed out sometimes. He lifts the tail and explains how you start by cutting around the anus. Want to free the whole circle of it, he says—and that liquid crackle of knife as he works—Billy saying, You can’t nick the colon, you can’t nick the bladder, want to pull the whole intestinal tract in one fell swoop from the body.
He stops to tighten his gloves and cleans the blade on the plush of the deer. Shows how to hold the knife for this, finger on top of the blade, blade bright and sharp. Moves to the chest of the animal, his pants wet at the knees and Billy plucks the thin underside of hair, says there’s a tender spot along the brisket, pinches the skin between his fingers, and starts to tick the point of the knife away from himself. The flesh opens like a zipper, entire suit of the deer in one long draw of the blade, Billy like a steam engine working.
Maybe it’s the way he breathes through his nose, sound of steel wool in his nostrils, but he reminds me of those uncles who were never really uncles, Uncle Eddie or Uncle Walter, the sort of men my brother and I would try to borrow as fathers. We’d try to hand the right tools as they fixed a door or snaked a drain, men rationing their affection, withholding their praise, asking if we were behaving for our mother, teasing if we had girlfriends yet, slipping us a few dollars for our help. Some spending money, they’d say. Can’t go around begging your whole life, can you?
Animal would have stayed on its back by now, but I hold her anyway, that musky smell of hooves, man slicing through the deer’s milk sacks, milk running to the grass. Billy pushes the blade between the animal’s legs until he connects, at last, to that first round cut at the tail. Rest goes quickly enough. Lungs, liver, intestines, everything on the grass, heart like a knot of wet rags. Kate’s stepped back from this, cold sweet taste of metal in the air, smudge of blood on Billy’s sleeve, man scraping the cage of ribs as if cleaning the inside of a pumpkin.
He dangles the oesophagus and asks I want to feel. I shake my head no—and he turns to Kate—and she steps forward as if to take a garden hose, as if she’s made some kind of deal, some kind of promise to see this through to the end. Billy peels the gloves off his hands and helps string the animal up in the tree, deer more like a deer again, feet tied together, legs stretched, Billy about to leave.
I’ll call my buddy Andy, he says. Owns a little grocery, can butcher the thing for us, see if we can’t finish her off this afternoon.
Kate begs off whatever’s left of this—the flushing out of the body, the intestines and lungs to clean from the grass, the slaughtering of the animal—and she hands me the phone when Billy calls. You know, he says, lucky if we get twenty pounds of meat off her. Wouldn’t be bad to just stay home, be good boys for a change, make nice to our wives maybe?
Up to you, I tell him. I mean, you’re then one doing us the favour, but weren’t you going to get hold of your friend?
I did, he says—and there’s this catch in his voice—and I can see him in the trunk and swinging by the house.
Now this is where I am supposed to go find Kate upstairs, that soft and tender movement between us, where I give the comfort she wants and needs. That wicker creak of quiet, house holding its breath, and I know exactly what to do, but for some reason I’m calling up the stairs that I gotta run—and I’m out the door—and I’m in the yard again, sun so bright it’s painful, afternoon so clear and cool I could drink it.
And don’t think it doesn’t cross my mind to just keep driving past Billy’s house. Don’t think, as I load the deer into the car, that I don’t want to skip this entire thing, skip the small talk with Billy’s wife, the cup of coffee, the can of beer. Don’t think I want any of this, Billy directing me from the Lions to the Elks to the Knights of Columbus until we find his friend, the three of us switching to Andy’s truck, deer in the back with plywood and buckets of road salt and sand. Few miles to the little grocery where Andy starts in on the deer, whine of circular saw cutting the animal’s feet off, taste of burned bone in the room, another beer from the freezer, broken bicycle of carcass to carry to the garbage. Don’t think I need the dark outside like this, either, the cold clean air of alley, the smell of game on my hands, Billy and Andy laughing about something inside, that endless dream of fitting in with men like these, standing easy with them, chores all but done, that look of thirst on our faces, blood on our aprons, just rinsing counters at this point, wiping down knives, and let’s get out of here.
I carry the wrapped cuts of deer in a carton, meat going in back with the plywood, Andy and Billy waiting for me to join them again. Only I’m moving away from the truck, telling them to go on, saying I want to walk home. Middle of the parking lot and they look at me like I’ve just appeared from behind the dumpsters, hungry dog with some scent in the air. C’mon, says Billy, quick stop at the Elks, can pick up your car at least.
But I’m almost to the street by now, trying not to hurry around the first corner, hiding in the shrubs until the truck is gone. Oh, champagne air—oh, dark empty streets—oh, I’m running and laughing and crying and telling Kate this whole story. Can run forever, it feels, past all these sleeping houses, sky wild with stars, crazy person down the middle of the street with blood on his hands, up to his elbows in this mess. © 2011 by William Lychack
