2015 CBC Short Story Prize: "Mule Deer" by Kirsten Madsen
In this runner-up for the2015 CBC Short Story Prize, a random encounter gives an aimless young woman something to talk about.
Please note that this story contains strong language.
The young couple down the street invited them for dinner. Their dogs had introduced them. “Don’t bring a thing,” the woman assured Ellen as they stood stamping their boots in the snowy street while the dogs took turns leaping at each other. She wore a retro parka with a big fur ruff and felt huskies sewn at the hem. Ellen had been sizing the woman up for a while, and decided now that she looked too optimistic to ever be a close friend. This thought led to an increased heartiness as she thanked the woman for the invitation and told her they’d love to come.
Ellen continued with the dog down the frozen street, her big boots crunching in the snow. The sun was bright, hitting her eyes so that it hurt. She blinked and adjusted her scarf, forming a hood over her wool hat to keep out the rays. Her mutt trotted beside her, then charged in glee towards the fence with the barking pack behind it. He ran a few quick laps, end to end, the shapes of the other dogs hurtling between the slats along with him.
Ellen thought about what was wrong. She didn’t know.
Everyone Ellen knew wanted to get married.Or else they were already planning a wedding. Even the ones who said they didn’t want to get married wanted to get married. They didn’t care about the tradition, but thought a celebration would be nice. Or they didn’t care about the celebration, but just wanted to wear the damn dress. Some just said they wanted to have a baby. Marriage might or might not be part of that proposition.
Ellen wanted to go to a bar and get drunk. She wanted to stamp the snow off her boots on a wooden floor, then pull off her hat, shake out her hair and take a big sip from a huge frosty mug. She wanted to feel her cheeks turn red, coming in from the cold, and maybe play a few games of pool.
She stopped where the sun intersected the trees and hit the trail. She lifted her face to the light, squinting slightly so that her frosty eyelashes blurred to rainbows. She felt the quiet. Then she walked on.
*****
Ellen lived in a house made of metal. It was an old army house, on a street of identical houses, shaped like elongated rectangles. It was poorly insulated, and frost formed on the lower walls on colder days, growing mold behind the furniture and causing the paint to bubble and peel. Richard wanted to tear out the interior walls and reinsulate. The thought made Ellen tired.
That day Richard got home from work at 5:17. It was later than usual, because he’d taken the bus, sparing his truck a cold start. Ellen tried not to loiter in the hall when she heard his key. But she couldn’t stay away. She’d been alone all day, if you didn’t count the dog. She didn’t count the dog when it came to conversation. She hadn’t sunk that low.
Richard walked in the door rubbing his neck. “Hi,” Ellen said. She paced around the room as he unlaced his boots and hung his jacket. She tossed the dog’s ball and waited for Richard to step out of the hall. “Hi,” she said again, and bumped into him, forcing a hug. His clothes held the cold of the day. She clutched, then released him and stepped back. “How was your day?” she said.
“Oh, I’m tired,” Richard said. “You know, keeping the bureaucratic machinery in motion.” He gave her a small smile. “You who lead a life of luxury wouldn’t understand.”
Ellen had finished her Master’s nearly two years ago. She was taking some time to figure out what she wanted to do next. At least, that was what she said when asked. In reality, there was not a lot of work in their northern town for a Philosophy major. She was going to have to settle for less, and it was unspoken between them that she was being allowed to take some time to lower her expectations. Meanwhile, Richard’s comfortable job as a government accountant was paying the bills. At home during the short winter days, Ellen halfheartedly began craft projects, napped by the stove with the dog, watched the weak sunlight grow and fade.
*****
Richard never picked up hitchhikers. Neither, truth be told, did Ellen, usually.
Ellen drove into town for a bottle of wine. The liquor store was crowded, even in the early afternoon. A woman who’d been in line in front of her buying a bottle of rum followed Ellen out of the store and through the parking lot.
“Where’d you live?” she asked abruptly when they reached Ellen’s car.
Startled at the directness, Ellen spoke quickly. “Out of town,” she said, “Galen Lake.”
“Can you drive me home?” the woman asked. “I live out the Long Bay road.” She held up her grocery bags as if to demonstrate some kind of urgency. Ellen noticed the woman’s hands were a little shaky but her eyes were clear and direct. She looked to be in her early forties, but she had one of those faces it was hard to tell from.
“Sure,” she said, and opened the passenger door for the woman. “You can just throw your groceries on the back seat.”
Richard never picked up hitchhikers. Neither, truth be told, did Ellen, usually. She was too easily able to imagine some gory scenario. Also, she loved to drive alone. She always had the music loud and would sing along to everything, something she never did at home.
Ellen turned the car out of the parking lot and headed up the hill out of town.
“You got a husband?” the woman asked.
“Sort of,” said Ellen, “I’ve been with my boyfriend four years.”
“He a good guy?” the woman asked.
“Yup,” Ellen said.
“You hold onto that guy,” the woman advised.
Ellen could only nod. After a while, she asked, “Do you have a husband?”
“Got three,” the woman said, and laughed. “Only where they’re at I never know. Got to keep a close eye on your man or you’ll lose him.” She appeared to be thinking about something. “Northern women got tough hearts,” she said, and laughed again.
For a long while they drove in silence. Ellen stared out at the lake bordering the highway. It held the calm of early evening. Taking a corner widely, they startled a deer browsing in the willows at the side of the road.
“It’s interesting to see how the mule deer have moved into this area,” Ellen commented. “There never used to be deer this far north. At least, I hear the Elders have no oral memory of it.”
The woman interrupted. “I could give a fuck about deer,” she said.
Ellen turned to see if this statement had been delivered with any particular bad feeling, but the woman’s head was to the window, and her long hair hid her face. They were getting close to the Long Bay road. When she turned off the highway, Ellen saw the road had been freshly plowed. “I’ll drive you down,” she said.
When they got to the small cabin the woman insisted Ellen wait. She struggled with her lock for a long time, and Ellen began to wonder if this was really her house. Eventually the woman retreated around the back and after a minute appeared in the front door. She stood there until Ellen got out of the car and came over.
Inside, the cabin was simple and homey. It smelled of meat and woodsmoke and a sweetness like laundry soap. The woman hauled the groceries to the counter, dug through the bags for a moment and produced a package of hot dog buns. She thrust them at Ellen and in the same gesture grasped Ellen in a brief, tight hug.
“I love you, lady,” she said.
Caught off guard, Ellen grasped the buns tightly to her chest and nodded. She nodded again, and then backed toward the door. “Have a good evening,” she said, the words sounding as odd to her as if she, too, had declared love. She closed the cabin door carefully behind her and walked to her car.
When she got home she put the buns on the counter.
“What, no wieners?” Richard asked.
That night, after dinner at the home of the friendly couple, Ellen tried to tell the story of the hitchhiker, but it came out wrong—funnier, somehow, than she wanted it to be. The couple’s laughter, Richard joining in with his hand resting on her shoulder, made her feel like she was the last person on earth.
Kirsten Madsen on awkward conversations, underwater novels and exorbitant cheese
Picking up hitchhikers is still a common occurrence in the Yukon. And a friend's personal interaction with a rider served as a jumping-off point for Kirsten Madsen's "Mule Deer," shortlisted for the2015CBC Short Story Prize.
Madsen speaks with us about the rituals around her writing and how awkward conversations with strangers can sometimes be more comforting than conversations between friends.
Where did you get the idea for your story?
Picking up hitchhikers still happens in the Yukon, and every hitchhiker comes with a story. (No joke: my partner picked up a hitchhiker last week, and the first thing the man said was: “Can you tell I’ve been crying?”) This one was inspired by the true experiences of a friend of mine who lived out of town. It’s been so long I can’t remember which parts I made up. I think awkward conversations between strangers are sometimes more comforting—and true—than too-easy conversations between intimates.
How long did it take you to write?
I wrote this story over ten years ago. Originally, it was a small vignette in a much longer narrative. I used it as an excerpt in a reading once and discovered it was better than the rest of the story. I’m not a flash fiction writer; most of my short stories come in around twenty pages. I had to do some serious paring to get this piece down to the CBC word count, and I will (grudgingly) admit it made the story stronger.
What is your writing routine?
Honestly? I do everything I can to avoid writing. I turn my back hard but eventually I have to do it.
Do you have any superstitions around your writing? Any rituals?
I’ve learned to be really strategic about when I seek feedback on my writing. I have an amazing network of friends who are great readers (and writers). I feel lucky to have their guidance and I’m really careful about how I use it. I think you have to have a healthy attachment to a piece so you can fight for it, but also enough distance in order to hear what’s wrong with it. Even hearing good things about a piece at the wrong time can spoil everything.
What are you currently working on?
I’m in the early stages of a second novel. I’m not completely certain what it’s about but I do know that part of it is set underwater. My writing has always been solidly realist, so this is freaking me out a little.
What is the first thing you remember ever writing?
I’ve wanted to write since I learned to read. I remember writing a short story in grade nine that got me into the Yukon Young Author’s Conference: it had a mermaid in it, and a disappearing wet mermaid tail-print in the sand, seen only by the young heroine. I mostly remember that it was the first time I got to drink coffee (three sugars, four heaping spoons of edible oil product). I’ve never looked back, on either the coffee or writing front.
Can you tell us about a book that helped you through a difficult time?
Tove Janssen’s Moominland Midwinter helps me through every lowlit sub-Arctic winter and reminds me that it’s okay to be dark sometimes.
What's in your fridge right now?
Parmiggiano-reggiano—the cost of which in Whitehorse keeps my household below the poverty line (but it’s worth it); mini-champagne bottles—because I’m trying to make every small accomplishment a champagne-popping moment; bacon and veggie burgers because we’re recovering vegetarians.
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