My Whole

It had gotten to the point that I was sniffing his underwear. I wanted a wedding and a baby; and there I was with my nose to the crotch of my fiancé’s boxer briefs. My friends believed that all the signs were there and that I should leave him. But I wasn’t so certain. His cell phone was never locked. The one reddish-blonde hair on the seat of his car could have been from his sister’s dog. And surely that sweet scent perched on the shoulder of his shirt was a medley of shaving cream and Spring Rain laundry soap.

But then there came to be something on the back-end of that scent on his shirt—a foreign, feminine aroma, seductive like jasmine or patchouli. It was the hint that lingered. It held me in a perpetual daze. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t sleep. Coupled with his frequent business trips, the scent, even though it was the most fractional of an incalculable trace, represented more than a possibility of his cheating. It became my keeper.

Whenever the scent waved, I followed. It steered me to his laptop and car; I searched both. It directed me to my recipe book; I cooked his favorite Mediterranean dishes. It guided me to his office; I surprised him with a visit. It told me to comb his bank statements; every day online I did. The night he called saying that he wouldn’t return until tomorrow (he never went out of town on Wednesdays), the scent led me to his dirty clothes hamper and pointed to his last night’s underwear. Without question, I brought them to my face and sniffed for the smell of another woman.

It was a low point, yes.

“I just want to know for certain,” I confessed to Marna, the elderly woman who lived in the condo on the ground floor. I visited Marna on most evenings when I was alone. The colored candles that she lit and the garlicky smells from her kitchen competed with the scent, abating its control over me. But I could see it by the door, waiting, readying to give me my next command. “God what is happening to me?” I began to cry.

“Dearie, here.” Marna handed me a tissue. Although she was somewhat senile, Marna was still a lady. She had fixed her white hair in a purple scarf, wore golden earrings made of peacock feathers and green eye shadow.

“I love him so much.” I cried into the tissue. “But I just want to know the truth.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, handing me another tissue and then another. “Do you truly want the truth?”

Her question or maybe it was her urgent tone sunk to my stomach, stopping my tears.

Did Marna know something that I didn’t? I lifted my face from the wad of tissues and stared at her. The light from the many candles penetrated the deep lines on her face, making her entire countenance glow like golden crinkles. Marna knew something.

“Easy, pretty girl.” She smiled softly and then pointed across the room. “These old eyes have trouble making out those posies there. I promise they haven’t seen the proof you need to determine whether he’s unfaithful or not.” She sighed and patted my leg.

“Sometimes when the heart’s on the line, especially a young heart, it’s easy to ask for one thing but want another.” She grabbed my hand and held it surprisingly tight. “Do you truly want the truth?”

“I’d pay any price,” I said desperately, knowing I lacked the resources to back my words. I had wanted to hire an investigator online, but the scent teased me daily about how I hadn’t made enough commission lately to have a manicure let alone to retain a worthy spy. I heard the scent by the door, snickering, and looked, seeing it pointing at me. “I need help, Marna. I smelled his dirty underwear tonight.”

Marna’s eyes widened, increasing the ripples across her brow. “Dearie, you’ve got it something terrible.” She smacked her thin lips. “Yes, I think it’s time.” She motioned for the pad of stationary and pen on the coffee table.

“Time?” I took up the pad and pen and started to hand them to her. “Time for what?”

“An old fashioned dinner.” She gestured for me to keep them. “You write.”

Even the scent by the door perked its ears. I put the pen to the paper as Marna pursed her lips.

“Let’s start with a lettuce mix. That already prepared kind in plastic.”

“Bagged salad?” I asked eagerly.

“Yes, bagged salad. Get two. And mayonnaise. A large jar.”

I wrote as Marna called out items, things that became more and more ordinary than I had hoped. I wanted domestic magic, a secret recipe for a truth-telling stew that had been passed down from woman to woman over the ages, baked goods laced with a homemade, low-grade sort of poison that made a man drool and rendered his sexual equipment inoperative for a day or two. But Marna seemed to be making up the list as she went on. She decided to make a pot of beans and ham and needed bananas, bread, and toilet paper, copious amounts of toilet paper because you could never have enough toilet paper in the house. The scent had curled up by the door and closed its eyes with a smirk.

“Now where was I?” Marna looked dazed.

“Toilet paper.”

“Oh yes. I’m sorry. I tell you, appreciate your young parts because time sure makes a mockery of them later.”

“That’s okay.” Marna might have been old, but she was always sweet to me, listening to my misery and giving me time away from the scent.

“So is this all you need?”

“Of course not, silly girl.” Marna smiled and shook her head. The peacock feathers swung from her large lobes. “Two things, smoked ham hocks and a whole da dreval.”

“A whole what?”

“A whole da dreval.” She spelled it for me and then said, “It’s for you, for your troubles anyway.”

“Alrightie then.” I tore the list from the pad, not knowing if this was what I had been praying for or if Marna’s mind had fizzled out like one of the candles on the coffee table. Not wanting to insult her, I didn’t ask. I just told her I’d go in the morning; and she directed me to Southdale Market. At that I wasn’t too thrilled. Southdale was the dumping ground for whatever normal stores didn’t want or couldn’t sell, specializing in scratch and dent and black-market produce. My fiancé refused step into the place after suffering the most horrible stomach flu.

“Be careful,” Marna warned as I stood and folded the list. “Even at Southdale, da drevals can fetch a high price the more involved it gets. Get only a whole.”

I nodded reassuringly, seeing that the scent had stirred since I last checked. It was crouched down with its tail whipping back and forth. Reluctantly I wished Marna goodnight and left with the scent chasing after me. Its wild growls echoed louder than swamp frogs. It was particularly agitated tonight and tried to claw me several times to keep me from sleeping. But I kicked it from bed, not caring how much it whimpered and wined. For a change I had other things on my mind.

What the hell was a da dreval?

It took three rounds in Southdale’s parking lot the next morning to secure a spot, which by then, I felt my stomach turn. Thursdays were 2-for-1 Day, per the large sign; and the market was overrun with discount shoppers, and worse yet, tourists. I plopped my purse in the seat of the cart that a Mexican man offered me on my way in, a wobbly-wheeled cart that went clunk-shunk, clunk-shunk as I pushed it. Armed with Marna’s list, I passed through the double doors in a down-surge of hot air and entered of the flea-market of foods. Bargain shoppers abounded under the dim, artificial lights, pushing around babies and groceries in other wobbly-wheeled carts. One baby had a worried look on her chubby face as if trying to warn me, “Don’t shop here.” The scent must have read the same thing. It hugged me and closed its eyes.

Keeping my cell phone close, I headed to the produce section. I planned to shop for Marna’s things while looking out for the da dreval, if it even existed. A quick internet search offered nothing but the suggestion to search the term “dare devil” instead. I weaved around swarms of shoppers through a labyrinth of fruits and vegetables and found the bagged salads. A mother and her son were there; the mother was trying to find the right leafy mix.

“If you’re good boy while Mommy shops,” she said, rooting through the shelves. “Then we’ll go to the waterpark after.”

“Is Daddy coming too?” the boy asked, waving a white feather in his hand.

“Of course, Daddy’s coming too.”

“Yeah, family time!” The boy waved the feather and then pointed. “Look Momma! The Easter Bunny!”

Dropping two bags of salad into my otherwise empty cart, I heard the gleeful gasps of others and stretched up on my toes. All I could see were two white ears sticking out from the horde of excited parents and children. Going after the bananas, I was able to view flashes of white fur, a pastel-colored vest, and one mammoth basket of eggs. I selected a bunch of bananas, eyeing those eggs. I don’t know why; they were golden and glittery, shiny treasures in a supermarket maze of nothingness. The Bunny must have connected with my despair because, as I was backing out, I saw his smiling face heading in my direction. The wave of admirers parted. The Bunny came and handed me a golden egg.

“Thank you,” I said.

The Bunny clapped his furry paws. His large eyes were the precise color of milk chocolate.

“I want one!” the children shouted.

Golden egg in hand, I felt accomplished and went and selected bread with a grin on my face. It was silly, I know, but good feelings shouldn’t be shunned merely for their lack of complication. Even the scent seemed renewed. It was bouncing off the cart and shelves, swinging on my purse straps. I checked my phone quickly, making sure that the signal had not been lost inside the market. Seeing four green bars, I knew it hadn’t, which bothered me. My fiancé usually tried to reach me by now, telling me that he got in okay.

I decided to go the meat department and headed in that direction, but got caught in the thick stream of shoppers in pursuit of the Bunny. The scent went crazy, jumping up and down, bouncing off my head. I knocked into a tower of toilet paper, which luckily I caught before the whole thing came down.

“Can’t take you anywhere,” I said under my breath, but the scent didn’t care. It had found a treat and was straddling the frontend of the cart, gnawing away at something.

Trying to ignore it and my silent cell phone, I began zooming around shoppers and their heaping carts. “I’m sorry.” “Excuse me.” “Coming through.” For the most part it worked, although the scent wouldn’t stop clinging to me, I managed to find everything except for the smoked ham hocks. The butcher told me to give him a few minutes to package more. I took this as the perfect opportunity to inquire about the da dreval. Despite his bushy hair and smattering of blood on his white coat, the butcher looked to be a knowledgeable, reasonable man; however when I asked, he said, “No da dreval here” and disappeared behind the swinging door before I could determine if he thought me crazy.

Not ready to give up, I decided to try the vendor section in center of the market. It had expanded since I had last been to Springdale, three to four regular aisles wide. People of all ages sat on lawn chairs or stacked crates around packed tables in between bins of oranges and other souvenir-type things like sunhats and baskets. A few folks on the end saw me and smiled. Some were waving white feathers.

“Do you have a da dreval?” I figured if it was anywhere, it would have to be here.

A petite lady asked, “Sweetie, do you mean a dreidel?”

“No, a da dreval,” I said.

The petite lady and everyone around her shrugged.

“Da dreval?” I repeated, walking further down. One man who could barely stand upright waved me over and led me to his crates.

“Da dreval,” he said and pointed to a pile of tee-shirts with the cartoon Tasmanian Devil.

Frowning, I shook my head and kept going. The front wheels of my cart started squeaking on top of the clunk-shunk, clunk-shunk sound. All that aggressive shopping had taken a toll. I didn’t know what had gotten into the scent. “Stop it,” I scolded. It kept trying to eat the merchandise. Again I checked my phone; no text, no call, which irritated me. Why hadn’t he called?

There was activity at the end of the aisle; the Bunny and his faithful followers had made their way to the vendor section along with a new friend—a six-foot white chicken.

“Conejito de Pascua!” some cheered. The Bunny was doling out his golden eggs, bringing large grins to little faces. Already having a golden egg, I started to turn around, seeing the scent vaulting off a mound of melons. I flung out my arm, fearing an avalanche. The scent landed by the cart, and as if by calculation, stuck out its wicked tail right as the Bunny came by.

White fleecy feet wobbled and kicked out. The crowd gasped. The Chicken rushed to help but didn’t arrive in time. The basket and golden eggs went airborne. And although the smile never left his furry face, the Bunny crashed onto the floor—and in one motion, his big-eared head popped off, exposing the pimply-faced adolescent inside. Red-faced and covered in sweat, the poor teen lunged to regain his happy head; yet the floor offered no traction; and he slipped again.

Small children began to cry. Their parents brought them into their arms, hiding their innocent eyes, not thinking to stop the smiling head from rolling. It rolled and kept on rolling. After several attempts, the adolescent made it to his over-sized feet, largely thanks to the hard shove from the Chicken. The two took off, chasing after the runaway head to the sound of high-pitched sobs. Having just retracted my arm from the melons and standing at the hub of the mishap, everyone looked at me and glared. I scowled at the scent, which batted its eyes at me and smiled as if proud. We left the vendor section immediately.

I wanted to disappear, to check out and go home, and would have done so if it wasn’t for needing to return to the meat department for Marna’s beloved smoked ham hocks.

“Heathen,” I called the scent. It had laid its head down in the cart and gazed up at me looking pathetic and pale. At the meats, I decided to inquire one more time about the da dreval and did so as politely as I could; but when the butcher said again, “no da dreval here,” I wanted to wing each and every item inside my crappy cart at his bushy head. I narrowed my eyes. “Do you know where I might find a da dreval?”

“Do you truly want one?”

“Yes,” I nodded emphatically.

“Follow me.”

“What?” I struggled to understand. “Why did you lie to me?”

“No lie,” he said. “Didn’t know you truly wanted one.”

The butcher led me through the swinging doors and told me to leave my cart with a few others. I refused. There was no way that I was leaving my cart now.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “But there is one rule . . . no photos, video, or media of any kind. No going beyond the designated area. No leaving without payment agreement.

And do not put your fingers in the cages.” His dark eyes stared at me unblinkingly.

I nodded.

He stared longer.

“Okay, sure,” I said, realizing that he was seeking verbal confirmation. I wanted to ask how all those things was one rule—there seemed to be at least five or six to me—but he didn’t look like the type that appreciated extended conversation.

“This way.” He gestured with incredibly large hands.

I followed him, pushing the cart through two rooms. The second door blasted me with horrible air. “God what is that smell?” At first it seemed to be a massive amount of garlic; but then there was something organic about it, like something rotting. The scent started shaking uncontrollably and took to hiding under a package of toilet paper.

Down a well-lit hall and into a warehouse where at the far end workers sorted boxes of fruits and vegetables, I followed the butcher. The floor and a nearby wooden table were wet. Someone had recently sprayed them down. The butcher pointed to the cages on the opposite wall. “Da drevals over there.”

I pushed the cart towards the cage fronts and stopped, trying to refrain from gagging.

There were hundreds of them. With my hand over my mouth and nose, I went to one of them on the end, struggling to process how horrendous it truly was. A frog and a prehistoric bird mated; and this was their Frankenstein offspring. A large, crusty beak affixed to an amphibian face, clusters of barnacle-like warts followed by dirty, drippy wings. Never had I seen such a vile creature; except for its magnificently sad eyes. They were silvery black saucers, reminding me of the shoplifting mirrors in dingy corners inside gas stations on the bad side of town. Although it was impossible to look at this caged thing without disgust, it was its eyes that horrified me. In them, I could see a contorted image of my face.

“This is a da dreval?” I asked.

A couple dressed in business attire held their eyes as wide as mine. “Yes, aren’t they beautiful?”

“You want a whole one, yes?” the butcher asked.

“Oh I . . . well, they were first.” I pointed to the crazy people who found beauty here.

The couple shook their heads. The butcher explained, “No, they are waiting. You want one or not?”

“Um,” I gazed at the butcher, trying to determine what I would do with it? An old-fashioned dinner? Was Marna out her frigging senile mind? I wanted to call my fiancé and scream. Do you know what you have done to me? If he hadn’t come home with that scent on his shirt, then I wouldn’t be standing in front of this nightmare. The awful smell, definitely rotting flesh, was the only thing grounding me in reality. Then I thought of something that could save me. “How much?” I asked, knowing that whatever price he quoted I would not be able to pay even if I wanted to.

“No cost,” the butcher said, “as long as you keep it forever in your possession and share with those who truly want.”

“Oh.” Not a single person I knew would want this. “And if I leave?” I thought it was a fair question; but when the couple turned and looked at the floor, I guessed it wasn’t a question to ask.

“No leaving.” The butcher glanced at two bulky guys at the door. He cracked his large knuckles on his large hands. “You said you truly want a da dreval. Here it is.”

The fear of this thing using its dagger-like beak to make an old-fashioned meal out of me was no longer a concern. I wanted this grocery shopping trip to end. “So bring it to me,” I said.

He opened the cage and grabbed the thing by its neck. The feathers like rungs of fungus on a rotting tree broke from it in clumps. Slowly he brought the fetid thing to me and set it on the handle of my cart. My pulse was in my throat watching as it balanced itself by its razor-sharp claws and blinked with strange eyelids that gathered at the sides of its eyes rather than the top. As the lids retracted back, it tilted its crusty head and looked at me, or rather into me. Staring into its gigantic eyes, I walked into inky blackness with a light ahead. I continued towards that light not knowing what terrors were behind— beside—all around me. I had to get to that light; for in it, I saw my fiancé’s face. He was somewhere laughing, saying something. I could not hear what; the projection was so vivid that I did not need volume.

I watched him, my fiancé, sitting on a reclining chair. He was shirtless. The sky behind him was the deepest blue; and the early afternoon sun lit up his face until a sudden shadow eclipsed the brightness. My fiancé smiled and closed his eyes. I watched another woman climb on top of him and kiss him passionately. The woman was naked and had reddish-blonde hair.

“No!” I cried, choking on rancid air. “Take this thing away. I can’t see anymore. What evil is this?”

The butcher rushed to me. “No evil,” he said.

“Just a da dreval. You said you truly want one, yes? Do want a half? Would that make it better?”

“Please,” I uttered. I could barely breathe. “Yes, please.”

He jerked the frog-bird from my cart and carried it away by its neck. It did not resist or make a sound, just hung limp in the butcher’s grip, staring at me. The butcher flung it on the table and began to pull its wings and legs a part. From a drawer, he produced a meat cleaver bigger than I had ever seen; it made even his hands look small. Still the creature made no motion just held its gigantic gaze on me. As the butcher raised the blade high above his head, I saw tears fill those silver saucer eyes. The frog-bird was crying. I looked into my cart and saw that the scent that had been haunting me day and night for months was gone.

“Stop!” I shouted.

It was too late. The cleaver came down and split the frog-bird in two, well almost. The sound of the cleaver hitting wood, the cracking of bones and beak, was nothing compared to the squawk the frog-bird made upon being struck. It shot into my ears and echoed inside my head. Even the workers on the other side of the warehouse came to a momentary halt. I covered my eyes as the butcher sawed through the tendons and ligaments that still connected the fleshy parts. The frog-bird started to caw—a gurgling, fluttering sound. Looking through my fingers, I saw that the two severed wings were more than animate, but flapping wildly, wobbling around like a top on a broken axis.

One of the parts began to thrash about, shattering its one saucer eye. Its mass expanded and contracted. It continued to bash its bloody self onto the table with such force that I could no longer see it despite my proximity. It fell over, newly formed, smaller but whole, and pristine white. It shot upright and started to chirp—while the other part laid sinews showing and dead.

The butcher stood back, cleaning the blood off his face with a towel, and smiled. He brought the bird creature to my cart. “Half a da dreval,” he said.

It was pretty thing with a twitter that was soft and easy. Hearing it lightened my mind like a few glasses of good wine. A breeze blew, making my hair dance, tickling my neck.

I walked barefoot on a beach with my fiancé. Although we weren’t holding hands, I felt so close to him as if we were in the darkest of rooms yet shared the only light. We sat and watched distant waves rolling along the horizon. He told me how he loved me, but how he had met another. He assured me that it hadn’t gotten physical or anything. He was just confused and needed time, just a short separation.

Tears ran down my cheeks. How could this be? If he loved me enough to be honest, then we were going to make it, right? “Please stop! Stop it from singing,” I cried. “I can’t hear anymore.”

“A quarter of da dreval?” the butcher asked, taking the bird by the throat. “Will that make it better? Yes?”

“Please,” I said, wiping the tears from my face.

“He can’t leave me. I love him so much.”

The butcher gestured for a stocky man to come; and the man did without hesitation.

Each held onto the wings and began to unfold them midair. It was an incredible span— six feet or more. The bird jabbed at them fiercely, but they had already taken up the ends of its wings and begun to pull. The bird writhed and squawked as they stretched it, doubling, tripling its size. The men grunted, digging their feet on the floor. White feathers floated down, a white downy rain. The business couple went and quickly collected the feathers from the floor while the bird shrilled out, telling me how my fiancé still loves me, that I should fight for him, that all I need to do was believe.

“Stop!” I shouted.

I was not in time. Upon the most gruesome crackling snap, the butcher and the man ripped the bird apart. They flung the two chunks on the table; and no sooner than they did, the torn chunks began to flap about. Cleaver in hand, the butcher chopped twice, thump, thump; and though they were not precisely the same size because the butcher’s precision had been undermined by the difficulty of slashing through such zealously moving targets—there were four.

A war broke out. Each part rammed into the other, jabbing ferociously, using bone and cartilage as weapons, sending blood and tissue to the floor. The chunks fought until only one remained, which thrashed about in a stormy blur. Its mass expanded and contracted. Then it fell to the table, whole, new, and absolutely gorgeous, smaller but with the brilliant plumage of a peacock. It jumped up, pecking around, eating the carcasses of the motionless, murdered others.

“Bring it to me,” I said, not wanting to wait until the butcher cleaned himself.

Without delay, he did. “A quarter da dreval,” he said.

Although a tendon connected to a sizable piece of flesh dangled from its beak, so striking was this cobalt creature that I wanted to embrace it. It smelled like the cake batter my grandmother made from scratch. I gazed into regal eyes and listened, waiting to be taken to another place, to forget the scenes and sounds I had thus far witnessed.

It lifted its sea-green head and sucked on the tendon, bringing the muscle to its mouth.

It opened its exceeding jaw and swallowed it; and as if by invitation, it widened its magnificent mouth for me to put my head inside.

I did; and the sights and sounds I experienced there were incredible. My fiancé had been planning a surprise anniversary party for me. I saw us happy, doing household chores together, grocery shopping, watching movies, walking on the beach, laughing.

Our wedding would be in the fall; our babies, twins, would bless us late next spring. And sex was better than most people dream. He loved me . . . and only me. How had I ever doubted?

Of course, I took my da dreval home that instant. It rode in the precise spot where the nasty little scent had been. Marna couldn’t have been more wrong about the high price.

I got a quarter of a da dreval basically for free, which is the reason I stopped visiting Marna. Sadly, similar to how the children learned that the Easter Bunny is actually a sweaty, pimply-faced adolescent, I realized that old people are not nearly as wise as they are made out to be.

I did, however, deliver her groceries. I am not without gratitude. I left the bags at her door along with the golden egg and rang the bell. Marna called and left several messages to thank me and invite me to dinner. But I didn’t respond. I was busy planning my honeymoon—an island getaway. My fiancé’s suspicious behavior stopped.

The evil scent hasn’t returned; and I haven't smelled his dirty underwear again.

On her last message Marna went on and on about how she was worried about me and hoped that I was safe and happy; and I truly am. On the nights when I’m home alone— my fiancé works unbelievably hard and his overtime hours have doubled lately—I have my quarter of a da dreval to keep me company. He’s my whole. It opens its gorgeous mouth; and I crawl inside. And although my skin has developed a few open sores and I don’t see much of my friends anymore, I can’t think of a better place I’d rather be.