Roadkill
By Mir Arif
Rabi saw the dead fawn on the road, its legs facing the highway. Even in death, with its body waiting to be decomposed, unclaimed by vultures and crows, the fawn yearned to cross the road and graze green pastures punctuated by ranches and buildings and water tanks. No blood oozed or dripped from its half-severed head, no signs of injury or disfigurement on other parts of the body. Its brown skin still had the sheen of youth, the brilliance of grass and leaves, the bounty of spring.
It was probably run over yesterday or this morning, Rabi thought, but it didn’t matter now. It didn’t matter that it was killed, and nobody removed the dead body to keep it out of human sight, to acknowledge the fact that a wrong had been done, or to say sorry.
Its brown coat patterned with white spots, the fawn seemed to have gone through a transition period when it had found its world so varying, so grassy, so adventurous, changes that were comparable to a human child wanting to step out of its home, standing on two legs and leaping out of its crib, curious to see what lay beyond doors and fences and dead ends.
Rabi checked for its pulse, gently touching its soft coat faintly exuding blood and asphalt and gasoline, touching its dark eyes with sweeping eyelashes, as though expecting it might somehow be still alive, wake up from a deep slumber. The fawn lay flat, unresponsive to Rabi’s inspection. A few cars passed by him, driving over the speed limit. This section of the highway was straight and unmonitored by highway patrol, so people often sped up and went ten to fifteen miles over the speed limit, losing control and running over animals that couldn’t fathom a moving vehicle’s speed or the need for speed. For both reckless drivers and animals searching for food, what was essential was moving from one place to another. Thinking about the fawn’s fate, Rabi sat unmoved, unsure what to do.
Once, he dated a girl who worked hard to achieve her goals, which included traveling to at least fifty countries before she turned fifty, dancing on all seven continents, and collecting Himalayan rocks. She told Rabi that she once helped a dog in a parking lot from getting mauled by a deer. A domineering buck was flaunting its antlers and charging at the dog. The poor dog, a husky mix with a bushy tail and a fluffy coat, was simply trying to protect itself, barking incessantly to ward off the deer. Ruth was in her car, done with her weekly grocery run, and about to back up when she saw the poor dog trying to defend itself from the onslaught of a rogue buck.
Ruth thought the owner would come out to rescue the dog and shoo the buck away, possibly throwing rocks or twigs. Intimidating the buck so it respected boundaries, understanding that dogs were human possessions, that these once wild animals were to be feared, taken seriously, and were not to be harmed. When no one appeared, Ruth turned on her hazards and flashlights and honked to stop their confrontation, hoping that a running car with flashing lights would frighten the buck. The buck ignored her and continued to attack the dog, which now, at the sight of a car, a familiar object, tripled its barking and leaped forward, wanting to bite and tear up its enemy. The deer ignored the dog’s ambition and Ruth’s honking, charging towards the dog with its head bent down. Seeing this from behind the steering wheel, Ruth felt a mixture of futility, frustration and fury that a wild buck should ignore her continuous honking. She plowed into the buck, hoping to brake at the last moment, but it was too late. She hit the deer from behind, feeling the weight of its body resisting the fender that could have scraped its flesh or broken its limbs. The buck finally realized its mistake and sprinted into the thick woods of elms and cypresses.
Afterward, Ruth was full of pride when she told Rabi about the incident. She waited for hours, calming the dog and calling an animal rescue center. She highlighted the fact that the dog might have been gored and killed had she not been there and driven out the deer.
Months later, Rabi discovered his neighbor’s cat lying on the wooden stairs, not acknowledging his presence by nudging against his legs or responding to his moniker, Harvey, demanding treats and attention. Looking up close, Rabi saw Harvey’s eyes were barely open, impeded by whitish substances that Ruth later called ‘eye boogies.’ Harvey sensed Rabi’s presence and did nothing, lying motionless in pain. Rabi had seen him on the street, running after other cats, chasing mice and rats, sometimes killing them, sometimes killing robins and sparrows that the neighbor had to dispose of with a broom. Did Harvey chase a rat and contract some kind of disease?
Rabi approached the cat carefully, unsure what to do, hesitant to pet him. His hesitance probably came from his being new in America, he thought. He had uprooted and come to this continent from Bangladesh, where cats and dogs shared common space with humans, never coming close yet depending on people’s kindness and generosity. Harvey, on the other hand, was not shy of human presence, always coming to Rabi if he ever called him by his name.
Rabi decided to consult Ruth, who waited tables at an upscale restaurant while working towards a psychology degree. It was his second year in America, and he was still experiencing cultural shocks. He consulted Ruth on everything, from where to find a good barbershop in town to discount tires for his old Toyota Camry. Ruth ignored his phone call, texting “five min later.” Rabi realized she was busy waitressing. She told him he should send Harvey’s pictures to her to see if the cat needed emergency medical help. When he sent her two close-up pictures of Harvey’s barely open eyes after goading the cat to look at him, Ruth declared it wasn’t anything serious. And besides, he shouldn’t be worried about their neighbor’s cat. Our neighbor, she said, was the actual owner of the cat and was responsible for Harvey’s fate. She told him Harvey probably was tired and was taking a nap, as cats often do, privileged with such a leisurely life.
Rabi left the cat on the stairs and entered his apartment, waiting for Ruth to join him later in the evening for a movie night. A week later, the neighbor told Rabi that she had to euthanize Harvey since he could no longer open his eyes and was unable to walk or stand. The truth was she couldn’t afford an expensive surgery, even though she made Harvey ingest some antibiotics. Rabi didn’t mention that he had first seen Harvey showing symptoms of an acute eye disease, nor did he and Ruth properly discuss the matter between themselves, cosplaying indifference. Ruth only mentioned again that it was the owner’s responsibility to take care of her cat, so if she decided to put Harvey to sleep, it was her decision alone. Still, since then, Rabi felt somewhat responsible for Harvey’s death.
Cars cruised through the highway. Two vultures scoured the sky, waiting for Rabi to leave so they could come down and peck at the carcass. Flies buzzed in and out of slits on its mangled neck. Oversized Ford and Ram trucks drove so close that Rabi thought their drivers wanted to run over the roadkill, erase it from the roadside. He guarded the deer with more care, almost mantling over it as though he were protecting his prey. He felt a strange tenderness, a sort of motherly care, although he knew it was just a fawn, that could not talk or play a role in his life.
We devalued and downplayed wild animals, he thought, compared to cats and dogs. Their lives were valuable because we had chosen to assign that value. Rabi, for he was also a stranger living on the fringes of American life, felt a connection with the fawn, as though the dead fawn was a manifestation of his fate, as though he would also be hit by a truck someday and would lay motionless for days without anyone recognizing him or taking care of his dead body.
It was in this state that he saw another deer swimming across the Navasota River that crisscrossed the plain. Water dripped from its body as it ran up the bank and scampered through the thickets of paintbrush and coreopsis. Rabi realized it was the mother of the fawn, a doe, coming back to claim her baby. Her large brown eyes were fixed on him, trying to tell him that he shouldn’t be near the fawn, to let her tend to her baby. Rabi had never seen any deer so staunch, so unafraid of human presence. It was so uncommon in his experience that he sat overwhelmed by the fact that the doe returned to find her baby, probably regretting her lack of care, furious with herself. Though, perhaps the presence of these human emotions was not possible in a deer. He could not deny her presence, nor did he move or yield to the doe. In that moment the death created a tacit understanding between two completely different species, whose languages and sounds were unintelligible to each other. Still sodden, the doe finally approached the fawn, nosing her baby, unconcerned about Rabi’s presence. By gently nudging the fawn’s head, she encouraged her child to stand on its legs. Noticing no reaction from the fawn, she lifted the lifeless body with her head, only to see it drop back onto the fresh, rain-spattered earth.
Rabi sensed something in the doe’s eyes, a change so subtle that he could only feel it and not see it, for seeing is not always believing. Seeing is only a half-truth, since no vision is complete unless the mind absorbs it. When he looked at the doe, the doe looked back straight into his eyes, almost glaring at him, demanding a response. It was such a powerful gaze that Rabi felt as though another human being was using gestural language to communicate with him, asking him what happened, how things could be rectified, what course of action could be taken to return a baby to its mother.
He remembered when he was a child, his mother used to call him a fawn. He was shy and had trouble looking into people’s eyes, especially when given full attention. As a freshman at a university back home, when his professor asked students the meanings of complex terminology from the textbook, he would keep his head low and fixed to the school bag resting on the bench, screening him from the rest of the class. In a quivering voice, he would tell his young, bespectacled professor who had recently returned from America the meanings of the words that students sitting beside him had never heard. The professor joked that she only heard disembodied answers and would like to know who answered her questions since she could barely see students sitting in the back in a class of hundred and fifteen. Sitting in the back, Rabi never responded to her, nor did he identify himself as the responder to receive proper recognition from his professor.
Many years later, when he taught English composition at a community college in Houston, he met a student who experienced similar issues in his developmental years. Derris sat in the front, always in a black and gray t-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers. Despite working late night shifts at Whataburger, he always came to class on time and sat rooted and absorbed when Rabi lectured and asked questions. Unlike other male students, many of whom self-congratulated themselves with repeated taps on their chests if Rabi praised their answers, Derris calmly and carefully responded to Rabi’s questions. It was only when he looked at Derris for a long time, waiting for him to respond, a silence punctuating their conversation, that Derris’s expression changed. He no longer smiled and looked back at Rabi. Rabi was puzzled, although he never asked Derris about this change.
Weeks later, in his literacy narrative, Derris mentioned his struggle with communication, explaining that as a kid, he wouldn’t look at people’s eyes and was afraid of attention from other students in class. It was not until one day in high school that he met a visiting teacher who changed his view on looking at people. The visiting teacher said powerful people often weaponize their gaze to intimidate others, but if we look back at their eyes, not down but up, we will discover that these seemingly powerful people are not intimidating. If we watch them enough, we will know how fragile and vulnerable they are—through the act of looking back, we will turn them weak and ineffectual. This statement, Derris wrote in his literacy narrative, changed his view on looking and watching, acknowledging the intimidating stares he faced every day in public. Although he still sometimes struggled with direct stares from people, he was no longer afraid of staring back.
Now, the doe standing by Rabi stared at him for an answer, but Rabi had no words to offer her, even when she snorted and bleated. Thousands of unflinching eyes emerged from behind trees and bushes and tall grasses. Hooves clattering on the asphalt road, they walked towards the doe and the dead fawn, led by a large buck treading parallel to the others, grunting and gazing at the vehicles on the highway, forcing the cars on the road to stop. Behind steering wheels, drivers brought out their phones to capture this hour of grief, failing to recognize what caused this large gathering of deer.
More and more deer came out on the highway, groaning, unafraid of anything, staring at halted cars—metal beasts that killed one of their own. Rabi thought they would direct their fury at him, goring him with their antlers, crushing him beneath their feet, avenging the murder of the fawn. But they didn’t. Instead they stood around the doe and sent their condolences in a guttural chorus. Some of them remained close to the fawn, as though shielding it from further malice. Others turned away, intent on reclaiming the land that was once theirs. They charged towards the halted cars, their predators, their brown bodies gleaming in the sunlight. With their hooves and antlers, they pounded the pavement and clashed against the vehicles, locking eyes with drivers behind the wheels, the air filling with the crunching noise of metals and horns. Overwhelmed by fear and confusion, the drivers resorted to honking, as though that was the only solution they could think of. The deer didn’t retreat, nor did they stop rushing and attacking their black, blue, and white predators, ready to battle for their right of way.
Mir Arif is a writer based in Ohio. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Story, Tahoma Literary Review, The Los Angeles Review, and others. A Granta Writers' Workshop alumnus, he is working on his first novel.
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