Kelly Barnhill
Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
2018
To the Ladies of the Sewing Guild
(and you know who you are)
this volume is lovingly dedicated.
Table of Contents
Mrs. Sorensen and the Sasquatch
Open the Door and The Light Pours Through
The Dead Boy’s Last Poem
Dreadful Young Ladies
The Taxidermist’s Other Wife
Elegy to Gabrielle—Patron Saints of Healers, Whores and Righteous Thieves
Notes on the Untimely Death of Ronia Drake
The Insect and the Astronomer: A Love Story
The Unlicensed Magician
Acknowledgments
The day she buried her husband—a good man, by all accounts, though shy, not given to drink or foolishness; not one for speeding tickets or illegal parking or cheating on his taxes; not one for carousing at the county fair, or tomcatting with the other men from the glass factory; which is to say, he was utterly unknown in town: a cipher; a cold, blank space—Agnes Sorensen arrived at the front steps of Our Lady of the Snows. The priest was waiting for her at the open door. The air was sweet and wet with autumn rot, and though it had rained earlier, the day was starting to brighten, and would surely be lovely in an hour or two. Mrs. Sorensen greeted the priest with a sad smile. She wore a smart black hat, sensible black shoes, and a black silk shirt belted into a slim crepe skirt. Two little white mice peeked out of her left breast pocket—two tiny shocks of fur with pink, quivering noses and red, red tongues.
The priest, an old fellow by the name of Laurence, took her hands and gave a gentle squeeze. He was surprised by the mice. The mice, on the other hand, were not at all surprised to see him. They inclined their noses a little farther over the lip of the shirt pocket, to get a better look. Their whiskers were as pale and bright as sunbeams. They looked at one another and turned in unison toward the face of the old priest. And though he knew it was impossible, it seemed to Father Laurence that the mice were smiling at him. He swallowed.
“Mrs. Sorensen,” he said, clearing his throat.
“Mmm?” she said, looking at her watch. She glanced over her shoulder and whistled. A very large dog rounded the tall hedge, followed by an almost-as-large raccoon and a perfectly tiny cat.
“We can’t—” but his voice failed him.
“Have the flowers arrived, Father?” Mrs. Sorensen asked pleasantly as the three animals mounted the stairs and approached the door.
“Well, n-no . . .” the priest stammered. “I mean, yes, they have. Three very large boxes. But I must say, Mrs. Sorensen—”
“Marvelous. Pardon me.” And she walked inside. “Hold the door open for my helpers, would you? Thank you, Father.” Her voice was all brisk assurance. It was a voice that required a yes. She left a lingering scent of pine sap and lilac and woodland musk in her wake. Father Laurence felt dizzy.
“Of course,” the priest said, as dog, raccoon, and cat passed him by, a sort of deliberation and gravitas about their bearing, as though they were part of a procession that the priest, himself, had rudely interrupted. He would have said something, of course he would have. But these animals had—well, he could hardly explain it. A sobriety of face and a propriety of demeanor. He let them by. He nodded his head to each one as they crossed the threshold of the church. It astonished him. He gave a quick glance up and down the quiet street to reassure himself that he remained unobserved. The last thing he needed was to have the Parish Council fussing at him again.
(This was a near-constant worry. The Parish Council consisted of a trio of widowed sisters who, since they no longer had their prominent-enough husbands’ careers to manage, and whose grown children had all taken respectable jobs in far-off cities, now had little else to do all day than to fuss and preen over their beloved church. And woe indeed to anyone who got in their way. They worried after the building and squawked at parishioners and pecked and pecked at the priest’s every move. It seemed to Father Laurence that their life’s purpose now was to make him feel as though they were in the midst of slowly stoning him to death using only popcorn and lost buttons and bits of yarn. Three times that week he had found himself in the crosshairs of the sisters’ ire—and it was only Wednesday.)
He was safe for now. He rubbed his ever-loosening jowls and cleared his throat. Seeing no one there (except for a family of rabbits that was, en masse, emerging from under the row of box elders), Father Laurence felt a sudden, inexplicable, and unbridled surge of joy—to which he responded with a quick clench of his fists and a swallowed yes. He nearly bounced.
“Are you coming?” Mrs. Sorensen called from inside the Sanctuary.
“Yes, yes,” he said with a sputter. “Of course.” But he paused anyway. A young buck came clipping down the road. Not uncommon in these parts, but the priest thought it odd that the animal came to a halt right in front of the church and turned his face upward as though he was regarding the stained-glass window. Can deer see color? Father Laurence didn’t know. The deer didn’t move. It was a young thing—its antlers were hardly bigger than German pretzels and its haunches were sleek, muscular and supple. It blinked its large, damp eyes and flared its nostrils. The priest paused, as though waiting for the buck to say something.
Deer don’t speak, he told himself. You’re being ridiculous. Two hawks fluttered down and perched on the handrail, while a—dear God. Was that an otter? Father Laurence shook his head, adjusted the flap of belly hanging
