Night Beaver
by Casey DW Jones
Mona hadn’t ever seen a beaver in real life before, but she’s certain that’s what she just run over. Jimmy called her a dumb shit as they pulled over onto the shoulder of the highway, that there’s no way in hell that was a beaver.
“Well, I ain’t the goddamn game warden, Jimmy,” Mona says. Her hands trembling from the impact, still gripping the steering wheel of the Dodge Dart tight, even though they’re safely parked. “But I know what I saw. It was a goddamned beaver."
“We haven’t had no water in eight years,” Jimmy says. “The river’s drier than a piece of stale Wonderbread. Where the fuck would a beaver live out here?”
The latest drought was supposed be another of the typical seven-year variety, as all the farmers and drillers and ranch hands would say down at the Presto. But just like everything else on the wind-scarred plains of southwest Kansas, the drought stuck around a lot longer than it should have.
“It was probably just a coon,” Jimmy says, and slaps the cracked vinyl dashboard.
“Like hell, Jimmy. I know what a raccoon looks like. This was a goddamned beaver. I saw that Imax movie about them once, where they used all the underwater cameras. Fifth grade. School field trip to the Cosmosphere. It was narrated by Gary Busey.”
“Is Gary Busey gonna fix the car?” Jimmy says. “I paid twenty bucks to use this thing tonight.”
“What kind of man charges his cousin to borrow their car?”
“What kind of loser doesn’t even have a friend to borrow a car from?” Jimmy says.
“Fuck off, Jimmy,” Mona says. “At least I have a job.”
“Well, you ain’t got no money, still.” Jimmy says.
“It’s your dumb fault we’re even out here,” Mona says. “Can’t your customers pick up their smack from you?”
“Part of what they’re paying me for is the delivery service,” Jimmy says. “And this is Cooper we’re talking about. I owe him big time. And now he’s liable to be pissed at me too, for being late.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have driven tonight,” Mona says. “When are you going to get your license like you always say?”
“Oh, here you go again with that. I told you. I got a meeting with the DA on Monday morning.”
“Today’s Monday, Jimmy.”
“I mean next Monday.”
“I can’t even do this right now,” Mona says.
“Me fucking neither,” Jimmy says. He gets out and circles the car. A semi whooshes by; the car rocks and dips side to side before it steadies. Jimmy stands out front, acne scars matching the craters of the rising full moon. His moustache looks sweaty as steam pours out from under the hood across his face into the warm July night.
“Yup, we got a busted fucking headlight,” Jimmy says. He rips off his Joe Camel hat and throws it to the ground.
Mona fumbles through her purse for her pack of Marlboro Lights. She moved up from Sundances after she got her job running the register at the Presto. Doris told her if she stuck around for a year or so, she’d most likely become a manager. Then Mona could help her mom get a new leg, so she could start driving the school bus again.
“Goddamnit, you four-eyed idiot bitch,” Jimmy says. “My cousin’s gonna kill me.”
Mona gets out, sees the busted headlight, some glass shards still attached to the round metal housing. She gets down on a knee and looks under the car. There’s a dark blob, wedged underneath. Must be the beaver. She reaches for it cautiously; in case it might still be alive. It’s still warm, but it’s not breathing. She drags it by the fur out into the white gaze of the lone working headlight.
“See? Look at that tail,” Mona says and points to the paddled appendage, lying flat on the black tarred asphalt. “That’s a fucking beaver, Jimmy.”
“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Jimmy says. “That’s the most cornbread crazy shit I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe it. It’s beautiful.”
Jimmy hadn’t ever called her beautiful, not once in the whole eighteen months they’d been dating. They started seeing each other when Mona was a high school junior. Jimmy was already twenty-seven then.
She snuffs out her cigarette on the hood and flicks the butt at Jimmy’s chest. She snatches her backpack from the car, her application paperwork for nursing school inside, and slings it over her shoulder. The taillights cast a red pall on the shoulder for a stretch, but then the light fades and it gets dark and purple and black. Jimmy runs up behind her and grabs her arm and squeezes. She pitches it off and swings her backpack at him. He cowers. Tells her they’re done if she keeps walking, and where’s she walking off to anyway?
“Miles away from your sorry ass,” Mona says and keeps walking.
“Fine,” Jimmy shouts. “Fucking fine. But if I end up in jail tonight, that’s on you. And I’m giving that dead dumb beaver-ass sonofabitch to Cooper. He’ll love it.”
“I don’t care about the beaver no more, Jimmy. Just for once admit I was right.”
“You were right, okay, baby. Now come back and drive. If I get pulled over, I’m fucked. Please?”
“Fuck you, Jimmy.”
“Okay. Whatever I was going to leave you anyway, just like your daddy did.”
She keeps stepping into the black empty night. Jimmy’s voice fades. Generators sputter out to the west, a distant guttural hum layering in over the crickets. Out on the more-traveled highway, to the east, big rigs streak white and red across the flat. The natural gas plant twinkles on the horizon, like Oz. The wind pushes Mona’s hair across her face. She brushes it back with her fingers. Her chest swells with the sweet feeling of being the one walking away for once.
Casey DW Jones grew up on the High Plains of Southwest Kansas. He holds a BA in Early American Literature from the University of Kansas and an MFA in Fiction from Hamline University, where he served as a fiction editor for Water~Stone Review. Casey’s work has appeared in Peatsmoke Journal, New Limestone Review, Roanoke Review, and elsewhere. A 2022-23 Fiction Fellow for The Loft Literary Center’s Mentor Series, Casey resides in Northeast Minneapolis. To learn more, please visit www.caseydwjones.com.