How I Know the Scientific Names of Maggots
by Savannah Stutevoss
University of the Incarnate Word
Savannah Stutevoss is a senior at the University of the Incarnate Word majoring in English. She is set to graduate May 2023 and hopes to attend law school in the fall. Writing has always been one of her hobbies, and she is excited to submit to Quirk after working the 2022 edition.
How I Know the Scientific Names of Maggots
The quail sat on the porch we built last year. I observed him through the window. It was a mountain quail, known to be quite shy, so it was odd to see one so close to the house. Oreortyx pictus. Mountain quail had two silly little black feathers sticking out over their heads. Carter had maps of the mountain ranges around Helena hanging around the walls of his study. They featured tiny images of the native wild birds and plants. I used them to memorize what all the different birds looked like. They were my only companions. Eventually, I grew tired of seeing the map’s frameless skeletons every day. They made the room look unfinished. I had stopped looking at them when I went in there to dust, then stopped going into the study altogether. He could sneeze a little bit and clean for himself. When he returned.
The sunlight filtered through the pine trees and onto the wooden floor. Everything was wood, wood, wood. Except the leather rocker I waited in. It had cost the moon to ship it from our home in Boston. Almost 2,500 miles. I wasn’t moving without it, and Carter wasn’t moving without me. And so, the rocker traveled too. I waited every day for Carter to come home from the hunting and exploring he did in the woods. Hundreds and hundreds of acres. I always feared something deleterious would happen to him, but he always reassured me he was a "man of the earth" and would take care of himself. I was a city girl by heart, plucked out of the urban decay and sequestered in the beautiful mountains. He had made me the happiest. For a while, that is. Soon he began to love the land more than he loved me. The beauty around me was not enough to convince me of my own happiness. But I could understand his dedication to it. The earth was a handsome mistress.
I'd spend my days primly sweeping dust that was not there, as I had swept the day before, and the day before, and the day before. It was my exercise. I was too scared to venture outside of our homestead past dusk. Too many unfavorable critters. Ursus arctos horribilis, the grizzly bear. Carter had killed one last fall, right before their hibernation period. I was fattening myself up too, alone. I still made his favorite dishes. Rosemary chicken. Broccoli casserole. Pumpkin pie. I would go out into our back garden and prune the plants I had brought that barely grew. I had a surprise for him. My period was late, too late. I had an old pregnancy test from the last time we had been into town. We had hoped, but it had been years with no luck. Even the expired test read positive. I had wrapped it up in tissue and left it on his nightstand. My happiness was eclipsing into worry. He had not come.
Winter was settling in. I felt the chill in my bones, sawing away at my marrow and inserting fear deeper into my body. I had not seen my husband in five weeks. He always promised he would come back every two to three weeks. His previous escapade had lasted over two months. I did not know if I cared anymore. Maybe some other woman was giving him provisions. She had filled his bag with jerky and his heart with lust. I would still light the candles at night and set out our fine china at dinner, but it wasn’t for him. Not anymore. One evening I ran outside to the garden and pulled out all my miserable plants. I could hear the wolves howling, distantly. Canis lupus. I yelled. I hated the land.
It had been six weeks. I needed vitamins, I needed better food, I needed heating pads. I needed to be loved. Without even thinking, I grabbed my things and walked outside. Some clothes, yellowed paperwork, and my dog-eared books. I blinked in the cold sunlight. The nearest town was fourteen miles away. I could take a cab to the airport. Go back home to dad and mom and Janice. I was unloved here. The child would need a school, friends, a bike to play with and books to read. Carter would call. He’d realize his mistake. Fly out as soon as he found out. I was indifferent to him. He would do what he pleased. But I could not stay here. I began to pass all the familiar landmarks leading out of our home. The gate about a mile away, then the tiny bridge over the ravine three miles away. The memories ached more than the frigid stitch in my side. At about five miles out, my nose itched with the scent of decay. Probably a dead deer. The men would hunt at night and lose their prey in the forest. I shivered.
The air was putrid. I soon hit the sixth mile. There was the hunting blind. The smell was overpowering. I pulled the camouflage print door back. There lay Carter. His face pale and eaten away by maggots. Pollenia rudis. Hybomitra tetrica. I had learned them all for him. For him. And now he lay dead, a gun in his hand, coagulated blood everywhere. A boar tusk going straight through his heart, and a bullet hole in the boar's head. The dreaded, invasive sus scrofa. The stench made my head spin. My whole body began to shake. I did not love him. I did not. Not anymore. He had left me, divorced me the second his soul penetrated the embrace of the land. I continued walking, every step an irate blow at the supreme mother under me. A quail flew over my head, paying his respects and saying his farewells. I didn't notice what kind of quail it was. I hoped I never saw one again.