f I s a child I loved skunks I fo r th e i r scen t, the ' fragrance of summer and I love them still. I felt welcomed by the scent wafting in dark evenings. They were out there; they were summer, freedom. Up close I knew the smell was noxious, fumes to coat another animal’s fur. A skunk sprayed our family dog once and shampoo would not cut the odor. Mom took the dog to the vet and brought her home, perfumed. To me she smelled worse and whenever she got wet the perfume got stronger. The heavy stink of her fur felt dirty, menacing, like the sweet rot of mildew. Nothing like the skunk. Each spring I anticipated my first clean whiff. They were running free in the night, celebrating the soft air that soothed my skin. The smell was a good omen, ignoring the fact I know now: it is the scent of fear, a startled animal. The animal has been cornered and in defense the odor released. I imagined cuddly skunk fairies cavorting in their kingdom. Daylight was not their kingdom. Dad shot a skunk in the light of dawn when I was l it t le , the crack o f his shotgun destroying the quiet lap of.waves against shore. I awoke, startled. Vietnam veterans experience chronic startle reactions. Their minds and bodies, accustomed to the sudden staccato vibrations of violence, canno t s top reac t ing , w a it ing , waiting, knowing it may come disguised, may come quiet at nine a.m. or midnight, soft rustling that explodes, rips the air with fire—but it was only a cat jumping on dustballs in the corner. That was me in my childhood and early adulthood: rush of adrenalin, stinky sweat whenever I felt threatened. I felt threatened when I misspelled a word, when I heard footsteps behind me, when I sat at my office desk under florescent lights, when I drove on empty roads, when I heard certain laughter in a dark movie theater. As the fear rushed in, my hearing became thick, buzzy. Muscles clenched, my head lost its ability to turn and look. My heart palpitated with speed, and my hands trembled. My armpits became soaked. The embarrassing smell of fear permeates my old clothes as far back as junior high school T-shirts and sweaters. No matter how potent the antiperspirant, the odor left a stench in my clothing. The startle would be with me still, my constant relationship with life, if I hadn’t come to recognize fear, if I hadn’t learned why I was afraid. I learned to be afraid in Beulah, the northern Minnesota town where I grew up. The town’s name isn’t really Beulah. I chose that name because I don’t want to use the real one. I want Beulah, the real place, to be gone, forever in my past. If I keep the place alive in my life, the old violence might in some way continue. Yes, part of me is afraid, still hiding. Friends think I’m being compulsively careful. Maybe that’s true; it is my pattern, like the way Donald and I were careful not to conceive our now newborn son until all traces of radiation from the Chernobyl accident were declared gone from Minnesota milk, the milk I drank Minnesota town D I B l e l y u s i s O g tr n a l i t B v io y i n a C b L o y n u n J n e i d e a e n G e M i n lb u e r r a t kami Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1988 13
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