Borkowski's One Giraffe

Henry Borkowski strode quickly into the empty, sun-filled paddock and shot his one giraffe as it stood languidly under its tree. Thankfully no one saw him do it, the killing of this friendless giraffe. Its body shuddered when the bullet pierced its neck then swayed slowly, boneless and limp. Its spindly legs buckled so that its face dove into the soft dirt, raising fine black silt that coated its neck and eyelashes. Borkowski listened as the shotgun's report rang through the neighborhoods up on the ridge.

His farm would be sold today. The realtors and lawyers would pick apart the remnants of his life: the rusting white pickup, the broken John Deere tractor, the wheelbarrow, tools in the shed, what was left in his house and all he'd left in the sagging, misshapen barn. He was selling it lock, stock and barrel, except for the gruff and unsightly giraffe, which no one would buy.

He memorized the balding hills of his farm, the clefts in the black dirt, the loamy smell of his rotting onion fields, the shambles of his barn and coops. Nearly deserted now, the cows were gone, the chickens rousted from their coops and hauled away in thin wire cages, brown and white feathers flying. The last goat was waiting, tied to a fencepost at the top of the driveway, waiting for Minnie, the Pilewski's Organic Farm manager to come and take it away. Who knew what end it would find? Just as well, he thought. Most of the farms were gone now, turned into lavish developments, their owners retired to Florida or wherever the hell it was they went.

Unsure the giraffe was dead, Borkowski stooped over its twitching hind quarters. He lifted his shotgun once more, but stopped, not able to fire again. At length, its legs ceased moving and he said a short wordless prayer. Now what would he do with it? Leave it for the developers, he guessed. They could figure it out for themselves. Wouldn't they be surprised to see a flyblown giraffe carcass in their field?Borkowski smiled, imagining the smell of rotting flesh drifting through the upscale neighborhoods surrounding him.

It had been a star once, the only giraffe in a formerly Communist zoo in Poland. As the story went, it had been content to be alone. It was so cantankerous and rude, no one went near it for years. Bankrupt and overwhelmed by capitalism, the zoo eventually closed, and its directors sold the giraffe to a film production company. Supposedly the animal was expected to perform, but soon it became clear it would never cooperate. Eventually Borkowski came by the giraffe through a friend of a friend whose wife was a secretary at its offices in New York. The giraffe was nearly insane, the friend said, and wouldn't take direction, would Borkowski board the giraffe until a more suitable place could be found? He'd not heard from his friend again after he cashed the sizeable check, so Borkowski boarded the giraffe like a horse in winter, feeding it, covering it with a blanket and affording it most of the barn. Generally they had a decent relationship; he fed it and made sure it was warm, and the animal never bit him.

Borkwoski knew they would build ugly and identical townhouses or estate homes right over the giraffe, its bones buried among foundations, its grave made into a rec room with a widescreen TV. He sensed the grey sky carried rain, the clouds aimless and stalled over his head. He watched as a red tailed hawk drifted over the ridge, its slight wings tipped against the wind. There would be plenty of rodents for her, with all the garbage and grass seed. The nearby sod farms would still do well, at least until all the new lawns were planted; then the sod farmers would take their checks, too.

He watched from a distance as a red luxury sedan rolled toward the house, uncertain where to turn in.It was a Lexus LS, their latest, the one with automatic parallel parking and a six CD changer. He might buy one of those when the sale was done, Borkowski thought. The sedan rolled to a stop at the house and a woman stepped out.He recognized her as his lawyer from the closing, Meredith something .Instinctively, he tensed. He could just make out the color of her hair from where he stood. She favored dull oversized suits and flat shoes and carried a large tan bag over one shoulder. He wondered where she lived, if she were married.

He watched, amused as the lawyer found the path to the front door and knocked politely, then grew upset. She called someone, while peering into the lower windows. His wife, Abby, would have just hollered, but a farmer's wife is different from a lady lawyer, he guessed. Borkowski watched her drop her bag onto the lawn and pull her fingers through her hair. She would spot him soon enough and then he would go inside the empty house, or not, and sign away the last of his life. In a way, he was glad the giraffe wasn't alive to scrutinize him; the shame was his alone.

For years the giraffe was an attraction in Pine Island, although no one paid to see it. The grumpy animal wandered his 20 acre cow pasture with impunity while local school children, their heads hung out of roaring SUV's and sleek minivans, pointed to the barnyard oddity as if his farm were a suburban safari. Few stopped to chat or say hello if they saw him; even his neighbors tended to keep away as if keeping a giraffe in upstate New York made him a curiosity, someone frightening. If they had seen him shoot the animal, watch its blood drain into the grass, they would be horrified. He felt like a heathen.

He walked carefully around the giraffe's body, allowing himself to step in the blood, debating whether or not he would go up to the house. She'd come back again tomorrow or the next day, anxious to give him a million dollars and expecting he'd be happy about it, generous even. He could not go back on the agreement he'd made even if he wanted to. There was nowhere to go. He'd had to sell: there was no money to pay hired hands and he'd sold the farm equipment long ago to pay for heat and hot water. He had hoped to subsist on vegetables and eggs, things he could grow himself, but even he had to have hot showers. There comes a time when an old man bends, so when the realtor asked would he sell, the decision seemed already made.

He patted the giraffe's cooling flesh. He stroked the coarse hairs and tough bristles along its neck, feeling the summer heat simmering in its pale black spots. With a sharp, empty pang, Borkowski wished the animal would spring to life again on wild reedy legs. The giraffe had been the last of his compatriots. At least the money he got from the land would give him a decent burial; not so for the giraffe.

He turned and searched for the lawyer again. He didn't want her to come out here. As if on cue, she began waving wildly at him as if flagging down a cab and started toward him. He had no desire to walk the distance between them, no interest in leaving his farm, this inelegant body, but now he was on his own. Borkowski walked slowly back toward the house, his back bothering him again. He noticed how young the lawyer looked and slowly turned to survey his land one more time. The giraffe would be his last regret.

Aimee Henkel is starting a new writing career after spending the last ten years recovering from dissociative identity disorder and being unable to write. She has studied poetry and fiction at New York University, Manhattanville's MFA and the Sleepy Hollow Writer's program. She has been published by Poetry Motel, Beginnings and various national and community newspapers as a journalist.