Carolyn: The Skunk Coat (1949)

Slowly my eyes opened. It was dark. The sheets were silky against my skin. 

Something wasn’t right. I didn’t sleep in a bed with silky sheets. I had the standard, coarse, post–World War II sheets on my bed. 

The walls were closing in on me. That wasn’t right, either. 

As I gained consciousness and felt around some more, I could tell that my covering had fur on the other side. I recognized where I was. The walls that were closing in on me were the front and back seats. I was in the back seat of our 1949 Lincoln. It was big enough for a six-year-old to sleep on. 

The Lincoln just appeared in our life. The 1941 Packard disappeared and the next day there was a new car. Later, I learned that Mom had totaled the Packard. Pop was pretty upset because he needed a car for work. A friend quickly connected him with the Lincoln. 

I was covered by Mom’s skunk coat. Like the car, it was black. I rubbed my hands on the soft, smooth fur. The feel was like cat fur, but there was no purr. 

The coat was almost a symbol of my mother. It smelled like her. She wore it like other people wear a sweater—on cool days, cold days or “just because.” I think her mother gave it to her as another reminder of my father’s inadequacy as a provider. Mom treated it like a security blanket. It finally died an unnatural second death in my basement in Portland, Maine, in 1985. No furrier could resurrect it. 

I sat up and peered over the front seat. Yes, there was my three-year-old brother, asleep with his white-blonde hair barely visible. That was good. I liked to take care of my brother. I needed to watch him because nobody else did. He couldn’t take care of himself and seemed to live in his own world. I don’t remember him talking much. 

I needed still more information. I sat up and looked out the windshield. Ahead of me was a log cabin-looking structure. On the right side, near the top of the building, was a neon sign. It was in the shape of wheels with spokes. It shined like a beacon of hope. I was at the Wagon Wheel Bar. I was safe.