Dirty Chick (20 page)

I ran for the phone. “Autumn! What the . . . what the wha . . . ?” I stammered, traumatized at the Halloween horror show taking place on my back deck.

Autumn just laughed. “Ah, those are mason bees. They're everywhere. Any little crack or crevice you forget to clean, they'll make their nest.” This sounded familiar. Sophia had told me about mason bees, but at the time, I hadn't give it much thought. Now they were horribly real.

“But why is the nest full of spiders?”

“They lay their eggs in the spiders. Then the larvae eat the spiders from the inside out. It's all completely natural.”

Maybe to some people. I changed the subject. “Hey, can you come over this weekend to take a look at Pearl's tits? I think she might have mastitis.”

“Ah, I'd love to, but I can't. We're going out to Skin's, remember?”

“All right.” I sighed, resigned to a solitary weekend of sick sheep and dead spiders. “Maybe we'll see you when you get back?”

“Ah, definitely.” We said our good-byes, and I hung up the phone.

Pulling on a pair of gloves, I retrieved the contaminated cheese boards and brushed off the doomed spiders, then submerged the whole mess in a sinkful of boiling water. I poured a cup of coffee and went out to the deck.

It was a quiet weekend. We moved through the rhythms of farm life, collecting eggs from the chickens, milking Pearl in the morning and checking her milk for mastitis. Saturday afternoon, Peter gave Silas and Miranda a ride on the lawn mower while I cleaned sheep shit off the front deck. I washed my hands and flipped my goat milk Camembert, thinking contentedly about the microscopic cultures I was colonizing on their surfaces.

Sunday was blistering hot. Rebecca took our car and drove out to the beach. Peter and I sat on the back deck in the evening, sipping peach wine and watching the wood pigeons streak through the
totara tree. We put on a DVD for Silas and Miranda and slipped away, walking down by the creek with our glasses of peach wine. It was cool down there, in the shade of the great trees, the glossy green shrubbery and tall orange wildflowers crunching underfoot. We undressed at our place beneath the tree and made love in the karamu like furtive teenagers. Just above our heads, not ten feet away, the chickens clucked disapprovingly.

Peter turned on one side, propping his head in his hand. He nuzzled my neck and nibbled my ear, his beard tickling my cheek. “Can we still come here?” he whispered, “when Katya and Derek come back? Do you think that would be weird, if we just walked on their land and headed down to our place in the grass?”

“Yes,” I concluded. “Although, if we don't find somewhere else to live, we might be pitching a tent down here.”

We pulled on our pants, our skin still damp with sweat. I reached over and brushed a tuft of grass from Peter's eyebrow. Our wineglasses lay forgotten in the leaves.

CATCH THE BIG ONE

H
ow is it?” Rebecca asked as I eagerly opened my first jar of kimchi. This concoction was made with heirloom cabbages and daikon radish, scallions and garlic from the farmer's market, crushed ginger and expensive Japanese chilies, with kelp and black sesame seeds, not to mention the tiny dried shrimp—so I was expecting more than just cabbage. I was expecting epiphany.

I cracked the lid and sampled a bite. “Salt,” I gagged.

“It needs salt?”

I bent over the sink and spat out the kimchi. “No, it tastes like salt. All those exotic ingredients, and I made a jar of salt.”

“Are you sure?” Becca lifted the jar and inspected it. “Maybe that's what it's supposed to taste like.”

“Not unless it's a brand-new way for Kim Jong-un to torture people. This stuff'll burn a hole in your tongue.” I dumped it in the compost bin, certain even the chickens wouldn't eat it. Then I
poured myself a cold glass of ginger beer and sat out on the deck to recover.

The ginger drink slid down my throat, sweet and sparkling, with a gentle burst of spice. Teeming with microorganisms, it felt alive. Drinking it made me feel virtuous somehow, as if I'd just gobbled up a bowl of flaxseeds and nonfat, organic yoghurt. I took a deep breath, beginning to relax. And then I noticed that Silas was playing with shit.

For once, it wasn't his. Happily perched on the deck's front steps, he was picking up goat berries and flinging them at a passing chicken. Admittedly, the berries were dried, so they did look like dark brown marbles—but still. I remembered the incident with the vampire worms and shuddered. “Silas,” I started to correct him. “I don't think you should—”

“
Ew
, Mama, I stepped in poop!” Miranda howled, and I turned to see her pointing the sole of her foot at me, a generous helping of chicken poo dripping from between her toes.

“Hang on,” I muttered, going to the kitchen for a rag. “And stop throwing goat turds!” I called over my shoulder to Silas.

Inside, the phone was ringing.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Antonia, it's Autumn.” My friend's breathless voice came through the phone. It seemed odd for her to be calling now. Weren't they out at the beach camping?

“Is everything okay? What happened?”

“Skin has died.”

“
What?
”
At first I didn't process what she'd said. It wasn't possible. “Are your children okay?” I blurted out.

“I think so. Yes. I don't know. I mean, I think so.” Autumn was breathing hard, this woman who was always so calm and
unflappable. There was background noise on the line, street sounds. She sounded as if she was running.

“What happened?”

“I don't know. Patrice just called. He might have told me what happened, I don't know. When he said Skin died, I didn't really hear anything after that.”

“
Mama!
” Miranda howled from the deck. “I still have poop on my foot!”

“Were they hunting? Was there a gun?”

“No. But I think they were night fishing. Skin might have gone out alone.”

“No, Silas,
no
!” Miranda sounded panicked. “Stop throwing poop on me!”

Autumn's voice came back on the line. “Look, I'm walking to my car now. I have to go get them. Can you pick up Titou for me from school?”

“Of course, no problem. Should I tell him what happened?”

“
No,
”
she practically yelled into the phone. “Don't tell him. I'll tell him myself.”

“Can I do anything else?”

“No, I don't know. I just have to get out there.” With a click, the phone went dead.

“What happened?” Becca asked when I'd hung up.

“
Mama
!
” Miranda was screeching now. I told Rebecca the news as I went for a rag, then hurried outside to rescue my daughter. I pulled Miranda on my lap, holding her close as I wiped down her foot. “Magnolia,” I said into her ear, “I need to tell you something.” I braced myself for tears. “Skin has died.”

“Yeah.” Miranda nodded as though she'd already heard the news. “And he is never coming back.”

“No. He isn't coming back.”

“And, Mama?” I waited, thinking maybe she'd have an important thought about mortality. “There is really poop all over the deck. You should clean it.”

I looked around. Somehow, without realizing it, things had gotten out of control on our little farm. The front deck, with its long outdoor table where we gathered for barbecues, was strewn with barnyard waste. There were land mines of wrinkled sheep shit, a smattering of goat berries rolling around on the floorboards. Among these obvious threats, the occasional sneak attack lay in wait: a chicken poop, watery and pale, its light brown color camouflaged in the wood. Beyond the deck, the driveway was littered with dog droppings, and I could just make out one of our calves defecating beneath a peach tree. I heard a scattering noise, like buckshot, and I looked up to find that Silas was still tossing goat berries.

“Silas,
please
,
I—”

Hamish's quad appeared at the top of the drive. “Oh,
great
.”
I snatched the poop out of Silas's hand. “Hamish is gonna
love
this.”

But Hamish didn't mention the manure on our driveway, the cow in the peach trees, or the sheep on our deck. He glanced down at Silas, but he didn't get off his quad.

I stepped forward to greet him, and what I saw gave me a shock. Hamish was in his same green coveralls, his strong hands smudged with farm dirt and clutching the wheel. But his eyes were red and full, tears about to spill down his cheeks.

“Sad news about Skin,” he managed. His voice caught, and he coughed. “The whole district's in mourning.”

“I just heard,” I said. “Do you know what happened?”

“I know he was out there with his mates.” Hamish smiled. “Catching fish, out on the beach. Would have been the best way to
go, for him. Out on the beach in the sunshine. Still”—he coughed again, blinking as if something were caught in his eyes—“he was bloody young.”

“Fifty-two.”

“Yeah.” Hamish started up his quad again. “Makes you think.”

“Mama?” Miranda tugged on my shirt. “I'm so sad that Skin died.”

I picked her up. “I am, too, Magnolia,” I whispered in her ear. “I am, too.”

I felt a tug on my shirt and looked down. There was Silas, with his last ball of goat poop. He held it up to me as though it were a treasured gift. “Home,” he said. “Poo.”

I took the goat berry and flicked it away. “Yep, Silas.” I nodded. “That's about right.”

I called Peter at work to tell him what had happened, and I spent the rest of the day worrying about our friends. Whatever had happened to Skin, it must have been violent, and Nova and Maris were there. This wasn't the fun blood, the kind you can wash out with hot water and soap. They were stuck at the beach with a body. And they were just little girls.

I cleaned off the deck in the afternoon, watching through the sliding glass doors as Titou and Miranda played together inside. They were pretending to be rocket ships.

“First I get my fire on!” Titou hollered, flexing his arm muscles and bending at the knee. “And then one . . . two . . . three . . .
go
!” The two of them tore through the house, running at top speed down the corridor and then leaping onto my bed. Through the window, I could see them jumping up and down. Silas sat on the couch watching, his Dart pressed to his ear. He didn't join in, but he had a huge grin on his face, giggling every time the other two screeched by.

I swept the poop off first with a push broom, rolling the goat berries out in front of me until they tumbled to the grass, scrubbing harder at the sheep and chicken poop, which seemed to retain the adhesive qualities of stinking brown cement. The problem, I reflected, was that the fencing was so terrible here. Katya and Derek didn't keep many animals, so they'd allowed their fences to break down over the years. Our sheep and goats just strolled on through, which was why they were always on the deck, crapping and waiting for a cuddle, wanting to be near us. They were all herd animals. They didn't want to be left alone.

I filled a bucket with hot water, swirling in a generous slosh of bleach. Everything out here grew with abandon: the livestock, the fruit trees, the grasses, the worms and molds and bugs. Everyone needed his own safe place, even the animals. They had to be controlled and contained, or they'd trot up your front steps and shit on your deck. I took a stiff brush and scrubbed at a chicken poop. Inside, Miranda and Titou were now standing on the couch tossing Legos at Silas, who was crawling around on the ground.

“Bad doggy!” Miranda shouted, hurling a handful of Legos. “No biting!”

I supposed I should have been angry that they were pelting my disabled son with toys, but actually I was pleased. If Silas was crawling around on the ground, he was halfway to pretending to be a dog—and that meant he could imagine. Which was good news for his brain.

Autumn arrived just as I finished scrubbing, and Titou ran out to meet her, flexing his muscles. “Mama!” he cried. “We are going back to the beach now!”

“No, Titou.” Autumn's face was flushed, and her cheeks were blotchy from crying. “We aren't going there. Skin has died.”

When he saw his mother's tears, Titou's little face crumpled. “No!” he protested. “I have to catch a snapper! Skin will show me!”

“No,” Autumn said gently. “Skin is dead now.”

She scooped him up in her arms and sat with him on the deck, nuzzling his hair with her face. Then she told me what had happened.

“We had such a beautiful day yesterday. Fishing and playing on the beach. We had a big fire at night and cooked the snapper we caught. Then I drove back to town with Titou because I had to work today. Patrice stayed out there with Lish and Skin. And the girls.”

Titou wriggled in her arms, and she let him go. He ran inside to find Miranda.

“Then this morning, they were in the shed, picking out their fishing poles, getting their bait ready. Skin sat down to drink a coffee with Patrice, and he just went into a seizure.” She smiled faintly. “Of course Patrice knew what was happening, because he'd seen it before with Silas.

“Skin fell right over. Patrice turned him on his side, but he was gone. They gave him CPR. Patrice gave him CPR for half an hour or something. Then Lish took over. They tried to bring him back for more than an hour. He was gone. It was just a massive stroke.”

“And the girls were there?”

“Yeah. They haven't talked about it much, but I think they saw everything.” The tears spilled over her cheeks as she talked. “They had no cell phone reception there, so finally Patrice just ran. He ran to a farmhouse and rang me, and I—I didn't know what I was doing. I think I blacked out.”

“You must have been scared for your kids.”

Autumn shook her head. “Maybe, I don't know. I don't remember it, to be honest. I just had to get to the beach. And when I
got there”—she took a breath then, a deep, shuddering sigh—“he was gone. He was just laid out on the floor of the shed, and Lish was lying there with him, cuddled up to him, just weeping. There was so much pain.”

I thought about this for a minute. “Remember that wire he drove through his hand?”

Autumn nodded, smiling.

“He walked out of the hospital before they could see him. You know they would have taken his vitals. If he'd had high blood pressure or something, they might have caught it.”

She shook her head and laughed grimly. “I thought of that. And I think he knew. His dad died early, of a heart attack. I think he knew they'd find something, and he didn't want to know about it. He just wanted to go fishing.”

Three days later, we went to the wake. It was hard to think about anything else. I spent the intervening hours starting another kimchi, turning my cheeses, decanting my raspberry mead. The problem with the first batch of kimchi, I conceded, was that I'd made it while drinking my powerful peach wine, so I read the recipe wrong and dumped in too much salt. The trick to most ferments is to make a safe place where the culture can flourish. You don't want a sterile environment, like an operating room, because nothing can live there. Instead you adjust the heat and the salt and the acids so that one group will thrive and push out the chaos of all the rest—the sheep shit, the pubic hair mold, the worms and the maggots and the death.

It was comforting to do my farm chores each day. When Peter and the children left for work and school, Rebecca spent time in the paddocks while I took kitchen scraps to the chickens, dodging Jabberwocky as I scattered their food. In the aftermath of numerous sexual assaults, one of the hens had gone broody, and she now sat
jealously on a clutch of warm eggs, squawking a warning if anyone approached. I milked Pearl, checking her milk for signs of mastitis, and gave a quick pet to Ba and the cows. The alpacas glared at me, but at least they never charged.

And I turned my cheeses. Four moist, white bricks of goat milk sat ripening in my cheese fridge, and each day, I turned them, inspecting them closely for multicolored mold. When I saw some, I rubbed a little salt on the lesion, carefully cleaning the draining racks and the ripening box with hot soap and water.

The day of Skin's wake, I decanted the raspberry mead, noting with satisfaction that the wine yeast,
S. cerevisiae
, had reproduced splendidly, converting honey, water, and fruit into formidable booze. I sipped a little off the rubber tube to create a siphon, and with just one gulp, I wasn't sure if I should drive.

So I gave the keys to Peter, and he took the wheel. We packed the children in the car, and Rebecca squeezed in between them. I had a pot of hot chicken soup and a couple of bottles of homemade mead to share.