How To Tame Beasts And Other Wild Things (2 page)

Matilda

I never was, am always to be. No one ever saw me, nor ever will. And yet I am the confidence of all. To live and breathe on this terrestrial ball. What am I?

The future

Flat Broke Road, well hello again, you winding, hilly thing. I take a left and drive toward our two-thousand-acre farm, likely the choicest piece of land in this neck of the woods, on a road with a name that currently defines me. And likely the beastly brit, since he’s agreed to this arrangement as well. Why else would he? Dad tells me that, if I can snag Balthazar a nanny-come-wife, he’ll hand the farm over to him, and I’ll get my trust fund on my twenty-third birthday. I’m sure a trust says cars, jewelry, and fancy clothes to most. All I see is me being surrounded with animals of all kinds. A shelter-type farm or sanctuary, where I could feed and house strays and drop offs. I could make the kind of place where any creature who was no longer wanted or cherished could feel loved. It would be a haven they would call home, me too.

Home. Hell, I thought I had that in Paris, with Cort, until my life was flipped upside down. Agh, no sense in going there. I have had to move on. Not that there was any choice.

The tang of freshly cut hay and a trace of sweet manure lingers in the air, as I slow along the stone hedge then make a gradual turn in the drive of Broken Arrow Farm, my home for the next year. Mom’s old camper sits parked above the ditch, with a crudely painted sign hanging from the awnings bottom.

Bookmobil
e—
Free Book for a trade.

“Balthazar Cox… So, you’re not just easy on the eyes, you’re a romantic too?” I mutter as I continue driving.

              Split-rail fences and hickory nut trees line the one-mile gravel drive to the farmhouse and barns. My sweaty hands tremble as I grip the steering wheel. There he is—Balthazar. Shirt off, muscles tan and buttered in sunlight, jeans slung low. He looks like the sort of guy who makes midnight conversations turn into morning pancakes. A strange comfort wends its way through me as I park next to Balthazar’s truck and turn my engine off. After grabbing Aesop’s lead rope, I invite him out of the backseat via the driver’s side. I scream as he steps on my bare feet while the naked little boys run at us in full assault.

“Pony, pony!”

“Donkey, guys. That’s a baby donkey.” Balthazar’s voice is deep and serious as he saunters over, looking like he owns the earth.

I’m doubled over, laughing at the two miniature beings. What are these little creatures? They want to be cherubs, but they’re real-live, freckle-covered, perfect boys with mops of red, glistening curls that… Oh, mother of god… I’m already in love with. Goose bumps chase along my back as I squat to greet them. Four tiny hands flutter as drool slides down their dirty chins.

“Pony and pincess,” one of them says. His pudgy fingers fist the edge of my tulle-lined skirt as he drags it over his head.

Princess?
“Oh, sweet baby.” After wrapping my hands around his plump belly and pulling his back against me, I press my face to the curve of his neck to inhale a sweet whiff of child baby boy—along with something else…

Poop.

“Hey there, muffin. Welcome home.”

When I look up, Balthazar is towering over us with a mile-wide grin. “Hey.” I gaze at his tatted chest and sickeningly muscled arms. Who would want those wrapped around them?
Brother-in-law,
I remind myself.
Repel him.
Based on his stare, it looks like it’s working already. I’d call it “disgusted meets go away.”

“They’re cute.” I pat the twins’ heads and shrug.

“Times a million. Jinx and Jax, this is Matilda.”

One of them says, “Mamama.”

At hearing Mamama, I feel Lavinia’s fingers pinching the tendon in my right shoulder. I slap that spot and find nothing.

“Not Mamama!” I screech then cringe.

They scurry behind Balthazar’s trunk-like legs. One of them starts crying as he peeks around at me. The other one follows suit.

Balthazar’s nostrils flare as he draws in air. I swallow over a dry patch and toy with the bottom of my top while wanting to sink into the earth.

“Mean pincess,” one says as I stand and mosey over to my car. I go from princess to evil queen in seconds as he picks the twins up and walks into the house with them.

The old farmhouse, while looking more gray than white these days and in much need of some TLC, is mostly unchanged. I trudge up the creaky, paint-chipped steps with my cumbersome bags and donkey.

“That’s not coming in our house,” Balthazar snarls as I open the screen door and wander in with Aesop.

I march forward. “The hell he’s not.”

“Watch your mouth,” he scolds. “These two are parrots.” He points at the boys.

I unsnap Aesop’s lead rope and hang it on a hook by the door. As I wander to the other side of the room, I pass Balthazar who is slathering peanut butter on white bread. A chattering noise from the back corner of the kitchen catches my attention. A real parrot?

“Mamama,” the parrot says. I walk toward a massive, wrought-iron cage with the elegant gray bird perched inside.

“Mean princess,” it says multiple times as it lifts its gnarled scaly foot to its mouth. I’m fascinated by the way its black tongue slides across its sharp claws while it glares at me.
Balthazar Junior?

“Is it British or Midwestern?” I ask as I study the creature.

One of the twins meanders to my side, holding his tiny, naked penis in his hand, and points up to the parrot. “Dat Fuck, Mamama.”

The other boy—I clearly need to figure out who is who—runs at us, yelling, “Fruck! Fruck!” I burst out laughing. Maybe I can deal with the beastly brit. His sidekicks are quite possibly the most adorable things I’ve ever laid eyes on.

“Ruck.”

That rough voice of Balthazar’s makes my stomach muscles contract. I twist my head and look at his piercing sapphire eye, then his hands, which dwarf the slices of bread he’s drowning with preserves. Why do I wonder what it would feel like to have those hands sliding up my legs? Good question—he’s repulsive. In that sexy, I-just-died-and-went-to-heaven sort of way. I swear under my breath as I picture his naked, hard body. He’s most definitely not soft. Anywhere.

“He’s an African gray parrot, will repeat anything you say.”

“Ruck as in Rugby?” I ask, attaching his muscles to a sport.

Balthazar laughs low in his throat. “Not just a pile of glitter?” He could make pig shit sound sexy with that accent. “Yes, Rugby. Played in high school.”
Did he just call me a pile of glitter?

I stoop next to the boys. “What’s your name, sweet pea?” I ask the one who’s squeezing the snot out of his penis. The other little charmer jumps in for him with his wet mouth seconds from mine and points out that he is Jinx and the other boy is Jax.

“Jinx has the different-colored eyes,” Balthazar says. I spin and find him kneeling as he scratches the belly of a stretched-out, portly Basset Hound. Jax takes my hand and leads me to the dog for what I’m assuming will be an introduction.

“Dis Bonerz!” Jax announces, pointing to the dog while continuing to yank on his little penis, which is now a miniature stiffy.

I’m lost as to where my eyes should go. Is this normal? Three-year-olds get boners? Wait… What? Did he say that the dog’s name was Bonerz?

“Um, Bonerz?” I giggle, covering my mouth.

“Bones,” Balthazar says, “which has become Boner. Yes.”

All right, then.
“And you have a cow named Cocks? I’m assuming that’s who Duke was talking about—your cow?” I stifle my laugh as I glimpse up to his eye, then at the one covered with a black patch.
So serious. Grrr.

“Socks. The boys call her Cocks. They’re working on certain letters: R’s, S’s, T’s, and a handful of others. They’re just three.”

“Also seems that one of them is working on something else?” I glance over at Jinx, who’s sitting out of view from Balthazar. Pooping on the kitchen floor.

Balthazar stands and takes two strides to reach Jinx. “Oh, that’s hunky-dory.” He chuckles.

After grabbing the paper towels off the counter, I open the door under the sink, hoping I’ll find some kind of cleaning spray. “Organic? Very nice, beastly.” I grab the rosemary cleaning spray.

He picks Jinx up off the floor and whispers something in his ear that makes him giggle. It also makes my heart skip.

“Thanks for, uh…” He nods and grins at the hefty pile of poop I’m attacking.

“No problem. I’m here to help.”

As I wash my hands, the kids scream in laughter then yell, “Mamama!” I twist around to see what the fuss is all about. Unsurprisingly, Aesop has managed to make himself a little too comfortable in the kitchen.

“Whoopsie.” I cringe, then grab the paper towels and spray.

“We have a barn for it…Aesop.”

              “Don’t worry. I’ll potty-train him,” I say over my shoulder while marching out the screen door.

              “Impossible.” He chuckles while following me.

“You train yours, I’ll train mine. We’ll see who wins.”

“You’re on, Muffin.” He nods, and for the first time, a genuine smile slides across his face. I know that it’s the real deal because his one eye joins in on the momentary joy.
Momentary.

Matilda

You heard me before, yet you hear me again,
Then I die, ’till you call me again.
 

An echo

My knees twinge in recollection of our summers as I saunter up the slippery farmhouse staircase after lunch. How many times have I flown down these stairs over the years? I recall stitches on my forehead, skinned shinbones, and one broken finger—not to mention my bruised ego. My clumsiness might have been some of the only notice I’d received from my family.

Was I graceless to gain their attention? I have never considered that.

My room—one appointed by Balthazar—was our guest room when I was a kid. My bags and sewing machine are already in here, next to the perfectly made, quilt-covered bed. I unpack my things, then take a long cool shower to rid myself of the sticky sweat I’ve worn all day.

While I throw a fresh top and skirt on, I become aware of the silence in the house. Deciding to nose around, I walk through the rooms, peeking in closets and snatching up old books as I go. The only closed door I come to is the master bedroom. Knocking lightly, to receive no answer, I open it for a peek and clutch a hand to my heart.

The light-filled room—still the baby blue it was ten years ago—is now in much need of a makeover. Peeling paint, linen curtains, and the same landscape paintings decorate the walls. The floor is covered with wall-to-wall mattresses, which makes me smile. It’s the sort of oddball thing I might do. In the center of the room lies a pile of boys. Balthazar is shirtless and on his side, black briefs sneak out at the carve of muscle on his hip. He sure is something to look at. I imagine it would be nice to run my hands through his blackish-russet waves and down his scruffy, angular jaw. In his hand is an open book—
Aesop’s Fables
, my childhood copy. Edging closer as I nibble my thumbnail, I study his arms, with their intricate tattoos and muscles, which seem hard even as he sleeps. What a sight.

The boys—now both diaper-clad—lie next to him. I can almost smell the sweet oozing from their sweaty, flushed bodies as their red curls stick to their faces.

              I’m not sure how long I stare at the swoon-worthy view of them.

Long enough that I wonder how Lavinia could have abandoned them. Did those baby boys take the stage away from her? “There’s a reason stars shine from above,” she used to say when she’d lock me in my room, the chicken coop, or anywhere she could hide me away from her stage, which was all of her life. It was one of the only riddles I could never solve. She and my parents were the others. Why did they all hate me?

Long enough that I’ve twisted a button off my skirt that pings across the floor landing inside the bedroom.

              Long enough that my face is wet with tears for all kinds of reasons, some of which I’m not even sure.

Long enough that Balthazar opens his one eye and finds me gawking like a tourist.

“Bugger off.” He growls quietly. “Getting some winks.”

I jump back, startled. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to…” I shut the door too hard. A slam. The boys cry a second later. Shit.

“Flaming hell... Nimwit,” he mutters.

“What an hmmpf! Screw you!” I whisper shout. Jerk.

I stomp down the stairs careful not to trip, then after looking in the barren fridge and digging through the pantry, which is nearly cobwebbed over, I make a grocery run. Heading back to the farm, weighed down by a heap of options that would please any band of boys, I smile. I’ll show him. Beastly brit.

As the house fills with the comforting smell of dinner baking, I busy myself. Where are the toys? I’ve yet to see one. I open closets, look in drawers, peek under the couch, but I find nothing toy-like. The thrift store—yes. They’ll have toys. I’ll hit it in the morning for a few things, I think as I head back into the kitchen to turn the oven timer off before it wakes the kids. Rounding the corner from the den, I ram into Balthazar’s hard, sweaty, and naked chest. My stomach flutters as he grabs my biceps and holds me against his body.

“Christ, you’re a noisy thing,” he grumbles, as his eye rakes me.

I back up one step, peeling my breasts off him as my breath hitches.

“I’ve got toddlers. Can you manage to be quiet for any length of time?” He clomps to the oven then slams his hand against the timer.

My heart beats in triple time. “I’m amazed you know how to do that.” With my body on fire, I sashay toward him, then kneel and nudge my shoulder against his rock-hard thigh to open a few drawers, in search of potholders. He steps aside as I grab a pair of stained mitts to remove the mac-n-cheese from the oven.

“I’ve managed just fine without a woman around. This was not my idea.” He crosses his arms over his body, drawing my eyes to his belted abs, then down farther to the outline of the obvious bulge in his jeans. “I can take care of my family. Your father’s bullshit idea is not anything I’m overly keen about.”

“Yeah, Julia Child. I can tell you’re doing just great.” Biting the twist on my lips, I open the now-stuffed fridge to toss the leftover cheese into the drawer. I slam it shut then waltz to the pantry and curtsy halfway in. “Oh, and for the record, I put the boys’ massive amount of toys into bins and cleaned up down here.”

Midguzzle on a bottle of water, he asks, “What’re you talking about?”

“Exactly. Do they have any toys at all?”

“That’s not your business.” Those words were a growl. He also showed teeth. “Nothing here is. You’re
not
their mother. You’re
not
anything.”

              “I’m their aunt!” I snarl as I poke one finger against his bare chest, refusing to be invisible on my own turf. “I’m also here until I get
you
a nanny-wife, which is going to be impossible to do, considering what a…wanker...you are! Would you prefer dick? I like dick!”

“I’ll bet you do. Now listen, muffin,” he says, walking inches from me. I hate that my heart is racing the way it is.

“You stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours. I already have a regular sitter anyway. Don’t need you.”

“I’m sure she’s lovely,” I say as I take a glass from the shelf and fill it with water, making it seem like I’m busy.

“
He
is. He’ll be here any minute. I’ve got some field work to get to.”

I head out the screen door, and I don’t look back. But I do flinch as it slams.

“Dammit!” he yells as the twins cry.

On the porch, I take a breath, needing to be away from his presence. Not an easy thing to do, I’m realizing, as an old Bronco comes up the hill.

“Alfie is your babysitter?” A laugh breaks from my lips.

“Yeah. Know him?”

I glance over my shoulder to see him looking out the screen door past me as I jump off the porch and skip over to Alfie’s car.

“I do. Very well.”
So you can just fuck off…

Alfie hops out of his car and runs open-armed to me. “Oh my god! I heard. Got here as fast as I could!” he says in rapid fire with an eager smile. “Duke called and told me! You haven’t changed a bit, Hollywood!” He grabs my hand and twirls me around. “Or Paris…or Rome… What do I even call you? Eva! Now that you’ve come home to Green Acres to roost!” His hands fly around with birdlike motions, which makes me laugh.

              “Wasn’t it Zsa Zsa?” I ask naïvely.

The beast laughs behind me. I don’t gift him with anything. Not even an hmph.

“Honey, why would you question a gay man as to who’s who of the Gabor sisters?” Alfie says, dragging me into the house by my arm. He allows the screen door to land on his toe.

Balthazar smirks when I make note of it. Cocky beast. I swear.

“Oh, no, you di-ent! Mac-n-cheese?” Alfie squeals, bending over to sniff the casserole on the countertop. “Tell me, if I open that fridge, I’ll find a pie? Tell me it’s banana cream. I might switch teams for you if it is!” He sashays to the fridge.

I gloat and fan my face with a newspaper, knowing what he’s about to see.
That’s right, Mr. We Don’t Need You.

“Balthazar,” Alfie says as seriously as a funeral. “You have no idea what this woman is capable of. She’s Martha Stewart meets Doctor Doolittle.”

I stand tall and enjoy a momentary triumph.             

Alfie drags a spoon along the pie’s edge then waves it in front of Balthazar’s face and forces it into his mouth.

I nibble my pinkie knuckle as he swallows it down, waiting for a response along the lines of, “Brilliant pie, love!” But he curls his lips and wrinkles his nose instead then stalks toward the screen door. He shoves his feet into work boots, his ass squarely facing us, as Alfie and I both stare. Then he throws on a T-shirt he yanked from a wall hook along with a baseball cap. He heads out the door without a sound.

              “What a charmer.” I sink into a kitchen chair.

“Believe it or not, he can be.” Alfie winks, then hums the
Green Acres
song, which makes me wonder what I’m missing.

              “You’re the enemy,” he says softly. “You’re on the wrong side.”

              The wrong side? Isn’t that always the case for me when it comes to people? The only time I’m brighter than bright is when I’m with animals. They see me as unconditionally loveable. I see them the same way.

Since Alfie has the boys and the beast is clear I’m unwanted, I swing by the local animal shelter where I worked during my summers here. I laugh seeing Duke’s truck and my friend Tully’s motorcycle in the lot, some things never do change.

Tully and I became fast friends as teenagers, our lives were polar opposites in some ways and identical in others. “Hey, Tulls. Damn girl, look at you!” Tully strolls over to me holding two kittens in her tattoo-wrapped arms.

“What the hell are you doing her
e
?” Her wide-set charcoal-rimmed eyes and storm-blue hair remains unchanged as she smiles with satisfaction
.
“Looking for a stray to drag back to Paris?”

“Maybe to the farm,” I say as we embrace and I snatch one of the kittens from her.

“You’re here?” Her mouth drops open and she fist bumps the air. “What, for the summer?”

“For a year. Dad has me on an assignment.”

Tully slinks onto a couch and pats the cushion next to her, waving me over. “How is the commander?”

“The same.” I snarl. “Still an ass. I’m here for a year to catch Lavinia’s widower a wife. You know anyone that would want to marry a beastly brit?”

“I’ve seen him at Nell’s. The dude is hot as fuck.”

“He’s hard to miss. You want him?”

“I wouldn’t kick him out of my bed, but I’m still sweet on Rowdy.”

“Still? Has anything happened with you two?”

“His last girlfriend Biffy or Buffy whatever looked like the love child of Izod and Tory Burch. I’m not his type.”

“You mean the awesome-as-fuck type.”

“Yeah, that,” she says, and blows me a kiss.

I lay the kitten I’m holding onto my shoulder and wander into the kennel. Tully follows as I ask, “So, you need any dog beds sewn up? I’ll have time, plus I could volunteer if you want.”

“I’ll take both and I’ll trade you a preggers mama cat for your good deeds as long as you get her fixed post birth.” She whistles twice, then a fat pretty calico jumps off a carpet-covered cube and wanders over. “Matilda, meet Clive.”

“Clive?” I scratch the cat’s head as she rubs against my leg. “Deal, you know I love me some kitties. I’m sure the beast will be overjoyed.”

“He looks like he could use some pussy.” She waggles her eyebrows as we both crack up.

On my way back to the farm, I decide to put some riddle love into play. Let’s see what this guy is made of, see if he’s got more in him than beast and muscle. While Alfie plays downstairs with the boys, I roll a handwritten riddle into a scroll then place it in a box. I wonder if he’ll figure the riddle out. I wonder if he knows how to flirt.
Why do I care?
I wonder how hardened his heart must be, how much anger he must have inside him over Lavinia and how she screwed him over? I open his bedroom door, knowing he’s outside, then tiptoe in and place the box on the center mattress.

A mile from end to end, yet as close to as a friend. A precious commodity, freely given. Seen on the dead and on the living. Found on the rich, poor, short and tall, but shared among children most of all.

What is it?

              The next morning, I climb out of bed to a quiet house. How could I wake up before toddlers? Then I realize maybe three-year-olds need, like, twenty hours of sleep. Hell, I don’t know. I need to order a book about these elusive creatures. Maybe I’ll also order one about beast taming.

              As water boils for tea, I open the fridge in search of cream. I catch my breath and smile wide. Maybe a butterfly or three are scooting around in my belly as well. On the nearly
empty
wrapped pan of macaroni and cheese is a taped-on note with one word.
A smile.
On the nearly
empty
wrapped pie is a smiley face.