Mad Cow Nightmare (20 page)

He sighed, picked up the coffee, and went. There was no point arguing.

Outside he ran into his cousin (so-called), Darren, on his way into the kitchen, and Colm warned him not to go in. “She’s in a mood. Upset about those agents taking her calves. You might meet with resistance.”

“Uh-huh.” Grinning, Darren winked at Colm and walked in anyway, letting the door bang behind him.

So much for influence on
anybody,
Colm thought.

* * * *

The federal agents came back for the Friesian calves the next morning—not to slaughter but just to test, they promised, though Ruth believed little the feds said. She let them have the two calves. What else could she do? The old lady was in the trailer, according to Darren, napping in her chair, the pig at her feet. She’d be furious when she heard. Oh, well. Ruth’s choices were lessening. It was like losing flesh, turning slowly into a skeleton. Tomorrow she’d look in the mirror and she’d be nothing but a bunch of bones strung together. How would she milk the cows?

Today then she must act, use her head, try to find out things. What things?

Ask questions, she answered herself, probe a little. Get under the skin of the interviewee.

And here was young Keeley, as though she’d summoned him, entering the barn on slow knobby legs, his head cast down, giving him a double chin although he was only a child—two years younger than her adolescent Vic. But a big-boned child, his body doubtless grown beyond his powers of judgment. When she spoke the boy looked up, all eyes, it seemed, dark violet eyes like his mother’s, narrowing now to see her reaction to his coming. His lips moved, but no words came out. He gazed up at the barn rafters. A wisp of hay fluttered in the air and landed on his nose. He blew it off.

She waited. Finally, he said, “Help.”

She looked hard at him. How was she to interpret the word? She said, “How nice, Keeley. I can use the help. But you know what? I can use a cup of iced coffee, too.” When he looked dubious, she said, “I have cider—and honey-dipped doughnuts. You like doughnuts?”

The slight shrug said that he did, and he followed her back to the house, patted the yellow barn cat that was dozing on the front steps. He sat down beside it.

“You can bring it in the house if you like. I’ve some dried food for it.”

He followed her in and she let him feed the cat, sit with it in his lap, stroke it with one hand, munch on a doughnut. He kept his eyes on the cat.

“Cats gravitate to a barn. We’ve always a small army of them. Does Uncle tolerate them in his barn?”

Still gazing at the cat, he said, “Kills the kittens. Puts ‘em in a bag—drowns ‘em.” He looked as though he might cry.

“I’m sorry.” It was all she could think to say. She poured the cider, coffee for herself. Sitting opposite the boy, she smiled. She wanted to gain his confidence. “So you like living on a farm?”

He shook his head. “I want—to go home. Find work.”

“Home?” Home, she supposed, meant North Carolina. “What kind of work would that be?”

He looked at his hands, wiggled his fingers as though he was fitting something together. His lips worked to find the right words. He patted the cat furiously. It was wriggling to get away but he held it down. “Ritchie,” he said at last, “he threw out the train I was painting.”

“A model train?” He nodded.

“That wasn’t nice. It was hard living with Ritchie?”

Keeley was doing funny things with his mouth, as though he had a toothache. He said, “He wasn’t nice. Wasn’t nice to my mother.”

“What would he do to her? What would he do to—you?”

Keeley was looking evasive now, she’d have to go slow with the questions. She offered another doughnut and he took it. The cat jumped off his lap and he looked bereft, like the animal had rejected him. He crammed the remainder of the doughnut in his mouth and chewed slowly, eyes on the cat, which was now over by the empty dish.

“But Uncle was nice enough to you?”

He was choking on the doughnut. “Here, drink some cider.” But too late, pieces of doughnut flew out onto the table. She handed him a paper napkin and he cleaned it up, carefully.

“You must miss your mom. Do you think she’s gone back to that farm looking for you? I heard her speak warmly of you.”

It wasn’t true that she’d heard Nola speak of him, but sometimes a white lie helped. The boy looked at Ruth for the first time. “I want her—to take me home.”

“You have family there still? In North Carolina?”

He nodded. “My dog.”

“You couldn’t bring the dog to New York with you?”

“Ritchie said no. I’m glad Ritchie’s dead,” he cried, jumping up, balling his fists. “I hate—hated him. I hate Uncle! I’m afraid—”

“Afraid of what? Who?” He was sobbing now. She put out a hand but he pulled away. “I want Ma,” he cried. “Ma’s not sick—she got nothing bad like they say.”

“I know,” Ruth soothed. She kept silent a moment while he patted the cat, which was over by the refrigerator now. “You hate Uncle, do you? Do you think your mother hated Ritchie and Uncle, too?”

He stared at her, the eyes huge in his face, like moist grapes, a tongue stuck in his cheek. He didn’t answer the question.

“Enough to hurt him maybe?” She was going out on a fragile limb, crawling out there where the limb might break. The violet eyes burned into her. The cat squealed and it sounded like a whiplash. He stared at her a moment longer, then wheeled about and dashed through the door, pushing it shut with his left hand— leaving her with the question.

Would Nola kill to keep Ritchie from hurting her again? From hurting Keeley perhaps—for the insinuation was there. . . .

Outside the barn the calves stood on black-and-white stick legs, whining for their mothers. The two closest pens were empty—the emptiness seemed a presence. Ruth felt too drained to go back to work. She was still staring at the pens when Boadie came hustling up, all mouth, blazing eyes, the shotgun in her blue-knuckled hands. “Where they? Where they calves?”

It was like an army charging down, ready to fire. Ruth threw up her arms. “Don’t,” she cried, “stop! We’re allies, aren’t we? The calves are gone, Boadie. Being tested. There’s nothing we can do about it. Either of us. They’re just—gone.”

The old woman looked as though she might crawl into one of the pens herself. She threw down the gun and thrust her arms high. Then she dropped to her knees and ho-owled out her protest.

The remaining calves howled with her, a mournful bellowing, like babies in a doctor’s office, all crying because one cried. And for no reason they could understand.

* * * *

It was too early in the summer for vegetables to ripen. Nola found only lettuce and a few early peas, hard as buckshot to eat, but she had to take nourishment. She’d been on the run for days now— weeks, it seemed. She could feel her flesh shrinking away, her belly bloating the way starving Africans looked in the newspaper photos. “What’re you doing in my mama’s garden?” A small girl stood before her, dressed in blue cotton shorts and pink shirt, her yellow hair in pigtails. Her stance was defiant; she was the kind of spoiled kid Nola despised, the kind who’d said and done mean things to Nola as a girl in that convent school. Once a girl like this had put a butterfly net over Nola’s head and pinched her nose and made her cry. Afterward in the bathroom Nola stepped on the girl’s foot, pushed her into a stall, where she slipped and banged her head against the toilet. When the girl told on Nola, the sister got out a switch, made Nola go without lunch and write,
I’m a sinner,
a thousand times on the blackboard. Her wrist ached for days after that.

But in her heart she never repented.

“I’m hungry,” Nola said, staring the creature down.

“Then go buy yourself some lunch. This is my mama’s garden.”

“Jennifer? It’s time for lunch. Didn’t you hear me calling you?” A young woman stepped out through the grove of trees, then stopped, surprised to see Nola. The woman was a larger copy of the child, with tan denim shorts and blond hair in a ponytail tied with a pink ribbon.

Nola stood erect, the lettuce in her cupped hands. “I can work for you. I can clean your house.”

The woman laughed. “Just for a head of lettuce? You’re welcome to it. Take it. But first come in for a bowl of soup. Pea soup— I just made it.”

“She stole the lettuce, Mama,” the little girl said, her lips pursed.

“She’s hungry.” The woman motioned for Nola to follow.

Inside, the house was immaculately clean, one could practically eat off the waxy linoleum floor. There would be little to clean, except a few dishes in the sink. The woman set a handmade bowl of pea soup in front of Nola. There were bits of ham and bacon floating in it. Nola approached it slowly, gazing at the silver tablespoon. Yesterday she’d eaten a raw potato out of a garden and a bit of meat left in a dog’s dish. Then thrown up half the night, where she lay in a woodshed. Her back and head still hurt from the rough wood floor—the shavings weren’t thick enough to cradle her sore bones.

The woman set a hunk of buttered bread beside the soup bowl, then sat across the table from Nola. Now, Nola felt, the questions would begin. Who are you? Where are you going? Why are you homeless?—for that was what Nola appeared to be, though she had no travelling bags with her. She had nothing, just empty pockets and a sack with a shirt, skirt, and dress that desperately needed to go through a wash.

But the woman asked no questions. She just talked about the hot weather they’d been having, and how dry it was—her garden so parched she had to buy her lettuce from the store. “It was all wilted, what you picked,” she said. “You wouldn’t have gone far on that.”

Nola felt now that she owed the woman some explanation. “I’m on my way west,” she said. She didn’t want to say Buffalo, or Tonawanda—the place had been in the news. Though she hadn’t heard any recent news. She hadn’t dared hitchhike, and this was the first time she’d been in someone’s kitchen. There was a radio here, but it was mute. She was glad of that, actually, she didn’t want to arouse any suspicions. This woman was kind, the bread was home-baked and delicious. It had olives and walnuts baked into it. “It’s really good,” she said.

The woman seemed thrilled that Nola liked it. She said, “I’ll write out the recipe for you,” like Nola was a neighbor dropped in for a cup of tea. The woman scribbled the recipe on a pad and Nola had to smile. As if a homeless woman in a dirty skirt with a torn hem could go somewhere and bake bread! This blond woman, she felt, was living in a dream world. The pretty daughter, the pretty clothes, the immaculate house. The woman seemed to want to help her, offered food and a warm bath—even the Tylenol Nola was brave enough to ask for. Dear God but she needed a Tylenol!

She was swallowing a second pill when the husband walked in. He looked surprised to see Nola. She hid her hands in her dirty lap. He narrowed his eyes at his wife.

“She was hungry,” the wife said.

“They always are. You’re a magnet for the homeless.” He gave a sharp laugh and then tousled the little girl’s hair; sat down and drew her onto his lap. The child said, “She was stealing from our garden. It wasn’t nice.” Safe in her father’s lap, she glared back at Nola.

The woman set a bowl of soup in front of her husband, a glass of red wine, and some buttered bread. He looked at it and made a face. “You got any plain bread? You know I don’t like olives.”

“But they’re baked into the bread, it’s a new recipe, I thought—”

“Grace?” Nola saw the woman wince. She’s afraid of him, Nola thought. The husband made her think of Ritchie. Nola had all too often been afraid of Ritchie, especially when he was into the drink. Ritchie was like a burning fuse; one never knew if or when it would explode.

Though now Ritchie was dead, it wouldn’t explode anymore. Was she glad of that or sorry? She pulled the rosary beads out of her pocket, fingered them under the table.

“Have you got a tongue?” the man asked her. “Where did you come from? Where do you live—or do you just go around raiding people’s gardens?”

Nola dropped the rosary, and the little girl scrambled off her papa’s lap to pick it up. “It’s a necklace,” the child said, holding it up, grinning. She draped it around her neck.

“It’s my rosary,” Nola said, feeling the anger up in her throat. She reached out for the beads and the child ran off with them into another room. The mother started to go after the child and the husband stopped her.

“Sit down, Grace,” he said. “We’ll get it back.” He didn’t scold the child. He turned again to Nola. It was like she was a mouse he was playing with. “Now answer my question, please. You’re eating my food, you can answer my question. I asked where you came from. You’re southern, I can tell that. These are foreign parts to you.”

Nola sat paralyzed. She couldn’t think of the right words to say. “I—I don’t live anywhere just now. I’m going to find my son, take him back, um, south.”

“That’s where she lives,” the wife said, patting Nola’s arm. “She lives in the South.”

“Then you’re in the wrong place,” the man said. “This is Johnsburg, New York, you know? It’s not the South.” He looked curiously at Nola, his mouth hanging open a little. He was a big man, not tall but husky, with small white hands that had never seen a day’s manual labor, or so it appeared. Ritchie, though, had worked hard all his life, she had to hand him that. Even when he’d put on cheap roofing, or tar on a driveway, it was hard work. His hands were rough, red, the skin raw in places, and scarred. It had been terrifying that night to see those hands that had always been busy, lying lifeless in the swampy grass. For a moment she’d wanted to pick them up, massage them, but couldn’t bear to touch them again.

She was suddenly angry. He’d deserved what he got. He deserved it! He’d cheated too many people. He’d killed a man. He thought she didn’t know, but she did. Maggie told her that, the night she arrived in Vermont. Maggie had heard about it from Darren.

“You wouldn’t be one of those Irish travellers now, would you?” the man said. “They’ve been in the news lately—that woman who beat her little daughter? Girl not much older than my own?” He frowned at Nola, like
she
had beaten
his
daughter.