Mad Cow Nightmare (28 page)

GYPSIES MUST GO,
the watersoaked sign read. She waved it in Colm’s face.

“It was that bitch Bertha set it,” she said. “You bet. Her and her circle of witches. But she’ll be sorry. Oh, but she’ll be sorry! I’ll kill her. I’ll just kill her!”

“Calm down, Ruthie,” Colm said, ducking, where the sign was swinging about his head. “We don’t know it was Bertha.” Though himself he wouldn’t put it past the kooky woman. She’d stirred up enough trouble in the past. Still, he couldn’t have Ruth confronting her. Not in this killing mood. But Ruth was rampaging on. She was heading back up the hill—that was a good sign. With luck they’d grab an hour’s sleep before dawn.

Though it wasn’t the house Ruth was headed for, dragging the sign with her. It was the barn.

“You coming?” she called back. “I could use your help.”

Jeez. What could he do but follow?

* * * *

Children’s voices woke Nola. It was barely dawn. She glanced up, a sign read SKY VIEW MOTEL. Car doors opened, a woman’s voice said, “Hurry now, guys, we gotta hit the road. Angie, stow those bags careful—don’t drop anything! Look where you’re going, Seth.”

A heavy bag dropped on top of Nola; she sat up, stared into an adolescent boy’s eyes. “Hey,” he said, and his mother said, “Just settle down and keep quiet. I can’t drive when you’re all yelling and fighting.”

Nola put a finger to her lips and quietly slid out the far side of the car. She banged into a small girl just getting in and the girl dropped her package. The child shrieked and the boy gave a high-pitched giggle. “What’s going on back there?” the mother yelled, and craned her neck about.

Nola fled.

She was disoriented now, she didn’t know where the street was she’d first run down, the one with the Catholic church. For that was her goal: to find a priest, go to confession. She felt slightly more energy from the sleep in the car, but her body ached from the uncomfortable position she’d assumed between hair dryers and kids’ toys. Her upper body was heavy on her hips and legs, it was like she was carrying a dozen bags full of groceries. She could hardly move her legs. If she ran into the cops she wouldn’t be able to run. She thought of giving herself up to the police, taking a chance they’d understand her story.

Yet how could they, when she hardly understood it herself? It was like one of those nightmares of running and running and never getting anywhere. She’d had brain surgery, she’d been hustled off to Vermont and left some infected woman dead in the hospital behind her—they wanted her back. And then the world began to close in on her—it was like a tug-of-war. Ritchie was wanted, too, he’d given blood, and lied about the farm he’d come from in the States. Lied about the drugs he’d taken, too. Ritchie—turning violent, angry, wanting her to flee with him, and her wanting only to be her own self. Enola—Alone—wanting to escape Ritchie.

But then he’d caught her, and afterward the terrible thing, the unspeakable thing, happened.

And now she was running from the whole world, like she was carrying the sins of a million people on her paper-thin soul, and people were hunting her down to throw stones, make her their scapegoat, cleanse themelves.

It was a dark morning, starting to rain, and she felt safer. She moved out into the street. Seeing a woman coming in the opposite direction, she asked, “Ma’am, can you tell me where I can find a Catholic church?” When the woman looked at her, she felt she had to explain. “I’m due there for a—a breakfast meeting and I seem to be, uh, lost.”

The woman shrugged. “I’m new in town, too. And I’m not Catholic. But there’s three or four churches all in a row on Main Street. You can go look there.” She pointed a stubby finger to a street on the left.

Nola thanked her and moved in the direction of the finger. She found herself back on the main street; the mall she’d run into was at the far end. She’d moved, it seemed, in a wide circle; her chest burned to realize that. To get to the church she’d have to pass the mall. She could either go back down a side street and then take a street she’d been on earlier to avoid the mall, or she could walk straight down Main on the opposite side—the fastest way—past the mall, till she reached the church. She decided to chance it. The police wouldn’t expect to find her on Main Street, would they? No, she decided, they would not.

But the church door was locked. Only an outside light lit up the outer steps. The weight in her chest was terrible now, she could hardly walk. But she had to get into that church. Why had they locked it? At home in Carolina there was always a door open into the sanctuary for a soul in need. There must be needy Catholics here in Minesville. She ran around behind the church and tried all the doors.

None were open. She wept in her defeat and sank down on the back steps. She’d have to wait. Though it was Monday now, she figured—would anyone come to the church on a Monday morning? She should move on. But she was still exhausted. There was a small enclosure, a kind of porch, where someone had left a pile of used clothing. She tugged on a cotton sweater over the black tank top, wadded up a pair of overalls to make a pillow, and curled up on the painted boards. She was oh, so, so tired....

When a pair of thick legs in gray work pants loomed up in the dim light she opened her eyes wide: Where was she? A leg kicked her ankle, a hand clasped her arm, and she staggered up. The face was scarred, the nose a red bulb, the chin full of straggly black hairs. It was the ugliest face she’d ever seen. She tried to shake off the hand and run back down the steps.

But the hand held her fast.

Chapter Twenty-one

It was as if a party was going on in Ruth’s house Tuesday noon and she hadn’t been invited. Someone had broken out her best glasses and the wine was going round, hand to hand. “Hey there!” Boadie cried, as if Ruth were a newcomer. “Have a glass.”

Even the potbellied pig was sopping up dribbles of wine and cracker crumbs off the floor. Maggie’s mongrel had Ruth’s favorite barn cat cowering, whining, on top of the refrigerator. She declined the wine—it wasn’t her own, after all, it was something homemade, rescued from the charred bowels of the trailer. Darren was in high spirits, a ninety-degree switch from the hysteria of two nights before. When she raised an eyebrow—she’d had to do all the barn work herself—he just grinned at her.

“New trailer,” he said. “I mean, new old trailer. Gift of some church, yep. Your girl Sharon told ‘em about the fire—somebody who knew somebody had this trailer he wasn’t using no more, and he’s bringing it round tonight. Bigger’n ours, with a new toilet and brand-new tires. We can hitch her up to the pickup and move back in.”

“Well,” Ruth said. It was good news and bad. Good news because she’d have her house back, and bad news because it meant the travellers would be staying on in the pasture. Not that she was swayed by all those letters to the editor, the small town prejudice and superstition, but, well, she’d just plain had enough. She wanted her old life back. She wanted her hired man, Tim, and her comfortable companionate cows, and Vic in his old room, and Emily in hers. She wanted Colm spending quiet nights in her bed. She might consider marrying him, as he asked once a week.

She gave a quick laugh. She wanted the moon—but who could reach that far? It wasn’t made out of cheese, either.

The kitchen door flew open and Tormey Leary stomped in, followed by the dragging feet of young Keeley. Tormey had       discovered a dent in the farm truck Ritchie had borrowed to take Nola to the hospital; he’d just gotten it back from the New York State Police. They had located it in a Utica garage, held it for evidence, and finding no blood or gore, had let the Vermont authorities have it. “And Christ, no gas,” he complained, “just made it out here from town when it hit empty. I’ll have to fill up with your gas. Do it for me, will ya, Darren? Oh, and you’ll have to drive it back to Tonawanda for me. I can’t drive two vehicles at once.”

Darren nodded, rolled his eyes, poured himself another glass of wine, and went into the living room, where Maggie was holding a mini-concert of sentimental Irish songs. A moment later Ruth heard the buffo and blow of Darren’s accordion. Boadie wandered after Darren with her leashed pig. Liz pulled a bottle of ginger ale out of the fridge and followed Boadie.

Ruth had planned to draw Maggie aside to discuss the gold cross, but allowed that this was not a good time. For one thing, she had other guests. Her past conditioning made her invite the uncle and Keeley to have a drink. Tormey nodded, of course; Keeley gave no reply. The boy was examining a spot on the floor where the dog had thrown up and no one had bothered to clean it.

“Careful there,” Ruth said, and wiped it up with a wad of paper toweling. Keeley moved slowly into the living room, hands clasped behind his back. He glanced back furtively, as though he were being pursued.

The uncle was sitting at the kitchen table, reaching for a sugar doughnut. He was looking mad, very mad. “The sumbitches,” he said. “Darren, too, and I done everything for that boy. He’s in for the works now in the will, and would he go and put gas in my truck when I ask ‘im? Answer me that. Would he? No, he’s in there with his friggin’ accordion.”

In the living room the accordion made a loud off-key squawk.

“I’ll see that you get enough gas to get you back to town,” Ruth said. “There’s a Mobil on Main Street.” She wasn’t going to get into a feud between uncle and nephew.

The song ended in the living room with a flurry of applause and Maggie burst back into the kitchen, followed by Liz. Seeing the uncle, she spit on the floor, grabbed a bottle of wine, and whirled back into the living room. Liz picked up a doughnut, her face expressionless, and left the room again. Ruth looked from one to the other:

there was something similar about the curve of the eyebrows, the full upper lip that formed a kind of bow. Family resemblances, she supposed: travellers often married first cousins. And according to Sharon, Liz was Ritchie’s daughter with Maggie’s sister. She shouldn’t make too much of these family relationships. And surely Keeley was no kin to the uncle. There seemed to be little affection for Tormey Leary on Keeley’s part.

Still, there had to be a reason for Maggie’s spitting. Ruth reached for another paper towel and swabbed the floor.

“Wouldn’t put it past Maggie to of set the fire herself,” Tormey grumbled. “Her and the old lady always complained about that trailer. Wanted me to give ‘em a house. Thought I was made of money. Well, I told ‘em they could wait till I kick off, then they’ll have
my
house. I’d let Darren stay there now but for that crazy crew Maggie brought with her. Pigs! They belong in barns, not houses.” He stood up, went to the living room door. “Darren? We need to talk, damn it. Put down that Christly accordion.”

Maggie came back into the kitchen to pour Keeley a drink. “He won’t do for hisself.” She carefully avoided looking at the uncle. Ruth saw that she was wearing a miniature gold cross similar to the one Franny had found. Maggie saw Ruth looking at it. “When’ll the cops give back Nola’s?” Maggie asked. “I don’t see why they have to keep it.” The words brought on a weeping spell. She pointed an accusing finger at Ruth.
“You
haven’t done anything to bring her back though you said you wanted to.”

Ruth put an arm around Maggie, patted her back. True, she hadn’t done anything to bring the woman back. But what could she have done? There was a big confusing world out there, where was Ruth to look? Except along the route between Branbury, Vermont, and Tonawanda, New York, and the police were doing that. New York police were even on the Tonawanda farm, keeping a lookout there in case Nola showed up. Colm had seen to that. Ruth’s arms fell to her sides. It was as if the government had taken away her muscles and her heart, with the quarantining of her cows.

Even her land was contaminated, according to the USDA. And the Friesian calves they called sick—though not wholly proven— had never left the calf pen! In what way was her land contaminated? Unusable for six years, the feds threatened. “Mad Cow is untreatable. Fatal. How can you sleep nights knowing you might be spreading it?” the Leafmiller woman had said when Ruth complained. Was she in cahoots with Bertha?

“Hel-lo, ladies, how are we all today?” Here was Colm, rushing like a fresh breeze through the kitchen door. He was wearing a green plaid shirt, short khaki pants that revealed his bony untanned legs, and high black socks—one higher than the other. Ruth suppressed a giggle. But she disliked the word “ladies.” She’d reminded him of that before but he never remembered.

His greeting was met by a sob from Maggie. “Gimme back Nola’s cross, you nasty cop-cousin,” she moaned. “I won’t go away with it—I just wanna wear it. As a good luck charm for Nola. To keep her safe on the road.” She held out her arms in dumb appeal. “It’s what we do, we travellers. It’s our way.”

Colm smiled and said she’d get it back—”when they let us. It’s still evidence—found at the scene. Forensic’s got a backlog of work, too,” he said, nodding at Ruth. They were still waiting for a report on the DNA found on the reins.

“What evidence? I don’t understand,” Maggie cried, and Colm appealed to Ruth. He grabbed a honey doughnut and stuffed it into his mouth.

“It was found at the scene of the murder—you know that,” Ruth said, patting Maggie’s shoulder. “It means Nola was there—if it was Nola’s cross. It means—”

“Of course it’s Nola’s! You think I don’t know Nola’s cross? We got ‘em after we graduated parochial school. Sister Maria hung ‘em round our necks. I made Nola the leather strap. Afterward we went out and celebrated. We brought home Cokes and sucked out of each other’s straws. It was a beautiful moment. Beautiful! We told each other secrets. ...”

“And I heard you one time down home.” It was Keeley, coming in the room, smiling for the first time Ruth had seen him—a charming shy smile. “You were blabbing away and I couldn’t sleep. I heard one of your secrets. Something you stole from—”

“You did not!” Maggie cried, turning on him, swatting his rear end. “We never talked in front of you.”

“Heard through the wall. I had ears.”