The Woefield Poultry Collective (12 page)

I pulled over and got out. I had a piece of rope with me. Neither of those sheep was very good in a halter. No one ever took the time.

She didn’t move when I walked up to her. I put the halter on her head and gave her a pat and under all that dirty old wool I could feel her body, near frozen with fear. I talked to her a bit and pulled on that lead rope and finally got her out of the ditch. She walked beside me all the way home and I put her in the barn to recover. She didn’t eat a damn thing for two days. But on the third day, I brung her outside and kept her tied near the fresh grass. She finally took a few bites.

The night the barn burnt down Bertie’s luck held again. She was still outside on the grass. By the time Prudence come, all Bertie did was lay out in the field. Like I said, I think she was too depressed to move. Didn’t help that the old man left her half shaved. Even a sheep’s got a sense of dignity.

He met some guy from New Zealand down at the pub. Guy told the old man that it’s kinder to shear a sheep in two sessions. He said stage shearing was the way of the future. There was nothing the old man liked better than being part of the future, so he told Patty, the girl who always sheared Bertie, to do only the right side.

Patty’s a stocky girl. I’ve seen her wrassle some damn big sheep. Got some pipes on her that would make one of them guys with all the tattoos who fight in their underpants stand up and take notice. She looked at the old man like he was crazy when he explained about the New Zealander he met down at the Grainery Pub and how they are doing sheep in stages now so they recover from the first haircut before they get the next one.

Patty told him she’d never heard of that and was he sure. The old man told her his source was from New Zealand, where they pretty much invented sheep. Of course, Patty was born on a sheep farm on Salt Spring
Island, but there was no telling the old man that. He said the sheep’d already been through enough recently, what with losing Edie and her home in the fire. Patty just shrugged and got to work. She flipped Bertie this way and that, and, with neat little strokes, took off half her coat.

I remember Patty shaking her head as Bertie trotted away, half bald.

Then the old man up and died, leaving poor Bertie looking like hell on a Harley, clumped and matted and fifty percent bald. I don’t know if Prudence and Chubnuts had even noticed there was anything strange about her. Prudence spends all her time pacing around the property and yapping on her phone and cleaning and writing in that notebook of hers. Chubnuts just sits on the porch staring at his old house and watching me work.

But the little gaffer, Sara, it didn’t take her long to start asking questions.

First she asked me what happened to the sheep. I wasn’t going to tell her the whole goddamn story about the dead sheep and the barn and the old man and the New Zealander. I got better things to do. Not only that, but I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. So I told her that Bertie only has half a haircut. Sara said she could see that. Then she asked where Bertie lived. I said she stayed in a shed near my cabin. It was more of a lean-to, really. A tarp over some pieces of plywood I put up for walls.

Little Miss Sara stood there, hands on her hips like a damn prison warden, and she didn’t say nothing else, but the next day she came over and started reading to me from this book she got out of the library about sheep. She tells me that sheep are herd animals and that Bertie’s probably unhappy because she’s alone. I end up telling her about Edie and how Edie died and about the New Zealander and the old man. Kind of surprised me, the way the kid got it out of me.

She didn’t say anything for a while or I couldn’t hear her because I was pounding the last nails on the chicken shed. When I got done she told me things were looking good, goddamn bossy kid. Then she said she’s going to have a talk with Prudence. That something needed to be done about Bertie. That it wasn’t right to leave her like that.

I said, Fly at it. Like I said, the kid is bossy as hell.

I dressed carefully for my appointment at the bank. My goal was to give the impression that I was a prosperous young farmer and entrepreneur, perhaps one of Whole Foods’ organic garlic suppliers or an importer of rare, rainforest-friendly chocolate. I had no doubt that the facts would fit the image eventually, I just needed a little bit of time.

Unfortunately, the banker, Phyllis Snelling, seemed to require more from me in the way of assurances than a confident expression and neat clothes.

“So you inherited the old Woefield place,” she said.

“Oh, yes. And it’s an amazing piece of land. A truly wonderful property. I’ve got big plans,” I said, holding my hands shoulder-width apart to show how big. “I’m certain I’ll be able to help the farm achieve its potential.”

Phyllis Snelling smiled. “Good. One of our mandates is to support small farmers.”

I smiled. We were on the same page. I needed support. She and her bank wanted to give it. Excellent. This is going well, I thought. If Goldman Sachs qualifies for a bailout, so should I!

“So what’s the plan?” she said.

“I think it’s better described as plans,” I told her. “I’m working on a multi-pronged approach intended to maximize productivity. We are going to be systematic and deliberate. I’m basing a lot of it on the theories of Joel Salatin. Grass farming, you know.”

She seemed to want more details.

“Look, Phyllis,” I said, using her name because businesspeople seem to like that. “Getting a farm going is not a quick process. It takes considerable time and thought.”

Phyllis folded her hands onto her desk. Her small office was hot and smelled of vinyl furniture. Her hair was short and curly. “Is that so?” she said.

“So we may need a bit of extra time before we start repaying the loans. We’re not asking for much here. Just give us, oh, say, until the end of August. I’ve got a great, hardworking team assembled. Things are coming together. By August we’ll be ready to make our first payment. No question. We’ll probably be fixtures at the farmers’ market by then.”

Phyllis leaned forward.

“What exactly are you growing?”

“Growing?”

“What crops are you planting?”

“Well, Phyllis, the question is really, what
aren’t
we growing.”

She cocked her head.

“We’re putting in raised beds and I have plans to seed a hayfield. We’re going to plant squash, tomatoes, peppers, eggplant. And potatoes, of course. A wide assortment of radishes. Everything organic!”

She didn’t seem very impressed, so I added, “And chickens. We’ve got a selection of very nice chickens coming.”

“Interesting,” said Phyllis. Her short hair and sensible suit made me wonder if she used to have a career in law enforcement. “Because my family has farmed up near Woefield for two generations and I’ve never known that land to produce anything but a bit of hay and pasture for cows. Not a real productive parcel over there. And now you’re telling me that you’re going to make enough growing a few crops to support the place and pay back the loan.”

I cleared my throat. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so forceful.

“That’s the goal, yes.”

“Unless I’m mistaken, your late uncle didn’t make one red cent off that farm.”

“He had other priorities. Farming wasn’t his passion.”

“But it’s yours?” she said. She wasn’t being rude. She was genuinely interested.

“It is. I believe farming is in my bones.”

“Where are you from, Prudence?”

I cleared my throat.

“New York. Well, Brooklyn, actually.” I thought about telling her about the cooperative rooftop garden I’d been involved in, but then I might have had to tell her about the partial roof collapse and the lawsuit, so I decided to skip it.

“Prudence,” said Phyllis, matching me first name for first name. “I was raised on a local farm. I live on a farm still. And I have to work full-time
off
the farm to help keep it going. Many of the smallhold farmers, at least those with less productive land, have jobs other than farming. That’s how we pay our bills.”

“I’m also a writer,” I told her, concerned that the interview was going off the rails.

“How much do you earn doing that?”

“Earn?” I said, as though I were hearing impaired.

“Look, I appreciate your situation. The reason I handle the agricultural accounts is because I understand how difficult farming can be. But I can’t delay your first payment unless I know you’ve got a solid, achievable plan to repay the loans.”

“But I do!” I blurted. My conversation with Seth popped into my head. “We’re turning the place into a … a treatment center. For people struggling with addictions. Farming will be part of the therapy. And so will writing. It’s going to be a small, live-in center.” I leaned closer, desperate to convince her. “Treatment services are a lucrative and growing business!”

Phyllis Snelling stared deep into my eyes. I knew I didn’t look guilty. I never do when I lie, probably because I only ever lie for good reasons.

“Have you got any clients?” she asked.

“Our first patient arrives this week,” I said, getting into the spirit of
the thing. “We’re only catering to people who can pay a premium for care. Trust funders. People with extended health benefits.”

She leaned back and tapped a pen against a folder.

“That could work,” she said in a voice that suggested to me that she was sorry she hadn’t thought of turning her farm into a treatment center. “Can you provide me with a copy of your business plan and income projections for the next six months?”

“Of course,” I said. “I should have brought one with me. I forgot with all that’s going on. I’ll send you all our information, including our brochure. And our bookings.”

“Good. If everything is in order, I am authorized to give you three months. By July 15 we will need you to make a mortgage payment, a payment on your line of credit and a payment on your outstanding property taxes, or we will have to put the farm into foreclosure.”

I swallowed, which wasn’t easy because my throat suddenly felt full of dirt.

“Of course,” I said. “You won’t be sorry.”

I guess when you are trained to notice one kind of animal, it’s only natural that you start noticing other kinds, too. We never specifically studied sheep in Poultry Club, but I saw some sheep at the 4-H fair and they sure didn’t look anything like Bertie.

The ones the kids showed at 4-H were like sheep in a picture book or a dream or something. Fluffy and white with cute black noses and skinny black legs. Most of us bring only our best animals to shows, so those ones are probably extra special. But Bertie—that’s Prudence’s sheep’s name—looks so bad you might not even know she was a sheep. It was hard to tell if she was gray or brown or white because she was so dirty. And she was missing half her coat. She was also very lonely. I could tell from the way she stared at people, which wasn’t normal.

I went up to her and she didn’t move. She was either very tame or really tired. She kind of reminded me of my mom. That’s when I noticed her hooves were all messed up. It was terrible! I’m not an expert or very old and even I could tell she needed help. So I did what we learned to do in Poultry Club. I Took Action. I got a sheep book and figured out that Bertie needed her feet trimmed and medicated and she needed to be completely sheared. It’s cruel to leave a sheep with all its hair in the summer, even only on one side, because they get very hot and matted. I took out a sheep-shearing video from the library and then I told Prudence what needed to be done. She told me that she was going to “delegate this one” and I should put someone in charge of sheep maintenance. Prudence has an excellent vocabulary, I have to
say. That may be because she is from the United States where I think they have a different schooling system.

I did all this while getting my birds ready to move, which wasn’t too hard, as well as going to school, which was hard because since I went to church with her, Bethany thinks we’re best friends. I’m getting quite interested in Christianity because the minister had so many things to say about morals and he had definite leadership qualities that I don’t get at home. I’ve also been reading that book Bethany’s mom gave me,
Left Behind
. It’s sort of scary and boring at the same time and probably more interesting if you’re an adult. All I can say so far is that when the end time comes, there’s a good chance I won’t get left behind because I am doing everything possible to get ready for heaven. Although, now that I think about it, maybe getting left wouldn’t be so bad. I kind of like it here, even though leadership is a lot of work.

I don’t know how familiar you are with Def Leppard. Now there’s a band that has seen some trouble. Sure, they sold more albums than just about anyone in the eighties. But they had tragedy, too. Steve Clark died of booze and drugs and Rick Allen, the drummer, lost his arm in a car crash.

After the scene at Home Depot I felt like Def Leppard in their darkest days, only without the album sales, the groupies or the fame. But the show must go on, you know. Look at Leppard. Those guys are still playing.

I was also trying to keep out of Sara’s way. The kid was worse than Prudence for projects. She had Earl doctoring Bertie and I knew she wanted to get me in there, too.

Sure enough, she asked if I’d help and I had to tell her I wasn’t feeling good. Which was true. I hadn’t had a drink for two days and was feeling a little rough. I didn’t have full-blown DTs. I’ve been there before and I highly recommend avoiding it. Sure, I had the shakes, and things that turned out not to be there kept flitting across the edges of my peripheral vision. But no full-blown delusions.

But even without DTs I wasn’t at the top of my game, health-wise. My head felt like it’d been stuffed into an old boxing glove and then pounded on by every middleweight within a thousand miles.

I couldn’t seem to update Celebutard, never mind Raging Metal. Some of my sources had been feeding me pictures and stories, and some of the material wasn’t bad, either, like the cell-phone video of
the supposedly sober Canadian celebrity falling down the stairs at a strip club in Vancouver, obviously out of his mind. I didn’t end up posting it. You know why? I felt sorry for him. It’s fucking hard being sober. It was starting to dawn on me that my days as a blogger might be numbered.