The Woefield Poultry Collective (13 page)

The kid came in when I was laying on the couch in the living room. It was maybe 1:00 in the afternoon or something. Prudence had gone out. Probably shopping for more supplies to turn this place into Green Acres. She wasn’t picking up pizza, I’ll tell you that much. She had us on a steady diet of beans and rice and this green leafy stuff that tasted like a vegetarian’s ass. The only good thing about Prudence’s healthy cooking was watching Earl’s face as he ate it. Anyway, while she was out, I took a break from my job, which was using a wobbly old wheelbarrow to move dirt from the big pile out front over to the new raised beds me and Earl started building as soon as he finished with the chicken house. There are eight of the damn things and she’s got plans for about a million more since she realized this place is basically dirt-free. There’s only a one-inch layer over top of rocks and more rocks. I took Prudence’s absence as an opportunity to lay on the couch to try and pull myself together. I heard the kid came in but I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

She walked just far enough into the room so she could see me on the couch.

“Can you help us with something?” she asked.

“Probably not.”

“But you don’t even know what it is.”

“Is it outside?”

She nodded. She had this clipboard in her hands. Like a, I don’t know, little wedding planner or a figure skating judge. Like she was taking notes on my performance. If I hadn’t been feeling so near death, that clipboard might have cheered me up.

“If it’s outside I can’t do it,” I told her. “I’m maxed on the great outdoors.”

“Oh,” she said.

From where I lay I could only see part of her. She was half hidden by the wall that divides the kitchen and the living room. She was really small.

“Me and Earl are trying to help Bertie,” she said.

“Who’s Bertie?”

“She’s the sheep.”

“Well, that’s very Christian of you. But Bertie lives outside. Ergo, I am unable to help.”

“You were outside a while ago. Pushing the dirt.”

“Too sick now.”

“Sometimes being outside makes people feel better.”

“Not in my case. I’m fairly sure I could die if I was exposed to any more fresh air or sunlight.”

During this conversation, she’d been inching her way into the living room so she was standing near my feet. She looked me up and down. She looked at the two cans of ginger ale beside me and the empty bag of Cheezies. I saw her eyes move to my laptop, which was sitting on the coffee table. I quickly minimized the screen shot of a woman who, according to the gossip site, may or may not have been Paul McCartney’s ex-wife, doing something unmentionable with a vegetable.

Then the kid stared at me some more. Her expression was hard to figure and I found myself feeling sort of, oh, I don’t know. Ashamed or something. But not in a way that made me mad at her. She looked at me like the guys in Leppard probably looked at Rick Allen when he wanted to give up because he didn’t think he could be a one-armed drummer. I sat up.

“Earl’s going to be in charge of the sheep,” she said.

“That’s good. That’ll keep him out of trouble.”

Not for the first time I felt glad to not be Earl. Sure, Bertie’s just one sheep, but who knows where that kind of responsibility could end? Probably with a flock of hundreds. Also, that sheep looked deeply troubled to me.

“There’s something wrong with her feet.”

“I guess Earl will have to fix them.”

“You ever read
Left Behind?
”

“What?”

“It’s a book,” she explained.

I thought maybe it was one of those kids’ books that kids are always reading. Like
Harry Potter
or some shit. I’m not a book guy really. I’m more into music and the Internet. I prefer TV to movies.

“No. I haven’t got to that one yet.”

“It’s about these people—” she started, but then she must have noticed me close my eyes. I felt like I was wearing a barrel filled with shattered glass over my head.

“I better go,” she said. And
poof!
she disappeared.

When she was gone, I lay back and closed my eyes. I was nearly asleep when Prudence came zipping into the room, the way she does.

“Change of plans,” she said.

What else is new, I thought. Far as I could tell, changing plans is all Prudence does. Actually, that’s not strictly accurate. It’s just that the second you finish one of her plans, she’s got another one right behind it. She’s a plan fiend, is what she is.

“The treatment center idea,” she said. “I’d like to move forward on that.”

“Treatment center?” I wasn’t sure I was hearing her correctly.

She stood at the end of the couch, right where Sara had been a few minutes earlier. She was practically vibrating with, I don’t know, energy or excitement or intention or something. For once she had on shoes instead of rubber boots. She was also wearing lipstick and her hair was in a neat little ponytail. I noted again that she was a seriously good-looking girl, kind of like Natalie Portman but broadcasting on a higher frequency.

“It was your suggestion and it was a brilliant one.”

“It was?” I’ve been known to suggest bogus plans as a means of getting people off my back. No one had ever taken me seriously before.

“I may have misspoke,” I said. The truth was that I’d been so hungover when we’d talked that I could barely remember the conversation.

“You’re going to create all the marketing materials for our treatment center on your computer. That’s what we’ll show the bank. So
they know we have a plan. It’s the only way they’ll delay our payment schedule.”

“Whoa!” I said, heart suddenly accelerating. “Just hold up a minute.” I groped around in my excuse bank for a decent objection. “But you aren’t really starting a treatment center here?”

“Not exactly. This is more of an interim measure to buy us some time. I told the bank I was opening a treatment center and now they want to see my business plan and income projections.”

“Holy shit,” I said.

“Don’t worry. Soon we’ll be self-sustaining and this won’t be an issue. We just need more time. This is where you come in. You’re good on the computer. We’re going to need a website and a brochure. It’s got to be professional enough to convince the bank that we’re for real.”

“Dude,” I said, “I’d love to help, but I think you can go to jail for doing shit like that. I’ve heard that banks are kind of humorless about fraud.”

She smiled.

“Seth, if I can’t get the bank to back off, they’re going to put the place into foreclosure. That means we’ll all be homeless. You, me, Earl and Sara’s chickens. We need more time and this is the only way we can buy it.”

“You’re serious,” I said, pulling at my hair and realizing that it needed a wash.

“The lady at the bank is expecting our plan tomorrow. If you need examples, you can look them up online.”

“Well, then, I guess I better get going.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“What the hell,” I said. I felt like Rick Allen the first time he picked up his stick after the accident and the band was so grateful. Essential. That’s how I felt.

Prudence grinned at me.

“Thanks, Seth. We make a great team.”

I pulled my hat down low because I didn’t want her to see my face when she said that.

You might not think it due to his hair, but Seth has a flair for design.

His brochure for Ocean’s Edge Treatment Center was extremely compelling. The text said it was a place of healing and change. First he wanted to call it Ocean’s Edge Healing Path Treatment Center, but I said that sounded too much like a spa.

“Does it matter that we’re not on the ocean?” he wondered.

“We’re on an island. That should be enough,” I said.

“You should promote it as an oceanside spa,” he said. “Go for full-on false advertising. That way when the poor bastards get here, they’ll be completely demoralized and ready for change. They’ll take one look at this place and hit rock bottom right away.”

“Seth,” I reminded him. “There’s nothing wrong with Woefield. And we aren’t going to have any actual clients. Other than you.”

“I don’t know, man,” he said, staring at the front page of his brochure on the screen. “Once people get a gander at this masterwork, you’ll be turning them away by the wasted busload.”

“No one is going to see the brochure except the bank lady,” I told him. “Just to be on the safe side.”

When I went to pick up the brochures from the copy shop where I’d had them printed, the tall, fleshy guy who’d taken my order heaved himself up from his desk. He wore a Pogues T-shirt. His hair was dyed black but light-brown roots showed at his greasy part. His skin had a gamer’s pallor.

He wiped a pudgy, short-fingered hand covered in nacho chip dust on his T-shirt.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m here to pick up a brochure.”

“Name?”

“Prudence Burns. I was in here yesterday to drop it off.”

His eyes, which were red rimmed, darted over at me.

“You’re the treatment center lady,” he said.

I cleared my throat.

“Ah, yes. That’s right.”

“You gonna have sex offenders over there?”

I recoiled. “Pardon me?”

“Kiddy diddlers? Rapos? Dudes who beat on their old ladies?”

“What? No. Of course not.”

“Your brochure doesn’t specify. Treatment centers get some sick bastards.”

“You
read
our brochure?” I said, thinking surely that must be an invasion of privacy.

“Had to read it to print it.”

He reached under the desk and pulled out a short stack of neatly folded, glossy brochures.

“So who are you treating then? Ex-cons?” he continued.

“No,” I said. I was starting to feel defensive about my fake treatment center. “It’s just for people with addictions. Mild ones.”

“For real?”

I nodded and took out my credit card.

“I looked you up on the Internet. You weren’t listed on there.”

“We’re new. Our website is under construction, so at the moment we’re just taking clients via word of mouth. And referral.” I looked over my shoulder, as though checking to make sure that I wouldn’t be overheard. “We’re kind of exclusive,” I whispered.

“No shit,” said the guy. “So you might get some stars and stuff in there. That’s cool, except good luck getting any privacy around here. Unless your patients are Howard Hughes and don’t come out of their
rooms, everyone around here’s going to be all up your ass wanting to know your business.”

“Great,” I said.

My plan was to drop off the brochures at the bank and beat a rapid retreat before Phyllis could spot me and start asking questions. I put the brochures and business plan into a large manila envelope and handed the package to the short lady behind the semicircular reception desk that divided the banking offices from the tellers’ counter. The receptionist was so short and the desk was so tall that she looked like a gnome.

“This is for Phyllis Snelling. She’s expecting it.” I turned to head quickly for the door.

“Wait!” said the small lady. “Are you the girl from the treatment center?”

All the people standing in the tellers’ lineup turned to stare. So did the various bankers and tellers milling around.

“Girl
with
the treatment center,” I said.

“Phyllis wanted me to let her know when you came in.”

The small lady’s head disappeared behind the desk when she got off her chair. As soon as she was out of view, I began to hurry toward the exit again.

“Prudence?”

Damn. Brady, the plumbing writer from the strawberry social, stood in the doorway, on his way in. He was dressed in work clothes and he beamed at me.

“You think any more about what I said?” he asked. “About teaching writing? We’d love to have a published novelist give us some pointers.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m not really much of a …” From the corner of my eye I could see Phyllis Snelling coming out of her office.

“You are too modest,” said Brady. “Don’t worry. We won’t take so much of your time that you can’t write.”

“How about you call me?” I said. “We can talk about it.”

“Already tried,” he said. “Your line wasn’t working. You got her hooked up now? Maybe a cell-phone number?”

“I’ll call you. I have your card. We’ll set something up.”

Phyllis Snelling was nearly on us.

“I got ideas,” said Brady. “You’d think plumbing wouldn’t give a guy a lot of inspiration for stories, but I’m here to tell you different.”

“Great,” I said. “Let’s talk soon!”

As Brady stepped away, Phyllis reached out her hand to shake mine with a strong, dry grip.

“Prudence,” she said.

“Oh hi!” The important thing was to maintain a positive and confident image.

Brady shouted from his place in the lineup. “Don’t forget to call! We need you around here. Me especially!”

I nodded and smiled.

Phyllis stared at him. I could practically see her making a note to go and revoke his line of credit.

“I left our brochures and business plan with the receptionist.”

“That’s great,” she said. Then she stepped in closer. People walked by in every direction. She eyed them as they walked past and lowered her voice.

“I was wondering,” she said. “Whether you handle young people?”

“Young?”

“Under nineteen? My sister’s daughter, Laureen, she’s showing … I mean, she’s got some … issues.”

“Issues?”

“Drugs,” said Phyllis quietly. “Not just pot either. Verna says she’s been taking other stuff besides. Ecstasy, I think it’s called.”

“I see.”

“She dresses strangely,” said Phyllis. “Striped tights and she’s got her hair cut into this weird shape. I think it’s because of drugs.”

“Hmmm.”

“So do you treat kids?”

“No,” I said firmly. “No kids. We aren’t licensed for them.”

She nodded her head sadly. “That’s too bad. Verna’s beside herself with worry.”

“That’s tough,” I agreed. “Give her my sympathies.”

Phyllis Snelling stepped in a little closer. “But you probably have addiction specialists on staff, right?”

I thought of our brochure. It mentioned certified counselors no less than three times.