The Woefield Poultry Collective (18 page)

“It’s fine,” said Verna with a tight smile.

The woman continued. “My name’s Portia. Sounds like the car, spelled like the outhouse.”

“Excellent,” I said, working to maintain my smile. I turned to Brady.

“You know me!” he said. “I’m writing a book about … Well, it’s hard to describe.”

“Just a word or two will be fine,” I said.

Brady’s sunny face grew thoughtful for a moment. “Well, it’s about a guy. He’s got some issues.”

“Pornhound,” said Portia, spelled like the potty. “Guy’s a perv. But it’s not a half-bad story. I gotta hand it to Brady. The story’s not half bad at all.”

I nodded, like I could easily imagine how a story about a pornography addict would be quite captivating.

Then I turned reluctantly to Laureen and Verna.

“And you two?” I asked. “What are you working on?”

“A mother-daughter memoir,” said Verna. “A healing story.” Without being asked, she elaborated. “It’s about how when trust is broken, only time and effort in a supportive environment will put things back together. Isn’t that right, Laureen?”

Laureen made a face like someone about to undergo a cavity search.

Her mother continued. “It’s about how when someone says she will be home at a certain hour, she better be home. And how if a parent finds rolling papers in a person’s purse, that person better have a good explanation, because that person’s parent doesn’t want to have to put a second mortgage on their house to send that person to goddamn treatment in California or some damn place.” Verna’s voice had risen enough that she’d managed to grab the attention of the others in the group, no mean feat.

“That’s got real dramatic potential!” said Brady.

“And sometimes that trust never comes back,” added Portia. “Like if the fucker takes up with some slut he met at the Jinglepot Pub.”

I waited for Marv to weigh in, but he was checking his BlackBerry.

“What do you think?” asked Verna. It took me a while to realize she was asking me. The supposed expert on the topic.

I thought for a moment. “Well …” I said carefully. “Working together on a project such as a book can certainly be, uh, useful. For establishing trust and a, uh, good working relationship. Which can be helpful.”

Verna was nodding. “Good. Because I’m just about at my wit’s end here. And we have nowhere to turn. I have got to get some cooperation from Miss Thing.”

Brady nodded. “Cooperation. Support. The Mighty Pens are committed to that. I know I wouldn’t have gotten to page ten without these guys cheering me along every step of the way.”

“How many pages is your story?” I asked Brady, happy to move onto a safer topic.

A small frown appeared on his face.

“Eleven. Well, twelve if things go well today.”

“Oh,” I said. “How long have the Mighty Pens been meeting?”

“I’m the founder. And I was on my own for the first six months. But then Marv came along and then Portia. After her separation, you know. We’ve been meeting for, oh, I don’t know, a year and a half or so,” said Brady.

“Wow,” I said, once again drawing upon my huge linguistic store. “That’s great.”

“Brady might only have eleven pages, but they’re really good,” said Portia.

“So what were you working on before the, uh, pornography project?”

“Been working on this the whole time,” he said.

“Well,” I said.

“I’m the prolific one,” said Portia. “My book’s nearly done. It’s six hundred and twelve pages now.”

I arranged my face into what I hoped was an admiring expression and turned to Marvin.

“I’m still in the planning stages. Making notes. Coming up with strategies,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. “Well, let’s get writing, shall we?”

“Prudence?” asked Laureen, putting up her hand.

“Yes?”

“Can I use the bathroom?”

“No, you may not,” said her mother. “You can wait until we get home. I’m not having you smoking out the bathroom window while I’m down here pretending to write a book!”

Laureen sighed so deeply she extinguished all the tea lights I’d put on the coffee table for atmosphere.

Brady looked confused.

“If anyone needs the bathroom it’s upstairs. And the rest of us can get started.”

There was a pause.

“Started on what?” asked Portia finally.

“A piece of writing,” I said.

“About what?”

“Why don’t you just start writing where you left off?”

“I didn’t bring the printout of my book,” said Portia. “It weighs a friggin’ ton and I’m worried that I’ll put my back out if I carry it too far.”

“I didn’t bring my laptop,” said Marv. “Brady said we were going to do creativity exercises to help us improve our skills. The kind you used to help you get your writing career going.”

I debated whether to tell them I had long since abandoned my writing career and moved into radishes and fraud, but decided the timing was wrong.

“Fine. No problem,” I said. I looked around the room, waiting for an inspiration to hit. “Why don’t we start with an exercise to help us to … write.”

They all stared, expecting more.

“… interesting characters,” I added.

They nodded in agreement.

“Let’s start by describing someone interesting.”

“Like someone we know?” asked Laureen.

“If you think you’re going to write about that loser you’ve been seeing you can think again,” said Verna.

“Fine. Whatever,” said Laureen.

Brady nodded intently. The perfect student. “I’ll write about my main character,” he said. “He’s got a lot of depth.”

“Excellent.”

“Can you hate the person you write about?” asked Portia.

“Sure,” I said.

“I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do,” said Marv.

“That’s cause you wouldn’t know an interesting person if one crawled up your ass and started sending smoke signals,” said Portia.

“Okay, let’s get started,” I said. “We’ll take, oh, forty minutes.”

The funny thing is that during that forty-minute exercise I wrote more than I had since I finished
The Sun Doesn’t Forgive
, even though I was also keeping an eye on what could only loosely be called my class. Of course, what I wrote were additions to my To Do list, with more detail about each item. I also got some insight into why Brady had only written eleven pages in one and a half years. He spent the entire forty minutes staring off into the middle of the living room with his pen poised over his piece of paper. Thirty seconds before I called time, he scribbled something.

Portia wrote so hard she pushed her pen right through her paper. She had covered at least ten pages.

Marv would write a few words, then check his BlackBerry. Write a few words, and surreptitiously check to make sure his fly was closed. Or scratch himself. Then he’d write a few more words before using the tip of his pinky finger to feel around in his nose.

Laureen started slowly and then began to write furiously. Verna kept sneaking glances at Laureen’s paper, until I suggested that everyone keep their eyes on their own work. Then she began writing almost as fast and as hard as Portia.

I heard a few muffled shouts and bangs from outside, but I figured it was just Seth helping Sara coach Alec Baldwin on how to pose for the judges. I was pleased to see him coming out of his shell and taking an interest in the animal husbandry side of things and leaving the house without being coaxed.

Right before it was time to call a break, the doorbell rang.

I smiled at the writers.

“I guess we can stop there.”

The doorbell sounded again, followed quickly by a knock.

I got up and opened the door. Earl stood on the porch. There was a cut over his eyebrow and there was blood and something brown and foul-smelling all over his green checked work shirt.

I chose not to ask about it.

“Yes?” I said.

“You need to come outside.”

“We have a few minutes to go here. Perhaps you could take care of whatever it is? I’m teaching a class.”

“What the hell are you teaching ‘em?” he asked, craning his head around to get a look at the Mighty Pens.

“Writing.”

“They don’t know how to write? At their age?”

“We’re working on creative writing.”

“Jesus,” said Earl. “That’s no way for grownups to spend their time.”

“Earl, I’ll be outside in a few minutes. We just need to finish up here.”

I closed the door gently but firmly in his face, and went back and joined the group.

“Okay. Let’s read our work, shall we? Who would like to go first?”

Brady put up his hand.

“Brady. Go ahead.”

He rubbed his forehead with his index finger a couple of times and studied his page.

“Any time you’re ready.”

He cleared his throat like a singer getting ready for a performance.

“It was rock hard,” he read.

“Oh my goodness,” I said and looked over at Laureen. She was pretending to be oblivious, but I could see the corners of her lips curving up.

“I don’t know though,” said Brady. “Do you think it might be better to say, ‘It was hard as a rock’?”

Verna flashed him a look of loathing.

“Either’s good,” I said. “Well done.” I offered up a little prayer of thanks that Brady was such a slow writer. “Anyone else?”

That’s when the shouting outside turned into screams.

I made one of those split-second decisions one must make sometimes.

“I’m afraid that unforeseen circumstances are going to require that we call it a night early. I’d like to suggest that you all take these character studies, work on them some more at home, and those who wish can bring them back for our next class.”

They all nodded.

“I just have to pop outside and deal with some, um, farming. Do you mind letting yourselves out?” I was already up and in the doorway. The writers stood and milled around uncertainly and I turned and headed for the door. I trotted down the porch steps and around the side of the house.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Seth lay on the ground. He had Bertie clutched to his chest like a favorite stuffed toy. Both of them were covered in blood. There were blood-matted bits of wool everywhere. Seth’s white Iron Maiden T-shirt was soaked. The entire area looked like an abattoir run by a blind man.

“Oh my goodness,” I said.

Little Sara stood on the side, her eyes huge. She had a death grip on her binder, unconsciously mimicking Seth and Bertie.

At first I couldn’t see any movement from the two combatants, partly because the light was fading, but then Bertie weakly kicked one hind leg. Seth made a low groaning noise.

“What’s happening here?” I asked, even though I was not at all sure I wanted to know.

“We got fired up from watching the video,” Earl said. “We were all set to shear her but she put up a hell of a fight. Kicked out with her front hoof when he was bending over and clipped him in the head. He bled like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

“So that’s Seth’s blood?” I said, feeling relieved.

“Some of the blood got in his eyes. That’s probably how he ended up nicking her so good. I’d say ten percent of it is her blood. Also, she crapped all over him.”

That explained the smell.

We needed a triage approach to the chaos. While I was deciding
whether to call a vet, a doctor or a cop, Brady and Portia and the rest of the Mighty Pens appeared around the corner. When they saw Seth and Bertie they took a step back in unison like a group of well-practiced line dancers.

I felt I had to explain.

“Seth was shearing our sheep. There was a small accident.”

“Killing that poor sheep, more like,” said Laureen. She turned to her mother. “
This
is where you want me to hang out? I’m going to end up on hard drugs if I spend too much time here.”

The look on Verna’s face said she didn’t entirely disagree with her daughter’s analysis.

“Gory, isn’t it?” said Brady, whose powers of description nearly rivaled mine.

“Reminds me of the last tiff I had with my ex,” said Portia. “Only in our case the blood was all his.”

“Right,” I said. “So as you can see, life is full of fodder for writers. I’m sure some of you will get a good story out of this.”

Brady nodded seriously.

“Now please excuse me. I need to call an ambulance.”

“He don’t need a goddamn ambulance,” said Earl. “Scalp wounds always bleed like hell. Look after the sheep.”

“Maybe if he let the poor sheep out of the Vulcan death grip,” suggested Laureen.

“Can’t let her go,” said Earl. “We’ll never catch her again. I don’t goddamn blame her.”

“Isn’t that bloody guy your pilot patient?” asked Verna, pointing at Seth.

“Are those maxipads on that sheep’s feet?” asked Portia.

One of Bertie’s silver duct-tape hoof protectors had come loose and the sanitary napkin beneath it flapped in the wind.

“That’s right. Seth is a recent alumnus of our program,” I said, trying to maintain a professional tone.

“What kind of program?” asked Brady.

Through all this, Marvin had been quiet. Too quiet. When he fainted
he hit the ground with a thud like a side of beef falling from a hook. We all turned to look. His slack face was the color of suet.

“Maybe it was the smoked salmon croissants he ate at his mutual fund meeting,” said Portia, a noticeable lack of compassion in her voice.

I wasn’t sure which emergency I should attend to first. I turned in circles a couple of times, like the chickens that were wandering all over the place. Alec Baldwin had made his way to the edge of the scene and kept darting in to peck at bits of bloody wool.

“How did the chickens get out?” I asked.

“Seth and Bertie broke the fence,” said Sara.

“Bertie ran right into it but he hung on. He’s got more grit to him than I would of thought,” said Earl.

Fortunately, the loose chickens helped to focus my attention.

“Sara, you and Earl get the birds while I deal with Bertie.” Portia was reluctantly helping Marvin to his feet.

Seth moaned.

“I’ll be right with you,” I said, attempting to sound comfortingly brisk and efficient, which is important in crisis situations.