The Woefield Poultry Collective (20 page)

After some discussion with the clerk, during which I revealed my ignorance of metric and standard farm measurements, I bought enough tape fencing and posts to make a quarter-acre enclosure.

“The good thing about this kind of fast fencing is you can move it around,” she told me. She was a woman in her thirties with sun-damaged
skin and an opt-out approach to fashion. “Once your animals have eaten down an area, you can move the fence somewhere else. If you have the room to do that.”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do,” I said. “We definitely have the room.”

When she finished writing the receipt, she said, “Are you the girl who moved into the old Woefield place? Harold’s daughter?”

“Harold’s niece,” I said.

“Hell,” she said. “I knew Harold. He was a good guy.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“You’re the one putting in the halfway house,.”

“Pardon me? I mean, no, that’s not correct.”

“House for wayward girls? Ex-cons?”

“None of the above,” I said. “I better get going. Our sheep is unwell. We need to get the fence up as soon as possible.”

She handed over the receipt. Her fingernails were dirty. “Someone at the counter will ring you through. Then you can drive around back to the warehouse and we’ll load up your truck.”

Sara joined me at the counter, carrying buckets and a welter of rope and colorful nylon webbing.

“Is that everything?” I asked.

She nodded, solemn under her fishing hat.

“I think Bertie’ll look nice in this.”

She’d picked out a bright purple halter decorated with rhinestone trim. I wasn’t sure it was in keeping with Bertie’s sheepness, but staff must be allowed to express their ideas.

“I’m sure she will.”

As we joined the lineup I overheard a snippet of conversation between the clerk and her customer.

“Should castrate ‘em,” said the clerk. The customer, an older man wearing patched work pants, nodded in agreement. “Just cut ‘em right off.”

I thought about saying something about how I didn’t know April was when the animals got neutered or fixed or whatever it’s properly called, but decided to hold my tongue.

“Now I know how them nimrods feel,” said another clerk, who was loitering around in the cash area not even attempting to look busy.

“I think you mean NIMBYs,” said the one operating the till.

“Yeah, that’s right. The ‘don’t put your garbage in my yard’ people. Sex offenders and drug fiends staying right in our backyard.”

They all seemed to notice me at once and fell abruptly silent. Had they been talking about me? About my fictional treatment center? How did they all know?

“Makes me sick,” muttered the clerk.

“Should be a law,” said the one at the till.

This was ridiculous. I was offended on behalf of my imaginary clients.

So you want people suffering from addictions to just die?
I imagined saying.
Doesn’t the Bible say something about being kind and understanding?
I had no evidence these were religious people, but since they were making incorrect assumptions about me and my treatment center I felt justified in making a few about them.

After the farmer left, the clerk rang me through with a noticeable absence of small talk. I got no opportunity to defend Woefield or the need for residential treatment facilities.

“Thank you very much,” I said in a stiffly formal tone as Sara and I walked out. The thing that kept me from being too upset was the idea that they’d all be coming to me for advice once they realized that Woefield was a marvel of sustainability and productivity, probably as a result of our performance at the farmers’ market.

I was already on edge after the thing with Bertie. Like I said, my back was royally screwed and my headphones were busted and not drinking was grating on my nerves, but I was outside anyway like some damaged old indentured farmhand. I was thinking there must be some way to chase Bobby and his helicopter parts out of my room. Maybe I could set up the old tent in the backyard. Anything was better than getting worked to death.

Prudence brought home all this fencing and asked Earl and me to put it up. She didn’t ask about my back or my headphones or anything. She was acting like I was her kid or something, which was bullshit since I’m only three years younger than her. I didn’t take it personally, though, since she acts like that with Earl too and he’s as old as most of the mineral deposits around here.

“Shouldn’t you stick around to supervise?” I asked. I was starting to get nervous about doing stuff by ourselves.

“Sara can do it,” she said.

“Sara is going to supervise?”

I turned to look at Sara, who was standing slightly behind Prudence and staring at me like I was some kind of creature in a zoo. Not a wart-hog or a masturbating chimp or anything, but more like something she’d never seen before.

“Sara, how old are you?” I asked her.

“Eleven.”

“How much fencing have you put up?”

“I watched my dad fix our fence once. After he ran into it with the lawnmower and broke a board.”

“So none.”

Prudence just smiled affectionately at me and said the coffee was made.

When I got to the house, Earl was sitting on the porch with a cup in his hand. Every time he took a sip he made a face.

“Something wrong with the coffee?” I asked, even though I knew the answer. Earl’s one of those guys who likes hot water with a bit of old dishwater thrown in. Prudence makes coffee that could burn the nuts off a lumberjack. She said she’d been a barista in New York at one of those places that considers coffee making this high art form.

Earl muttered something about drinking engine grease.

“It’ll give you energy for putting up fences,” said Prudence. “The three of you should have no problem. This type of fencing is extremely easy to install.”

Earl muttered something about not for goddamn monkeys, probably unconsciously picking up on my earlier zoo thoughts.

“What are you going to do?” I asked her.

“I’ve got some things to take care of.”

Before I could tell her that I was worried my back injury might turn into a chronic pain–type condition if I were to mess it up further while putting up fences, which I was certain was backbreaking work, as well as the worst and hardest job on any farm besides shoveling shit, she was gone.

Fine, I thought. I’ll put up fences but if I end up crippled, I’ll sue. Get an addition put on my mom’s piece-of-shit house, climb in there with a lifetime supply of beer, vodka and Pringles, and an Internet connection, and never come out. Of course I knew Prudence and the farm had shit-all in the way of assets and probably no insurance, so I’d be screwed, but a guy likes to dream.

I told her before we even started that tape fencing was no good for sheep. A sheep’ll just put her head under it and push on through. Sheep are slipperier than people think. When they want to get someplace only a few things’ll stop them. Electric fences won’t do it. You got to have that special sheep fencing.

But Prudence didn’t listen. Said how Bertie didn’t have a fence at all before and she didn’t go nowhere. I knew that the only reason was because she was too goddamn depressed.

I didn’t tell Prudence that, though. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that people don’t change their minds. Not when they get them made up.

The whole thing put me in a hell of a mood. Last time I did any fencing was the last time I saw Pride. The band was home from tour for two weeks. That was rare, because Merle wasn’t one to take time off. People think life on the road is all fine hotels and fancy women. Hell, that’s what I thought when I first set off with Merle and the boys. What did I know? I was only sixteen. Life on the road is all bad food and arguing over small stuff and gig after gig.

But Pride never minded the road. He said he liked to get out of Kentucky and he was one of them guys that liked to meet new people. People liked him back, maybe more than they liked Merle, which might a been part of the trouble.

Anyway, we were gone for a good three months. Pride stayed behind with Penny, our older sister, who kept the place up when we were on the road.

Almost as soon as we pulled in Merle told me to get to mending fences. He was tyrantical like that. But I didn’t argue. I was so glad to get out of that car and away from them boys.

I looked around for Pride and asked Penny and she said he was on a run. I don’t think I knew what she meant until I saw him. I was out in the back pasture nailing up new boards when up comes Pride. He was walking like he had a helluva wind at his back, all sideways and tilted. When he got closer I could tell he’d been drunk a long time. His face was yellow and his whiskers was patchy. You had to look hard to see the charm.

He said, So you’re home. His eyes were so wet from the drink it was like he was crying.

I said yessir, because I was used to talking to Merle.

He asked how the tour was and I said it was okay. Long.

He asked if they liked me and I said I guessed they did. Enough, anyway.

Of course they liked you, he said. Kid like you up there with the band.

He was right. The audiences liked me and for just the reason he said. I could play. I could sing. And I was a kid.

I asked how everything was with him, just to change the subject.

He sat down in the grass. I guess fell might be the better description. He pulled a bottle out of his pocket.

He said he didn’t think he was cut out for life on the farm.

I told him I’d switch with him. I said I’d do it in a minute. That I’d rather fix fences than stay on the road with Merle and all his orders.

Pride threw his head back and laughed. He was a handsome man, even when he hadn’t drawn a sober breath in a month. Maybe I’d have liked the stage better if I looked like my brother Pride.

I told him I’d talk to Merle. See about getting him back with the band. He could take my place. I said Merle was probably done being mad at him by now.

I thought Pride would just laugh. Or that he’d say he didn’t care. But instead this little gleam came in his eye. I think it was hope. Give me a funny feeling, that look did.

He said for me to finish up here and get the fences mended. That he’d go and talk to Merle himself. He said maybe the three of us could play.

He pushed himself off the ground and brushed off his trousers and rubbed his face, like he could wipe off all the signs of hard living. Then he headed to the house and I could see he was making an effort to walk straight.

I hammered up the rest of the new boards and reattached the ones’d fallen down. And when I got back to the house it was all over and Pride was gone.

I’m not sure if you can get left behind for who you spend time with. Like for instance, when I helped Earl and Seth put up the fences, they swore A LOT. It was f#$& this and f^%@ that. At first they said sorry to me because I’m young, but later they got so mad at each other that they even forgot to say sorry anymore.

Earl hated it when Seth kept dropping the fence posts so he could hold his back and talk about how much it hurt. I thought Earl might pass out a couple of times because his face went all red and his eyes bulged. He said how the fence posts only weighed a few pounds. Then Seth called him dude and told him to keep it in his pants because he, Seth, was injured. I’m not sure why he mentioned Earl’s pants. Anyway, then he dropped all the stuff he was holding and walked off a ways and lay down. I don’t know if he stared up at the sky or not because he had his mirrored sunglasses on. Me and Earl were just left standing there.

Earl said some more swear words and kicked the dirt.

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything and just thought about God, which the pastor at Bethany’s church said you should do when the road gets rough.

I wondered if God would let me win at the fair this year. Mr. Lymer says my frizzles are top-notch, but there’s a lot of competition. Seth still thinks Alec Baldwin could win, but I told him there’s no way. Alec has started to get some white feathers on his rear end and that’s an automatic disqualification.

“We’ll pluck them out. Dye them,” he said. “No white feathers. No problem.”

I never thought of that because it’s cheating.

When Seth got up again after a few minutes, he grabbed the post again. But now Earl started swinging the big hammer sort of close to Seth’s hand and even sometimes near his head.

“Jesus Christ, dude!” yelled Seth, swearing
and
taking the Lord’s name in vain, after the hammer just barely missed both his head and his hand. “Watch what you’re doing!”

Earl said Seth should shut the hell up.

And Seth said there was a fucking kid present and don’t tell him to shut the fuck up.

You know what’s weird? They were yelling and everything and my stomach didn’t hurt. Not at all. I think it’s because they like each other. I mean, they don’t like each other very much. But it was like they were playing a game to see who could be more mean and cranky. It wasn’t real.

I said I could hold a stake because Seth was complaining so much, and he said, “That’s okay, Squid. You might get your finger caught.”

Which was really nice. Like all at once he went from mad and yelling to being worried about my finger and he called me a funny nickname, which no one had ever really done before. My dad could never do that. Once he’s yelling, he’s yelling at everyone. The night before my mom had served tuna surprise casserole and he threw his plate on the floor because he said he hated casseroles. It broke and made a big mess. If I went to pick it up, which I didn’t in case he threw something else, there’s no way he would have been worried that I’d cut my hand.

After my dad threw the casserole, my mom went and sat in the car by herself and I went to my room and read
Left Behind
. When we came out again he’d cleaned up the mess. I sort of hoped he’d cut his finger. Which wasn’t nice and was the kind of thinking that could get me left behind.

I like Seth. I even think I might have feelings for him, just like some of the girls at school do about Shia LaBeouf. I think Seth may be a
musician. He dresses like one and is kind of misunderstood and is pretty skinny now that his tummy isn’t fat anymore. It’s too bad that I like him because he has no hope of getting Raptured when end times come. I wouldn’t miss my dad, but I’ll definitely miss Seth and maybe even Earl, who also nodded when Seth said that thing about not wanting me to hit my finger.