The Woefield Poultry Collective (22 page)

I decided it was best to meet him on the road. Earl had let Bertie off the porch for some fresh grass and I didn’t want Dr. Eustace to see her. She still looked as though we’d put Hannibal Lecter in charge of her shearing and had hired the special effects team from
Night of the Living Dead
to bandage her. All for her own good, of course, but someone unfamiliar with the situation could misunderstand.

I admit that I was excited to be going out with a vet. Especially one with as much animal magnetism at Dr. Smith. Those lips of his … well, you know. Also, from a farmer’s perspective, it’s hard to imagine a more valuable friend. Only someone with a combine or a biofueled tractor might be more useful.

Naturally, I was looking forward to spending time with someone who was not only extremely attractive but also likely a fountain of knowledge about local agriculture. I could bounce my crop ideas off him and get hints about organic fertilizers and best practices in the region.

The date was even taking my mind off my nerves about the farmers’ market in the morning. I really only had radishes to sell and the ones I’d pulled to see how they were doing had been a bit small. That’s why I didn’t pull any more. I thought I’d let them keep growing overnight. I’d probably accidentally pulled a couple of runts. We had Burpee Whites, April Cross, Cherry Belles, Champions and White Icicles as well as Easter Eggs and several other varieties growing. I’d wanted to plant Early Scarlet Globes, too, but the seeds hadn’t arrived with
the others. All the varieties were supposed to be fast growers. I had prepared radish recipe cards to give away and a poster listing the history and nutritional properties of radishes for the front of the table. Not a lot of people know that radishes can help you clear your sinuses and that they are anti-inflammatories and were eaten by the Romans. This would all be added value for our customers and I hoped it would distract from the fact that radishes were all we had.

But back to the date. I wore a pretty summer dress with my yellow soy and silk cardigan over top, and I found myself shivering a bit in the breeze. There was no trace of the rendering plant, just the scent of new grass and fresh dirt. I took a moment to thank the powers that be for my great fortune in finding myself in such a place.

As I stood at the end of the driveway, trying to appear casual, a sign hanging on a fence post caught my eye. It was mostly hidden behind some weeds and a scrubby shrub. The letters had been haphazardly chip-carved and burned into a rough-sawn piece of board.

WoeFiEld, it announced with a marked lack of confidence or familiarity with the basic rules of capitalization.

A large, rusted nail had been used to affix the board to the post. I can’t stand to see things off center, so I scrambled across the dry ditch that lined the right side of the driveway and straightened the board. I told myself that when I had the time and money I’d replace the sign with something a bit more professional looking. Still rustic, of course, but more in keeping with the rest of the rapidly improving property.

For now, straightening would have to do.

I jumped back across the little culvert and lost a flip-flop. My bare foot slipped down into the ditch, which wasn’t quite as dry as it looked. Under the dry crust was a thin layer of swamp mud with the consistency of a particularly sludgy petrochemical by-product.

“Shoot,” I muttered as I picked up the recycled rubber-tired sandal with hemp straps I’d bought at the Fort Greene Flea Market, and then crouched down to try and clean my foot. I was just removing some of the mud from between my toes with a hand that was now as dirty as
my foot when I heard the vehicle approach. As I stood up quickly, I noticed movement in Seth’s mother’s home, which was directly across the street. A curtain fell back across the window as though someone had been looking out. The place had a steady stream of traffic coming and going during business hours. I wondered whether Seth’s mother ran some sort of hair salon. I made a note to ask him, because my hair was starting to need a cut and I’d feel less self-indulgent if I didn’t have to drive to have it done.

I was just slipping my shoe back on when an enormous white truck stopped in front of me. It had a reinforced, extra-wide box with four tires instead of the usual two on the back and an extended cab. I smelled diesel. The truck’s engine must have been vast to require the half acre of hood that covered it.

I could practically see the carbon belching out into the atmosphere and I wondered why a country vet needed so much extra horsepower to get around. Maybe he had to tow dead animals out of ponds or something.

The driver’s-side window rolled silently down. Actually, it might not have been silent, but I couldn’t hear it over the noise of the engine, which eclipsed the sounds of the birds in the trees.

Dr. Eustace’s perfect lips curled into a smile and his eyes crinkled. “Are you sneaking out?” he asked. “Keeping me a secret from your parents?”

“I thought I’d save you the drive up to the house. Global warming and all.”

His grin expanded.

I realized with surprise that I felt slightly giddy. It was an odd sensation since I almost never feel off balance. It’s just not part of my nature.

We stared at each other for another long moment. A motorcycle roared by and I had to step back as it drove down the road between us. It took several seconds for the noise from the bike to subside and then we were left with the low grumble of the truck. I wondered why Dr. Eustace Smith didn’t turn off the engine. Didn’t he know how damaging it was to let a vehicle’s engine idle?

“So you getting in?” he asked, still grinning. “Or should I come out there and get you?”

An odd, unfamiliar little quiver ran through my knees as I walked across the narrow, paved road.

When I walked into my house, my mom and Bobby were playing cards at the kitchen table. Well, cribbage. I don’t know if that counts as cards, due to the board game aspect of it. My mom acted as though she’d been expecting me.

“Hi, honey,” she said. Like we were just one happy family.

They were drinking rye and Cokes from pint glasses. I looked at them—my mom and Bobby and the rye and Cokes—and I realized that if I stayed for more than ten minutes I was going to get loaded. I’m not saying my mom made me drink, because she didn’t. I’m just saying that I knew I couldn’t be around the booze. Of course, part of the reason I went over there was because I was tired of the teetotaling approach and the working lifestyle in general. Still, the insight was a big revelation for some reason. My dad, Prince of Pubs, my mom, Aunt Elsie. We are the natives of a tiny island nation sinking into an ocean of alcohol.

I looked at my mom and Bobby, and the thought flashed through my mind that I wasn’t genetically cut out for being sober. That’s probably true for a lot of people attracted to the heavy metal lifestyle, with the obvious exception of straightedges such as Ted Nugent, who is a freak in other ways.

I didn’t want to start off with the news that I quit my job or at least planned to, so I just asked for a drink.

“Sure, honey. There are glasses in the sink.”

The kitchen was pretty messy, like always. I guess Bobby wasn’t any
more of a housekeeper than me or my mom. The funny thing about our house is that it looks more like a trailer than an actual trailer. It’s so rectangular and prefab and plastic it’s like the builder was trying to create an optical illusion of trailerness. I filled up a coffee mug with a mix of three parts rye and one part Coke. I downed it standing over the sink and then poured another one.

My mom asked if I’d eaten and I said no. She asked if I wanted to join them, and I said sure. She said there was some Hamburger Helper in the cupboard and I could put a can of tuna in it.

And I said, at least I think I said, “You won’t even cook for me? I’ve been gone for weeks.”

“We’re playing crib, Seth. Just make the food. You’re not helpless.”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but I kind of fucking am.”

Her and Bobby looked at me then.

“I’m quitting my job,” I said. “And moving back in here.”

That’s when Bobby decided to pipe up. I couldn’t even look at him, partly because the rye was having this very instant and extremely negative impact on my eyesight and partly because I was afraid of what I was going to see in his mustache.

“Seth, your mom wants to see you become more independent.”

“Whatever, man. She’s also interested in winning the lottery and getting on Home and Garden TV for her crafts and we both know that shit’s not happening.”

“We know you had a tough break there. With your teacher. But your mom and I have been talking and she feels like she let you overreact.”

“Overreact?” I said. I could feel myself shaking all over. This fucking mustache-wearing, helicopter-parts-selling dickweed having the balls to talk like he knew anything about what happened to me.

“So you were embarrassed,” he said. He could see that I was on the edge and he didn’t sound so sure of himself.

“Bobby,” said my mother. I don’t know whether she meant for him to stop or she was just trying to get a word in edgewise.

“Embarrassed? You think I was
embarrassed?
You fuck,” I said. “You total fuck. Don’t you talk to me about being embarrassed.”

“Seth,” said my mother. “Go to your room. Calm down.”

“Go to my room? I can’t even get in there because there are fucking rotors all over the place.”

“Go to the living room, then,” she said. “Cool down. I’ll make us some Hamburger Helper. Then we can talk.”

Bobby was trying to look stern, but he wasn’t looking me in the eye. I thought about putting a fist through one of the walls, but last time I did that, not long after all the shit with the drama teacher happened, I hit a stud and broke my wrist. Hurt like a bitch and I could barely use my computer for a month.

Instead I downed a second mug of rye and Coke, poured another one and walked into the living room. I could see my mom and Bobby sitting in the kitchen, but at least it was dark in the living room with the curtains closed and I was sort of alone. I thought about what Bobby said. Embarrassed. Was that all I was? It sure felt worse than that.

The drama teacher came to our school when I was in eleventh grade. It’s a terrible, shitty story and I fucking hate telling it.

Anyway, I took her class as an elective. I guess I was sort of interested in doing music or set design or something a little different. Maybe get a job doing concert production or something. Plus, my marks were for shit and I thought drama might be an easy credit. Those fruitcakes in the drama department all seemed to have A-plus-plus averages. At least to hear them talk they did.

So I walked into drama class and my connection with this teacher was instant. Sparks like flamethrowers. It was crazy. Like nothing I ever experienced before. Right away, she took a special interest. Now you have to understand, man. No one was taking a special interest in me at home or anywhere else right then. I had a few buddies and I had my music and I spent a lot of time online, but I wasn’t too connected to other people. People thought I was a burner, but I wasn’t really because smoking pot fucked up my drinking and made me paranoid. Basically, I just went to school and drank at home sometimes with my mom and the Prince of Pubs or once in a blue moon I went out with some guys. Mostly I drank in front of the computer.

Pretty soon me and the drama teacher crossed the line. Like Vili and Mary Kay, only I was seventeen, not like twelve or whatever, and she wasn’t a full-fledged crazy. Also, we weren’t officially having sex, but it was close. She let me do stuff to her and she did stuff to me. I don’t want to get into all the Bill Clinton details. Anyway, she said I had potential in all these different areas. If I learned to play the guitar better she said she could see me fronting a band or if I got better at writing, maybe being a reporter for like
Revolver
or
Metal Maniacs
or even a more mainstream magazine, like
Spin
or
Rolling Stone
or something. She believed I could be somebody, as crushingly lame as that sounds.

In addition to our personal time in the drama room, which really got her going, we also hung out in her car. I started writing songs and singing them to her. They were mostly pretty terrible, I admit, but she dug them. She said I had more passion than even
I
knew. Which I know makes no sense but felt really
true
somehow and deep. During that period, I wasn’t drinking too much because, I don’t know. I just wasn’t.

She was working on the big school production of
Jesus Christ Superstar
, which I thought was cool. Sebastian Bach starred in that show on like Broadway at one point. Anyway, I was helping with the sound system, and I was learning a lot. The whole year was like this blur of feeling. I loved her. She didn’t look like anything much, to be honest. I mean, she wasn’t all
Real Housewives
or anything. She was maybe forty, short hair, black clothes, not too skinny or anything. But she had this animal quality to her and she made me feel like I had potential.

A week or so before the play was due to start she broke up with me because she said she couldn’t afford to lose her career or her marriage. Yeah, she was married. To some stiff who worked for the credit union. Poor bastard. Anyway, when she dumped me I guess I lost it. It was like I’d been floating down a stream and all of a sudden I went over a waterfall and into some class five rapids. My shit spun out of control pretty much immediately.

I said some things to her and she fired me off the production, “for both our sakes,” as she put it. But I wouldn’t leave it alone. I called her
house and hung up when her husband answered. I wrote her letters and dropped them on her desk. I left single flowers under her windshield wiper. It was almost unbelievably lame and sad. The night of the premiere, or whatever, I got loaded and went down to the school. My memory of the night’s a little sketchy, but I’m pretty sure every person in Cedar was there. I was too shittered to notice that little detail, unfortunately.