Authors: Nancy Means Wright
MAD COW NIGHTMARE
Nancy Means Wright
Ritchie was wearing black jeans ripped in the knees and a T-shirt that read
Death To Brits
on its soiled front. He’d bought it the one time he was in Ireland. When he bent to drop a paper full of droopy flowers on Nola’s tray table, she saw the black stallion on the back of his shirt. The beast was bucking, its hind legs kicking up, the man on its back gone sprawling, top hat and all—an Englishman, she supposed, toppled by an Irishman.
“Fifteen minutes,” the nurse said in a starched voice and, frowning, rustled out.
Nola understood the frown. Here they were in a Canadian hospital, with a picture of the queen on every wall! The queen wore a silly little pillbox of a hat on top of her bluish hair; the man in tights beside her was kissing her plump hand like it was a warm macaroon. Ha! To Nola, royalty was no better than poor Irish travellers like herself—in spite of the fancy carriages and the horse guards dressed to the teeth in velvet and lace.
“And where did you pick the flowers?” she said. “They got vases here, you know. Just ask the nurse. They might die, though, in the cold of this place.”
Nola was always cold, even though the nurse insisted the air-conditioning was turned down. It was because of the surgery, the nurse said: brain surgery was a delicate matter. Nola had been in critical, she’d barely come through, they said. She didn’t understand it. She’d simply collapsed one day on the New York farm and Ritchie dragged her over the border in his uncle’s truck and up to this Toronto hospital. Canadians took in every sick body was the excuse.
“Never you mind,” Ritchie said. Meaning he stole the posies off a cart or out of some florist’s window. And then, when she reached out for them, “Leave ‘em be—and get that white sack offa you, we’re outa here.”
“No, Ritchie, I’m not ready.”
They’d got the tumor (fancy that—she’d had a tumor, just in front of the left ear it was), but she still felt the weakness, the pain in the left temple. Besides, they fed her three meals a day here, they said she was anemic; she wanted to take full advantage before they tossed her out.
The next she knew he was in the locker, throwing jeans and shirt at her, her rosary beads, her black purse, then sucking up the lemonade on the tray table with a little smirk, damn him. She’d been drinking it slowly, to savor it, it had just the right sweetness. “Up,” he said. “Before the big nurse comes back. We gotta find Darren.”
“Darren doesn’t want to go back,” she said. Ritchie’s half brother, Darren, was fed up with the uncle’s harsh ways. He’d left the farm three weeks ago for Vermont where he had a cousin on his non-traveller mother’s side, and the cousin had got him work on a nearby farm.
“Uncle wants him back. And move your butt, we gotta hit the road.”
“Hit it how, the road?” she asked. Uncle would want his truck back, he wouldn’t want it going to Vermont. And their own pickup had died of old age the week before. She couldn’t believe Ritchie was doing this to her, with her only five days before collapsing outside the cow barn.
He didn’t answer her question.
“What about Keeley?” she asked. “I don’t want the boy left there alone.”
“I called Penny,” he said. “She’ll keep an eye on him.”
Penny was their neighbor and Nola’s friend; Keeley liked her. She was a counselor in Keeley’s school—when he went to school, that is. Keeley was as shy as a chipmunk caught dozing on your front porch. Now Nola’s twelve-year-old son was out for the summer and the neighbor had a part-time job—she couldn’t always look out for the boy.
Nola didn’t have to go to Vermont. She could ring the nurse, stay right here. She reached for the bell but Ritchie’s hand clamped down on her wrist. “You stay,” he said, “and you’re on your own when they dump you outa here. I wasted a week already waiting for you. Darren could be in Mexico, and no one to say where.”
She got up slowly—slowly was the only way she could do it. Tormey Leary was cheap; he’d never let them take the truck as far as Vermont, even if he did send Ritchie after his brother. If Ritchie expected her to walk, it might take a year—if she had a year to live. She staggered some, deliberately, on the way to the toilet. He didn’t try to catch her, he’d know she was putting it on. She heard the woman in the next cubicle groan—that one was just out of surgery— gallbladder or something. At least she was beyond hearing Ritchie’s talk. Nola looked at the puffy face in the mirror and grimaced. At thirty she was already getting lines from the hot work in the corn-fields. She’d balked, but Ritchie wouldn’t let up on her. He and his half brother had capital in the uncle’s place; he was in the will, he said, they had to make a go of it.
“Hurry up, will ya.” He was standing in the doorway, scratching his armpits, shuffling his feet. “No time for primping. You can do that on the road.”
“I gotta sign out at least,” she said. “I can’t just leave.”
“You can,” he said. “You definitely can.”
She was too weak to fight back. There wasn’t even the guts in her to grab that last hunk of cake from the plate on the tray table. And they’d left the posies behind. “My flowers,” she said, but Ritchie said, “Keep going.”
On their way out down the echoing corridor a woman shouted, “Don’t go! Bad luck if you go!” A man stepped out in the hall and narrowed his eyes at the dark-bearded Ritchie, but Nola felt it was herself the woman was speaking to.
Ritchie hustled her past the nurse’s station, where the nurse had her nose in a computer, down the elevator, and out into the lobby, where no one paid attention to them, no one at all. Outside she shut her eyes against the dazzle of the late June sun. The traffic coming and going sounded like the outer space she’d seen once in a Disney film where the stars and planets and asteroids all spun crazily about one another. Her knees gave way under the terrible weight of her headache.
She leaned on Ritchie and this time he had to let her; there was a cop standing on the corner. If Ritchie was scared of one thing in his life, it was cops. One day she’d dare to ask him why.
For now, she was his captive. They walked right past the cop and around the corner to the truck and no one said a word. She, for one, couldn’t have said a word if she’d wanted to, his arm was cramped so tight around her chest.
As usual, Colm had fallen asleep after they made love. It wasn’t that he wanted to; she could hear him straining to stay awake—all those groans and mutterings: “Love ya to pieces, Ruthie, let’s live together, let’s ... .” The leg and arm muscles shifting and twitching, and then the soft, sonorous breathing into her neck. And he was off to dreamland, leaving her wide, wide awake—all that adrenaline left over from the lovemaking.
Ruth was glad, of course, that they were lovers; it had been a long drought since Pete left—fully four years while she’d struggled with the farm and the three children. And Colm had waited all that time. Impatiently, yes, but waited—the old Irish bullshit about “no other woman” in his life since they’d first met in high school. Though when she called it “bullshit” he’d rear up on his hind legs and shout, “It’s not fair, Ruthie, to say that word when a guy bares his soul to you. Would you like me to say ‘You don’t mean it when you tell me you love me’?”
No, she wouldn’t. There were times when she had to back off and apologize. No more using the word “bullshit” now except out in the barn when she had to clean up the droppings. She got up to use the bathroom, was suddenly overcome with the heat. The sole air conditioner was in the bedroom and that one installed only this summer over her protests. Colm needed cooling, he said, to counteract the sweat that oozed the length and breadth of his body while making love. A normal Vermont summer had only four or five days in the nineties, but this summer they were already up to a dozen hot dry days and it was only the fifth of July. A suffocating thought.
She shoved open the window and the sound of an accordion poured in, and then a woman’s sweet soprano. Ruth had succumbed in a weak moment when Colm had brought along a distant cousin to fill in for her hired man, Tim, who was taking a year off to explore Alaska. But the cousin had arrived in a pickup more battered than her own beat-up Toyota and began to unload suitcases, tents, cooking equipment, musical instruments. Then out came a dog, a potbellied pig, and three human females: two adults and a ponytailed girl barely out of puberty. They looked like gypsies, but they weren’t gypsies, according to Colm: they were Irish travellers, whose forebears had come over after the First World War. Some had settled, like the herdsman Darren, who stemmed from a village in North Carolina; most were clannish and peripatetic and kept to their own kind.
Colm was quick to point out that
had no traveller blood: the kinship evolved through a perfectly respectable Irish grandmother who’d happened after the war to wed a handsome young traveller named O’Neill.
It was the younger adult, a thirtyish woman named Maggie, who was singing now—something about love and loneliness. They weren’t quite the right words for Ruth, who had found love these days but who still needed her space for quiet thoughts. This was the first summer in years, in fact, that she’d had the house all to herself. Teenager Vic was a counselor at a summer camp and Emily was spending a month at the Jersey shore with a college classmate. Daughter Sharon, as always, was at home in East Branbury, with a dozen chickens and three crowing roosters that were the butt of threatening phone calls each week but that Sharon and the grand-babies refused to part with.
The singing followed Ruth as she padded back into the bedroom, and grew louder still when she pushed up the window. Colm was asleep, sprawled now across the whole bed. He was a restless sleeper, had only recently had himself taped and wired head-to-toe to discover whether or not he had a sleeping disorder. It might be sleep apnea, he said when she laughed; she might find him dead one morning in bed—did she have no compassion?
She had no compassion at least for these relatives, who seemed already to have multiplied, for another female voice was joining in and it wasn’t the high-pitched tremolo of the younger sister, Liz, or the quavery soprano of Maggie’s grandmother, whom she envisioned squatting on the trailer steps, stroking her pet pig. This new voice sounded more mature, a kind of deep-throated contralto. A third instrument came in on the chorus of “Danny Boy”:
Oh Danny Boy, the shades of night are fa-all-ing. . .
and then a male voice, slightly off key, bellowing
Oh sweet Ellen-a-Roon . . .
It was too much. Too loud. Too jarring. They were revving up the cows in the pasture—she could hear the bellowings. Colm must wake up, he must go down and deal with them—never mind the sleep disorder. She shook him and told him so. “Colm, love—we can’t have this.” She snapped on the table lamp.
“Huh?” Colm looked startled, as though he’d seen an apparition. She supposed she did look ghostlike: hair hanging in her face, bags under her eyes she called udders—a joke, of course—but when she looked in the mirror they seemed to deepen and darken. Ruth hadn’t particularly worried about her appearance until she and Colm became sexual partners, and now she found herself taking surreptitious glances even in the shiny milk pans in the cow barn.
“Listen,” she said, and flung the window wide. One of the female voices hit a high C and Colm groaned. The males bawled an octave below. One of them attempted a harmony that came out a cacophony. A drum joined the chorus; then high-pitched laughter and more bellows from the pastured cows.
“Tomorrow’s Monday. Workday,” he murmured, but it was no excuse.
“They’re your relatives,” she reminded him. “And I work every day. I need the peace.” Colm yawned and started for the door. “You can’t go out naked,” she said. “They’ll think you want to join in the orgy.” She threw him his shorts. He sat back on the bed to pull them on, maddeningly slow, examining a mosquito bite on his leg, just when the outdoors sounded like a whole rock-and-roll band.
When the noise went on for another quarter of an hour she went to see for herself. In spite of the light from lanterns set up on plastic chairs, no one seemed to notice her standing there in bathrobe and barn boots. She was only one of a crowd of a dozen raggedy participants, all beating on makeshift instruments: pots, fry pans, metal waste baskets, glass bottles. A pale, thin woman was clapping spoons together to a sentimental melody that the traveller Maggie O’Neill was belting out an octave above everyone else.
And where was Colm? Why, leaning against the John Deere tractor, grinning ear to ear, his unshaved face pink in the fire the group had made in front of the travellers’ trailer. He was waving his hands to the rhythm of pots and accordion as though he were back on the old sod himself. She threw him a dark look but his eyes were on the woman playing the spoons—admittedly a beautiful woman: long lustrous black hair, curving cheekbones, and skin the color of milk. No, not milk but chalk, Ruth decided, for there was a sickly pallor about the face. Her hands were busy with the spoons but her dark violet eyes were gazing up at the half-moon as though any minute she would swing herself up on it and sail off to some quieter clime.