Mad Cow Nightmare (22 page)

She smelled the burning toast and something burned inside her brain. She ran to the cupboard and took out the old .22 revolver her father had given her when she came out of the closet and he realized she’d be living without a man in the house.

A woman could kill, oh yes, if it came to the loss of someone, some creature she loved. “Go away,” she said. “You’re not taking my mare. Go away.” She lurched forward, waved the gun. If that old traveller woman could do it, so could she.

The men backed off, shrugging. One of them giggled, like he didn’t think she could pull it off, this shooting, and she shot over his head but heard only a click. The revolver had no bullets—she’d meant to buy some, but kept putting it off. The men smiled and pretended to be frightened. They said, “Oohh,” then got in the truck and drove it up the path to the barn. “We’re just doing our job,” one of them called back. “You gotta sick mare, she got to be tested.”

Franny and Henrietta ran after them, shouting, pummeling the men on butt, back, and shoulders. The men laughed. They’d just been hired to drive a truck, they said, but they knew a mare from a stallion. One of them led a whimpering, snorting Ophelia out to the van and, too overwhelmed even to cry, Franny jumped in after. If they were taking the mare, they’d take her.

Henrietta climbed heavily up onto the tailgate. “I’m coming too,” she cried. “Give me a hand, Franny.”

“Get out, out!” Franny hollered. “Who’s going to take care of the other horses? You stay home, Hen, and try to drum up bucks if they throw me in jail.”

“Crazy,” Franny heard one of the men say, as Henrietta got out and wailed beside the van. “Nutty’s a fruitcake.”

“What’d you expect—they
are
fruitcakes,” the other said and they both guffawed.

“Brutes!” Henrietta picked up a fallen branch and swatted the fellow with it.

Franny balled her fists. If she’d only bought the bullets. If she got through all this intact, if she got Ophelia back, the pistol would never, ever misfire again. A woman had to protect herself. “Never ever,” she told the mare, and she covered the mare’s flank with kisses.

* * * *

The uncle was lodged in town in the Branbury Inn. He was staying there while they did the autopsy on Ritchie’s body. He had his computer, he said, he could keep in touch with his foreman by e-mail. With his cows in quarantine, what could he do back in Tonawanda “but chafe at the bit?” He’d made reservations for Keeley as well, but Maggie insisted the boy stay with her and Darren. Ruth hadn’t heard the boy object.

They met for a drink at the Branbury Inn. The uncle had suggested Ruth’s house, but she wanted to keep the interview on neutral ground. The inn was a nineteenth-century building, decorated with oriental rugs, mahogany paneling, and Early American reproductions. Tormey was seated on a bar stool when she arrived, in loud conversation with the female bartender. They were talking weather: how hot it was, how dry, how cold here in winter. The uncle was thinking he might settle here; it was always snowing in     Buffalo. The bartender was smiling. The uncle was personable, leaning forward with his drink, elbows on the polished bar. It was three o’clock, he was the only customer.

Ruth came up behind him. “Shall we take a table?” She didn’t want the bartender part of their conversation, although the uncle spoke so loudly the bartender probably would be—along with anyone else who came into the room. Ruth was sorry now she hadn’t met him in her kitchen.

“Why, hello there,” he said, getting up, his face florid from the drink—something foamy and yellowish. He’d had more than one, that was obvious. He grabbed her hands as though they had been long acquainted and she felt suddenly woozy, almost sick to her stomach. Why was she here anyway—what did she hope to find out from this man?

He ordered a drink for her, didn’t ask what she wanted. It would be a surprise, he said—his favorite drink. Women liked it, he added, winking at her, as though he’d offered it to a hundred women and they all got down on their knees to thank him for it.

“Iced coffee, please, if you have it,” she told the bartender, “and I’ll pay.” She wanted no gifts from this man whom she instinctively disliked.

The first question that came to her mind was “Where were you on the night of. . . .” But that was too blunt, too obvious. So she began with his background. She’d like to know more about him, she said—as a fellow dairy farmer, like herself, in trouble. That was the approach she’d take.

“Well, born and raised in Carolina when my mother left my old man, but eventually moved north to the family farm. I was the only one of three willing to take it on, back in ‘94 when the old man passed on.”

Ruth could relate to that. She didn’t think any of her own three would take over the farm. Her Vic seemed completely allergic to cows these days. She’d received a postcard from him recently, picturing a sandy beach with girls in skimpy bikinis hanging out on it. “Love this sweet ocean,” he’d scrawled, “like to spend all summer here.” Ye gods. Was this her innocent young Vic?

She asked about Ritchie and Darren, and he told her the story: How he took in his sister’s boys after her illness and after Ritchie’s father was first jailed in Virginia for a series of burglaries. “Wasn’t easy, I’m telling you. Darren—he was a good boy, stubborn sure, but a hard worker. But that Ritchie. Jesus H. Christ. A troublemaker. Always minding
my
business, he was. Never liked the farm. Kept running back to Carolina, taking Darren with him. One day—” He stopped, pressed his lips together, took a long swallow of his foamy cocktail. His fingers traced a scratch in the tabletop.

“Yes?” she said. “I understood he was in some trouble. Maggie mentioned something about roofing repairs, dunning people?”

“Oh that,” the uncle said. “That’s the least of it. That’s the traveller influence. The father’s side. The father’s mother was a whore.”

Ruth was taken aback. “Literally?”

He leaned a scarred elbow on the table. He liked to shock. “Well, she didn’t live in a brothel if that’s what you mean. But she liked her men. Anyway—what was I saying? Well, my sister and I was close till she started to get funny in the head, and then she gave up her part of the farm. And my brother and I had that, uh, misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding over—?”

“Land. Just land. The farm. We inherited it together after my sister pulled out, see? Split down the middle—only Mike, he wasn’t interested in farming. So I farmed it and Mike took some of the profits. But I wasn’t about to give him half. I did the work, right?” His face grew coarse, impassioned as he spoke, his voice bitter. He tightened his hands around his glass. “And Mike stalked off. Went off to Alaska—something about a fishing boat. But the boat sunk and Mike with it. He didn’t need the land then, right? It was just and right I got the farm.”

“Your sister gave up her rights. But what about Darren and Ritchie? Were they next in line?”

“Yeah, oh sure. But it’s mine long’s I live. It’s in the will,” he added in a half shout.

“You’d like Darren back, I understand. You sent Ritchie to fetch him.”

“You bet I did. Darren’s a good worker. I need him. Farm’s all his now when I kick off—only one interested, only heir I got.”

“What about Nola? With Ritchie gone?”

He bit his lower lip, looked contemplative. Then he banged his glass down on the table. “They wasn’t married, was they? Nothing legal there. Nope, when they clear up all this mess, land goes to Darren.”

“And to Maggie? Maggie helped on the farm, didn’t she?”

“No, no, not a hell of a lot. Well some, maybe. She did some cooking. A lot of singing.” He smiled. It was the first smile she’d seen from the man.

“Nola worked there, too?”

He shrugged. “Nola was okay—though she had an attitude— know what I mean?”

Ruth didn’t know. She waited.

“Well she helped where she could, cleaned the barns—some of that. Tried to make up for Ritchie. Ritchie didn’t pull his oar.”

Ruth was amused by the water metaphor. “Even though he was in the same boat with you.”

The uncle didn’t get the pun. “Right. Made more trouble’n he was worth, even as a kid. Like this accident he caused—tractor. Tore my arm half off! Can’t lift it above my head. It was Ritchie’s fault. He wants to drive, see, and I says no, but he jumps in the seat and roars off and I jump up to stop him and he keeps going, fast, and Holy Christ! my arm’s caught in the wheel!”

He raised his arm in its white short-sleeved shirt to show he could only lift it to the height of his shoulder. He looked grim. Angry. There was a fresh scar, as well, on the arm that ran from his elbow to his neck, as though someone or some machine had attacked him there.

She pointed it out. “Ritchie did that, too?”

He stared at her, unanswering. She kept her eyes on him. He said, “Not Ritchie. How in hell could Ritchie done it when Ritchie’s dead? Scar’s got nothing to do with Ritchie, or anyone else for that matter. I fell out of bed, ‘at’s all. I’m diabetic, I got poor balance. Slipped on the rug night before I came here. Bleeding like hell, but okay, okay, I can tolerate it.” He sat up straighter in his chair, stared belligerently at her.

“And when was that?” she asked. “When did you leave for Vermont?”

He blinked, seemingly confused. “It was a Thursday,” he said finally. Then drew in a quick breath: “No, I was in the Horizons Bar Thursday. Left home Friday, sure.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “It was after Darren called me about Ritchie. That’s when I come here. Why’d I want to come any sooner?”

She cupped her hands around the glass of iced coffee. Waited.

“Well, I’d sent Ritchie to fetch Darren. All them bloody feds on my farm. Hey, look, lady, I was fighting for my farm. I’m still fighting. They took my Friesian cows, got the rest quarantined, goddamn ‘em, the sumbitches. Why’d I want to come here any sooner? Answer that.” He glared at her, stuck out his lower lip. He hadn’t shaved that morning, the chin hairs bristled. She heard his shoes squeak when he shuffled his feet.

It wasn’t a question one could answer. Ruth smiled grimly, thinking of Ritchie, his violent death, according to the coroner, the way the mare’s reins had been wrapped three times about his neck.

“You’ll have to tell me,” she said, and sipped her iced coffee. It tasted warm and bitter, as though the coffee beans hadn’t been fully ground, the ice already melted; and she left it in the glass.

Chapter Seventeen

Home, Ruth found six women seated in a circle on her lawn. They were dressed in black pants or skirts, black blouses—one wore absurd patent leather pumps with purple trouser socks. Each had a red circle painted on her forehead. Ruth felt crippled, unable to get out of her truck. It was like a time warp, back to an earlier century—the bubonic plague, the red circles on the doors to mimic the rosy rings on the plague-ridden bodies. “Ring around a rosy,” she thought: the nursery rhymes that children sang, unaware. “Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.”

Now the women were singing the words, their high voices splitting the quiet of the hot summer air. They were acting out the words, standing on tiptoe, waving their black cloth arms in the air; then, at a signal from the leader, falling down on the grass and lying facedown, as though dead. One of them had a sign on her back:
GYPSIES MUST GO.

Down in the pasture she heard a wailing sound, as though the travellers had already been stricken. Over by the barn, Boadie crouched in front of the calf pens, mouth open, body trembling with fear. She could oppose a man coming for her beloved calves; she didn’t know how to confront a superstition.

Ruth’s heart was pumping hard—not with fear but with rage. The leader was her sister-in-law, Bertha: old superstitious Bertha, with her church cronies. Ruth jumped out of her truck, slammed the door, and charged ahead. “You get off my lawn, you Neanderthals! At once! How dare you come here and frighten my guests. Go!”

Guests, yes, the travellers were guests on her property. They were taking sanctuary here, they had every right. She would not have them frightened off. She yanked Bertha up by the sleeve of her black polyester blouse, looked her in the eye. One of Bertha’s black pumps twisted as she rose. Bertha said, “Ow, quit that, Ruth.”

“Then leave. Right now. And take these foolish women with you.”

“When you send those gypsies away,” Bertha whined. “They’re the ones causing the trouble.” Her plump arm swung out in the direction of the trailer, came back full circle to point at Boadie. She clutched at Ruth’s sleeve; her knees bent, and wobbled. “Send them away, Ruth. For your own good. Then close off the farm. Get rid of these sick cows. That’s what they’re telling you to do. Did you read today’s paper?” The red painted lips spit out saliva.

Ruth stepped back, she had a pain in her stomach. “What in today’s paper?”

“All those letters. To the editor! Oh, not my work, Ruth—other folk. Other farmers. They’re all afraid. Of what could happen to their own animals. It’s not fair, Ruth. You’ve got to think of others. You can’t be so selfish. Think of your children, Ruth, my nieces and nephew. I called my brother about it—Pete still owns part of this farm, you know that. He wants you to let the cows go. It won’t be so bad. The land will be in quarantine for a few years, then it can be used again. You can start over, Ruth.”

For the East Warren shepherds it was a six-year quarantine. No animals allowed to ruminate on their land for six years!

It could happen to her.

The women were marching down into the pasture, singing, “Ring around a rosy, pocket full of posies. ...” One of them held up a cardboard sign with red lettering:
GYPSIES KILL. GYPSIES MUST GO.

“I don’t want to start over!” Ruth yelled. She was feeling irrational now, out of control. That nursery rhyme, the red paint on the wrinkly foreheads. But her feet stood glued to the ground.

She heard Boadie wail and the calves bellow; she found her legs and ran to quiet the old lady. “Stop that noise, Boadie, stop it! They’re just a bunch of ignorant women come to stir up hate.” She yanked Boadie up from her crouch, tried to hug her, but Boadie wrenched away.