Mad Season (10 page)

Outside in the street an ambulance rushed past, its siren quickened her breath. She imagined Colm riding in it, his glasses jumping on his nose.

“Well, Garth had it. They took it from your son. Or your son dropped it. I don’t know exactly how it happened. But Garth is sorry. I scolded him. I didn’t tell his father because, well, he gets carried away. He worries about his older son, Kurt.”

Her laugh was as thin as a spoon dropped in a saucer. She’d said “his” son. This was a second marriage, then?

“I’m sure things will be better,” Carol went on. “I told Garth he’s a farmer’s son too. He laughs, of course. I have to prove he is! It’s not easy being a woman with four men, one of them—well. You have a daughter, you’re lucky.”

“Two. And a grandson.”

“Oh.” Carol Unsworth couldn’t imagine such luck.

They went out afterward to see the sheep. There were twenty of them, new fencing, a red painted barn, everything neat as a doll’s house. Carol picked up one of the lambs, she’d had four freshen in March. A look of wonder came over her face as she talked about it, like she’d witnessed a miracle.

“How nice,” Ruth said of the fencing, the barn, the lambs.

The other woman smiled her china smile and offered a trembly handshake. “I don’t know many women in town. Will you come again?”

“Sure,” Ruth said, though she doubted she would.

They walked out together to Ruth’s pickup. “Just what I need!” Carol exclaimed. “To carry the sheep in. To the vet’s, you know.”

“Vets will come to you if you need them.” Ruth smiled. “It’s twelve years old,” she said about the pickup. “It’s rusted out already, our harsh winters, salt on the roads.”

“But the size, the make. It’s a Ford?”

“You could probably get a new one at the Ford place in town. They make them in six colors.” She smiled at her irony. When she went to leave it took two slams to shut the bent door (Pete skidding into a tree, in his cups). Her breathing came easier as she drove out to the road and finally into the dirt road that led to her farm.

She thought she’d never smelled anything so sweet as the new grass, pushing up beside the porch steps. Already a pair of orange crocuses poked through the unmowed grass (when would she have time to mow?). She stood there, breathing it all in.

And what had she accomplished anyway, from that visit? She went to the phone to try Colm. Where had he been all day? She found a message on the answering machine. But not from Colm.

It was Bertha. “Get Vic to his father at once,” the voice demanded, sounding raspy, tinny. “I had a vision. A terrible one. He’s in terrible danger here.” And the machine clicked off.

“That woman,” Ruth said aloud, “belongs in a nuthouse.” She dialed Colm.

* * * *

Willy’s seen the fellow before, here at the Alibi, but there wasn’t no talk between them. For one thing, the fellow always joking around, slapping people on the back, and Willy don’t like that. He don’t like to be touched like that. His first foster father joke around, and then come the beatings. It was the way the drink work inside him. First the jokes and then the beatings. The next seventeen was better, but not a whole lot. The last didn’t laugh at all, man nor woman, just work all the time. They kept calling up Tim to take him away, and Tim did. And Willy liked that. He even kept his rabbit in Tim’s apartment. Now when Willy has his fits Tim don’t mind. Willy likes being with Tim more than anything.

But this guy tonight, he start slapping Willy on the back. Start asking him questions, big red face lit like a sign. “Where you from, boy? You know how to read, boy? Hold your liquor can you, boy?”

And orders Willy another beer. And not O’Doul’s either, though the bartender knows.

“I only drink two,” Willy says. “That all I can have.”

“Big strapping boy like you? Come on.” The man’s face beams into his like a headlight.

“Two beers. And I had ‘em. O’Doul’s.”

“This strapping boy’s drinking O’Doul’s,” the man tells the woman on the other side of him. “Imagine that. O’Doul’s. Might as well be milk. And him all of—how old you, boy? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-one,” says Willy proudly. “February twelfth. Tim say me and Abe-ham Lincoln.”

The man thinks that’s just too too funny. He laughs and laughs, his fat sides pulsing. “Four score and twenny years ago,” he says, and gasps with laughter. “Finish it, kid.”

Willy doesn’t know what four score is, but he knows what twenty-one is. He’s twenty-one years old. That means he’s a man, Tim says, and this guy better not make fun.

“I couldn’t help I was born,” he says. “My mother born me and then she die. And my father he go away. And then I got my first home. It not my fault.” He feels a burning in his chest.

“Simmer down, kid, I didn’t say it was. Here, I’ll buy you a Pepsi.” And the man pulls out a wad of bills. “You want to make some money? You want to make all this money in one short time?” He flaps the wad at him.

Willy can use the extra money. He has a rabbit now, he needs paint for the rabbit’s box, and food. It’s a beautiful rabbit. Beautiful. All pure white. And pink eyes. Pink eyes!

The man pulls out a package. “Take this down to the bakery, down by the creek. You’ll see a blue pickup there, it’s got a big dent in the passenger door. Put the package on the seat, that’s all you gotta do. For this.”

It’s old smelly money, the bills wrinkled up like they’d sat in somebody’s pocket for years and years. Willy don’t know if he wants that old money. He drinks his Pepsi, his hands clamped around the glass. The bartender is moving closer, and the man slides the money back in his pocket.

“Yes or no?” the fat man says. “Take it or leave it.”

“Two fifty,” says the bartender, leaning over the counter, looking into the man’s face.

The man slides his tongue around his lips. He reaches into an inside pocket, takes out two fifty. The bartender sniffs it, and then takes it to the register. “I gotta go,” the man says. “You want this money, you follow me out,” and he gets off the stool. The stool keeps rotating after he’s up.

“Say, what’s your name?” the bartender calls after the man. “I’ve seen you in here before.”

“Jasper,” the man calls back. “Jasper Magillicuddy.”

Willy knows he’s lying, nobody named that. He’s not going to follow the man out. “He want me to take some package,” he tells the bartender. “I don’ like his money, all smelly.”

“Like a barn?” the bartender says, sounding very interested. When Willy looks at him he says, “Go out and get his license number, okay? For another Pepsi? Copy it down. The way you see it.”

“I don’t want another Pepsi,” says Willy. “Tim say two beers and one Pepsi enough.”

“For this,” says the bartender, and holds up a crisp new dollar bill.

When Willy gets out there he can’t see the man. But in the far end of the parking lot the rear lights of a car shine like cat’s eyes. He goes down to look at the license plate. He can’t write but he remembers how things look—that’s one of his special talents, Tim says, he remembers how things look. Willy’s proud of that. Four numbers on the license plate and only two different letters: HAHA. Looks funny, but that’s what it is. The car is bright red. Willy plans to paint his rabbit hutch red. The dollar will pay for the paint. He thinks how his white rabbit will look in that red box.

“You’re here, are you?” says the man, coming out of the trees, zipping up his trousers. “About time. Now take this envelope where I told you. Can you remember? Down to the creek there. Put it in the blue pickup. It’s the only blue one with a dent in the right-hand door.”

He holds out two crumpled bills. Even from here Willy can smell them. Something about the way the man stares at him, like looking right through him into the building behind, not seeing Willy at all, that brings up a stone in Willy’s stomach. The stone says no. Don’t take the envelope. Don’t take the money.

Willy says, “You take it.”

The man says, “I got new shoes on, it’s muddy down there by the water. Now I’m offering you money. Make it three fifty.”

Willy turns back toward the bar. His fingers feel the new dollar bill in his pocket. “I gotta better one,” he tells the man over his shoulder. “I gotta bran’ new one, don’t smell.”

The man’s hand comes down on his shoulder like a clamp, like that foster father’s fingernails in the flesh. “Why’d you come out here then?” the man demands. “Who sent you, you fucking retard? Was it that bartender?”

“He give me this,” Willy says. “I’m telling.”

He’s not going to be afraid, not going to be bullied. The foster father said not to tell, not to tell what he was doing to Willy. Now Willy would. He’d tell. He’s with Tim now. Tim won’t let anybody hurt him. Tim—

“Tim say don’t do that!” he cries as the hand slams down on his head. “Tim say—” as the boot kicks up at his belly.

The pain is a bullet in his groin, shoving him down, his arms shoot out like pieces of metal, released by a spring, but meet nothing, like he’s fighting air.

The man lets him go then, Willy staggers down behind the bar, down the embankment, he needs air, he needs to breathe in the fresh creek air. He runs hard, like he can outrun the pain that’s knotting him into a ball. The ball kicks, drags, rolls him over and over, down and down the bank.

And there they are, the others. He holds up an arm, his teeth clatter like breaking dishes, “Don’ wanno fight, don’—” He hears the voices now, voices in his head like when it comes on, the fit. He tries to speak, but only squeals come out, like his rabbit when it hit its head once.

“Hey, dummy, get up and fight.” The voices crackle like lightning, seize his bowels till he can’t control himself, he’ll let go and they’ll see . . . Then the water, cooling at first, then hot and he gasping, sinking.

Tim-mm, he cries inside his head, Tim-mm-mm, and the word soaks into the creek.

* * * *

Lucien tested his ankles out the side of the bed. They quivered like pudding at first but then held up, and he was standing, holding on to the iron bar of the hospital bed. For that’s where he was: in a hospital. He had it all straight now. It was the middle of the night, there was a knock, and then the two masked figures. The struggle, and then Belle, lying on the floor, blood running down her eye, her unraveled braid.

How long had he been here? A day, two days, three? More? He had to find Belle, she had to be here.

He flipped aside the curtain, but the lax face of an old man lay nose up in the bed. He remembered about this place: they kept the men from the women, husband from wife. They didn’t care. Mother of God, they didn’t care.

He lurched to the metal closet and groped for his coat. It was there, thank God. He jammed his hand into the pocket, felt for the ripped lining, reached deep down.

Where was his money? Jesus-Mary, where was his money? His six—no, seven thousand dollars! More maybe, not always time to count.

They took it, that’s why they broke in like that! Beat him up then took his money. His money he made with his own sweat. Those bastards, they got no damn right! The money he and Belle worked their guts out for. The money in the barn, the rafter hole—was it still there? He had to get out of here, go look . .. Belle.

Where was Belle?!

He limped out into the hall. It was morning, must be. Light coming through a far window. He hurt like hell, his bones felt banged in, his head a zoo. He had to find her.

“Just a minute here, sir.”

He pushed past the restraining hand, down to the nurses’ station. He was here when Marie was born, then that hernia, a quick in and out, Belle had her hysterectomy. They were always tearing you apart, patching you back together. Charging you plenty. Fleecing you. The health insurance a racket, bleeding you dry. Hell, he has no insurance now, only that Medicare—or Medicaid…not worth a damn.

He has to get out of here!

“Here, you, Mr. Larocque. Get back in bed. You’re not ready to come out.” She was a big one, hands like shovels, pushing him back down the corridor. Treating him like a child. When he was a man, a man!

“I want Belle,” he shouted. “Where’s she?” And then all the whispering, like the creek swelling up late April, behind his farm. And calling Dr. Somebody, and then they were on him, shoving him into a wheelchair, jamming in needles, clucking and clicking till the noise got farther and farther away and his head was as heavy as a full pail of milk; and far down the corridor like it was coming out of a loudspeaker that wasn’t working right someone said, “Belle’s gone, Lucien, Belle’s dead.”

And his head swelled up again like a drum that beat and beat and beat, like a whole goddamn army, a whole parade drumming through his head, thundering: Belle’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead dead dead. Sweet Mary Mother of God, Belle’s dead!

* * * *

The heavens could be falling in and the animals had to be grained. Thank God she had this routine to hold on to. Regular as the sun: five-thirty in the morning, five-thirty at night. One of them bawling now, a big protest, next down the line: Bathsheba, who refused to wait. She had a half-grown calf now—would it change her? The pinkeye, at least, hadn’t spread to the others.

Charlotte was next, getting old, not giving so much milk anymore, even to her new calf, but still ornery. The old girl butted her head softly into Ruth’s shoulder.

“That’s it,” Ruth said. The feed dropped into the manger. “That’s all you get. You just think you want more. Typical woman, not wanting to compromise. But that’s it, you old independent. Till tomorrow.”

She patted the cow’s rump, closed the bars on her and the thin calf. It was still too frail to go in a heifer pen. The cow was impatient, she stomped, blew bubbles on her breath, lashed her tail. She wanted to be outdoors.

“Spring’s coming,” Ruth told her, looking at the mud on her boots. “Just like clockwork. The grass, I can smell it already. Next week maybe, you’ll be free.”

Charlotte went on butting and snorting. She wanted action, not words. Some days Ruth wanted to hug her. Some days she did.

Outside the barn the sun was melting over the mountains, spreading a pinky-orange glow, like cheese. A transparent moon was creeping through a curd of clouds. Ruth let it fill her, calm her. The natural world was in order at least. If she waited, so might her life be. Murderers would be caught, victimizers brought to justice. Wouldn’t they?