Republic of Dirt (11 page)

I
t is one thing to fail as a novice grower/hot sauce maker at the farmers’ market. It’s another thing to fail to adequately care for and protect a child. Sara is not biologically ours, but she is the most important part of our family. To say we are devastated and heartbroken about what has happened would be a gross understatement.

I’m the most to blame. I cannot fathom my behavior or my thought process. How could I have gotten it into my head to take a mule to a parent-teacher meeting? There’s multitasking and then there’s insanity. What happened to my usual calm in a crisis? I went to pieces when Lucky got away from me. I lost my mind the minute I took the mule on the road for a second time. There is no excuse.

As soon as Eustace and I drove into the yard, hauling Lucky in the trailer Eustace borrowed from a friend, I could tell Sara was gone. The farm seemed lifeless and ugly in the evening light.

Eustace unloaded Lucky and put him in his pasture and we fed him and Bertie while Seth and Earl waited anxiously at the fence.

“Her parents took her back,” said Seth.

“I know,” I told him, because somehow I did.

“They won’t even let her visit,” he said. “Not until the social worker investigates us. Each seems to think the other is going to bring up the farm in their divorce proceedings.”

I felt myself grow heavy as old iron.

“I’ll be in soon and we’ll talk about what to do. Eustace and I just need a minute.”

Seth and Earl went inside and Eustace walked up the wide wooden stairs to stand on the creaky old porch. Cold rain had begun to spit down in bursts. Sara’s chickens had gone inside for the night and I knew they’d be sitting cozily under the warmth of the yellow heat lamp. I hoped that someone had remembered to feed them.

Would they be taken away too? Those birds were like an extension of Sara. I couldn’t imagine not seeing her out by the run, fussing around with those ridiculous and delightful chickens.

Around us, the farm seemed to sigh with depression as a gust of wind blew leaves across the yard. I tried to catch a glimpse of Bertie and Lucky, but they were huddled under their pathetic tarp lean-to next to Earl’s cabin, too deep in the lowering gloom for me to make out their shapes. How much damage had I done to Lucky’s psyche this time? Again with the good intentions. Again with the poor results.

“Prudence,” said Eustace, reaching for my hand.

I let him take it. “I don’t feel well,” I said. “My ability to think has been impaired by my Hashimoto’s and the less I say right now, the better. I’m glad you got here before she got hurt.”

“I’m sorry about the phone call. I should have waited to confirm it was Seth who answered. I never wanted this.”

I wanted to collapse onto the porch swing and never, ever get up again.

“This is not your fault. The damage was done as soon as I left her alone and brought a mule to the parent-teacher.”

“You’re overwhelmed and sick. Can you please just give Lucky back to Werner and go see a proper doctor? Get some medication that actually works?”

I stared into his face, finally feeling calm after the emotional meltdown in the school yard.

“It’s not Lucky’s fault I put him in a situation unsuitable for mules. It’s not Dr. Bachmeier’s fault I haven’t heeded her directions to take it easy while my medication does its work. I left Sara alone and she was attacked by a young sociopath. It was only by chance that you interrupted him before he did something that could have scarred her for life. The thought of what could have happened sickens me.”

“Prudence,” he said. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yes,” I said simply. “It absolutely is. And I need to fix it. But first, we need to have a house meeting.”

“Do you want me to stay? I might be able to help. I can talk to her parents. The social worker. Explain things.”

“No,” I said. “We’ll handle it.”

My mind turned over thoughts like an unmotivated farmworker picking rocks.

“We’re going to make a plan to get her back. Or at least make it so she can visit. In the meantime, if you see her let her know her birds will be fine. Let her know we’ll be fine. So will Bertie and Lucky. You know how she worries. We’ll get all this straightened out. We’ll get her back in some capacity. You tell her that.”

“Of course.”

“What about those boys?” I asked. “The one from Sara’s class and the one who tried to hurt Sara?”

“The younger one’s name is Target. His older brother’s name is Charles. Middle name: Manson.”

I winced. “Can you find out what’s going to happen to the young one?” I couldn’t bring myself to say his name.

“I’ll try. Apparently the social worker said he was at the school to talk to their parents. There are some serious concerns about his home situation. If the scene here today is any indication, the boy’s probably going to end up in care. The social worker wouldn’t give me any details, but I got the impression that the boy has been in foster care before. He and his brother both.”

“And what about the other one?”

“The social worker said he will probably be sent to a group home for troubled kids. Up island somewhere.”

Another gust of wind heaved past and I shivered. Dr. Bachmeier said once my thyroid levels had stabilized, I wouldn’t be so cold all the time. She said I needed to be patient while my body, aided by her remedies, found its balance again. Were patience and exhaustion the same thing? I couldn’t tell anymore.

Eustace didn’t say anything more about the boys, but I could fill in the blanks. The young one, Target, was not ever going to be fine. Not with who knows what kind of parents and a violent, abusive brother, and multiple foster homes. We’d be reading about the older one in the news one day.

Eustace bent down to kiss me. “I’ll call later,” he said. “When I know more.”

“I can’t believe I did this,” I said.

“Oh, Prudence,” he said. “Life did this.” Then he walked down the front steps and got into his big white truck. The noise of the engine starting was a loud comfort that faded too soon.

Back in the kitchen, Earl and Seth sat at the table. I looked from them to Sara’s place. She never had to be told to clear her homework away before dinner. For some reason, that made me slightly weepy again. At least it was better than my crying jag in front of a crowd of teachers and alarmed parents.

I leaned against the counter because I was worried that if I sat down I’d have trouble getting back up. Earl and Seth stared at the tablecloth. It was the one that Sara and I had painted. Mostly Sara. Her poultry club had had a fabric arts night and she brought home all the materials to make a tablecloth from a piece of plain cotton. Her painting of a chicken and some eggs looked exactly like the pattern she used. My painting of flowers was half finished, but it was also tidy and attractive. Seth had decided to paint Iron Maiden’s name onto his edge of the cloth. His gothic lettering was erratic but perfectly legible. Earl said he would rather watch TV than paint a sheet, so Sara, without the aid of a pattern, painted something vaguely banjo-shaped on his side of the cloth. Earl lit up when he saw it. Said it was a “damned fine piece of work.”

I’m aware that this all sounds painfully like
Little House on the Prairie
meets
Martha Stewart Living
and like we were the kind of household that sat around doing crafts of an evening, but I cannot lie. That was part of Sara’s gift to us. She made all of us, even me, slow down and pay attention.

“We need to get her back,” I said, finally succumbing to my exhaustion and sitting heavily down in Sara’s chair. I ran my hand over the cloth. “Or at least figure out what we have to do so she can come back to visit.”

I could sense Earl and Seth waiting for me to tell them what to do.

“Can someone get me a piece of paper?”

Seth grabbed a large piece from the pile of scratch paper that I use for making lists and a pen.

With the pen poised over the paper, I considered. Normally, lists are my passion. I relish crossing items off as much as I love adding them. I can think of few things as satisfying as a list with every item crossed off. But on this evening, my list well had run dry.

“I guess we need to stay in touch with social services,” said Seth. “That guy. Pete. Get him to hurry up his investigation and write a report. Her parents seem keen on that.”

I wrote “Pete” on the paper.

“I think he kind of liked you,” said Seth. “He got a look on his face every time you ran past trying to catch Lucky. Would you be willing to sleep with him?”

I glared but also appreciated his ability to give me a little boost of outrage at an opportune time.

“Knew I could make you frown,” he said.

“We need to talk to them parents of hers,” said Earl. “Even if they’s useless as tits on a tree.”

“Are,” said Seth. “Are useless as tits on a tree. Actually, I would have a lot more time for trees if they had breasts. If we want Sara back, we’re going to have to work on our grammar. Prudence, can you add that to the list? Remembering to use variations of the verb
to be
correctly. Especially in the presence of school officials and child care experts.”

Earl and I ignored him. Seth’s compulsive glibness is probably connected to his alcoholism in some way that scientists have yet to determine. Eustace, who has been sober for years, suffers from the same malady. Not even active participation in a twelve-step program can fix a bad case of glib.

“You’re right,” I told Earl. “We need to work directly on Sara’s parents. Convince them we’re suitable. Sara’s mom. What’s her first name again? Anyone remember? God, my memory is not working right now.”

Earl shook his head.

“Sad Sack?” asked Seth. “The Drip?”

“I’ll find out. Who wants to keep in touch with Mr. Spratt?” Then their full names came to me. “Her name is Sally. His is Dean. Sally and Dean Spratt!”

Sara’s parents have never liked us much. No, that’s not strictly true. Sara’s mother, Sally, is too depressive to fully commit to disliking anyone but herself and her husband. Dean Spratt is a man who has marinated for too long in his own unhappiness. They tolerated us because Sara was happy here and we wanted her and they didn’t, really.

We needed to win them over. I had no idea how we’d do that, but hoped some brilliant inspiration would come over me.

“I’ll be the point person on Sara’s parents,” I said, and wrote, “Point Person for Parents,” after “Pete.”

I pondered the piece of paper. “So far, I’m going to work on improving our relationships with Pete and the Ministry of Children and Families and with Sara’s parents. What are you two going to do?”

Earl and Seth frowned down at the tablecloth.

“I’ll take care of her birds,” said Earl. “She asked me special.”

“That’s great, Earl. And I’m going to ask you to continue handling things on the farm while I work on getting better. So glad to know you’re on the job.”

The many furrows in Earl’s face grew deeper.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” said Seth. “Probably plunge
into near-suicidal depression. We need to get Sara back or this place is going to fall apart.
I’m
going to fall apart.”

“Seth, you’re going to support our efforts. You’re very good at that. You keep things interesting and present alternative views. And you’re going to continue to look after your sobriety.”

“Do you want the rest of my money?” asked Earl, jarringly.

“I’m sorry. What?”

“It seems like we’re poorer than a goddamned hairless, tailless, ball-less dog around here most of the time. I still got a little left from what Merle gave me for the old place.”

“That’s your retirement savings,” I said. “You’ve already invested in this farm. Your half ownership is what allowed us to survive. We’re getting by. I’ve paid the material expenses on the barn. I feel sure we’re going to be more profitable come spring.”

“We’re going to be flat broke by the spring,” said Seth. “Unless we start a fracking operation out in the pasture. Or start importing Chinese antiques.”

“I was thinking we should open a farm stand,” I said. “A thriving little venture that will allow us to sell our wares and help us show the Spratts and the social worker that we’re a functional farm as well as a wholesome, well-run place. It will underline the fact that the incidents with the hot sauce and the parent-teacher meeting were aberrations.”

“I don’t want to be critical, but I think farm stands make places look dead broke. They’re basically one step up from a lemonade stand,” said Seth.

“Farm stands look welcoming. Homey. One will help us make a good impression on everyone who comes to visit this place. The social worker. Sara’s parents, if I can get them to come and evaluate us for themselves.”

“Them two hate each other worse than a weasel and a snake,” said Earl.

Seth was nodding his head, the Motörhead logo bobbing up and down. “It’s true. Those two are so committed to not getting along, it’s going to be hard to get them on the same page about anything. They’d probably disagree about whether diamonds are worth money.”

Seth and Earl were both staring down at the tablecloth again. I could tell they didn’t understand my reasoning. Neither did I, because I wasn’t using reason. I was using instinct. And instinct told me that we needed to show that we were part of the community. That we were capable of more than just failure.

D
amned little gaffer. Place ain’t the same without her. Marching up and down with her clipboard. Reading her animal books like there was going to be a test. Sara had a way of being interested in things. She wanted to know what TV shows I liked and what I liked about ‘em. She wanted to know about my banjo and where I got it and why I wore suspenders instead of belts and what it was like to live in the United States. She even asked what it felt like to be famous. I told her I wasn’t famous. My brother Merle was.

She said she thought being famous was probably like having a lot of people think they knew you even if they never met you. She’s a helluva smart kid.

She was also bossy as all get out. Like Prudence, but shorter. When she had something she wanted done, you better by god get it done. That kid could make me laugh.

I’ll never forget building the chicken house. She made me and Chubnuts do it about four times until we had it buttoned up to her satisfaction. Even after all that, I used to see her out there, taking pieces
off and reattaching them with that hammer she likes. The thing’s as big as her arm and she uses it to tap here and there. Clipboard in one hand and jeezly great hammer hanging off her waistband, damned near touching the ground. Funny thing to see a little girl packing a great big hammer like that.

Listen to me. Getting’ all sentimentaled again.

There’s no time for that now because Prudence has put me in charge of this place while she’s getting herself on the mend. She said the first thing I need to do is get an update on the barn. Just keeping my drawers hitched up these days is challenge enough, never mind having to deal with the goddamned trades. But it’s got to be done. If that social worker comes around, we’ll look like a damned death house for kids and animals if we don’t get the mule moved out from under that tarp on the side of my cabin.

I just need to get myself in gear and stop going out to check on the little Sprout’s chickens every ten minutes. Alec Baldwin, that rooster of hers with the big white wig of feathers on his head, is off his feed. I think he’s missing her. He better get over it. Nothing’s going to happen to those birds on my watch.