Republic of Dirt (29 page)

M
iss Singer was the one who gave me the role of the partridge in the Christmas play because she’s very fond of me. I really appreciated that, because of how having activities can make everything better. Well, maybe not everything.

My mom has also learned that it’s nice to have useful things to do. That’s good because cleaning things that are already clean and sitting in the car while squeezing stress balls used to be her main hobbies. Back when we were sleeping in the car, I used to dream that Prudence or Seth or Earl would find out that my mom was leaving me alone in the car at night and they’d come and rescue me. Then Earl did! But first I had to tell him. And even when he found out, he couldn’t really do much about it except stay with me. That was an eye-opener.

Adults can do lots of things with kids and no one will find out if the kids don’t say anything. Target says I’m lucky it wasn’t worse. He says he would have been better off by himself in a car than he was with his family. Anyway, the interesting part is that it turns out that
my mom wasn’t being a neglectful parent when she left me in the car in the campground. She was writing on her book!

She told me that she left me and went over to the campground activity hut and worked on her book with a headlamp strapped to her head. In the cold! And the rain! My mom is very serious about writing and it paid off, because now her book is getting published for a lot of money. Since she finished her book and some people in New York like it and want to publish it, she’s a different person. She moved us back into our old house, but I’m mostly staying with my dad because my mom keeps having to go to Toronto and New York and other foreign cities to have meetings with agents and editors and other publishing people. My mom is way skinnier than she used to be and she smiles sometimes and only cries about twice as much as other mothers instead of ten times as much.

I’m staying with her this week, and this morning before I went to school she said she needed to talk to me. There still isn’t much furniture in our house, but at least she’s moved our beds back in and we have a kitchen table and two chairs. My mom says prospecting buyers will just have to imagine our furniture doesn’t exist.

Because she’s going to be a published writer, my mom has started hanging up pictures of naked ladies and rotten fruit. The realtor told my mom she might want to rethink the decor if she wanted to leave the house on the market, but my mom said her life was just starting and she intended it to include art. She put a bottle of wine with the bottom part wrapped in string on the kitchen table and a candle in it. She didn’t drink the wine, I don’t think. She just bought the bottle like that, with the half-burned candle in it and everything. The real estate lady rolled her eyes when she saw it. I bet she hides it in a cupboard when she shows the house, which doesn’t happen too often.
Maybe my mom will get very famous from her book and then people will want to buy our old house, including her wine bottle and candle.

My mom showed me an email from an editor in London who said she was the “natural heir to Sylvia Plath and Erica Jong by way of Gillian Flynn and Edward St. Aubyn.” I don’t know who any of those people are. At first I thought it said “natural hair” and my mom had to explain
heir
to me. I tried to use the word when I talked to people but almost everyone confuses it with
hair
. It’s not a very useful word for that reason. Still, it’s great that my mom’s book is like so many other people’s books.

When we sat down at the kitchen table, she kept using her finger to turn the wine bottle with the candle in it around and around.

“Sara,” she said. “Now that I’ve produced something I’m really proud of, I feel like I need to see where it will take me.”

I could have been offended when my mom said that, since my mom also produced me, but my mom doesn’t really think about other people that much. That’s something I’ve realized about her.

“You know how passionately you care about your chickens? Well, that’s how I feel about my work.” She paused. “And you, of course.”

That last part wasn’t true.

My mom can be slow to get to the point. I hope her book’s not like that. I shifted my backpack, which just had my books in it, which was nice, on my lap. I wanted to get going because there was a cast meeting before school and I wanted to sneak over to the farm and get my notes. I get notes from Earl, Seth, Prudence and Eustace now. It’s a lot of work to write them all back, but I don’t mind because it makes them feel good.

“I’ve decided that to truly explore this side of myself and the opportunities that my writing has brought into my life, I need a
change of setting. I considered Paris. Mavis Gallant and all that. But it’s so French there. I’ve spoken to my agent and my editor and they’ve found me a six-month sublet in New York.”

“What’s a sublet?” I asked. Since my mom became a writer, she’s really a good source of new vocabulary words. I wouldn’t have expected that from her.

“It’s an apartment that you rent from someone else for a period of time.”

“Oh,” I said. “When are you going?”

“Next week,” she said. “Of course, you’re welcome to join me. I really do feel badly that I haven’t … I mean, we haven’t been connecting.”

“I have school. And the play. I’m a partridge,” I said.

“I know the timing’s not ideal. I’m going to speak with your father. I’m sure you can stay with him. Six months isn’t that long. Maybe you can come visit me in the spring. There’s probably a farm museum in New York,” she said.

So that’s how I found out my mom is going to sublet New York City.

C
hristmas music gives me a headache. That’s what I told my brother Merle when he called today and asked for the fourth time if I wanted to do a holiday bluegrass record. He asked if I’d do one if we could record it at the farm, and I pretended not to hear what he said. He ain’t going to come all the way to Nanaimo again.

I told Prudence I can’t stand that music when she asked me and Seth to put up speakers in the barn, loud enough so people’d be able to hear the racket all over the farm. But we done it anyway. Borrowed speakers from some friend of Seth’s and hung ‘em up. Sara’s chickens isn’t laying much right now, and if we play too much goddamned Christmas music, they might never lay another egg and I wouldn’t blame them. That’s my opinion. I’m real worried about Alec Baldwin. I been doing everything Sara says in her notes but he still ain’t right. He’s off his feed almost completely now. I hate to see it.

After we got done with the speakers, Prudence came down to the farm stand to watch me and Seth try to put up a string of Christmas
lights. So many of ‘em were burned out or missing, it looked like a bum’s smile when we plugged it in. Prudence asked me if I would mind driving down to the store to get her more spices for her Christmas cookies. Well, Jesus. The only time I liked going to the grocery was when Sara came with me. She’s quite the shopper. Comparing prices and explaining labels. And them grocery stores is the worst for playing the Christmas music. Always got it on extra loud.

I asked Prudence if I could get the stuff at the gas bar and she said it would cost too much. She’s full of piss and vinegar again and there was no arguing with her, so I got in the truck and went down to the Country Grocer.

Might as well have been the grand opening at a Walmart. People drove around that parking lot, wearing goddamned Santa hats, fake antlers sticking out of their windows, every one of them looking like jackasses.

I was in no mood to be civil by the time I got past the people from the Salvation Army wanting money and the junior hockey team wanting money and the radio station and the firemen wanting money out front. Jesus Christ. Half the town was standing outside that place looking for handouts.

I pushed through all the Christmas begging and into the store and it was worse than a rodeo circus convention in there. Every person in Cedar must have been in that store, carts piled up with food and drink like they figured the holidays was a major earthquake and they had to lay in a month worth of supplies, even though the store is only closed for two days. I’ll tell you, I was in a helluva foul mood by the time I got one of them little fellers in an apron to show me the spices and then I couldn’t read the little writing on the bottles because I forgot my specs. I was holding one of them bottles about an inch
from my eyes, trying to see if it was that cardamom Prudence wanted, when somebody said, Mr. Clemente?

I turned and seen a young lady with blond hair.

I’m Miss Singer. Sara’s teacher, she said.

Even though I was in a bad mood from all the Christmas, I knew I had to make a good impersonation. So I said hello.

Mr. Clemente, I wonder if we could have coffee?

Well, lord help me Jesus. I never had coffee with no young ladies before. Except Prudence, but she’s so goddamned speedy she’s more like a jackrabbit than a young lady.

Before I knew it, that young Miss Singer helped me find the cinnamon and cardamom and allspice and jar of molasses that Prudence had on her list, and she came with me through the checkout.

Doing some Christmas baking? asked the checkout feller, a friendly young guy I seen before. Always has a nice word for everyone, which makes his lineups too damned slow.

Yup, I said.

Then Miss Singer and the young feller started talking about the kinds of cookies they like to eat and I told them I liked all of it except for Christmas cake because it tastes like gum picked off the sidewalk. They laughed and so did some people in the lineup. Turns out a lot of people don’t care for Christmas cake.

I got to feeling better then. Even the Christmas music headache eased some.

When we walked back through all the beggars out front, I gave each of ‘em a couple of dollars. What the hell. I followed Miss Singer over to the coffee shop near the A&W. I never been in that one before. It’s even fancier than Tim Hortons, but I paid for both of us, because she’s a young lady. It was an expensive trip to the grocery, let me tell
you, but Miss Singer said that was very kind of me, so I didn’t mind.

The only place to sit was at one of them tall round tables with high stools. I was glad I had my suspenders on, or my backside would have been hanging out. I don’t know who invented them goddamned tall tables.

I wanted to speak to you about Sara, said Miss Singer. The thing is, she’s an amazing girl. But she’s been struggling since she left the farm.

Misses her birds, I said.

Not just her birds, said Miss Singer. She loved living on the farm with all of you. She’s told me this several times.

Yup, I said. Because I know she did. We all liked it better when Sara lived on the farm.

I’ve seen you and your coworker bringing her food in the morning.

Just treats, I said. When we see something we think she might like, we get it for her.

And you drop it off at the school? said Miss Singer.

She’s not supposed to visit the farm. Her parents don’t get along and they can’t make an agreement on where she should go. They want to get a report from the social worker before she comes back to visit.

I’m sorry to hear that, said Miss Singer. If anyone asks me, I’ll tell them the farm seems like an entirely appropriate place for her to visit. And stay, if it comes to that. I think that what happened at the conference was an unfortunate accident.

Damned right it was, I said. That little bastard who tried to tomfool with her. If I ever see him dragging his ass around—

Mr. Clemente, she said. It’s not my place to tell you what to do, but when the social worker finally gets in touch, it would be best not to threaten any kids. Even if they are … difficult.

Creepy little bastard, I said.

She smiled and said, If you think Charles Manson Barton is bad, you should meet his parents. But T is a nice boy and he’s really flourishing with his new foster family. They’re hoping to adopt him.

Miss Singer took a drink of her fancy coffee and it left some foam on her top lip and she reminded me of a kid herself. That’s what it’s come to. Kids teaching kids. I guess that’s who has the energy.

Do you think Sara’s parents are taking good care of her? she asked.

Hell no, I told her. Don’t misunderstand me. They aren’t doing nothing wrong to her. But they sure as shit aren’t doing nothing right, either. Too focused on their own business. It’s like they never got to do what they wanted when they were young and now that they got a taste of it, nothing’s going to stop them.

She nodded. That’s what I thought, she said. Sara’s so intense. She needs people who support her growth. Well, I better go. I’m helping with the Christmas play. It’s a multicultural retelling of the Twelve Days of Christmas. Sara has a major role.

The teacher stood up. You are all invited as my special guests. It will thrill Sara to have you there. Just please don’t bring the mule.

Then our visit was over and I was already looking forward to telling Sara about it in my note. I would tell her about meeting her teacher and how everyone thinks she’s the cat’s pajamas.

N
ot one business owner has signed up to be a stop on the Cedar Christmas Mule Tour. I’ve called every farm in the area, every local gift shop, every artist’s studio. I even called the local strip malls. I asked the manager at the gas bar if he’d like to take part. Turns out he’s the same boy I saw when I went in to speak to Sara’s mother—the kid with the pot leaf T-shirt who looks to be about fourteen.

He said he wouldn’t be taking part and that he and the other members of the Downtown Cedar Business Association had discussed my proposal and had serious concerns about liability. He actually used those words, which suggests that he isn’t actually fourteen.

I called Werner to see if he could put in a good word for us, but he was on a two-month holiday in Spain and Italy and couldn’t be reached.

So I’ve been forced to call it off. We aren’t going to drive Lucky around Cedar this Christmas, and perhaps it’s just as well.

I’m optimistic that we’ll have a wonderful holiday anyway. We’ll
decorate just as we’d planned, and if the weather holds we’ll offer wagon rides around the acreage.

I went to discuss the matter with Dean Spratt, who had Lucky tied up outside the new barn. It’s so much more impressive than I dared to dream. It has three stalls and a loafing shed attached to the side, plus a room for hay and grain and another room to store tack. There are few things more satisfying than seeing your livestock snugly housed.

It was cold and the sky was a smudged white, hinting at the possibility of snow. Dean Spratt didn’t hear me walk up, because he was using an electric shaver on Lucky’s tail.

I watched him cut a horizontal ridge into the outer tail hairs near the top, then another and another, so the top of the tail looked like a tassel with three layers. The rest of the long hair fell down toward Lucky’s hocks.

When he finally shut the device off and ran a hand over the neat three ridges of hair, I cleared my throat so as not to startle him.

“Lucky’s Christmas look?”

Spratt almost smiled.

“He deserves it,” he said. “He’s what they call a three-bell mule.”

He ran a hand appreciatively over Lucky’s spotted hind end. “The military used to cut bells into mules’ tails so you could tell what they were broke for. One bell for a mule broke to pack, two for a mule that can pack and drive, and three for a mule that can pack, drive and be ridden.”

“I’m a committed pacifist, but I still find that fascinating,” I said, patting Lucky’s neck. The big red mule inclined his head toward me. Lately, Lucky has been more warmly inclined toward all of us. He visits us when we’re working in the pasture and lets all of us catch
him. He hasn’t run away or tried to bite or kick anyone in weeks, not even me. Dean Spratt says Lucky just needed more handling, clear boundaries and to feel useful. Those are things every living creature can benefit from.

“The plan for Christmas has changed. I’ve had to cancel the Cedar Christmas Mule Tour of local attractions.”

“Maybe because there aren’t any attractions around here,” said Mr. Spratt.

“I just think it’s going to take time for people to understand the concept and to trust us to pull it off. In the meantime, I’ve decided that we’ll host a party here. We’re going to decorate every inch of this place. Have a marvelous meal. We’d like to ask you to drive the wagon if weather permits.”

Now it was his turn to clear his throat.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can do that, at least until Christmas. After that, I’m going to be making a change.”

“A change?”

“I took a new job. Just a temporary thing for a couple of months. Maybe three. Going to work at an outfit that runs mules in Arkansas. On a visitor work visa. They need me to start before New Year’s.”

I stared at him. His rawboned face was alight with something that looked like happiness.

“I think it’s great that you’re following your dream. I followed mine and it led me here.”

He made a little face but I ignored him.

“And, uh, what about Sara?” I asked.

“Her mother and I will be working that out.”

My mind raced. Which one would be taking Sara with them? I
had a sick feeling neither one of them wanted to. Sad as that was, it could be our big chance.

“I’m going to invite the social worker to our Christmas party. Try to get him to write that report.”

Dean Spratt kept stroking Lucky. “We’ve got to have it,” he said. “Sally might not seem like it, but she’s got a vindictive streak.”

“I’m hoping you can help get him here. I think he’s more likely to show up if you encourage him.”

“I can do that,” he said. And my heart set sail.