The Woefield Poultry Collective (27 page)

“Thank you so much,” said Mrs. Spratt, looking from Prudence to Earl to me, anywhere but at Sara, as she backed out of the kitchen.

And a minute later she was gone and the kid was stone and I felt so bad for her that it even overwhelmed my hangover. Somewhat.

When my mom came to the farm, it was embarrassing but also good because I think Prudence and Earl were about to have an argument because Prudence said Earl was a banjo player and he got insulted. I can understand that. If I played an instrument, I’d probably want it to be the drums. Plus, it’s probably embarrassing to be so old and play music.

Anyway, after my mom came and asked if I could stay for longer, everyone was really quiet and talked in that low way that people do when something bad has happened and they don’t want things to get worse. And that was okay too, because living with my parents has made me kind of sensitive to sudden noises. I didn’t hug my mom goodbye because we were in public and that probably would have made it worse. But I did try to show her with my eyes that I was really glad that I got to stay at Woefield instead of with Bethany.

After she left, Prudence asked if anyone wanted breakfast, just like at a real farm. We all did. When she put the pancakes and eggs on the table, Seth made a noise in his throat and got up and ran to the bathroom. But pretty soon he came back.

It was a good breakfast.

Later, Seth said he’d help me practice with my chickens. The Junior Poultry Show was coming up. I was pretty excited. I guess it’s true when they say that kids are resilient. I think I might be. Also, it sort of seemed like I might have got left behind. But I was okay with it.

I’ll say one thing for that girl. She can fry an egg and make a decent hotcake. No meat, of course. She’s not like one of them chefs on the shows with all the lights and counters. Lunch and dinner’s almost always brown mush with greens I never saw before, but even that’s not bad once you get used to it. I felt better than I did when the old man and me lived on takeout and tinned beans.

The breakfast was almost good enough that I could forget that damned fool idea of hers. Concert. Jesus Christ. I ain’t played in front of nobody since I left the band when I was seventeen years old. Sure, I still play some, but only when there’s nothing on TV. The old man used to spend hours listening. I figured I might as well play for him since we weren’t doing nothing anyway.

Anyhow, at least now we had some idea why the kid was here. That mother of hers was a sad sight, I’ll tell you. She must be in some kind of tough shape if she thinks this is the right place to leave a kid. Might as well dump her off outside the goddamn casino for all the moral guidance she’ll get around here. With Chubnuts running around and passing out all over the place and Prudence, well, she barely has as much sense as those chickens out there. And me, I got no kid experience at all.

Still, I figured if we were going to be looking after her for the time being, we better get this place straightened around. I had my camper-buying plan, but I guessed that could wait. That breakfast was a hell of a good start. I wasn’t going to need to eat again until lunch.

Also, I knew I’d be a damned fool to walk away from the place. Not when I was due ten percent of the proceeds of the sale if Prudence ever sold it. To be real honest, I figured she’d forget about the concert idea. She’s always going in twenty different directions. Who the hell was going to go to a concert to hear me play?

I wouldn’t say Earl was into it, precisely, but he didn’t refuse. Well, he said, “No goddamn way” and “Jesus Christ Almighty, what the hell are you talking about now?” as well as “That’s the stupidest idea I ever heard.” But he didn’t say he’d leave and take his banjo with him. So I took that as a yes. I was sure he’d become more enthusiastic when he got used to the idea and once he realized that I was going to reunite him with his brother.

My idea was that one reasonably successful concert could get us through the winter and maybe pay for some sort of a barn and more livestock, which somewhat ironically is what you need to get the grass to grow. The more animals eat your grass, the better it grows and the more productive your farm.

After the mix-up with Eustace, I realized that I was going to have to be more honest. No more lying, even in aid of a worthy goal, such as keeping the farm going. I know I should have fired Seth, but I couldn’t help feel that my lack of clarity about his problem hadn’t helped. I decided to give him one more chance.

Here’s what I was thinking. It was okay for our farm to be small. It only had to support us, at least at first. Small is beautiful is one of the main principles of the back to the land movement. But the thing that couldn’t be too small was our bluegrass concert. I knew that large concerts were lucrative because I once read an article that said that most successful musicians make most of their money on touring rather than
from music sales. Some of the big musicians, like Madonna and the Rolling Stones, make millions.

Of course, I was aware that Earl is no Madonna, but I figured if I could get his brother to come, we’d have a shot at a real event with several hundred people. That was my theory, at least.

During the first few minutes of the house meeting, Seth kept his eyes squeezed shut and pretended to be asleep in the living room. I carried a small ice cream pail over and put it beside him in case he needed to be sick. I didn’t want him throwing up on the coffee table because that would have gotten the meeting off on the wrong foot.

Back in the kitchen I laid the situation out in a way I thought everyone could understand.

“I called us all here this morning because there are things we need to discuss,” I said, forcefully but reasonably. “We need to clear the air. Make some changes. As you know, I am new to farming. Living off the land. Whatever you want to call it. I have always had the purest of intentions, but it’s possible that my methods haven’t been the best.”

“Prudence, sorry man, but I’m dying here,” said Seth, from the living room. “Can you move it along? If you’re going to fire me can you do it quick?”

My spine straightened.

“Seth, your condition goes exactly to the heart of what I’m talking about. It was a mistake to tell the bank this was a treatment center. It wasn’t honest, and more importantly, it wasn’t fair to you.”

He peered out from eyes that looked like two fertilized raw eggs. I was glad when he shut them again.

“I want to clear things up. Right livelihood, as the Buddhists call it, is all-encompassing,” I said. “If we’re going to make a go of this, we’re going to have to do it honestly.”

“Ah, Jesus,” grumbled Earl.

But Sara was nodding. I doubt she had any idea what I was talking about. But that was okay. She was on my side. I would take any support I could get.

“I want this farm to survive. In order to do that, the people on it
need to be nurtured and so does the land. Things are coming along. The raised beds are going gangbusters now. Soon we’ll have enough chard and other produce to go back to the farmers’ market with our heads held high. I’m going to clear the situation up with the bank as soon as possible. But in the meantime, Seth, you have a problem and you need to deal with it. You need to get some help, real help, or you will have to move out.”

His raw egg eyes flew open at this news.

“We won’t continue enabling you. From now on, this is a clean and sober farm as far as you are concerned. Our focus is going to be on farming. And music.”

I turned to Earl.

“This brings me to my next point. Earl”

He turned to me, his head cocked on his wattled old neck, and for a moment I lost my nerve and found myself patting my mug of coffee.

“You are a musician,” I said. Not a question. A statement of fact.

He stared at me.

“A terrific musician. I know because I’ve looked you up online.”

Sara looked from me to Earl. Seth’s hideous eyes were open and he was staring at us.

“But you are not a very good farm foreman.”

Before Earl could swear or protest, I continued.

“We need to make some money to make the first payments on this farm and to get the place going. And with all of us, except perhaps Sara, being inexperienced at actual farming, we are going to have do it through non-conventional but legal and ethical means.”

I had their attention.

“We’re going to put on a bluegrass festival in July. Featuring you and your banjo, Earl. We’re going to invite people from all over the island. All over Canada and the US. Maybe even Japan. We’ll invite great musicians to back you up. The concert will make enough money for us to get our grass farm off the ground. That and my writing lessons.”

“Grass farm? You think a grow-op is right livelihood?” said Seth, struggling to keep up.

“I mean actual grass,” I told him.

Earl told me I was full of shit and no goddamn way. But he didn’t get up and leave. Seth said this would be just like Woodstock only with no good bands, no offense, and he hoped there wouldn’t be as many naked hippies because he had a weak stomach. Then Sara’s mom showed up. And after that I made breakfast and told them all to leave it to me.

So really, it went well.

I was barely well enough to sit upright, so I was proud of myself for being of service to the kid at all. She needed help. I mean, there was the thing with her parents, which was extremely social services and all. Then there were all her crazy ideas about end times and the Bible and so on. Someone really did a number on that kid’s head. At least I had rock and roll when I was growing up. All she’s got is chickens.

Here’s the deal. Her best bird, Alec Baldwin, has some flaws, which she thinks are going to disqualify him from the upcoming poultry competition. I didn’t spend most of three years writing about celebrities and rock musicians without figuring out that it’s the flaws make the star. The more damaged a person is, the more likely they are to succeed. I’ve even worked out a mathematical equation for it. The whole celebrity worship dynamic is composed of one part envy, one part desire and one part sheer contempt. A star has to have charisma and total self-involvement, both of which that black bastard rooster with the white floppy feathers on his head had to burn.

“But Seth,” Sara said, when I tried to tell her for the eighth time that Alec Baldwin should be the one to front the band, so to speak, “he’s got white feathers coming in.”

“So we dye them,” I said, which was a little assy of me, seeing as how I didn’t know whether feathers would take dye. “Or maybe we could just color them with a felt pen. There’s nothing wrong with assisting nature when it comes to beauty. Just ask anyone working in the porn industry.”

“It’s cheating,” said Sara. “Even if you’re selling used stuff.”

“Sara, honey. You’re referring to
pawn
. Porn is selling used people. Anyway, you’re looking at this all wrong,” I told her. Although in truth she was looking at it just about right. Much as I’m a competitive person, I was also a hungover one and my judgment was possibly impaired. There was a chance that I was permanently brain damaged.

“It’s not fair,” said Sara.

For a kid she can be pretty relentless.

“You tell him, Sara.”

I turned around and saw a tall guy standing on the first step of the porch. He looked sort of familiar. Then again, after I’ve been on a tear, even my own mother seems only sort of familiar.

“Can I help you?” I asked. It seemed like he was a friend of Sara’s. Probably a cousin or something, stopping by.

“Hi, Dr. Eustace,” she said.

I took another look at him. Then it came to me. Outdoorsy, checked shirt with the sleeves rolled at the forearms. Biceps straining the fabric. Probably a guy who could give a real gun show if he was in the mood. He was Prudence’s date from the night before. Why did he have to look like
that?

All at once Phil was prowling around my belly again, looking to floss his teeth on a shred of my stomach lining.

“How are you doing today?” the guy asked me, all sincere and concerned.

I was acutely conscious of how red my eyes were and of the puffy, yellowish look of my skin, which is caused by the sugars in booze and by the fattening effect of shame. I told myself to push through it, even though it would have been easier if I had a drink or two or some decent narcotics. Then I remembered that the guy was a veterinarian. He probably had narcotics up the ass in his truck. Was there any way to get in there without him noticing?

“That good, eh?” he said. I realized I’d forgotten to answer him and was just staring at him, basically slack-jawed with envy and self-loathing.

“Prudence is inside.”

“I’m here to see you,” he said.

I’d been using a piece of doweling to push Alec Baldwin’s reluctant little rooster butt down the “runway,” which was actually an old door we’d laid over two chairs. The resistant little bastard kept stopping halfway. Sara didn’t have the fortitude to keep him moving. I’d been telling her to tell him to “bring it” the way Tyra does her Top Models. Then I showed her, maneuvering him down the door using an advanced dowel technique that many a hockey player would have envied. When the big vet said he was there to see me, the stick clattered to the ground and I had to fight not to scream with pain at the noise.

Sara grabbed Alec off the table and I bent to get the stick, and whacked my battered, brain-damaged head on the door.

“Fuck,” I said, grabbing my forehead, which I could see was bleeding a little when I pulled my hand away.

Sara looked from me to the vet. She may be young, but I’m fairly sure she noticed the contrast between us.

“Your birds are looking good, Sara. You bringing them to the fair on the weekend?” he asked. I hated that he knew about Sara’s fair. And that he was better looking than me and probably never got his guts chewed out by a hangover more powerful than a thousand dragons and had never fallen down with his pants around his ankles while trying to serenade a drama teacher.