What Comes After (15 page)

And you couldn’t always count on every aim being true.

We crept back to the farm that night, lucky for a full moon to guide us down the faint trail from the Devil’s Stomping Ground. I grew more and more anxious the closer we got — even though I knew Aunt Sue had a Saturday night Walmart shift and wouldn’t be there. The only plan I’d come up with so far, and it wasn’t much of a plan, was to find something to eat, get enough sleep to clear my head, and spend the night out in the barn so I could be there in case Aunt Sue came home early and tried to hurt the kids. In the morning I would try to convince Aunt Sue to sell them to me, and then see if someone from the farmers’ market had a field where I could keep them. But I knew it was more of a dream than a plan. Aunt Sue had already stolen all of my money, and I didn’t have a job, so even if she was willing to sell them to me, how would I ever pay for them?

The Tundra was gone, and the lights were off in the house, but I still kept as quiet as possible as I let the kids inside the barn. I couldn’t stop the other goats from bleating loudly once they saw us and then mobbed us when I opened their stall. Reba practically cried with happiness to see her three boys. They nuzzled her for a few minutes and tried to latch onto her teats, but came up empty. Her udder was slack, meaning she’d been recently milked. I hoped Book hadn’t been too rough with them. I filled the grain trough, and Huey, Dewey, and Louie gave up on Reba and dove right in.

I hooked Gnarly onto his chain on the clothesline, checked his food and water, and then went to check on things in the house. The back door creaked when I opened it, but no one was snoring, so Book must have been gone somewhere, too. I breathed easier, at least for the moment. It felt like a temporary stay of execution. I was certain Aunt Sue would hit me again — or try — the next time I saw her. I also knew that I wasn’t going to back down. I was going to save the kids no matter what it took.

I turned on the kitchen light, made a sandwich, fished half an apple out of the bottom of the refrigerator, and filled a water bottle. Aunt Sue had hidden the .22 in another closet, but I found it, and this time I didn’t just take out the bullets; I removed the firing pin, too.

I brought my sleeping bag out to the barn and crawled in, exhausted, making sure I had the pitchfork close by in case I needed it for protection. Patsy got up from her stall and settled in next to me in my corner of dry straw. I slid as deep inside my bag as I could go, and fell asleep to the thrumming of her heartbeat and the faint whistling of her breath.

Aunt Sue kicked me awake Sunday morning. I grabbed my side and struggled to sit up inside my hopelessly twisted sleep ing bag.

“That didn’t hurt, did it?” she said with obvious sarcasm. “I just meant it to be a nudge.”

I pulled hard at the zipper, but it was stuck. I looked frantically for the goats and reached for the pitchfork. Only it wasn’t there. Aunt Sue had it.

“Don’t worry,” she said, leaning it against the wall behind her — away from me. “All your little wethers are still here. We don’t like to put anything to slaughter until after breakfast here at the Allen family slaughterhouse.”

She was still being sarcastic, but now she sounded different. Playful, almost. I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard Aunt Sue joking around before. It made me uneasy, but when I counted heads, the goats were all still there, like she’d said: the triplets, Reba, Jo Dee, Tammy, Loretta. Patsy stood next to me, her gaze fixed hard on Aunt Sue.

It was barely light out. Aunt Sue was still wearing her Walmart jacket and had her hair pulled back, the way she wore it to work. She must have just gotten home.

“Where’s Book?” I asked, shimmying free of the sleep ing bag.

“Inside,” Aunt Sue said. Then she said, “All right, look. I thought it over last night. You’re in love with them wethers, fine. Isn’t so much meat on them that it makes much difference to me, anyways. You done a lot of work around here, I admit it. So you want them, you have to find some other home for them. I won’t allow them to stay here and eat all my grain under any circumstance. You do that, get them gone this week, and I won’t have Book put them to slaughter.”

I should have been more suspicious. I figured Aunt Sue would be furious about yesterday and would take it out on me and the wethers. But my head hurt, and I ached from sleeping on the hard barn floor, even with straw as a cushion. I was tired. But mostly I just really needed to believe that everything would be OK. That the kids would be OK.

“Do your milking,” Aunt Sue said. “Then go get cleaned up. You smell like goat.”

They waited until I finished milking the goats, and brought in the milk, and pasteurized it on the stove. They even waited while I took a shower. They waited until I dragged myself upstairs to put on clean clothes and lie down on my bed, bone tired.

I had only been there a few minutes when I heard the stairs creak. I sat up, wondering if Aunt Sue had decided to lecture me after all, or worse. But the next thing I heard was the click of my bedroom door being locked, then whoever it was retreating back down the stairs.

It’s OK. It’s OK,
I told myself, my heart suddenly pounding in my chest.
I took out the firing pin. They can’t shoot without the firing pin.

I heard terrified bleating from out in the yard, and I jumped on my bed to look down through my little window. Book was dragging Dewey into the field, then tying him to a post. Aunt Sue stood nearby, shielding her eyes from the low, accusing sun. She looked up at my window, and then handed Book the rifle.

He aimed at Dewey’s face, but Aunt Sue stopped him. She pointed at the base of the skull and Book aimed again. I banged against the window.
“No! Don’t!”
I screamed, despite what I knew about the gun. I couldn’t stand seeing Dewey staked down, so helpless and afraid. But either they couldn’t hear me or they chose to ignore me, because Book pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. Book looked at the gun and tried a second time, and again nothing happened. But now both he and Aunt Sue were cursing loud enough for me to hear them, and I knew Dewey was still in trouble. I climbed off the bed and threw myself at the locked door until my shoulder went numb. I ran back to the window and this time forced it open. I watched Book disappear into the barn. Aunt Sue was inspecting the .22, and she must have realized what I’d done, because she snapped her head around and glared at my window. Her mouth twisted menacingly, but before she could say anything, Book stormed back out of the barn with a shovel.

“Book!” she yelled at him. “Don’t you do it!” But he headed straight toward Dewey without slowing.

“Book, no!” I screamed, and watched with horror as he lifted the shovel high over his head, swung down, and slammed it into the hard front of Dewey’s skull. Dewey stumbled forward, but the rope pulled taut and jerked him back. He went down on his front knees.

Book lifted the shovel again — and I screamed at him again: “I have the firing pin! I’ll fix the gun! Just don’t club him to death!”

He paused, and I held my breath.

“Please!” I shouted.

But then Book sneered and swung the edge of the shovel like an ax at Dewey’s neck. That brought Dewey down on all his knees. I was screaming and crying again, my fingernails biting into the window frame. Book swung the shovel again, and Dewey’s head fell limply to one side, his neck broken. But he was still alive. I could hear him panting and bleating faintly.

I turned and vomited on the bed.

All I could think was that he was still alive. He was still alive, and it was my job to save him. Somehow I would save him.

I threw myself at the door again, but it still wouldn’t give. I heard Book shouting, but it was all just noise. I heard the cacophony of other goats, bleating wildly. Desperately I turned back to the window and somehow managed to squeeze through the tiny frame. I tumbled out onto the roof and looked at the scene below.

Book was jumping up and down on Dewey, trying to crush his ribs. Blood gushed from Dewey’s mouth, and his eyes strained so wide that the capillaries burst. “Stop, Book! Oh, God,
stop
!” I yelled as I slid down the roof and dropped twelve feet to the ground. I must have twisted my ankle because it gave out when I tried to stand, but I didn’t feel any pain. I limped as fast as I could toward Dewey and Book. Aunt Sue stood off to one side, transfixed at the sight of what Book was doing.

I grabbed the shovel where Book had tossed it aside, and screamed as I swung the flat side of it at Book and hit him hard across his broad back. He fell off Dewey, but Aunt Sue grabbed me before I could hit him again.

“You bitch!” Book roared at me, his face purple with rage. He lunged, but Aunt Sue pulled me away.

She roared back at him, “Enough, Book! Enough! Sit your ass down!”

He sat in the grass, just like she told him to, next to Dewey and a spreading pool of blood. Aunt Sue let go of me, and I dropped to my hands and knees. I couldn’t look at Dewey anymore. I couldn’t breathe.

I squeezed my eyes shut as hard as I could, to block out all of what had happened, all of what they’d done.

But I could still see Dewey, being crushed to death by Book. And I could still hear him screaming in pain. Screaming for me to help him.

I vomited again.

The Craven County Animal Control officer showed up an hour later. The neighbors must have heard what was going on, even though they were a couple of acres away. Aunt Sue and Book met the officer when he pulled up in his truck and parked in the backyard. I had gone inside the barn, once I could make myself walk, and was sitting in one of the stalls with the goats, paralyzed and numb. But they were close enough that the goats and I could hear their conversation.

“Book here,” Aunt Sue told the officer, “he accidentally backed over one of the wethers with the new truck. That’s likely what the neighbors heard. He couldn’t believe he’d done it and he yelled about it some.”

I stormed outside in a new rage.

“That’s a lie!” I yelled. “That’s a goddamn lie. Book killed him on purpose. He beat him to death.”

The Animal Control officer looked at me, then at Aunt Sue.

Aunt Sue said, “Well, Book had to just go on ahead and put the goat out of its misery. Some smart-ass took the firing pin out of the twenty-two.” She nodded at me.

“Oh, God,” I said. “You people are so horrible.”

The Animal Control worker lifted his hands and looked at Aunt Sue again. “Ma’am, if we’re going to get through this. . . ?”

Aunt Sue told me to go inside the house.

“I won’t do it,” I said. “Somebody’s going to hear the truth about this.”

“Ma’am,” the Animal Control guy said again to Aunt Sue. She shrugged and nodded to Book. He grabbed my arm and dragged me over to the back porch; I fought him every step of the way, but he was too strong. If I’d had the shovel again in that moment, I was sure I would have killed him.

After the Animal Control guy left, Aunt Sue came over to the porch. She snatched the front of my T-shirt, her fist knotted in the fabric so tight I couldn’t pull loose.

“You pushed Book to do what he did,” she said, spitting her words. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but meat is meat, and we don’t waste it, and when it’s time to kill the wether for the meat, then it’s time, and you stay clear out of the way.”

She dragged me back over to Dewey. I tried peeling her fingers off, but she just clenched tighter. “Look at it,” she ordered, and gripped my chin until I did. Immediately my eyes flooded with tears. “That meat’s no good anymore,” Aunt Sue snarled. “So you get the shovel and you bury what’s left of that goat out in the woods. And deep, you understand? I don’t want wild dogs or coyote showing up around here.”

I finally looked up from Dewey. “You’re both murderers,” I said to Aunt Sue. “You as much as him.”

She raised her hand to hit me, but this time I didn’t flinch or duck. I just stood there, glaring at her, daring her, and I guess she thought better of it. She turned and went inside. The truth was that even though it broke my heart to see his mangled body, I was glad to be the one to bury Dewey. I didn’t want her or Book touching him.

I found an old blanket in the shed and wrapped his little body in it and laid him in the wheelbarrow. He was so battered that he didn’t look like Dewey anymore. New blood flooded from his mouth when I moved him, covering my arms. I fought the urge to vomit yet again. I had to be calm and strong for the other goats, who had massed together to watch. Reba
maa
ed the loudest and the saddest. Huey and Louie ran in crazy circles, lost without their brother. Patsy stood next to me while I worked.

My anger was already evaporating, though. It had sustained me for the past hour or so, but now I was afraid that if I stopped moving, I might never start again.

It took a long time to negotiate through all the brush, my ankle throbbing with each step, but we finally made it back to the Devil’s Stomping Ground: Patsy and Gnarly and me. Loretta and Tammy and Jo Dee stayed back at the farm with Reba and the two boys. I dug a nice grave at the edge under a dogwood tree.