Mad Cow Nightmare (25 page)

“Blossom never does it, never, she’s clean, she does her business outdoors,” Boadie said. “But Maggie’s got us upset, says we have to leave again. When we just got here! A week ago just!”

“Two and a half weeks ago, Mammy,” said Liz.

“Don’t contradict!” shouted Boadie. She rubbed a paper towel over the mess on the floor, then marched outside with it.

“Well, you’re wrong,” said Liz. She kicked aside a pile of clothing on the floor and then clanged a fry pan into the full plastic dishrack.

“You don’t have to leave. Of course not, who told you that?” Sharon asked, though she knew. Her mother going bonkers, losing her temper—that was nothing new, but this time she seemed to be diving headlong over the precipice.

Still wailing, Maggie stretched out her arm and pointed a finger in the direction of the farmhouse.

Sharon drew her down onto the plastic sofa. “She’s upset; she’s in shock. I had a home health nurse come and give her a sedative. You have to understand, Maggie, this is her whole life. Mom’s a workaholic. The cows are more than her livelihood—they’re her life since Dad went off with that Violet woman.”

Maggie looked interested. She quieted. “He did? Why?”

“Well, I don’t know why,” Sharon said, settling onto a stool. “Seven-year itch maybe. Violet was an actress in a film they were putting on in town and Dad decided to be an extra. He never did like farming, anyway. It was his dad owned this farm. So he was bored, I guess. Greener pastures—or so he thought. Violet’s an ass,” she concluded, “I hate the bitch.”

“Then do something about it,” Maggie said. “Knock her about a little.”

“They live in New York City,” Sharon said, although the idea appealed to her. “Is that what you’d do? Has Darren ever given you reason to, um, want to hit him?”

Maggie blew out her cheeks, narrowed her eyes. “One time especially.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Maggie looked like she would. She bit her lips together. Then the words burst through. “It was the worst thing. Nola’s my cousin, you know, we got the same grandmother. We went to school together. I mean she’s eighteen months younger than me, but I got a late start. We did things, we were close.”

“So then?” Sharon felt the drumming in her chest, the anguish over what was about to happen. Nola coming on to Darren. Or vice versa—was it Darren’s fault? “Nola came on to Darren? Or Darren came—”

“No no, not Nola—though I seen Darren looking at her. I mean, I got fat thighs. Nola’s got everything right where it’s supposed to be. Who wouldn’t look at her? She’s paranoid about that scar her dad gave her, but you don’t see that when she’s dressed. Sometimes I think Darren’s got the hots for her, but I never caught them in anything. Besides,” and her voice softened, “Nola’d never do anything to hurt me. You wanna see something?”

“Uh-huh.”

Maggie pulled up her sleeve and stretched out a bare upper arm. Sharon saw a tattoo. It read:
N<&’M
in intertwined hearts.

“Oh, sweet,” Sharon said. She’d had a close childhood friend once, but they’d only exchanged a little blood, and then the friend stole away Sharon’s boyfriend and that ended that.

“But what was the worst thing?” Sharon asked. “Who?”

Maggie looked at Liz, who was quietly wiping dishes. “Dump that dishwater outside,” she told the girl. “Go help Mammy Boadie with her pig. She’s all upset about that pig wetting the floor.”

Liz stomped outside and slammed the trailer door. Maggie sighed. “That girl. She’s got the worst of Ritchie. She’s got his temper.”

Sharon drew in a breath. “Liz is Ritchie’s daughter?”

“And my sister Nan’s—she’s a year younger’n me. That’s what I was trying to tell you. Liz doesn’t know, though Boadie does. He got Nan one night when she stayed in my bed, and he thought she was me. Darren was gone—this was back when he’d just come into my life. Boadie was asleep, or Ritchie thought so, though he didn’t care, he was that full of drink. Nan screamed and clawed—you look behind his ear. He’s got a scar won’t heal up.”

“I can’t look—he’s dead,” said Sharon.

“Yeah. Well, I hated the bastard. I was his girlfriend first, you see, before Nola. Then when I chose Darren, Ritchie was furious. I don’t know why. Like I said, Nola’s prettier’n me.”

“Nola doesn’t sing. She’s quieter, I understand. You have a lot of charisma.”

“Yeah? You think?”

“Definitely.” Sharon patted Maggie’s arm, grinned. She sometimes wondered why her own husband, Jack, had picked her out in that Sadie Hawkins dance they met at. She wasn’t any glamour girl—never dressed up or wore makeup—but lots of bounce, Jack said; she got the adrenaline rolling in his body, gave him energy. She drummed her feet on the floor and smiled.

Sharon stood up; she’d promised to help Darren with the cows. She had no great love for the smelly beasts, but she wanted to see her mother through this trauma. “You couldn’t possibly leave now, Maggie, so unpack that sack. Besides, Mother needs Darren, he’s all she’s got here to help. Cows may be in quarantine but they still need to be milked. Mother needs you, and your family. Liz has got charisma, too, just hasn’t had a chance to show it, I think. You love her?”

“Of course I do, I’m her aunt.”

“Ever tell her? I was told she was your little sister.”

Maggie didn’t answer. She got up and emptied out the sack. Liz came back in the trailer and Maggie said, “We’re staying, Liz. You go get Boadie and help in the barn. Barn might need some cleaning. Darren’s out discing. Cows gotta eat, quarantine or no. You know that, you were on Uncle’s farm.”

Liz’s face puckered and Maggie squeezed her shoulder. “We’ll have rice pudding for supper tonight. You like the way I make it. I’ll do the dishes and maybe we can take in a movie after. That new Harry Potter film in town.”

Liz’s face brightened then and Sharon took her leave. “See you two,” she said. “Have fun with Harry.”

“Oh,” Liz called after Sharon, “I meant to tell you. There was a man out in the field, looking at the cows. Seemed like he was counting them.”

“Uh-oh,” said Sharon. “Feds.”

But if there’d been a man in the pasture, Sharon thought, he wasn’t there now. She wished Harry Potter could come and save the farm. But she doubted even a wizard could help at this point.

* * * *

Nola snatched a newspaper off a bench, and holding it up in front of her face, moved with the crowd out into the hall. There was something familiar about the face that stared back at her from the newsprint, but she couldn’t place it. She couldn’t place anything at this point. She entered the first dress shop she saw, thinking to find a quiet spot, pretend to be shopping. It was a store geared to teenyboppers—bright-colored tank tops, glittery stretch pants, and loud rap music. Ordinarily she wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this— today she found it a haven. Still feeling the panic in her chest, she snatched up a black cotton top and pair of jeans and ducked into a dressing room. She stood motionless, holding the clothing in her hand, her heart bouncing about like a rubber ball. Outside in the store girlish voices rose and fell and giggled and squealed.

She gasped to see herself in the dressing room mirror. It was the first mirror she’d looked in since The Willmarth’s bathroom and it was a shock. A stranger stood there, her face pale and bruised, the cheekbones curved and raw. A puffy red scratch ran the length of one cheek. The skin hung slack on her arms; you could barely read the initials on the
N&M
tattoo. The dress she wore was so filthy and ripped she might have been one of the homeless, just in off the streets.

She
was
homeless. She had to accept that.

She yanked off the dress, left it in a heap in the corner of the cubicle. She couldn’t look at the mirrored image another minute. She stepped into the jeans—they were too long and she rolled them up. She’d grabbed a size 6 shirt—too small but she got it over her head, yanked it down over her starved breasts. At least it was black—it wouldn’t call attention to itself. She still had her sandals, she’d at least thought to stick her feet in them before she left The Willmarth’s— but the soles were worn thin from all the running and walking. She sat down on the stool to massage her sore feet. Afterward it was painful to pull the sandals back on, but she had to, she couldn’t go barefoot.

She ran her hands through her hair, trying to comb it. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see it gray, but the mirror had told her it was still dark, in spite of the trauma, the surgery, the anxiety. It was a dull, lifeless brown, though, in need of washing. When she got out of here—if she got out—she would find a stream somewhere and wash it and her body. Even without shampoo or soap, the clean water would remove some of the grime. Her scalp was itchy—was something crawling on it? She combed again with her fingers, then shook her head vigorously, horrified at the thought of lice or ticks. She’d had them as a child and the nuns had scrubbed her scalp with Lysol. It was mortifying. She’d reeked for days.

Someone knocked on the dressing room door and her heart gave a crazy lurch. “It’s busy,” she called over the noise of the heart. She held on to the latch.

“Do you need any help? I didn’t see you go in,” the voice said, so close Nola could hear the woman’s hoarse breathing. A fat woman, Nola thought—she’d seen her when she came in, trotting laboriously after a customer.

“No, ma’am, I’m just trying on a shirt. Making up my mind. I’ll be out in a minute.” Nola wished she’d picked up two shirts and two pairs of jeans—the saleswoman might not have noticed. She could walk out in one outfit like she’d come in with it and pretend she was returning the other to the racks. She wasn’t a thief, a klepto—she’d been horrified once when Maggie stuffed a nightie in her bag and got away with it. But this time Nola was desperate. She was a refugee. Worse, she was a fugitive.

“Do you need another size?” the voice persisted.

“No, no, I have the right size. Please. I’ll be out in a minute.” When the saleswoman walked away she picked up the crumpled dress, tucked it under her arm with the newspaper. The photo leapt out at her this time and she knew, with shock, who it was. The Willmarth looked stricken, like she was pointing at some monster coming at her. The headline said her calves were sick with that disease they said Nola had. Nola felt for her rosary but of course it wasn’t there. She missed it terribly, she needed to atone. If she got out of here she’d find a church, a priest. She needed to confess. She had so much to confess! Terrible things. This scourge, for one. Had she brought it on people, like that Chinese child she’d heard about who got sick with SARS and then infected millions of others?

The thought made her nauseous. She had to get to a priest. She’d spotted a Catholic church as she ran from the police station—she’d go back there and seek sanctuary. She should have thought of that before. She’d go to a confessional, pour out her soul, her sins, cleanse herself before she moved on west.

Because she had to move on, she had to get to Tonawanda. She had to find Keeley. They’d been separated far too long—he needed her. He was still so young, a child of her own youth. She hadn’t wanted him at the time, knowing he’d be without a father. But now he was everything to her.

She had to find him, she had to get him away from Uncle.

She opened the dressing room door a crack and peered out. The saleswoman was slapping blouses back on a rack. A group of teenagers were rolling in, swooping down on the racks and tables, laughing, chattering, grabbing up shirts and running to the mirrors. This was the time. Clutching her rolled-up dress and newspaper— she’d toss them into a trash can—Nola slipped out, made for the entrance.

“Miss. Miss!” It was the saleswoman, she’d seen Nola. “Stop, miss! What’ve you got there? You’ll be stopped outside. You can’t get away with—”

An alarm sounded, a high-pitched shriek that split her ears. To her left a pair of cops were running toward the store, and for a moment everything blurred: shops, shoppers, cops—if she didn’t keep moving she’d turn into a pillar of salt. Already she felt the salt in her throat.

She ran out a door marked EXIT and found herself in an alley. A warehouse loomed to the left so she turned right and ran to a parking lot. She dodged in and out of cars and trucks, found an open door in a car, and, exhausted, crawled in and curled up on the backseat. She no longer cared; she couldn’t go on. Footsteps and voices approached, increased in volume, and thumped on past. She closed her eyes and sank into a semi-slumber that slowly deepened into sleep.

* * * *

Something was wrong with Zelda. She was acting strange. She’d leap into the air, then crash down on her bony knees. Then up again, twisting into an impossible S—tail slashing the muzzle, hind hoof pummeling the jaw; mouth wide open and foaming—bellowing out her anguish. Lurching about the pasture—udder heaving. Slamming against the bewildered cows, crashing again and again against the electric fence. Then through it—a howl more human than bovine—racing to the beaver dam. Leaping in, thrashing about in its brown waters. A shot—and a shriek, the cow sinking slowly into the reddening deep. Zelda!

“What is it, Mother? Mother, it’s Sharon. You were crying out. Mother. Wake up. Answer me, Mother!”

Ruth was swimming. Thrashing and beating through the bloody murk, clutching the cow about the throat, hauling it out, up onto the bank. The trees dead here, bare hollow logs chewed by beavers. The cow a crumple of skin and bones; one accusing eye glaring into Ruth’s. Gleaming in the sun like a shard of splintered glass.

Ruth sank down beside it and wept.

Chapter Nineteen

James Perlman turned down the aisle in Shaw’s Supermarket and found himself face-to-face with his ex-wife. She had a look of triumph on her broad rouged face, as if she’d caught herself a big fish. Maureen liked fishing, she liked squeezing worms onto the hook. It made James sick to watch—he felt himself to be that worm, at least in Maureen’s eyes. She had always looked down on him—at least ever since her father had tried to discourage her from marrying him. “James won’t amount to anything, you’ll see,” Maureen would quote her father as saying. And smile as she quoted.