Oh, for God’s sake. Couldn’t he just lie like a normal person?
“Maybe you’re lactose intolerant,” Brody Pfeiffer said. “I get diarrhea if I eat dairy.”
“Wait a minute.” Jane turned to Brody. “Weren’t you eating a cheese sandwich just now?”
“We don’t know for sure I’m lactose intolerant,” Brody told her. “It’s only happened about ten times.”
Jane made a mental note to have Brody sit near the front of the bus on the trip home, and then Farmer Kev announced it was time for the barn tour.
He led the way to the swaybacked, gray-shingled building that looked like the straw house in The Three Little Pigs, only less stable.
When they got to the barn doors, Farmer Kev gestured and said, “This here is the barn.”
Jane thought that might be the tour in its entirety, but they went inside, and she saw that actual farming seemed to be happening here. A dozen goats with slender necks and twitchy ears poked their inquisitive faces over and through the gated doors of their pens. Hello? Hello? Hello? Goat pens lined one half of the barn, and the other half was devoted to wooden stanchions and milking stations. A stoned-looking teenage boy was pushing a broom along the concrete floor.
“This is Travis,” Farmer Kev said. “And he’s going to show you all how we milk the goats.”
Travis nodded agreeably and went into one of the pens. He came out leading a black-and-white goat on a sort of leash. She went willingly up the wooden stairs to the platform.
“This is Lady,” he told the children, tying the leash to the railing.
Travis showed them how he cleaned Lady’s udder with a cloth and then clamped two industrial-looking suction cups onto Lady’s teats. Lady kicked her back legs a bit but seemed resigned, more or less. Travis flipped a switch on the platform, and milk began running through tubes to a silver canister on the floor.
“That’s all there is to it,” Travis said. “But I’m going to stop now because this isn’t her regular milking time.”
Farmer Kev had been standing by watching all this, but now as Travis unclipped Lady, he turned to the group and said, “Anybody want to try fresh goat’s milk?”
The children squealed in dismay and shook their heads.
“Oh, come on, now,” Farmer Kev said. “Nothing as fresh and delicious as milk straight from the goat.”
Students began shifting nervously, afraid of being singled out, but fortunately, Mrs. Mueller said, “I’ll try some.”
“Attagirl,” Farmer Kev said. “Come on up here and kneel down.”
Mrs. Mueller made her way to the front of the group, all long limbs and moon face, and knelt awkwardly but good-naturedly.
“Open up,” Farmer Kev said, and Mrs. Mueller obediently opened her mouth. Travis aimed one of Lady’s teats and shot a stream of creamy milk in. Mrs. Mueller swallowed, her eyes closed. She opened her mouth, and Travis shot another spurt in.
Jane stared at the floor, blushing. Surely—surely she wasn’t the only adult here who’d seen a porn film? The very end of a porn film? She glanced up and saw that Farmer Kev was looking at her, his teeth showing in his black beard. No, she wasn’t the only one.
“Okay,” he said. “Travis, lock Mama away and we’ll have the livestock encounter.”
Jane thought he was referring to his own mother or even his wife, but he was actually talking about a pretty little fawn-colored goat who had big brown eyes and an arching neck. She also had four adorable baby goats who bleated when Travis stepped over the fence into their pen. Travis and Mama had a brief clash of wills and a momentary struggle, but Travis forced her into a cage at the back of the pen without seeming to exert himself at all. (Jane wondered if she could hire Travis as a classroom assistant.)
Farmer Kev produced an orange crate of baby bottles filled with milk and said the children were allowed to climb right into the pen and hold the baby goats and feed them from the bottles.
“All except ’im,” Farmer Kev said, jerking his thumb at Edwin, so Mrs. Mueller took Edwin off to the farm shop.
The girls made delighted cooing noises and the boys made scornful scoffing noises, but every single child climbed in and began petting the goats. Jane watched, amazed, as Mackenzie Krieg, who was too squeamish to touch orange peels, sat down in the dirty straw, and Aubrey Kuhlman, who had significant Sharing Problems, placed a baby goat in Mackenzie’s outstretched arms. Jayden Holmes, so often a loner, cradled a baby goat while Sophia Boyle, the most popular girl in the class, held the baby bottle. Hunter Carpenter and Kylie Spillman had treated each other with exaggerated disdain ever since word had gotten out that they’d played in the same paddling pool when they were toddlers, and yet there they were, sitting next to each other, stroking a baby goat’s ears. Andrew Wilsie, known for cuffing people in the back of the head to get the lunch line moving, cuddled a baby goat in his lap, his face as serene as a Madonna’s. Classroom rivalries, friendship jealousies, playground power dynamics—the baby goats swept all that away. It was hard to tell who enjoyed this more, the children or the goats or Jane. (Probably the goats, who grew heavy-lidded with pleasure.) The only one who didn’t enjoy it was Mama, who kicked and thrashed in the cage.
Then it was time to go. They walked back to the bus, and Mr. Robicheaux poked Quiche, who was dozing in her lawn chair again. Jane thanked Farmer Kev for the tour and handed him an envelope of cash, which he peered into suspiciously. He handed out the farm souvenirs to the children: cheap plastic pinwheels that made an annoying buzz when the children blew on them.
Edwin Mueller told Farmer Kev the pinwheels sucked ass. (They sort of did.)
* * *
—
The bus ride home was unspeakable. Or perhaps it was unsmellable. The children smelled more like goats than actual goats did, and their animal stench combined with the hot stale air of the bus and the rancid tang of Quiche’s suntan oil to form an odor so potent that it was nearly visible. Everyone opened their windows, and the pinwheels buzzed like angry bees.
Jane sat down in a seat about halfway down the aisle and pulled her phone out of her pocket. There was a text from Duncan. Cute picture. Decided to stay for the party. See you tomorrow. D xx
The impulse to write back and say, Have a good time, HONEY! was so strong that for a moment Jane’s knuckles shone white as she clenched the phone. Instead, she put the phone back in her pocket and stuck her head out the window as the bus rattled back down the lane to the highway. She would never permit a student do this—Nicholas Beslock told her she would probably get an eye poked out—but she felt she might break down completely without fresh air. She spent ten minutes letting the wind press her eyelids closed and push air down her throat, feeling her hair flatten against her scalp. When she finally pulled her head back in, she saw that Mr. Robicheaux was standing at the front of the bus, talking to Quiche.
He made his way jerkily back to the seat in front of Jane and sat down next to Carter Huber.
Jane leaned forward. “What were you saying to Quiche?”
“I just asked if she could drop me off at Hooters,” Mr. Robicheaux said.
Mr. Bruggie and Liam were sitting in front of Mr. Robicheaux, and they both turned around.
“I really think you should come back to the school for dismissal,” Jane said.
Mr. Robicheaux shook his head. “Oh, now, don’t you worry, I’m sure the kids won’t mind.”
Jane was thinking more about whether the principal would mind, but she supposed that was Mr. Robicheaux’s problem.
“How will you get home?” she asked.
“My car’s still in the parking lot from last weekend.”
“Are you going to get a lap dance, Mr. Robicheaux?” Carter asked.
“It’s not a strip club,” Mr. Robicheaux said. “It’s a restaurant. Besides, lap dances are very expensive.”
; They pulled into the Hooters parking lot, and sure enough, there was Mr. Robicheaux’s dusty red Datsun. Hooters wasn’t open yet, but Mr. Robicheaux said he didn’t mind waiting.
The bus made its clunking sound again as Quiche pulled to a stop. She yanked on the lever and the doors wheezed open. “Anyone else getting off ?” she called.
“Just me,” Mr. Robicheaux said, walking up the aisle and stepping down the stairs.
“Well, good,” Quiche muttered. “Because this ain’t Greyhound.”
She closed the doors and put the bus in gear. Mr. Bruggie was still staring at Jane, but she refused to meet his eyes. Instead, she looked back as the bus drove away and saw Mr. Robicheaux sitting on the hood of his car, his elbows resting on his knees and the sun glowing softly through his nimbus of white hair.
* * *
—
Normally, Duncan picked Patrice up from daycare at around three in the afternoon, but today Jane didn’t get there until nearly five, and Patrice threw herself into Jane’s arms, sobbing incoherently.
“She’s had a rough day,” Ms. Shelton told Jane.
“Rough days are going around,” Jane said.
She knew she sounded unsympathetic, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Last year, one of the third-grade teachers had returned to school following her maternity leave and quit for good a month later. “It turns out I can be nice at work or nice at home,” the teacher told Jane. “Not both.” And that woman didn’t even live with Jimmy! But Jane couldn’t quit. Her salary kept the whole family afloat.
Jane struggled back out to the car with Patrice clinging to her like a piece of wet spinach. Jane pried her off gently and buckled her into her car seat. Patrice wailed. Jane drove to Glenn’s preschool, where Glenn came out, scuffing her feet moodily. “We were watching Winnie the Pooh.”
“I know,” Jane said tiredly. “But we’re going home now.”
They picked up Jimmy, and then Gary, who was waiting expectantly outside his office. (The temptation to keep driving was nearly insurmountable.) And when they finally got home, Freida and Mr. Hutchinson were sitting on the porch steps because Jane, that idiot, had invited them to dinner.
“Freida!” Glenn cried happily, climbing out of the car. Even Patrice stopped crying and snuffled interestedly.
“Hi, sugar,” Freida said. “Come give me a hug.”
“Did you bring your mandolin?” Glenn asked. “Will you play ‘Sweet Violets’?”
Freida smiled. “Of course I will. I’ll play whatever songs you like.”
They all went inside, and Freida took her mandolin out of its cotton bag.
Patrice took her thumb out of her mouth and pointed. “Tar.”
“It’s not a guitar, sweetie, it’s a mandolin,” Freida said as she tuned it. “A mandolin is actually closer to a violin.”
Patrice said, “Tar,” in an ominously firm voice and put her thumb back in her mouth.
“As long as it’s not a banjo,” Gary said critically. “I don’t hold with banjos. They’re nothing but cigar boxes with string.”
Jane could tell it was going to be a long evening.
Freida played “Sweet Violets” and “Soldier, Soldier, Will You Marry Me?” Jane left them singing all nine million verses of “The Wheels on the Bus” and took a quick shower to wash the goat smell from her pores. She couldn’t seem to wash away the memory of Honey, you look great. That might be permanent.
She got dressed again in jeans and a soft blue T-shirt. She decided they would order pizza for dinner, and anyone who felt the need for fruit and vegetables could have an apple. Gary was sure to tell Aggie, and Aggie would disapprove. But you know what? Fuck Aggie. That was Jane’s opinion.
Jane always felt that ordering pizza for any group larger than two was like trying to settle the Great Southwest railroad strike. Patrice would eat nothing but plain pizza, Jimmy liked thin crust, Glenn wanted cheese but no sauce, Freida fancied a veggie combo, and Gary told Jane he didn’t approve of that Hawaiian kind. Mr. Hutchinson said he was fine with whatever anyone else wanted, but Freida told Jane privately that he really had a very strong preference for Chicago-style pizza, which only made sense since he’d lived there for five years and was just terribly cosmopolitan, really. (She didn’t actually say that last part.) Even four years after their wedding, Freida still blathered on about Mr. Hutchinson like the newest of newlyweds. Jane hardly ever said more than hello to Mr. Hutchinson, but she knew a whole host of interesting (to Freida anyway) things about him: how he had a sentimental fondness for I Love Lucy reruns, how he loved the smell of furniture polish, how he thought the British royal family was overrated, how he disapproved of red mulch in landscaping. Jane thought that perhaps because Freida had been unmarried for so long, her honeymoon stage was lasting longer, too. It could mean a rough decade ahead.
It took Jane at least five minutes to order pizza to everyone’s specifications, and when the pizzas finally arrived, the plain cheese one for Gary and Patrice turned out to be covered with pepperoni. Patrice screamed at the sight of it, and Gary refused to eat a single slice, even after Jane picked the pepperoni off. Jane had to make two peanut butter sandwiches.
Glenn called into the kitchen, “Remember, Patrice, she don’t like crusts.”
Probably Gary didn’t either. Jane trimmed the sandwiches with hands that trembled.
As they cleared the plates away, Freida said, “I do believe your clock’s wrong,” and Jane realized that it was almost seven. Patrice would want to watch PAW Patrol and Gary would want to watch Jeopardy!
Patrice stood in the kitchen and held out her right hand, which was her signal that she wanted a sippy cup of milk to drink while she watched her show. Gary put down his napkin and said, “Seven already?”
“Uh-oh,” Glenn said ominously, and Jane agreed. Why had she ever thought it was a good idea to have just one television?
But Freida explained the problem to Mr. Hutchinson, and he offered to take Gary next door to watch Jeopardy! with the Wilsons. (They could see into the Wilsons’ living room and it appeared they weren’t watching anything, so hopefully they wouldn’t mind.) Jane had a moment of clarity as to why Freida had married Mr. Hutchinson, of what a kind and marvelous human being he was.
Jane hoped vaguely that Gary would stay next door, but he came back promptly at seven thirty, and Freida got out her mandolin again. Jane sat in an armchair, thinking about the dishes to be done, the children to be bathed, the sleep to be sought; trying not to think of Aggie and Duncan, Aggie and Duncan, Aggie and Duncan. Freida played “Tangled Up in Blue,” and “Kisses Sweeter Than Wine,” and “My Darling Clementine.”
“Gain,” said Patrice, who was sitting in Duncan’s armchair. “Gain.” She was running one hand across the nubby green fabric, trancelike. Apparently, she missed Duncan. Jane missed him, too.
So Freida played “Clementine” again. Jane’s phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out. Another text from Duncan. Hegt. She could see he was typing again. Heru. He tried again. Hey.
Duncan typed, This ids a reakky fin oartu. Translation: This is a really fun party.
Jane knew that soon he would be too drunk to text at all. What would happen then? Where was Aggie? Anxiety squirmed and rolled under Jane’s rib cage, making it hard for her to sit still.
Freida’s mood changed, and the mandolin followed suit. She played a sad, gentle song, singing mournfully:
It’s a tunnel kind of vision, like alcohol’s involved,
And I stray like a hound dog, but I come back when she calls…
“Freida,” Jane said rudely. “Please play something else. Something more cheerful.”
Freida looked surprised, but then merely thoughtful. She strummed idly for a moment, letting the music wander, and then she played faster and began singing in a particularly rollicking voice:
Another business trip,
another reason to stay away!
Coming home on Monday, smelling tangerine!
“Freida, for God’s sake!” Jane snapped. “Just stop playing! Stop! I can’t stand it!”
Freida stopped midstrum, and everyone stared at Jane.
She stood up, the squirming feeling in her chest now, clawing and scrabbling like a rat. Soon the rat would climb right up her throat. She went blindly from the room, fumbled the sliding glass door open, and stepped out onto the deck.
She stood, breathing harshly for an unknown time, until her pulse slowed and the ratlike gnawing inside her subsided a little. She dropped into a deck chair and tipped her head back. Her face cooled so rapidly, she was surprised it didn’t send out billows of steam. She stared at the sky. It was dusk, and although Jane couldn’t see the sunset, the sky was metallic orange, a smooth silvery dome above her.
The glass door slid open quietly, and Jimmy poked his head out. “Freida says if you’re okay with the girls skipping their bath, she’ll put them to bed. Mr. Hutchinson is reading them a story.”
Jane swallowed with difficulty. “That would be very nice, Jimmy. Please tell her it’s fine for them to skip bath.”
The door closed and opened again about a minute later. Jimmy came to sit in a deck chair beside her.
“Gary’s doing the dishes,” he said.
“That’s very kind of him.” Jane seemed capable of speaking only in stilted, talk-show-host sentences.
They were quiet for a while. The crickets began to turn up the volume. Jane’s breathing slowed even more. Maybe it would stop altogether. A flock of birds flew overhead, black against the sky, reeling and falling in perfect sync, like iron shavings pulled by a magnet.
“I’ve always been glad I’m not a bird,” Jimmy said.
“Really?” Jane squinted upward. “They look very happy, very free.”
“But you ever see a bird when it’s raining?” Jimmy asked. “When I was little and it was raining and my ma was driving us someplace, I used to look out and see these big birds—I guess maybe they were crows—sitting in the trees with no leaves. They’d be all hunched over, just getting wetter and wetter. They couldn’t go indoors because they didn’t have a home to go to. It always made me feel happy about going back to our house and being warm and dry.”
Early Morning Riser Page 24
