by lize Spit
Then they’d take their groceries home, where they’d press their forks into a plastic container full of meat salad for the third time even though it had already lost its flavor.
Once I’ve made it safely off the exit ramp, I let out a sigh of relief. I follow the bridge back over the highway and across the Albert Canal.
The town sprawled out before me is completely unaware of the world around it. Laundry hangs out to dry, smoke drifts up from the chimneys. Some of the hedges are decorated with Christmas lights. But the streets are empty. There’s no one around, not even an approaching car. Maybe everyone has already arrived where they need to be. Maybe they’re all waiting in line at the bakery, pushing and shoving for the last dinner rolls.
There must be someone around to witness the fact that I’m back for the first time in nine years. Someone, anyone, by chance, out of sight even. A little girl taking a selfie, perhaps. In the corner of the photo, through her bedroom window, would be my little car—that would be enough. She wouldn’t even have to know who I am.
I could call Tessie, just to hear her voice. Then maybe the two of us could make a stand together today.
I’m down to the last kilometer. From above, the scene feels familiar: my car is a tiny speck, slow but driven with purpose. Along the busy road between the highway exit and my parents’ house are mostly old houses. They were built in the first half of the twentieth century, but I still wonder whether they were actually there when I was a teenager. Most of the facades I never even looked at. They were like decorations, concrete houseplants, on the road between the house I grew up in and the places where I truly felt at home.
It turns out that there are families living behind those facades, with well-organized parents who order new moon boots for their offspring every year and remember to wrap the little trees in front of their door in plastic against the frost.
July 12, 2002
LAURENS CALLED THIS morning to ask if I wanted to go swimming out at the farm. “We’ll have to ask Pim first, but if we both like the idea, he’ll say yes.” I’m wearing my bathing suit under my clothes—the same old one that’s too small. Yesterday, my shoulders were sore where the straps had been. My periods stopped coming as suddenly as they arrived.
Laurens and Pim aren’t in the new pool, but next to the barn on one of the mounds covered in white plastic. They’re standing at the very top. When I squint so I can see them against the glare, the blurred mound reminds me of a wedding cake, with Laurens and Pim as the two little figurines on top.
Pim’s parents always let us play anywhere we wanted on the farm, but there were four places that were off-limits: the left side of the hayloft (the hay was too thin there, and we might fall through), the garage with the floor pit (the wood cover was rotten and dangerous), the septic tank grates in the old cowshed (no longer reliable) and the white mounds. They’d never given us a reason for that last one. We were simply told that they were forbidden territory, even though they looked so innocent and inviting.
Once at a birthday party, Laurens rested his foot on the white plastic. Pim yanked him to the ground by the hood of his jacket so hard that it ripped off the snaps.
“What’s under there that’s so dangerous?” Laurens squeaked after a whole minute of choking and spluttering.
Pim offered no explanation. He just turned around and walked away. For the rest of the afternoon, he and Laurens acted like two cats that had just had kittens.
On the way to school, Laurens and I exchanged theories. Under that plastic were dead animals that had succumbed to mad-cow disease. Or even worse—drugs, grown in the stalls or nearby fields. We concluded that Pim’s parents had been the cause of the mad-cow epidemic that broke out in the nineties. They were the Mafiosi of the agricultural industry.
I crawl up the mound on the least steep side, carefully placing the tips of my ballet flats in the grooves of the rubber tires to avoid stepping on the contaminated cows potentially lying below. Warm rainwater sloshes up with every step.
When I reach the top, my ballet flats are soaked. Pim and Laurens have sat down in a tractor tire lying flat on the top of the mound like a swimming pool, their legs hanging over the edge. Their hair is tousled from the wind that, even in today’s sweltering heat, is still blowing through the open barn.
“What are you guys up to?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Laurens says.
“Doing nothing is doing something too, y’know,” Pim says.
A strand of hair keeps sticking to one of the corners of my mouth. It tastes like chemicals. I sprayed on some hairspray this morning, hoping that it might help to add a bit of volume. Instead, it made my hair sticky and heavy, and now it’s hanging down in stiff spikes on my forehead. I’d assumed that I’d be able to wash it out with pool water right away.
“You decide what we’re going to do.”
I take a seat in a smaller tire a little ways away. There isn’t anywhere to sit closer to them. No one says anything for a while.
“What was always so dangerous about all this?” I ask, motioning to the sea of hot plastic around us.
“I know!” Laurens exclaims, taking my side because Pim doesn’t react. “Why weren’t we ever allowed to climb up here, and now all of a sudden it’s okay?”
We look at Pim. It most likely has something to do with Jan. But maybe in our eyes all of the recent changes on this farm have to do with Jan’s death.
“There’s silage underneath,” Pim explains. “In the months when grass grows fast, but the field isn’t dry enough to make hay, we shred it and store it as cattle feed. This is the farm’s most important product—cow feed. Climbing on the plastic could cause it to tear, which would let in light and moisture. Then, the feed will rot, and you have to throw it all away.”
Laurens and I listen, nodding. How many times had we called Pim on summer days to ask if he wanted to go swimming in the Pit? How many times had Pim’s mother said that her boys were helping out in the field, that we’d have to call back another time? All those hours that Laurens and I were forced to hang out just the two of us, all for two mounds of grass.
Of course, we’re capable of understanding how important they are. But the question remained: why were we climbing on them today?
“So all of a sudden it’s okay to climb on it?” I ask.
“No, but do you see anyone around here who’s going to try to stop us?” Pim asks.
No one says anything for a few seconds.
“What did you guys come over here to do anyway?” he asks then. It sounds more hostile than he intended, I think.
“Swim?” Laurens glances in my direction.
“Okay,” I say.
Pim divides his gaze equally between the two of us.
“Or play truth or dare? We could do that too,” Laurens adds quickly.
Pim gives him a thumbs up. A cloud moves in front of the sun, and the temperature instantly drops a few degrees.
Laurens gives me a look—this is all your fault.
“You first,” Pim says, slapping Laurens on the knee.
“Truth,” he says in a spooky voice.
“A little question to get started, then,” Pim says. “What’s the most embarrassing thing that you, Laurens Torfs, have ever done?”
Laurens ponders the question, hums and haws a bit to let us know that he’s thinking about his answer. To me, it’s also a sign that he’s not thinking about the most embarrassing thing he’s ever done. That he’d be able to tell us right away. The longer someone has to think about their answer the less truth you can expect. He’s going to tell us something that’s a bit less embarrassing, but still embarrassing enough.
Pim stares up at the sky above the barn. He must be thinking about what kind of answer he’d make up if someone asked him this question. Whatever you ask in this game has a way of coming back in your face like a boomerang.
“Once I caught my mom and dad in the store after closing,” Laurens says.
“Caught them doing wh
at?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes.
Pim smirks, unimpressed. It’s his turn. Not to be outdone, he goes for a dare.
“Drink from one of the tires.” Laurens points to the big tractor tire with a puddle of green slime at the bottom.
Pim doesn’t hesitate for a second. He drops to his knees, presses his lips against the rubber and takes a big gulp. I see a small army of tadpoles squirm out of the way. Pim drinks it up and manages to keep it down. Then he turns towards me.
“Your turn.”
“Truth,” I say.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever experienced?” Pim asks.
Following Laurens’s lead, I don’t tell them the worst thing—my mom and dad standing across from each other in the kitchen wielding potato knives at each other, neither one of them brave enough to take the first swing—but something just bad enough.
“One time we had to carry my mom home in a wheelbarrow after trivia night at the club,” I say.
Laurens doesn’t say anything. Pim lets out a snort, at which Laurens bursts into laughter. I don’t dare to tell them the rest of the story. They’re laughing so hard they’re almost crying. Even I start dabbing the corners of my eyes.
“That’s all well and good,” Pim finally says, “but it sounds more like the worst thing your mom’s ever experienced. Tell us something about yourself.”
I think about it for a moment, but all I can come up with is other people’s misery. Suffering I saw happen, that I just kept watching, until it became my own. Sharing it would reduce its density, making it more bearable for both of us.
“Isn’t Jan’s accident the worst thing you’ve ever experienced, even though you’re not the one who died?” I ask.
The silence that falls over us is filled by farm sounds: the clickety-clack against the iron troughs, the rumbling of the refrigerator engine in the milk house, mooing. Cows always sound like they’re in pain.
“That’s different,” Pim snaps. “And who says Jan’s death is the worst thing I’ve ever experienced?”
“At least Jan’s not suffering anymore,” Laurens says.
I look at Pim to see how he will respond, but he doesn’t. White clouds float by overhead, behind him the horizon is still a clear shade of blue.
“Okay, for real.” I decide to make something up. “The worst thing I’ve ever experienced myself—one time, on the way to my grandparents’ house, we were stuck in traffic, and I had to go so bad that I went in my pants.”
“Pee or poop?” Laurens asks.
“Both,” I say.
That does the trick. The boys nod, offering their condolences.
“That’s bad, Eva.”
The top of the mound offers an incredible view of the land behind the farm. If this were a painting, somebody would pay a lot of money for it. To the right are the fields, and to the left, I can look out over the top of the barn.
This panorama might be the real reason we were never allowed to climb on this pile of grass. Up here, we have a view of the whole property, of the grime on the roof of the barn, and can see it for what it truly is, a dirty old dairy farm.
Pim’s dad is down below, absorbed in his chores, withdrawn. He glances up at us. Why doesn’t he say anything about us sitting on the mound of grass silage, threatening to destroy all of his hard work? He briefly makes eye contact with me.
“What base are you at, by the way?” Pim asks Laurens. “Be honest.”
“What do you mean by ‘base’?”
“At my school, they call them bases. There are six of them: making out, feeling up, fingering, going down. Then, there’s fifth base, sex, and then a homerun.”
“So what’s the homerun?”
“If you have to ask, you clearly haven’t gotten to it yet.”
Laurens and Pim are sitting across from each other. Their pant legs catch the wind, inflating their calves.
“Who said I wanted truth?” Laurens says.
It falls quiet for a moment.
“Come on, just say it,” Pim urges.
“I’m at third base,” he claims. “Where are you?”
“Fifth. Gradually inching my way towards a homerun.” Pim holds up five fingers, then makes a fist and slams it into his other hand.
Again, a cloud moves in front of the sun. A shadow glides across the roof of the barn.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done to someone?” I ask Pim after he asks for truth. “Jan’s accident doesn’t count,” I add, “because there was nothing you could do.”
He doesn’t need long to think. The grateful look on his face breaks into a grin.
“I put a ping-pong ball up a cow’s ass.”
“And . . .?” Laurens asks.
“And what?”
“Did she fart it back out?”
Pim furrows his brows conspiratorially.
“Nope. I put it in there pretty deep.”
“Why would you do something like that?” I ask.
“Why wouldn’t I? Nobody ever found out.”
I gaze off in the distance. Pim’s dad is nowhere in sight. The man who knows all the spots on his cows’ backs has a blind spot for his own son.
“Your turn, Eva,” he says.
Again, I choose truth.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” Pim asks, hurling my own question back in my face.
I think about it for a moment and say the first thing that pops into my head.
“I killed Elisa’s horse.”
Pim’s eyes widen. “How?”
“I gave Twinkle sugar. Apparently, it kills them instantly.”
“Who told you that? Animals don’t die from sugar. In the meat industry, they pump them up with way worse stuff than that. You didn’t poison her—at most you helped her put on an extra pound or two.” Laurens gives me a wink, like his father would do. “Butcher’s sons know these kinds of things, trust me.”
Is he trying to put my mind at ease or is he dissatisfied with my answer again?
The sun breaks through the clouds, illuminating the white plastic. As if realizing on their way down that they’re about to be beamed back up, the rays seem to make a sharp turn towards a spot of bare skin on my neck. It smells like burning rubber. I want to stand up, but my tight bathing suit keeps me down.
“Laurens, go for a dare.”
“Okay, fine. Dare,” he says.
“I’ve got the perfect task for you . . .” Pim pauses for a moment to let the tension build. “I’ll tell you which cow it was, and you pull the ping-pong ball out.”
Laurens shakes his head.
“Come on, are you a butcher’s son or not?”
Pim climbs out of the tractor wheel; the wind whooshes out of his pant legs. His butt looks smaller than ever.
Before we enter the cowshed, Laurens and I each pull on one of the pairs of boots lined up outside the giant door. I take the biggest pair. They’re so big that I can wear them without having to take off my ballet flats. The stalls are made of cinderblocks and covered with corrugated metal. In here, there’s no breeze at all. As we wander around, the cows pull back their slimy noses. Their heads bang against the iron bars, which makes an infernal clacking noise that echoes across the entire farm.
We climb over the fence and walk between the animals. We trample over cow droppings, releasing the smell of rotten grass and musty earth. The closer we get to the cows, the bigger they seem. Laurens, who confidently followed Pim into the barn, slows his pace. The cow we’re headed towards is rubbing her back on a giant brush. She whips her tail around, flicking the flies off her hind legs. Her hip bones jut up out of her back. Pim positions himself behind her and takes a wooden broomstick. The other cows make a run for it, their udders sloshing back and forth as they scramble out of the way. Pim beckons Laurens to come closer.
“This is a heifer,” he says. “Something between a mother and a child. In other words—a sweet young piece of meat.”
The heifer shakes her h
ead nervously back and forth. Pim directs her to the side with the broom, to where the cows are normally held when they are pregnant. The animal has no choice but to saunter forward, shifting her weight from one hind leg to another, her limp udders swinging back and forth.
Pim takes a step back. Laurens looks around helplessly. He doesn’t know what to do. Then, he pulls himself together and walks forward, stopping thirty centimeters from the animal. The cow’s anus bulges out.
“You’ve got to reach into the top hole!” Pim says. “Otherwise, you’ll be in her uterus.”
Laurens rolls up his right sleeve and rubs his hands together. The cow becomes nervous, shifting her weight faster and faster from one leg to the other. She can’t reach us with her tail. She knows what’s coming. Over at the fence, a couple of cows are huddled together; one of them moos encouragingly.
“You’d be better off doing it with your left arm. It’s going to stink for a while,” Pim says.
Laurens looks at me. I say nothing. Pim points to a bottle on a nearby stool. “Put some of that stuff on your hand.”
“Are you sure he has to do this?” I ask.
“Here.” Pim squirts the slimy substance on the cow’s butthole. He grabs Laurens by his left wrist and pulls him closer. Laurens doesn’t stop him. Pim pushes Laurens’s fingertips in about a half a centimeter. They do not go in easily. Laurens’s hand falls limply against the hole. He can’t bring himself to push.
“Don’t make a fist. Do like this.” Pim motions with his arm, making a kind of slow-motion forward crawl. “Don’t be too gentle.”
Laurens slowly wriggles his hand until it slowly disappears into the hole, followed by his wrist and then his lower arm.
“See what I mean?” Pim says. “The ball is in about shoulder deep.”
He winks at me, finishes pantomiming the job, this time doing the forward crawl motion with two arms. Suddenly, it occurs to me: there’s nothing in there. At first, I’d hoped that Pim wasn’t capable of doing something so barbaric. But what he’s putting Laurens through right now is just as bad.
Laurens works his way in deeper, until he’s in the animal up to his neck. He’d have to stand on his tiptoes to go any further.
