by Brandon Witt
“I’m not sure what type of feed you’re getting, but it’s not what’s causing this.” Wesley intentionally let his gaze drop to the ground at Mr. Wallace’s feet, glaring at the length of barbed wire sticking out from a clump of manure. “Your cow sliced the skin between her hooves on something; then infection set in.”
“So what does that mean? Just need some stitches or something?”
Wesley looked back up at the man. Was this guy for real? Even though Wesley was a city boy, he’d spent enough time with livestock as a kid to find the idea of giving the poor animal a few stitches nearly laughable—and that was with or without a doctor of veterinary medicine degree. He tried to keep the judgment out of his tone when he responded. “No, I’m afraid this is well beyond stitches. You’ve got yourself a case of foot rot. I’d say we’re right on the edge of it being critical. It’s a good thing you called, Mr. Wallace.”
The man spit a stream of brown toward his feet. “My name’s John. And it ain’t no foot rot. That’s what the fucker at that shit feedstore said.” He motioned toward a bale of alfalfa sitting outside the barn. “I decided to call Dr. Fisher and have her come look.”
Wesley wasn’t sure what the alfalfa had to do with it. “Mr. Wallace—John—there’s no doubt she’s got foot rot. You can see it if you look at the skin around the hoof, and you can for sure smell it. I’d say if you’d waited another day, she’d be lame. Might still get that way, but if we start antibiotics today, we can probably get it under control before it gets much worse.”
“How much is that gonna cost?” John glared over at the cow, a sneer curving his upper lip, revealing sickly yellow teeth.
Wesley managed to refrain from grimacing. A part of him was tempted to step closer in an attempt to determine if the man had a horrible case of gingivitis or displayed signs of meth use. He decided he wasn’t curious enough to find out. “I can call you once I get back to the clinic. I want to do a little checking to make sure I go the best route, and I’ll call Dr. Fisher just to get a second opinion on what she’d do, but I’m fairly certain of the route she’d take.”
“It might just be best to put her down. I was gonna wait a few more months before I butchered another, but no reason to wait.” John nodded like the decision was already made.
Wesley grimaced. “John, I think you called in enough time to save her. If we start today, she should be fine. I don’t think there’s a reason we wouldn’t be able to save her leg.”
The man’s laugh was loud and harsh. “You are a city boy, aren’t ya? Who ever heard of cutting off a cow’s leg? If a horse breaks its leg, ya shoot it. No reason to pay to have a three-legged cow. Steak’s a bit too pricey if you do it one leg at a time.”
“Mr. Wallace, I wasn’t suggesting an amputation, but even if her life wasn’t savable, you wouldn’t want to consume her meat, not when she’s got this type of infection.”
He waved Wesley off. “Listen, Dr. Ryan. I don’t know how they do it where you’re from, but we don’t waste the good gifts God has given us.”
It took effort for Wesley to keep the disgust from his expression. From what he’d seen of John Wallace, there was nothing but waste. The small field was a mud pit, filled with trash and debris. All twelve of the cows he’d noticed were malnourished and sickly. He was willing to bet the only reason the man still had cattle was that he lived at the end of a long dirt road and no one was ever here to witness the state of his animals. “Foot rot is highly contagious. I’d like to come back out this afternoon with the medicine for this cow and inspect your others while I’m at it. If it starts spreading, you’ll have a lot bigger expense.”
Distant thunder rumbled to the east, causing them both to look toward the horizon. Dark clouds were gathering, promising that the brightness of the morning was going to come to a wet, gloomy end.
Looking away from the upcoming storm, Wesley visually inspected the cow once more, anger building at her condition. “I won’t charge you for inspecting the rest of your herd. If we catch it in time, it’ll save you a lot of money.”
John scowled, considering. “Well, I can’t butcher my whole herd. We depend too much on ’em for that. And I don’t have enough deep freezers to handle it.” His watery blue eyes jittered as he inspected Wesley’s body, then returned to his face once more. He grinned suddenly. “On the upside, we are supposed to go to Missy’s folks’ this afternoon for dinner. Looks like I got reason to cancel.” Another brown stream hit mud.
A cool wind swept over them, stirring up the smell of the field. Wesley grimaced. John Wallace didn’t seem to notice.
“Whelp, I guess that does it until you get back here in a bit.” He turned and started walking toward his house.
Wesley glanced at the cow still secured in the corral, then at John’s retreating backside. “Aren’t you gonna move your cow into the barn?”
John paused, glaring back at the miserable-looking cow, then at Wesley. “You’ll be back in a couple hours. She’ll be….” His voice trailed off, something in the vet’s expression making the man change his mind. He let out an exasperated sigh, then began walking toward the animal.
WESLEY AND John had nearly reached the house when a large woman with a cloud of frizzy blonde hair stepped out onto the concrete slab of a porch, letting the screen door slam behind her. The hue of her hair matched the chipped, faded yellow paint of the house, almost giving the illusion she was somehow part of the structure, maybe even being consumed by it.
At the woman’s appearance, John paused momentarily in his steps, appearing almost startled.
After hesitating a moment, Wesley stepped toward the woman, extending his hand. “Hi, I’m Dr. Ryan. We were just taking a look at your cows.”
The woman’s attention darted between the vet and her husband before she accepted the handshake. “Missy Wallace. I know who you are.”
It seemed everyone knew who he was. He tried not to read into the woman’s cold tone. It might have nothing to do with him or what she may or may not know about him. She looked nearly as forlorn as the sick cow. A limp sack of a woman, she was all sagging curves—jowls, breasts, belly. For some reason, it struck Wesley that she wasn’t that much larger than Wendy Bennett if you put the women side by side. But Wendy glowed. She was beautiful, larger than life, and looked as though she could handle any storm that might come her way. This woman appeared as if she might crumble in a stiff breeze, despite her size.
John stepped up even with Wesley. “Missy, Doc here says he’s gotta come back out and take care of the cows this afternoon. Guess they’re a bit sick. You and the kid go on to yer folks. It’s gonna take a bit.”
Again her narrow gaze flitted between the two men. “Cain’t we just butcher her?”
John stepped up and joined his wife on the slab porch. “Would you let me worry about this shit, Missy. I wasn’t asking for your input.”
The woman’s flinch was miniscule. So much so that if Wesley hadn’t already been furious over the cattle’s condition and open to finding more reasons to despise the man, he might have missed it.
John hadn’t noticed or, more likely, didn’t care. “The vet’s gonna get whatever that dumb cow needs and then take care of it.” He turned away from his wife, giving a dismissive glance toward Wesley. “How long till you think you’ll be back?”
THE SUN set in an inglorious lack of color. The hours Wesley and John spent doctoring the sick cow and inspecting the rest of the herd had transitioned the gray afternoon to a wet, dark evening. The last couple of cows were examined by the glare of a flashlight.
Missouri thunderstorms were nothing new to Wesley, but he’d forgotten how different they felt away from the lights and massive buildings of Kansas City. They brought back memories of the late summer storms he’d experienced when staying with his grandparents, the humid evening thick with lightning bugs giving way to torrents of rain and the walls of their small house seeming to shake with the crash and flash of the sky. He’d never been afraid of them, in
stead sitting in his grandmother’s lap staring out the large window of the front room. “God’s fireworks” his grandpa had always called them. He hadn’t been an overly religious man, but always equated everything in nature to God.
Ankle-deep in mud and manure, the evidence of neglect mounting with each cow Wesley inspected, the flash of lightning felt ominous, the crash of thunder only increasing the fury building within him. The vile man grumbling and cursing beside him became more loathsome. Where John Wallace had seemed ignorant and possibly abusive earlier in the day, he now had a sinister edge to him. Of course, Wesley reminded himself, his mom had always said her youngest son was prone to be the slightest bit dramatic.
Three other cows had signs of foot rot. With each new discovery, John Wallace’s mood darkened, his curses growing more fervent.
Wesley had to keep biting his tongue to keep from commenting about the state of the cattle and their living conditions. Wallace was already upset and on edge. It wouldn’t do any good to try to address the improvements that needed to be made. Wesley would come back out the next day, both to check on the cow and stress the importance of improving the quality of the cows’ environment. Regardless, he was going to call and report the man to the ASPCA. It would probably be a good idea to speak to Dr. Fisher about how to address the issue with Mr. Wallace. It might make sense to ask her to come with him. He wasn’t sure who John would respect less, him being new to the town or Dr. Fisher being a woman. Of course, if the man knew as much about Wesley as his wife seemed to know, he probably would value Wesley less than he did a woman.
SCRAPING HIS shoes over the gravel of the driveway, Wesley groaned. It was useless. He was drenched and covered in filth. He cursed himself as he looked at the Miata parked a few feet from the front door of the house. How had he not thought to bring a change of clothes and shoes, or at least a towel to drape over the seat? He had no way to get into the tiny car without dripping mud and manure all over the driver’s seat. Maybe if he stood in the rain for a while, most of it would wash off. Right….
“Come in. You can rinse off in the shower and borrow a pair of pants if you need to.”
The offer took Wesley by surprise. He turned and looked at John Wallace standing on the porch. He was barefoot, his boots already cast off to the side. For the briefest moment, the man looked younger and handsome, the yellow porch light washing away the pockmarks over his face, the curtain of rain softening his features.
A flash of lightning sliced overhead, destroying the illusion. The transition left John Wallace seeming more haggard than before.
Wesley looked back at his car, then again at the man. It showed how much he disliked the man that he was even debating getting into his car in such a condition. “I can just rinse off with the hose.” He motioned toward the spigot that protruded from the house.
“No way you’ll get clean enough to not get shit all in your car, unless you showered out here naked.”
He was right, Wesley had no doubt, but he recoiled at the thought of going into the man’s house. Another glance at his car, then the spigot.
“You too good to come into my house, Doctor Ryan?”
The last thing he needed was to get a reputation of thinking he was better than everybody else. He had no doubt John Wallace would take every chance he got to trash his name. Grudgingly he walked toward the house and joined John on the porch. Every instinct he had was screaming for him to get into his car and speed away, mud be damned. He pushed them aside. He was being ridiculous. It was just a shower. Bending, he pulled off his shoes, his fingers sinking through the thick layer of sludge in order to get a grip.
John motioned through the doorway. “The bathroom is down the hall, first door on your left. There’s a towel hanging on the back of the door.”
He lifted a foot to step into the house, but John caught his arm.
“Why don’t ya take off your pants? Missy will have my hide if we get shit all over the carpet.”
“Actually it’s okay. I’ll just drive home real quick and—” Wesley’s words died in his throat as he turned and looked at the car once more.
“You’d rather ruin your car than come into my house, huh?” Disdain filled Wallace’s tone.
“No, it’s not that. I just….” Wesley sighed and let his words trail off. He unbuttoned his jeans and slid them over his legs. The wet denim pulled on his leg hairs, but he managed to yank them off without falling over. Beside him, still propping open the door, John Wallace pulled off his own jeans. From the corner of his eye, Wesley realized the other man had gone commando. Averting his gaze, and trying not to vomit for what felt like the thousandth time that day, he let his jeans fall to the porch and stepped through the doorway. He’d make this quick.
Even in the dim light and his rush to the bathroom, the filth of the place astounded Wesley. How did people live like this? It wouldn’t have made the place much worse if he had worn his bedraggled jeans through the room.
After locking himself in the bathroom, Wesley flipped on the light and gaped at his reflection in the mirror. He was covered. He’d even managed to get crap in his hair, brown streaks running over his face and dripping off his jaw. He’d told himself he would just wipe up and be on his way, but it was clear that wouldn’t be enough. As uncomfortable as the situation was, he was doubly glad he hadn’t gotten into his car. He would have had to burn the thing.
Realizing he was dripping filth all over the cracked linoleum, Wesley stepped into the shower, not bothering to remove his shirt or underwear. He turned on the shower, and freezing water sprayed him in the face. The clean water felt good, and the coldness didn’t even bother him. Within moments, the water had heated and he’d stripped out of the rest of his clothes. He wrung out his shirt and underwear several times under the shower’s spray. The shirt would never truly be clean again, but he’d gotten enough of the grime off that he could at least wear it home, if Mr. Wallace would give him a trash bag or two to cover the driver’s seat.
After a couple more minutes, Wesley was clean enough that the water running over his body was clear and free of grime. He turned off the shower, reached across the small bathroom, and pulled the towel off the hook. Once mostly dry, he wrung out his wet clothes and used the towel to wipe up the floor where he’d left a trail of dirty water. Hesitantly he stepped back into the wet briefs and pulled the T-shirt over his head. At least he’d had enough sense to change into old clothes before coming back to Wallace’s farm. The dampness of his clothes against his skin brought back the chill the shower had eradicated. Before opening the bathroom door, he wrapped the dirty towel around his waist.
The man was standing by the sink in the kitchen, waiting for him. He’d removed his clothes and held a dishrag in front of his crotch.
Wesley was certain there was a glint in the man’s eyes as he looked Wesley over. Wesley thought he’d picked up on a certain energy while he’d been inspecting the cattle, but he’d ignored it, explaining it away. He was worked up about the mistreatment of the cattle. He’d lost even more respect for the man seeing how he spoke to his wife. He was just on edge and was imagining things. However, the leer on John’s face from across the room was undeniable. He shouldn’t have come into the house. He’d known better. Fucking stupid.
“I put your jeans here in the sink with mine. I was just rinsing them out. Let me hop in the shower real quick, and we can throw them in the wash machine.”
John crossed the space toward the bathroom. Wesley stiffened, expecting the other man to touch him as he passed. He didn’t.
“I called Missy, told her and the kid to stay at her folks’. This storm isn’t showing any sign of letting up.” He stepped into the bathroom, not bothering to shut the door.
The sound of the water turning on was accompanied by the shower curtain closing and then a long groan. Wesley hurried over to the kitchen sink, reached in, and separated his jeans from those belonging to John. He turned on the faucet, sticking his jeans under the warm flow. Quickly he pul
led them out again, found the front pocket, and stuck in his hand. He pulled out the key ring and lifted it for closer inspection. Washing them probably wouldn’t have made a difference—with as wet as his pants had been from the rain, the keyless entry button was certainly already fried. Still, he set the keys on the side of the sink and shoved his jeans under the water once more. Just a quick rinse to get the majority of the grime off and he’d leave. Car seat be damned. He’d get it professionally cleaned. Hell, he’d get a new car.
Wesley wrung out the jeans for the second time, undid the knot in the towel around his waist, and laid the towel on the counter. Somehow, left in his wet underwear and shirt, he felt no more clothed than if he were naked. He’d just lifted his left leg to stuff it into the wet jeans when a hand gripped his shoulder over the damp material of his shirt. He hadn’t heard the shower quit running, not that he could hear anything over the pounding of his heart in his ears. He turned, keeping the dripping jeans in his hands, using them to shield his body.
John stood less than a foot in front of him. Naked. Wet. Thin arms and legs. Hairless protruding belly. Substantial erection jutting toward Wesley.
Wesley stepped sideways, closer to the front door. “I… uh…. Thank you for the shower, Mr. Wallace. I should get going.”
John’s voice was gruff and low, altered with a panting quality that hadn’t been there previously. “No reason to rush, Doc. Like I said, Missy and the kid are staying with her folks. We got time.”
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”
The grip on Wesley’s shoulder tightened. Though smaller, Wallace was stronger than he looked. John’s breath was warm as he spoke, smelling exactly how the yellowing teeth promised it would. “There’s no misunderstanding. You’re a fag. Ain’t no secret.”
