by Donna Ball
Medicare. She smiled weakly. “Well, that is good news. All I have to do is hold on for five more years.”
He hesitated. “Mom, I’d love to help you out, but with what I’m already doing for Katie there’s not much left over at the end of the month as it is.”
She blinked. “What? What did you say about Katie?”
The silence was heavy with self-recrimination. “She didn’t want you to know,” he said in a moment. “So don’t let on, okay? I’ve been sending her a little every month, to help with the rent.”
“Which you wouldn’t have to do if I’d moved to Chicago,” Bridget said slowly, “instead of buying this house.”
“Well, it sounds like things are not working out as well as you’d hoped on that end, either,” he said. “So maybe by the first of the year you’ll reconsider.”
She said absently, “Yes. Maybe.”
“In the meantime, if you need help making the insurance payment, I guess I could scrape together a little . . .”
“Don’t be silly,” she said quickly. “Don’t you dare. It’s not even due for a couple of months. I’ll think of something by then. It’s no big deal, really.”
“Well . . . happy birthday, again.”
“It’s not until Tuesday. But thank you anyway. Wish I could see you. Maybe at Thanksgiving?”
“Sounds good. I’ll let you know.”
She smiled into the phone. “You’re a wonderful boy. I’m really proud of you.”
“Good to hear you say that, Mom. Let’s talk soon, okay? We’ll make plans for the holidays.”
“You bet. Take care.”
“Bye, Mom.”
“Bye, Kev.” But even after he had hung up, she stood there holding the phone to her chest, staring at the bill, thinking about Kate, until Lindsay came in from her studio, rubbing her hands together against the cold and inquiring about lunch. Bridget smiled quickly and pretended everything was all right, but it wasn’t. And it was about to get worse.
Every afternoon around four thirty Lindsay put the fawn, who inevitably had been named Bambi, into his pen for the night, while Bridget fed the dog and checked on the sheep. Cici had fashioned a lean-to against the side of the house with two pieces of plywood and some tarp to provide the deer a refuge from the weather, but Lindsay worried it wasn’t enough.
“Noah said they can freeze,” she said. “What are we going to do when it snows?”
“Noah is a teenager,” replied Cici, tacking down a corner of the tarp with a finishing nail. The wind whipped a strand of hair across her face and she used her shoulder to push it away. “We’ll put him in the barn at night when I get the roof fixed. Meanwhile, he’s a deer, not a house pet. He’ll be fine.”
Lindsay stroked the nubby head while the deer nibbled a carrot from her hand. “Maybe I should get more hay.”
Cici started to reply, but they both turned at the sound of a cry. It was Bridget, running across the yard toward them. Her jeans and her shoes were spattered with mud and her jacket flapped open behind her; her face was taut with distress. “Cici! Lindsay!”
They hurried out of the pen and Bridget reached them, gasping. “We’ve got to call a vet. It’s Bandit, he’s not moving, and his eyes are all rolled back—”
“Bandit?” parroted Lindsay.
“The dog?” said Cici at the same time. Neither of them could remember what the dog’s current name was.
Bridget shook her head, grasping Cici’s arms. “The sheep. His breathing is funny, he won’t move, he’s really sick, Cici, and I don’t know what to do!”
Cici said, trying to calm her, “Okay. Okay, show me. We’ll see what we can do.”
“I’ll try to find a vet,” Lindsay said, running toward the house.
“Call Farley!” Bridget yelled. “He knows about sheep!”
Lindsay waved affirmative, and Bridget grabbed Cici’s hand, tugging her toward the meadow.
Farley arrived less than five minutes later, bouncing across the yard in his pickup truck, and screeching to a stop at the gate. The sheepdog, with ears pricked forward and eyes fixed on the downed sheep, didn’t even bark when he slammed the door. Cici and Bridget, kneeling helplessly over the muddy mound of tangled wool, straightened up with visible relief as Farley strode through the gate.
He stood over the animal for a moment, chewing his tobacco thoughtfully, then spat on the ground. “Sure looks bad, don’t he?” he commented.
Bridget said desperately, “I don’t know what happened. They all looked fine this morning . . .” She gestured to the remainder of the flock, which was contentedly plucking at the sparse blades of winter grass a few dozen feet away. “You don’t think it’s contagious, do you? Like hoof and mouth disease or something?”
Farley grunted, noncommittal, then grasped all four of the sheep’s hooves and flipped it over to its other side. The animal bleated in protest, then was silent. Farley bent for a closer look. “Right here’s your problem.”
He parted the wool to reveal a gory-looking wound in the sheep’s side. Bridget gasped and lost color, and Cici brought her hand to her mouth, looking away.
“Probably ran into a stick or tore itself up on barb wire,” he said. “Sheep’re stupid critters.”
He straightened up. “Want me to shoot it for you? Got my rifle in the truck.”
Both Cici and Bridget cried, “No!”
He gave them a long and unreadable look, then tugged at the bill of his camo cap, spat on the ground again, and said, “Bring my tractor by in the morning, dig you a hole. Cost you ten dollar.”
He started back toward the gate, and Cici saw the despair in Bridget’s eyes. She rushed forward. “Farley, wait. If you could help us get it to the barn, out of the cold, until the vet comes . . .”
Another look. But all he said was, “Your barn’s got a hole in it.”
“I know, but it’s better than being out here on the damp ground, and it’s getting dark. Please?”
He shrugged, and between them they managed to get the wounded animal into the back of his truck. Bridget climbed in back with the sheep as Farley drove to the barn, the sheepdog trotting behind.
Cici quickly cleaned away as much of the debris as she could inside the barn entrance, and dragged a bale of hay from the stack they kept in the shed to use as mulch. The animal showed an encouraging surge of energy when they got him out of the truck, bleating in protest and shaking his head as they led him into the barn. But as soon as they got him inside, he collapsed on the hay, eyes rolled back and sides heaving. Bridget wrung her hands in distress.
Lindsay ran up just as Farley was driving away. “I called the vet,” she said, looking anxious as she took in the scene. “He’s out of town for the weekend. He’ll be in first thing in the morning, but meantime his service gave me the number of the emergency clinic in Staunton.”
“That’s okay,” Cici said quickly. “We can get him in the back of my SUV—”
Already Lindsay was shaking her head. “I called them. Cats and dogs only. I’m so sorry Bridge. I don’t know what else to do.”
Bridget drew in a breath, pushed back her hair, and straightened her shoulders. “We’ll just do the best we can, that’s all. I’ll get some water, and some towels.”
“I’ll try to block up some of these holes to keep the draft out,” Cici said.
And Lindsay quickly volunteered, “I’ll get some more hay.”
They worked by flashlight for over an hour, but it became increasingly difficult to convince themselves their efforts were anything but futile. The poor animal was barely breathing, and a closer examination of the wound revealed it to be much more serious than they had at first thought. The ten-inch long gash was deep enough to reveal viscera, and oozed a thick yellow black fluid that made even the strongest-stomached among them woozy.
“Bridget, come inside,” Lindsay urged at last. “We’ll call the vet again first thing in the morning. I don’t think there’s anything more we can do now.”
Bridget shook h
er head, hugging her arms. “No, I think I’ll stay awhile longer.”
“But it’s getting cold.”
“I should have fixed the hole in the roof before now,” Cici fretted. “I knew winter was coming. I should have gotten this place airtight. You could have put the whole flock in here at night, and the deer, too. That way they would have been safe.”
Bridget’s smile was strained as she patted Cici’s arm. “It’s fine for now. Don’t worry about it.”
“At least come in and have some supper,” Lindsay said. “I’ll stay while you eat.”
Bridget shook her head. “I couldn’t eat anything.”
They both looked down at the suffering animal, and knew how she felt.
Cici said, “Well, we’ll need some blankets.”
And Lindsay added, “I’ll bring out a couple of those battery-operated lanterns we got in case of a power outage.”
Bridget caught each of their hands as they turned to go. Her eyes were glistening in the pale beam of the flashlight Lindsay had propped up against a crate on the opposite wall. “You guys . . . are the best. I know the sheep were my idea, and you didn’t even want them, and now . . . you’re just the best. Thank you.”
Lindsay put an arm around Bridget’s shoulders. “We might not be all that crazy about the sheep,” she told her sincerely, “but we love you. All for one and one for all, right?”
Cici slipped her arm around Bridget’s shoulders, too. “Oh Bridge,” Cici whispered, with genuine pain in her voice, “I am so sorry I can’t fix this.”
“Well, there ain’t no good in all of you just standing around here,” declared a harsh voice behind them. They broke apart to see Ida Mae standing at the door in her flannel-lined denims and barn coat, scowling. She held a steaming basin in one hand and a thermos in another. “You two.” She jerked her head at Cici and Lindsay. “Go on and get them blankets and lights. And when you’re done, get back inside and eat yourselves some supper. Nothing for you to do here.
“You.” She thrust the thermos at Bridget. “Drink this soup and move out of my light. This here poultice needs to be put on while it’s hot.”
Lindsay said heatedly, “Now wait just a minute—”
And Cici demanded skeptically, “What’s in that poultice?”
Ida Mae stared them down. “Either of you know anything about farm animals?”
When they simply looked at each other uncertainly, Ida Mae sniffed. “That’s what I thought. Now get on out of my way.”
Reluctantly, they stepped aside, and Bridget, still clutching the thermos she had automatically taken from Ida Mae, watched anxiously as she applied a greasy-looking yellow cloth to the open wound. “Do you think that will help?”
Ida Mae looked up at her sternly. “Better than doing nothing, ain’t it?” And when Bridget, swallowing hard, nodded, she turned back to her ministrations, muttering, “All this fuss about a damn sheep. Never seen the like in my life . . .”
For the next hour, Bridget moved back and forth between the house and the barn, fetching the sharp-smelling poultices that Ida Mae kept warm in a big speckled pot on the stove. Cici and Lindsay brought folding lawn chairs and lanterns and old blankets and more hay. It was good, for a while, to feel useful and empowered, but eventually there was nothing more to do but wait. Bridget was able to persuade Lindsay and Cici to go back to the house, and, reluctantly, they did.
Wrapped in a heavy scarf, hat, and gloves, Bridget sipped soup from the thermos and watched Ida Mae apply the last poultice to the wound. Then the old woman settled back in her lawn chair and the three of them—she, Bridget, and the sheepdog in the corner—kept vigil.
After a moment Bridget said awkwardly, “Thank you . . . for the soup.”
Ida Mae said nothing.
Time passed. They sat in an oasis of thin yellow light while the night stacked up in layers outside the building, as thick as cotton and as black as soot. Bridget thought she had never known a heavier stillness, a deeper silence. Nighttime in the country muffled every breath and swallowed everything that stirred. The living creatures who had sought shelter inside the big old barn seemed small indeed, and very fragile, in comparison to the vastness of the night that pressed down on them outside.
Bridget said softly, “Do you think . . . he has a chance?”
Ida Mae got up, made a fuss about rearranging the poultice, and sat back down, muttering, “Damn fool city women, coming out here thinking you know how to run a farm. What ever made you buy this place, anyway? You don’t belong here.”
Bridget closed her eyes slowly, releasing a breath. “You’re right. We don’t. I don’t know what we were thinking . . . what I was thinking. I guess . . . I don’t know, I guess I never realized before how used I was to, well, to being taken care of. All my life, I thought I was this independent woman. I was on all the right committees, made speeches for all the right causes, traveled all over the world with Cici and Lindsay. I had my little part-time job, I made all my own decisions, but . . . there was always someone there to fall back on when things went bad. My husband, Jim . . .” She drew another breath, and it was a little shaky. “Funny, how after so many years of marriage you don’t think about how much you depend on the other person until . . . well, until they’re gone.” Quickly, she touched the back of her gloved hand to the corner of her eye, and went on, “And then of course there’s just the whole system in the city. Your doctor, your pharmacist, your plumber, your vet . . . there’s always someone there. You never have to find out . . . how much you can’t do.”
She looked down at the empty thermos cup in her hand, and carefully set it on the ground. “I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here,” she repeated tiredly.
Ida Mae said, extending her hand, “Give me some of that soup.”
A little surprised, Bridget handed over the thermos. Ida Mae unscrewed the top, and took a few sips. Then she said, “Nice dog.”
Bridget followed her gaze toward the dog, who had not moved from his position in the corner with his head on his paws since they had brought the sheep in.
“I had one like that when I was a girl,” she went on. “Smartest dog I ever knew. Never stopped going, always into something. Called him Rebel.”
“Rebel,” Bridget repeated, smiling a little. “I like that name.”
Ida Mae sipped from the thermos in silence for a while. Then she said, “What the hell is a sous chef, anyhow?”
Bridget looked at her, startled. “Umm . . . it’s like an assistant cook.”
“The girl that peels the potatoes,” said Ida Mae, nodding. “I had me one of those, back in the day. Had a girl to do beds and laundry, too. There used to be some parties in the house like you never seen.” She lifted one shoulder and finished off the soup. “After it was just Mr. B to take care of, we didn’t need so much help.”
She fixed Bridget with a steady look. “You girls now, you need a lot of help.”
Bridget sniffed, and tried to smile, and blotted her eye with the back of her hand again. “Yeah. I guess we do.” And then she added gently, “It was nice of you to bring the poultices . . . even though you knew they weren’t going to do any good.”
Now it was Ida Mae’s turn to look surprised. But almost immediately she regained control of her expression, and averted her gaze.
They sat like that, in a silence that no longer seemed quite so oppressive, for close to an hour. Then Ida Mae got up one more time and bent over the sheep. Bridget watched her, with dread building in her chest, until the older woman straightened up again.
“I reckon you can go on back to the house,” she said, without looking around.
Bridget stood slowly. “Is it . . . ?” She couldn’t finish, and Ida Mae merely put both hands to the small of her back and arched her shoulders, working out the kinks.
Bridget took a long, steadying breath. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, it’s life on a farm. I understand that.” She made herself walk over and look down at the lifeless form on the barn floo
r. “See that little smudge of black around his eye? Like a mask. That’s why I called him Bandit.” And before she could stop them, tears were rolling down her face, splashing on her muddy boots. She tried to stop them by pressing her fingers to her eyes, but it was no use. “I know you think it’s stupid,” she choked out, trying not to sob. “I know I’m just a city girl and it’s just a sheep, but it was mine, my responsibility, and it shouldn’t have died . . . I should have done something. I would have done something if I could have! It shouldn’t have died! It’s not fair when things die! It’s just not . . .”
And then she was sobbing, great heaving painful sobs that wracked her chest and hurt her stomach, and Ida Mae just stood there, quietly, until she was too tired to cry anymore. Then Ida Mae said, “I buried a husband and two sons. I guess we got something we can agree on. It’s not fair.”
With an effort, Bridget lifted her swollen, burning eyes to focus on the other woman. “How do you get over it?” she asked hoarsely.
“You don’t,” Ida Mae replied simply.
The two women looked at each other for a long and gentle moment, and then turned and began to silently gather up the towels, the blankets, the basin of used poultices. When her arms were full, Bridget turned to the sheepdog, who had not moved from his vigil in the corner.
“Rebel,” she said, and the dog lifted its head to look at her. So did Ida Mae. Bridget smiled faintly, tiredly. “Come on, let’s go.” She patted her thigh and the dog got up and trotted to the door. “It’s been a long night.”
Two days later, Cici and Lindsay surprised Bridget with a birthday cake after supper. They brought out birthday hats and noisemakers and sang “Happy Birthday” and gave her silly presents that made her laugh.
“Of course we didn’t make the cake,” Lindsay felt compelled to explain, scraping a last dollop of icing off her plate, “Ida Mae did.”
“Well, it was delicious.” Bridget smiled at Ida Mae as she came to collect the cake plates. “Thank you, Ida Mae.”
“You all gonna be wanting coffee this time of night?” asked Ida Mae with her customary tact, and of course no one admitted that she did.
