500 Acres and No Place to Hide

by Susan McCorkindale

  That’s right. Children who just seconds before thought nothing of working their earwax into their hair to hold it in place (“It’s called bed head, Mom!”) have been known to jump up, peek down their pants, and holler, “Holy cow! I’ve got grass stains on my groin!” Then, fast as Tug bringing a live chipmunk in the house, they race to the shower and actually use soap. I know; it’s a miracle. I’d cry, but, well, we’ve already covered that.

  Of course, all this began with the idea of a pill that can turn into a pet. And while we at Dr. Suzy’s Fantasy Pharmaceuticals have yet to perfect growing a four-legged friend in a test tube, recent research indicates that a toilet bowl could be the ticket. At least as it pertains to certain kinds of dogs. We’ve had some major success growing mutts in this manner. Purebreds, on the other hand, won’t perform in anything other than a Toto toilet and are thus more likely to be flushed.

  Which, now that I think of it, is the exact same fate my Sea-Monkeys met.

  So I guess I really am going to hell. I didn’t kill a Chia Pet, but I still bet I’m going to burn. Or at least do a stint in the holding pen. Look for my next book, The Counterfeit Farm Girl Goes to Purgatory, in which I bug God to bring Busy Bee and Insta-Friend to fruition, manage to work the Big Guy’s last nerve, and wind up sentenced to spend eternity with my mom and the Sea-Monkeys.

  Yeah, they hatched. And they’ve got something to say about my hair.

  Chapter Seventeen

  DEATH BY FAMILY TIME

  “Casey, you have breath cancer,” hisses Cuy as his big brother burps right in the poor kid’s face. We’re in the car, on our way home from lunch after the little guy’s final flag-football game. Hemingway’s driving. I’m manning the iPod. And our two surly spawn are busting each other in the backseat.

  “Yeah?” Casey taunts. “Well, your fingernails look like you gave up toilet paper for Lent. Last year.” Oh, God, that’s gonna do it, I think to myself.

  “You are so disgusting,” Cuyler shoots back. “It’s just dirt!”

  “That’s poop, pipsqueak,” Case responds, grabbing Cuy’s right hand and shaking it so hard I fear that if it is poop, and it goes in my hair, I’ll definitely do jail time for my unmotherly and murderous response. “So tell it to the marines, turd boy.”

  “I am the marine,” Hemingway bellows. “So knock it off before you both need ventilators.”

  Isn’t family time fabulous? And this is just us, in the car, not even in the restaurant, where they pelted each other with Sweet’n Low packets. Or in a major department store, where they began beating each other with shopping bags and attracted a crowd. Not to mention top management. Oh, hello, Mr. Neiman. Nice to meet you, Mr. Marcus!

  And isn’t it even more fabulous that we’re smack-dab in the middle of family-time season, aka summer vacation? I barely survive the evenings and weekends with my wonder boys, and yet here we are enjoying (and I use the word loosely) ten—count ’em, ten—terrifying weeks together.

  And, except for when Casey’s at work and Cuy’s doing a stint of indentured servitude for Hem,105 we really are spending them together.

  With the economy as it is, we canceled our annual pilgrimage to Myrtle “Please God, Let My Bathing Suit Fit” Beach and began a campaign of presidential proportions to get people to visit us. After all, we’re on five hundred cattle-filled acres, so we have the room and the built-in entertainment options to keep guests happy.

  We’ve got cow tipping, manure tossing, and goat goosing. We offer nightly power outages, rooster races, and sometimes the very special opportunity to find a black snake. In the shower.106 We’re also just an hour from D.C., so if you like monuments with your morning moos, you’re certain to agree with Frommer’s: Old McCorkindale’s Farm, aka Nate’s Place, is the vacation destination of the recession!

  I’m kidding, of course. The budget travel tipsters don’t review us till next week. So for now it’s back to my boys.

  I understand that brothers fight. I have three brothers, a million nightmarish memories, and the post-traumatic stress disorder to prove it. I know what I’m looking at here. I’m looking at sixty-plus days of board games that spiral into bodily fluid free-for-alls. Backyard campouts that result in bloodletting, burns, and a course of antibiotics. 107 Marathon matches of Halo, Star Wars, Nazi Zombies, and Conflict: Vietnam that end in tears, recriminations, and regurgitated food fights.

  If we lived in a neighborhood, my sons wouldn’t have to spend so much time together. There’d be other kids to hang out with. But we don’t. And as of this writing, there isn’t a single child in any of our tenant houses. So while Casey’s at work moving cattle,108 and Cuy’s helping Hem do whatever it is that needs doing,109 I spend much of the only quiet time I’ll have all day (aka billable hours) doing the one thing I can’t bill for: reminding all my friends, including several local school principals and my pastor, that “As of a certain date we’ll have a house open. A nice house surrounded by pretty, rolling pastures that are perfect for four-wheeling! And paintball! And taking target practice! In short, a house that’s perfect for a family!”

  And if we don’t get one soon, mine’s going to kill me. Not to mention one another.

  As far as I’m concerned, the phrase summer vacation is a misnomer. For parents, and teachers, too. Sure, they get a well-deserved break from my sons, but they still have to be home with their own kids. And while I’d never presume other people’s children are as challenging as mine, I refuse to believe I’m the only mom in the free world who keeps Prozac in her purse. And threatens to give it to her kids.

  Jeez. I’m just joking. That’s what the muscle relaxants are for.

  As for how the nail poop–slash–breath cancer business turned out, we made it home safe, sound, and without anyone needing life support. That may change shortly, as I just heard something about playing Halo. I give them twenty minutes before somebody cries foul, hocks a lugie, and all hell breaks loose. If you see them running down the road, beating each other with Xbox controllers and the like, let me know. I’ll stop what I’m doing and drive over.

  After Labor Day.

  Chapter Eighteen

  AH, THE WONDERS THAT AWAIT ME IN MY WHIRLPOOL

  It’s been a few years since we sold our home in the suburbs and, quite literally, bought the farm. But there are still days, like laundry day, when I question the soundness of that decision.

  Back when we lived in the land of sidewalks and neighbors we could actually see to wave to, the weirdest things I ever found in the washing machine were earrings, car keys, and the occasional cell phone. Oh, and money. Once I found a hundred-dollar bill. You bet I kept it; it’s not my fault those 2T OshKosh B’Gosh pants have shallow pockets.

  If you’ve always lived on a farm, you’re probably immune to the wonders that await me in my Whirlpool. But if you’re a city girl, suburbanite, or former suburbanite turned quasi–country girl like me, hold on to your delicates. Following is a rundown of just a few of the things I’ve found in my washing machine lately. The bad news? It includes goat teeth. The good news? Apparently they make Clorox “with tartar control!” Who knew?

  I advocate brushing with bleach about as much as I advocate suffering through laundry duty without an adult beverage. Which is to say, not at all. My feeling is, wait till five, whip up a frozen margarita, and you’ll be much better equipped to deal with such discoveries as . . .

  An egg. Of course, by the time I found it, it was as if I used fabric softener made of mucus. You bet I went through a whole lot of Tide on that load.

  A three-inch nipple. Can you say phallic? I know it’s for the bottles Hem and Cuy use to feed the baby bulls, but my inner Bart Simpson still snickers.

  Poultry bands. The ankle bracelets of the banty set. Made of brightly colored aluminum and numbered for quick and easy “future dinner” identification.

  Range cubes. The dog biscuits of the bovine world. My better half keeps them in his pockets to feed the “girls” and then forgets they’re t
here. They spill out into the wash, crumble, and coat the clothing like chicken cutlets. This usually inspires me to whip up a batch, which interestingly enough makes the herd very happy. Oh, my God. You think maybe they’re manipulating me?

  A hypodermic needle. No, no. I haven’t taken to giving myself Botox injections. The needle’s for medicating the cows. And since the “girls” don’t get communicable diseases, thank God, there’s no point in using a fresh needle for each stick. Of course, there’s also no point in Hem’s keeping the vet kit in his vest pocket, but he always forgets it’s there. Hmm. Maybe it would help his memory if he got stuck. With laundry duty, of course.

  Castration bands. They slip these on the bulls’ you-know, and it makes them shrivel up and, well, you know. Only I didn’t know. I thought, “Oh, looky! Hair bands at the bottom of the dryer!”

  A deer bone. At first I thought it was a dog bone. You know, one of those flavored jobs you buy by the dozen, divvy up among the beasts, and spend the rest of the day watching them square off and steal from one another. But upon closer, and I mean thisclosetocoronary inspection, I realized it used to be a real, live bone. One somebody found and couldn’t resist keeping. Is it any wonder I can’t resist dunking my progeny in Purell?

  Ammunition. That’s right, a live round. In my washing machine. Talk about a nice, clean shot . . .

  Ear tags. Like poultry bands, but for cattle. I no longer freak when I find them in the wash, unless there’s a tidbit of ear still attached. That really gets my goat. And speaking of goats, I honestly don’t know how Duke or Willie lost two teeth, or how they wound up at the bottom of the washer (though I sense the presence of shallow pockets . . . again), but for the full ten seconds I stood there freaking out, I was certain they came from Cuy’s mouth. They didn’t, of course. They were way too white to be his. I love my son, but the kid can’t brush worth a damn. And since they really don’t make Clorox “with tartar control!” I can come to just three conclusions:One, these suckers definitely once belonged to one of our billies.

  Two, my little man’s plan was to try to trick the Tooth Fairy.

  And three, if this is what he’ll resort to, maybe it’s time

  I come clean. And give the kid back his Benjamin.

  Chapter Nineteen

  SUZY SOPRANO

  “Fresh meat!”

  “What?” I couldn’t hear Dee worth a damn. A reedy, souped-up cover of the Bee Gees’ “You Should Be Dancing” was bouncing off the walls of the cavernous, blindingly white multipurpose room. Kim was calling moves in time with the music. And I was killing myself to win the “So You Think You Can Jazzercise” contest running through my mind.

  “A warm body. By the door!”

  Shit if she wasn’t right. Leaning against the pale yellow wall was a pretty blond woman. She was watching us. She was smiling. And best of all, she appeared to be breathing.

  “Suz, a live one at three o’clock.” Wendy gulped her water and nudged me in the direction of Dee’s blonde. “Go talk to her. See if she wants to be more than the audience.”

  An audience. Lord, I love an audience. Why? Because when I’m heel hopping and jazz handing, I’m consumed by a fantasy in which I’m the next Bebe Neuwirth in Chicago . Catherine Zeta-Jones and Renée Zellweger wouldn’t be bad either, but ages ago I saw Bebe on Broadway and that babe kicked butt.

  Of course, the closest I’ll ever come is my Jazzercise class. Typical type A that I am, you’ll always find me in the front row, furiously following the instructor, shvitzing like the field hand I’m slowly but surely becoming, and trying desperately not to fall down and make a fool of myself. Which I do pretty frequently, because in all honesty? I’m a colossal klutz.

  But don’t try to talk to me, see, because, as I’ve mentioned, I’m not there. In my mind I’m blinded by the footlights, rockin’ my rond de jambes,110 and jazz-squaring to within an inch of my life now . . . and forever . . . at the Winter Garden Theatre.

  Oh, wait. That’s Cats.

  But you know what I mean. And you do this stuff, too, right? Stuff like stand in the shower and pretend you’re Beyoncé or Barbra Streisand or Martina McBride. You just start singing to your Schick Slim Twin and in your head you’re bringing the house down. That is, until you realize your kids are about to bring the bathroom door down with their pounding and pleading for you to shut the hell up.

  At least, that’s what usually happens to me. And yeah, my kids curse. I’m one of those people who think a well-placed cuss adds color.

  “What are you waiting for? She’s gonna get away!” Wendy again, flick-kicking her way back to me and maneuvering me toward the door.

  “Get her to join the class,” Tracy chimed in from the back row.

  “Screw that!” cried Court. “Get that mom in the Mafia!”

  The Marshall Mafia, that is, aka the Claude Thompson Elementary School parent-teacher organization. PTO for short. Marshall Mafia for fun.

  My henchwomen had spoken. It was time for the mob boss to make her pitch. Reluctantly, I left my place in line, grabbed my water, and ran out to say hi.

  “You’re missing a great class,” I said, smiling and sticking my hand out and pulling it back just as fast. “Oh, sorry! I’m sweaty. I mean, I’m Susan. But I’m also sweaty.” Smooth as sandpaper, Suz. Nice going.

  “I’m Pam.” She smiled back. “You guys set this up?”

  “Uh-huh.” I wiped my palms on my shorts and sipped my water, certain I was making a great impression: panting, sweating, and reeking like the aforementioned field hand. Hi! I’m with the PTO and do my pits stink! “It’s a fund-raiser. The fee goes toward class trips or new gym equipment. You know, whatever the kids need. And I happen to have spectacularly compromising pictures of Kim”—I paused and pointed to one of my best friends, aka Drill Instructor Petro, her headset and high ponytail bobbing up and down as she lunged across the stage, taking the class to whole new levels of pain—“that I keep threatening to post on the Internet, so she teaches for free.”

  “You’re funny.” She laughed.

  “It’s a defense mechanism. But thanks.”

  “Direct, too.” She looked at me, surprised, but still smiling.

  “I love to bullshit. Really. I can talk shopping and shoes all day. But not all the time, you know? Life’s too short.”

  Of course, right this second I didn’t feel like getting all existential or shooting the breeze. I wanted to ask her quickly about the board and get back to class. Just wham, bam, come to a meeting, ma’am. But something in her response rang my bell.

  “You’re right, you know,” she said. “Most people just take it for granted, but life really is too short.”

  Hmm. What had we here?

  I cooled my jets and considered her. She was perfectly put together. Dark jeans. White man-tailored blouse. Sparkly gemstone earrings. She looked like a woman who felt fabulous. Yet something told me she felt anything but. An aura of exhaustion hung on her like a mismatched accessory, and while her eyes smiled sapphire blue and beautiful, they were edged with an unmistakable trace of sorrow I’d seen before.

  In my mirror.

  We stood there and watched as the class rolled out their mats, got their weights, and guzzled water like they were in the Sahara and not a teensy-weensy elementary school in Marshall, Virginia. It was impossible to keep the room, which functions as both an auditorium and a cafeteria, cool, and now it was thick with body heat and the smell of perfume and perspiration. Some folks find it offensive. But for me, it’s practically a mating call. Not for sex, but for sanity. Exercise helps keep my depression at a distance. And as far as I’m concerned, a little body odor beats the hell out of the bouquet of Black Angus I’m surrounded by at home.

  “Want to try the last ten minutes? I have weights you can use.” Say yes, I thought to myself. Say yes, and I promise to tell my stupid intuition to take a hike.

  “Not tonight.” She laughed a little and shifted her bag on her shoulder. “Maybe next week.” />
  “You sure?”

  She nodded and fished out her keys. “Well, nice to meet you.”

  Oh, boy. She was leaving and I hadn’t even asked her about being on the board. My capos were going to kill me. Worse than that, my “been there” buzzer was going berserk. My new friend Pam and I were cut from the same cloth. I was certain of it.

  And I was equally certain Wendy, Tracy, Court, and Dee were the best natural antidepressants around. I had to convince her to come back.

  “You know, we do other fun stuff. Besides Jazzercise,” I said, scrambling and gesturing toward the fifteen or so moms, teachers, even the school principal hip-lifting their way to cardiovascular health (not to mention a cold one, if I knew my crew). “You should join the PTO. Really, we have a great time.”

  She walked toward the front doors and stopped next to a commanding oil painting of Mr. Claude Thompson, the school’s namesake and the county’s first African-American principal. It was a captivating memorial of a man who’d been beloved by his staff, the students, and their parents. I’d never met him, but I’d heard the tales, wistfully told, of how he ran a tight ship but was all for having fun.

  “Honestly. We do lots of neat stuff, like spirit days and family movie nights, when we show such four-star Academy Award winners as Kung Fu Panda and Alvin and the Chipmunks. It’ll give you an aneurysm, but the little ones like it.”

  She laughed. Bingo. Time to take it up a notch. “And, um, we hold dances, too. Not pole dances—the administration put the kibosh on those—but disco dances. We teach the kids the Hustle and the Electric Slide and the Macarena. You know the Macarena, right?”