500 Acres and No Place to Hide

by Susan McCorkindale

  Tug, unfortunately, didn’t get the memo, and we were greeted with a house that looked as if a muddy golden retriever had run through it.

  Oh, wait. One had.

  Garbage all over the kitchen floor, items set aside for the local consignment shop pulled apart, shredded, and left for dead on the dining room rug, a fresh bag of cat litter (to be put away later, later! What was I thinking not squeezing in one more task before we took off for Georgetown at seven thirty in the morning? Shame on lazy me!) ripped open and mashed into the runner in the hall, and books—oh, so many books Hem had stacked in piles marked “Fiction,” “Nonfiction,” “Read First!” and “Skim: May Suck”—torn asunder, covers half-consumed, pages soaked in doggy smothered-in-garbage-and-cat-litter-and-destroyed-household-discards saliva.

  And then there were the two poinsettias that once flanked the hospital band–bedecked tree but were now safely, or so I thought, displayed on a table in the living room. Sure, it was only a matter of time before they died at the hands of She Who Should Not Garden,212 but they certainly didn’t deserve to be murdered by that mutt. And my living room rug really didn’t need plant stems and potting soil smashed into it. Though it does sort of complement the dog barf and poop stains.

  To say we didn’t celebrate is an understatement. Unless you consider collecting garbage, washing the kitchen floor, and vacuuming a celebration. Which I would if it included hanging that damn hound.

  Kidding. Just kidding.

  I’m terrible with knots. But I’m a damn good shot.

  Anyway, today, as they say, is a new day, and despite the cold it’s a good one for reveling in Hem’s good news. I’m not sure what we’re going to do, but whatever it is, it’ll be here, in the house, where we can keep an eye on the dog, who’s had his eye on the sleeper sofa. If he eats it, he’ll be asleep. Permanently.

  Hemingway still has to go for treatment, and we’ve got to get some meat back on his bones,213 but for the first time in a long time he’s making big plans for this place.

  Once the weather warms up, he’s going to get back to farming, planting, and driving the tractor all over God’s green earth. I’m all for it. Particularly since, when that happens, he’ll also resume Tug demuddying duty. It’s my least favorite task, but one I must attend to now. Before the sun sets, the temperature drops, and I need my blow-dryer to deice that damn dog.

  Chapter Forty-three

  COCK-A-DOODLE SUE, PART TWO

  It’s three o’clock in the morning214 and I’m at my desk. I’m not writing ad copy, like I should be, or tweeting, like I’d like to be. I’m not putting silly status updates on Facebook 215 or Googling pancreatic cancer and pancreatic cancer treatments, like I usually do when I can’t sleep. Believe it or not, I’m not even up this early because Tug and Grundy need to be deskunked216 or Duke needs to be physically removed from the front porch because he’s ramming his head against the storm door in a desperate attempt to get in and say, “Howdy!” and “Where the hell ya been?” to Hem.

  No, right this second I’m online looking at night-vision goggles and ski masks, and considering a subscription to Soldier of Fortune magazine. I’ve bookmarked several sites that promise to teach me how to crack a safe and override an alarm system, and I’ve made Inside Man number one in my Netflix queue. I’ve also requested it be sent stat, priority, mucho pronto,217 because I’m running out of time.

  I need to learn how to break in and rob a bank without getting caught, and I’m counting on Clive Owen to show me the ropes.218 Just to clarify beyond a shadow of a doubt the seriousness of the situation, I am not even going to comment on how hot and sexy I think Clive Owen is, or how I’d happily brick myself up in a bank with him any day. No, I’m not going to say any of that stuff. I’m just going to stay focused and stick to the facts.

  And the fact is, I’m planning a crime spree.

  I’ve given it a lot of thought, weighed the options, and looked at several alternatives, and, right this moment, two cups of light, sweet coffee and a tablespoon of strawberry preserves straight from the jar into my day, I’ve come to the following conclusion: My becoming the Counterfeit Bank Bandit is really the only way we’re going to be able to pay for the medication Hem needs.

  Sure, I feel bad about it. I’m not a thief,219 and I’d much rather our health insurance company and the pharmaceutical firm involved play nice (read: stop screwing us). But on the other hand, I’ve always fantasized about being one of those Navy SEALs, Special Forces, or Delta Force dudes. I think it would be a blast.

  And I’ll use any excuse to wear black.

  To be clear, my sudden interest in robbing from the rich220 and giving to the poor221 is this: The chemotherapy Hem’s been taking has stopped working. That’s the bad news. The good news is that we’re not out of treatment options. It’s just that the treatment he’s opted for, and the one the doctor thinks is his best bet, involves two new medications. One the hospital will supply as part of Hem’s participation in a clinical trial; the second we need to get through our insurance agency.

  It’s the second that’s prompted me to go all black ops–meets–Ma Barker.222

  The medication in question is called Xeloda.223 Every morning and every evening, for three weeks straight, Hem will take four five-hundred-milligram pills. Then he’ll get one week off before the cycle resumes again.

  He’ll do this for as long as it’s working. Or as long as we can come up with the five hundred and fifty-five dollars and seventy-one cents it’s going to cost us per week to fill the prescription.

  Uh-huh. You read that right. And you’re feeling sorry for us because we don’t have a prescription plan, right? Wrong. We do. And that’s our copay. Our copay!

  And if we didn’t have health insurance and the aforementioned prescription plan?224 The Xeloda would cost us—drumroll, please—one thousand, six hundred and ninety-one dollars (say it with me now, people) per week.

  Per week! Please forgive me for repeating myself. I seem to have overdone it in the caffeine and sugar departments.

  I ask you: Who among regular, hardworking, taxpaying folk has one thousand, six hundred and ninety-one dollars just lying around, waiting to be forked over to some pharmaceutical company every seven days?

  And among regular, hardworking, taxpaying, monthly-health-insurance–(with a prescription plan!)–premium-paying folk, how many have an extra five hundred and fifty-five dollars and seventy-one cents just lying around, waiting to be forked over to some pharmaceutical company every seven days?

  My guess? Not a whole hell of a lot.

  Clearly the system is broken, so I’m back to planning my break-ins. I’ve changed my mind about robbing the local SunTrust, BB&T, and PNC, though. It sickens me to think I might steal from someone who doesn’t have four mansions and a private jet, or worse, some family that’s in a position similar to ours. No, I’ve decided to scrap the whole Special Forces, prance-around-in-the-dark-dressed-like-Catwoman 225 plan, and get personal. I’m going super-high-tech and senior-exec targeted. I’m thinking computer hacking and money transfers and offshore accounts in the Caymans, real Girl with the Dragon Tattoo–type stuff.

  Hem gets what he needs, the pigs at the pharmaceutical company get what they deserve, and I get to sit here and do the whole thing in my pajamas. Black pajamas with a matching ski mask.

  And the pair of night-vision goggles Clive gave me.

  Chapter Forty-four

  JAILBIRD IN A SCRUFFY BLUE BATH TOWEL

  It’s around ten in the morning. The kids are celebrating another hot, sunny day of summer vacation by killing each other via video game, and I’m at my desk.226 Suddenly there’s a knock on the door. What Have You Got to Eat? Pete, who’s lying on my sea-grass rug contributing his distinctive stink227 to the ever-growing list of reasons to toss the damn thing and replace it with something almost as plush, like pavers, flips out and starts barking at a decibel level reminiscent of dearly departed Cluckster. For a split second I wonder what size plant i
t would take to take him out,228 and then I stand up to answer the door.

  And sit back down really fast.

  Oh, dear God, I’m not dressed. Am I naked? No, but not by much. I’m wrapped in an old green bath towel, and my hair is sopping wet. Sure, at four a.m. my work attire is either pajamas or yoga pants.229 But by midmorning I’m in jeans and jewelry, full makeup, hair, and, of course, heels.

  And ten a.m. is definitely midmorning. Hell, when you’ve been up since dawn, it’s damn near dinnertime.

  In any case, I’m not in my typical work attire, and Pete’s still howling like Animal Control’s finally accepted my invitation to visit. “Hush, stink bomb,” I hiss. The towel, the noise, the knocking. I can’t think straight. Where are my clothes? Why am I soaked like I just stepped out of the shower? And who the hell is at the door? Doesn’t anybody around here know Northerners hate drop-ins?

  Particularly drop-ins that involve a sheriff’s deputy.

  “Morning, ma’am,” said Mr. Deputy when I opened the door, like, a crack, ’cause, well, duh, I’m not exactly dressed. “You the manager here?”

  “Yes. Well, sort of.” I stumbled. My brain was racing. Why is there a policeman on my porch? Did they catch wind of the whole hacking thing I was planning?230 Did I not pay a bill? And even if I didn’t, since when do cops do collections? “It’s kind of a new job, Deputy ...”

  “Gray.” He tapped his nameplate, a little strip of silver pinned to a brown button-down shirt that was tucked into tan pants and topped off (bottomed off?) by black shoes. I’d have gone with brown, but I’m also one of those people who think the fashion police should police the police. You know, when they’re not ticketing teenage boys for wearing their pants beneath their butt cheeks. “Sorry to catch you at a bad time,” he continued, silently acknowledging the whole shower-fresh and freaked-out thing I had happening.231 “Why don’t I wait while you take a second to get organized?”

  Get organized? I felt like Guy Pearce in Memento. It was going to take way more than a second to sort this shit out.

  “Sure. Okay,” I replied. “But can you just, first, tell me what this is about?”

  “Honestly, ma’am?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s about the towel.”

  I glanced down. “You’re here to arrest the towel?” On what charges? Fading? Poor absorbency? Softness comparable only to my aforementioned stinky, stained sea-grass rug? The teeny, tiny hole near the hem that lets me hook it to the end of the towel rack? You know, sort of like an oven mitt, only a lot bigger and not nearly as burned?

  “No, ma’am. I’d just like to talk with you about wearing it when you’re, um”—he paused and looked over at the cattle—“when you’re working.”

  Dude. What I wear at my desk is my business. “Officer, since when do the police care what I write ad copy in?” This was getting more surreal by the moment.

  “Ad copy, ma’am? I thought you said you managed the farm.”

  “I do that, too. You know, now.”

  “So you’re still getting used to the job. I understand, ma’am.” And he did look understanding. For a full nanosecond, and then it was right back to business. “But it’s dangerous to herd cattle in nothing but a bath towel.” He paused and looked me straight in the eye.232 “And more important, in these parts, it’s indecent exposure.”

  What was he talking about, indecent exposure? I don’t walk around naked even when I’m home alone for fear the dogs will rat me out to the Humane Society.233 And herd cattle in a towel? Five-hundred-dollar designer shoes,234 maybe. But never in a washed-out, slightly singed Springmaid I got at Costco, like, six years ago. Please. I have a reputation to uphold.

  And it’s one of improper dress. Not no dress.

  “How ’bout I give you a few minutes to get some clothes on,” Deputy Gray continued. “Then we’ll take a ride to the sheriff’s office.” He reached out and pulled the screen door open so I could go in.

  In?

  When had I gone out?

  I had absolutely no recollection of stepping out onto the porch. And yet here I was, hair frizzing in the humidity like an order of curly fries, barefoot, and facing the prospect of sitting in a jail cell wearing little more than a scarf. A six-year-old scarf that, while rough and scruffy, was a whole lot better than the jumpsuit they were going to stick me in.235 None of this made any sense.

  “Um, Officer?”

  “Yes?”

  “I thought indecent exposure was exposing yourself. Like a flasher. Or a streaker. You know, one of those people who run across the stage naked at a college graduation or across the field at a Yankees game.” I smiled. He didn’t. Dammit, Suz. You couldn’t say Nats game? Or Skins? Assimilate already! I was panicking, and not just because Deputy Gray was looking at me like, Listen, little lady, you wouldn’t be the first perp to have a mug shot taken in little more than your birthday suit. Now move!

  But I couldn’t move. It was as if my whole body were frozen. Except my gums. And those were flapping Jerseygirl fast.

  “I mean, even if I did take care of the cows wearing just a towel, which I didn’t, or at least I don’t think I did, I mean, I really can’t recall doing it, so I definitely don’t think it happened and I’ve no idea why you do, I wouldn’t have been exposed. I’d have been covered. By the towel.” To make my point, I tugged at it and of course it slipped. I caught the soggy, scruffy thing, but not before Deputy Gray’s hand flew to his holster.236

  “The great state of Virginia doesn’t see it that way, ma’am.”

  “But this is my property. I can do anything I want on my property.”237

  “Exposing yourself’s illegal even on your own property, ma’am.”

  “Deputy Gray, no disrespect, but this is insane. Look around.” I made a sweeping motion with one hand (because I’m really not fond of gunfire), and paused while he took the place in. “Do you see any people?”

  Deputy Gray looked out at the cows and the goats, and a couple of broken fence boards, and then at two of the hens brooding in their favorite window box, and shook his head no.

  “That’s because there are almost no people. I could do all my farm chores in a pair of heels and a hat238 and no one would know, because no one would see me. So even if I did herd cattle wearing nothing but a bath towel, which I didn’t, how would you know? And please don’t tell me the cows called you.”239

  “We received a report that you were running up and down right here”—he pointed to where his patrol car was idling on our private road, and then referred to his notepad—“chasing a golden retriever that was chasing a bull calf, and you were wearing nothing but a towel. A green towel, the description of which matches the one you’ve got on now”

  Well, color me happy. He had the wrong cowpoke.

  “Deputy Gray, I’m telling you, you’ve got the wrong girl. This is one of those . . . what do you call it? Cases of mistaken identity. You want to haul me in, hook me up to a polygraph, and pepper me with questions? I’ll pass.” I raised my right hand240 as if I were on the witness stand. “I solemnly swear, Your Honor, that I have never, ever chased a golden retriever chasing a baby bull in a green bath towel.”

  Now if you’d said something about a blue one . . . But he hadn’t, had he? And I was absolutely, positively, beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt sure that Cuy’s friend Jeff? He didn’t see me. Nuh-uh. Nope. No way. He was too far away.

  Then again, if he didn’t see me, who called in the complaint?

  Who cares? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I wasn’t indecent, dammit. Not then, and not now.

  I put my hand down. Sure, it’s safer at my side, but I’d have been even safer if I’d slapped it across my mouth. “You know what?” I continued. “The bottom line, Officer, is that I wasn’t exposed. Not in the least. And come on, I had to do something. That damn dog was chasing that sweet baby bull up the road, down the road, around the equipment shed, through the stalls and the barn, and back again. The poor little guy was p
anting so hard and the mama cows were wailing so loud I couldn’t help but hear them. So all right already. Yes! Yes, I confess! I’d just stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in a towel, and I was on my way upstairs to get dressed241 when I glanced out the window and caught sight of our crazy dog Tug barreling down on what looked like a small black-and-white dog. But the cows wouldn’t be wailing over a dog, now, would they? Would they?”

  Deputy Gray shook his head. “No, ma’am, I guess not. But there’s really no need to get worked up.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t help it. And I’m sure you’re wondering what happened next. Or maybe not, since you already know what happened. I didn’t stop to think. I just took off out the door and down the steps in my scruffy blue—blue, not green—Springmaid,242 and did what any farm manager would do. As Tug and the baby bull flew past me, I threw myself between them. Yes, I confess! Tug crashed snout-first into me and my towel slipped a tad and I might have flashed just an itty-bitty, teensy-weensy bit of, er, you know, but the baby bull was saved. And I guess it was while I was tugging Tug up here, onto the porch, by his collar, that I saw my son’s friend Jeff. He and his family live here on the farm. And, well, I didn’t think anything of it. He was pretty far away, so I just smiled and waved. I might’ve even yelled, ‘Dumb dog!’ But I don’t even think I did that.”

  No response. Just lots of scribbling on a pad. I couldn’t tell if he was writing me a ticket or taking notes for his book about suburbanites who move to the country and completely crack up. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that I had to get in the house and get Hem. He’d fix this.

  “Really, I was just trying to do the right thing. And I really, truly, cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die243 promise never to do farm chores in a bath towel or a robe or anything short of a burka ever again. See? I’m already reformed. So there’s no need to arrest me, right? Please, Officer, I don’t want to go to jail. Jail’s for murderers and corporate scum suckers and anyone who casts Andy Dick in anything. Sure, I steal my kids’ Hershey’s Kisses and occasionally a ride on a Clydesdale that doesn’t belong to me. But I’m not a bad person. I’m stupid and impulsive, but I’m also more than willing to pay for the dozen or so years of psychotherapy Jeff’s probably going to need to recover from the shock of seeing my disturbingly white body in broad daylight. Just ask my husband. He’ll tell you.”