Fifty Acres and a Poodle

by Jeanne Marie Laskas

  Afterward, I walk him out. He looks at his boots, tips his hat, and says he’s going to go see his mom. He thanks me for being home.

  Marley comes sauntering up. He has a groundhog in his mouth, he has it by the neck; it’s floppy and soggy and one leg is missing. It’s not as big as the first one. But it is every bit as dead.

  “Looks like the poodle got himself a new hobby,” Billy says.

  FIFTEEN

  ON THE DAY OF THE OPERATION, IT RAINS. I AM here, but I am not really here at all. I feel as though my head is in an upside-down fishbowl, like a cat in a cartoon. I have no idea what is going on.

  I sit in the waiting room with Nancy, who is with me because she knows how this feels. I think of how many times she waited for her mother, then her father to come out of surgery. I wonder how in the name of God she survived all that. Seeing Nancy now, alive and happy and flipping through bride magazines, gives me hope.

  I hate hospitals. I come from a medical family, and I hate hospitals. My father, brother, and sister Claire are all physicians. My mother, sister Kristin, and I come from a different gene pool. My mother is a painter, Kristin is a television producer, and I’m a writer. I like our gene pool better. I get sick around sick people; I start imagining how it would feel to be them, and soon I want to curl up, or throw up.

  When I was little, Claire fell off her bike while zooming full speed down the big hill in front of our house. She broke her arm and went to the hospital and came home with a million bandages everywhere.

  I refused to go into her room. I refused to breathe her same air. I was convinced she was contagious.

  Then she got toys. She got stuffed animals. She got Mouse Trap, the game I wanted my whole entire life. She got Baby First Step, a doll that actually walked. I started sleeping in Claire’s room, hoping she was contagious.

  It is three hours before the surgeon comes out. He doesn’t look happy, but I can’t say he looks sad, either. He’s in blue scrubs, and he has that face mask thing hanging around his neck. “He’s doing fine,” he says to me, and then he holds up a photograph. An actual picture of the actual tumor that was once in Alex. What is with these colorectal surgeons and photography?

  “Okay, as you can see, this tumor is quite large,” he says. “This tumor is even larger than we expected. Let’s say, the size of a tangerine?”

  Uh-huh. I see. Why doesn’t he tell me the tumor is as big as the United States of America? As big as Hale-Bopp? I am getting sick of hearing about the size of this tumor.

  He says they’ve sent it to the lab. He says we’ll know in a week. He says the surgery went well, and Alex is strong and healthy, so he expects no complications. He feels confident about having removed the entire “mass.”

  “Well, good,” I say.

  “Hang in there,” he says, placing his hand on my shoulder. It’s reassuring, a small touch like this. They should teach all doctors to touch like this.

  Shortly after Alex is wheeled up to Room 402, Amy and Peter arrive. Amy appears ready to burst into tears. She rushes over to her father, looks at him, looks at me. She has her father’s chin. Her father’s back. Her father’s hands. She is a fair-haired version of her dad, with clear blue eyes.

  “He’s sleeping,” I say. “Everything went okay.”

  Peter gives me a hug. Skinny Peter. They say he’s built with piano wire, he’s so strong and so skinny at the same time.

  “Are you okay?” he says to me.

  “Oh, I’m fine,” I say. “New glasses, huh? Very cool.”

  “Thanks,” he says. The glasses are tiny, barely as big as his eyeballs.

  Alex is waking. Peter goes over to him, takes hold of his hand. Amy has his other hand.

  “Hey, sugar,” Alex says to Amy, then turns to Peter. “Hi, sweet pea.”

  Amy and Peter stand over him. I stay back, watch them stare at him.

  Alex motions with his head for them to come closer, to lean in. So this is what they do. I step closer, too.

  Alex takes a breath. Then he speaks, in the tiniest, post-op voice: “Did I ever tell you,” he says. Then he swallows, takes another breath. We lean in closer. “Did I ever tell you about the time,” he says. “About the time I walked into the men’s store and saw a sign that said ‘All men’s pants half off’?”

  “Daaaaad!” Amy shouts, a shout that rings throughout the fourth floor of Shadyside Hospital. Peter folds over, laughing. And so do I. We crack up for a century.

  “Ouch …,” Alex is saying. “Don’t make me … laugh….”

  “Don’t make you laugh!” Amy shouts. “We’ll make you laugh, Daddy. Oh, now we’ve got you!”

  Alex looks at me, as if for help.

  “Don’t look at me,” I say. “I’m on their team.”

  Eventually, we make ourselves comfortable, settle in to Room 402. Amy and Peter and I stake out the hospital and find the cafeteria and the quickest routes to it. When he is awake, Alex spends his energy telling Amy and Peter that this is no big deal, that he doesn’t believe he has cancer, that it’s probably nothing. At one point, I think he even has them convinced of it.

  • • •

  IT’S RAINING AGAIN. WE’VE BEEN HERE FOR THREE days, and it’s still raining. The gutters above the window of Room 402 don’t work right, so the water falls in heavy streams, like at Niagara Falls. Well, not really, but it might as well be. Even inside, everything is starting to feel soggy. We’ve spent our time watching old movie classics and marveling at all the tubes in Alex’s arm. He says he feels fine. He wants to go home. The only reason they’re keeping him is because he’s not allowed to eat, not even a smidgen, giving the healing time to happen.

  On the fourth day the rain stops, and I take a day off from sitting in the hospital and drive down to the farm to visit Bob, whom I’ve left alone to fend for himself for these days. Billy said he would stop in and check on him a few times, and I trust that he has. The dogs are staying with me at the South Side house; it’s easier to leave cats alone than it is to leave dogs.

  As soon as I turn onto Spring Valley Road, I notice that something has changed. Something huge.

  Green!

  When I pull up to the farm, I see buds on the locust trees and blooms on the apple trees. I see a gentle green hue surrounding the pond, where water lilies are sprouting. I see the thickest mass of bright yellow forsythia lining the woods. There is even a lime green haze on our hillside, our newly seeded hillside. “Our grass!” I shout, leaping out of the car. “Our grass!” I can’t wait to tell Alex.

  Spring!

  It’s as if Mother Nature has come home and the rest has done her good.

  I throw my arms up in the air and twirl around, like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. I feel a sudden and intense urge to sing the theme song from Petticoat Junction. But as quickly as the urge comes, it goes away. It’s no fun singing stupid songs without Alex here to beleaguer.

  The rains have also encouraged the grass around the house to grow. And grow. And grow. It is up to my knees in places, making the farm look neglected and sad. I will have to do something about this. I will have to do something right away. I head into the garage. I look at the tractor, the Ford 1710, and wonder if I might be able to actually run this thing.

  I stand in front of the tractor. A ton of steel, taller than me, and far wider. This tractor shouldn’t be blue. This tractor, I think, should be yellow with black stripes. Because it looks like a lion, an angry lion. The front grille is its fangs. The loader hanging below is its mane. And the roll bar up top is its ears, all perked up. I am terrified of this tractor.

  I look out at all the long, sloppy grass. I look at the tractor. Okay, it’s stupid to be afraid of a tractor. I need to conquer the tractor. I need to cut the stupid grass. And really, if I were to ride this tractor, I wouldn’t be battling a lion. No, no, no. I have the power to change that image. The imagination is far mightier than a lion, or even a Ford 1710. I close my eyes and change the image. Erase it. The tractor is not a
lion.

  When I open my eyes, the tractor is a bull. Still a huge, dangerous animal, but, well, not a carnivore. A grazing animal. This tractor is hungry. I am going to let it out of this garage and give it all this grass to eat. That’s all I’m doing. This is no big deal at all. What a nice bull.

  I climb onto the tractor. It takes me a long time to get it started because I can’t remember how Billy did it at the tractor store. It seemed so simple then. Um. There. It goes. It runs. It snorts. Wow. It’s loud in this garage. I need to get it out of this garage. I forget how Billy taught me how to do this. I should have paid better attention. Um. This pedal combined with this lever. Fwoom! Okay, not very graceful, but there we go. Whoa, boy. Slow down there, pal. I am going back and back and back. I jam on the brakes, take a deep breath, and bring the beast to a halt. Okay, good. Tractor out of garage. Very good. The tractor bellows, and the fumes hit me in the face. It occurs to me that I have no idea how to make this thing go forward.

  I look around at all the hills. All this grass. I don’t have the foggiest notion how to negotiate these hills. I’ll kill myself on these hills. Hills that once delighted me and hills that need me and hills that now terrify me.

  I need Alex.

  I fold my arms on the steering wheel, hang my head. And sob.

  Thick, heaving sobs. I sob the way I sobbed for Bob in my living room that day, wailing like an infant. Only not like that at all. When it comes to death, I am a baby. I am not ready for this lesson. And, God, I know. Yes, I know, God, I know as well as anyone how you are getting a headache up there from all those prayers coming at you for people. People, people, people. But please, let me have this dream. And, let’s see. If you want, I’ll go back to my work with the roadkill, of course. Or maybe there’s something else you’d like me to do? Whatever you want. Name it. All I ask is that you please waltz into that lab—or, I don’t know how you do these things—but make those cells not be cancerous. I know, I’m not supposed to bargain with you, but …

  Oh God, I am babbling. Babbling at God. Babbling a child’s babble. Does God prefer more intelligent prayer? Does He downgrade your request if you sound like an idiot?

  And why am I thinking so much about me? I should be thinking about Alex. If I really loved him, I would be thinking about him, his terror, not mine. I guess I don’t really know how to do love. I am a baby at love, too. Jeezus, why does fear make you hate yourself so much?

  My legs are wet from all these tears. And diesel exhaust, I am discovering, is quite a terrible atmosphere for crying. I taste it. It tastes like burned chicken. How do you turn this tractor off? I don’t know how the hell you turn it off. I push buttons, eventually choking the engine. I hate this tractor. I climb down off the tractor, leave it right the hell here. I’ll call Billy and ask him to come over and get it back in the garage. He won’t mind. He won’t laugh. He’ll understand. Some friendships are like this.

  I head inside the house to visit Bob. This does not cheer me up. This does not cheer me up one bit.

  Bob, please stop howling. I’m sorry, Bob. I am sorry to leave you alone here. I had to stay in town. You know I wouldn’t have left you if I didn’t have to. Okay, up here. Right here. God, you’re so skinny, Bob. When did you get so skinny? Do you want some tuna? Would you eat tuna? Please? I really need you to eat, Bob. Please stop howling, Bob. I am here.

  I go into the kitchen and open a can of tuna and drain it into the sink, which is stupid, because Bob would have liked the tuna juice. But I am not really thinking.

  And, oh. Well, look. The ladybug. The ladybug is back. How about that! I wonder if I am supposed to jump for joy and feel a sudden surge of good luck, or if I am too old for that.

  “Well, hello!” I say. “I am really glad to see you.”

  I think: “Les bêtes du bon Dieu,” or creatures of the good God. I think “vacchette della Madonna,” or cows of the Virgin. Cows? What in the world does that mean?

  Then I notice something. There are two ladybugs. “Hey!” I say.

  Wait a second, there are three ladybugs. Wow. All these ladybugs. I can’t even tell which is mine. Or maybe none of them is mine. Maybe mine deposited its aggregating hormone and split, and these bugs moved in. How many ladybugs are here? Four ladybugs? Five, six ladybugs? Wow. Where are all these ladybugs coming from? Is this some sort of good luck infestation?

  I consider taking one of the ladybugs, putting it in an envelope, and bringing it to the hospital. But then I think, no. They must have rules about bringing bugs in.

  I put the tuna in a bowl for Bob and sit on the floor and serve it to him.

  He turns away. He comes over to me and curls up in my lap.

  “Bob!” I say. “It’s tuna!”

  He has no interest in food.

  EXACTLY ONE WEEK AFTER THE SURGERY, THEY release Alex from the hospital. There is still no word on the biopsy. Amy and Peter head back to New York; we’ll call them as soon as we hear. Alex and I drive together out of the hospital parking lot, stop at South Side to pick up Betty and Marley, and head back down to the farm.

  “Wow!” Alex says as we drive up Wilson Road. “It’s like magic! Isn’t it like magic? I mean, when we left, it was brown. We come back, it’s green! It’s like a freak of nature or something!”

  I consider pointing out that this, in fact, is nature, but decide not to interrupt his reverie. He is a city boy blossoming at camp again. I love it when he is a city boy blossoming at camp.

  “Spring!” he says, trying to take it all in as we come up the driveway.

  I open the car door, and the dogs leap out. It’s their first whiff of spring at the farm, too. Marley throws up. Betty races toward the pond, roo roo rooing at the blue heron nesting on the bank. The bird takes off, flaps the loudest flaps. That bird is twice the size of Betty.

  “Spring!” Alex says, stepping out of the car, pointing at the rhododendrons and azaleas in bloom. “Spring!” he says, pointing to the amazing shock of color put out by the red maple down by the barn.

  “Well, I told you!” I say.

  “Well, you were right!” he says.

  “What?”

  “I said, ‘You were right, dear.’”

  “Thank you very much.”

  When we get inside, there are more ladybugs in the kitchen. There are ladybugs in the living room. There are ladybugs in the dining room.

  “Oh, my God,” Alex says. “What are we supposed to do about these bugs?”

  “Ladybugs are good luck,” I say.

  “But—”

  “We can’t kill them,” I say.

  He gets out a broom and starts sweeping ladybugs into a dustpan.

  “Be careful,” I say.

  “I’m giving them a better life,” he says, stepping out onto the front porch and dumping the bugs in the zinnia bed, or the soon-to-be zinnia bed. I can’t wait to plant zinnias.

  I go at the kitchen ladybugs with another broom, another dustpan. My God. There must be ten thousand ladybugs here. Can you have so much good luck, it is downright disgusting?

  “Okay, this is beyond gross,” Alex says, after his third trip to the zinnia bed. He opens the pantry and reaches for the vacuum cleaner.

  “You’re not going to vacuum the ladybugs!” I say, imagining all my little friends getting sucked into a vat of common dirt, imagining all my good luck getting sucked out of the universe.

  “What are we supposed to do?”

  The phone rings. Line Four. Alex’s line. It stops us in our tracks. We look at each other.

  “It’s probably Peter,” he says.

  “Or Amy,” I say.

  “Of course,” he says, and answers.

  “Hello?”

  Not Peter. Not Amy. Too long a pause.

  “Yes,” he says. “That’s correct. Uh-huh. Well, what is the … ? Uh-huh. I see. And they are sure? Is there any other way to … No. Okay. Well, then. I understand. I mean, of course. I’ll call in the morning and schedule the appointment. Thank you, doctor.
Thank you for … calling so quick.”

  He hangs up.

  He looks at me. He doesn’t say anything. It’s as if he’s in shock.

  “Well?” I say.

  “B-9,” he says.

  I jut my head forward, like, “Hello?”

  “B-9,” he says. “Like in Bingo.”

  “Benign?” I say.

  “Benign,” he says.

  “But … what about the size, I mean a tangerine—”

  “He said they sliced it every way they could. He said, ‘You don’t have cancer.’ He said he was happy. He said it doesn’t usually turn out this way.”

  It takes an awfully long time for this news to sink in. You’d think we would spin around, jump up in the sky, shout hallelujah. You’d think I’d break into one heck of a medley of stupid songs.

  But that is the music of joy. What is the music of humility and awe? Of praise and thanksgiving? Of promise and commitment?

  I step toward Alex, wrap my arms around him. We hold each other so tight, our muscles quake. We stand under the wagon-wheel kitchen light, holding on. There are ladybugs crawling all the hell over the place. There are ladybugs crawling in the wagon-wheel kitchen light. Soon it is raining ladybugs.

  “Uck,” he says, letting go, looking up.

  “There is no way you’re vacuuming these things,” I say.

  “What if I used the little hand-held Dustbuster?” he says.

  “Resist!” I say. “Resist the urge to vacuum!”

  And so we spend many hours sweeping ladybugs, which may sound like an odd thing to do to celebrate a future that suddenly becomes intact. But to me it feels like harvesting luck, offering it back to a most holy wind.

  Soon, a howling wind. Cool air moves in without so much as a warning. Rain comes down, water in sheets. I wonder what ladybugs do in the rain. I think about the drain. I hope Mother Nature has a better configuration out there than a kitchen sink drain. There is a flash of lightning, as the wind and the rain join together in a full-blown storm, a chorus. I stand at the kitchen sink, looking out, watching the trees on the ridge sway as if made of rubber.