Fifty Acres and a Poodle

by Jeanne Marie Laskas

  In that garden, I had order. So much damn order, finally, that I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  Now, this garden, well, I don’t even know where this garden really is. You can’t have a fifty-acre garden, that’s the first thing I’ve discovered. But I can’t seem to really make that point stick in my head. I think of the pond project, the new five-acre pond we’ll someday have, as part of the garden. I think of the hills Billy has cleared as part of the garden. I think of the barn, now standing straight and tall, as part of the garden. I think I can walk outside and just hoe and till and pick at this picture and make everything look good.

  And so every day I walk outside and get that puny feeling again. I become exhausted before I even reach for my garden gloves. It takes an enormous amount of energy to grab hold, to really begin to control chaos.

  That’s one thing I’m discovering in a whole new way.

  This whole year I’ve been in a free fall. Or more accurately, a free float. Buying the farm, moving to the farm, it’s all been about chaos. About being lured into chaos. About abandoning the rigid equation that my life had become. I was frightened of chaos. Of course I was. Because when you think about chaos, you think it’s going to be scary. You think it’s going to hurt. You think it’s going to be a tornado swirling that will suck you up and spit you out into some unknown place.

  But that isn’t what chaos is like at all. Chaos is like wind, that’s for sure, and sometimes the wind picks up. But chaos doesn’t hurt, at least not when you allow yourself to fall into it. Because the wind picks you up, as if you are a balloon, or a seed, or a tiny speck of pollen. The wind takes you places. The wind carries you, and you really have very little to say about it. There’s no sense fighting it. You’ll just make yourself tired and cranky. The wind will always win. The wind will place you firmly on the ground, when the trip is over.

  I don’t want the trip to be over. I really don’t want to stop floating. I want a life of adventure every bit as vital as the one I’m in. I’m no longer fearful of chaos. I’m fearful of the calm. I’m afraid that yes, once Alex and I get married, that will be it. I will have landed. In a few weeks, I will have landed. I am a balloon about to go thud, hit the ground, and maybe drag along the fields for a few miles.

  I really don’t want to land.

  Because when you land, that’s when responsibility starts.

  Chaos, I think, is youth. Youth at any age. Because as long as you have chaos, you are free of responsibility. When you are in chaos, when you don’t know what’s going on, when you are an ignorant dreamer falling into the unknown, buying a farm, entering a relationship, when you are floating through space like that, you aren’t supposed to get anything right, you aren’t supposed to make sense, you’re supposed to be befuddled and amused and tender and aware.

  It can’t go on. Not unless you choose that life. A life of never settling down, never making a claim on who you are, who you love, where you love to sit. Once you make those claims, you become accountable. You have to get to work. You have to step into the chaos and grab hold and land.

  Dreams end.

  That’s one thing I’m discovering.

  But that doesn’t have to be a depressing thing, a sad thing.

  Only when dreams end do you get to have a garden. A fifty-acre garden—why not? A garden that includes a giant pond and a beautiful old barn and rolling hills of green—why not? A lifetime project. A lifetime of commitment I am tiptoeing toward.

  WHAT ABOUT BOB?” ALEX ASKS ME.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  He’s waiting for me to know. To realize. To see.

  We’re in the kitchen. Riva is frying up some liver for Bob. Riva has been the best thing that ever happened to Bob’s life since me. Riva has made nursing Bob, as well as Marley, her life’s work. Thanks to Riva’s care, Marley is walking without much trouble now, and his poodle fur is coming in. And Bob is, well, comfortable. Riva is Bob’s angel, Bob’s hospice nurse. She spoons the liver onto a plate, blows on it, gets down on her knees, and feeds it to him by hand.

  “Eat, my Mammala Bop,” she says. “Eat for Rivka.”

  “Oh, Rivka,” Alex says. “I don’t think—”

  Bob takes one piece of the liver, chews it. Riva looks at Alex. “See? Rivka knows how to make Bop happy.”

  Bob is having the happiest end to his life that you can ever hope a best friend to have. That’s what I’m thinking, sitting at this kitchen table. I have so much to do. I have this huge wedding file that keeps getting more and more huge. It’s strange the way the wedding file grows as Bob shrinks. He’s down to seven pounds. He is losing his hair. His shoulder blades are bald.

  Somehow it makes a sad sort of sense that Bob should make his exit just as I approach my wedding day.

  Cue the mule.

  Cue the … mule?

  I am having more mule doubts. Major mule doubts. Mule nightmares. Really bad feelings about the mule. It would help if the mule would let me pet her—once. If that mule would at least take a carrot from me. But so far, all summer, I have not been able to so much as touch that mule. This is supposed to be Alex’s mule. This is supposed to be his new friend. Shouldn’t he have a friend that he can actually relate to? I should give Alex Cricket instead. I mean, anyway, how’s it going to look when the His and Hers ungulates walk up the driveway? Here’s my present to Alex: a goofy, bug-eyed hee-hawing fat little untouchable mule. A joke. And then here’s my present to me: a tall, stately, incredibly beautiful chestnut mare, the daughter, on her father’s side, of MountJoy’s Tasty Tart, the granddaughter of A Perfect Mate To A Perfect Jewel, the great-granddaughter of Light O’Love.

  This isn’t right. I really need to edit this plan. It is probably a good thing that I have not formed an emotional bond with that mule, because I don’t think that mule is right for Alex at all.

  “Eat, Mammala Bop,” Riva is saying. But Bob doesn’t want any more liver.

  I open my wedding folder, get to work. Check. Check. I check off things that are done. I have ordered flowers for Sassy’s hair and flowers for Cricket’s hair. The same arrangements that my bridesmaids will carry.

  I have solved, or sort of solved, the garden problem by ordering mums, hundreds and hundreds of mums to put around the farm, and give this place a splash of color. I know, ho hum, mums. But you have to figure mums will be in season in September, and if I get tons and tons and tons of them, all different colors, and group them all over the place, that could really liven this place up. I’ve contacted a few nurseries. The mums are growing even as we speak. In about a week I’ll start collecting them, bring them here, stoke them up with Miracle-Gro, and get them blooming big and pretty for September 13.

  I have to buy a few boxes of Miracle-Gro. I have to find a mule halter that matches the lilac color of the bridesmaids’ dresses. I am spending a lot of time shopping for this stupid mule halter. I already found a lilac halter for Cricket, a perfect match.

  This is stupid. This is so damn obvious. You have to be flexible. A bride has to be flexible.

  Sitting here in this kitchen, sifting through this giant file, I make my decision: I’ll give Alex Cricket as his wedding present, instead of the mule.

  The mule just isn’t working.

  Cue the horse.

  Dump the mule. The mule should go to someone who knows how to work with it, bring it out of its shell. The mule wouldn’t be happy here.

  I have to tell Billy immediately. We are moving to Plan B. Not that we ever discussed a Plan B.

  “You know what,” I say to Alex. “I’m going to go … to the flower store. I have to check something out with Ernie, the flower guy.” This is getting pathetic, my lying ways.

  “You want me to come with you?” he asks.

  “No!” I say. “I have to deal with a … surprise for you.” Well, that wasn’t a lie.

  “All right.”

  Riva looks at me, throws her shoulders back, sits up straight. She moves her hands across her mouth, a
s if closing a zipper.

  “Thanks, Riva,” I say.

  I hop in the car, head over to Billy’s, head over to pull the plug. I’ll give Alex the horse instead of the mule. I’ll put all the flowers in Cricket’s hair. She will be so beautiful standing there. And I already have the lilac horse halter.

  I pull up to Billy’s. God, I’m getting so used to this place. I am feeling so at home here. I wonder how Patty’s cantaloupes are coming along. And I wonder where Billy’s new backhoe is. I’ve spent a lot of time here this summer. It’s like suddenly I have another brother to visit.

  Billy lost two dogs this summer. Sam and Ralph were both hit by cars. I think I was more upset than Billy or Tom or Patty or anybody, but maybe it’s just my citified way. When I told them about Marley’s injury, Billy wondered why we went to the expense of going to a vet. “If he gets too bad, I can shoot him for you,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said. “No thank you.”

  He has offered to shoot Bob. It is an offer of kindness. I have come to understand this. I have come to understand that he has an entirely different relationship with death.

  “Hey there!” Billy says, stepping out of the house. “Why the glum face?”

  “A lot to do,” I say. “Stress.”

  “You need me to do something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Name it.”

  “Sell the mule,” I say. “Give the mule away,” I say. “Donate the mule to charity.”

  “Oh,” he says. He seems to take this as a personal rejection. “But Alex would love the mule.”

  “I don’t think so, Billy. I really don’t.”

  He looks at me. He says wait. He goes into the barn, comes out with a handful of grain. He approaches Sassy, slowly, slowly, he gets near to her. Sassy looks at him. Sassy does not turn her backside to him. That’s the first remarkable thing. Soon Sassy takes the grain from Billy’s hand. Sassy is eating out of Billy’s hand.

  “What the hell?” I say.

  “I’ve been working with her. She’s coming around. She’s a good mule. She’s just spooky. Mules are spooky.”

  “I heard.”

  He retrieves her saddle from the barn, drapes it over her. “Easy, girl.” Gently, he climbs on her back. “Giddy up!” he says.

  Sassy walks backward.

  “Um,” he says. “Forward, Sassy!” He nudges her sides and slides his hips up, as if to communicate which way forward is.

  Sassy walks sideways, knocking over a bucket of water.

  “She did it earlier,” he says. “I swear she did.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He climbs off of her. He pulls her toward me. I reach out my arm, offer her a carrot. She leans in. She sniffs. Her lips, smaller than Cricket’s lips, reach into the air and find the carrot. She takes it. She chews, a sound higher in pitch than Cricket’s chewing. Clinkity clinkity clink. It sounds like she’s got dentures in there. I put my hand out. I touch her nose. I touch her thick, luxurious mane.

  “Aw,” I say. “Hello there, Sassafras,” I say.

  She looks at me. She chews and chews, looking at me with those bulging eyeballs. She is such a goofy thing. And so short! I can put my arm around her like a girlfriend, like a pal. “Sassafras,” I say. “Hey, buddy.”

  Cricket comes bounding over. CARROTS! Cricket scares Sassy away with her big fat horse sense of entitlement. “Back off, Cricket!” I say.

  But Sassy is gone. Sassy is like, “Forget it. Whatever.” Her backside is back again.

  Well, I certainly understand that one. “Forget it. Whatever. Never mind.” You don’t grow up the youngest in the family without knowing those sentiments. Maybe by turning her backside to the world, the mule is doing what I did. Retreating. Going inward. God, I can’t blame her. I note other traits I have in common with this mule. Those bangs. Why did I always have to have such short bangs? And how was it that I was the comic-relief sister, the one who would dance in front of my sisters’ boyfriends going tra la la, refusing to let those boys get too close?

  How was it that I spent my entire adulthood up to this point living alone?

  No matter. Now I am turning into someone else. Now I am getting married. But does that mean abandoning entirely the person I used to be? Does that mean dumping the mule?

  Cue the mule.

  I imagine holding a contest. A contest with all the animals on our farm. I imagine the mule surprising everyone, winning Wittiest and Peppiest in the Eighth Grade.

  Slowly, I approach Sassy again. Billy holds Cricket back. Sassy lets me pet her. She lets me rub her nose. She lets me pull her lip up. What is it with horses and people and lips? We always want to pull their lips up. I look at Sassy with her lips pulled up. I look the gift mule in the mouth. She has the most enormous, beautiful teeth.

  “She has the most enormous, beautiful teeth,” I say to Billy.

  He smiles. Billy has a way of calming me down. Nothing is ever a big deal to Billy. Sort of like Bob. Billy and Bob are so much alike. I wonder why I have this compulsion to pair animals with humans in my life. Humans with animals. I wonder if this has anything to do with my animal soul rescue service.

  I am having such a nice time here at Billy’s. I’m glad I’m here, with this horse and this mule, standing in the shadow of all this excavation equipment, in a valley created by mountains of limestone and mulch and sand and other things people might need. Who knew this would be such a safe place?

  “Well, I got my cancer back,” Billy says, while he’s combing Cricket’s mane. It’s hard to tell if he’s talking to me or to Cricket.

  “Oh,” I say. “When?”

  “Maybe a couple of months ago,” he says.

  Well, that would explain his change in mood.

  “Is it bad?”

  He shrugs.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask.

  “I got pain in my back. But I always got pain in my back. I sit in the hot tub, and it goes away.” He tells me he’s not bothering with treatment this time. He did that already. He can’t afford the time off. So that is that.

  “But—” I say. I don’t know where to begin. “Well, what does your doctor have to say about that?” I ask.

  “He thinks I’m crazy,” he says. And then he laughs. “But I walked away. I said, ‘Doc, if I’m dying, I’d rather just go off and die.’”

  Sassy is leaning in to me. Wow. Suddenly she’s like a cat, rubbing her head into my hand. I can’t believe this is the same mule.

  “You still want me to get rid of her?” Billy asks.

  “We’ll keep her,” I say.

  “Alex is going to love this mule,” he says.

  “Yeah, but let’s make Cricket be his, too. Just in case.”

  “All right.”

  “But, well,” I say, “Billy, I really think you should go back to the doctor. There’s a lot they can do.”

  “I’m fixing to get myself into the horse business,” he says. He leans over and spits a stream of tobacco juice. “I love having these horses here. I always wanted to be in the horse business.”

  TWENTY

  I WISH I WERE LIKE BILLY. A PERSON WITH SOME EXperience with death. Some calluses built up. I wish I were a person who could casually go out back with a .22 and put an animal out of its misery. A person who used to fly dead people home from distant car accidents. A person who can talk about death as a part of life. A person who can stare death in the face and start a horse business.

  I am not that person. I am here on the couch with Bob. He’s on my stomach. He’s not purring. He hardly ever purrs anymore. We’re watching reruns of The Bob Newhart Show.

  Tomorrow Alex is taking him. Because this is what we’ve decided.

  Alex will take Bob to the vet to be put to sleep, and then he and I will bury Bob.

  “Under the chestnut grove,” Alex suggested.

  “No,” I said, “the magic tree.”

  “The magic tree,” he said. “Of course.” The magic tree is the apple tree Alex worke
d on last spring, spent the whole weekend clearing, while we waited to hear the truth about whatever it was that was growing inside him. We’ve called it “the magic tree” ever since.

  Alex said I should spend time with Bob, share stories with Bob, remember me and remember him in my fancy single-girl-on-the-town days.

  But lying here on this couch, I can’t remember anything.

  I’m blank.

  On the TV, Bob Newhart is having an argument with Jerry, the dentist. Something about tickets to a basketball game. Bob stomps off, pushes the elevator button, and when the doors open, there’s Mr. Carlin, his patient with the funny toupee.

  Come to think of it, Bob, you do kind of look like Bob Newhart. But that isn’t who you’re named after. In fact, your name didn’t start out as Bob. Did you know that? I named you Katukas. That’s the Lithuanian word for kitten. Katukas. But I didn’t feel like saying Katukas. It was too big a word for a little kitten. And then one day I said, “Bob Katukas.” I laughed. I thought it sounded like the name of a used-car salesman. I thought it was funny to have a cat with a career as a used-car salesman. Ever since, I called you Bob.

  Bob has fallen asleep. He’s riding my stomach as it rises and falls with my breath. We used to do this, outside on the chaise longue, in the South Side yard. I would stretch out with a good book under the mulberry tree, and Bob would join me. I would argue with Bob. Because he would always want to lie on my stomach. And I wanted to have my book there. You couldn’t read and have Bob on your stomach at the same time. I think Bob knew this. I think he wanted my undivided attention. Eventually, I would put my book down, Bob would climb up, and so I would read Bob. I would marvel at his whiskers. I would tell him how proud I was of his mighty tail. I would ask him to please do something about his long nails. Sometimes mulberries would plop, splat right on us. We’d go inside with purple blotches all over, laughing, but not really laughing, because cats don’t laugh out loud.