Ren: The Monster's Adventure

by Sarah Noffke

  “Now you be nice, Brina,” the woman says, wagging a finger at the goat who has gone off to create pandemonium with her goat friends.

  “Hi! I see you’ve met the welcoming committee. They just love visitors,” the woman says, staring around at the fuckers who have congregated around us. Adelaide stands too close, just at my shoulder. Lucien is under one of her arms and held up high so the goats don’t nibble off a foot. Dahlia, on the other hand, is clear out in the middle of goat alley surrounded by ten of the little assholes. They are ramming her in the knee or working to jump on each other’s backs to get higher. And the lady, born and raised in Los Angeles proper, is giggling like this is the best show she’s ever seen.

  “They’re adorable,” Dahlia says, through a laugh.

  “I think so,” the woman says, and a goat jumps up and rams its dumb head into her pail, knocking its contents to the ground. The goats scramble after the feed like a bunch of homeless destroying a money bag full of dollar bills. And to my relief this does send the goats blocking our feet away.

  “Well, welcome to Colleen’s farm,” the woman says, laughing at the shit storm happening all around her. “I’m Colleen, but you can call me Leen. And as I always say, this is the friendliest place on earth and feel free to lean on me.”

  She then looks down at a goat who is chewing the thread right off the top of her shoe but only giggles.

  I clear my throat to gain the woman’s attention away from her thirty kids. “We are here because—”

  “What’s that smell?” Adelaide says, her nose high in the air, like she’s a blue heeler finding a scent.

  “It’s shit,” I say.

  “No, it smells good,” Adelaide says, taking a long inhale. “Really good.”

  “That would be apple pie cooling,” Leen says, throwing her finger in the direction of a cottage on the opposite side of the barn. It’s yellow and sectioned off with a fucking pristine white picket fence. This woman has issues. She must really want to live in a fairytale. And then I spy in a window, bathed in herbs and vines, an apple pie sitting on its edge, steam rising off it just like in the proverbial movies.

  Just then I feel a hand on my bicep. “Ren. She’s got an apple pie cooling in her fucking window. This can’t be real,” Adelaide says, disbelief and fantasy playing in her voice.

  “I know,” I say and simultaneously my stomach makes mention of the realization.

  “Not just any pie. Leen’s apple pie, made with apples from my organic orchard,” the woman says, indicating something at our back. I don’t look. I can’t tear myself away from the pie. Too perfect and begging for my consumption.

  I slap reinforcement down on my weakness. Clear my throat again. “We are here to get directions to the…” And then I snap in Dahlia’s direction, who to my horror is cradling a baby pygmy goat. She won’t touch Lucien but give her a flea-ridden farm animal and she cuddles with it? Dahlia looks up.

  “Samantha’s alpaca farm,” she says through the smile and distraction.

  “Oh yes, that’s—”

  “Can we have pie?” Adelaide says, cutting the woman off as she bounces the still fussing and always fiddling Lucien. “He will pay you for it,” she says, pointing at me.

  I narrow my eyes at my soon-to-be-dead offspring.

  “Well, of course, and I can give you directions to Samantha’s while we eat. But I think we better have a proper meal before dessert. And it’s just after lunchtime. How about some of my homemade crepes made with my hen’s eggs filled with bacon from the ranch down the road. And served alongside it we’ll have buttermilk biscuits, or goat milk biscuits as I like to call them.”

  To my shock my daughter, the second most apathetic person I know, jumps up and down and yells, “Yes! Yes! Please!”

  Before I know what’s happened the three women have made their way through the feet-wrangling goats and cleared the picket fence. I almost call out to them to wait for me as I try and find footing amongst the beasts littering the ground, but decide against it. “Move it, you little fuckers,” I say, shoving them aside, stepping like I’m bloody ice skating. I’m afraid to pick up my feet in fear one will get underneath it and bring me down with him.

  The women are settled around a large wooden table set just in front of an oversized window that looks into a field of lavender. The house smells of mint and sage and somehow the three women and Lucien are already slurping ice cold lemonade.

  “May I offer you a glass?” a voice says at my shoulder, startling me. It’s a man. Well, more like a boy. Young man. He’s wearing overalls but no shirt and his hulking muscles are a little distracting, like he just jumped out of a gross shirtless fireman calendar that thirty-something women giggle over.

  “Sure,” I say and allow him to shove a glass into my hand. I bring it to the table but don’t sit. I’ve done enough of that in the car. The glass is cold and the lemonade has the perfect amount of sweet and sour; it must be made from fresh-squeezed lemons and recently by the taste of it.

  “Oh good,” Leen says, noticing me. “You got a glass.”

  “Your husband gave it to me,” I say.

  She slaps the table with a laugh. “Rhone isn’t my husband,” she says and then I notice there’s no ring on her finger.

  “Whatever,” I say, setting the perspiring glass down.

  “You can put him down anywhere,” Leen says to Adelaide, indicating Lucien. “It’s safe in here. I have to childproof thanks to all my little kiddos out there,” she says, pointing to the front door where goats are waiting to chop at my crotch.

  “That’s all right,” Adelaide says. “I think he’s hungry.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place,” Leen says.

  And then another man swoops in holding a plate in either hand. This one is built too but he’s got black-framed glasses and a white T-shirt and is trying at the James Dean look. “Your food is ready, sir,” he says, putting a plate down at the empty seat in front of me, serving me first. I take the seat but only stare at the food. Then I look up at Leen, who is smiling broadly at the man now serving Dahlia.

  “And he is?” I say, pointing at the guy.

  “That’s Aaron. He’s smart as they come and irreplaceable,” Leen says.

  “Your boyfriend?” I say, overly curious about this woman.

  She winks at Aaron when he lays a plate in front of Adelaide and then herself. “Nope,” she says with a mischievous glint in her voice.

  I then look down at the plate. On the blue Wedgewood are three crepes, made to perfection, filled with bacon and greens, hugged in a hollandaise sauce and flecked with country potatoes. Dahlia is elbow deep in it by the time I look up, sauce running down her chin. I’ve never seen the woman eat like this. Well, I’ve hardly seen her eat at all, as she’s supposed to maintain a certain figure for the stage. And she’s even abandoned her glasses and hat, but by the look on Leen’s face she doesn’t recognize Dahlia or doesn’t care. She appears completely impassive about the popstar eating at her table like she’s a pig at a food trough.

  “This. Is. The. Best. Thing. Ever,” she says between bites.

  “Slow down and don’t get fat,” I say to her.

  “If this is heaven, then I’ll die now and pack on the pounds,” Adelaide says. She is about as gung-ho on the food as Dahlia and the little monster is making quick work of a potato he’s fisting.

  This place is too nice. This lady is too nice. Something is nefarious. People don’t just take others in. Not without a reason.

  “Go on, now, enjoy,” Leen says to me.

  “I’m Jewish,” I say in response.

  “Oh, so you don’t eat bacon,” she says, scooping a bite on her fork. “And that’s odd. I didn’t take you as the Jewish type.”

  “And I didn’t take you as the axe-murdering type, but that’s the feeling I’m starting to get,” I say.

  “Don’t mind him. He’s always like that. Angry without reason,” Dahlia says.

  “I have reasons
,” I fire back at her.

  “I’m sure you do. I’m sure you do,” Leen sings and there’s a knowing look in her dark brown eyes. A wisdom I’ve rarely encountered, like she’s seen things most haven’t, been granted special access to a private library.

  “Franklin, the biscuits, please,” Leen yells to a doorway where warm and inviting smells and sounds emit.

  A third man appears carrying a basket, its contents covered by a cream-colored napkin, but steam wafting from its edges. Franklin appears to be wearing tights and is shirtless.

  Dahlia, like a hungry jackal, yanks a steaming hot biscuit from the basket, not even offering one to the baby beside her. Such a disgraceful heathen. I apparently can’t take her anywhere anymore.

  “Oh gods, this is good,” she says through a bite as she spreads some purplish jam on the other half. “Everything is so good here and fresh.”

  “I know,” Adelaide says, almost as undignified as Dahlia, crumbs dripping down her chin. “I can’t believe you made all this food. It’s delicious.”

  Leen chuckles. “Oh, heavens. It wasn’t me. My boys make all the food.”

  I eye the woman, who looks to be in her early thirties. “These boys look a bit old to be your sons.”

  “So observant. No, it’s more of a term of endearment,” she says with a wink. “Aren’t you hungry?” she says, eyeing my untouched plate.

  “I am, but I despise poisoned food,” I say.

  The woman’s expression grows a bit curious. “Ren, you can rest assured that my food contains the best ingredients and zero poison. I pride myself on taking care of people. Call me a humanitarian and my goal is to nourish through food.”

  I narrow my eyes at the goat farmer. “How do you know my name?”

  She shrugs. “I’m not sure. Maybe I heard your girlfriend or daughter say it.”

  “How do you know she’s my daughter or gluttonous over there is my girlfriend?” I say.

  She taps her finger to her head. “It’s called instinct and the very best employ it often as it’s the most strategic way to live.”

  I stand at once, my chest beating. Something about this place and this woman has my adrenaline pumping. The old bag at the convenience store couldn’t be correct about me actually meeting three wise women. There aren’t that many worldwide.

  “We are leaving,” I say, chin tucked and my eyes seeking to sear the calm woman in front of me.

  Dahlia looks up, heartbroken. Adelaide too. Lucien beats his tiny palm on the table; a smile is his response to my exclamation. He gets it.

  Leen simply nods, seeming to understand. “Travelers must travel,” she says, snapping her fingers in the air.

  A moment later Franklin returns carrying the pie, which is now covered with foil. He also has a bag dangling from his other hand. “Take this for the road ahead,” Leen says, handing the pie to Dahlia. “There’s a bag of utensils, napkins, and plates. And be careful not to get sand in the pie. It always makes it gritty.”

  “What?” I say, baffled that the pie was already prepared to go, like the woman knew. But that’s impossible. I shake my head.

  “Now you better be on your way. Sunset approaches in just under two hours. A perfect amount of time to make it to your next destination,” Leen says.

  “What do you mean? The alpaca farm?” I say.

  “Sure,” the woman says. “Now I’ve had one of the boys jot down directions to Samantha’s alpaca farm if that’s where you choose to go, and also the main highway.”

  “When did you give that order?” I say, strangely curious like I’m in a funhouse and staring at a strange mirror of myself.

  She only smiles and leads us to the door. I’m the last to leave and when I trudge through the yard a twig and leaf from the apple tree overhead falls on my shoulder. Maybe because I’m unnerved by this experience or because I fucking hate trees, I jump and let out a growl of protest. Adelaide and Dahlia, who are drunk on food, don’t notice, but Leen turns around and stares at me, allowing the other women to pass. Then Leen looks at the tree and back to me.

  “May I offer you a piece of wisdom?” she says.

  “No,” I say through a snarl.

  “Well, I can’t allow you to pass without offering you something,” she says, angling to the gate which is just beside her and closed. “You ate nothing and seemed not to have had fun at my farm and I like everyone to go away with something.”

  I could just teleport to the car but I don’t. Maybe I’m curious what this bloody hippie considers advice. “Go on then,” I say.

  Leen kneels down and picks up a small stick, a leaf attached to it. Maybe it’s the same one that assaulted me. “The past can’t be undone. Nor can it be redone differently. It’s set for your own freedom,” Leen says and then tosses the small branch over her shoulder. “Now I dare say you should be on your way,” she says, stepping to the side.

  I don’t grant her a response. Honestly, I don’t have anything to say to a dumb goat farmer.

  When I arrive at the SUV Adelaide has her mouth covered, her eyes wide. Lucien is thankfully strapped down in his seat. But Dahlia is white with shock, and is standing at the rear of the vehicle, the doors open wide.

  “What is it?” I say.

  “It appears in my haste, I forgot to close my door,” Adelaide says beside me. “And so the goats might have gotten into the car.”

  “What?” I growl. “Did the little fuckers shit all over the place? Because I refuse to smell goat crap for the rest of this trip.”

  “No,” Dahlia answers, her face still covered in disbelief. “They just tore up some stuff.”

  “Oh, I bet the little shits ate the upholstery,” I say, stomping over to Dahlia, who is gaping at the back of the SUV.

  “No, just one suitcase actually,” she says.

  I turn and look. Two suitcases sit untouched. The third can’t really be classified as luggage anymore and its contents are absolutely ruined. How the fuck did I not guess that the evil creatures destroyed my things. All of my things.

  Chapter Six

  “Well, it appears this vacation is over,” I say, slamming the passenger side door.

  “No,” Dahlia says with a desperate plea in her voice. “It’s only stuff. I’ll have my personal shopper replace everything and send it to our hotel in San Luis Obispo. It will probably be there first thing tomorrow morning.”

  I want to close my eyes and dream travel away, abandoning this farce of a vacation. However, when I look at Dahlia, that soft vulnerable expression on her face, my resolve crumbles. She needs this vacation. She needs me beside her. And I want every second with her. Lord knows if I make myself think on it, she’s my second chance to handle this right. To be with someone when they need me. To not abandon them because of what might happen in the future. And then Leen’s words about the past not being undone filter back through my head. And that’s for your freedom, she said. Is Leen right? Is not being able to change the past supposed to free us to the present? To the future? Is it supposed to release us from regret? I know there are many parts of my past I’d do anything to change. Eloise’s death for starters. She was Trey Underwood’s wife and her murder during childbirth was totally my fault. And Jimmy’s death, which was absolutely preventable. And then my mum. I shake off the grief starting to build up in my chest like a bolt of electricity.

  “Fine. I’ll stay,” I say, quirking up the corner of one side of my mouth, faking a half smile.

  “Thank you,” she says. “Now Adelaide, will you read me the directions to the highways. I’m too stuffed to stop off at the alpaca farm.”

  “Wait. What? After all this bullshit and goat shit?” I say.

  Dahlia simply nods. “I’m ready to get back on the road. I’m glad Leen gave us both direction options. That’s a smart woman,” she says.

  “Yeah, a regular Einstein,” I say, sliding down in my seat, repulsed by the last hour and also starving.

  ***

  Inside my head there’s more pow
er than that inside of NASA. I can do and have anything I want and yet I find myself being pulled on this vacation like a fucking mule. That’s what happens inside of committed relationships and I’m fairly uncertain how I feel about it. Something feels inherently wrong with that sort of obligation, and yet here I am.

  “Oh my gosh!” Adelaide squeals, probably waking Lucien up. The little monster went straight back to sleep as soon as the SUV started on the road, over an hour ago. “There’s the ocean!” she says, as the PCH twists, giving us a new glimpse of the Pacific Ocean. We hadn’t seen the blue tucked around the mountain sides in quite a while.

  “You see the ocean every day from our house,” I say. And it’s true. The endless horizon can be seen from half the rooms in our not at all quaint home sitting high up on the Santa Monica Mountains.

  “I guess I missed it. Or maybe it looks different.” Then I notice Adelaide tilt her head to the side as she sizes up the landscape outside her window. “It definitely looks different here. More peaceful somehow. The colors brighter. Where are we?”

  Dahlia skips her eyes to the GPS. “Pismo,” she says.

  The sun is a half inch off the horizon. And it’s doing that glistening thing on top of the water. It’s like a fucking show dog looking for attention.