Ren The Complete Boxed Set

by Sarah Noffke

A jolt sounds on the floorboard, probably from her stomping feet. “God, there’s no winning with you.”

  “No, there isn’t, so if you’d like we can let you off here. I bet that gas station owner would take you in and you two could breed your dumb-ass ways all over this bloody area,” I say.

  “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the gas signal,” Adelaide says. “I didn’t know we’d actually run out of gas.”

  “That’s because you live in a world where you forget that there are consequences to actions.” I turn to Dahlia. “Is it too late to send her to a girls’ school? One where the administration is questionable and their behavioral practices are untraditional?”

  “We are putting this little snafu behind us,” Dahlia says, plastering that look on her face she’s been trying to make permanent lately. A pleasant smile, reeking of false peace. She taps the screen of her phone, bringing up the GES or PGS or whatever her digital map is. Poor thing can’t close her eyes and have her consciousness lock onto the ley lines of the planet. She has to rely on technology to tell her where to go. “The good news is that we are only a few miles off the exit for the alpaca farm.”

  I click my tongue three times and shake my head. “Honestly, it’s not too late to send you to community college or one of those lame online universities or whatever institution that will accept you with laughable test scores. That way you can learn how to properly use the English language. Good news is making a few million dollars in a half hour. Good news is single-handedly saving a fleet of soldiers who were about to slide into the bloody ocean. Good news isn’t that a farm full of hairy giraffes is a few miles away and they’re most likely going to spit on my rattlesnake loafers.”

  “I knew you’d be as excited about the adventure as I am,” Dahlia says, reaching over and slapping me on the knee. She pulls her hand back in time to negotiate the large automobile onto an off-ramp that immediately turns to gravel. Dust swarms up from the road, clouding the road ahead and bathing the SUV in a fine layer of dirt.

  It’s just then that the little monster starts his usual round of complaints, screeching followed by all out crying and incoherent babbling.

  “You didn’t by chance think to grab something when you were in that petrol station?” Adelaide says.

  I twist around at lightning speed. “Strangely, I was a bit busy trying to figure out how to get petrol into the vehicle which ran out because of you. And I didn’t realize that your legs were broken and you couldn’t get your ass out of the vehicle to purchase snacks with the credit cards I so graciously pay for you.”

  “It’s not really graciously if you constantly remind me of it,” she says. “And I’ll go ahead and take that as a no,” she adds, her focus on Lucien, who is now crying loudly.

  I turn back around, proud of myself for handling that with such elegant diplomacy. And I’m starting to feel nausea from Dahlia’s driving and the series of turns she’s taken, dragging us farther and farther into the middle of no-fucking-where.

  “Well, that’s curious,” Dahlia says, squinting at the screen attached to her dash.

  “I’m almost certain that it isn’t curious,” I say, tying my arms in front of my chest, realizing I smell like sweat. It’s bloody awful. “What is it?”

  “Well, the GPS just stopped working. It just looks to be thinking,” she says.

  “Adelaide,” I say, “make yourself useful for once in your bloody life. Help us.”

  She sighs. “I’ve been useful loads of times,” Adelaide says.

  “Giving therapists unique case studies to write up in a science journal doesn’t count,” I say.

  Then there’s another daft sigh. “I don’t know. Let me see it,” she says.

  Dahlia plucks the device from its container and holds it over her shoulder, all while driving down the road that keeps narrowing further.

  “Oh, well there we go,” Adelaide says, handing the phone back at once. “You don’t have any reception. No service. No GPS.”

  “Hmmm, well, what do we do?” Dahlia says, placing the phone on the center console. “The farm is really off the main road and it will be hard to find without directions.”

  I throw my head back on the rest. “Am I the only one here with a three-digit IQ?” I say mostly to the heavens, which I know have abandoned me and will be of zero help. I lower my head and look at Dahlia. “Go ahead and retrace our path back in the direction of the highway until we have reception. Then we can jot down directions and proceed to this hellish destination,” I say over Lucien’s constant complaints.

  “Well, that would be a great solution but I don’t know how to get back,” Dahlia says, continuing the trek on the endless gravel road. “I’ve taken a ton of turns and all the roads look exactly the same here. There’s not even proper signs.”

  “Then may I suggest that you stop driving us further into the middle of nowhere. You do realize that we have no food, water, cell service, and a load of worthless brains that could fill up a science lab.”

  “Well, you’re in this predicament with us, Ren,” Dahlia says.

  “By predicament, do you mean the beginning of a horror movie? And no, I’m a dream travel away from abandoning your asses.”

  “And if you do, you better not show up on my doorstep again. Well, only to collect the ashes of your beloved chair,” Dahlia says.

  I jerk my head at the pop star. “You wouldn’t,” I say with a dramatic gasp.

  “Try me,” she says.

  “And still you keep charging ahead like you’re on a walkabout. Maybe we should pull over, turn around, do anything rather than drive farther into the pits of hell,” I say, staring out at the tree-lined road. The bloody things are everywhere. I never forgave the noxious weeds for what they did. Yeah, they supply bloody oxygen, shade, and habitats for animals. But these flawed plants are also responsible for tragedies. How many people have fallen from a tree’s canopy and broken bones? How many trees have fallen on homes, crushing the innocent people inside? And don’t even get me started on the flimsy branches that can break off from a strong gale and attack a guy in the head, killing him instantly. Sometimes I wonder how my life would look different if Jimmy hadn’t died. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten myself into so much trouble. Maybe I would have stuck around, knowing he needed me. Maybe I would have tried, knowing that I had a friend who believed in me. But that’s not what happened and my life was a series of mistakes after Jimmy’s death. That’s what happens when trees are allowed to unfurl without consequence. They create a domino sequence of mistakes.

  “There, up ahead,” Adelaide says, pointing at a drive that ends at a series of buildings. “There’s a place where we could stop and ask for directions.”

  “It looks clean enough,” Dahlia says, injecting false hope into her voice.

  It’s the first place resembling civilization we’ve seen since we turned off the highway, at least twenty miles back.

  “Yeah, it actually looks kind of cute,” Adelaide says. And then to Lucien she sings, “Be quiet, little monster. We will get you to a place that has food.”

  The buildings, a house, a barn, and a storage area of sorts, are all painted in different pastels. As we near, I make out large crown molding lining the roofs. The detail work matches that of a quaint Dutch village. And the grounds around the compound are a bright green flecked with purple and yellow flowers. Even I have to admit it looks quite idyllic. And it’s strange to find it in the middle of nowhere, like a tourist attraction dropped straight out of the sky. There’s a large colorful sign at the entrance to the drive. Bubbly letters line the top.

  “Well, I think this will be a good place to stop. Let’s hope someone is home and can get us going in the right direction,” Dahlia says.

  “Yeah, let’s hope,” I say, feeling my body vibrate with exhaustion. Then I turn to take in the words on the sign that’s just come near enough to make out.

  It reads:

  Welcome to Colleen’s Goat Farm. The friendliest place on
earth.

  “Oh fuck,” I say with a tired sigh.

  Chapter Five

  “No,” I say, clear and loud.

  “Oh, come on, Ren,” Dahlia says, turning the vehicle in the direction of the place which may look cute but will be anything but. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “Up a goat’s ass,” I say.

  “What’s your deal with goats?” Adelaide says over the loud crunch of the tires and wailing toddler. “They’re cute and supposedly a lot of fun.”

  “Have you ever been around the dumb animals?” I say.

  “No. If you remember, I grew up in London,” she says.

  “I hadn’t actually,” I say. “You’re British? I had no idea.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “It’s true,” I admit. “And I grew up in Peavey with an abundance of goats everywhere. The pesky animals were always making a racket and breaking out of their pens. One broke into our cottage this once and found my mum’s keepsake album. Out of an entire house full of rubbish the fucker decided to eat the albums of our ancestors. My mum cried for a whole week.”

  “Ren…” Dahlia says, her voice careful. Almost cautious.

  “What?” I say as she throws the car into park.

  “You’re sharing.”

  “I’m not,” I say with an edge of hostility, although under it I feel slightly embarrassed. Why had I said so much about such a long-ago memory? Maybe it’s the trees. Or the stress. Or the driving.

  “I was answering the question. That’s one of the numerous reasons I loathe goats. That little dipshit should have eaten Lyza’s useless belongings, not Mum’s pictures,” I say.

  “Who’s Lyza?” Adelaide says.

  “A soul-sucking bitch,” I say, getting out of the car.

  “What was she, a neighbor or something? Why do you hate her so much?” Adelaide says.

  Just as I’m about to shut the door I hear Dahlia say, “It’s his sister. She’s crazy.”

  The questions will no doubt continue now.

  I walk around the car to see a tall woman in front of a bright blue barn trimmed in orange and she’s scattering chicken feed. Hens with feathers to match my red hair are clucking around her feet. She holds up a hand to us in acknowledgment and starts in our direction. The hens, who apparently have a codependency problem, follow after the woman.

  “Hi there!” she sings across the dusty yard. The woman with shoulder-length hair and a broomstick skirt walks in our direction, chicken feed in tow.

  I’m just about to state our reason for visiting when a fucking herd of the nastiest vermin ever put on this earth charge out from behind the blue barn. The goats race at us like a bunch of happy bulls intent on knocking over their prey and then slightly annoying them until death ensues, as is the fate of such. The little pygmy goats, some small, some huge and pregnant with Satan’s pets, rip forward. I’m just about to dive back into the vehicle when there’s an assault on my behind. A soft but deliberate invasion rips just between my legs. I jump forward and simultaneously turn around to see what caused the trespassing. It’s a little brown goat with kind eyes and zero soul.

  “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.