Vegan

by Erin Lee

  “You okay?”

  “Yep.”

  He puts his head in his hands, using his elbows to prop himself up. “Just tired. Maybe the garden can wait. Not feeling so good.”

  Putting down a dish rag, I walk slowly over to him.

  “Want water? Almond milk? A salad? When’s the last time you ate?”

  “I swear; I’m good. And we already went over this. I just need to sit down and rest. Do your thing. Cook. Make me into a fat old man—whatever makes you happy, hon.”

  The abrupt change in his affect isn’t something I haven’t seen before, but it saddens me all the same. I’m not used to the man I love giving up so easily. I know him only as stubborn and fiercely independent. As I return to the sink and fill up a tall glass of water with crushed ice to bring to him, I can’t help but feel like I’m running out of time. Him taking the water a minute later and gulping it down only confirms that feeling.

  Tonight. For sure.

  Vegan

  Chapter Eight

  Woe to you when everyone speaks well of you, for that is how their ancestors treated the false prophets.

  SHE ACTS LIKE SHE SUPPORTS us with the “likes,” “loves,” and shares on social media of our vegan propaganda; I’ll give her that. She even offered to help raise money for the sanctuary. “No thanks” was my only response to that. The thing about the town do-gooder is that she also talks about us behind our backs. She thinks we don’t know, not realizing Sue and Murray have the biggest mouths of everyone in town. I’ve known Rebecca Johnson since way, way before Abraham ran for class president in the fifth grade. She still holds it against me that he beat her son, Finn, on campaign promises of extended recess and free pizza for everyone in the class.

  Our kids had been the best of friends since they were knee high to a grasshopper. Once, long before that year, I really thought Rebecca and I were friends. She didn’t seem to mind that I never got all gussied up for meetings like other moms did. She was one of the only ones. Round here, and looking back, I probably never really fit in. It was right good for a while, feeling like I had an actual friend.

  From preschool through fifth, Becca and I took turns carpooling. I’d drive one week, she’d drive the next. It was nice. During pick-ups, we’d make small talk about the neighbor’s wife who could never stop whining about a disease we couldn’t see. We’d roll our eyes about antics of soccer moms hiding alcohol in thermoses just to get through ninety-minute soccer games. Sometimes, we even complained about our husbands—how Rancher never came inside and was always more interested in the herd and the bottom line than spending time with me. Or about how her husband viewed her as a breeding machine, never bothering to ask about her day, and spent too much time flirting with the lady who sold their coffee beans. For a long time, I thought we were tight.

  Rebecca is the one who convinced me to join the PTA. It wasn’t something I wanted to do. I figured I could support the kids at school in other ways. I always sent the boys in with brownies or paper cups or whatever they needed. On their birthdays, I made cupcakes, and I was the only mother to remember extra Valentine’s Day cards for kids too different for the other ones to care about. I believed the policy in the classroom should be that everyone gets a card or no one does.

  But everything changed the day Miss Marrotte, Abe and Finn’s fifth grade teacher, announced the class presidency race. It was my day to pick the kids up, and they fought about it all the way home in the car—who would be president and who’d be VP. This same battle played out for the next three days. And when I warned Rebecca the boys were arguing, she shrugged and said it’d all work out at the end of the race. Together, we reminded them they were best friends and made them shake hands. We told them the best man would win.

  Well, guess what? He did. He licked him by ten whole votes. And I couldn’t have been more proud the day Abraham came home with the biggest smile on his face to tell me he “crushed” Finn in a landslide of a race. Rebecca didn’t come in that day. Instead, she dropped Abraham off at the bottom of the driveway. I assumed, feeling bad for her, that she was working on cheering Finn up. And honestly, I felt bad too—wishing the boys had made up and agreed to run on the same ticket. But at that point, I reckoned there was nothing I could do and what kind of mother wouldn’t be happy for her own kid? I mean, really. It was after that Rebecca got uppity and citified or something. Suddenly, she acted like she didn’t have time for people like us who didn’t have a pot to piss in. Funny, really, cause she didn’t either. None of us did.

  The following week, Rebecca called to tell me I was on my own with the carpooling. She said it wasn’t working out and that she felt the boys needed a break. She handled it the best she could, I suppose. But she forgot to mention what Sue told me—that Rancher and Tom Johnson, Rebecca’s husband, were having a disagreement too. For them, it was about beef buyers and a whole lot more was at stake. Disinterested in Abraham’s silly schoolyard quarrel, Rancher told me not to let it get to me and suggested the extra alone time with Abraham to and from school might be a good thing.

  He was right. Those rides to and from St. Patrick’s School were some of the best memories I have. Abraham would race to the car to tell me about the latest girlfriend he had. He’d speak so fast about the kids picked first and last in gym class that I could barely keep up. The following year, so as not to miss another moment, I told both boys they no longer needed to ride the bus, and it became our special time. In that silly ride, we played games like “high and low” where they’d tell me the best part of their day and the worst. I didn’t want to miss a thing and they loved that game. Sometimes, we stopped on the way home for ice cream or even French fries. With more money than we really needed, Rancher never said a word. He was just happy not to have to listen to me complain about being hurt by a woman like Rebecca Johnson.

  That’s the thing about tribe. It takes a lot to trust. You keep your circles small, especially after you’ve been burned. Rebecca was someone I’d opened up to. She knew my insecurities and the things that kept me up at night. I thought I could trust her to honor an unspoken code. It was a horrible mistake that I’ve paid dearly for. It turns out that our “friendship” was of no significance to her at all. Instead, bitter over Abraham’s win, she started nasty rumors about me and the school principal. She even tried to say I’d paid the fifth grade teacher to swing the vote. I mean, really?

  Eventually, the awkward stares of other mothers on the PTA, who grabbed their husbands’ hands fast when I came around, got to me. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to be where I wasn’t wanted. I hadn’t wanted to join the PTA in the first place. I’ve never been much of a person for socializing. Instead, I’m more about family. I shouldn’t have allowed it to change.

  I’m not a dumb person. I learn quickly. I made a pledge to never again get close to someone like that. I knew it’d only end in me being betrayed. I spent the rest of the boys’ school years looking forward to those car rides, buying half of every fundraising sheet, and being known as the mom who didn’t care or who was “too busy” doing something scandalous in one way or another to bother to show up at fundraising auctions. Eventually, I didn’t care.

  “Karma is a bitch.” That’s what Rancher reminded me through all of it. “This is why women are complicated. I don’t understand any of it. Is it a girl code or something?”

  I’d shake my head, reminding him that I didn’t know boy code, and I was the mother of two sons with a pretty manly husband. “How would I know?” I’d ask him. He’d laugh and remind me that I did, indeed, have tits and that maybe I should get with the program.

  But girl code and hurting people just for the sake of being mean was never something I could either understand or get behind. Looking back, I realize I played a part in it. Truthfully, I gossiped with her too. But at the time, I thought it was harmless. It’s not like I treated the people we talked about differently or believed it half the time. To me, it was just something to do and not something that could ever h
urt a soul. I was wrong again and haven’t participated in it since. Frankly, I don’t really have any friends. I’m okay with that, especially now.

  With Rancher falling asleep at the kitchen table waiting for me to serve him up the last pieces of Ginny masked in a sauce that will in no-way fully cover it, I’m more sure than ever that things happen for a reason. The God I don’t want to believe exists does. The same God who will judge me for what I am about to do is watching my every move. I am damned no matter what.

  I could leave it all in the will of the doctors, who will give my husband six months. Or, I can follow my gut. Of course, I could go for the animals. I’d be clear of criminal prosecution. But I’m not the one who made the rules. The idea that people like us could ever make a living killing animals is disgusting. We already are serial killers. What’s one more? At least this one—Rebecca Johnson, washed-up PTA president and local gossip, has done hurt people.

  Vegan

  Chapter Nine

  Blessed be ye poor:

  For yours is the kingdom of God.

  SHE’S ALL OVER TOWN. The thing about your husband screwing the PTA treasurer is that after it happens, you can’t let it go. At least, Rebecca can’t. Since the day she caught Tom with Kerry McKinney at the Yellow Cactus Motel, she’s been in the habit of posting everything, from her last murderous dead meal to her gussied up plans for the night, all over social media. It only takes five minutes to catch up on the last year of Rebecca’s life.

  She’s selling brownies for project graduation tonight. Anyone interested should meet at the local high school where she’ll deliver them from the back of her oversized, overpriced, gas-guzzling SUV. I look up from my laptop, smiling at Rancher, who can hardly keep his eyes open. After a three course meal of baked Brussel sprouts, mashed taters from the garden, a salad, and the back of Ginny’s thigh, he gazes off in the direction of the TV sleepy-eyed.

  “I need to run out for a bit later tonight. I don’t want you to worry. I just want to return some library books. I won’t be gone long,” I say.

  He nods.

  “Do you need anything while I’m out?”

  “No. I’m okay. Maybe mmmmmm-milk?”

  “I can do that.”

  I fumble through a wicker storage basket under the coffee table Rancher built with scrap wood from the original chicken coops. Reaching for two books I haven’t even had a chance to read—one on healthy eating and another about a woman who lost her daughter—I tell myself to be patient. I have at least two hours. Rebecca will be standing there all night. And the darker it gets, the better.

  For the sake of anyone ever checking my history, I begin scrolling through each and every one of my Facebook friends. There aren’t that many of them left. I once had a thousand. Now I have three hundred and most are from high school. They could give two shits about the sanctuary or what I’m up to these days. Finally, at 7:30, Rancher stands up. He stumbles but catches his fall on the edge of the couch. I pretend not to notice. He clicks off his show and informs me that he needs to go to sleep.

  “You feeling okay?”

  “Yeah, just sleepy. Llllll-long day and I reckon I got too much sssss-sun.”

  “Don’t forget your meds. And let me know if you need anything. I’m gonna return these. I reckon a late fee is the last thing we need.”

  “Okay ppppp-pumpkin.” He salutes me with his right hand. “Yes, Mmmmm-aaaa’am.”

  I laugh.

  “Give me some sugar.”

  We kiss goodnight, and he heads off to our cramped bedroom alone again. It’s not unusual for Rancher to be in bed before eight. He’s up at four with the animals and hasn’t had the stamina to stay up with me lately. Tonight, as we kiss goodnight, I’m glad for it. I wait to be sure I see him choke down a handful of pills before I finally leave—careful to leave the light on the back of the house on. It’s the best shot I’ll have at light in the barn for butchering without calling attention to myself.

  I’ve come to think of that place as Ginny’s. I guess it’s like anything else. You never forget your first. I know there will be more. Hell, I’ll keep this up until Rancher’s bill of health is spotless. But, to me, that building will always be Ginny’s.

  COLBY PETERSON, THE local single dad who’s always looking to score, leans on the fender of Rebecca’s latest vehicle like a wild opossum in heat. The new ride is a consolation prize from Tom; I’d bet anything on it. He’s forever buying her bigger and better things to make up for his inability to keep his dick in his britches. In that way, I feel sorry for her. I can’t imagine having to keep one eye on Rancher while contending with everything else. I’d have a mind to eat him myself if he did that to me.

  I watch them flirt shamelessly from Rancher’s old pick-up truck. Aren’t you precious? From the looks of it, Rebecca hasn’t had much luck with her sales. There are piles of $12 brownies hanging out the back of her trunk. I wince at the thought of how many baby chickens that is. I refuse to count. Karma has come to pay her a visit, and soon, she will be just like Ginny and unable to hurt another soul.

  Dressed in a 13.1 for Autism T-shirt and yoga pants, Rebecca smiles at Colby, handing him three boxes. She brushes the hair out of her face and plays with her long ponytail as she bounces from one foot to the other talking animatedly about god knows what. I wish they would hurry up. Not a chance. Judging by Colby’s grin and the fact that he’s now opening the top box for a brownie tells me I’m in for the long haul here. Colby doesn’t appear to have any plan of skedaddling soon. I consider leaving and running to the store for Rancher. I’d rather get the milk out of the way now. But I can’t leave. If I do, she could leave with Colby and I’ll be screwed.

  In any other circumstance, I’d get out of the truck. I’d march right over there and interrupt. It’s not a good idea. I can’t have Colby telling the law I was the last one seen with her. Instead, I keep the interior light of the truck off and settle in for what could be an hour of them making small talk. I wonder what Tom would think of this. He’s probably out doing flirting, and more, all his own. It’s none of my business.

  The high school, a regional one recently expanded for a growing population of city folk lookin’ for safer livin’, has a large parking lot that wraps three quarters of the way around the school. To the right, it hugs the entrance to the gym, weight room, and locker rooms. It’s here that I am parked, smack between the nightshift janitors’ cars and the school-assigned seniors’ lot. I’m not alone. I can’t be sure if others are sitting in their cars. I haven’t seen anyone. From the best I can tell, the only vehicles in the lot are here from maintenance crews or kids who got rides with friends and will be back to claim vehicles tomorrow. Still, I do the best I can to be sure and finally reckon that I’m probably good.

  Rebecca leans in to Colby. Over the boxes in his hand, she hugs him, patting him on the back like a child who had a rough day at a track meet. It reminds me of how she acted when Finn lost at regionals. I grab my keys off the passenger’s seat and watch as Colby finally leaves and heads to his car. When he disappears to the front of the building, I open the truck door, jump out, and land hard on the ground.

  Rebecca looks up at me.

  “Hey, girl! Haven’t seen you in forever. What have you been up to?”

  She walks toward me with wagging hips and a smile so wide you’d think we were actually friends as I wave.

  “I’m great. Just came for brownies.”

  She frowns. “They aren’t vegan.”

  “Oh, that’s cool. Doing it for the cause. Besides, just eggs. Nothing to sweat over.”

  She laughs, giving me the ammo I need to go through with it. In this moment, it’s not about saving Rancher. It’s about honoring a code and the vow I made to Lucy.

  “Well, come on over,” she yells from about ten feet away. “Why do you have the truck? Car down again? Ya’ll been having horrible luck.”

  Bless her heart. I know what she’s saying. I hear her judgment. I’m well aware of her whis
pers of how Rancher and I are poor. Of how we sold out the family legacy and now karma’s getting us with bad brake jobs and torn routers. Hell, Sue never shuts up, and I’ve even heard about Rebecca’s theory that we’ve only opened the sanctuary as a last resort and that, secretly, we eat meat like anyone else. Well. Yes. I suppose...

  “Yep. It’s always something.”

  I don’t yell. I don’t want to get the attention of anyone inside. Instead, I walk slowly toward the woman who thinks she has me figured out. I smile wide, wishing I didn’t have to.

  With one hand in my back pocket, I fiddle with the cow tranquilizer and keep my eye on the prize. Tonight, when I pick up milk, I’ll have to go for gravy too. I imagine her as tasting sour. I’ll need something to cover her flavor of bullshit.

  When we finally meet in the middle, we walk together to her car as she brags about what Finn’s been up to and tells me she’s worried about Abraham. According to her, I should be worried too. She’s heard he partied at the cabin with the boys. She’s heard he might be smoking pot. I don’t mention that weed is a natural drug that grows from the ground. I don’t tell her that I picked Abraham up from the cabin myself. Instead, I act concerned and thank her for the information I’d rather she didn’t keep tabs on.

  I feel sorry for Tom. What it must be like to have a wife more interested in what’s going on in everyone else’s life than in her own; must be hard. It’s probably why he can’t seem to shake his habit of collecting every women Rebecca runs with. At least it gets her new cars and upgraded diamonds on anniversaries. In a way, I’m doing him a favor. Soon, he’ll be just another horny father no different than Colby looking to score. And he won’t have to waste the $60 a shot at the Yellow Cactus.