Vegan

by Erin Lee

  Vegan

  Chapter Thirteen

  Woe to you who are rich, for you have already received your comfort.

  Three weeks later

  THE LAB REPORTS ARE back and while his protein levels are holding, everything else has shit the bed. All I can do is keep doing what I’m doing if I want any shot at saving him. Feeling like a muti from South Africa or something, I run through a list of people I might be able to use to help my dying husband. He’s done with useless experimental treatments. He says it just doesn’t work. It’s a fight I won’t win. I’ve only spent the last two weeks trying. Now, all he wants to talk about is the end and making plans on how the boys and I will live without him.

  He may be done fighting, but I’m not. I thought of smug Sue Anderson, but I couldn’t do that to Murray. And it would be too hard to get away with. This time, I need to go for someone random. It will shake things up. If the law starts putting things together, I need a joker card that won’t point to me as the common thread with all these missing people.

  Tonight, after Rancher finishes the last of Rebecca’s stringy thighs, I’ll take the pick-up out and hunt for new meat. It’s getting easier, which concerns me. I almost feel like a vampire. Instead of seeing other people as human beings, I look them up and down, trying to figure out how fatty they’d be or what their blood type is. I wonder if they would give my husband the proteins he needs.

  The one thing I don’t feel is guilt. If I do, it’s about lying to Rancher and not being able to help him faster. If I’d found a way to get him what he needed quicker, things might be different. Instead, he’s been all over the internet looking for a way to end it. I watch him closely now, believing someday I’ll walk into our bedroom, and he’ll just be gone. He won’t have simply slipped away from his disease. He’ll have swallowed his pills all at once.

  I’ve locked the rifles up and taken to handing him his medicine myself. I think he knows why I’m doing this because he hasn’t questioned it or given me any shit.

  I throw Italian marinade over Rebecca’s inner thigh and try not to think too much. I know what I need to do, how to do it, how long it will take. Most importantly, I know it’s our only chance. It’s the only thing that’s helped anything. If love is a battlefield, I guess this is war.

  Vegan

  Chapter Fourteen

  Woe to you who are well fed now, for you will go hungry.

  IT’S HOTTER THAN A goat’s butt in a pepper patch tonight. I wish I could cover up more. The less I wear, the more I feel like I will be seen; like my bare skin is a window into my secrets. Animals don’t wear clothes. Stop being weak. Then again, the less clothing to burn, the better too. Besides, it’s not about you, or them, or anyone now but Rancher. It’s merely existence. You’re doing what you have to do. Nothing more. Nothing less. Nothing different than all other humans.

  With my left hand, I roll down the window of the pick-up truck, pulling in long sips of moist air. Any moment, the sky will open up and the thunder will come like drums to my survival dance. I need to do this as quickly as possible. While the rain could help in wiping away any trace of me, Mother Nature’s tears will also make it more difficult to move my prey into the butchering shed.

  I drive down a two-lane road alone with the stars. I stick as close to the speed limit as I can and remind myself that hitting the gas would ruin any chance of an alibi. Getting pulled over would give them ammo. They would know I wasn’t home taking care of my dying husband.

  No one’s on the road tonight. Not surprising on a Tuesday. Work comes quick in the oil fields, at the mill, and on ranches. This dusty town tends to fall asleep by 8 p.m. Now, with it being 1 a.m., it’s just me and my maker. Afraid to be alone much longer with my thoughts, I turn the radio on. Rancher’s country station smacks my ears hard. I quickly turn it down. Something just feels off. I need to tune it out and stop thinking about it.

  Humming lyrics I only halfway know, I keep my eyes on either side of the road. The best case scenario would be a hitchhiker in the dark, someone random instead of from a parking lot. I can’t risk security cameras. Up ahead is the road that leads to the highway out of town. It may be a good idea to get further away. Never piss in your own backyard. Three missing women is a lot. Hell, three missing women in six months is unheard of around these parts. But I don’t have time for that. The town will wake in four hours.

  I bang a left onto a winding road that leads to the high school with residential neighborhoods weaving out in nonsensical blocks. I may luck out with someone walking a dog or something. I can’t get away from my thoughts—the memories. Henry – that darn pig I’ll never be able to forget that they tried to torture us with. It’s just too fucking much. Tonight, I just need a fucking miracle. Is there a god?

  Six months earlier

  I WALK SLOWLY DOWN the driveway dodging potholes Rancher hasn’t felt up to fixing. I kick at loose crushed stone at its frayed edges as I make my way to the mailbox. Hoping to receive a check for funding from the Katy chapter of the Vegan Society for P.E.A.C.E., I tell myself what will be will be. Still, I’ve been watching the mailbox all day.

  When I finally reach the black box and see the flag is down, my stomach flips. This check will keep us afloat for at least two months and hopefully give us enough time for more funding and to finish building gates to what will eventually become a goat petting farm. The mailbox hisses at me as I pull open its rusty, dented door. Leaning down to peer into it, I spot three letters. One is thick and can’t possibly be from the association. Probably more medical bills. I grab them thinking today might not be my day, and that’s when I see it.

  Ten feet down the road, at the edge of my yard between the cypress trees, is a tall stick. On top of it is the bloody head of a pig like something straight out of “Lord of the Flies.” In his mouth, tied with twine, is a pile of leaves that hang out at either side. From the edges of his frozen jaw hangs the leaves. I gag. His eyes are open. What the fuck? Who would do something like this?

  Afraid to approach this poor animal, but afraid not to, I stand paralyzed at my mailbox. No longer interested in the contents of the two thick envelopes still in my hands, I throw them back in the box. I consider running back to the house to get Rancher. I decide against it. He doesn’t need to know how far this has gone. He’ll only worry. The signs, the dead chicken eggs against the rocks on the edge of the lawn, the death threats in the mailbox, the notes asking us to move out of town; this is a whole other thing.

  I walk slowly along the edge of our yard. Who could have done this and how? We haven’t left the house today. My best guess is they did it at night, but why? I walk toward the stake with a sense of dread like others would an open-casket wake of a loved one. Only feet from the pig, I stare up at his head shivering. I can’t leave him this way. I reach up with my bare hands and pull his head from the stake. It takes three tries of twisting and turning until finally, his cold, clammy head pops off in my hands. I stand there, at the edge of my yard, holding the pig’s head as far away from my body as I can, staring at his hardened flesh and all that it encases. I want to cradle him and tell him I’m sorry, but I am a coward. They know not what they do. The spear or stake that held him up with drops to the ground, making a loud clank against the earth as I walk in long strides toward the house.

  As I reach the top of the driveway, I see Rancher in the vegetable garden. I don’t go to him. Instead, I cover the pig with my chest and walk toward the old butchering shed. I slide behind it so my husband cannot see me or the evil warning sign left on our property. I lay the pig on the floor. Later, I’ll return to give him a proper burial—somewhere between Samson and the goldfish from Abraham’s old aquarium. Unbelievable.

  Worried he has seen me, I move slowly back across the yard and return to the house through the front door. The last thing Rancher needs is more to worry about. It’s not like he doesn’t have enough going on.

  THAT PIG’S HEAD HAUNTS me. He’s deep in the ground now next to the bigges
t goldfish, Lumpy, and I’ve named him Henry. I still can’t stop thinking about who would have the nerve to do it and why. How can they hate us this way, just for living differently? It’s not like our giving up the ranching life has really hurt them. Hell, for them, it’s less competition.

  Was it a silly prank by teenagers? Or was it something more serious? How can they live with the blood of an innocent animal on their hands? I mean, I get it. I get the ranching life. I understand that farm life is brutal. I’ve seen bulls with rubber bands around their testicles, waiting for them to rot off. I’ve watched as crimpers squashed the nuts of horses off. I’ve seen hack saws taken to dairy bulls used only as studs. I’ve heard their cries as sober animals have had their horns sawed off, mutilated only for human desire. I know how violent it is. But in farming life, it’s also impersonal. It’s just part of the job. What these people have done with Henry the pig has made it personal.

  It’s too close to home. The memories I took part in, the times I spent hours humming along to music in that butcher barn cutting up Henry’s ancestors are too much to think about. In bringing his head to us, they have disgraced not only the pig but us. It’s disgusting. The same people who pray to a god in an afterlife are okay with defaming the dead—joke or warning shot—just to make a point. It’s just not right.

  I don’t understand the rules. I don’t understand the consequences. I never really did. My damn hen broke her leg, and it changed things. It’s that simple. These people act like we did it to hurt them. Nothing could be further from the truth. But Henry and all the other attacks have only made one rule clear: It’s us, the ones who’ve seen it and felt the wrong in it, against them. I have never felt such shame to be human and can’t find it in myself to forget.

  Animals in a slaughterhouse: Jerking around violently before they are even killed. Hit in the neck, not the head, because their heads were down. Falling to the ground. A shackle on the hind leg. Each cow still alive and moving. Not strong enough to stand. Eyes open. Conscious. Hung by their hind legs. A worker stepping on the platform. Legs—three of them – cut off from the knee down. Legs falling to the floor. Lifting the tail. Making a vertical cut from the tail of the cow. Pulling the skin of the cow down. The cow’s own skin hanging on either side of the cow’s head. An incision in the neck. Choking on its own blood. Eventually dying.

  The holding areas were almost worse: Cows sensing something wasn’t right. Pulling back from us. Large groups of them. Others in individual houses. Anxiety so deep I could feel it. Could they smell the blood of the others? They could tell?

  Cows being shoved. Jumping. Hind legs. Crawling up the walls. Looking frantically for any way out. A metal door banging closed. Eyes wide open again. Staring. Begging for help but without words. Imploring mercy. Receiving none. There is no god. There can’t be.

  I SLOW DOWN, SMILING at the elderly man and his massive Shepard mix. “Nice dog,” I say.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m sort of lost. Was wondering if you knew where Clover Street is?”

  The man peers up at me, his eyes reflecting back kisses of hope from a round moon. He tells his dog to heel and approaches the edge of the truck, now fully stopped on the edge of the road.

  I turn on the interior light, looking around to be sure there are no house lights on and that the man is, indeed, truly alone with his dog. From what I can tell, it’s only a front porch light from the direction that he’s come.

  “Don’t think I’ve heard of that one, Miss. What’s it by?”

  Nope. Don’t fall for it. Manners aren’t everything. They’ll bite you from the same mouth they beg from. Hell, as far as you know, he killed Henry. Stick to the plan. “I’m not sure.”

  Slowly, I open the truck door. “I’m gonna hop out so you can see my map, okay? Maybe you’ll know.”

  I grab an old atlas from Rancher’s glove compartment, tuck the horse tranquilizer needle behind it, and jump onto the dark pavement. The man nods, yelling at his dog to calm down and holding him tight around a choke collar.

  “Sorry. He’s a little protective. Max, calm down!”

  “Animals are loyal,” I say, smiling and pulling out the map. Don’t think about it. The dog surely has another owner. This guy’s old. He would have died soon enough anyway.

  I put my free hand out slowly in the dog’s direction, allowing him to smell me. He sniffs my scent, looking back and forth from me to his owner. Finally, he wags his tail. In less than a minute, he’s licking my hand as the old man squints in the light from the still running pick-up.

  We move to the front of the truck, so we can better see the map in the headlights. He swears he’s never heard of Clover Street. I don’t inform him that there’s no such thing.

  “You know what? Come with me. I have a better map in the cab,” I say. “I bet it will click when you see that.”

  He agrees, following me to the passenger side of the truck. Here, between trees that line the side of the road and the passenger’s door, it’s almost pitch black. I make a motion like I’m reaching for the door to get another map. Instead of pulling it open, I turn away from the door and toward him. I lunge forward, sinking the tranquilizer into his chest. He winces, drops Max’s leash, clutches his throat, and falls forward into me. With two hands, I push him backwards, dropping the map, not the needle, and throwing him to the grass on the side of the road.

  Max runs to him and a part of my heart breaks. Then, he turns, as if he knows and bares his teeth at me. Pinned between the passenger door and a hundred pound dog growling at me, I freak. Bark. Bark. Bark. Snarl. Bark. Lights come on from a house only sixty feet away. More lights. Bark. Bark. Bark. Across the street. Bark! More teeth. Without thinking, I lunge forward again, this time, sinking the needle into Max’s shoulder. Instantly, he falls. Then, silence.

  I drag the frail old man, still alive but breathing shallow, as quickly as I can to the back of the pick-up. I yank the tailgate down, shove the needle in my back pocket, and pull him into the bed of the truck. With both hands, I heave him, chest first, legs second, into the back. In a hard motion, I throw my full body weight into him, pushing him tumbling face first all the way in. I throw up the tailgate, ignoring the crunch I can only reckon is the sound of a tore up leg. I race to the driver’s seat.

  Lights off. The house across the street. They must have assumed it was a false alarm or that the old man got control of his dog. The lights from the house up the road are still on—but only on the top floor. I tell myself I have time, but not much. Wrong. Bottom lights on. Fuck. I can’t leave the dog here. It’d be the first and best indication to something being off. I consider grabbing him. I could bury him next to Samson.

  I gag. I can’t believe I’ve killed an animal. It’s a sin I deserve the ultimate punishment for. He was only trying to protect his owner. Front porch light on.

  I don’t know what possesses me. I don’t have time to grab the dog. I can’t leave him dying on the edge of the road. It’s a combination of things: I can’t afford for anyone to see the puncture wound either. As fast as I can, and telling myself it’s merciful, I throw the truck in reverse. I back up, angling the front end toward the edge of the road and facing him. I turn my headlights out so no one can grab the plates. Then I close my eyes, throw the truck in drive, and gun it forward. When the truck bounces, I hit the brakes.

  Again, I throw it in reverse, backing over Max’s body and sure he’s dead. In that moment, I am positive; it’s human beings who have no soul. And I am one of them. There is no such thing as reinventing the rules. We are who our maker made us to be. We are evil.

  Vegan

  Chapter Fifteen

  Woe to you who laugh now, for you will mourn and weep.

  One year later—The beginning of the end

  IN NINE HOURS, MY HUSBAND will be dead. I deserve it. It’s not like I’m any different than Rebecca’s husband. My kids aren’t different than hers either. Hell, Abraham went to school with Finn. I should have known. He’ll b
e dead and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. There is no God. Rancher’s oblivious, going about his day the best he can—house slippers on, paper open, shaking violently in his wheelchair with tremors he doesn’t notice. His tremors make me, on the other hand, jump, especially at night. He can’t even read. I think he simply likes the smell of the newsprint. It’s familiar to him from the days not so long ago when he read that stupid Shopper—always on the lookout for vegan festivals as places we could market the sanctuary. I wish I could crawl inside his head and hear his thoughts.

  Instead, I’m stuck with mine. Does he care? Does he really understand what’s going on? After more than half our lives together, you’d think he’d know that I like—no, need—to talk things out. Am I supposed to just give him this one? Let him do things his way on his final day? What about the sanctuary? Would this have happened if I hadn’t taken him off animal meat? Am I supposed to act as if this is okay?

  Yes, I suppose I am.

  I press my lips together and beg myself to be strong enough to handle what’s to come.

  Stop. The man can’t talk anyway. What’s he supposed to say, even if he could?

  This isn’t about me. It’s about him. It’s his story, for now.

  This whole thing reminds me of the time we took Abraham’s first dog Samson to the vet to be put down. At only five years old, Samson had developed a rare and untreatable eye cancer. In six months’ time, he went from a bouncy pup to a whimpering old boy, frail and delicate with the same big heart but much less of an appetite for Caesar’s Kitchen treats. We didn’t let him suffer, or we told ourselves that. We kept him drugged up until we could see his quality of life wasn’t worth keeping him around for our own selfish need to hang on. Samson was the best dog: agreeable, friendly, happy.