Orion Magazine - March/April 2009

Lucy snorted. Charlie smiled a little, pleased to at least make her laugh, for once, even if he hadn’t intended to. She turned back toward the yard and motioned with her co=ee cup toward the truck sitting under the walnut trees. Her voice turned gentle, coaxing. “That truck’s not yours, is it, Charlie?”

Charlie swallowed, feeling the fumes of the vinegar in his throat. He thought of the milking pail— seamless and stainless. That’s what I am, he thought. Fresh start. Brand new.

“Sure it is.”

Lucy turned and rolled her eyes. “Come on, Charlie. Rubber testicles? You somehow don’t seem quite the type.”

Charlie had the sensation of a door swinging on loose hinges—whether opening or closing he could not tell. The feeling of pivoting between gas pedal and brake, trying to make a split-second decision about stopping for a hitchhiker at sixty miles per hour. He could tell her the whole story. Go back to the day when he was >ve and Darryl >rst hit him across the mouth with a beer bottle. But what would be the use?

“Why?” he edged his voice into a challenge. “You got a problem with my truck?”

Lucy looked at him a second longer, shrugged, raised her eyebrows, and brushed past him into the house, shaking her >nger at a spot he’d missed as she passed the window.

I don’t know about no greenhouse e=ect, he thought, leaning forward, elbows on knees, to spit between his boots. All I know is that it’s too damn hot. Too hot to think or even take a breath. A ?ock of geese passed over the >eld. For the past few days it had seemed as if every time he looked up, there were geese up there. As if it were the same ?ock, circling the globe, searching for a cool place to touch down. Not >nding one.

The milk went bad. It was something that the goats were eating. It’s fine, absolutely fine, Lucy told him, pouring a white torrent down the barn sink, except that it tastes like shit. With no milk, the little money that had been coming in dried up completely. Every morning Lucy still had to bring in the heavy-uddered does, and every morning Charlie lay on his

mattress and listened to the sound of her pouring the milk down the drain. He watched her stalk the fence line in a ?oppy straw hat and sandals, searching for the culprit weed. He searched the pasture himself, not knowing what he was looking for, but wanting to save the day.

He always managed to salvage enough milk from the bottom of the pails to >ll a bottle for the kid. Every evening, when he reached the crest of the hill, he crossed his >ngers for the sight of it standing. But it was always in the exact same spot he had left it— though every day a little bigger, plump and full like a summer cloud. A dream, a frosted shining birthday cake in the burnt >eld. Charlie would kneel and massage its tiny legs, shaking doubt o= the way the goats shook o= ies.

Lucy drove farther and farther to >nd anyone who would sell her hay, coming back with an empty gas tank, a sweat-drenched shirt, and four bales she paid sixty dollars for. The goats would >nish it in minutes, the buck dragging his tire up and muscling through the crowd, lowering his head and sliding his horns under the kids like a forklift, tossing them out of the way. Afterward they would all jostle up to the barn to chew the fence slats. Their ribs were starting to show.

Lucy and Charlie stopped speaking to one another. They communicated in grunts, only when necessary, and went through whole days without crossing paths. They drew down into survival mode, just like the trees. Days turned into weeks, and Charlie lost all sight of any world that might exist beyond the farm. Then one night in September, while he cooked himself a can of beans and Lucy, who seemed to have quit eating altogether, sat at the kitchen table ri<ing through one of her glossy magazines, she broke the silence.

“Trash,” she said, throwing the magazine down and pushing her chair back. “Why do I read this trash?”

Charlie froze. Was he supposed to answer that? He steeled himself for whatever was coming next— he was making a racket with the spoon, or his beans were stinking up the house, or he was breathing too loud.