“It was nice talking to you,” I say. It’s the most talking I’ve done since Sadie got sick, the most talking about myself in what seems like years.
“Yeah.” He pauses for a moment before he opens the door, like he’s thinking of saying something more. But he doesn’t. He steps out of the truck and closes the door behind him, leaving me in here alone. I would feel insulted if anyone else did that, in any other place, at any other time. But I’m pretty sure I just experienced Dylan being nicer to me than he is to anyone, and I’m pretty sure I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long time. I’m not going to let a little slammed door bother me.
“How do you feel about goats?” Doff asks me over breakfast.
“I’ve never really thought about them,” I say, scraping the last of the oatmeal from my bowl.
“Feel like taking a break from vegetables? I need some help with the animals. Old Glen said he could spare you.”
“Okay,” I say. “Sure.” Come to think of it, I could use a break from the vegetables. They’re not the most exciting of company.
“Lulu’s about to give birth any day now,” Doff says proudly. “So that should be pretty exciting.”
“Where does she go?” I ask.
“Where does who go?”
“Lulu,” I say. “To give birth. Do you take her to the vet?”
Doff seems confused for a second. Then he laughs his honking laugh as soon as he realizes I’m serious. “We deliver her,” he says. “You and me.”
I feel the blood drain out of my face.
Doff looks worried. “Do you think you can handle it?”
For a moment, I’m afraid. I imagine blood and guts and horror-movie gore. But then I realize we’re talking about something natural, something that’s been happening for millions of years before me and will continue to happen long after I’m gone. I have no reason to be afraid of it.
“Yeah, what the hell,” I say. “What else am I going to do?”
We finish breakfast, and I follow Doff and the dogs on the long walk over to the barn. It’s been a few days, but I still haven’t told Sadie about the biodiesel run with Dylan. I haven’t told her about how sitting on his porch has become an afternoon ritual, our afternoon ritual. And even though we don’t really talk, we’re still together, sharing space, intentionally. These are the kinds of things you’re supposed to talk about with a best friend, but I don’t want to tell her any of it. And I feel guilty for that, but at the same time it is somehow freeing to finally be the one with the secrets. Still, I can’t believe she hasn’t noticed, hasn’t peeked out her window and looked across the lake to see me sitting next to him, hasn’t smelled the residue of desire still on my skin when I visit her.
Work’s picked up, and everyone’s busy again. I’ve been visiting Sadie at the trailer after dinner with Skyler. We play cards or a board game, Sadie and I barely talking while Skyler narrates with her constant monologue, as if she’s been saving up things to say for years. It’s strangely fascinating to listen to her stories of what it’s like being “that Oasis girl,” how she’s picked on at school for her mismatched clothes and vegetarian lunches, how she doesn’t have any friends her own age. She’s out of school for the summer and doesn’t have much to do besides a few chores, so she’s been spending her days with Sadie. When I arrive after dinner, it’s like I’m a guest in their weird little world. I can’t help but feel that I’ve been replaced by this almost-thirteen-year-old, and I think I should feel sad about that. There’s a twisting in my chest that could be sadness. It could be jealousy. Or it could be something else entirely.
I can smell the animals before we get there, a smell like wet dog mixed with shit and sawdust. But there’s something sort of comforting about it, as if it triggers an ancient instinct in my genes, an evolved affinity for domesticated beasts. A big red barn rises up from the fields, a gate open to the gravel road on one side, the remaining three sides spotted with smaller doors, all exposed to the fenced-in acres where the animals live. It’s like Noah’s ark or a giant petting zoo; there are animals everywhere, of all kinds. Cows, sheep, goats, and pigs stand around or wander leisurely, chomping on grass like chewing gum, eyes droopy with relaxation. There’s an occasional baa or moo, but nobody seems like they have too much to say. They don’t seem to notice the chickens pecking obsessively around their hooves; they pay no attention to the ducks quacking orders like little generals; they regard Doff’s spastic dogs as if they’re sugar-high children. All the farm sounds collect into their own little symphony. The sun shines, the white clouds float lazily in the sky, and I feel like I’m in a nursery rhyme.
“Bella,” Doff says to a brown cow with huge udders. “This is Max. Max, this is Bella.”
“Nice to meet you, Bella.” She sniffs me with her big nose, her nostrils twitching.
“She likes you,” Doff says, then laughs his honking laugh. The dogs jump like lunatics.
The barn is cool inside and very quiet. All the animals are outside, so their little pens that line the walls are empty. “They come in here to sleep,” Doff says. “Like clockwork every night. The sheep go in this one.” He points to a pen to the left with a sheep-sized opening to the field. “The goats go in this one. The chicken coop’s around the other side, next to the rabbits.”
“Rabbits?”
“Yep, bunny rabbits. We have to keep the boys and girls separate because, well, you know about rabbits,” he says with a wink.
“And here’s Lulu!” Doff announces as he walks me to the other side of the barn. In another pen is a black goat with a big round belly, backed into a corner and breathing heavily. “Isn’t she beautiful?” Doff says as he opens the fence and slips into the pen with her. She baas gently as he approaches, as if politely asking him for help. He crouches down, leans his head against her belly, and rubs her neck. “What do you think, Lulu?” he says softly. “You got a couple kids in there? Are they ready to come out?” She baas forcefully in response, a definite yes.
“Is she okay?” I say.
“Yeah, she’s fine.” He pulls her away from the wall. “Let’s just see what’s going on back here.” He looks at Lulu’s backside and breaks into a big grin. “Okeydokey,” he says. “Looks like Lulu’s going to be a mama any second now.”
“What’s happening?”
“The girl’s in labor already. It’s your lucky day, Max. Come in here.”
“In there?” It feels off-limits, like I’d be intruding. Like something special’s happening that I don’t deserve to be a part of.
“I’m scared.” The words catch in my throat, so much heavier than they sound, so much bigger than this moment.
He gives me a big warm smile. He thinks I’m only talking about the goats. “You’re going to be great,” he says, and I decide in that moment to believe him.
I enter the pen as Doff turns Lulu around. A wet bubble is protruding from her, like a see-through balloon full of dirty water. I step back. “What is that?”
“That’s the placenta,” Doff says. “Sometimes it likes to start coming out before the kid does. But see that little hoof there? Look a little closer.”
I step forward and peer into the baseball-sized sac like a crystal ball. Sure enough, there’s a tiny hoof in the middle of it, as big as a bottle cap, connected to a leg that is still mostly inside Lulu. A small voice tells me I should be disgusted by this, I should be running as fast as I can back to civilization. But I am surprised to realize there is nowhere I’d rather be but here. I stare at that hoof and a sweet warmth spreads through my body. Lulu cranes her neck around and looks at me. Her eyes are pleading for good news.
“It’s okay, Lulu,” I say, rubbing her rump. “You’re doing great.”
Doff smiles. “Here we go.”
I stand behind Lulu while Doff crouches in front of her, cooing encouragement. I have a feeling she doesn’t really need us here, that she’s perfectly capable of doing this on her own; she’s doing us a favor letting us hang around. I don’t t
ell Doff this. I think it would break his heart. He’s over there beaming like a proud father, like he has something to do with this, like this is his accomplishment too.
“Oh my God,” I say. Lulu pushes and the hoof turns into a leg. She pushes again and now there are two legs. “It’s coming,” I say.
“Good girl!” Doff says. He rubs her belly. She makes horrible noises, almost human noises, and I can tell she’s in pain, but there’s strength in her voice too, power. Doff whispers, “Push,” and she grunts. The tiny legs turn into a body. Lulu pushes and pushes, and the body grows longer. I realize my face is wet with tears. “It’s almost out,” I say.
“Catch it,” Doff says.
“What?” I feel dizzy. I back away, rest my arm on the fence for balance.
“You’re doing great,” Doff says, and I can’t tell if he’s talking to me or the goat. “Just breathe,” he says, and I do.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m ready. I’m here.”
“Catch it,” Doff says. “Open your hands. Hold on to the body. Help her ease it out.”
My fingers wrap around the warm, squirming wetness pulsing with life. Lulu pushes and the baby shudders with her force. I squeeze with the slightest pressure, feel the fragile body in my hands. I pull as gently as I can, and I feel the pressure release as the head slides out. The placenta ruptures in my hands and sends warm, thick fluid gushing around me. But I am not thinking about that, not thinking about the mess, not thinking about something that will have to be cleaned up. I am holding a brand-new life in my hands. It feels like the only thing that exists, like all that matters is in this little squirming bundle, and yet the world seems suddenly so much bigger, my place in it so much more tangible and real.
“Oh, wow,” I think I’m saying. “Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow.” I’m staring at a tiny, perfect face with still-closed eyes, a little mouth opening and closing with its baby voice, a warm just-born body in my arms, all black with a little white circle on the top of its head like a halo.
“Put it down, Max,” Doff says gently. “Let Lulu meet her baby.”
I rest it down as softly as I can, its legs still tangled, and Lulu starts licking it immediately, already a mother, already knowing exactly what to do. “It’s a girl,” Doff says, though I have no idea how he can tell. “Congratulations!”
“Congratulations, Lulu,” I say.
“Do you want to name her?” he says.
“Me?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“Artemis” comes out of my mouth. The goddess of animals. The goddess of birth.
“Well, that’s dramatic,” Doff says, chuckling. “Artemis it is. Welcome to the world, little Artemis.”
Lulu baas again, and Doff goes to her. “Get ready, there’s another one coming.”
“Artemis, you’re going to have a brother or sister,” I say.
“Lulu, you have got to be kidding,” Doff says, then laugh-honks uncontrollably. The dogs bark outside the pen, jumping so high their heads pop up over the side, one and then the other, again and again. “Get it?” Doff says, slapping his knee. “Kidding? Baby goats are called kids. Lulu’s kidding.”
“Oh my God,” I say. “That’s awful.” But I’m laughing too. The dogs keep hopping up and down like a pair of synchronized jack-in-the-boxes. Lulu looks at us like we’re crazy, but we keep laughing through the second birth, as Doff tends to Lulu while I guard Artemis, making sure Lulu doesn’t accidentally step on her. It’s only my first day, and we’re already a good team, Doff and me.
The second one is also a girl, a photo negative of her sister—all white with a black spot on the top of her head. “Look at that,” Doff says. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” He places them next to each other and Lulu gets to work licking them clean.
“They’re perfect,” I whisper.
“The second one needs a name too,” Doff says.
“Penelope,” I say immediately. It is my mother’s name.
The smell of birth is overpowering. This is what life smells like—blood and pain and love.
I help Doff clean up the pen and lay fresh straw. We wash our hands at the spigot outside, then lean on the fence of the pen watching as the babies figure out how to nurse.
“She’s going to be a good mom,” I say.
“I think you’re right.”
I know all I really did was stand there. All I did was catch something that would have found its way to the ground without me. But I can’t help but think this is the most important thing I’ve ever done.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“For letting me be a part of this.”
“You’re very welcome.” He puts his arm around my shoulder and squeezes, and a knot of sadness and yearning tangles around my heart. Doff’s arm is the same weight as I remember my father’s, whose arm I have not felt in a very long time.
“You did a great job,” he says. “You’re a natural.”
“Really?”
“Oh, absolutely. I can tell the animals trust you. You calm them.”
“Thank you,” I say, and this approval feels somehow so much more important than any grade I’ve earned or Latin test I’ve aced. Standing here in this barn, covered in slime and smelling of manure, I feel more alive than I have in a long time. I wonder what would my life look like if it weren’t on paper, if it weren’t contained in the safe world of dusty stories. What if I replaced the old gods and heroes with something more tangible, something with breath I can feel, eyes I can look into, fear I can soothe, pain I can relieve? What if I chose a life that’s a little more bloody and alive?
“Do you have kids?” I ask Doff.
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Never got around to it, I guess.”
“Do you regret it?”
He smiles. “Maybe a little.”
“You would have been a good dad.”
He looks at me, his face a mix of surprise and gratitude. “What a nice thing to say.”
I shrug, suddenly embarrassed for speaking so openly.
“Well, I got these crazy dogs,” Doff says, bending down to hug them close. “They’re like my babies.” They lick his face, their tails wagging like crazy. Artemis and Penelope are sleeping now, nuzzled against their mother. “Why don’t you go take a shower and relax a little before dinner?” Doff says. “You’ve had a big day.”
“Dinner,” I say. “What happened to lunch?”
“We worked through lunch,” he says. “It’s been about three hours since the bell rang. You didn’t hear it?”
“Holy crap.”
“Time flies when you’re pulling kids out of a goat’s ass,” Doff laughs, and the dogs laugh with him. I feel like I’m floating as I walk back to the house.
Despite the concrete floor and mildewy walls, that shower is one of the best showers of my life. Sweat and dirt and the remnants of Lulu are washed away, and I feel so much cleaner than I do after my usual dips in the lake. Someone else enters the stall next to me, but I think nothing of it. I’ve gotten used to these close quarters, used to moms whipping out breasts at the dinner table to feed their babies, used to seeing middle-aged folks swimming naked. But as I’m collecting my stuff to leave, I am definitely not prepared to see Dylan emerge from the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist, dark hairs wet against his skin on his chest and trailing down under his towel. The air gets sucked out of my lungs. The room is suddenly tiny. I can feel the heat coming from his body. There are only a few inches of air between our skin.
“Oh, hey,” he says.
“Hey.” I cannot look him in the eye.
He is facing me. I could reach out and touch his chest. I could pull away his towel, leave him standing there naked. I can hear myself breathing. I am practically panting. I am an animal in heat.
“Uh,” I mumble. “I gotta go.” I grab my stuff quickly. I have to get out of here. I have to leave before I attack him.
“Bye,” I he
ar him say behind me, and I swear there’s a smile in his voice.
Ἄρτεμις
ARTEMIS
Some call her style justice; others call it revenge. But language of course is only a tool, impartial to our whims—semantics know no morality. Everyone is one or the other: object or subject, masculine or feminine. This is the business of words.
Regardless, she was made of gold.
Upon birth, she was already a midwife. Her tools: an elk horn, a boar’s tusk, the whispered song of arrow feathers. She was born owning the moon.
She will find you in the forest. She will teach young girls to run barefoot over pine needles, how to hunt with bow and arrow, how to shake the mountains, how to talk to beasts. She does not know how to lie.
Of the gods’ many paradoxes, this is the one consistency: There is always a catch to freedom. Her rules are specific: Love a man and you are dead to her.
Bring your dolls, your toys, your childish things, and leave them at her altar. Give back your weapons and map of the woods.
Then walk away in shame at being tamed.
As lonely as I’ve been, I don’t feel like being around anyone tonight. Is this what turns people into shut-ins? Realizing that everyone they know just disappoints them?
When you experience something amazing, aren’t you supposed to want to share it with someone? Is that what normal people do? I did experience something amazing today, but I don’t want to share it with anybody. I don’t want to give it away. I want it to be mine, just mine. This is such a different feeling than I’ve ever had. I always felt a compulsion to tell Sadie everything, as if I needed her witness to make it real.
I run up to the house and get in the dinner line. I try not to make eye contact with anyone, try not to invite conversation. Maybe if I keep my head down, I can stay invisible. This is something I’ve always been good at. But as soon as I get my plate, Skyler appears by my side. I am instantly anxious.
“Sadie’s got strep throat, you know,” she lays right in.
“What?”
“You were gone,” she says smugly. “Her temperature was a hundred and three, and she couldn’t swallow. I went with her and Lark to the clinic.”