On Brassard''s Farm

I knew that Lynn named every one of her goats, even the new kids. I tried to picture her—her fine white-blond hair, delicate intelligent face, gentle presence—conducting that murderous ritual every year. And I couldn’t. I decided I had to ask her how she did this.

  Will watched me process this. “I’m not doing a great job of making this easier, am I?”

  “It isn’t your job,” I told him.

  He got quiet. We waited for the buyer. I reminded myself that Brassard’s cows had lived very comfortable lives, about the best possible for a dairy cow: They’d never gone hungry or been subjected to pain or lived in filthy or cramped conditions. They had enjoyed many sunny days on grassy slopes, had received veterinary care at the slightest sign of ill health. They ate a better diet than they would have in the wild and they didn’t endure harsh cold. I reminded myself that in the wild, hunger or predation or disease would have killed these cows at a much younger age.

  It didn’t help much.

  “Maybe I’m not cut out for this line of work,” I told Will.

  He grunted. “Tell me about it.”

  Eventually, a huge pickup truck turned off the road, pulling a cattle trailer with slatted vent windows. I realized I had seen that truck often over the past two years, sometimes coming to Brassard’s, sometimes rolling past to another farm on the meat dealer’s route. The cows got anxious when the rig backed toward the paddock, and they wheeled and flinched at the harsh metallic scrape made by the aluminum ramp when the men pulled it out.

  That was the hardest part: seeing their confusion and fear as the crew goaded them into the trailer. I didn’t let myself think of Bertha or Savannah by name as I said goodbye to them.

  Then it was done and the tailgate closed and the cows were no longer visible except as abstract black and white forms moving uneasily behind the ventilation slats. Will took a receipt from one of the men. The trailer pulled away and up the hill. We walked back to the house.

  Brassard was in his office, pecking at a calculator, reading glasses on his nose, somber but businesslike. Culling was part of his job and he’d done it hundreds of times, and he was glad to have this round done.

  He glanced up at my face, which must have been drawn and grim. “I know what you mean,” he said as if I’d spoken. “Damn thing is, the culls are often the ones been around the longest, so you know em better. Not my favorite part of the job. Don’t know I could ever raise beef.”

  He turned to Will: “How’s about we get a fresh pot of coffee goin? I’m thinkin Annie could use some refreshment.”

  Chapter 50

  May 18

  Deep in the woods today, I experienced a moment of heart-kicking fright, an electrical sense of alarm that I haven’t felt since that first day I walked my land, when some big animal startled and crashed through the brush near me. I think it was worse this time because it brought me abruptly out of a serene and contemplative state of mind.

  I’ve been trying to rehabilitate myself after the murky discomfort the culling instilled in me. I know there’s nothing I can do about the world’s appetite for cow’s meat or milk, but of course that doesn’t mean I can’t make choices for myself. Walking up here after giving death sentences to seven cows, I knew I could elect to become vegan: eat no milk, cheese, or meat, wear no leather.

  What does it say that my first act upon returning to my hill that night was to make a dinner consisting of a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches, sizzled in butter in my iron skillet?

  One way I’ve been trying to steady out and recharge has been to spend more time up here alone. As always, it’s working. Also, I’ve embarked on a project. Maybe it’s a half-assed way to retreat from my animal-kingdom consternations by concerning myself instead with the world of plants, but a few days ago, after a conversation with Earnest, I realized that I know nothing about my woods.

  I know my trees emotionally, I suppose. I live among them; they really are the walls and the roof of my “house.” I even sort of say hello to a few that have distinguished themselves by their unusual shape or particular beauty. But when Earnest rattles off tree names, I have no idea what he’s talking about. For him, “beech” and “chestnut” and “box elder” are real and distinct entities, each with its own lifestyle, each with particular leaves, blossoms, and fruits, each providing homes or food for certain animals. Each offers specific challenges to climbing, trimming, or felling, and he can see them in his mind’s eye when he tells me about his workday. I finally got sick of pretending that I knew a cottonwood from a telephone pole, so I decided I should get a better idea of what he’s talking about.

  And, of course, he had long since anticipated my need to know my surroundings, by giving me that beautiful little guide to Vermont’s trees and forest plants. At one point, he asked me, “So, have you read my autobiography yet?” In retrospect, I see that the book was an invitation to his world—a personal gesture than I didn’t fully appreciate at the time.

  It’s filled with photos of leaves, trunks, blossoms, berries, and nuts, along with drawings of their profiles and diagrams of their way of branching, which varies greatly. When I’ve had spare time, I’ve taken to walking around with book in hand, inspecting trees and low growth. I can’t believe I wasn’t paying closer attention all along.

  Thus far: Beech trees are the ones with that smooth gray bark. I think of their trunks as the legs of elephants, but lighter gray and without the wrinkles. They have a miraculous way of branching: horizontal limbs, uniformly spaced, their spiky-edge leaves held in spacious flat layers, creating a superbly organized “leaf mosaic.” If you lie down with your head at the trunk and stare upward into the green, you can see how neatly the leaves arrange themselves to gather the light that slants through the layers above. Turns out it’s the beech that makes the little shells I find all over, about the size of marbles, split and covered with spikes. The squirrels and birds eat the nuts, of course, but so do bears! In fact, the book shows—and I’ve been finding—smooth gray bark puckered by four-pointed claw marks made by bears climbing to get at the nuts.

  The ash has rougher, spongier bark seamed with vertical grooves, a handsome sartorial choice that reminds me of tweed. They grow tall in this sunlight-competitive environment, but their foliage strikes me as insufficient for such big trees. They have compound leaves, meaning that several little boat-shaped leaves spring from a single stem, and when fall comes the whole cluster detaches at the base. Earnest says it’s these ash leaf clusters I’ve seen sometimes gliding through the woods like paper airplanes. Will says ash makes great firewood and that rocking-chair rockers are usually made of it because it’s so strong yet so flexible.

  Black cherry trees do make hard little berries, but not the “cherries” we put on top of ice-cream sundaes. Their trunks have almost-black bark in loose scales or flakes and are wigglier than the upright columns of ashes. Will, my advisor on the qualities of firewood, says cherry is responsible for that sweet smell that sometimes fills the farmyard when Brassard’s woodstove is going, something like the scent of his pipe tobacco.

  Oaks: There are very few here, so I’m especially glad to come across one. “Strong as an oak”—they deserve their association with all things sturdy and durable. And yet, they have a bohemian side, these staid trees. They branch in an improvisatory way—free-form, rebellious dance gestures. When the cold season arrives, the leaves turn a heavily lacquered purple-brown and make a brittle rustle, almost a clatter, in the wind. They’re the most generous of trees, and the animals flock to the mat of acorns they shed.

  The white birches I recognize because Pop taught Erik and me how to use strips of their turpentine-scented papery bark to start campfires. They tend to grow in groves that stand out bright against the darker woods all around, seeming sunlit even on dreary days. In twilight, they can look like lightning bolts rising up from the ground rather than descending from above.

  And, of course, I know maple
s, the most numerous trees on my land, with their hand-shaped, comely leaves and the showers of helicoptering spinners they send down. What I didn’t know is that these seeds are called “whirligigs,” the perfect name. Will says I have a good stand and should consider making syrup.

  It’s a calming sort of “hobby,” learning one’s trees. I’m doing well with my deciduous trees, but next I need to get to know the evergreens. So far—not a point of pride—all I know is that they’re evergreen and we use them for Christmas trees.

  I was happily absorbed in this exploration, far to the northwest corner of my land, when an explosion of crashing and crackling made me jump. It was close by, and that shocking primal fear hit me all at once and full blown, my pulse slamming in my neck, hands tingling. Something big thumped and careened violently among the low-hanging branches. Then I glimpsed a man between the tree trunks, hurtling away, disappearing in some low growth.

  “Who are you!?” I yelled. I imagined one of the Goslants, come to poach again or sneaking up on me for who knew what purpose. “Stop! I mean it! Stop right now!”

  The adrenaline of fear mingled with anger from the memory of those deer guts, and without thinking I ran after him, shouting, “I’ve got a gun! Stop right now!”

  He burst from the thicket and began running pell-mell downhill. Then he tripped, landed hard, and tumbled messily for ten feet. He came upright again, holding on to a tree trunk, looking back at me in terror: a short, thickset man in jeans and a ragged T-shirt. He froze as I ran toward him.

  “Who are you?” I demanded. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Ricky!” he said. “I won’t be bad!”

  The pitch of his voice and open innocence of his face surprised me, and my first thought was that he was just a child of perhaps twelve. Then, as I got closer, I recognized his body shape and the wide, blunt features of his face: He was a young man with Down syndrome, probably closer to twenty.

  “Don’t shoot me, okay?” His chest was heaving. “I won’t be bad!”

  The sight of him broke my heart. His arms and face were badly scratched where branches had torn him, and his warding, supplicating hands were bleeding and dirt-smeared, probably from the fall he just took.

  “Ricky,” I panted. “Your name is Ricky?”

  “Yeah. I’m a really good guy!” He pronounced it without a d, “goo’guy.”

  “Ricky, don’t be afraid of me.”

  “Okay. Won’t be afraid,” he said, terrified.

  “Where do you live?”

  The corners of his mouth twitched down. “Got lost.”

  “If you tell me where you live, I’ll take you home. Can you point in the direction you came from?”

  He looked around, then back at me, shaking his head, disappointed in himself. “Got lost.”

  I wanted to touch him, reassure him, but was afraid he’d spook and run again. “Why don’t you come with me? You’re all scratched up. I’ll take care of your scratches and then we’ll figure out where you live. Okay?”

  I turned, beckoned him to follow, but he didn’t move.

  “I don’t really have a gun,” I said. I tucked the tree guide into my belt and held my hands out to each side. “I was just scared when I first saw you, that’s why I said it.” My pulse was only now slowing.

  “Okay,” he said.

  We began picking our way up the slope. After another minute, he said, “Live with Grampa and Gramma now.”

  “That’s good! We’ll get you back to them so they don’t worry about you. What are their names?”

  “Grampa Homer is my grampa. He’s a really good guy.”

  Homer, the patriarch of the Goslants—Ricky was his grandson, or some descendant at any rate, and now in my care.

  “I know where Grampa Homer is,” I told him. “Let’s get you back there, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I have always loved the look of people with Down syndrome. It is as if they’re a tribe or family of their own, living throughout the world, sibling-similar despite variations in the color of skin or hair or eyes. There’s something sturdy and trustworthy about them, these short, stalwart people, and those I’ve known have all been cheerful and touchingly appreciative of any chance to socialize. Their faces remain astonishingly unmarked by age, so I often assume they are younger—a family of perpetually youthful and innocent people. At the legal aid center, I got to know two teenagers with the syndrome: one unable to speak and needing accompaniment wherever she went, but physically affectionate; the other talkative, gregarious, and able to get around town on his own. Clearly, Ricky was more like the latter.

  He didn’t have anything to say as we walked, so I filled in the silence. “I was out here learning the names of the trees.”

  “Names of trees,” he said, bobbing his head.

  “Do you know tree names?”

  “Too many.” Shaking his head.

  As we headed to my campsite, I introduced him to each type of tree and showed him the pictures in the manual; he was hugely pleased to see a photo of the bark or a leaf, and then, right next to the photo, the real thing. His face settled into a companionable smile, and he said the names after me: “Black pine. Yellow birch.”

  At the edge of a more open spot, we came to a stand of young poplars—they’re the ones with the roundish leaves, pale green on top and silvery underneath. They are peculiar in that the leaves flutter in even the mildest breeze, and where most trees receive the wind in synchronous waves, each leaf of the poplar oscillates in its own rhythm. “These are poplars,” I told him.

  He looked at them for a moment and then beamed. “Butterfly trees!”

  And he was right: It was as if each tree were entirely covered with green butterflies, flapping their wings at different tempos. Since then, I have never thought of the poplar in any other way.

  Back at camp, I warmed some water on my Coleman stove and washed his scratched arms. He winced at the sting, but he was relieved to discover that the wounds were not as big as they had looked when they were crusted with blood. I took extra care in sponging the scratches and bruises on his face, and when I was done I rubbed anti-itch cream on the fly bites on his neck and temples. He gratefully accepted a drink of cold water and a couple of fig bars, and by the time we started down to the farm we were good friends.

  “How’d you get so lost?” I asked him. “You were a long way from Grampa’s house!” He’d been at least a mile away from the Goslants’ place, through rough country.

  “Just got lost,” he mumbled, his face closing up.

  “Were you … looking for something?”

  He didn’t answer, but his expression showed that my questions upset him.

  “Were you going somewhere?”

  “Johnnie got mad,” he said.

  “What do you mean he got mad?”

  “Said I wasn’t a good guy, I was stupid, I should go away. He hit me. Then I got lost.” He brushed his cheek with one hand, and I realized that the bruises there were not from stumbles in the woods.

  I didn’t respond, but this was another notch in the tally stick. I was increasingly beginning to dislike Johnnie.

  Will’s car was just turning out of the driveway as we came to the end of my access track and onto the road, and when he saw us he stopped. He looked quizzically at me and dubiously at Ricky.

  “This is Ricky,” I told him. “He got lost and needs to get back to his grampa’s house. Want to give us a lift?”

  Will checked his watch. “Goslants, I take it.”

  “Goslants!” Ricky confirmed, brightening.

  Though clearly not pleased with the duty, Will agreed to drive us, and we went around the car. I had planned to get in the front seat next to Will, but when I opened the rear door for Ricky, he looked frightened again. I got the sense that Will made him uncomfortable. “You sit in the back
seat too,” he said. He stayed hunched in the door frame, looking up at me, until I joined him. Will’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.

  “My name is Ann,” I told Ricky as we drove up the hill. “I forgot to tell you.”

  “Hi, Ann,” he said politely. He offered his hand, and we shook.

  “And this is my friend Will.”

  “Hi, Will.” Less certainly.

  Will smiled vaguely and dipped his head hello.

  “You kind of look like Johnnie,” Ricky said.

  “Nope. Not Johnnie,” Will said.

  The drive to the Goslants’ place took only a few minutes, but I could feel Ricky’s anxiety rise as we got closer. His blunt head turned uneasily as he took in the landscape. His lips worked; he reached for my hand tentatively, but when I took it his stubby fingers clenched mine hard. This young man was suspended in an agonizing state of relief that he’d soon be on familiar turf, and fear of what would happen there.

  As we drove, I began to wonder about that myself—how I’d deal with Johnnie, how far a confrontation might go. My shoulders tightened and I became uncertain of my self-control.

  We got to the Goslants’ just as a beige pickup swung into the drive. It had a State of Vermont Highway Department logo on the door, and when we came alongside, I could see that the driver was a man in his sixties, gray haired, wearing a checked shirt and horn-rimmed glasses. He looked over at us with concern and suspicion. My first impression: a face conveying great resignation, as if this man had witnessed and endured many hard things and did not expect any end to seeing and enduring them. When he spotted Ricky sitting beside me, his eyes closed and his head dipped forward in weary relief.

  I knew this had to be Homer, the Goslants’ patriarch and the solid foundation of their world. He got out of his truck, and when I got out—Will stayed at the wheel—Ricky ran to him and hugged him hard.

  “I got lost,” he apologized to Homer’s shirt.

  Homer held Ricky’s head against his chest and looked over at me. “I was just out lookin for him. Where’d you find him? Where did you go, Ricky?”