Something sharp poked into the bottom of her foot and Trina swore softly, not wanting to offend the old lady in the kitchen.
She kicked at the culprit, a chunk of dried mud.
The mud room definitely lived up to its name.
There were more than a dozen pairs of boots and shoes in various sizes, all muddy to one degree or another. The hooks on the wall held enough flannels, zippered hoodies and canvas farm coats to stock a small thrift store.
Trina chose a purple sweatshirt because it wasn’t black or navy or tan like everything else in here. She pulled a black canvas coat over the sweatshirt, stepped her size eight feet into size ten rubber boots, and opened the back door. She was greeted by fifteen degrees of hell hath frozen over.
Morning light sparkled off the icicles dangling from the gutters. Snow covered the hills in every direction. This place was six hours south of Denver by car. It was cold in the city too, but days like this were meant for staying indoors.
Or, if she had to go out, being in the car with the heat on full blast, wearing her calf length lavender down coat. She loved that coat. She missed that coat.
It was a gift from Don. He enjoyed giving her pretty clothes and expensive jewelry and he had good taste. It was one of his better qualities.
What would he think if he could see her now? Bundled up in bulky, ugly clothes that had been worn by God only knew how many other unlucky women, hiding in this dilapidated old farmhouse, trudging through four inches of fresh snow on her way to a goat pen.
A goat pen.
She, a city girl through and through. Trina dreamt of penthouses not henhouses and certainly not goat pens.
If she’d known that one desperate phone call would land her here would she still have made it? At this moment, before coffee and breakfast, with the wind already numbing her face she could not honestly say yes.
Not that anyone was asking.
Her own friends had gone to the wayside one by one since she’d moved in with Don and her disapproving family left it up to her to call them these days. The friends she shared with Don would believe whatever he told them. He could be very persuasive.
Never in her life had she felt so alone.
The people here said they could help her, and she did appreciate it, but it’s not like they weren’t asking anything in return. Chores are required, they said. Trina had expected a bit of light house work, not this.
She pulled open the gate and entered the pen, hungry goats bleating at her and swarming her legs. So many goats. Black ones, brown ones, white ones, with horns and without. Some big and some small, but no babies—kids as she now knew they were called—were in the next pen with the mama’s.
The ones surrounding her were all begging for food.
“Yeah, I get it, you’re hungry. So am I.”
Michelle had shown Trina where the food was the day before. A big woman with brown skin, somewhere in her forties, Michelle is the one who had picked Trina up at the mini mart at three a.m. and brought her here. Trina’s car, a gift from Don, had his name on the title, not hers. He wouldn’t have reported it stolen because cops were the last people he’d want to deal with, but even if she’d been in any condition to drive herself, Trina wouldn’t have dared take the Mustang. It would have given him one more reason to track her down.
She scooped oats out of the bin, hearing Michelle’s explanation.
“They get hay and extra oats to fatten them up.”
“Why fatten them?” Trina asked.
“They’re meat goats.”
Trina shuddered.
Michelle laughed.
“I didn’t know people eat goats.”
“People will eat anything if they’re hungry enough. Goat’s not bad, but it is a bit gamey, like venison.”
“Gross. No venison or goat for me.”
“I hate to tell you this,” Michelle smiled in a way that indicated the opposite, “but Bette’s breakfast sausage is made of goat meat.”
No wonder she’d felt queasy after breakfast yesterday. Feeling tricked, Trina had made a mental vow to avoid meat while she was here.
As she filled the troughs with hay and added the oats, Trina thought again about the lavender coat hanging in her closet. How long until Don got rid of her clothes? Would he let Brit go through her stuff and take what she wanted? A friend of Don’s sister, Brit spent a lot of time at the house and made no secret of coveting everything that belonged to Trina. Including Don.
Trina still had a house key in her purse. She’d go in while Don was at work. She’d clean the place, as it would certainly be a mess, and then she’d order take out–chinese food was his favorite. Dinner would be waiting when he got home. She’d slip right back into her old life as if she’d never left.
Sober, Don would be happy to see her. He’d apologize for losing his temper, and promise that things would be different this time. These were all things he’d said before, but one thing was already different this time—she’d never left before. Now that he knew she had the guts to leave him, he’d realize that it was him who had to change. He’d have to treat her better if he wanted her to stay.
Trina made her way into the birthing pen.
The mama goat and her new kid looked cozy enough, settled in a bed of straw. Wilma F. is what Michelle said her name was. The old lady named her after Wilma Flinstone due to the tuft of red hair that stuck up on her head.
Trina knelt next to the goat and stroked the tuft, smoothing it down. A memory came to her. A conversation between her mother and grandmother about The Flintstones, a prehistoric cartoon family. Her grandma defended the show saying that Fred was flawed, but basically a good person, while Trina’s mother insisted that Fred was a typical bad-tempered, man-boy and Wilma F. could do better.
Trina gave the baby a gentle pet and spoke soothingly to Wilma F.
“It must be nice, not having to deal with the billygoat who knocked you up. You get to rest in peace with your baby.”
Rest in peace.
Maybe not the best choice of words.
Trina pushed her tongue into the space where one of her front teeth used to be. Don owed it to her to fix this. She’d make it a condition of her coming home.
Thoughts far away, Trina headed for the chicken coop.
The smell of sausage hit her the moment she stepped into the kitchen. She brought her hand to her mouth and looked around for a place to vomit. Fortunately it was a false alarm, only a dry heave.
The kitchen has deep double sinks, and no dishwasher. Cast iron pots hang on nails on the wall, down low so Bette can reach them. A tiny white-haired woman in her seventies, Bette, wearing baggy jeans and an old wool sweater with a hole in it, stands at the stove stirring oats. “How’s Wilma this morning?”
“She seemed fine to me.” But what do I know about goats? Or being a new mom?
“This will be her last kid. She’s getting old.”
“What’s considered old in goat years?” Trina asked to be polite, not because she cared.
“She’s ten now and she’ll probably live another five to eight years.”
“How many babies–kids–has she had?”
“This is number ten.”
“One a year. Sounds like hell to me.”
“She had twins twice.”
“Even worse.” Trina’s hand went to her belly.
Bette noticed. “Feeling okay?”
“Yeah, I’m all right. It’s just that the smell of the sausage is getting to me.”
Bette nodded. “The oatmeal might sit better. It’s ready if you want to serve yourself.”
Trina remembered what Michelle said about using oats to fatten up the goats. Don always noticed when she gained weight, even a couple pounds. There was no way to stop it now so she might as well enjoy the oatmeal. She filled her bowl, added raisins, almonds, cinnamon and honey and sat down at the old battered wooden table.
It looked more like an outdoor table than an indoor one and was long enough to seat six with a bench against the wall. There were messages carved into the table. Right next to her bowl were the words: Thanks Bette, you’re an angel, A.G.
Bette sat across from her. She looked child-sized, but her face was far from youthful. Deep horizontal fault lines stretched from her eyes to her jaw. Her coloring was a permanent brown, the kind you get from living your life too close to the sun. Her eyes were a bright sparkly blue, her short hair as white as a piece of paper.
“I got you an appointment with a dentist to have a bridge put in.”
“A bridge, not implants?”
“I haven’t found a surgeon willing to do implants for free. They’re too expensive.”
Trina flushed, embarrassed to have sounded ungrateful. She was a charity case after all. But a bridge meant having two good teeth whittled down to stubs to support the fake tooth. Implants were more like real teeth. Don could afford implants. If she asked in exactly the right way, and if she took on some of the blame—admitted she shouldn’t have said what she said, especially not when he’d been drinking—would he offer to pay?
If she came back, he’d want her to be pretty again.
“I have a lead on a receptionist job in Albuquerque. It doesn’t pay much but it’s a start.”
Trina thought again of her full closet. “I’ll have to go back and get my clothes.”
Bette frowned, causing the lines that flared out from the sides of her eyes to deepen. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“If I go when he’s at work it’ll be fine.”
“You said before that he comes home at random times during the day.”
“I can’t just leave everything behind.”
“I’d suggest you have a police officer go with you, but you’ve said that isn’t an option.”
“It’s not.” If the cops showed up at his door, if they searched the place, Don would make good on his threat to accuse her of theft. The coats and jewelry were only the tip of the iceberg. Now that she knew the truth of where the gifts—and all his extra income—came from, she wouldn’t be able to lie convincingly.
Who would believe you? Brit will back my story, not yours, you know that right? She did know it. She knew too much now, that was the problem. If only she’d handled it better when she found out, and not threatened to report him. If, instead of yelling and making him feel bad—men had such fragile egos—she’d assured him that she was content with what he earned working construction. She didn’t need fancy stuff. He was enough. Together, they had everything they needed to live a good life, start a family together. If she’d stayed calm he may have listened to her and she wouldn’t have had to leave.
“I know a place that gives out vouchers for a couple of outfits. Not new, but gently used, good for job interviews and work.”
Trina nodded, barely aware that she’d stopped eating and was absently tracing the letters carved into the wood with her index finger.
“She’s dead,” Bette said.
“Who?”
“Alana Gavin. A.G.”
Trina pulled her hand away from the letters as if dying were a virus she might catch. “How?”
“A single bullet in the forehead.”
Trina shuddered. “Her man found her?”
“He didn’t have to look for her. She went back on her own.”
“Why?”
“She wanted to give him one more chance for the sake of the kids. They had two boys, seven and nine. They missed their father.”
“I see.”
“So did they. He made them watch.”
“Jesus. Why are you telling me this?”
But she knew. Of course she did. The answer was in Bette’s blue eyes—eyes so intense that it hurt to look into them. Trina lowered her gaze, stared into her oatmeal.
After a moment Trina brought a spoonful to her mouth. It had gone cold, and was getting gluey. An almond got stuck in the raw spot where her tooth used to be. She pushed it out with her tongue, flinching at the pain. The wound needed a bit more time to heal.
The nausea came roaring back. This time it wasn’t a false alarm. She looked around, frantic.
A trash can appeared in front of her.
When Trina was finished, Bette pulled the string on the white trash sack, lifted it out of the container and carried it outside.
Trina pushed the oatmeal bowl aside.
Bette came back inside. She opened the cupboard under the sink, retrieved a fresh trash sack, and inserted it in the container.
She washed her hands.
“You mentioned a clinic,” Trina said, one hand on her abdomen.
Bette sat back down at the table. “We can make you an appointment if that’s what you want.”
It wasn’t. Not really.
None of this is what she wanted.
Bette’s wrinkled, brown-spotted hand came to rest on Trina’s smooth, unblemished one. “Whatever you decide, know that you’re not alone.”
It wasn’t true.
Trina knew that she was alone in the same way that everyone is alone, trapped within their one and only body and living their one and only life, for good or for bad.
And yet, at this moment she felt less alone than she had in a long time, and that meant something.
End