Agatha Arch is Afraid of Everything

by Kristin Bair

  * * *

  Despite all her efforts to do otherwise, Agatha accepts Melody Whelan’s invitation to her yoga class.

  “I must be possessed,” she tells Shrinky-Dink.

  When Melody texts a reminder, Agatha texts back: “Where & when?”

  Of course, she once again covers her ass in case of foul play by leaving a note on her kitchen table that says “I’m going to a yoga class with Melody Whelan at Bright Yoga Center. The class is at 9:00. If I’m not home by 11:00, please begin a search. She is likely singing ‘Kumbaya’ to me in her basement while feeding me crackers of kindness.” It’s the kind of note you post before setting off on a hike in the wilderness. If a mountain lion devours you, the search party needs to know where to look for your remains.

  The fact that there is no one in Agatha’s house to read the note doesn’t stop her. Eventually, the boys will get worried and insist Dax call the police. Eventually, Officer Henry and his cohorts will break down her door.

  She even tells the Tush where she’s going. He shows no interest despite her carefully chosen low-cut leotard, but she shakes her stuff at him anyway. “Coulda had this,” her butt hollers as she waggles her cantaloupes back and forth all the way down the driveway to her car.

  When she arrives, Melody is stretching on her mat, which is positioned in the front row of the room. Agatha smirks, or maybe winces, sneaks in, and starts to unpack her brand-new mat in the very, very, very, very, very back corner behind the two women who clearly had chosen the very, very, very, very back spots in order to hide, but Melody catches sight of her, jumps up and down, waves, and calls, “Agatha! Agatha! Up here! I saved you a spot.” Clearly the woman doesn’t hold a grudge. It is as if the entire “nasty note to the Interloper” incident hadn’t even occurred. Agatha is not used to forgiveness, especially offered up so quickly and easily.

  The empty spot Melody saved is directly in front of the instructor, Paula O’Ryan, also a Wallingford Mom, one to whom Agatha has given a hard time for a variety of infractions. Paula, as lean and taut as a pole vaulter’s pole, smiles when she sees Agatha.

  Agatha’s thigh muscles groan. Karma is tough.

  She trudges to the spot Melody has saved. When she unrolls her mat, a poisonous stench rises up and threatens to suffocate everyone in the room. It reeks like a tire factory on fire.

  Paula winces and inches toward her. “Agatha, where did you buy this mat?” She coughs and wipes her watering eyes.

  “Dollar store.”

  “I suggest investing in a better mat before your next class,” Paula says, but she smiles even through the stink. “You don’t want to knock out your yoga mates, do you?”

  Um.

  She picks up Agatha’s mat with two fingers and totes it to the door. “I’ll put this out back,” she says. “I have an extra you can use today.”

  The whole class is staring, and although Agatha is sure many want to snicker or make a snide comment, it is a yoga class so most are trying to smile warmly. Peace, love, blah, blah, blah.

  Agatha turns to the class, brings her hands together in prayer, and bows. “Namaste,” she says. As she tries to match IRL faces with tiny profile pics on Facebook, she begins humming “The 12 Days of the Wallingford Moms.”

  Melody says, “Agatha …”

  Agatha smiles and is about to burst into song, but Paula starts the class with Sun Salutations. Within minutes, Agatha is too winded to sing, hum, or even think a snide word. Obviously this has been Melody’s plan from the start. Shrewd, shrewd woman. Agatha’s Sun Salutations start off fairly strong, but pretty quickly begin to look like she is doing a piss-poor job of miming “The Itsy Bitsy Spider.” They move through Balancing Straddle, Standing Hand to the Big Toe, Firefly, and a few others. During Standing Hand to the Big Toe, Agatha tries her best to lift one straight leg into the air so it’s up near her noggin, while holding tightly to her big toe. On her seventh attempt, she flies like a bowling pin hit by a strike and knocks Melody and another woman so hard they both fall over too.

  Balancing Straddle goes no better. Agatha rolls out of this pose so many times she gets dizzy and nauseated. Motion sickness in yoga class. Who knew? Not once does she manage to hold it for more than a millisecond.

  Still, no one yells at her. Paula smiles serenely, moves to her side, closes her eyes, and rests a hand on Agatha’s hip to steady her. When she manages to hold the pose for five full seconds, Agatha feels like an Olympic gold medalist. Like Rocky running up those steps.

  But the final pose before Corpse almost does her in. It’s Firefly, the one where you put your hands flat on floor, stick your legs straight out in front of you off the ground, and lift your body (including feet). This takes some intense arm strength. Agatha tries a few times, but ends up settling for her version of the pose: Shaky Potato Bug. Basically, her curled in a ball on the not-smelly borrowed mat with all limbs shaking uncontrollably. She is damn good at this one.

  As they move into Corpse pose, Paula says, “Drink water,” as Agatha’s shaking limbs begin to create earthquake-like tremors in the room. “Lots of water. And breathe.”

  Surprisingly, Melody is really, really good at yoga. Agatha knows she’s not supposed to judge people’s yogic ability—namaste and all—but damn, she is strong and graceful. She gets into and holds each and every pose Paula throws at them … without shaking. Agatha is shocked.

  “Hey, Melody,” she shout-whispers from Corpse pose, “how long have you been doing yoga?”

  “Sshhh.”

  “Come on, how long?”

  “Ten years. Now shush.”

  Agatha whistles. “It shows,” she says.

  Melody leans up on an elbow, looks at her, and smiles. “Thank you,” she says in this super silky sincere tone that says, “I win, I win. You gave me a compliment.”

  “Oh, just be a corpse,” Agatha says, closing her eyes and willing her limbs into stillness. She has no idea how long it is going to take to calm down her body. “By the way,” she shout-whispers, “this was damn hard for a beginner’s yoga class.”

  “Oh, this is not a beginner’s class,” Paula interjects, bending her body into some contortion Agatha can’t even imagine. “This is an advanced class. My beginner class starts in an hour.”

  Agatha drags herself to all fours. It may be the hardest thing she’s ever done. Then she dog-paddles through her pond of sweat toward Melody’s mat and slaps her leg. “You said this was a beginner’s class!”

  Melody doesn’t move or open her eyes. Such a good corpse. “Agatha Arch, I said no such thing,” she whispers. “You simply assumed I was taking you to a beginner’s class.”

  Agatha slaps her again and worm-crawls back to her now-cooling pond of sweat. “Damn you, Melody Whelan.”

  * * *

  On the way home, Agatha stops at the birding store.

  “May I help you?”

  “I must get rid of a woodpecker,” she tells the clerk. Three men in peculiar-looking outfits pivot on their heels and lock her into their gaze.

  “Shhhh,” the clerk says. “Those buzzards will eat you alive for even discussing a sin like that. Don’t you know where you are?” He jabs a finger at the sign above the door: Bird Love.

  Agatha leans forward and whispers, “I must get rid of a woodpecker. He’s pecking holes in my house. He’s pecking holes in my sanity.”

  The clerk nods. “You are not the first. Come back at 5:05, just after closing, to the back door.”

  “After closing? Are you serious?” Agatha says loudly.

  “Sshhh! Of course I’m serious.”

  The man with the beak nose juts his head out like a turkey and makes a noise.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Practicing.”

  “Practicing what?”

  “Gobbling.”

  Agatha laughs.

  The clerk taps her arm. “Don’t laugh. There is no laughing in a birding store. This is serious business.”

  As if on cue, the s
un breaks from behind a cloud and a sharp ray cuts through the door, lighting up the display of expensive binoculars. A silver scope gleams in the sunlight, the price tag reads in the thousands. The thousands! Holy crap, this is serious business.

  The warble deepens, then crescendos.

  Agatha’s eyes get wide.

  “That’s the mating call,” the clerk says.

  Agatha feels something deep in her stir. “It sure is,” she says.

  The stout birder wobbles to the other side of the store and cracks open a wilder call. Who knew a man of such girth could offer up such a sound.

  “The mating response?” Agatha says.

  “Indeed.”

  Agatha thinks about Abby Smith and the turkey that was squashed on the street near the hardware store. Abby should have come to Bird Love.

  “Five o’clock?” Agatha says.

  “Five after five,” the clerk says. “No earlier. We have to be sure all is clear. Back door.” He makes a chirpy noise.

  Agatha raises her eyebrows.

  “Nuthatch. My favorite.”

  The door opens. A singsong erupts. A sharp-beaked woman carrying three long-nosed scopes shuffles in. She lays them on the counter. “I need something stronger.”

  The clerk looks at Agatha. “Bring cash.”

  * * *

  Tap tap tippity-tap.

  * * *

  Next step, electric fence. The goat experts are in the yard-cum-meadow even before Agatha has finished her first cup of coffee. They have a third goat person with them. “Intern,” the goat lady explains when Agatha asks. “His name is Anthony. He’ll be shadowing Fred.”

  “You can intern to be a goat person?” Agatha asks.

  “Of course. This is a growing industry. We need young people to learn the trade so they can grow into the profession.”

  Agatha nods.

  Putting up the fence takes longer than Agatha expects. Fred and Anthony drive posts into the ground every eight feet or so, then unspool an electric wire. They stretch three rows of wire between each set of posts.

  “You don’t realize how big a half acre is until you’re putting up fence for goats,” Fred says. Anthony listens attentively.

  “I didn’t realize this was going to be an electrified fence,” Agatha says.

  “Oh, yes, a solar battery will keep it charged.”

  “Will my sons get hurt if they touch it?” She can’t imagine them keeping their hands off it.

  “No, they’ll get a little zap, but it’s nothing more than they would get from an invisible fence for dogs.”

  Agatha nods again. Maybe she could have Kerry test the zap first. “But you’ve never lost a goat to a predator?” She’s fretting about the fisher cat again.

  The man straightens, puffs out his chest, and says, “No, ma’am. We’ve never lost a goat. Can’t say the same about our competition though.”

  “You have competition?” Agatha asks. Goatscaping seems like a very noncompetitive profession.

  “Oh, you’d be surprised. In Vermont, where they’ve been goatscaping for years and years, there’s a decade-long feud between two family companies. While there’s no proof, the story goes that the feud started after one family cut a hole in their competitor’s electric fence. A bear wandered in, and the next morning, nary a goat left alive.”

  Agatha gasps. “Nary a goat?” She is excited for the opportunity to use the word nary.

  “Nary a goat.”

  “Why would someone do that?”

  “Like I said, it’s a competitive business, ma’am.”

  Agatha nods. “I guess so. Well, no bears here, I can assure you of that. But we do have a couple of coyotes and a fisher cat. Fox, too.”

  The man nods and tightens the wire. “Foxes are too small to bother a goat, but the coyotes and fisher cats can bring one down pretty quickly. That’s why our fence is the highest quality.” A sharp end pokes out from the top. “Anthony, run to the truck and get my wire cutters, please. Can’t let this end stick out like this. A deep scratch could be the beginning of the end of a goat.”

  “Wait,” Agatha says. She reaches into a pocket and retrieves her Leatherman Super Tool 300 EOD. Then she pulls the wire-cutting tool into place. “Will this help?”

  Fred looks at her with new respect. “Sure will.” He snips the tip of the wire and finishes the fence. “Time to build the shelter.”

  “The shelter?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s a vital part of goatscaping,” he says. “Goats don’t mind a light shower, but they do not like heavy rain. The shelter gives them a place to go in inclement weather.”

  “Where are you going to put it?”

  “As far from those rhododendrons as possible. Best to avoid temptation.”

  Agatha laughs. Temptation is the very thing that brought them to this place and time. “What’s with the grain?” she says, gesturing to the bag of grain on the ground. “Aren’t I paying for the goats to eat the plants and poison ivy? Won’t grain fill them up?”

  “If it rains, the goats will stay under the shelter. They’ll need grain until the weather clears. Besides, filled up is not a term with which most goats are familiar. Always hungry is more like it.”

  Tap tap tippity-tap.

  Fred looks up at the woodpecker, then back at Agatha. “That is one determined bird,” he says.

  “You have no idea,” Agatha says.

  * * *

  At 5:05, Agatha is standing at the back door of the bird store. She’s not sure if she’s supposed to knock or not, so she leans close to the door and says, “Caw! Caw!” An embarrassing elementary crow call, but the only one she knows.

  The door creaks open. An unusually hairy hand pokes out and waves her in. Agatha looks back at the parking lot. Stepping through the door seems like a brave choice as not a soul knows where she is. She didn’t leave a note or post on the Moms group. This bird store guy could chop her up and feed her to the buzzards, but, if she wants to take down the woodpecker, this is her only known option. She takes a breath and steps through the door. In the dim light, the clerk hands her a dart gun.

  “I don’t want to kill the woodpecker,” she says. “Well, not really. Not if there are more peaceful options.”

  “The ends of these darts are blunt. It’s like getting hit by a ball of yarn,” the clerk says. “No damage at all. This gun is your most peaceful option.”

  Agatha imagines such a strike. “And it will work?”

  “Tried and true in the realm of secret birding techniques. Just don’t let any birders see you, and do not ever let anyone know you got it here. We must protect the reputation of Bird Love at all costs. You must swear to secrecy.”

  “Is it illegal to hit a woodpecker with a soft dart?”

  “Not technically, but I’ll lose my store if this goes public. Birders are mean-ass people.”

  “How much is it?”

  “Fifty dollars.”

  “Fifty dollars?” The gun looks like something she could get at the dollar store.

  “Fifty dollars.”

  “How many of these do you sell a year?”

  “Hundreds. This is New England, you know, heart home of the woodpecker.”

  Agatha takes a credit card from her wallet. The man shakes his head. “Cash only.”

  “This better work,” Agatha says, pulling two twenties and a ten from the front pocket of her spy pants.

  “Trust me.”

  Agatha takes the gun and starts out the door.

  The man grunts and grabs her arm. “For God’s sake, woman, hide it,” he says.

  She slips the gun under her coat as the clerk opens the door and shoves her through it.

  * * *

  That night, still aching from yoga, Agatha lies in bed and watches footage of a feathery fluff-ball plummeting down the side of a cliff. It bounces off rocks, flips upside down, and bounces again.

  Holy crap. What kind of nature show is this?

  A British accent breaks in: “
The barnacle gosling must make the ultimate choice. Starve in its nest at the top of a cliff with no food source or plummet down the side of the cliff to the grass feeding ground at the bottom.”

  Turns out barnacle goose parents—enormous black and white feathery beasts with a mean-ass stare not unlike the one of the man in the birding store—don’t feed their littles. They birth them at the top of the cliff where their nemesis, the Arctic fox, can’t eat them, then move, without their baby, to the bottom of the cliff and call out, “Come on down, sweet one. We love you. The food is here!”

  BUT SO IS THE ARCTIC FOX!

  Good god! What kind of parenting is this?

  Agatha rewinds the clip and watches the feathery fluff-ball peer over the side of the cliff, weighing its options.

  “The gosling can anticipate a four-hundred-foot free fall,” the Brit says.

  Fothermucking hell.

  Of course, the gosling hesitates. Even a days-old gosling knows that plummeting down the side of cliff is fucked up.

  But the baby bird is imprinted, the Brit explains. Listen to Mumma’s voice. Follow Mumma. Mumma! Mumma!

  In the end, almost all goslings make the ultimate leap of faith. There are no statistics on how many survive.

  Agatha saves the video in her Hard Truths file.

  Chapter Thirty

  When the mailman climbs out of his truck, calves firm and shorts short, a sure sign of a true New Englander, a little streak of fiery something races through Agatha’s middle, and that fiery something reminds her of the ginger-infused vodka cocktail she drank at her agent’s holiday soiree last year, the one that shot straight up and out of the top of her head and made her happy, bloody fothermucking happy. And although she knows damn well mail carrier is the current politically correct term, horny and heartbroken Agatha cares only about the man in mailman. “I’ll be politically correct next week,” she tells the tomato plant as she sashays past, setting Who Can I Bonk? Part II into motion.

  She meets Mailman at the mailbox, rubs her bottom against the post, and coos, “How about coming inside for some iced tea?” Her voice is low and gravelly, and, once again, she is holding a sweaty glass of iced tea at breast height, dipping its icy freshness ever so slightly into her cleavage. Sweaty glasses of iced tea are becoming part of her modus operandi, a strange and unexpected development.