by Mic Roland
Martin felt himself slump. Oh no. What was she saying? “Just trying to help somebody out. Her house burned down, and we had…my wife, Margaret and I, we had an empty room so…”
Eric came trotting over with a plastic bucket full of water. “Here’s the water, dad.”
“Great, great. Pour some of it in the reservoir there. Be careful taking off the cap. It’s still really hot.”
Tyler walked up to the group. “Hey, Mr. Landers. How are you doing? Heard you got hit.”
“Doing pretty well, considering,” Landers said. Susan began to fuss with some loose bandage tape on Landers’ back. “Gotta hold still for the doctor, though.”
“Martin,” Tyler said. “Margaret said to tell you she’s going to give some people a quick lesson on milking. Wants you to come. Probably be fifteen or twenty minutes. I’ll hang around and give you a ride home if you like.”
“That’d be nice. Thanks. I really don’t feel like the walk home.”
“We’d better be getting Landers back to his wife ASAP,” said Arthur. “If she’s been monitoring the radio, she may have heard her husband got shot.”
“We could give Susan a ride home too, right?” said Eric, nodding eagerly.
“I suppose,” said Arthur. “You want to get home a little earlier?” he asked Susan.
Before she could answer, Eric stepped up behind her with a hand on each of her shoulders. “I’m sure she’d like to get home as soon as possible.” He continued nodding.
Susan glanced at Eric’s hands on her shoulders. Martin tried to burn holes in them with his laser vision.
“I guess I could make sure Mr. Landers’ bandages were okay until we drop him off at his house,” she said.
“Atta girl,” beamed Eric.
Atta girl, Martin mocked under his breath. Susan glanced at Martin. Her small smile was quickly replaced by a worried look.
“Um, Martin,” Tyler said. “I told Margaret that I’d come get you. She’s probably already started.”
Martin gave his laser vision one more try, but it still did not work. He turned to join Tyler, who had already headed toward the milking house. Martin did not think he would control himself if he saw Eric “help” Susan into the Laramie by pushing on her… Martin shook off that mental image, pulled his head down into his coat collar and walked faster.
Inside the milking parlor, the six cows were spaced out in the stanchions to leave room between them for the novice milkers to watch. Four people stood near Margaret, who stood beside one of the cows. On the other side of the parlor, Red presided over a different group of novices.
“Okay, first thing,” Margaret began her lecture. “They need to be milked twice a day without fail. If you let ‘em go, it will be really painful for them for a while. That’s bad enough, but then they’ll dry up. That’s normal. The mother dries up when the calf is no longer nursing. We want to keep them producing. Once they dry up, they won’t produce milk again until after they’ve had another calf. There’s no reset switch. So, just get used to it. Twice a day.”
Martin stood by the door, only half listening. On the ride to Cheshire, he had almost talked himself out of loathing Eric’s behavior. He thought that maybe he had misjudged his looking at her as leering. Maybe he really did stumble. But his hands on her shoulders: that seemed far too familiar. He just met her this morning. Was it a first step into bookmarking? Once she had become acclimated to his handling her shoulders or arms, would the rest follow quickly enough? Martin was back to loathing.
“You’ll start with a bucket of warm water with just a little soap in it, like this one. You need to wash down the udder and teats. They’ve been stomping around in poop for ten or twelve hours — probably laying in it — so they’re going to be dirty. Anything you don’t wash off is likely to fall in your bucket of milk. If you don’t want to drink it: wash it off.”
Maybe Martin has misjudged things. What if while they were driving up to Canterbury, Eric and Susan really did hit it off? Martin did not know. He was not there. What if Susan liked Eric? Maybe he was a really nice guy deep down. Perhaps his advances were not rude and forward, but encouraged by her. Maybe his loathing was misplaced.
“But, before you wash the udder, check out her tail. Tails get pooped on pretty regularly. People like to think cows are dumb, but they’re not. They’re smart and they can be mean. They somehow know if they’ve got a poopy tail and when you sit down to milk them, they’ll smack you with it — just for fun. Cows don’t get a lot of fun, but that’s one thing they do like. So, if you see a poopy tail, wash that after you’ve used the clean water on the udder.”
The way Susan looked at his hands on her shoulders, though. That did not look like a welcoming look or an accepting look. She looked surprised and a little taken aback. Martin placed Eric’s file in the Dangerous Predators drawer — in a red folder.
“After you’ve washed her down, you sit on your little stool, like this. Be careful not to sit too close to her knee, or she’ll knock you over. Set your milk bucket in like this so you can grip it with your knees, or she’ll shift her footing and kick it over.”
Martin knew that Susan needed more in her world than chores around the Simmons house, but the options for a fuller, richer lifestyle were pretty slim with the power out. Chores and just trying to get by took a lot of time. Man’s oldest sport — “conquering” women — did not require electricity, of course. But, by God, Martin was not going to tolerate Eric entertaining himself at Susan’s expense. She was a decent woman who had already been dealt a bad hand. She did not need any more losers.
“If you’ve got some hand lotion or petroleum jelly, rub a little on your hand so you don’t irritate her with friction. This is just being nice. Don’t use so much that it falls off your hand, into the bucket. Remember, you’re planning on drinking that.”
Susan deserved someone who would be there to take care of her: protect her. Martin had spent the last twenty-three years working hard at being the proper protector and provider for Margaret. She deserved that. Every woman deserves a guy who is dedicated to protecting her and providing for her. Not some jerk looking to use her.
“You’ll know she’s let down her milk and ready to be milked when her udder is nice and round.” Margaret sat back on her stool. “Sometimes, though, she’s keeping her gut sucked in, so she’s not letting down her milk. It’s kinda like a guy sucking in his gut while a tailor measures his waist. Cows do the same, especially if they’re not comfortable: new place, new milker, etc. That’s like this girl here. But here’s what I do. Give ‘em a little elbow in the side like this. Ha! See? See how nice and round the udder is now?”
Martin fumed at his lack of any real authority to reprimand, or better yet, punch Eric’s lights out for behaving badly. Selfish scoundrels needed a darn good thrashing. Martin still felt rage at how her former boyfriend had treated her. He could just imagine that if he ever met that Mark character, he would want to pummel him into the sidewalk. That Mark was a total jerk who took advantage of Susan’s trusting nature. But, why did Martin feel entitled to that rage?
“Hold the teat like this. See? Wrap your fingers around like this. You don’t pull down like it’s a bell rope or anything. It’s more of a gentle squeeze with just a little pull…like this…see?” A thin jet of white squirted into the can, making a hollow spattering sound in the empty bucket. “You keep doing this until the milk seems to not be coming as strong. The udder above the teat will start to sag and look deflated. That’s how you know you’re pretty much done.” Margaret went to work with a teat in each hand, alternating squirts into her bucket.
Why did the jerks of the world have to go around preying on the nice girls? Why did they have to terrorize the good girls? Susan was nice. She had spunk and a terrific pioneer spirit that was worth a cow’s weight in gold. How could Martin stand by and watch some hormonally over-charged beast trample a pretty flower garden? Maybe that was just the way fallen human nature is, but Martin did not feel lik
e he had to stand for it.
“Okay.” Margaret stood up. “I did these two teats. You sit down and do this one.” She watched a middle-aged woman sit down nervously on the stool. Her hands were frozen just inches from the teats.
“You won’t break her,” Margaret assured her. “And if you act scared, she’s going to get nervous too. After all, if you’re scared, she’ll think maybe she should be too. It’s a predator-prey instinct thing. So, be slow and gentle, but firm. If you’re calm, she’s more likely to relax.”
The lady worked on one teat. When she got a stream of milk in her bucket, she looked at everyone with a huge smile. They each took a turn until the cow’s udder hung limp.
“I think they’ll get it,” Margaret told Martin. “They’re really stiff and clumsy about it, but that’ll come. I never thought I would be milking cows again, but it was kind of fun teaching these people how to milk. And, lookee here, I got almost a gallon we can take home right now. I’m going to have to bring bottles with me each day. The Cauloff’s don’t have that many. Are you ready to go, Tyler?”
Tyler and Charles sat up front. They chatted about how to patch up the bullet holes in the fender and hood. Some clear tape might keep the wind from blowing through the windshield holes.
“You’ve been awfully quiet, Martin,” Margaret said.
Martin was not sure how to answer her without sounding snarky. He was not sure where to even begin a conversation. There were so many topics swirling around in his head: all incomplete.
“You’ll just have to give him a little space,” Charles said over his shoulder. “He just shot a guy today, maybe two. It usually takes a man a little while to process something like that.”
“Oh yeah.” Margaret sat back, holding her bucket on her lap.
Oh great, Martin thought. I haven’t even THOUGHT about that guy. I’m too fixated on pummeling Eric. But, I DID shoot that man. How could I not think of that? That reminder sent Martin into a dark cave. Who was that young man? Did he get help from his companions? Or, did he bleed to death on the cold pavement?
When Martin practiced at the range, he wondered if he would ever be able to shoot a person. Targets were one thing, but a real person? He had imagined that he might freeze up, conflicted at the critical moment. Or, that he would try to be merciful and aim to wound instead of kill. His thinking was all wrong. There had been no time to think about it. The whole situation pounced on him like a mountain lion. People who moralized about thinking twice or carefully weighing the matter had obviously never been there.
There was no time for moralizing dilemmas. He shot to kill. It turned out he did not kill him — right away, anyhow — but at that critical moment, he shot to kill. Did that make him a killer? How was he any different than the hoodlums?
That realization pulled him deeper into the cave. He had quickly decided to end someone’s life. He failed, but that did not change his intentions. Part of him wanted to believe that the young man was a vile offender who had done many evil deeds and deserved to die. But, how did Martin know any of that? What if he was the younger brother of a gang member who, until today, had been a good student in school, did chores for his mother and wanted to be a diesel mechanic someday — but his brother brought him along on this ambush?
Martin had to shake away that line of thought. If he allowed himself to, he could turn the young hoodlum into the purest innocent babe that ever lived. Babe or not, he had a gun and he and his buddy said they planned to kill people. Margaret would have been one of the first. Babe or not, Martin was not going to allow anyone to hurt Margaret — or Susan — or anyone in his group. If anyone threatened his people, they would simply have to die.
He felt like he had just discovered a hole in his soul.
Expulsion
The next day, Martin sought refuge in work. The Hendricks said they would bring over Charles’ old crew cab, but they did not say when. In the meantime, Martin could begin calculations based on scaling up Tin Man’s specs to the crew cab’s engine displacement.
“Oh, hey Dad,” Dustin said. “Mom said I might find you in the garage.”
Martin did not look up from his makeshift drawing table.
“Ah. Working on that bigger gasifier idea, huh?”
Martin was not in the mood for conversation.
“So, what happened up in Concord, huh? Judy was up on the ridge in Baldwin’s meadow with the crank radio. She picked up a Mass station and it sounded like things could get pretty bad.”
“Probably.”
“Probably? More like for-certain. They read some statement from Governor Baylach saying that our governor broke the law, violated federal procedures, or something, and how federal aid can’t get shipped up here until all that gets fixed the way the feds want it. There was something about a council of governors to decide what to do about us. Then there was some other guy, Judy didn’t pay attention to who he was, who said that all aid would be cut off to New Hampshire — even by outside organizations or individuals — and that when people were suffering, it was Governor Vincent’s fault and how the people of New Hampshire should impeach Vincent, or something.”
“So, let’s not suffer. That’ll mess up their plans,” Martin muttered. “Look here.” Martin pointed to his drawings. “We’ll need a metal vessel about this big, maybe a big metal trash can or a forty-gallon drum, and another one about this big. Did you remember seeing anything like them at the dump?”
“I don’t remember. I wasn’t looking for anything that big, so I didn’t notice.”
“Well, your watch isn’t until midnight, so how about you ride up and check things out. You don’t have to bring anything back, just see what’s there. Here’s a list of desirable stuff. See what you can locate.”
“Okay, cool. I’ll get right on that, but first…I, um…”
“What?”
“While you were gone, I kinda had a little weirdness with the Dunans.”
“What kind of weird?” Martin turned to face Dustin squarely.
“Well, it’s kind of embarrassing…but, I was out there, looking through the junk for strapping and such, and well, Mrs. Dunan came up and she…”
“Was she asking for extra food?”
“No…not exactly. She was just being really over-friendly: complimenting me on stuff and kinda swishing her hair back and forth: smiling a lot…” Dustin leaned closer to Martin so he could whisper. “She wears a red bra and I think she wanted me to know that…for some reason. She was just kinda swinging around all prancy-like and her coat kept gaping open…”
“Oh really?” Martin said flatly.
“Yeah, really. It was really weird. I thought I was getting pranked or something. Then she looked at her watch, zipped up her coat and went inside. I totally do not understand women.”
“That part is understandable, just not good.”
“No, but then later, Judy told me she surprised Mr. Dunan in the kitchen yesterday. He was looking through the pantry. Judy said he was acting all nervous. He said he was doing an inventory because Mom told him to do one, but once Judy was there, he just left. He didn’t have any paper or a clipboard or anything. It turns out that while he was in the kitchen was the exact same time that Mrs. Dunan was acting all weird. I think they were up to something.”
“Hmmm.” Martin frowned at the floor.
“Well, I’d better get going to the dump so I can get back before dark. See ya.”
Martin continued to adjust his new gasifier plans, calculating the flow rate of tubing and inlet openings. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Susan cautiously peek around the corner. She stood in the door awhile.
“Um…” she began timidly. “Are you angry with me?” she asked.
“No.” Martin continued to punch numbers in his little calculator.
“Because yesterday…I didn’t know they were going to drive to their house first. I thought they were going to drop me off here, but they didn’t.”
Martin really did not want to know.
Susan was in charge of her own social life. He had nothing to say about it. It was not like she was fourteen. She was thirty-five and perfectly capable of sorting out her own social circumstances. He was just providing a room for her during the outage.
“Then Mr. and Mrs. Emulari unhitched the trailer and told Eric to drive me home. I don’t know the roads around here. I had no idea it was the long way around.”
Martin could feel his rage growing. He did not want to hear any more, but could not tell her that. “I have to go check my snares,” he said. He slung the carbine over his shoulder, put on his cap and gloves and strode out of the garage.
In the woods, there was a calming silence. He could be hundreds of miles from all that plagued him, for all he knew. That was a comforting thought. The bait was still there for all of his snares. Nothing had been disturbed. Perhaps he had caught the last squirrel. That was disquieting.