by Julia Kent
“I’m one of them. My partner, Lynn, and I own the company.”
“You are a caterer,” I repeat, processing.
“Yes.” She lets out a little laugh. “I know. It’s not the path that I thought I’d be on, either.”
“Dorian! You went to Cornell!”
“For two years. Never graduated.”
“What happened?”
“Do you really want to know? Or are you just asking so that you can use it against me?” she asks with a tiny smile.
“What?”
“That’s what you do, Hasty. That’s why I’ve avoided you since you came home.”
“You’ve avoided me?”
“Is it true?” she asks, leaning in. “You really got hurt that badly by your ex-husband?”
Her face twists with a perplexed expression. “Your not-husband? Didn’t I hear that he was married to, like, five other women?”
My defensive radar is not picking up on disparagement here. Primed to detect insult, I’m confused.
“Whatever you read in the press, believe half of it. Believe the half that makes him look bad.”
She laughs.
“Catering, huh? What happened to Cornell?”
“That was a long time ago, fourteen years. If you really want to know, let’s meet for coffee.”
I touch her forearm. “I really do want to know, Dorian.”
A blonde woman wearing a white apron waves at Dorian from across the room. She gives me an earnest look, squeezes my hand and says, “Hang on.” Fishing in her back pocket, she pulls out a card and hands it to me. “Call me.”
“Will do,” I say as she walks away, passing the gift table and disappearing into the kitchen. Even that reminds me of my failure. Mom discreetly added my name to their gift to Mal and Will. Said that contributing the manchego was “enough.”
Sadness washes over me like I'm floating in the ocean, caught by a swell. Each couple here is a unit, as much a part of that partnership as they are an individual. The grief is a remnant of what almost drowned me when I was released from jail, struggling to comprehend my new reality. The first time a lawyer explained what Burke did–at least, what they knew he'd done, at that point–I was so angry.
Not at Burke.
At the lawyer. The government. The SEC. The financial system. Certain that Burke was unfairly accused, I fought tooth and nail, arguing on his behalf, only backing down when my lawyer and the federal agents explained that Burke left behind a paper trail that made it look like I was the bad guy.
Me.
He set me up.
They knew it wasn't the case. I was legally implicated, though. My only option? To turn against him.
To testify.
When you're bonded to someone, you align pieces of yourself with their pieces, finding ways to make the puzzle hold together in some kind of cohesive whole. To give over information that would ruin Burke's life and leave him behind bars was painful.
Why? Because my edges rubbed against his edges. Our pieces nudged and nestled, prickled and sparred, used friction to smooth out the hard parts and pure grit to get through the discomfort until somehow, they sat next to each other. That’s marriage.
To rip that apart? That took effort.
Yes, even when I knew, finally, how screwed I was. How much he'd screwed me over.
And how much every part of our marriage had been a lie.
“Isn't this wonderful?” Mom asks as she puts her arm around me, wistful and assuming my long sigh comes from the same emotion. “Mallory found true love.”
“It is.”
“I didn't mean to hurt you by saying that.”
“You're not. The truth doesn't hurt. I'm genuinely happy for her and Will.”
“You are?”
“I'm even happier we're not doing any of those stupid shower games.”
“Hasty!”
“Mom!”
“I'm happy you're happy for her. But let's get you settled into a life where you are happy, too.”
“I'd settle for a life without pity at this point.”
“Pity?”
“Everyone here pities me.”
“I don't think it's pity. I think it's compassion.”
Maybe I've had too much wine, but her words make the back of my throat sting with the threat of tears. “Mom, you live in a fantasy land.”
“I do?”
“You think the best of everyone.”
“Of course I do. Except for Burke. He's a raging asshole.”
“MOM!”
But we laugh, and then we do what I do best:
Network.
Except this time, I'm not collecting business cards and gossip and insider information to craft deals.
I'm collecting emotional connection.
Which makes me a rank amateur.
“Do something that makes you happy, dear. Make cheese.”
“What?”
“Make. Manchego. Matter.”
“Hah!”
“Don't dismiss it outright. Helen's onto something. Go back to your roots and do something physical.”
“You just want more so you can eat it.”
She nods solemnly. “Caught.”
Our shared laughter makes me feel lighter than I have in months.
And now I have a plan.
And it isn't half baaaaaaaaad.
7
Hesserman’s Dairy hasn’t changed one bit since I was a little kid. They even use the old-fashioned cash registers that ding when a transaction is completed, and give you carbon-copy slips for receipts. Frozen in the 1970s, the warehouse-like building attached to the dairy smells exactly the same:
Maple syrup, hay, manure, and coffee.
As I enter the old store, I do detect some small differences. A bank of coolers filled with grab-and-go milk, cheese, butter, eggs, and bacon is the first change. To the right is a series of large bench freezers. Mom told me years ago that Hesserman’s started to sell other dairy products besides milk and ice cream, and partners with some local farmers to offer other meats and cheeses, but the core feel of the store isn’t different.
And I love it.
“Can I help you?” asks a young tween sitting behind the main desk, the ever-present smartphone next to her.
“I’m looking for Mr. Hesserman,” I explain, wondering what in the world I’m doing here.
“Which Mr. Hesserman? There’s my dad, my uncles, Grandpa…”
“I have a strange question,” I say to her. “So I'm not sure which Mr. Hesserman I need. Maybe you can help. I’m looking for sheep’s milk.”
“Sheep’s milk?”
“Yes.”
“We don’t milk sheep here. We’re a cow dairy farm.” She looks like she's desperately holding back the word “duh.”
“I know you are. Do you know anyone who sells sheep’s milk?”
“Like…wow. I don’t know.” She gives me a nervous smile, braces gleaming. If this kid is twelve, I'll eat my shoe.
“I mean… I know how to milk a cow, but how do you milk a sheep? Like, do you have to shear it first before you can get to the nipples?”
She’s deep in her own thoughts, wondering about the mechanics of it all, when a man walks in through the back door. Thinning light brown hair, darker eyebrows over big eyes, and the look of a man deep in thought. He’s wearing dirty jeans, thick work boots, a flannel shirt under a tan Carhartt jacket, and a Red Sox cap on his head.
Which is pretty much the way he dressed in 2003.
“Eric?” I ask, catching his eye.
He gives me the absent glance of someone who is completely focused on something else.
“Uh,” he grunts out, and then does a double take. “Hastings?”
Coming back home means running into people I thought I’d run away from long ago.
“Like, Dad?” the tween asks. “This woman is looking for sheep’s milk. Do you know how to milk a sheep? ’Cuz, like, you’ve never taught me that before.”
“Lori, we don’t raise sheep here. That’s why I never taught you.”
“Yeah, but like, if people want sheep’s milk, why don’t we start raising sheep?”
Back in high school, Eric Hesserman and I had the strangest friendship I’ve ever had in my entire life.
First, it was clear he was gay but wasn’t out, and I wasn’t about to out him.
Second, he was a sixth-generation farmer and knew he wanted to be a farmer. I had no interest in sticking around, so the friendship died out the second I left for college. It wasn’t for any bad reason–just lack of proximity.
Some relationships are like that. If you’re not around someone every single day, things fade.
He comes at me with his arms spread, a giant hug crushing me. Eric smells like cows and pasture. He’s absolutely filthy, but I don’t care, laughing in his ear as he says:
“Whatever happened to you must have been really awful if it means you’ve moved back home.”
That’s the other thing about people you’ve been friends with since your youth. They can get away with saying things like that.
“Thanks.”
“Listen, I, uh, would love to catch up, but I’ve got kind of a problem out here. There’s a cow that’s birthing and we’re having some issues. She’s posterior. Lori,” he says to the girl. “Where’s Jackson?”
“Off at the auction to buy the new truck.”
“You’re it? You’re the only one here?”
“Yeah. Grandpa told me to run the store.”
Under his breath, Eric mutters profanity.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Posterior? Is that like breech?”
“Yeah. And I need someone to help with the birthing.”
I look at Lori. She shrugs. “I can’t. Last time I helped with the calving, I fainted.” Her bright braces reflect the light from behind me as she says the word faint.
“We can’t afford to lose this one,” Eric says. He turns to Lori. “Call around. See if you can get anyone. We’re down to a half hour or so.”
“I can help!” I pipe up.
“You?” Eric bursts into laughter. His eyes drift down to my feet. “I see nothing's changed.”
“What does that mean?”
“In high school, you were wearing four-inch heels most of the time, too, Hastings. Can't go in the barn wearing toothpicks like that.”
“I can help birth a calf.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Give me boots and you're on.”
“You may be my only option.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
He hesitates, evaluating.
“Look. Jackson’s not around. Everybody else is off at farmer’s markets. Make you a deal. You come out and you help me, and you actually help–you don’t faint on me…” His eyes jump over to Lori, who hunches her shoulders, “… and I’ll help you get sheep’s milk.” He frowns. “Why do you want sheep’s milk?”
“To make manchego.”
“You still make cheese! I remember that in high school. Used to be goat's milk, though.”
“I've evolved. It’s nice catching up, but don’t you have a calf that’s about to die if we don’t go out there and do this?”
“Yeah. C’mon. I’ll get you some shitkickers.”
“Shitkickers?”
“Boots. How’re your hands?” He takes my left one in his and examines the nails. “Okay, good. Your fingernails are short enough. I’ll give you gloves, but you’ll probably destroy your manicure.”
“What manicure? This is a five-dollar bottle of polish that I got from CVS.”
“You? Buying drugstore nail polish?”
“Don’t judge me,” I say to him quietly. “My descent is complete. And how are you?”
His shoulders freeze. He knows exactly what I mean. “No time to catch up, so here’s the really short version. I married Annabelle. We had Lori. Annabelle turned out to have the BRCA2 gene. She died of breast cancer when Lori was four. Coming up on seven years now.”
“Oh, Eric, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“I know you didn’t. We all kept it quiet. And now I’m partners…” He pauses before saying the words, “…with Jackson.”
“So you’re out?”
“Mmm.” He ponders the use of the word. “It’s more that I’m not in the closet anymore, you know? In my line of business, people are enlightened, but they’re enlightened privately. I don’t go to farm auctions, or the fish and game club, and run my mouth about my personal life. It’s live and let live.”
“This place is so different from the Bay Area,” I mutter, as he points to enormous rubber boots that go all the way past my knees. I kick my heels off, set them on a wooden shelf, and shove my feet into the boots.
“You ever help birth a calf before?”
“No.”
“First, we pray.” He closes his eyes. I join him.
“You pray before every birth?”
“Only the ones where you're helping.”
I elbow him and move past him, his laughter like a soundtrack.
The walk to the back barn is nothing but muck. Suddenly, I appreciate the boots, though I could do without the ribbing.
“Normally, cows birth in a field, but something's gone wrong. She won't leave the barn. Bad sign.”
I hear the cow before I see it. The poor thing sounds like me after a bad food poisoning incident in Singapore a few years ago. Never trust street vendor sushi, even when a VP for an electronics conglomerate swears it’s the best in town.
I expect to see the cow lying on a bed of hay, legs open, a baby coming out, but instead she’s standing, tail swishing, with two sharp hooves sticking out of her.
“Ewwwwww! What’s wrong with her butthole?” I scream.
“That’s her vulva.”
“Even worse!”
“You’re all I’ve got, Hastings. I need you to stay calm,” Eric says in a voice that doesn’t convey a whole lot of confidence in me. He hands me two pieces of suede and burlap. Gloves.
“What is this?” I say, sliding one on. “It goes all the way up to my shoulder. We’re not birthing a falcon here.”
“No, but if she kicks you, those hooves—”
“Kicks me?”
As if on cue, the cow’s knee snaps up, the hoof coming within a foot of Eric.
“That wasn’t a kick,” he chuckles, “but you never know.” Suddenly serious, he places his flat palm on her side, along the womb, and rubs. “It’s okay, girl. It’s fine.”
“What’s her name?” I ask, struggling to understand which emotion I’m supposed to be feeling right now. I have no framework for feeling compassion toward something that can step on me and kill me.
“Cowtherine.” He has a rope in his hand, and he loops it around the cow’s head, centering it at her neck, then attaching it to the wall.
“Excuse me?”
“Cowtherine. Like Catherine, only the first syllable is cow.”
“You named a cow Cowtherine.”
“Technically, that’s just the first part of her name. It’s Cowtherine the Great.”
I plant my hands on my hips. “Quit messing with me.”
“I’m not messing with you, and I didn’t name her. Lori named her. She was in the middle of some World History lesson and thought it would be funny, okay?”
I snort. “I like your daughter.”
“I do, too, except for times like this. She faints at the sight of blood, just like her mom.” His eyes meet mine as the cow lets out a low, intense moan, legs starting to buckle. “Shit,” he says. “Vet’s not here. This is bad. We gotta get this puppy out.”
“You cross-breed?”
I deserve his glare.
“Why did you tie her head to the wall?”
“Because we don’t have someone to hold her nice and steady. She’s gonna move a lot, and try to kick. This keeps her in place as best we can.”
He grabs the back hooves and tugs with both hands, the cow letting out
an unearthly sound, shuffling a bit. Eric leaps back just in time to miss being hit with a stream of poop.
“This is why women have C-sections. Scheduled C-sections,” I inform him.
“She’s not a woman. Not a human one, at least. And if all you’re gonna do is stand there and give commentary, you’re welcome to go back and hang out with Lori.” He eyes me in a funny way. “Or go find a sheep farm and get some milk.”
“I’m here to help. What do you need me to do?”
“Hang on. I need some rope.” He disappears around a corner, then returns with a thick piece of braided cord. Tying it around the calf’s hooves, he takes the long end and tugs gently, increasing the tension, shoulders tight around his ears as he focuses.
“Damn.” Releasing the rope’s pull, he looks at me, stretching his hand out. “Can you take it?”
“You’re stronger than I am. I can’t pull as hard.”
“I want you to tug gently. Just enough tension to give it some pull. I’ll cross her legs and start some rotation.”
I obey, giving it enough force to tighten the rope. Eric crosses the calf’s hooves, rotating it slowly as Cowtherine groans, but stays upright. The flank ripples as I use my thighs to hold the rope steady.
“Give it a little more power,” Eric says, pulling upward on the calf’s legs.
The calf doesn’t budge. He sighs.
“I’m gonna try to turn the calf from the outside, so I need you to just hold on to the hooves and keep pulling lightly as I work on turning her. Probably won’t.”
I eye Cowtherine’s side. Portions of the calf trapped inside her womb make her flank ripple again. “How’re you going to turn a calf?”
“God only knows,” he mutters. “But I have to try. Brace yourself,” he says.
“On what?” There’s nothing around the back of the cow.
“Unlock your knees and hope that all those Pilates classes you do in California come in handy right now.”
“How did you know I do Pilates classes?”
He gives me a gimlet eye. “Wild guess.”
I reach for the hooves, touching the end of one of them. It twitches. I leap back. “It moved!”
“Of course it moved, Hastings. It’s a live calf. We want it to move.”
“Okay, okay. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine,” I repeat, moving closer. I close my eyes. I open them. I reach for the hooves. “Got her,” I say. “Is it a her, or a him? What sex is the calf?”