The Audacity of Goats

by J. F. Riordan

  Now he thought of a new problem: what if someone saw the splint? He had heard his father and his father’s friends talking about how strict the DNR was. Would he be breaking the law? Would he go to jail? A shiver of fear ran through Ben. But then he remembered the sight of the injured animal in the distance; how it had hobbled; how shy it had been; how alone it was, probably unable to keep up with the herd, and Ben was filled with compassion and a sense of duty. Ben Palsson had been raised to do the right thing at all costs. If relieving the suffering of an animal meant going to jail, then he would go to jail. Ben imagined himself standing bravely before the court in handcuffs, his mother weeping as he was led away.

  His resolve strengthened, Ben went on to the place he had chosen as the most likely spot: a small pool where the creek spread out for a bit before hurrying on to the lake. He looked for signs of deer as he approached, but he could find no tracks. He knew, though, that this was a favorite spot, and anyway, he had no better ideas. Ben put down his backpack and began to get out the food he had brought to lure the deer.

  A cold front came through that night, and the temperature dropped thirty degrees in an hour. The rain that came with it dragged the last leaves from the trees, stripping the color from the landscape. The gray bleakness of the world penetrated more deeply than the chill. Islanders pulled their shades and lit their fires. It would be five months before warmth came again to the Island.

  Chapter Seven

  Fiona was spending a lot of time at Elisabeth and Roger’s, coming for dinner and staying in their comfortable guest room. The reason was simple loneliness, but the election was her excuse. She and Elisabeth had discussed many of the related details, but the first question was how Fiona should announce her candidacy. There was no doubt that news of it would spread like a brush fire, but it would be wise, they thought, to whisper in a few ears, lest someone be offended at not having been trusted with the secret. Together they composed a list of local worthies whose support and wisdom they would seek, and a few friends who would feel wounded at being excluded.

  Roger sat nearby for these conversations without comment. The intricacies of social interaction were phenomena he neither understood nor cared about. These were concerns for other people to consider. He was willing to be helpful, but he had doubts about how he could be.

  Tonight, as Elisabeth and Fiona talked on, making lists and planning their next moves, he was thinking that Shay’s advice to roll his shoulder blades down had improved his downward dog. Today had been a good class, and Shay’s enthusiasm about his progress had been most satisfactory.

  Fiona and Elisabeth were engrossed in conversation when Roger suddenly rose from his chair and bent to the floor, evenly distributing his weight onto his hands and feet in the downward-facing dog pose.

  Rocco, instantly intrigued, got up from his place near the hearth. This was something new. Wanting to be helpful, he put his nose on Roger’s upside down face, and licked thoughtfully.

  Fiona paused in mid-sentence for only the briefest moment, then, with her eyes on Roger, continued to speak, and with an exercise in self-control that she considered heroic, she returned her eyes to Elisabeth. Elisabeth, with only a glance at Roger, acted as if there were nothing out of the ordinary. It occurred to Fiona that life with Roger must be full of the unexpected. Elisabeth, perhaps, had already grown used to it.

  Despite the change in the weather, Ben remained undaunted. His first day of searching had yielded no results, but he was excited to see whether his bait had been discovered. He knew perfectly well that there would be no way to ensure that the animal he was searching for would be the only one to find the food, but he hoped to see tracks or scat, or other signs that would indicate who had been there. There was nothing. After waiting as long as he dared, Ben headed home.

  The cold and rain that had come with the shift in weather made visits to the barn more onerous, but it was a part of farm life that could not be shirked. Emily liked to make her first trip out before the children were awake, before the bustle and chaos of school mornings.

  On most farms, the children themselves were responsible for these early morning chores, but Emily did not like to delegate what she could do perfectly well herself. In this way, she unwittingly deprived herself of the pleasures of industrious, responsible children, and, instead, had a family who believed that it was perfectly normal to lie on the couch watching television while others worked around them, expected that what they wanted would be given to them, and disdained the kinds of work that might smell bad or make them dirty. All except Noah, the youngest, whose sweet disposition seemed to come from some distant part of the family tree.

  On this morning, Emily woke earlier than usual. She had not slept well, in part because the goats had been restless during the night. She had heard their voices several times, and this was unusual, as they were sweet-natured, docile creatures, who generally settled down well for the night.

  As she made her way to the barn, it was still dark. She was surprised to find that the barn door was open. She was usually meticulous in these kinds of things. Still, she had to admit, it was increasingly easy to make a mistake these days. There was so much to think about, what with the new farm, settling into a new community, and establishing relationships with the locals.

  Her does greeted her with gentle calls, but the bucks stomped their feet impatiently and displayed some agitation. Emily let them out into their pens, and turned her attention to the barn itself, dismissing the open door from her mind.

  The goats must have been particularly hungry and thirsty overnight. Every last bit of food and water had been consumed. Emily noticed this, but in the midst of her morning routine she did not think much about it. She was really very busy, after all, too busy to mind trifling details.

  Chapter Eight

  The challenge of bending himself into yoga poses interested Roger. He saw it as an experiment in the capacities of the human form. If other people could do it, he thought, it must be possible for him to do it, at least within certain limits of his athletic capabilities. But Roger did not have a clear sense of what would be required over the long term, nor how much time he should allot for his progress.

  During his classes, he analyzed the various stages and sequences of stretching that seemed to be the basis for the fundamental movements, and he had requested from Shay a list of daily poses that would help him to progress most efficiently.

  Flexibility, balance, and strength were the goals, Shay had told Roger. These seemed to Roger reasonable measures of fitness, and he might as well strive for these through yoga as anything else. But his main inspiration was this other thing, suggested by The Angel Joshua: the notion that yoga would somehow make things right with Elisabeth. Roger was uncertain about how this would work, but he was willing to test the theory. Clearly, only two classes a week wouldn’t be sufficient.

  Fiona was sitting at her desk one evening when the peculiar ringtone of a Skype call came through. Eagerly, she clicked on the icon. It was Pete.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.” There was a pause as they each took in the sight of the other’s face. Fiona sighed.

  “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too. Why don’t you come see me? I’m back in London. I’ll send you the tickets.”

  Fiona sighed. “I can’t right now.”

  “Why not? The city is particularly vibrant at this time of year. Covent Garden’s season is beginning soon, and The Royal Shakespeare, and you can work from anywhere. It’s the beauty of being a writer.”

  Fiona hesitated.

  “I have something here I have to take care of.”

  “What do you have to take care of?” asked Pete patiently.

  “Well,” said Fiona. “I seem to be running for office.”

  “You seem to be? You sound uncertain.”

  “Well… .” Fiona was starting to laugh in spite of herself.

  “So, you haven’t even been elected and you’re already absolving yoursel
f of responsibility? In politics that’s usually a sign of guilt.”

  “I don’t think I’m guilty of anything yet,” said Fiona.

  “What office are you running for?”

  “Chairman of the Town Board.”

  “I see,” said Pete. “And this has, in some fashion, come as a surprise to you?”

  “It has,” said Fiona. “No one could be more surprised about this than I am.”

  “Put the dog on. He’ll make more sense.”

  “Possibly. But nevertheless.” Her voice trailed away. “Besides,” she added, rather sadly, “Rocco’s gone back to Elisabeth and Roger.”

  Pete smiled his most engaging and sympathetic smile, and Fiona sighed again at how far away he was. Her loneliness was intensified by the sight of him.

  “Well, I hope you win. What is your slogan?”

  “I don’t actually have a slogan yet. But if I did, I think my philosophy could be summarized as ‘Anyone But Stella.’”

  “I like it. It has a ring of authenticity.”

  “I have to win, Pete, because she has to lose.”

  “Hmmm,” said Pete. “Whatever happened with that soil remediation?”

  “She has a nephew in the legislature. He whispered in somebody’s ear. Or something. It’s never come up.”

  “Hmmm,” said Pete again.

  “Have I told you that I want an asteroid named after me?” asked Fiona. “I saw an advertisement saying that for a fee you could name an asteroid after anyone you choose.”

  “I shall bear it in mind,” said Pete, with a turn of phrase that suggested how much of his life had been spent around British speakers of English. “And may I say that it seems increasingly appropriate.”

  Chapter Nine

  Fiona’s announcement of her candidacy had an electrifying effect on the community. There was both relief that Stella would not be unopposed, and the delighted anticipation that accompanies a street fight. No one had anything but the most dire predictions for the campaign, but everyone—or nearly so—felt confident in the result of the spring election. While Fiona’s competence was not particularly highly regarded, nevertheless, the opportunity to avoid Stella’s competent malignity was widely viewed as a sign of a beneficent God. Washington Island, it was widely held, had dodged a bullet. Or would.

  Fiona had accumulated a small group of advisors: Pali, Nika, Nancy, and Elisabeth were the core group, with Lars Olafsen offering advice from the phone so as not to excite the notice of Stella. You couldn’t be too careful, he told himself. It would be better for everyone if Stella didn’t know.

  Their first task was to raise a little money. Fiona was in her usual state of virtual penury, having exhausted her minor resources last year with the purchase of the house and its various repairs, and had tucked away her insurance check for future purposes, whatever those might turn out to be.

  They would need to buy signs and, perhaps, an ad or two in the local newspaper. But by and large the campaign would consist of door-to-door contact with voters. In a community of 400 or so, this was still a major job. Fiona was also advised to make herself visible at every possible public event between now and the April election. This was not difficult since life on the island made every event an important occasion, there were very few of these that she missed anyway, and everyone on the Island knew within hours who had attended, what had been worn, and what had been discussed. This would be useful in developing the campaign.

  The hopes of the election centered on one irrefutable reality: just about no one wanted Stella to be in charge of anything, much less all of the Island’s political life. To win, all Fiona had to do was not be Stella. This, she felt, would be fairly easy.

  Nevertheless, the stakes were high for Fiona. If, by some chance Stella were to win, Fiona had no doubt that her life would become significantly more difficult. Stella’s pettiness and vengeful nature made that a certainty.

  Fiona dreamed that she was dreaming. She was looking down from her bedroom into the yard below, and she could see herself sleeping. As she slept, peacefully, a tree was growing rapidly out of her forehead. She was charmed, rather than frightened by it. It wasn’t disfiguring, but seemed a completely normal process. She could see the spreading canopy of branches opening above her sleeping self, and it seemed to her as she watched, how peaceful it was to have a tree always over her head, to always be engulfed by the twittering of birds and the soft play of breezes. She wondered that this had not happened to her sooner, and how she had managed to live so long without it. But then, as she watched, the peace turned to panic. The tree was rooted beneath her, its weight fully on her head. How would she move? How would she live? It must crush her skull, breaking through her body with its roots. Terrified now, she watched herself helplessly as the tree continued to grow, reaching magnificently through the earth and toward the sky.

  Mike and Terry arrived one morning at Ground Zero at about the same time, just as they did on most mornings. Their daily routine was a pleasant way for them to begin their solitary workdays.

  Terry ran a carpentry and cabinetry business and Mike was an artist—a painter—with an increasingly international reputation. Each had genuine talent and each worked happily alone, but these morning conversations set them up for their day of solitude, and both men had come to depend on their friendship. The period last winter when Roger had disappeared and Ground Zero closed had been hugely disruptive to each man’s work and sense of well-being. It was with a profound sense of relief that they had welcomed Roger’s return and the continuation of their ritual.

  Roger, too, expected to see them every week day morning, and most Saturdays, and while emotional connections were not his habit, he did prefer predictability.

  On this morning, by coincidence, Mike and Terry were both a little early, and they each pulled up at the same time. Mike stood waiting in the parking lot for a few moments while Terry fumbled with something in his truck. It was still dark, and there was not even a lightening of the horizon in the east. There had been frost that night, and the air was cold, but Mike breathed deeply. He loved the late fall with its clean lines and rich, somber colors. It was always a time of great productivity for him, and he looked forward to his day’s work.

  At last, Terry climbed out of his truck, apologizing for the delay and exclaiming over the cold. The lights were on inside and outside the shop, as always, and the bright yellow awning with the words “Ground Zero” and the image of a mushroom cloud rising from a cup created a glow, if not exactly a welcoming one.

  Already talking boisterously, as the two men approached the shop they were stopped in their tracks by what they saw through the glass door: Roger lying, eyes closed and apparently unconscious, on the floor in front of the counter.

  Terry pulled the door open, thanking God that it was unlocked, and they both rushed inside. Roger, hearing them, opened his eyes without moving and looked up. He said nothing.

  “Roger!” said Terry. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  Mike squatted next to him and reached for Roger’s wrist to take his pulse.

  Roger pulled his wrist away and sat up.

  “I’m okay. I was doing yoga.”

  Mike and Terry exchanged a look, and then looked back at Roger.

  “I thought yoga was bending and things. You were just lying on the floor,” said Terry.

  “It’s Dead Man’s pose,” Roger told them seriously. “It is the culmination of the daily practice.”

  “Death is the culmination of the daily practice?” asked Terry.

  “Not death,” Roger answered, with a pedant’s lack of humor. “Dead Man’s pose. It’s a pose of complete relaxation.”

  “I suppose that complete relaxation would be one definition of death,” remarked Mike dryly.

  Terry grinned. “Do dead men make coffee?” he asked.

  “They can’t drink it,” said Roger, glowering.

  Message received, Terry and Mike took their places at the counter and changed the s
ubject.

  “My morning macchiato,” said Terry. “And an egg sandwich.”

  “The same,” said Mike. “But make my coffee regular.”

  The morning continued in its usual way, and when The Angel Joshua arrived a short while later, bathed in his usual beatific aura, no reference was made to what had gone on before.

  Fiona’s group of advisors had gathered around Fiona’s tiny kitchen table to discuss the campaign. There were more people than was comfortable, but they needed a writing surface and Fiona still didn’t have a dining room table, so they all crowded in, their chairs—pulled randomly from the house and porch—arranged haphazardly around the table.

  It was a cold, rainy afternoon, and the glowing warmth of the house did not suffice to eliminate the chill around Fiona’s heart. What on earth had she gotten herself into? How did she always manage to create these ridiculous situations for herself? She tried, on the now inevitable sleepless nights, to think of ways to extricate herself from running for office. She hadn’t been on the Island long. Perhaps she didn’t qualify for citizenship. She was in the midst of pondering this unlikely possibility when Pali’s voice called her back.

  The group consisted of Pali and Nika, Elisabeth and Roger, Jake and Charlotte, Mike, Terry, and Nancy. Elisabeth and Roger were there primarily for moral support, and Mike and Terry had been invited because even though they weren’t Islanders, they had the perspective of two lifetimes of service in small town politics. Their experience would be helpful.