The Audacity of Goats

by J. F. Riordan

  “Technically, wouldn’t we be discussing a shadow of your present self?”

  “Don’t quibble.”

  “I like quibbling. It’s fun.”

  “What do you want for breakfast?”

  “How black are those bananas?”

  “Actually, the black bananas are gone. They were getting runny, and I threw them out. Want to go somewhere?”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere, but it seems like days since that burger last night, and I don’t think a slice of stale bread will suffice.”

  “You should have eaten your onion rings.”

  “Perhaps.”

  The telephone rang, and reluctantly, Fiona rose to answer it.

  The island’s affection for local events and its nearly universal sense of camaraderie meant that there was a big turnout for the Boy Scouts’ presentations on animal husbandry, with a focus on goats. The community hall was buzzing on Wednesday night, filled with the intense anxiety of the boys and the cheerful anticipation of the crowd. The hall smelled of the coffee brewing in urns at the back of the room, the pitchers of fruit punch, and the assortment of homemade cookies, bars, and cakes that had been set out for the post-presentation festivities. There was also the pungent fragrance of goat cheese, provided as part of the refreshments by the proprietors of Windsome Farm Goats.

  Emily had been lobbying intensively for the actual presence of goats at the presentations. “It will add such a lovely sense of the bonds between the boys and the animals,” she had urged. But the idea had not been welcomed by the community hall’s volunteer cleaning crew, and Emily was forced, with great reluctance, to abandon it. That rural people should be so adamantly opposed to a basic fact of rural life was shocking to Emily. In fact, “I’m just, frankly, shocked by the attitude,” was her frequent and very public remark, and although her comments might have been considered insulting, islanders generally found in them another highly amusing reason to attend the presentation. “Who knows,” they asked one another, “what she might say next?”

  The group was called to order by the Scoutmaster, and then, in a gesture of modesty and hospitality to a newcomer, he turned the proceedings over to Emily Martin. She spoke rapidly and with great emphasis on the importance of the animal husbandry badge, and of her own generosity in sponsoring the boys at Windsome Hill Farm. It was, she told them, her husband’s and her little way of serving the community, and she was so very happy to be able to do it, even though, with the new farm and all, they were so terribly, terribly busy. She then outlined the purposes of the badge and its requirements.

  There were sidelong glances exchanged among the audience as Emily sat down. The first boy’s name was called, and he stepped forward, carrying his poster to set up on the easel, and looking nervous.

  The Animal Husbandry presentations, once they began, varied only in the artistic skill and color choices of the particular boys, their differing talents in public speaking, and the level of their parents’ participation in their preparations.

  The boys who had done all their own work might have appeared to have been at a disadvantage to those who had had assistance, but the depth and staying power of their knowledge would some day offer compensation, provided that knowledge of the composition of goats’ milk was of any relevance to their futures. These delayed gratifications in life, of course, are of no comfort whatsoever in the present, particularly not to boys, but also not to their uncomfortable parents, who must watch their sons’ struggles and worry whether they are bad parents, all while observing the smug gratification and superior smiles of the parents who had spent long evenings drawing their boys’ posters while the boys themselves watched Netflix and chatted online.

  By the time the seventh poster on the components and nutritional value of goat milk—along with various details about goat health and well-being had been presented—the polite crowd was beginning to stir with ineffectual attempts to stifle boredom. The lure of the refreshments had become nearly irresistible, and the longing for them was in disproportion to the actual hunger of the audience.

  By the luck of the draw, the final presenter was Ben Palsson. Ben was one of the boys whose parents did not consider poster-making among their responsibilities, but his poster, though not stylized, was clear and well-thought-out, and his explanation poised. He had worked his way through the milk components, and was wrapping up his coverage of health and well-being. Emily Martin was standing impatiently at the side of the room, waiting for him to finish so that she could again take the stage.

  “The gestation for goats varies from breed to breed,” said Ben with childish earnestness. “But it averages 150 days, or five months. Based on this information, it seems likely that several of the does at Windsome Farm will give birth in May.”

  Emily gasped, and her eyes widened. The crowd chuckled with surprise at this youthful prognostication, and burst into applause, whether from relief, appreciation, or an enthusiasm for goats was difficult to determine. The jostle began to reach the cookies and coffee, and Emily moved with determination toward Ben, who was standing with his smiling parents.

  “Why did you say that, Ben?” asked Emily as soon as she approached. “Why did you say that my does are due in May? You know that the ones we are breeding will give birth in April.”

  Ben looked from Emily to his father, to his mother. He didn’t know what to say. He had been taught not to contradict adults, and he did not want to appear rude. But no matter what Mrs. Martin said, Ben was an observant boy. Unlike some of his fellow scouts, he had loved the animal husbandry badge, and he had paid attention when Mrs. Martin had given her little talk on the facts of life. He had seen the signs, and he recognized them from his observations of other animals. There were no fewer than a dozen does in Mrs. Martin’s herd whose pregnancies were not part of her original plans.

  The night of the fundraiser Fiona asked Pete to drive. It felt good to let go of this one simple task, and this realization made her aware of how exhausted she was.

  As they drove up to the Martin’s house, there were cars parked along both sides of the street and on the edges of the driveway leading up to the house. Although Pete offered to drop Fiona off, she preferred to arrive with him, so they walked together up the drive. As soon as they entered, Fiona was pulled toward various groups of people who wanted to talk with her. She looked regretfully back at him, but he smiled and waved her off.

  Looking around the room, Pete spotted Pali and Eddie standing together and went over to them.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, in greeting.

  “We were just talking about you,” said Pali.

  “Have I done something?”

  “Not yet. We were hoping you had some brilliant solution for Fiona to win the election.”

  “This isn’t exactly my territory.” He paused for a moment. “And anyway, I’m not sure it’s altogether in my interests for her to win.”

  “No,” said Pali. “We realize that. But we’re getting desperate.”

  “I don’t know how much Fiona told you, but it looks as if Stella is a shoo-in,” said Eddie. “She has a nephew in the State assembly who will pull strings to get the Island the millions it needs to dredge the harbor.”

  “I imagine the harbor is an important point on an island,” commented Pete dryly.

  “It is the important point.”

  “So, despite the fact that everyone hates her, everyone thinks they have to elect Stella for the Island’s survival, is that it?”

  Eddie and Pali nodded glumly.

  “We’ve been racking our brains, and we’re just about out of ideas,” said Pali, glumly.

  They were silent, contemplating the future of an island run by Stella.

  Pete broke the silence after a few moments. “When you say ‘just about out of ideas’ do you mean that you are actually out of ideas or that there may be one more extremely unlikely one?”

  Eddie and Pali looked at each other and smiled ruefully.

  “Tell him about your op
era theory, Eddie,” said Pali.

  Eddie told Pete about the demons dragging Don Giovanni down to Hell. “Do you know the part I mean?”

  Pete nodded, a small smile of recognition on his face. “I know it well. The Commendatore scene. The statue of the murdered man comes to life and calls on the Don to repent, and when he refuses, the demons appear, and it all ends badly for him. There’s usually some rather effective screaming.” Pete began to look pensive. “Unfortunately, the demons are usually elderly chorus members who creep about the stage looking awkward in black cloaks. Not my idea of demons. I’ve always thought someone could do better. And on top of everything else, that scene ought to be the end, but Mozart makes a rare mistake—rare for him, I mean—and adds the ‘I-told-you-so’s’ afterward.”

  Eddie got that look people get when someone says something they’ve been thinking all along. “I know! That last scene ruins the whole effect.” And then he added, somewhat apologetically. “I think it was Da Ponte’s libretto, so it wouldn’t really be Mozart’s fault.”

  Pete nodded absently. “Right. Not entirely, anyway. I saw it done once where the director cut that final ensemble. It was so much more satisfactory, and you got to imagine that Donna Anna ends up with what’s-his-name in the end, which is better, somehow.”

  “Don Ottavio,” said Eddie. “He’s kind of wimp, though.”

  “True,” said Pete. “I’ve never liked that character, myself. But even so, she clearly doesn’t deserve him.”

  “But I don’t like Donna Anna, either. I mean, I know she was a victim, but…”

  Pali could see that the conversation was taking a wrong turn. “So the point is,” he said firmly, “we need some kind of intervention.”

  Pete and Eddie looked at him, reluctant to abandon the thread of their conversation.

  “It seems to me that you have your share of demons already,” said Pete returning to the present problem. “What did you have in mind?”

  “You’re the deus ex machina guy around here,” said Pali.

  Pete grinned. “She told you that?”

  Pali nodded apologetically. “Yes. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I know what it’s like. Probably the whole Island knows.”

  Pali nodded again. “Always possible.”

  Eddie, with a bartender’s discretion, said nothing.

  They were silent, thinking.

  “So we need some local equivalent of demons.”

  “You could dress a bunch of old guys in black cloaks.”

  “Wouldn’t have the desired effect.”

  “Never does.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Pete and Fiona were driving home in Pete’s enormous rented SUV. After last winter’s adventure, he wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the Dean Hillard event?” he asked.

  “How did you even know about it?”

  “Pali told me.”

  “I didn’t think it was of interest.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I am extremely interested. Most extremely. Interested.” He smiled, his eyes on the road.

  Fiona rolled her eyes and smiled back.

  “Well, okay, then. We can go. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. He’s insufferable.”

  “My favorite kind of politician.”

  “The only kind.”

  “You are running for office. If elected, are you planning on becoming insufferable?”

  “I think it’s inevitable. Like ink-stained fingers for journalists. No, wait. I take it back. Lars Olafsen isn’t insufferable. He’s rather sweet, I find. I will be like him.”

  “You’ll need less hair. Where is this event to be held?” asked Pete, with an admirable grasp of the conversation’s thread.

  “Nelsen’s. He’ll want to serve alcohol, and none of the church basements permit it.”

  “Not even the Catholics?”

  “The Catholics meet at the Lutheran Church.”

  “Interesting. But I always have a good time at Nelsen’s. I’m becoming a regular. It’s a fundraiser?”

  “If it were, we wouldn’t go. I wouldn’t give a dime to Dean Hillard. It’s a town hall meeting, I think he calls it. A chance to meet with his constituents and mingle with the common people.” Fiona raised her eyebrows at him. “He is, as Jake likes to say, a slime bag.”

  “I can’t wait to meet him.” He pulled into Fiona’s driveway and turned off the engine. “I am now finished discussing Dean Hillard.”

  “I’m always finished discussing him,” said Fiona. “Let’s go in.”

  “Hold on a minute,” said Pete, leaning toward her.

  The morning after having witnessed the scene at Ground Zero, Elisabeth wasted no time in calling Fiona. But the call had been deeply disappointing. Before Elisabeth had been able to tell her own story, Fiona had joyously revealed the news that Pete was there. Unwilling to intrude on her friend’s happiness, Elisabeth had quickly extricated herself, and left her own troubles out of the conversation. She would have to cope on her own, she thought. Whatever that meant.

  Shay was impressed by the rapidity of her star student’s progress. He was, she thought, proof of the value of consistent daily practice. Of course, she told herself, it didn’t hurt that was in great shape to begin with. He had strength and fitness and dedication. All he really needed to reach the most advanced levels was flexibility. But she needed to do more for him. She needed to help him reach the next level.

  She was thinking about this as the men’s yoga group was packing up after their morning session. What should she suggest for Roger’s advancement? Suddenly, an idea occurred to her that was so obvious that she was surprised at herself for not having thought of it sooner. Her yoga workshop! The group she was leading on the week-long retreat in Utah. It was the perfect solution. She was about to talk to Roger about it when she was waylaid by one of the members of the Lutheran Men’s Prayer Group. He needed help with his triangle pose.

  At the Hillard event, Fiona was once again pulled into conversations. Unfazed, Pete made his way toward the bar and ordered a bourbon. Eddie was busy, but he gave Pete a quick nod, and managed to convey the message that he’d return shortly.

  Pali came in, and seeing Pete, joined him at the bar.

  “What’ll you have?” asked Pete.

  “A beer. Thanks.”

  Eddie knew Pali’s preferences without asking and slid a beer glass down the bar as he passed.

  “Cheers,” said Pete.

  “Skal,” said Pali.

  They drank.

  “So tell me about this harbor dredging situation,” said Pete, as he withdrew a dollar bill from his pocket to begin the process of folding it around a quarter and a thumbtack so that it could be flung to the ceiling, a local pastime he had learned on his last trip.

  Pali launched into a lengthy technical explanation of water levels, ferry capacities, and Wisconsin politics.

  They had attached a number of bills to the ceiling, and were in the process of ordering another round of drinks when Dean Hillard approached. He smiled an unctuous smile.

  “I couldn’t help hearing you talking about the harbor. You know that’s a particular interest of mine.” He turned to Pete.

  “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “Peter Landry.” He offered his hand.

  A slow smile slid along Hillard’s face. “I know who you are. You’re the… friend of Fiona Campbell, who’s running against my Aunt Stella for Town Chairman.”

  Pete’s eyes sparkled, but he maintained a neutral demeanor. “That’s true. We are…” he deliberately paused, as Hillard had. “… friends.”

  “I think we have some things to discuss,” said Hillard. He turned to Pali. “Would you excuse us?”

  Pali merely nodded, and watched as Pete allowed Hillard to lead him away from the bar.

  “Do you mind if we step outside?” asked Hillard. “What I have to say is private.”

  Pete shot a look at Pa
li, who nodded almost indiscernibly.

  “Not at all,” said Pete, and held the door for Assemblyman Hillard to precede him into the parking lot.

  Pali and Eddie exchanged glances, and Pali settled down to watch the conversation taking place outside with all the intensity of Rocco on alert. It wasn’t until Pete returned that Pali allowed himself to relax. Pete bought them all another round of drinks.

  “I need a shower after talking with that guy. But I’ll settle for a bourbon. Thanks, Eddie.”

  Elisabeth was not one for scenes. She did not like upheaval. She liked order, calm, and quiet good sense. The situation with Roger defied all her experience and resources. She simply didn’t know what to do. Elisabeth had managed to avoid a confrontation with Roger by pleading a series of headaches, leaving dinner in the kitchen for him to find, and disappearing into the guest room before he arrived. There was a part of her that hoped that Roger would come to see her, to sit on the side of her bed and ask about how she felt. She hoped that somehow this would lead to the things that needed to be said.

  But she began to realize that she had been playing a stupid game. Roger was who he was. She was trying to pretend that he was otherwise. If she wanted things to change, if she wanted a conversation, then she would have to take the initiative.

  Elisabeth was ashamed of herself. She had been acting like a teenaged girl. Lying awake in the guest room, with Rocco snoring at her feet, she stared out the window at the stars. Tomorrow, she would change her methods.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Fiona stepped into the living room carrying mugs of coffee. It was another cold, sparkling morning, and the sun streamed through the windows.

  Pete had been staring into the distance, apparently lost in thought, but he roused himself as she entered, and made room for her on the couch before accepting one of the mugs.

  “I have an old school friend in Chicago,” he said as she settled in. “We should go visit him some time. You’d like him. Works for the federal government.” He was silent for a moment, clearly distracted, and then turned his attention back to the present and smiled suddenly.