Vegan

by Erin Lee

  Coveting thy neighbor

  I PULL THE MEAT FROM Zip Lock baggies. I gag. I can’t think about it. It’s hardened, but not frozen through yet. I try not to look at the blood that’s seeped in a rusty pool to the bottom of the bag. I remind myself this isn’t an animal. This is a human being—a creature built on greed, temptation, and weakness. Someone who would kill the innocent over and over just because it can.

  It’s not that I’m not guilty of the very same thing, of course. I am. I could as easily be the one being seared in this copper bottom frying pan to feed someone else’s husband. And, the reality of what I am doing is not lost on me. I realize I am committing the same crime she has against animals and those chickens. I know I am as evil as she. Like her, I am damaged.

  But I can’t focus on my own greediness now. The seven deadly sins I’ve engaged in are part of a legacy of history I deserve to go down for. I know I’ll never be able to face God or the Goddess who set the code for humanity. If I make it that far, at least I can try to explain. There’s something about killing the guilty that makes it easier.

  I plop the meat in the pan, hoping it won’t taste of sin. I gag as it sizzles and again remind myself this isn’t an animal. This is a monster—like me. I move to the refrigerator and open the crisper drawer for the fresh broccoli that Rancher brought in yesterday from our garden. The vegetables have done well this year—with his attention on them, no matter how limited, and the cow manure we have unlimited supplies of and sell off for pocket change to the killers down the street. Still, it’s not enough. He hasn’t had the strength to carry out the more extensive plans and gardens it would take to feed us only from the ground. Maybe someday. If this works.

  “Hey hon. How are you feeling?” I spin toward the doorway as Rancher kicks mud off his boots before entering.

  He wrinkles his nose at the smell of our neighbor sizzling in a frying pan. “Um. Are you okay? What are you cooking?”

  For the second time in a day, I don’t know whether to laugh or weep. “You need meat.”

  “No. I’m not eating the dead. Aren’t you the one who convinced me?”

  “Doctor’s orders. You need more protein. We don’t have time to get the diet straight. We can do that later—when you’re better. Besides, be honest. I know you’ve missed it. And it’s not from our herd. It was dead anyway. I’m just making sure it doesn’t get wasted.”

  “Have you lost your mind? You sound like them. Where is the woman I said the same thing to how long ago now? I reckon you know where she went?”

  “Hon, I’m serious. We’ve got to get you better. Just a little bit. Once your labs improve, we can go back. I can do more reading and find a way to help you sustain the levels. No one has to know about this, and it’s not hurting anyone.”

  “It’s hurting the cow. You forget about that?”

  I wish I could tell him. He hates the neighbors too. He might even laugh. He’s taken the brunt of their judgments and never was a people-person anyway.

  “Can’t even trust my own kin,” he always says.

  My husband is the one other ranchers won’t sit with at the Minute Mart for early morning coffee anymore. He might even approve if he knew. But I can’t take that chance. Rancher is a man of virtue. If he knew and he refused to eat, it would all be for nothing. I can’t waste this chance to save him. It would be wrong to waste Virginia too. He might be angry. Disgusted. Or worse, if he told...

  No way. He wouldn’t tell. He’s human too. Flawed. He’s too selfish to lose me, not after everything. Even he has his limits. He wants to live. He’d do anything.

  “I don’t even think I can eat it. Months and months of lllllll-listening to you. All I see is the ddddddd-dead now.”

  I ignore his tripping over his own words. I’m used to him struggling to push them out now, caught between his teeth and something he has to work at spitting out. It’s normal and something doctors warned us about. It’s also another sign he’s getting worse quickly. Next will come his mind more fully. Soon, if this doesn’t work, he won’t recognize me, let alone what I have in the frying pan. It can’t happen. I’m too selfish.

  It was her or you.

  “You can try.”

  I reach up on tiptoes to the spice cabinet.

  He shakes his head and leaves the room, likely going down the hall to check on the laundry. I pull out garlic, onion powder, and anything I can find that might make the meat taste better. I have no idea what this will taste like. He’s assumed Virginia is a cow, so it better be close. I’ve heard she will taste more like chicken. This could be a problem.

  I should have stuck with my original plan to tell him it was some new artificial vegan meat or something. But he’d have seen the blood in the baggie in the garbage can. I don’t like lying to him and would rather stick as close to the truth as I can.

  It isn’t that I haven’t done my research. I know eating human brain could be a problem. It’s why I left her head out in the barn. I’m well aware that ninety percent of the research out there says cannibalism can make you sick. But I am desperate. It’s not like I can get an approval from the FDA on eating thy neighbor. But it’s that ten percent of the research out there, the medicine men in South Africa, the articles on cannibalism of our ancestors, the rare cures, the studies on human consumption of fetuses; they are what I hang on to. It’s amazing what you’ll resort to when you’re desperate. Conventional medicine isn’t working. Prayer either. It’s the last thing we’ve got. He’s not getting better.

  Hell, I’ve memorized it: Cannibalism, the act of a species eating a member of its own kind, is believed to go as far back as prehistoric times in humans, and to have occurred all over the globe at one point or another. The Korowai tribe, which resides on an isolated island of southeastern Papua, is among the few tribes believed to still consume human flesh. So why is cannibalism not a more common practice, only occurring amid ancient or remote cultures, in times of desperation and starvation, or in our grisly fantasies? Other than the social stigma of cannibalism and, I know, the murder part, there is another important reason why consuming human flesh is not a universal practice: it can be deadly.

  Still, I’m not sure I believe it. The fact of the matter is that we are all, in some way, auto cannibalistic. Therefore how could consuming more human cells possibly have a negative effect on other cells in the digestive process? You eat foods, gather their proteins, vitamins, and acids, just as you would if you were to eat a cow. Right? I mean, it makes sense to me.

  Still, the last thing I need to do is make either of us sick in a whole new way. Worse, him sicker. In a way, my husband’s lucky. He has no idea about the meal and risks we are about to consume. He will just think I’ve lost my mind again, or, like I’ve often done in the past, changed it. He’ll write it off as another of my phases and tell me I can’t save the world. He’ll remind me to leave the doctors’ jobs up to them. But he’ll also know that’s impossible. It’s just not how I work.

  I’ve spent weeks, well past his bedtime, trying to determine the exact amount of protein he can eat without his failing kidneys going into shock. It’s tricky—like things usually are. The perfect balance is what he needs to build up strength but not damage the fragile kidneys keeping him off machines. I’m determined to find it without hurting a single innocent animal. Animals have been hurt enough; something that makes me feel even guiltier.

  I know, of course, it wasn’t the change in his diet that did it. I’m fully aware that nothing about us going vegan over Lucy’s bum leg brought that awful word into our home: Terminal. Or the others: Progressive. NCL. Adult onset Batten Disease. FDA. New treatment. Complications. Congruent diseases. Movement. Balance. Eventual loss of speech. Dementia. Fast-moving. Kufs. Genetic. Fluke. Brain. Kidneys. Proteins. Ataxia. Other organs. Systemic. Mutations. Palliative. Quality. Long term plan. Hospice. Home care.

  Nope. Not thinking about it. This will work. It’s better than doing nothing at all. Hell, it’s only a myth that you can�
�t get enough protein on a vegan diet. People never seem to care about the 300 pound NFL vegan lineman. They just want to look at us and tell us we’re wrong. But it doesn’t matter—none of it. Not the myths, the facts, or what I even know to be true for myself. No matter what, lately, I feel guilty and entirely helpless. I creep around the house late at night looking for answers or even someone to blame. Mostly, I come up short.

  For some of this, I blame myself. And while Rancher and the doctors have told me a thousand times that this was simply bad luck and the rarest of rare diseases, I’m not sure I believe it. I can’t see Abraham or Jacob believing it either if they knew it had come this far so fast. I can’t help but stay stuck on the fact that Rancher got sick right around the time we decided to change everything—like it wasn’t going to be hard enough losing our livelihood and fighting with pissed off ranchers all over the state. Thank God for the support groups. Without Vegan Life or P.E.A.C.E., I’d probably go crazy. What the hell are we going to tell the boys? They need to know. It’s time.

  “Ten minutes, hon. It’s gonna be good. I promise. Go wash up,” I call to him in the direction of the laundry room like I always do to let him know it’s time for dinner. It’s the one time every day that we sit together to catch up. It’s a ritual we’ve done for years, long before the kids moved out. To do it differently now would only raise suspicion which is something neither of us can afford.

  “Be right there.” So far so good.

  I turn the burner to high, searing Virginia’s calves, which are now cut into four cutlets—perfectly shaped and sized. I refuse to allow my thoughts to drift to the last time I saw her alive, the way her calves always looked great in heels—something I would never wear, or if anyone has even noticed her missing yet.

  No. They can’t have. Not until at least tonight. She works nights. Stay calm. No one even knows she’s dead yet. Plenty of time. It’s not like they will even think of me as a suspect. The first person they will look at is that guy with the mustache. He’s always lurking around. His fault for having a woman on the side. More garlic. Onion power, maybe?

  I crinkle my nose at the meaty smell coming off my stove. It almost smells like beef. He might believe me. I could say it’s just a fatty cut or something. Just stay calm. Sloppy Joes! That’s what it smells like.

  I move toward the cabinets, grabbing the first plates I see, wishing I had thought to grind the meat up and throw it in a spaghetti sauce or something. I can do that tomorrow. Easy.

  I just about jump into the frying pan with my neighbor when Rancher barges into the kitchen.

  “Woah. You okay?”

  “Sorry, you scared me.”

  “I’m crazy like that,” he says, pulling on his beard. “Should I shave this thing?”

  “No! It’s sexy.”

  “Okay then. I won’t,” he smiles at me, leaning toward the frying pan. He inhales deeply enough for me to hear it. “Smells great. Maybe I can go back to meat. But are you sure?”

  “Yes!”

  “Jesus, are you sure you are okay, hon? You’re jumpy or something.”

  “It’s just my nerves. I’ll take something for it.”

  “What’s bothering you? Hear from the kids?”

  I wipe sweat from my head, turning my attention past the kitchen through the opening in the wall where Blueberry is perched on his swing singing. He stops, catching my eye as if he knows, and jumps on to another perch where he squawks even louder. I look away.

  “Yes. Jake called today. He’s good. He got a fake ID.”

  Rancher laughs, “I remember those days.”

  “Oh, the joy of being eighteen.”

  “How are his grades?”

  “Still good. The kid is doing great. Better than I thought he would.”

  “Yeah. If he keeps it up, maybe he can bring his car next year.”

  “He’d like that.”

  “For sure. But he’s not getting the 350.”

  “Nope. You’re in charge on that one.”

  “He still eating meat?”

  “Yep. He thinks we’re nuts.”

  “Well—he’d find tonight’s dinner interesting.”

  “Don’t you think we should tell them?”

  “Tell them what?” He looks at me with a gleam in his eye that brings a smile to my face. Apparently, Rancher is in charge of this too. He’s convinced the kids are on a need-to-know basis about his diagnosis and that, as long as he’s getting the help he needs, he’ll beat it.

  “Nope. Not yet. I want them to live their lives. They have enough time to worry about this later. And for fuck’s sake, I’m going to be fine. Really.”

  “Yes. I know.” But I don’t.

  In minutes, we’re back into our regular routine. I watch my husband cut Virginia into tiny pieces. Lord have mercy. He pours almond milk into a large glass and takes a gulp before finally putting it down, stabbing a piece of meat, and putting it into his yapper. Forgive him. He knows not what he does.

  “So anyway, kids are good. How was your day? Get a lot done?” Hoping to distract him, I race through my words. He’s always eaten fast—a product of his time in the military before taking over his father’s ranch.

  He nods, chewing slowly and picking something stringy from his front teeth. He smiles at me.

  I take this to mean his day was good. They usually are. He’s not one to complain. As long as he’s with the animals and staying busy, Rancher is generally easy to please.

  “How’s the barn coming?”

  Finally, he swallows, and answers me. He doesn’t reach for his milk immediately. I take this as another good sign.

  “Strange eating meat. It tastes different.”

  “Different how?”

  He shrugs, stabbing another piece. “I don’t know. Just different. I’ll get used to it. Is this going to be a new thing?”

  “Don’t get too used to it. It’s just until your labs look better and the proteins are where they need to be.”

  I leave it at that. I refuse to have dinner—even this one—ruined by another round of talks about the possibility of him on dialysis, or worse, the list for a new kidney.

  “I won’t.”

  “Good.”

  “Day was okay. I got the grass cut and the garden watered. We really need to think about a better irrigation system. I mean, as long as you are sure this meat thing isn’t going to be a thing. Cause if it is, we need to go back to the way—”

  “No. I promise.” I reach across the table he made years ago from an old barn door. “This is only temporary. I don’t love it either.”

  “Okay. Good,” he says. “Heard from Abraham?”

  “He’s busier. Seems like he’s doing okay. He emailed today, asking me to look at a paper. He’s loving flag football.”

  “Senior year is hard. That whole real life thing is coming up on him fast.”

  “Yeah. I don’t think he’s impressed. Still talking about that master’s degree.”

  “Why doesn’t he just come home? He can work here. We could use him with grant writing for the sanctuary.”

  “I’ve mentioned that. I think he wants to feel like he did his own thing first. Eventually, well, you know Abraham. He’ll be back.”

  Rancher points at my plate. “Why aren’t you eating? You haven’t taken a bite.”

  “I’m not really hungry.”

  “Bullshit. You aren’t going to sit here and watch me eat Maisy while you wait until later for something green.”

  I chuckle. I should know better than try to get something like that by my husband. He’s always studied me—for my moods, quirks, all the little things. Rancher is detail-oriented if anything.

  “Okay then. Touché. I’ll eat it.”

  “I appreciate you doing this for me,” he says. “And stop worrying. I’m going to be okay. Can’t get rid of me that easy.”

  Vegan

  Chapter Four

  Blessed are ye, when men shall hate you, and when they shall separate you
from their company, and shall reproach you, and cast out your name as evil, for the Son of man's sake.

  Decision day

  “REALLY? HOW IS THAT even possible? What’s your old man say about this? I can’t see him doing it. No way. His father would roll over in his grave, ya know. And what about them boys of yours? Ya’ll gonna starve livin’ on grass and all.”

  I stare at her, wondering if this is how our life will look now. She stands behind the counter, ringing up my food, nodding and shaking her head when she does or doesn’t approve. It’s like a judgment day for the local vegan. I wonder why no one’s taken out a newspaper ad. I’d love to see it in the “Houston Gazette.” At least it might call attention to the cause.

  I don’t answer. I just smile at her. I know of no way to explain it to her. Besides, I’m a Texan—born and raised—it’s not like I don’t have thick skin.

  “I’m serious,” she continues, like I thought she was making a joke. She stands on her tippy-toes and calls across the store to another cashier. “Hey! Did you hear about the vegan farm? This here is her.”

  I roll my eyes, wishing she’d finish ringing me up. It’s taken triple the time it normally does. Reading labels takes time and who would have thought that something as simple as yogurt would be a problem. It’d be much easier to be a vegetarian. Going vegan right out the gate is going to be a bitch.

  Determined to figure this out fast before Rancher skips another meal of lettuce and soy nuts, I ignore the other cashier who tells Vera I’m crazy, and she could never live like that.

  “Gonna get skinny, girl,” Vera says, satisfied that someone’s validated her. “And this here’s expensive. Don’t know how you plan to afford this. Not without the herd.”

  That’s not something I haven’t thought of either. Hell, since we came to this decision, Rancher has spent a week at his computer, researching grants for animal sanctuaries. According to him, we can live off our savings and credit cards for eight months—nothing more. By then, we have to have the sanctuary up and running and be charging people to visit the animals.