Republic of Dirt (12 page)

E
vidence of Prudence’s reduced mental capacity: she made me drive her to the nature doctor because Earl was busy looking for the contractor she hired to build the barn.

Dr. Bachmeier, proud owner/operator of Body-Mind Alternative Health and Wellness, came out of the back room of her clinic wearing an orange robe. Unless you actually are a Tibetan monk, I can think of few garments that instill less confidence in me as a medical consumer. And then there was her accent, which is best described as extra-German. She’s about two thousand years old and fierce as only a two-thousand-year-old German lady working in a nondescript office in a down-at-the-heels mini-mall can be.

“Pruuuudence,” brayed Dr. Bachmeier. “What is to be the problem?”

Prudence, all pale and wan, said she was still feeling tired and sick. She said there had been some problems at home stemming from her condition. She wondered if the medication needed to be adjusted.

“You are following my instructions, yes?”

“Oh yes,” said Prudence. “Mostly.”

“What is mostly? You are staying in bed except for short walks?”

“Well,” said Prudence, evasively.

“Then it’s just a matter of some time to take the effect!” said Dr. Bachmeier. “Avoid the goitrogens; go to glutathiones. Protein! Protein!” Then she noticed me.

“This one. He is pale. Looks unwell. Do you wear undershirts, young man?”

I felt pinned to the plain and uncomfortable wooden bench that was the only furnishing in the sitting area besides the heavy wooden reception desk. Outside, Body-Mind Alternative Health and Wellness looked like any unsuccessful enterprise. Inside, it looked like it had been furnished with overstock from one of the nastier Grimm fairy tales.

“Well?” demanded the doctor. “Do you? Is a simple question to answer.”

“No,” I said, hating the uncertainty in my own voice.

“No one takes care of the liver in this country,” said Dr. Bachmeier. “And you like to drink, yes?”

That got my attention. How did the little natural medicine troll know about my drinking?

“Not anymore.”

“Too late! Damage is all over you. Your nasolabial folds are like a monkey. Your skin is not good. You wear the undershirts too. Bad liver,” she said.

And then she bellowed good-bye at us and swept into a back room.

“Isn’t she amazing?” whispered Prudence when the doctor was gone. “Her intuition and diagnostic ability are legendary.”

The receptionist had come out from wherever she’d been hiding, a white-blond girl with the spacey look of someone who’d taken one
too many acid trips at Burning Man. She nodded. “People come from all over the island and even the mainland to see her. She’s only been open for a few months and already she has a huge wait list. She makes all her own remedies. The wait list for an acupuncture appointment is two months long. It’s even longer to get in for meditation counseling.”

The girl gave us a gap-toothed grin, mouth slightly ajar, and tucked a piece of colored feather back into her confusing arrangement of braided and knotted hair.

Prudence got slowly to her feet.

“So that’s it?” I asked her. “You’re not going to have a private session or get some new medication or anything?”

“Dr. Bachmeier looked at me. That’s all it takes. She’s extremely experienced. With patience, my body will heal itself. It’s about total wellness, Seth. It’s about using your immune system’s resilience and nature’s wisdom.”

“Okay,” I said. And I would have thought it was all complete shit except for how the doctor pegged me for a drinker at ten paces in so-so light. That
was
sort of amazing.

Once we got into the truck, I asked if it was okay if we went to Woodgrove Mall so I could get a few undershirts for my liver. While we were there, I picked up a package of kids’ undershirts too, just in case spending time with her parents screws up Sara’s liver.

L
iving with my dad was very depressing. For one thing, there was nothing to do. He lives in an old building with three apartments. There is a tire shop next door and they keep their used tires at the side of the building, which is probably a health hazard. The tires remind me of the documentary Miss Singer showed in class at the beginning of this year. It was about some kids who live in a garbage dump in Brazil. Those kids had to forage in the garbage to find things to sell so they could make money. If I ever had to do that, I would get a wheelbarrow. You need a wheelbarrow or a grocery cart if you’re going to scavenge properly.

One thing is that even though those poor kids didn’t have material things and were hungry, I bet they were never bored. They got to be outside all the time and do things to stay alive, which is a little bit like farming, if you think about it.

My dad said I couldn’t go outside by myself except for the walk to and from school, which only takes about five minutes. He said me being alone and outside was how we got in this mess in the first place. By “mess,” I think he meant him having to look after me.

I asked him what I should do and he said I should play or call my mom when she’s not at work. That wasn’t going to happen because talking to my mother was even worse than being in my dad’s apartment. I don’t even like playing. I prefer activities that have a point.

All the white paint in the apartment is yellow from smoke. My dad started smoking when he and my mom separated, but since I moved in, he goes outside to smoke near all the old tires. It’s too late for the apartment, though, because the whole thing smells.

There is only one bedroom and my dad lets me use it. He sleeps on the reclining chair in front of the TV. I guess I shouldn’t complain. Those kids that lived in the dump in Brazil didn’t have their own rooms, and if their dads were still around they probably didn’t have reclining chairs.

What’s interesting to me is how one place can be old and rundown but feel cozy and another place that’s old and rundown can feel sad. Prudence’s house needs a lot of work. Some cupboards don’t have doors because Prudence wants to put on new hinges and handles and most of the furniture has holes and isn’t very comfortable due to springs sticking out and saggy cushions. But Prudence made Seth paint the whole house, inside and out, and she’s refinishing the hardwood floors, one room at a time. She made new curtains and she recovered the pillows. The house at Woefield smells like old wood and Prudence’s vegetarian food and herbal tea.

My dad’s apartment smells like used tires and like no one cares.

I couldn’t tell him any of that because he’s tired after driving a cab for twelve hours and is never in a good mood. He sits in front of the TV as soon as he gets home and barely talks. He just asks if I ate and I tell him I did and that’s it.

My homework only takes me about an hour to do and watching TV makes me feel even more lonely for Prudence and Seth and Earl and my birds, so I don’t do it. I’m going to have to find something to do after school so I don’t have to come home until later.

The other thing I should mention is that I saw Target at school today.

I told him I didn’t blame him for anything that happened. He said he was sorry anyway. He said he was living with a new family because when Pete went to his house there were people there who were not good to have around kids. It must be awful to have a brother like Charles Manson Barton as well as a mother on the junk, and three dads, one of whom is in the can. That’s worse than living in a garbage dump in Brazil for sure. Social worker Pete and my parents didn’t say I couldn’t be friends with Target. I don’t care if he’s different from my other friends who are in Poultry Club. Seth says we all need different kinds of friends or we get insulated.

I know I’m not supposed to visit Woefield until Pete makes his report to my parents, but I’m going to go see my birds anyway. I’m starting to think that a person should not listen to everything adults say.

I
n the old days, people who developed serious thyroid deficiencies ended up with cabbage-sized goiters growing out of their necks and brain damage. Obviously, I wouldn’t want that, but nor do I want to end up permanently dependent on synthetic thyroid supplements derived from who knows where. That’s why I’ve chosen to keep my faith in Dr. Bachmeier. In addition to creating several remedies for me, she has me on a strict gluten-free diet that supports thyroid function and general immune health. Under her program, I’ll be able to live medication-free and we’ll have treated the whole problem rather than a symptom.

On the bad days, I remind myself that health is the most important investment one can make. And I’m pleased to report that the bad days are becoming less frequent. Well, slightly less frequent.

Yesterday was a good day and I made it to the gas bar to see Sara’s mother. I found Mrs. Spratt stationed behind the hot dog and nacho counter. Her coworker, a boy of about fourteen who was, according to both his T-shirt and his hat, an enthusiastic member of the marijuana
legalization lobby, stood behind the main counter, selling gas and overpriced candy with all the verve of a run-over juice box.

I want more than anything to get Sara back, but I couldn’t bring myself to purchase from Mrs. Spratt one of the vile items displayed inside the smeared and fingerprinted glass case. Purplish hot dogs and bile-colored corn dogs rolled lazily on the greasy steel rods. A metal box with a pump on the front burped out a viscous orange substance onto tortilla chips. Mrs. Spratt’s face was nearly as shiny as the food she sold. It must have been hot behind that case.

“Oh, hello!” I said when I approached, hoping to give the impression that I was a model of good health and hadn’t been bedridden for the past week.

She nodded and allowed her shoulders to slump a bit further. Actually, that’s rude. I’m sorry. When I first met Sally Spratt, she’d been pleasant but tentative, like a half-full helium balloon. Since she split up with her husband, all the air has gone out of her. Not for the first time, I marveled at the fact that such an amazing kid had come out of this woman.

“So this is where you work,” I said.

Another nod.

“Do you ever get to sell gas or do you just work this, uh, food counter?”

“Sometimes I sell cigarettes. They’re locked up.”

“I suspect most health care providers would like to see this food locked up too,” I said. Then I added a weak “Ha, ha,” so I didn’t sound so censorious.

She stared at me with dull eyes.

“Do you want something?”

“I was just wondering how Sara is.”

“She’s with her dad,” said Mrs. Spratt.

“That’s great. I mean, not for us, obviously. We really miss her.”

“We are capable of looking after our own daughter. You don’t need to check up on her. Or us,” she said, showing a little ice in the water.

“Of course not. We just … I wanted to say hello. And to apologize for what happened.”

More dull-eyed gazing.

How to reach this unhappy woman?

“Do you actually eat this stuff?” I said before I could stop myself. I gestured at the things spinning in the case.

She nodded. “We get a discount. I’m sorry if it doesn’t meet with your approval.”

“No, it’s not that. I just … how does that food make you feel?”

Mrs. Spratt sighed. “Like I’m saving money,” she said.

By this time, two teenage boys had come in and were standing behind me, shifting noisily from foot to foot.

“Have you ever had your thyroid tested? I say that because your skin is a bit sallow. Just like mine. I recently discovered I have a thyroid condition. That’s part of why … well, I’m on the mend now.”

Sally Spratt might have been frowning at me but that seemed to be her face’s new default position, so it was hard to tell.

The only way I could get her onside was if I convinced her to spend time with me. With us. On the farm. It might be a little unconventional, but it’s a good place. She’d see.

“Can I get you something?” she asked.

“No shit,” said one of the boys behind me.

“Tell her to go to the health food store if she don’t like the food here,” said the other one.

They were absolutely right. I’d been holding up the line. Criticizing the food. Criticizing Mrs. Spratt’s demeanor and appearance.

“Sorry. I just thought I’d come over and say hi. And pass along our regards to Sara. And you, of course.”

Another sedated nod.

“Please tell Sara we miss her. And let her know we’re taking good care of her birds. They’re all doing fine. Earl spends half the day fussing over them.”

“Fuuuuuck,” said one of the boys. “Hurry up already, lady.”

As I turned to leave, Sally Spratt spoke.

“You really think I should get my thyroid tested? Is it like an allergy test? I
am
tired.”

I faced her again and both boys groaned. One mimed bashing himself in the forehead with his skateboard.

“All you need is a simple blood test. My low thyroid knocked me on my butt. My skin turned yellow. I couldn’t lose weight. Couldn’t get warm. My hair started falling out. I slept all the time. Then I heard about Dr. Bachmeier. She’s got me on the road to recovery. All natural, too.”

I didn’t mention that most of those symptoms were still in place. No need to scare the woman.

I tried to think of a way to get her to come to the farm. Then it came to me. I remembered Sara saying that her mom liked to journal.

“Say, are you interested in writing? You should come to the writing group I host at the farm. The Mighty Pens are a fun bunch. We could chat more there about the endocrine system and its effects on general health.”

“Ladies! Take it to the free clinic,” said the boy who’d left a mark on his own forehead.

Mrs. Spratt didn’t answer me or respond to the invitation when I gave her the date and time.

I stepped out of the way and she took the boys’ orders for nachos with chili and cheese and a chili corn dog, and I restrained myself from grabbing the poisonous snacks out of their hands and throwing them into the garbage. School had just gotten out and a lineup of teenagers had formed. I was relieved not to see the toothy boy from the truck. Sally was too busy taking orders to keep talking, so I waved and left, relieved that even if we hadn’t made much of a connection, at least I hadn’t made things worse between us.

I left the store thinking about Dean Spratt. He was going to be tougher. His being is composed of equal thirds pique and rage and offense. Sara said he works long hours driving a cab, so I didn’t feel comfortable dropping by his apartment, in case I woke him up or otherwise offended him. I decided that I would consider the matter after a short nap.

I was walking out of the parking lot when Werner Guurten pulled in.

He leaned out of his truck, which was even bigger and louder than Eustace’s.

“Prudence,” he said. “How’s the mule?”

“Oh,” I replied, evasively. “We’re building a barn. At least we’re trying to.”

“That’s great. Just great,” said Werner. “I bet you’ve got that mule going good. How’s everything else at the old farmstead? It’s nice when things slow down to a gallop in the fall. We farmers need to take a break now and then. Me and the Missus are going to Paris for a couple a weeks.”

“Paris,” I said, exhausted at the thought. “Long trip.”

“We’re leaving the little ones here.”

I did not mention that we’d recently had a child apprehended. By her parents, but still.

Werner has been married at least three times and at seventy-something is the father of two eight-year-old twin daughters. He has at least nine kids in total and enjoys telling everyone what disappointments they all are, except for the twins.

“Are you leaving them with your older children?” I asked.

“Hell no. My kids aren’t fit to look after potatoes in a root cellar, never mind other kids. Going to get a nanny to come in. It’s the responsible thing to do.”

Even though I didn’t think he knew about us losing Sara, I felt chastised anyway.

“So no new doings on that farm of yours? You got the kind of energy that puts the rest of us to shame.”

“Well, in addition to the barn, we
are
thinking about putting up a farm stand. At the end of the driveway. Kind of a community store. Healthy fare.”

“You don’t say?” He pushed his ball cap back up and scratched his scalp. “I might be able to help you out with that. Got a little building the twins used to play in. Be the perfect thing for you. With a little work, you understand. But if I know anything about you, it’s that you aren’t afraid of a little elbow grease.”

He sat in his truck, happily blocking the entrance.

I loved hearing him talk about my energy and how I wasn’t afraid of hard work. I had loved that about myself. So I pretended to be who I used to be before I was felled by my underactive thyroid gland.

“We would love to have it, Werner,” I said. “Wonderful. Thank you.”

“Atta girl,” he said. “You’ve got what it takes. That can-do attitude.”

We agreed that Werner would drop off the building tomorrow and that it would be a simple matter to get it ready to showcase our products. When the social worker came to talk to us to make his report, he’d be impressed. When I enticed Sara’s parents onto the property again, they’d also be impressed. They’d remember the fund-raising bluegrass concert we put on in late summer and how well that had gone.

“My son made it after he went to carpenter school up at the college for a semester. He did a nice job on it, considering how he is. I think you’re going to be real happy,” Werner said.