Republic of Dirt (3 page)

I
was talking to the girl in the “I ♥ Pugs” T-shirt at the coffee stand (who turned out not to want my number, even though I told her I also love pugs, which I don’t, because they look fucked up), so I wasn’t around when the deal was struck. I was left thinking the big excitement of the week would be the fact that Prudence nearly killed some poor guy with her hot sauce and the poor impression we left on Sara’s parents, but Prudence had another trick up her sleeve. Mule up her dress? I can’t decide which cliché to use. Of all the livestock that could have been foisted on us, we ended up with an animal that isn’t even a single species! Correct me if I’m wrong, but a mule is one of those degenerate concoctions: half horse, half donkey. It can’t have sex or at least it can’t have babies. I don’t know what all it can’t do, but I know it’s a lot.

Prudence is open-minded to a fault. Seriously. There are things that shouldn’t be: apples that are half pears, raspberries that are half blackberries, and mules.

About three days after the last farmers’ market of the year, forever known as the Great Hot Sauce Debacle, Sara and I were weeding
the front beds and I was posting sarcastic comments to accompany pictures of vegetables on Instagram when a clip-clopping noise on the road caught my attention. I looked over at the road and there came Prudence leading a giant red mule with an abundance of spots on its ass. They reached our driveway and the mule came to a dead stop. Prudence started hauling on its leash for all she was worth. The mule, obviously smarter than it looked, was having none of it. My guess is that it was using its superior animal instincts to detect the incompetence rising off this place like mist off a moor.

That was the moment the Morrisey kid chose to set a new speed record on his dirt bike. He isn’t even supposed to take it on the road because he has no license. He had the thing revved so high it looked and sounded like the space shuttle
Challenger
seconds before detonation.

Well, that mule knew a prime excuse for a conniption fit when it saw one. It reared up. Looked fairly magnificent, actually, for a spotted red mule. When it came down, it yanked the leash out of Prudence’s hands and galloped away like a cross between Secretariat and Usain Bolt. Fast. What I’m trying to say is the mule was much faster than you would imagine.

Thanks to dumb luck, it didn’t head back the way they’d come. Instead it pirouetted and did the fifty-yard dash across the street into my mother’s yard. The luck was mitigated by the fact that my mother’s place is probably the single most hazardous half-acre in all of Cedar, thanks to her habit of using the property to store half-finished craft projects and everything we’ve ever owned that has either broken or gone out of fashion.

The mule jumped three pieces of decaying twig furniture, narrowly avoided crashing into my gone-and-nearly-forgotten old
man’s derelict Firebird, cleared by three feet an old sectional my mom uses to entertain outside when the three-piece
indoor
living room furniture gets too confining, darted around an old washer-dryer set, before crashing directly into and
through
the trampoline that my mom picked up years ago from a friend who works at the dump. The trampoline was part of my mother’s plan to encourage me to become more athletic. I was fifteen. You show me the fifteen-year-old heavy metal fan who wants to take up trampoline sports and I’ll show you a guy who has more problems than me.

Anyway, while the mule was rampaging around my childhood home, I screamed, Prudence screamed, Sara screamed. I’m pretty sure even the mule screamed before doing the smart thing and freezing in place, both front legs having ripped through the rotten fabric of the trampoline, back legs splayed out behind.

The only one who didn’t scream was Earl, who’d been working behind me, clearing blockages out of the drip irrigation system to prepare it for winter.

When all the yelling stopped, he said, “Well, Jesus Christ, what’s next? It never ends around this place.”

And then we went over to see if we could help. I went slowly, because mules are not among my core competence categories and I never liked that trampoline from the day my mom brought it home. I was just glad Sara’s parents weren’t around to see the latest show of poor role-modeling and unsafe home environment on the part of Woefield Farm’s management team. I’m starting to think Prudence should go see someone.

I
used to know a gal who rode a mule. Her name was Ella Grace and she was a crackerjack little rider. Even invited me to go double on that mule of hers, but I was never much for riding. I guess that gave me an appreciation for mules, ‘specially ones with nice markings. The one Prudence come dragging up the road was a handsome bastard, even when he found himself stuck in a goddamned trampoline across the road.

It’s a good thing that mule is smart. This one waited still as a statue while Prudence got some wire snips to cut him out of that contraption kids is supposed to jump on but that usually end being leaf catchers out in the backyard. Mule didn’t flinch at all, though he got a real sour look on his face and bared his great yellow teeth at her a few times like he was getting ready to take a bite.

She told us the mule’s name is Lucky and I figure that’s a piss-poor name for an animal that ends up living here.

When she got him loose, the whole bunch of us, Seth, Prudence, Sara and me, led that mule out of that mess of a backyard and up
the road to our place. He come along just fine. Head high, swinging side to side, big ears swiveling around, looking around like nothing happened. He was probably embarrassed and I can’t say as I blame him. It’s hard to keep your pride in a place like this. Just ask me.

I wonder what ever happened to Ella Grace and her mule. I lost touch with her after the incident with her and my brother Merle. There wasn’t a woman anywhere he could keep his hands off, not even the only one who ever offered me to ride double on a mule. When Prudence came to the farm, she got to digging into my private history and figured out my brother was Merle Clemente and that I was what some people called the Lost High Lonesome Brother. Stupid thing to call me. I was never lost. I was right here on Woefield Farm.

Prudence convinced Merle to come all the way here to play a reunion concert with me as a fund-raiser for the farm this summer. Every bluegrass fan came out of the woodwork for that one. We raised a few dollars to keep the bank off our backs and Merle give me my cut of the money he got from selling our family place and I bought myself a half ownership on this place, even though what I really wanted was to get myself a truck and camper and get on the road. Couldn’t do it though. Didn’t want to leave little Sara or Prudence, who is energetic but also a little haywire.

Me and Merle left it on good terms after the concert. He keeps calling to ask me to come on tour with him and I keep saying hell no, and he says okay. Then he calls a few weeks later to ask the same question all over again. My older brother didn’t get to be the so-called godfather of bluegrass music by not getting his way. He’s always got some command performance, awards ceremony, special appearance up his sleeve. I’m getting real fed up with his harassing on me. I told
him the last time he called that if he wants to play together he can come here because I ain’t leaving the farm.

I need to keep my mind on all the responsibilities I got here. Like I said, I’m a co-owner now, and I got concerns about how it’s being run. It ain’t professional. That’s the long and short of it. Course, it never was, so there’s that.

Our sheep, Bertie, is still sleeping on my porch, nights, and the mule has started waiting near the steps for her. I figure he must be from an Appaloosa horse, which is how he got all them spots on his hind end and shoulders. Showy as hell, them spots, but they say an Appaloosa is probably the most attitudinal horse there is. Tough and smart and no-bullshit. Add that to a donkey and you’ve got yourself quite a combination. Too much animal for this outfit, I figure.

I got Seth to string a tarp off the side of my cabin’s roof so Bertie and the mule can get out of the rain, but that ain’t good enough. We’re into late September now and the nights is getting cold.

I’m glad Prudence said we’re going to go ahead with the new barn. I don’t want a sheep and a mule on my porch all winter. No sir, I do not.

F
rom Eustace’s reaction you’d think Lucky and I had been hit by sniper fire on our way from the Guurtens’ to Woefield. I may not have a lot of direct mule experience, but I’m fairly certain that the fact that I was able to walk Lucky nearly two miles on the side of the road with hardly any problems, except a small hiccup near the end of our incredible journey, is a very positive sign.

That said, the sudden arrival of a mule means we really need to get the barn built and it will have to be on a different scale than I’d first imagined.

“I can build it for you,” said Eustace.

“You’re working twelve hours a day already,” I said.

“I just don’t want you to get ripped off by some contractor.”

“We won’t get ripped off. And I’ll be right here to supervise the work. So will Earl and Seth.”

“How’d it go at the doctor?” he asked.

He’s been after me to see someone about my lack of energy and increasingly poor memory.

“Haven’t had a chance,” I said. In fact, I forgot that I’d agreed to get a checkup. I even forgot to put it on my to-do list.

“Do you want to see my doctor?”

“I’ll find my own,” I said, trying not to sound as defiant as I felt. “I only see physicians who appreciate and understand alternative and complementary medicine.”

“As long as they also have some understanding of actual medicine,” he said, darkly. We were on the porch swing, watching the dusk settle over the farm. I felt cozy under his arm as well as slightly claustrophobic.

“You don’t need to look after me and this farm,” I said. “I am quite capable of handling things.”

Even in the failing light I could sense him struggling not to argue. But to his credit, he just nodded and squeezed my shoulder.

“Can I at least recommend a few guys? For the barn?” he said.

“Hiring contractors is part of my job. I need to learn to trust my instincts. I can’t allow myself to become dependent on you.”

“Are you sure? Because I’d sort of like that.”

“I know you would.”

We were just about to kiss when Sara came onto the porch with the phone in her hand.

“It’s Mr. Sandhu’s mother,” she said.

For a moment I couldn’t place the name. Then I remembered. The man from the farmers’ market. The one who had the panic attack after tasting our hot sauce.

“His mother?” said Eustace as I took the phone.

“Hello? This is Prudence.”

“It’s Mrs. Sandhu. Anoop’s mother.”

“Oh hello, Mrs. Sandhu.”

“You are knowing that you nearly killed my son?”

“I’m sorry. He told me that he liked spicy food.”

“He is not liking food so spicy it stops his heart!”

“The paramedics said it was a panic attack. They said he gets them all the time.”

“A heart panic attack!” said Mrs. Sandhu. “He was maybe about to get engaged. To a very nice girl of forty. But now she hears about his heart and she’s not sure anymore.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Are you married?” asked Mrs. Sandhu.

“Well, no.”

“Are you maybe looking for someone who likes spicy food? But not too spicy?”

“No, thank you. I have a boyfriend.”

“Anoop’s cousin Gurbinder, he’s pre-law. He’s top of his class. Top half, anyway. He is going to Trent. You ever hear of Trent University?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“It’s good,” she said. “Very good.”

“Okay,” I said, not wanting to inflame her and not understanding if she was bragging or threatening.

“I wanted you to know.”

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“Do you know any single girls? Anoop plays video games. He says he will get a job after he gets married.”

“Oh,” I said, not following.

“He plays video games all day and all night. He has friends online. None of them work. It’s time for him to get married.”

“Ah,” I said.

“You can call if you know of a girl,” she said. “Or activities where he might meet a girl. I’ll give you my number.”

It occurred to me to wonder how she’d gotten my number but I was too tired to ask.

“We will come visit you sometime,” said Mrs. Sandhu, before hanging up. “In case you think of anyone.”

I clicked the receiver off and stared into the dark night. I woke up to find Eustace carrying me inside to bed.

T
he time I have spent living at Woefield with Prudence and Seth and Earl is my favorite time in my life, so far. When my mom asks when I want to move home, I never know what to say. Our old house in Shady Woods Estates is for sale, so I guess I would live with my dad in his basement apartment near the Tire Depot on Cedar Road, or at my aunt’s in Duncan with my mom. My mom has asked about me moving home three times since she saw what happened at the farmers’ market with the rugby players and the man who had to go away in an ambulance. Last time we talked, she said that she feels like people, such as my aunt, are looking down on her for not taking care of me herself.

It’s sort of funny that she wants me to move home, since I don’t think she enjoys our visits very much. We always do the same thing. We go to the A&W across from Southgate Mall and then we go to the big library in Nanaimo. Or we clean the house in Shady Woods, even though no one lives there and it’s not dirty. In Jr. Poultry Fancier’s Club, I learned that keeping things clean is part of good husbandry, but cleaning things that are already clean is not a good use of resources.
Sometimes my mom cries when she cleans. She even cries at A&W. I think she’s depressed. The only time she doesn’t cry is when she writes in her journal, which is what she does when we go to the library. She also does it at night when she should be sleeping.

On my visits with my dad, we watch TV. He enjoys watching poker and other sports. He says he’s sorry to be boring, but he’s really tired. He doesn’t mind if I read while he watches TV, so at least I’m getting something done. He’s also asked about when I want to move home, but he always says, “We should think about you moving back with your mother soon.”

My other news is that I’ve taken three mule books out of the library and am looking forward to reading them.

My teacher, Miss Singer, sent me home with a notice about parent-teacher interviews. She said she’s aware of my “situation” and she said I should give the form to my custodian. Which is funny, because the custodian is the janitor at the school! I hope it doesn’t sound mean when I say that I’d rather have the janitor go to my parent-teacher than try to figure out whether I’m supposed to give the form to my mom or my dad. If I tell them things they both need to know, such as that they have to go to a meeting or something, they call up the other one and have a fight on the phone. When they get done fighting, my mom cleans and cries or writes harder and my dad watches TV even more and then says he’s sorry for being such a cliché. I just looked that word up and it means typical. I think he might be misunderstanding the definition. Most of the kids I know who have divorced parents get special fun treatment from at least one of their parents. It’s okay though, because I have fun at Woefield. Everyone there is really nice.

Maybe I’ll put my parent-teacher notice on the fridge at Woefield. Prudence will know what to do.