Republic of Dirt (9 page)

“Lucky,” I corrected.

The boy coughed abruptly. I caught a glimpse of a pipe in his hand. Not an old-fashioned tobacco pipe, but something in the weed-smoking line. Maybe a vaporizer.

“Cool,” he said. “What’s he in training for?”

Lucky eyeballed the truck and driver. His steps had grown shorter. Mincing, almost. The boy continued to drive alongside and didn’t seem to care when another vehicle pulled up behind him.

“What’s your name?” asked the boy.

It occurred to me that I wasn’t prepared to deal with being sexually harassed during a mule-training lesson. I needed to maintain my focus. Plus, my vision wasn’t as clear as I would have liked. I was having trouble feeling my feet.

The car behind the truck honked and Lucky stopped. I could feel him getting tense.

“It’s okay,” I said, and gave him a reassuring pat on his neck.

Lucky craned his head around to get a better look at the three cars lined up behind the stoned kid in the truck.

“You better get going,” I said to the kid as I tried to get our mule moving again. This walk had been a bad idea. My throat felt like a pin-cushion. What had I been thinking? What was I doing bringing an unpredictable mule on a road populated by stoned teenage drivers?

“Need any help training him?” he asked, raising a reddish eyebrow, his jigsaw puzzle of a smile growing even wider.

Another vehicle in the lineup behind the truck honked and Lucky snorted and bobbed his head, which made him sound like a dragon.

I turned to look at the honker and mouthed the words “please don’t do that.”

The driver was a teenage girl driving a rusted-out sedan. She had what looked like an infected ring in her lip, and it seemed to be negatively affecting her outlook and attitude.

“Fuck you,” she said, nice and loud through her open window. “Hurry it up. Go fight with your boyfriend somewhere else. Cougar!”

Cougar?

Now there were at least five cars stacked up behind the truck. Lucky was beginning to tremble all over, or perhaps that was me.

I held tight to the lead rope and gave it a tentative tug. It was like trying to move a wharf piling.

“You got a celly number, fine thing?” asked the boy.

The fourth vehicle in the row had had enough. The driver peeled out and roared around the lineup. The others followed. The last remnant of self-control snapped in Lucky and he surged forward, dragging
me with him. I took giant, hip-dislocating cartoon steps, and thankfully, before he pulled me off my feet he slowed and began to prance.

I ran alongside, trying to keep up. Lucky increased the pace to a brisk trot. The elementary school was fast approaching on our right and I wondered, in a fleeting, out-of-body sort of way, if Lucky and I were about to die in a horrendous mule accident. On some level, the idea was not completely unwelcome.

Gears ground and the little truck’s engine backfired and Lucky began to gallop. I hung on, again taking enormous, ludicrous steps, my feet barely touching the ground as Lucky veered into the elementary school parking lot. To my immense relief, once we clattered into the parking lot he slowed to a trot and I was able to get him under control. Sort of. We’d survived.

I was just getting my breath when we walked past the playground. Too late I noticed someone much too large swinging for all he was worth on the swing set. The chain clanked and shrieked against its constraints. With a great rattle and whoosh of wind, the figure hurtled down again.

Lucky spotted him and everything happened at once. The person on the swing shot into the air, arms and legs windmilling. A small, rectangular object flew out of his hand and smacked Lucky in the neck. Lucky reared up to his full height, front hooves pawing the air, Black Stallion (if he was a mule) style. The lead rope was torn from my burning hands.

In his ten rules of writing, Elmore Leonard said one should never, ever write, “And then all hell broke loose.” But what about those occasions when all hell actually breaks loose?

T
arget and his brother came over to visit about ten minutes after Prudence and Lucky left for their road walk. I was sad that no one was with me to see them coming up the driveway. Seth and Prudence and Earl are always asking me about friends and asking why I don’t invite them over. The truck was gone, so I knew Earl was out. He wouldn’t be long because he doesn’t like to go away from the farm.

I was already tired from trying to catch Lucky and was a bit worried about Prudence because she and Lucky had been out on the road for a long time, but I hoped that I would be a good host until Prudence came back. Prudence is an excellent host and makes even people no one likes feel welcome. Seth was in the house, but he’s not as nice as Prudence.

“Hi Sara,” said Target, staring at his feet. “This is my brother, Charles.”

Charles had on dark sunglasses and his black coat nearly touched the ground. He held out a thin, white hand for me to shake. When I did, his hand was cold and it held mine for too long.

“Did you see a mule on the road?” I asked, when he finally let go.

Charles let his sunglasses fall down his nose and stared at me. I didn’t like his eyes. I’m not sure why. He didn’t answer my question.

“Charles is only my first name,” he said. “My middle name is Manson. My full name is Charles Manson Barton.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s nice. Was Manson your grandfather’s name?” I knew that people didn’t like to let names in their family die out.

“Might as well have been,” he said. “Have you ever seen
Pump Up the Volume?
With Christian Slater.”

“No,” I said.

“I saw the mule,” said Target. He was picking at a sore on his ear and there was a bit of blood on his finger when he took it away.

“Is your ear okay?”

“Charles pierced it, but it got infected. I had to take out the stud.”

“You need to learn to deal with some pain if you want to be a man. Pussy,” said Charles Manson.

“Do you want a Band-Aid?” I asked Target, trying to pretend I didn’t hear the rude thing his brother said.

“I’m considering starting a podcast,” said Charles Manson. He was staring at me really hard. His eyes were mean. Like rocks in his head. “Get the word out. Like Christian Slater does in
Pump Up the Volume
.”

“Oh,” I said. I was starting to wish Target hadn’t brought his brother. I was starting to wish I never invited Target over. It doesn’t bother me that I don’t have friends that come over. The kids I know mostly live on farms and have a lot of chores. I see them at school and at Poultry Club and that’s enough. I don’t think Target belongs to any clubs. Charles didn’t seem like he’d be a good friend for Seth.
I looked at the house and hoped Seth would notice the visitors and come outside.

“You know what word I mean?” asked Charles Manson.

I looked at Target. His earlobe was bright red and looked hot and swollen.

“We have hydrogen peroxide in the house,” I said.

Charles smiled at me and my stomach burned bad for the first time since my medication got changed. “I’d like to see your room.”

“Charles,” said Target. “You
said
.”

“If you guess what my podcast is going to be about, I won’t make you show me your room.”

My throat felt like I swallowed vacuum dust.

“There are things in this life, injustices, that need to be brought to the attention of the world.”

“Charles,”
said Target again.

“I’m sorry.” My voice was sort of whispery.

Seth says that some people have bad energy, and if they do, I should trust my gut and not be around them. But he never told me how to get away from them without hurting their feelings.

“I’ll get my friend Seth,” I said. “He’s in the house.”

Charles’s face changed and he frowned.

“Wait here,” I said. Then I went up the stairs to the front door.

“Seth!” I said. “There’s someone here.”

I looked through the kitchen into the living room. Seth’s computer sat on the coffee table. His big white basketball shoes weren’t in the rack by the front door.

I walked farther into the kitchen and called up the stairs.

“Seth!”

No answer. Seth always comes when I call. So do Earl and Prudence. They were all gone.

When I looked back, Charles was standing in the doorway. The frown was gone from his face. He was smiling and his teeth weren’t nice.

“No one home?” said Charles. “No adults here?”

Target was behind his brother. He stared at his shoes, which were not very cool, even to me and I don’t have anything cool, really, except my chickens.

“Yes,” I said. “Lots of older people are here. Grown-ups.”

“Aren’t your folks at the parent-teacher meeting?”

“I don’t …,” I started, then got confused about what to say. I didn’t want to tell him my parents didn’t live here and that I didn’t know if they or anyone else had gone to the meeting. I didn’t want to tell Charles Manson Barton that I didn’t know where everyone went.

“Not all of them,” I said.

“How many folks do you got?” asked Charles.

“My mom and dad. And Prudence and Seth and Earl.”

“This some kind of commune?” asked Charles. “Are you nudies? Like the Scandinavians?” He looked past me into the house.

I shook my head. I didn’t think I knew any Scandinavians. Then I nodded. I didn’t really know what he was talking about or what to do with my head.

“We wear clothes.”

He pointed at the stairs. “Is your room up there?”

“Seth’s room. Prudence’s.”

I didn’t want to tell him my room was up there. I didn’t want him to come into the house.

“Do you want to see our raised beds?” I asked. And then I walked
past him and Target very fast, but I still ended up having to touch him. I ran down the front stairs and stared at the driveway. Earl would be home soon. He had to be. Prudence and Lucky would come home any minute. Unless Lucky had run away again.

Seth’s mom’s house was right across the street. I wondered if I could run over there. Maybe Seth was there? Seth said his mom was quite a drinker and not a gifted parent but basically a decent person. Her boyfriend, Bobby, sold parts for remote control helicopters. He had a mustache and Seth hated that about him. Seth said only Freddie Mercury was allowed to have a mustache like that.

Seth’s mom and Bobby have always been very nice to me. His mom paid me ten cents each for fancy feathers from my chickens. I asked her if she wanted any of Bertie’s wool when next we sheared her and she said we should probably sell it to pay for sheep depression meds. When you meet his mom, you can see where Seth gets his sense of humor.

I really wanted to run over there, but it would have been rude to leave Target and his brother alone. They followed me outside and I felt relieved. But then Charles Manson Barton noticed my birds. The coop and mobile run were parked to the left of the house, between the raised beds and the pasture. I have two kinds of birds: frizzles and Polish non-bearded. My chickens are extremely nice and have won prizes.

“What the hell is up with those chickens?” he asked. “Why do they look like that?”

“I told you she had fancy chickens,” muttered Target.

“Can we catch one?” asked Charles. For the first time since he came, he sounded sort of normal or at least like a young person, which he was.

“We better not,” I said. I had a feeling that if Charles went close to my birds, they wouldn’t lay again for a long time or maybe ever.

“I won’t hurt them.” Even though he still had his sunglasses on, I could see Charles’s face change. His lips went pale and thin. “I saw this thing on YouTube once. These hillbilly kids chopped the heads off chickens and took bets to see how far they’d run. That was some Mexican drug cartel shit, only on chickens instead of people.” Charles giggled at the memory. His teeth were gray. I felt bad for Target. No wonder his posture was so bad.

Still giggling and showing his gray teeth in his white face, Charles started walking toward the coop. He was going to go right past the front door to the house, which wasn’t locked. My birds were in their run, pecking around in grass, softly clucking. Bertie, our sheep, grazed just off to the side in her pasture. She was probably missing Lucky. I wished I wasn’t alone.

Target just stared at his shoes like he wanted a hole in the toe to open up and swallow him. He wasn’t going to be any help.

Then I remembered some of my leadership training from Jr. Poultry Club. Our coach, Mr. Lymer, said we had to learn to master our nerves in moments of stress and think ahead. He said to remember to breathe. Leaders are big breathers. I took a deep lungful of air and yelled at Charles’s back.

“It’s time for you to go! I’m not allowed to have visitors.”

I was surprised at what I said and so was he.

Charles’s worn-down boots stopped dragging across the ground. He turned to face me.

“You saying you don’t want me to choke your chickens?”

He started to walk back toward me. I gulped more air and tried
to think ahead but my brain wouldn’t make any good thoughts and the air felt like balloons going down my throat.

Target made a small noise.

“What about you? Can I choke you?” said Charles.

I backed up. I wished someone would come home and I really, really wished Prudence and Seth and Earl hadn’t left me alone.

“What are you afraid of?” asked Charles.

I thought about screaming but Seth’s mom and Bobby always have their TV on so loud. Sometimes we can hear the game show music all the way across the fields.

Charles reached out a skinny white hand and grabbed me by my jacket, and I remembered that in case of fire, you should stop, drop and roll. I was on fire, at least my stomach was.

I let my knees buckle. Charles was surprised and my coat slipped out of his hand.

One of my knees cracked against the ground. Then I heard the truck. Prudence says it sounds like a gas guzzler, but I love the sound. Charles must not have heard it, because he was standing over me and putting his hands on me. I heard an engine roar, a door slammed and a few seconds later I was jerked off the ground when Eustace pulled Charles off me.

“Sara, honey, are you okay?” asked Eustace. He had Charles by the collar of his long, black jacket. Charles looked like a doll beside Eustace.

I tried not to cry but couldn’t help it. I’m not sure what Mr. Lymer’s policy is on leaders crying.