Till the Cows Come Home (13 page)

Chapter Seventeen

“How am I supposed to sit through a ridiculous, boring meeting when I’m terrified Zach might die? Or Mallory? Or any of the rest of them?”

Howie sat silent behind the wheel of the truck. We were in our driveway, watching Nick pack up his stuff. Wishing Queenie was there, barking at the tires.

“What are you going to do if you stay here?” he said. “Helping me milk won’t make any difference to those kids.” His voice cracked, and he looked away.

I knew he was right, but I felt so useless, just waiting for another child to die. A child I loved like family. After getting the news from Willard I had found Jethro in the mass of people and insisted he tell me Zach’s condition. The same, he’d said, as before. No better, no worse.

Not good enough.

“What are you going to do, Princess?” Howie asked again. “You’re not a doctor.”

I hit the dashboard. “I don’t know, dammit.”

Nick got his stuff stashed in his truck and was making his way toward us. I opened my door and got out.

“I’m going to go change,” he said. “Five-thirty?”

I stared at him, my mind whirling. Howie was right, of course. I had no way of curing those sick kids. I was as useless to them as I had been to poor Gus.

“You still want me to go?” Nick asked.

I tried to smile. “Yes. Five-thirty.” I glanced at Howie, but he was busy getting out of the truck. “Everything quiet while we were gone?” I asked Nick.

“As quiet as drying paint.”

He was soon gone, and Howie was off to clean out the heifer barn. I stood in the driveway, frustrated and frightened, then finally walked toward my office where I intended to do the bookkeeping I’d ignored that morning. As I went, I remembered Howie and Wayne talking by the milk truck, and wondered if that had anything to do with Howie’s somber mood. I almost changed course to go ask him, but decided it could wait. If he really wanted to talk about it, he’d find me.

I spent the next few minutes trying to forget about Zach and my vulnerable farm by paying bills, but by the time the computer spreadsheets came up, I realized I was trying to escape one kind of vulnerability by studying another. Even without balancing the checkbook I knew that if unexpected expenses came up anytime soon, I’d have to look at yet another loan to cover the ones I already had. Not for the first time, I regretted my adolescent impulse to hire Nick.

I closed out the financial files and went on-line, knowing if I didn’t at least think about the aflatoxin problem, I’d drive myself crazy wondering what was going on.

Aflatoxin came up with so many Google hits I wasn’t sure where to start. I clicked on the first few and read about the problem fungus in peanuts—all kinds of nuts, really—hay, corn, cottonseed, you name it. Most of the research findings were about sick animals, and since animals weren’t the ones dying, it seemed irrelevant.

I found one article that mentioned an antidote to aflatoxin poisoning. N-acetylecisteine. No wonder Jethro couldn’t remember the name.

I clicked on another site. And froze. This site stated that a group of terrorists had admitted to experimenting with aflatoxin as biological warfare. They had gone so far as to fill several warheads with the toxin. The site’s experts couldn’t understand why the terrorists had used this fungus when its effects were so long-term—liver damage, cancer, kidney malfunction. There was a chart showing how much aflatoxin would have to be taken in for immediate reactions, and the amount was ridiculous. The dose would have to be huge, and I knew no terrorists had dropped a bomb on our little burg recently.

The symptoms of long-term aflatoxin ingestion included everything the locals had suffered—nausea, headaches, rashes. And they had found the substance in Toby Derstine’s intestines. If I was reading everything correctly, that meant people in our town were being exposed to the poison over an extended period of time, rather than in one big dose. What did that mean?

There were two options: either aflatoxin had found a nearby place to thrive and was infiltrating people’s bodies somehow, or someone was poisoning people on purpose. I shook my head. The idea of terrorists targeting our town was crazy. We had no major industry and no government power to speak of. We were just a little hometown, a peaceful kind of place.

I heard a clank from the milking parlor and glanced at the clock. I was surprised to see it was almost five. Nick was going to arrive in half an hour and I wanted to be ready to go. It wouldn’t feel right to have him sitting downstairs waiting while I was upstairs naked in the shower. I had put on clean clothes for the funeral, but felt like I needed to actually wash up before going on a date. If you could call a co-op dinner a date. I turned off the computer and office lights, and shut the door behind me.

“Ready to go get pretty?” Howie said. He was in the feed room of the parlor, filling up the grain wagon and opening some hay bales to get ready for milking. “That’ll be a welcome change.”

“Shove it, buster,” I said.

He grunted, but didn’t say anything more. I stopped in the doorway. “Come on, Howie. Something’s bugging you. Something from before the second boy died. Want to talk about it?”

He concentrated on getting a stalk of hay out of his boot, then said, “What? Oh, sorry. This hay is just so much more interesting than you.”

So he was going to play that game. Fine.

“At least I have a date while you’re stuck here on the farm,” I said.

“Yeah. I feel sorry for the guy already.”

I blew him a kiss and went into the house, shedding my clothes as I walked by the washer. I dropped them in and walked in the buff up the stairs to the bathroom. Exactly why I could never see myself wanting a roommate.

I was grabbing a towel when my eye caught on the only pink thing in my whole house. The fancy gift bag that came from Abe and Missy sat in the corner where I had stashed it after my birthday party. I eyed it with something approaching fear, but ended up carrying it with me into the bathroom. I was going on a date—I may as well break all traditions at once and do something feminine.

I would never have admitted it, but the shower gel did smell good, and the fluffy wash thing felt nice. I almost didn’t recognize myself once I’d washed, shampooed, shaved my legs, and lotioned all with “Strawberry Dream.” Too bad I didn’t have long hair I could fling and leave the smell in its wake.

I hunted through my closet for something appropriate to wear, which is harder than it sounds. I have about five pairs of jeans, six flannel shirts, riding boots, farm boots, fancy leather boots with heels and a chain around the ankle, old tennies, and T-shirts. The dress Ma Granger made me for church many years ago—the only dress I’ve ever owned—was about six sizes too small and boxed up in the attic somewhere, heaven knows why.

I finally settled on a pair of black jeans, a red and black flannel shirt with silver snaps—one of my birthday presents—and my fancy boots. It would have to do. I wasn’t sure exactly what had come over me—if I’d had any make-up around, I might have used it.

I did find some lip balm, which gave my mouth a slight shine. I realized this would be gone once I even glanced at the salad, but it was my small attempt at looking remotely girly.

Nick showed up with five minutes to spare, and I was downstairs ready and waiting. My hormones suddenly remembered why I’d hired the man. He looked good enough to eat, or at least lick a lot, in his khakis, blue and tan striped button-down shirt, and loafers. I considered for a moment that we would really clash, but decided it didn’t matter. He was the only one I was looking at, and I didn’t care what anyone else thought. He held up a dark blue tie.

“Should I wear this?”

I regarded the tie, and realized that if he put it on he would have to button up his shirt and hide his throat.

“No,” I said.

Attire question answered, Nick tried to lead me to his truck, but I couldn’t stomach the thought of showing up in front of the other farmers in the passenger seat, so I veered off toward my F250 and he followed without complaining. I saw a grin start which he wisely wiped off his face before getting in.

“Still no Queenie?” he asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“And your little farmhand’s illness?”

“Same answer.”

“Okay.”

We had just started rolling when Howie stepped into the parlor doorway, looking serious. I waved at him, but he didn’t respond. Oh well. If he’d wanted to talk, I’d given him the opening. For now, I’d just assume he was being the father-type, watching his daughter-type go off with another man.

“So I’m to expect nothing but food and boring speeches?” Nick asked.

“You mean at the dinner or after?” I asked, suddenly remembering what Abe had interrupted that afternoon.

Nick smiled and my insides did the little two-step that was becoming familiar.

“I meant the dinner,” he said.

“Well, the speeches are the official part of the evening. The fun part—if any part of it is fun—is talking to the other farmers. Marty Hoffman, another dairy farmer, said he and his wife would try to sit with us, which would make the evening go a lot faster.”

“Great. Just tell me what to do.”

I glanced at him. “Do whatever you want to do.”

He shrugged and started to grin again. I ignored him.

“So how’s the barn coming?” I asked, after I’d ignored him long enough.

“I should be done power washing tomorrow. I’ve already started repairs on the front and the east side. I replaced a few rotten boards, closed up a hole where squirrels were getting in, and got rid of a hornets nest—which was no fun, let me tell you. The building’s actually in pretty good shape, for an old barn.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I should be able to start painting in a few days.”

“Great. It’ll be nice to have it protected for the winter.”

Report given, we were silent the rest of the ride, not sure what to talk about and wanting to avoid the more personal areas we’d stumbled into the night before.

I greeted other farmers as we parked and went in to dinner, and Nick followed, smiling at the appropriate times and saying very little. Conversations swirled around us, most of them about the aflatoxin poisonings. Now that another child had died, no one believed a cure was close at hand, even with the antidote available. The tension was as thick as a good prime rib, but a hell of a lot tougher.

“We know goddamned well it’s them terrorists,” another farmer said to me. “They’re probably poisoning our water. I told Norma to turn off the supply to our house. We ain’t even taking a bath unless the water’s store-bought.”

I nodded my head, wondering if the guy could be right—if extreme—and turned away, just to run into another farmer from across town.

“It’s not terrorists. It’s airborne. There must be a huge crop of the fungus growing somewhere, and the wind is transporting it. That’s why it’s just our town. Air can only carry it so far.”

Nick and I finally got to the dining hall, what appetite I’d had now completely gone. I spotted Marty and Rochelle across the room and headed toward them. Rochelle saw me coming and gave a little smile and a wave.

Rochelle is one of those women who naturally exude warmth and hospitality. I could feel it even as we walked toward her. Her silver hair was brushed into what for her was as neat as it got, and her lavender dress looked at home on her short, stocky body. She was an attractive woman, and Marty had often said so within her hearing, which—although nauseating at times—was pretty sweet.

“Hey, Stella.” Pam stood at my elbow.

“Hey, Doctor Moyer.”

She looked pained. “Oh, please.…”

“Just a joke. You okay?”

She didn’t look okay. Her eyes were bloodshot, and veins showed through her skin she was so pale. “You’re not getting this sickness, are you?”

She blinked. “No, no, I’m sure it’s not that. I just haven’t been getting much sleep with all that’s going on. Sonny’s working me overtime, trying to get me on board with everything. And I’ve been helping Dad on the farm. God, I don’t know how he’s been doing it all by himself.” Her face tightened. “And would you believe a real estate lawyer stopped by today, just to ‘offer his services’?” She ran a hand over her eyes. “After the fiasco with the Bergeys, I thought Dad was going to have a stroke.”

“Realtor came to my place this morning, too,” I said. “Hubert sent him. Skinny guy with an umbrella?”

She shook her head. “Short guy with a goatee.”

Blood pounded in my ears. It looked like Hubert had planned the lawyer attack carefully, sending them at the same time so we couldn’t warn each other.

“So what’s your agenda here?” I asked Pam. “Seeing how you’re not dairy.”

She shrugged. “Part of my town council thing. Sonny hooked me up with Robert Rockefeller. You know, the owner of Rockefeller Dairy?”

“Sure. Nice man.” I grinned. “Rich man. And a widower.”

She slapped my arm. “He’s also old enough to be my father.” Her face sagged. “And my dad’s seeming really old these days.”

We stood quietly for a moment.

“Have you thought about taking over the farm?” I finally asked.

She didn’t answer, because she was looking behind me with interest. I glanced over my shoulder, then pulled Nick up beside me. The farmer he’d been chatting with drifted away.

“Nick,” I said. “This is Pam Moyer, an old friend from school days. Pam, Nick Hathaway. He’s painting my heifer barn.”

They shook hands, and the defeated light in Pam’s eyes diminished for just a moment.

I suddenly noticed we were about the only ones standing. “Guess we’ll find our seats, Pam. See you later.”

She waved and headed toward Rockefeller’s table.

Marty and Rochelle had saved two seats at their four-person table, and admitted surprise that I’d showed up with Nick. Marty was more than a little amused.

“Howie couldn’t come,” I said.

“Right,” Rochelle said. “You mean he’s going to sit on his couch and watch TV, laughing that you’re here and he’s not.”

Or guard our farm to make sure no nutcases destroyed anything else. “You’re probably right. Anyway, Nick here was gracious enough to come along, even though I warned him about the speeches.”