Church of the Dog (11 page)

“You know, Edith, I realize I’m wearing clothes and that I’m dealing with the aftereffects of fertility rather than blessing others with fertility, but I still sort of feel like Lady Godiva!” she shouts as we trot away.

“Well, I suppose we are all secretly riding at night and trying to make things better!” I shout back and make that face I make when I shrug.

She bellows a wild call, and the horses get jumpy with excitement. How exactly we are going to be inconspicuous in town on horseback at 1:00 a.m. I don’t know, but the risk of it all gives me a sense of adventure that makes me feel like a girl again.

As we approach town and slow down, Mara talks about wanting to grow a garden next year especially for the purpose of harvesting and distributing on our Lady Godiva runs. I suggest we have a Lady Godiva run this winter before the snows get too deep and distribute fresh-baked bread, noting that the snow will muffle the horses’ hooves.

The only person who spots us is Dawson, an officer and old friend, in his patrol car. We just smile, wave, and ride on.

On the way home, though, Mara says, “I don’t know if I’ll ever be pregnant, but if I ever am, I want a really gentle horse so that I can still ride, and even ride with the baby, too.”

I cringe. “I lost a baby because I was riding when I was pregnant,” I say.

“Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“It was on a safe horse. Just one of those freak accidents. I tell women now that nine months is such a short time compared to a lifetime of guilt.”

There is an awkward silence, but it’s worth it. It’s worth it if I made my point, if I can spare another woman my experience.

I remember riding Molasses, just poking along next to a fence line. The balsam flowers were blooming mini sunflowers. The flowers were yellow, the sky was blue, my horse was yellow, my jeans and shirt were blue. This is what I was thinking about before Molasses saw that snake and jumped back. He took three steps back and hit the fence line, which really spooked him. He leaped forward, remembered the snake, and twisted midair so he would land somewhere else. And I remember that split second of flying.

I remember the pain in my abdomen as I opened my eyes, and when my thoughts turned to my worst fears, I began to cry. Molasses hovered over me as I attempted to get to my feet. He sniffed me to see if I was okay, his eyes saying how sorry he was. I buckled over again. Then I grabbed a stirrup and crawled up the saddle to my feet. Molasses held perfectly still as I got into the saddle, crying out with each sharp pain. I don’t know how I made it into the saddle except that thought is powerful, and I thought that maybe if I could get to the hospital, my baby, our baby, would be okay. But it wasn’t.

I spent two weeks in the hospital hemorrhaging and recovering. Earl, concerned, sat by my side, but there was something else in his eyes, too—“If only . . . if only . . . if only”—feeding my guilt and shame and my own long list of if onlys.

I knew I’d never put myself before my child again, but it was too late for this one, and, as it turned out, for any others besides Sam. The child I lost was a little girl. I so wanted a little girl. My precious little girl would live on only as a pain in my heart. Nine months is such a short time, such a short time.

It’s interesting how someone who is making choices so different from mine can respect and appreciate my choices so much. They weren’t choices, really. They were merely what was expected of me. Nonetheless, she points out the strength with which I led my life—the strength I failed to recognize.

She appears on the surface to be so strong, but in my heart I know I’m stronger. I think she is afraid to love. With me it’s not a choice. I endured the most painful thing anyone can, the loss of two children, and somehow I kept my will to continue to love. Even now as I approach the end of my life, facing the fact that Earl and I probably won’t be able to synchronize our exits and that I may be left to spend my last years without the very one I poured all my heart into, even now, I am not afraid to love.

I think Mara would be content to live in that tiny Church of the Dog until her heart atrophies to the size of her small, one-woman home.

Interesting how women could make such supposedly great strides in knowing and asserting their worth, but in ways that are quite basic they’ve lost it all together. They don’t even understand what it means to be a woman.

I open the door to let Zeus out and see snowflakes falling. Oh, dear. I hope I don’t get misunderstood and burned at the stake for this.

See, I had the kindergartners today and no lesson plans. So I got them cutting snowflakes while I assembled a custom-fit, three-foot-tall cone hat for each child out of blue butcher paper. I told them we were making magic snow hats and that if they wished for snow while wearing the hats, it would snow before Christmas—unless they lose the power in their snow hat. Being mean or whining while wearing the magic snow hat will cause it to lose its power, I told them. I sent them off at the end of class in their paper hats, in most cases taller than the child wearing it, and didn’t think much more about it until now.

I step out and lift my head so that the snowflakes land on my cheeks like kisses from the Universe. This is the way to go. The Universe is capable of so much more love than another person.

Still, I wonder what my friend from the Grand Canyon is doing now. Maybe the Universe is kissing him, too. I send my own good energy up into the Universe to be part of that just in case.

Then my moment is over as I regain awareness of the two hundred calves crying out for their mothers as they adjust to being weaned. I wish I could get away from here until the weaning is over. Most of the calves will be sent off to become meat. I wonder if on some level they know. I imagine them like Disney characters calling out for their mommy like Bambi did: “Mommy! Mommy! Don’t let them take me away and kill me!” Try to fall asleep listening to that.

While Edith milks her nurse cows, I start a fire in the little tin stove and take the bucket to a faucet on the side of Edith and Earl’s house. Saunas are now part of my Saturday morning ritual with Edith. Since the sun takes longer to rise, Earl spends more time at the café.

The second after Earl leaves for town, Edith and I streak out to the sauna in nothing but our towels.

Mostly we talk about what it means to be a woman and where our true strengths lie. I love to listen to her talk about her life, her views, her hindsight, her acceptance, her love.

I’ve based my self-value as a woman on my potential, my opportunity, whereas she sees her value as a woman as intrinsic. This is a very important lesson for me.

On this morning Edith looks at me with a sparkle in her eye. “Let’s go make snow angels!” she says. My only reply is a delighted smile.

We run out of the sauna, dive into the powdery snow, and make snow angels. We are laughing so hard that we’re crying. We do this about six more times before Edith goes back to her house to receive this week’s roses from Earl, who has become quite a romantic devil in recent weeks. I go back to the Church of the Dog to prepare to fix fences and shrink Earl’s tumor.

I’ve discovered I can actually shrink it better when my hands are on him, so I continue to invite myself over on Friday nights for short dance lessons. I’ve got the fox-trot down now, my waltz is improving, and I’m getting into the cha-cha.

Now that Earl and I have to bundle up a little more to check fences, these are my only times to get a good look at the bump. Lately it seems like it’s growing more during the week than I can shrink it.

Mara helps me sort this year’s calves. I pick out the best-quality heifers, the ones with the greatest length and width, the best bags with the smallest tits, and the ones with feminine-looking heads. They’ll stay in my small feed lot so I can give them good feed this winter.

The ones who won’t be staying get even better feed—corn and barley silage supplemented with vitamins, minerals, and protein. The nutritionist says it should help them gain two and a half to three pounds a day.

In the next few weeks we’ll separate the big steers, too. The big ones will be sent away in mid-December, while the small steers will be fed for another month along with the feeder heifers and sent away in January.

When I explain what we are doing to Mara, she seems a little distressed at the fact that she’s become, in her own words, “the angel of death at Cattle Auschwitz.” I wish Daniel would have stayed and helped with this. Maybe I need to get Whitey out here.

“Earl, last night I noticed you have two bumps on your neck now,” Mara says as we unsaddle the horses and put the tack away.

“Thanks for noticing,” I say. I can tell by her eyes that she knows. I think she’s known for a long time. We walk to the barn and back, and then brush out the horses. “Red, I don’t reckon I’ll be around much longer.”

She looks concerned.

“Will you watch over Edith when I’m gone?”

“Absolutely.”

“When it melts off in the spring, get Daniel to help you with the fences. The deer and elk will have knocked a lot of them down, so you’ll have to check them all again.”

“I will.”

I know she will keep her word.

“Maybe you can make me a list of repairs you can think of that I might otherwise not know to do.”

We walk the horses back to their paddock and turn them loose. My eyes get blurry as I think about leaving behind my beloved Edith. Mara is respectful enough not to look. I wonder if I’ve deserved Edith all these years.

Mara stops and gives her hog a bucket of pig feed and a couple Oreos.

“Red, what do you think happens to folks when they die?”

“I’ve heard some people say that when you first cross over, you get to experience your life with panoramic vision and feel all the things you made others feel,” Mara says. “Yeah. I don’t pretend to know what happens, but I believe it’s good. My Gram says she’s not going to die. She says she’s going to ‘ascend.’ Says she’s going to take her body with her. Uncle Bob told her to please leave a note when she goes so we don’t spend a lot of time looking for her or anything. Other people in my family believe that you come to Earth to learn or experience something, and when your business is finished, you get to ‘graduate.’ Gram liked that idea for a while and even made me promise to wear a Happy Graduation hat to her service when she goes, but these days I think she’s viewing the graduation idea as a little too judgmental. I don’t know if I completely agree with the graduation idea, either, because it implies Earth life is about work. Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s like a vacation from all our work in Heaven, only we are born with no memory of Heaven so we don’t ruin our vacation by thinking about work. Hm . . . I don’t know, Earl. Maybe Heaven is whatever you want it to be.”

“I’ve always hoped it would be a big family reunion. And I’ve always hoped there would be a café up there so that when I got sick of all that family, all those aunts and grandmas yakkin’ on and such, I could go to that café and tell stories with all my old dead friends.” I pause. “Think everyone gets there?”

“Yup,” she replies.

“Yup, me, too,” I say. “Even all those sickos. Just makes sense to me that after they leave their sick mind in a hole in the earth, they would go Home.”

Mara nods. “Is that why you never join Edith going to church? Because it doesn’t really match your common sense?”

“Yup, that, and this is my church.” I gesture at the land and the sky with my hand. “All this. Always thought God was probably too big to fit in a tiny little crowded building where all the seats are already taken. I might go again soon just to make Edith happy, though. What about you, Red? How come you never go to church?”

“I don’t believe those ministers know anything we don’t. I figure, why deal with a middleman when you can buy wholesale, you know? Ministers remind me of used car salesmen. I believe religion is what happens when ego contaminates spirituality. I believe the truth is in our hearts. God lives in our hearts. God speaks to us in our hearts if we shut up long enough to listen.” Pause. Then she adds self-consciously, “I believe, anyway.”

“Amen,” I say solemnly. She turns on the water for the horses while I check the water for the calves. I watch the hog and the dog sniff this or that together and then run off side by side to sniff something else.

“Are you scared, Earl?”

“Yeah. Yes and no. Mostly I’m scared that my wife and grandson will never know what they meant to me.” I pause and look her in the eye for a minute.

She nods. “You know, Earl, I see your silhouettes in the window after I leave my dancing lessons. I think you’ve made your time count . . . since I’ve known you, anyway. I know Edith feels deeply loved by you.”

I nod. I hope so. She’s probably right. Shame to leave Edith just when the sparks are startin’ to fly again.

In my dream I’m standing in a big feed lot with my Angel who brought me here. Numbers are called out on a loudspeaker outside the slaughterhouse, and when they are, corresponding cattle willfully run into the slaughterhouse. Number seventy-eight runs right in front of me with her head up. She is proud. And I get it: To feed others is honorable. She is proud of her sacrifice. I feel a little better about the whole beef situation, and the dream ends.

Daniel returned yesterday. Earl sent us out to gather strays today.

“I feel guilty sitting on this old man,” I say with regard to the ancient palomino I was told to ride today. “Are you sure I’m not hurting him?”

“I’m not sure,” Daniel answers. “He might have arthritis or just aches and pains. I don’t know. But look at him. His head is high, and he looks happy. Pal was quite a cutting horse in his day, and you know, I think he knew he was the best. I think he was proud of that. I think it’s been really hard on him to be left behind while younger horses went off to do the work he used to enjoy doing.”