Fruit of All Evil (20 page)

There was something that sat funny with me about what Sally had said, and I wondered if Shawn and Mid would give me their version of how they'd acquired the farm. Plus, visiting them would give me a good reason to revisit some childhood memories.

I put my truck in Park, got out, and crossed the road. There was a gravel driveway that led to a big house with a wide porch. I followed it to the house and climbed the porch stairs. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. I peered in a few windows as I walked along the porch that stretched around the side of the house, but all the blinds were shut tight.

The biggest of the dairy's buildings was directly next to the house. For a few moments I stood on the porch with my hands on my hips. I could see a good deal of the property, but I didn't see any people. As I stood there, I thought about calling out to see if anyone would hear me, but then I thought again.

Sure, I wanted to talk to Shawn and Mid; I wanted to know what they had to say about their family history and the circumstances behind Madeline giving them the dairy. But I also liked to snoop. From what I could see, no one would notice if I just took about ten steps and made my way through a space between the back of the big building and a whitewashed fence that separated it from the muddy area between it and the pasture. I didn't have much of a plan for what I'd do when I made it to the other side of the building, but at the moment that didn't concern me.

Testing fate, I waited a minute for someone to discover me. When no one appeared from anywhere, I dashed to the hidden space that, unfortunately, wasn't as wide as it had seemed to be from the porch.

Only the cows could see me now, and I wasn't worried about being heard; there was a constant stream of noise: mooing and machinery, some far off, some seemingly close. The fence was simple, posts spaced about five feet apart and two cross slats between each pair of posts. It would be easy for a human to get through the open spaces.

I had to turn sideways so I faced the pasture as I moved along the tight space. When I was halfway to my destination, a calf trotted across the pasture and made her way purposefully my direction. If I was going to get caught sneaking around the dairy, I didn't want it to be when I was in a small space behind a building. I swiped my hand through the air, hoping to send her back the other way. Then, of course, I realized how ridiculous I was being; I doubted she understood my hand waves. I continued sidestepping and ignored the calf—until she ran into the fence, uttered a squeaky moo, and shook her head. Once I knew she hadn't been hurt, I just wanted her to go away.

“Hello. Yes, you caught me. Now I've got to be on my way.”

The calf didn't moo again, but she continued to watch me maneuver over what she surely thought was her property.

I made it to the end of the path and stepped into a semi-open space between the big building and another one. There was a door to the big building that I could go through without the rest of the world seeing me.

I craned my neck in every direction but still didn't see anyone. I hurried up a short metal stairway, opened the door, and hurried inside. I closed the door and leaned against it as I looked around. There was a bunch to see.

This was where the cows were hooked to the milking machines. There were four even rows of machines laid out on the concrete floor. The floor was wet, as though it had been recently hosed down. And there were no cows anywhere. Did cows get milked only in the morning? Being the owner of a farm should give one instant knowledge about such things, but since my farm was filled with strawberries and pumpkins, I was at a loss about cows' milking schedules.

My covert operation was still working for me; there were no people anywhere.
So far, so good,
I thought as I descended another small stairway and went to inspect the milking machines. I was fascinated by the alien childhood memory and wondered if they'd make the same impression.

Truthfully, they were wicked. I knew they didn't hurt the animals. Nevertheless, the whole mechanism—the tubes, the things that attached to the teats, even the clear tubs for gathering the milk—looked alien to me; unnatural. I decided my childhood impression was right on target.

But what was most curious was that the first machine I inspected hadn't milked a cow in the recent past, as far as I could tell. The tubes were disconnected and draped over a red metal fence/divider that kept the cows a safe distance from the machines. But it was more than just the tubes; the entire machine was in pieces, a jigsaw puzzle that would be hard to put back together.

In fact, the entire row of machines I was standing in front of was disassembled. Out of the four rows, it looked as if two of them were in working order and two of them weren't. It was hard to tell for sure because the rows went on for a long distance, and I was just short enough that I couldn't see all the way to the ends of them.

Maybe they used only two rows at a time, taking apart and cleaning the other two. It seemed like a sanitary plan, and the building itself looked pretty spotless. I wasn't sure that I was looking for anything specific, but there were no puddles of anything that might cause alarm.

Deciding I'd seen whatever there was to see, I made my way back outside and down the steps. Outside again, I felt very exposed. I glanced in every direction and saw that no one was paying me any attention; no one was anywhere. I couldn't believe my luck. Was I going to be able to trespass and snoop and not be caught?

Though I was feeling brave, smart, and somewhat cocky, I hunched over a little and hurried to the smaller white building that was next on my hunt. There was no stairway on this one, and the door opened just as easily as the first one had.

The smaller building, just like the bigger one, was empty of people but held machinery. It wasn't the kind that was used to milk cows. The scent told me that I was in a room that turned the milk into butter. The air was thick with a sweet, creamy freshness, and I was once again impressed at how clean everything was.

I didn't take a lot of time to inspect the pot-bellied machine that took up most of the space, but I took a quick walk around it just to see if I could figure out how it worked. I couldn't, but I thought I'd discovered the entrance and exit points for the products. The best part of the entire excursion was what I found next. It was something that brought my childhood back in a strong wave of happy memories.

At the end of the machine, on large worktables, were butter stamps that pressed designs into finished butter. The Loder Dairy butter that was delivered to our front porch when I was a child had always had a stamp. The one-pound packages were wrapped in thick, waxy paper. Every time we got a Loder delivery, Allison and I would guess which stamp the butter would have. There were a number of different designs: a cow, a flower, stalks of wheat, a pineapple, and two acorns. Whichever one of us guessed correctly which stamp was on our butter that day got to be the first one to put some of it on her toast. It was great fun, almost something magical, for two little girls who lived in the country and didn't see one moment of television.

The stamps hadn't changed, including their star borders. I remembered that when you felt the design through the waxed paper, you could feel the impressions of the border, but no matter how much you felt and prodded, it was nearly impossible to know the design inside.

I had the sudden urge to steal a stamp, one with a cow on it. It would make a great gift for Allison. I silently debated just how awful such a theft would be.

In the end, I didn't take the stamp. Regretfully, I put it back with the others and walked away from the preparation tables. Perhaps I'd ask Shawn and Mid about the stamps when I was given a proper tour, and see if they'd let me buy one.

My invisibility luck changed as I walked out of the butter building and toward the large blue silo. Suddenly, three people, all of them in white coats and white shower caps, were walking in my direction. They were still a good fifty feet away, in the middle of a conversation, and didn't notice me right off. I leapt forward and put my back against the silo. As their voices got closer, I moved around to the back of the building. When I was halfway, I was once again facing the pasture. The cows were more interested in eating than in me, though a few of them did look up and twitch their ears before going back to their lazy, crooked chewing. Except my new friend, the little calf that was more curious than any cat I'd ever known.

It hadn't moved far from where I'd last seen it, but when it eyeballed me, it exuberantly, if not skillfully, trotted my direction. It stopped and faced me again from the other side of the fence.

Her calf moos startled some of the other cows. They looked up again, this time with more focus.

“You need to go back to your mother,” I said quietly.

She didn't, but mooed back as though she'd like to continue the conversation.

“
Sheesh
.”

There was another white building on the other side of the silo, but its back was right against the fence, and I couldn't tell if there was a door on that side of it. I had no choice but to make my way to the front. I could go back the way I came, but I suspected that the three white coats had gone into the butter building, and I didn't want to give myself up that easily.

Moo
.

I was going to have to decide what to do quickly. My friend was causing enough of a scene that the other cows were becoming more curious, and one was even coming to join the party. Who knew cows communicated so well with each other?

“Troublemaker,” I said.

I think the calf laughed, but I didn't stick around long enough to ponder it. Keeping my back tight against the silo, I maneuvered a little further. The calf watched my every move, even craned her neck to evaluate my progress.

It seemed my luck was returning; again there was no one anywhere in sight. The white coats were gone, presumably into the butter barn. I was pleased I hadn't stolen a butter stamp.

I dashed to the front of the next white building and ran through the open double doors. I was in another barn, one that did open on the other side to the pasture. Clarification: one that was already opened to the pasture, but the opening was at an angle I couldn't see from behind the silo.

I'd gone in the open doors in the front, and my new friend was now trotting through the open doors at the back. She seemed very happy to see me.

“Oh, no,” I said as I turned to leave the barn the way I came in. But walking directly toward me this time were Shawn and Mid. They weren't in white coats, but in jeans and T-shirts. They weren't looking up, but it wouldn't be long before they noticed me.

Besides the open middle part of the building, there were bales of hay stacked everywhere. The only place to hide was behind a stack. I backed up and went around the first stack I could find. And my friend followed.

Moo
?

“Oh, good gracious. Seriously?
Shoo
.
Shoo
.”

The calf didn't listen, and would surely give up my location quickly. For the briefest of instants, I silently debated whether I should confront Shawn and Mid and tell them I'd explored on my own when no one answered my calls, or hide. Maybe it was the guilt I felt over considering the butter stamp theft, or maybe I was just in sneakaround mode; whatever it was, I chose to hide.

My friend followed me around the stack of bales and watched as I dived into a haystack and hid amid the sharp, irritating pieces of dry straw. In a flurry, I covered myself and then tried to be still. Except for the calf's noise and my pounding heartbeat, no one would be able to hear a thing. At this moment, I realized that confronting the brothers would have been the better choice, but it was too late.

I stood only a small chance of not being found, but that was better than no chance at all. When Shawn and Mid came into the barn, I couldn't focus on their words. I didn't know them well enough to know who was who; both their voices were heated, angry. I couldn't tell if they were mad at each other or about something else. And then the calf distracted them.

“What the . . .?”

I felt the footsteps more than heard them as the brothers approached the calf.

“Hey, what're you doing in here?”

“Hey, little girl.”

I was relieved that the two men weren't angry at the calf. Poor thing just found me too irresistible to ignore.

The calf mooed with expression. I was certain she was trying to tell them that there was a person hiding in the straw right over there.
Why can't you see her? She's right there—that lump in the hay. Look!
I hoped they didn't speak cow.

“Come on, let's get back out there.”

Moo
.

“I don't think she wants to go.” Whichever one of them said this had a hint of humor in his voice.

“She must be confused or lost or something. Do you suppose she's blind?”

Moooooo
.

“No, she's just adventurous. I suppose we could leave her in here, but we shouldn't. Come on, help me carry her back out to the pasture.”

In the commotion of wrangling the cow, one of the men kicked the bottom of one of my feet. I sucked in a dusty, straw-scented breath and swiped my legs into an unladylike wide-open position, hoping I was still hidden by straw. I stopped the screech that was making its way up my throat and held on to the gasp of air I'd pulled.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“I swear my foot hit something.”

“Your imagination. Come on and help me. I don't want to hurt her, and she's squirmy.”

If the pause had been a second longer, I would have either passed out from lack of oxygen or ripped a tendon in my groin.