Rough Canvas (24 page)

Marcus jogged back down the slope and was halfway back over the field when he

figured out Thomas had gone to one knee by an animal lying on his or her side on the ground. It was a goat. A goat whose stomach was distended far above her head,

obviously in labor. She paid no attention to Marcus, bleating piteously.

Thomas’ hands moved over her belly and between her back legs, his brow

furrowed. “Something’s wrong. She’s dry as a bone and worn out, but she’s dilated. We have some of that lubricant in the basket?”

Marcus pulled it out and Thomas poured jelly over his hand and up to the elbow, greasing his fingers up. “Easy girl. I know, Mama. I’m trying to help. Easy there.”

Before Marcus could blink, Thomas had eased his hand into her.

She heaved, cried out and tried to get up, but Thomas held her down with one arm.

Marcus dropped to one knee and put a tentatively calming hand on her head.

“Just one baby, feels like…and alive, which is good,” Thomas said, his eyes distant, intent on what he was feeling. “Go get the farmer. Tell him we’ve got a kid trying to come out feet first with the head thrown back. She’s been in labor awhile. If he doesn’t have a vet who can get here on the double, tell him to bring his gun and something sharp enough to cut her open.”

Marcus was on his feet at the first command, but at the second instruction, he

turned, his brow raised.

“If we can’t get the baby around, the mother’s suffering,” Thomas explained

impatiently. “She’s really tired. She’s been at this awhile. We’ll have to take the baby out and end the mother’s pain. Hurry. Fast as you can get to him.”

“Where?” Marcus had no idea which direction the farmer had taken.

“Over the side of the hill we were on. There was a gate. Should lead to his barn and a driveway. Follow the goats. Oh…did you bring any nylon cord?”

Marcus blinked, then wordlessly reached into the basket and pulled out several

pieces from the bottom. Thomas gave him an absent wry smile, pulled out a pocket knife and began to cut a length he apparently needed. “Hurry.”

Marcus complied and took off.

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It was one of the most difficult abnormal presentations for a kid, Thomas knew. He reached back in, grunting to hold the mother down with the other arm again as he relocated the baby’s body, followed the neck until he reached the head. He was in up to the elbow, and the mother was making guttural, heartbreaking noises.

“Okay, Mama, I know. Hang in there.” Thomas made himself tune out everything,

just like he did when he found the flow of what he wanted to create on canvas.

He’d brought a lot of calves and kids into the world when he was younger, when

the farm had raised both in greater numbers. His father had him helping with difficult birthings when he was as young as ten because his dad had quickly learned Thomas had an intuitive sense in his fingers, coupled with his lack of fear about going in. It had led his parents to the mistaken belief Thomas might consider vet college.

Even then, Thomas had been amazed by that canal, meant to bring forth life. He

was awed to reach into the chamber where the baby had grown and now wanted to

burst free, sucking his or her first gasp of air, taking the first breath as an individual.

The miracle of birth was the miracle of destiny, of divinity, of change and continued growth. As an artist, Thomas was drawn to it as much as to his blank canvas.

He could draw the baby’s head forward to the legs, but as he feared the little

creature was too weak to keep it there. Its head flopped back before he could get a good grasp on the legs to help pull it free.

He pulled out, relubricated both of his arms and made a noose out of one of the nylon pieces. “I know, sweet girl, I know,” he crooned. “No, we won’t be cutting you open today. But he’s a big city boy and he was panicking. Had to give him something to do. Yeah, I’m lying a little bit, but you’re going to be okay.”

He went back in. The trick was to get the head lying forward on the legs, the way the baby was meant to come out. Thomas took the noose in with him this time and felt around to try to get it over the kid’s head. He closed his eyes, using only his sense of what was going on at the tips of his fingers, vaguely registering the mother’s sounds of exhaustion, the snug fit of the birth canal, the smells of birthing and struggle.

“Come on, you little bastard. Get over there.” There. He had it. He brought the head forward again and positioned it on the front legs. He tightened up the loop and kept tension on the pull, then caught the feet with his other hand, pulling on both the rope and the feet at once.

“There you are. It’s okay, Mama. Here he comes.” The mother heaved again, as if sensing the shift in the tide. The mother’s contraction squeezed his forearm painfully against the wall, and then he was out, helping pull the little body free, giving the exhausted mother additional strength. One more heave and the baby landed in his lap.

“Ah, look at you…” Stripping the shirt he’d put back on during his argument with Marcus, he cleaned out the nostrils, wiped the doe-like face. Mama was already

struggling up, trying to reach him. “Easy girl. Easy.”

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It seemed to have gone quickly, but Thomas saw he was soaking wet from his own

sweat. The waistband of his jeans and the front placket were stained with fluid from him and the mother.

And thank God, Marcus and the farmer were there, the farmer with a kit of supplies and a bucket of water to which he was adding a dollop of Karo syrup for the mother.

“There, Phyllis, good girl. A hard one this time, but you did all right.”

They’d been coming up the hill when the baby had landed in Thomas’ lap. As

Marcus saw Thomas phase back in, the clouds clearing from his gaze, Marcus

recognized it as the same expression he had when he emerged from painting.

He was covered in goop and even now didn’t seem cognizant of it as he worked in tandem with the farmer to do all the postoperative things that were apparently needed for a new kid and the mother. Thomas was using newspaper to clean off the kid’s body while the farmer tended to Phyllis. And within ten minutes, miraculously, the weak kid was trying to get to his feet. Thomas steadied the little one, though he didn’t let go.

Apparently the birth had been too difficult. It was going to take this one a little longer to get his land legs.

Marcus looked at those slimy hands, the long fingers against the body of the new baby, new life. He’d never really given thought to what the essence of a farmer was. As he looked at Thomas, he saw a man close to the earth, who in his ironic simplicity understood the complexity of life and all its cycles. Who needed to be close to those cycles in order to be the artist he was. It was reflected in his work, as well as in the way he did everything, even loving Marcus, or protecting and supporting his family.

Thomas and the farmer were exchanging stories of past birthings, all the farmer’s earlier hostility just evaporated as if it had never been.

When he touched Marcus, Thomas made him feel things he’d never thought he’d

trust anyone enough to feel. This just made him more blown away by the truth of that, and more afraid than he’d ever been that Thomas’ mother was right. That the worst possible thing for someone like Thomas in the long run would be someone like Marcus.

“We’ll help you get them back to the barn,” Thomas was saying. He was turning

the kid, now wrapped in a towel, over to the farmer. Bending despite the farmer’s protests, he used his younger back and muscles to lift the mother goat in his arms. As he straightened, he shot Marcus a tired grin, twisting something inside of him.

Feeling at loose ends, Marcus gathered up the farmer’s kit and their own

belongings.

The farmer nodded. “Once we make sure this one’s had his first meal, my wife was just about ready to have me sit down with her for lunch,” he said. “I’d like for you to join us, you and your friend. You’d be welcome.” He gave Marcus a glance that told him the invitation wasn’t necessarily so steady as far as he was concerned, but manners were manners.

“We’d love to,” Thomas accepted.

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Oh hell
, Marcus thought.

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Cathy and Walter Briggs sold their goat cheese to a select but highbrow clientele, including Zabar’s in New York City and several of the gourmet shops in Stockbridge, where the Boston symphony spent its summers.

Thomas had mixed feelings about accepting the lunch invitation. He’d done so

automatically, for that was simple courtesy, giving the farmer the chance to repay a kindness himself. Thomas just wasn’t sure what Marcus thought of it, or if he’d have preferred to get away as fast as he could.

Given the state of Marcus’ temper before they were interrupted by Phyllis the

Goat’s labor crisis, he was a little concerned that Marcus would make the farmer regret his offer.

Instead, Marcus helped Cathy fill glasses with ice from the basement freezer while Walter showed Thomas where he could wash up, loaning him a shirt and baggy pair of work pants. Cathy took his clothes to wash out and put on the line to dry. They’d apparently recently built the house to replace an older one which had been infested with rot and termites. Walter was still working on wiring for things like the washer and dryer.

Marcus was sincerely complimentary of the carpentry work, most of which had

been done by Walter with the help of neighbors and other family members. He

particularly remarked on the arched moldings over the windows and the architecture of the vaulted ceiling, making Thomas relax somewhat.

The house had a nice feel to it, a good space, and Thomas could almost imagine it as an artist’s Berkshire hideaway, particularly when Walter took him upstairs and showed him the rolling hill view from the windows and described the layers of fall color that would become a vibrant mural as the seasons cycled.

“Your friend looks more comfortable than I’d imagine him to be.” The farmer

chuckled. He gestured down below, where Marcus had joined Cathy in a trip to the hen house, apparently to collect some eggs.

Thomas watched Marcus take the basket from her, kneel and reach into the first

opening in the henhouse, a smile flashing across his face as she apparently instructed him on the proper way to do it. Like most women faced with that smile, Cathy blushed, even though Thomas was sure they were talking about something entirely innocuous.

Whatever Marcus said next made her laugh. She put a hand on his shoulder, motherly.

He was sure Marcus would have noticed her stiff knees from her gait, and, being Marcus, he’d volunteered to get down and learn how to pull eggs out.

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Walter cleared his throat. “I stomped on you boys a little hard. You should have asked, but even so… We get a lot of them through here, city folk who think like your friend. Like they’re better than us and want to change everything they think we should be and feel, without ever knowing who we really are.”

“Marcus is a good man, with a generous heart,” Thomas responded quietly, glad

for the reminder of it right before his eyes, and a little ashamed at the necessity for the reminder. “On some things he just refuses to consider any option other than a

confrontation. Like he thinks he always has to make it a fight, or always be ready for one, I guess.”

“Sounds like a man who’s been in enough of them to make him that way,” Walter

observed matter-of-factly. “Let’s go get something to eat. My backbone’s gnawing into my stomach.”

Lunch included goat cheese spread on thick slices of homemade wheat bread, a

bowl of blackberries and lemonade made just that morning, a fresh and simple meal that made Thomas think of home and his mother’s table with a pang.

Cathy was a comfortable conversationalist, asking about Marcus’ gallery, Thomas’

art, his family in North Carolina. She’d positioned Marcus at Walter’s right, her at his left, and Thomas next to Marcus. Thomas wondered if she’d had a momentary lapse of good sense, putting Walter and Marcus catty corner.

“Does your family live in the area, Mr…?”

“Just Marcus will do, ma’am.” Marcus took the bread plate from her, passed it to Walter at her nod. “My family’s in this room.”

He didn’t look up from his plate where he was applying goat cheese to the thick slab of wheat bread, but Thomas felt like he’d speared him through the gut with the butter knife. So matter-of-fact and easy.

Was he saying it just to deflect Cathy’s questions about his background? He’d

surely deflected them often enough when Thomas asked.

Cathy darted a glance at Walter, but he was just as studiously focused on his own meal. “Walter, those eggs should be ready in about five more minutes.”

He shrugged. “We’re in no hurry. Thanks to Thomas, I shouldn’t have to worry

about any more birthings today. I just hate I didn’t find her earlier. We haven’t had a morning birthing all summer. They almost always happen late afternoon.”

Conversation turned to their interests in Stockbridge, the Boston symphony.

Marcus spoke primarily to Cathy, though he shifted his glance politely to Walter now and again, to all appearances relaxed in his surroundings. Marcus could handle almost any awkward social situation. But just like at the club, Thomas could feel there was something off, thrumming hard under the surface.

When he glanced down, he noticed Marcus’ hand was resting on his knee in a tense half curl, his forefinger rubbing a half-inch track on the fabric. Back and forth. Back and forth. It was obvious, if only to him, that Marcus was finding this a very difficult situation.

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But they weren’t at the beach or sitting in a coffee shop where most of the people were of the same sexual preference, or expected them to be. Thomas couldn’t reach out to offer the brief touch of comfort he was almost certain Marcus needed at the moment, some sense Thomas was in his corner.