Zoe bustles around the kitchen making dinner. I have yet to see her sit down since she got home. Denise takes me upstairs to show me my room. She opens the door on a small, tidy bedroom.
“It’s Derek’s old room. He’s going to be your teammate at Moo U. He’s moved into the hockey house—it’s a big shared place for the team.”
All his personal stuff is gone except a Burlington University Hockey banner. I plunk my suitcase by the empty closet.
“Great. I’ll look for him.” It’s weird though, like I’ve traded lives with Derek. If things had worked out differently, I’d be the one moving into the hockey house or better still, my own place.
“I’ll leave you to get settled. Dinner is at six.” Denise seems to be a nice woman, but there’s a faded quality about her. Or maybe I’m used to women who are energetic and driven like those in my family.
I unpack quickly and look out the window. My room faces onto the fields behind the house. Some are plowed, and some are planted. The property is fringed by rows of trees. There’s even a faraway pond. There are so many shades of green here. After living in the deserts of Arizona and California, Vermont looks lush and fertile. But it’s weird not to be able to see a road or a neighbor or even a car. I feel isolated and alone. From what I could see on the drive here, there’s not much within walking distance. With no car and only the insane Cracky as a chauffeur, I’m trapped out here, and it’s almost scary.
This is going to be a huge adjustment.
There’s a message from Chi on my phone.
How’s life in Vermont, farm boy?
So far, the pig and the cat like me. Haven’t met the goats yet. Zoe hates me. She kicked me out of her car.
I’ve wanted to do that myself. Who is Zoe?
Chi is full of empathy as usual.
The daughter here. She’s our age.
Just use that Noah magic on her.
Whatever that may be. Chi believes for some reason that my life is charmed. If so, what am I doing out here in the middle of Hicksville?
I can smell dinner now, and it smells pretty damn good. Then I realize that my restricted diet is going to be an issue. Because if they tell me to buy my own food, I’m not going to be able to afford that. Also, I don’t want to insult them. If their aging cars and this small house are any clues, it doesn’t seem like the Meyers have a lot of money. Which makes sense since they can’t even afford to hire proper help and instead are stuck with me.
“Noah, dinner,” Denise calls up to me.
I wash my hands and go down to the kitchen where we’re eating. The table is covered with food, almost all of it forbidden to me during the season. There’s roast chicken, fresh biscuits, a potato salad, and corn on the cob. There’s a green salad that looks allowable, but even the green bean casserole and roasted squash are too shiny with butter. Between the main platters are small dishes of pickles, herbed butter, and preserves.
“Wow. Do you eat like this all the time?” I ask, as Zoe begins heaping food on my plate.
“Oh no. Zoe wanted to do something special for your first night,” says Denise. “There’s an apple cake too.”
Obviously, Zoe planned all this before she had met me. Based on our interactions today, I could have gotten gruel and water.
My father would have a fit if he saw my plate, but hey, he’s on the other side of the country. Besides, I missed lunch.
I eat the chicken first. I bite into the crispy skin, which contrasts to the tenderness beneath. The juicy meat explodes on my tongue with salty flavor. I chew, swallow, then quickly try more dishes. The corn is so sweet, I wonder if Zoe added sugar somehow. The green beans and squash taste more earthy and flavorful than regular vegetables. Fresh herbs dot everything, even the biscuits.
The question pops out before I can decide if it’s rude. “Why does everything taste so good?”
Zoe allows herself a smug smile. “My dad used to say that the 100-mile diet has nothing on the 100-foot diet.”
“Everything came from your farm?” I ask, eyeing the chicken.
“Well, not quite everything. We used to raise our own roasters, but now I get chickens from a place down the road. Most of the veggies were picked from our garden today.”
“It’s really good,” I repeat. Zoe’s smile now looks more genuine than the high voltage one she wore earlier. I’m surprised that someone my age can cook like this, but her mother doesn’t even add a word of praise. The dinner conversation is polite, with Denise asking me about my trip and hockey. The one bright spot is that Denise works as a bookkeeper and offers to teach me Budgeting 101. I could really use the help.
The evening chores consist mainly of shutting the animals in their various homes and making sure they’re fed and watered. Then Zoe lays the really good news on me: “We’ll milk the goats at 5:30 in the morning.”
Fuck. It’s been years since I’ve had early morning practices, and I haven’t missed them. “Why so early?”
“I had to find a time that works with my schedule. When school starts, I have morning practice.”
“Why not do them in the evening then?”
She gives me a scornful look. “Because then it would interfere with my weekend games. Animals need a routine. Just be happy that we only milk once a day. Most goats are done twice.”
We return to the house, and I go up to my room. I try to read and finally give up and go to bed. However, I can’t get to sleep. I keep tossing and turning and wondering if I’ve made a big mistake.
My alarm goes off ridiculously early. Besides being early here, my body is still on Pacific time and protests that it doesn’t want to leave a cozy bed to… milk fucking goats. Also, my bedroom is freezing. I yank on an old T-shirt and sweatpants, then hunt down my thickest sweatshirt. How cold will it be here in December? I skip brushing my teeth since Cracky will be doing all the talking.
She is already awake and waiting for me in the kitchen. Naturally, she’s busy preparing breakfast since she’s a perpetual motion machine.
“Good morning. Ready to work?” Is she shouting or does she just seem louder in the quiet?
I mumble something, and she shoves a travel mug of coffee at me. I gulp it gratefully.
“Someone’s not a morning person,” Zoe says. Next she deems my work clothes too nice, and hands me a coverall to put on top.
To warm up with something easy, we release the chickens from their henhouse. They come waddling out under the watchful eye of Pete the dog. Zoe shows me the little boxes where the chickens lay their eggs. “Why don’t you get one, and I’ll cook it for your breakfast. Nothing like eggs fresh from the hen.”
When I reach in for an egg, the chicken tries to peck me, and I pull my hand back. From Zoe down, everything on the farm wants to injure me. I try once more and manage to snag an egg. Unlike an egg from the refrigerator, it’s weirdly warm, and I almost drop it.
“Euw,” I say. “Is there a chick inside?”
Zoe looks at me like I’ve been lobotomized. “Of course, but it’s not even an embryo yet. A hen has to sit on the egg to begin the process. And it takes three weeks to hatch one.”
I still feel queasy about eating a fresh egg. I put it into the basket Zoe holds out and wipe my hands on my coverall. She sighs. “One more tip: next time try choosing a nest without a chicken in it.”
“Now you tell me.”
Then we move on to the barn where the goats wait in a pen at one end.
“This will be easy once you get the hang of it,” Zoe says. As usual, her voice reeks of unwarranted optimism. In the eight hours I’ve known her—except when she blew up at me—Zoe has been a whirlwind of energy and positivity. I’m not sure if the queasiness in the pit of my stomach is caused by her sickening cheeriness or the fact that goats are quite big in real life. But this is my life now, so I have to concentrate on everything Little Miss Sunshine says.
“This is Cookie,” Zoe says as she leads a light-colored goat up the ramp of the milking station. The goat obligingly inserts her head into a frame. “Lock this into place so the goat can’t get her head out. Take a scoop from this feed barrel and put it in the bin.”
Cookie starts eating immediately. I’ve only known goats for a short time, but they seem to be eating constantly.
“The most important thing about milking is cleanliness. We’re going to consume the goat’s milk, so we don’t want anything bad in it. Wash your hands here before milking. Take one of these wipes and clean off the udder before even starting.” Zoe expertly swipes the udder which is a huge swollen part of the goat I’ve never noticed before.
“Is she pregnant?” I ask.
Zoe smiles. “No. We breed our goats in the fall, so they have kids in the spring. Now, what I do is take the first milk and toss it. That gets rid of feces, straw, or anything bad that might already be in the teat.”
Like a five-year old, I automatically smirk when I hear the word teat. Zoe doesn’t notice; she’s already discarded one stainless bowl and picked up another. “Again, cleanliness is key. I’ll show you how we disinfect the bowl and buckets later. Now watch me.”
I crouch down beside her. Her hands effortlessly move up and down, alternately squeezing milk from one side and the other. The milk looks thicker and more yellow than regular milk.
The barn cat is back, and he rubs up against me. I scratch his head.
Zoe seems to be inspecting the goat as she milks it. I’ve already noticed she’s a multitasker. I’m only glad that Chi and Bachan aren’t here to see how right they were about my uselessness.
“You can tell when you’re done because the milk peters out,” Zoe says. She stands up and pours the fresh milk into a homemade filter and cooling apparatus. “Now to make sure Cookie doesn’t get an infection, I spray her teats with this. In the winter, I use a salve instead.”
The winter? The thought of doing this daily for months is daunting. And is this barn going to get even colder?
“What do you do with the milk?” I ask.
Zoe frowns. “We used to sell it when we had more goats. But we still have a few customers: a woman who makes goat’s milk soap, a family with dairy allergies, some neighbors.”
More goats? Five already seems like an insurmountable number to have to milk on my own.
Zoe releases the mechanism and backs Cookie off the milking stand. Then the goat goes outside into a paddock.
“Okay, it’s your turn,” she says.
“Maybe I should watch you a bit longer,” I hedge.
Zoe shakes her head. Her wide smile looks evil now. “Go over there and bring another one of the does.”
“How do I know which ones are does and not… the other kind?” I have no idea what male goats are called.
“We don’t have any billies,” Zoe answers.
I go to where the goats are penned. Immediately, they all scatter. I chase after them, but this only makes them run faster like a game of keep away. Finally, I manage to corner one goat. Luckily, they all have collars to grab onto. I steer her towards the milking stand, but she’s not interested. She’s stronger than she looks, and her beady marble eyes glare at me. Her pupils are little slits and she looks positively evil. Aren’t goats part of satanic rituals? Her resemblance to a demon is made clearer when she stomps on my foot.
“Goddamn it.” I let go of the collar and she scampers away.
Zoe has been watching and she’s trying really hard not to laugh. She comes over to help and 30 seconds later, the same goat is ambling down the narrow alleyway to the milking stand.
“How did you do that?” I ask.
Zoe looks over her shoulder at me. “Never let them see your fear.”
I don’t know if she’s joking or not. But once the goat is in the milking area, she makes me take over. After ten minutes of pushing and shoving, I finally get the goat onto the platform, then fail to lock her head in correctly, and she jumps off.
“Come here, you spawn of Satan,” I mutter.
“Her name is Rayme.” Zoe is openly laughing at me now.
“What kind of a name is that?”
She giggles. “My dad started it. All the goats have punny names like Cookie Dough. Except d-o-e because she’s a doe. We used to have a billy called Billy Idol.”
Zoe finds this a lot funnier than I do. She keeps reciting names: Win Doe, Pie Doe. I want to suggest Dill, but I’m probably going to need her help in the next five minutes.
“What about Rayme? That makes no sense with doe,” I say.
“Do, re, mi. Get it?” says Zoe. This sends her off into a cascade of giggles. She has a goofy laugh, a yuck-yuck-yuck that might be contagious if I were in a better mood. I finally manage to get Rayme/Satan onto the platform and secure her neck. I add a scoop of feed, and she munches away. Remembering Zoe’s instructions, I wash my hands, sit on the stool, and wipe the swollen and scary udder.
“Guess why one of the goats is called Fran,” Zoe challenges me as she hands me a small dish.
“No clue.” At least my hands are warming on the udder.
“Like Fran Drescher. You know, the Nanny? Nanny goat?”
Farm humor will be the death of me. I position my hands exactly like she did, squeeze and pull.
Nothing.
I try again, using a little more pressure.
Nothing.
“Let me help.” Zoe bends down and puts her hand over mine. The warmth of her hands on my freezing ones feels unexpectedly nice. Our eyes meet, then her cheeks flush, and she pulls away. Did we just have a moment?
“The key is that udders aren’t like plastic squeeze bottles. You’re trapping the milk in the teat and pulling it out. So seal the top with your fingers.” She demonstrates and then I try. A splat of milk hits the dish. I feel like doing a goal celly.
After getting rid of the initial milk, Zoe hands me a stainless bucket. “Before you get your aim and rhythm going, it’s probably easier to milk into something bigger.”
I’m all for easier. I tug away, but I’ve lost the knack already. Zoe patiently demonstrates once more and then I try again. I’m milking the goat, but only tiny squirts are coming out.
Rayme seems completely oblivious to my fumbling. “She has no idea that a noob is working down here,” I say.
“I thought a guy like you would have more experience with teats,” Zoe says.
“Umm,” is all I say because I’m shocked. She’s back, the fiery woman who shoved me out of the car. I nearly laugh, but my sense of humor is still on Pacific time.
Zoe covers her mouth like she wants to pull the words back in. Her face flushes red. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I said that.”
“It’s okay.” But what I really want to say is: please, be real with me. Is it because I don’t feel I deserve her cheerfulness and kindness? Or because I find her positivity a bit fake? Or is it because I was raised in such a competitive home that all the niceness sets me on edge?
I turn back to Rayme’s udder and yank away. After ten excruciating minutes—probably twice the time Zoe would have taken—the milk dribbles off.
“I think I’m done,” I say.
Zoe looks over and shakes her head. “Look how full she still is.” She reaches down and smacks the udder a couple of times.
Rayme doesn’t seem bothered, and sure enough more milk comes out.
“Did you clear out a clog or something?”
Zoe laughs. Maybe I’m confusing goat udders and radiator hoses. “No, I’m just mimicking nature. That’s what a kid would do to his mom to let down more milk.”
“Did you always live on a farm?” Zoe hasn’t kept still for one moment while I’ve been doing the longest goat milking ever. She’s moving around the barn, tidying, refilling, washing up, and sweeping. I feel like a sloth next to her. I’m finally done, and Rayme’s udder looks properly drained. Zoe gives me a nod of approval, and I stand and release Rayme. I look at all the milk in the bucket. It is kind of satisfying to see the results of your work.
“We moved here when I was ten,” she says. “It was my father’s dream.”
“Did he work full-time here?”
“No. He had a job as project manager on construction jobs in Burlington. He worked hard, but it’s always been a hobby farm. Before the farm was much bigger too. We had more animals and farmed our fields too. Now we lease them to the neighbor.” She scowls.
“I don’t know how you do all this and still go to school and play hockey,” I say.
Her eyes widen. “It’ll be fine, Noah. My brother, Derek, plays hockey, and he managed all his chores. Besides, I’ll do most of the work—except when I’m on a road trip.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll do my share. It’s a learning curve, right? I’ll get better.”
I flex and extend my fingers, which are already sore from squeezing. I catch Zoe staring at my hands.
“I am better with human tits,” I assure her.
She flushes pink and hurries off to get another goat.